The Deal

I lurched awake, startled. My mouth was dry, I was in a sweat and my heart was racing like a maroon Ford Fairlane fleeing from a crime down a dark, rainy alley in Gotham City.

Mostly, though, I was disturbed that I would even have a thought like that. Fortunately it wasn’t totally purple prose, only maroon.

The dream was always the same. I’m in the alley. Ragged, grey rats on the prowl for something fresh eye me with interest. I throw my arms out suddenly: “Boo!” But, the rats don’t move. Instead they look at each other, break out in gleaming white rigor mortis grins and hunch their little rat shoulders up and down in gleeful mirth. Some rear up on their hind legs, throw out their forearms and go: “Squeek!”

“Ha, ha, ha,” I think, “and the horse you rode in on.”

At that point I become aware of a figure in the shadows.

“You’re late, Doc,” the shadow says, “that wasn’t the deal.”

“What deal?” I croak. I don’t remember a deal. “What deal?”

“The real deal, Doc,” the shadow says, “the real deal. Remember? You promised the real deal. So, let’s deal. You do remember, don’t you?”

Panic awakens in my feet and climbs my body like a thousand scorpions being chased by a flamethrower. I was losing control like a ’38 Packard careening down Highway 1 in California after a night at Rita’s all-you-can-drink Margarita Cantina. I had to get a grip on myself! I had to get a grip on my prose!

I’m running down the alley, past the rats, stumbling over old boxes and trash cans, fighting scorpions and flamethrowers and Packards, oh, my! And at the end of a blind alley I find myself pressed up against a chain link fence like a groupie at a Bay City Rollers concert, shaking. Fortunately, I’m not wearing much plaid.

I woke up a second time having not realized that I had transitioned from one dream into a second. Wowzer, a twofer. What a deal. The real deal.

Still shaking I swiveled around on the bed and willed myself to stand. Sandy looked up from the end of the bed. The light of a full moon reflected in his dark eyes as he watched me attentively, but with utter distain.

“Yeah, you miserable fleabag,” I whispered sweetly, “it’s yours.”

Sandy uncurled himself, arched his back, executed a much practiced yawn and proceeded to nonchalantly occupy my pillow where he groomed his tail with much licking and nibbling before he settled down into Curl Number Two for the remainder of the night.

Sandy knew that I wouldn’t return.

I padded into the kitchen on my way to the patio outside pausing briefly at the liquor cabinet to grab a bottle at random. I didn’t even look at the label. “Danger” is my middle name, soon to be replaced by “headache” as I held up a bottle of ouzo. Ah, Zorba, we meet again.

I took a deep pull of ouzo.

As the fiery, sweet liquor plummeted to my stomach like a cinder from Vesuvius and spread like lava through my veins I fought the urge to dance on a table.

I had a vision of a small boy standing in a corral. A cowboy is riding off into the distance. Tears streamed down the boy’s face as he cried, “Shane! Come back, Shane! We had a deal.”

I took another pull of ouzo as this scene replayed in my mind once again. How many times? How many times have I regretted what I did to Shane, a boy who trusted me as his friend and mentor.

It was a long time ago…

“Hey, Doc, what should I major in when I go to college? I was thinking of writing or theater or history. I kinda of like that stuff. You know arts and arty things. Maybe catering, I’m a pretty good cook you know.”

I puffed on my pipe and thought deep thoughts. A not so deep but infinitely humorous thought bubbled to the surface like a pocket of methane and hydrogen sulfide in a bathtub.

“Physical biochemistry,” I intoned.

“Say what, Doc?”

“Physical biochemistry,” I said, trying to look serious, “with a minor in calculus. That’s my recommendation. That’s the deal. A real deal, I might add.”

“Wow, Doc, I was thinking maybe I could build sets for plays and stuff, but, what was that again? Physical bio whatzit?”

…and many years later…

I wondered what kind of heartless monster would set an art major out on a course of physical biochemistry and calculus. It was a joke, a harmless jest. Not the real deal! Couldn’t he see that?

It was real enough to me, though, with the endless cycle of dreams, random booze and purple prose which oozed out of my fingertips like a rich, dark molasses on a hot summer’s day, sinking into the cracks between the keys on my keyboard like dark molasses would on a hot summer’s day if you spilled it on your keyboard.

As dawn arrived I heard a truck in the street out front, then a thump on the sidewalk as the morning paper was delivered. I staggered out, retrieved the paper and glanced at the headlines. Ah, Nobel prizes awarded for Chemistry. With a slow recognition I stared at the picture of the Nobel laureate in chemistry and saw a small boy. The article read in part…

…and I owe my success to my childhood mentor, who’s name escapes me at the moment, for suggesting that I major in physical biochemistry instead of theater. I owe my success to that probably long-deceased idiot savant who saw qualities in me others didn’t. But, you can’t take the theater out of the boy and I’ve written a play about a mentor who had faith and insight and who undoubtedly went into Science himself because he was such a bad writer cursed with Purple Prose Syndrome. I’m calling it “The Deal.”

I put the morning paper on the counter, corked the ouzo, and headed back to the bedroom.

“Beat it,” I said to Sandy who hustled off the pillow and back to the foot of the bed, “I think I’ll catch up on some lost sleep.”

Sushi Hoe Down

The first 50 times we went to our now favorite Japanese restaurant for lunch it was like going to the ballet; a choreographed meal.

We seek sanctuary in our Japanese restaurant where our corporate care-worn souls will be refreshed as our corpulent bodies are, er, recharged.

Nourishment for soul and stomach.

A perfect lunch place
Nourishes bodies and soul
With today’s special

We are often guided to a place by the front window where sunlight plays a pattern on the wooden table. Everything is in its place, and a place for everything.

Chopsticks are centered and soon so are we.

We are regulars and green tea is brought to us, served with a slight bow. Unbidden, a portion of ikura, our favorite treat, arrives. The waitstaff glides around silently and nearly invisible. Food appears and we can’t remember it being placed in front of us.

Arigato

Miso soup is next, followed, in time and discretely, by a small salad. Finally, our main course is delivered and oriented just so, as pleasing to the eye as to the palate.

Each course is staged to fit our conversation and to enhance the joy of our stay. Slow, but deliberate. Timed to perfection.

As each course arrives our table is reset artistically with spoons, bowls, dipping sauces and whatever is required. Simply contemplating the laid-out table can be a mind-expanding experience.

Finally, we are presented with our bill, almost apologetically. We pay, leave a generous gratuity and depart amongst many arigatos and good-byes, see you soon, have a nice day, ciao and thankyouverymuch.

We return to the Industrial Complex and, shielded by our renewed bodies and souls, we fend off the Morlock tendencies of our fellow workers until we are released from our shackles at 5.

Ah, so.

Thus was the story I related to my out-of-town guest who was to join me for lunch and I suggested Something A Little Different. It is not lunch, I intoned gravely, it is life renewed.

Word to the wise. Never tell anyone…ANYONE…about a special restaurant because it’s a jinx! A JINX I tell you!

Enter restaurant
Expecting peace and quiet
Unwelcome surprise

At first everything looked normal. The Special of the Day was laid out for us to contemplate, patrons were engaged in food and banter, the sushi chefs were busy behind the counter.

It looked normal.

Looked. Normal.

We were ushered to a table away from the window; to a corner of the restaurant. Although soul-nourishing tables were available, we were hustled to the back, into the gloom, into a corner. I laughed nervously.

“Howdy! I’m Ray. Y’all want something to drink?”

I nearly fainted. Speaking, someone is speaking? What are they saying and why? What is this the Spanish Inquisition? I looked up into the bovine brown eyes of our waiter, Ray. Not Ray-san or Rayamura. Just Ray.

“Green tea. Two,” I replied quickly.

“Greenteetoo? I’m sorry but I don’t know what that is? Can you point to it on the menu?”

I glared, “Green. Tea. For. Each. Of. Us. Green. Tea. “

“Oh, green tea! I’m so used to iced tea. I got it. I’ll be back to take your order.”

I was in shock. My guest was nonplussed. “What?” she asked.

“The waiter. Not the usual,” I fumbled.

“He looked like a waiter to me,” my friend offered charitably.

“Yeah, but not here. Not here.”

Ray returned with our tea and remained, pencil in hand, to take our order.

“Two lunch combinations with salmon, steamed rice there, fried rice here, spicy tuna rolls there and California rolls here.” I closed the menu and looked up.

Ray wasn’t writing. He was looking at the folded menu on the table.

Ray looked around. He was sweating a bit. “Uh,” he stammered, “it’s my first day here and the menu ain’t numbered. Bear with me but could you repeat that, real slow like?”

In fifty visits I had never heard uttered the phrase “real slow like” even in Japanese.

Cool moss. Cool moss! I unfolded the menu, pointed and repeated the order.

Ray, looking relieved, stomped back to the kitchen with all the grace of a water buffalo with a broken leg.

Shortly later amid lively conversation concerning a low slung sports car and a high slung fashion model our lunch arrived. All at once. Soup, salad and main course. No pause to enjoy. Just clunk it was slammed on the table as Ray “moved stuff out of the way” to make room.

“Looks like y’all got quite a feed!” Ray announced and clomped off.

I surveyed the wreckage. Bowls here and there, soup in the corner, salad on the edge. My guest had my California rolls, I had the steamed rice. We traded trays. We swapped rolls, half and half.

We ate. We talked. I stewed in silence. I was not centered. I was definitely becoming unbalanced.

After a while my guest looked up, satisfied from a great lunch and sparkling conversation and said, “When’s the ballet start?”

“Come again?” I was half in and half out of the conversation, thinking mostly about murder. I was not centered. No, not centered at all. I was very highly strung and “epped!” every time Ray passed the table.

“The ballet! You said this place had a ballet, so, where is it?”

I glanced at my watch, looked up and said, “Oh, that’s only on Monday. I lost track of the days and it’s Tuesday. How funny? No ballet today.”

“Awww,” my guest sighed in genuine disappointment, “we’ll have to come back here again ‘cause I’d really like to see Japanese ballet!”

“Whatever,” I thought.

Ray strolled by and pitched the check on the table without breaking stride. Uncharitably, I left him a tip less than my usual generosity, although his widow would understand, I'm sure.

As we made our way to the front door I turned and glanced at the sushi chef. He caught my eye, paused knowingly and gave me a respectful bow. I returned the bow with a wan smile and went out the door into the parking lot.

My guest was still going on about the ballet. “Yeah, my daughter took tap lessons, but I never heard of Japanese ballet. We got to come back for that, OK?”

I was lost in thought:

Ballet lunch for two
Trampled by Ray the cowboy
Soul under boot

Tag, You're it!

My first Meme which is not unlike my first root canal. Thanks Dooce I'll do my best.

Here’s the blueprint. A pal is given a bunch of questions to answer and at the end “tags” fellow pals to provide their answers and tag more fortunate victims. It’s the ultimate pyramid scheme.

So, to get into the mood I changed into my Pharoah outfit, demanded crocodile for supper and prepared to sally forth.

Where is Sally, by the way, does she have the day off?

Four jobs I’ve had

1. Busboy at Pepino’s Patio. Seventy-five cents an hour.
2. Construction laborer. Four dollars an hour.
3. Teaching assistant. Ten dollars an hour.
4. Programmer. Seventy dollars an hour.
5. Vendor Relationship Manager. Priceless.

Four movies I can watch over and over

1. Kill Bill 2
2. The Day the Earth Stood Still
3. Forbidden Planet
4. Predator

Four Places I have Lived

1. Shreveport, Louisiana
2. Scottsdale, Arizona
3. London, England
4. Houston, Texas

Four TV Shows I Love

Well, I don’t watch TV, but I once did. So, here are my all-time favorites:

1. Twilight Zone
2. Outer Limits
3. Star Trek (the original)
4. Leave It to Beaver

I guess I haven't watched TV for Quite A While! What's this color thing, anyway?

Four Places I’ve Vacationed

1. Bordeaux, France
2. St. Augustine, Florida
3. Leadville, Colorado
4. London, England

Four of My Favorite Dishes

1. Beef Stroganoff
2. Pho Tai
3. Smoked chicken enchiladas in chipotle cream sauce
4. Crème Brule

Four Sites I visit Daily

1. Dooce
2. The Queens Stories
3. Random Walk
4. Outside Voice

Four Places I’d Rather be Now

1. In the Spread Eagle Pub, London
2. Bottom of the Grand Canyon
3. South of France
4. McMurdo Station, Antarctica (Hey, Genvieve, chillin' babe!)

Five People I am Tagging

1. Beth
2. Bret
3. Pammer
4. Sarah
5. Foo

PO’ed

Backpack. Check.

Water. Check.

Rations. Check.

ComfyFoot Inserts. Check.

Fully charged iPod. Check.

Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, volume I. Check.

“OK, I’m packed. I’m leaving!” I shouted as I headed out the door.

“Where are you going, again?” a voice said from the far reaches of the house.

“Post Office.” I replied.

“Oh. So, you don’t know when you’ll return. I won’t hold dinner.”

Nice, I thought, and I set off for my adventure.

I had two packages to mail and, you know, it’s one of those things where I’d be better off to tape a hundred dollar bill to the parcel and drop it in the box.

But, no, to mail a package you have to go to the Post Office.

It’s a Law of Nature.

Predictably, the queue at the Post Office was long, but I was prepared: food, water, comfy shoes and a fully charged iPod.

I settled in.

About a month later the guy behind me tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Is this line moving?”

Silly question, I thought, but I replied, “I don’t know. I’ll ask the guy in front of me.”

Tapping my forward neighbor on the shoulder I asked, “How long have you been here?”

“What year is it?”

I turned back, “It’s moving. He’s still alive.”

The iPod enabled me to maintain my sanity. As I munched on my trail mix I completed the entire works of Beethoven, Mozart and Brahms and was working my way through Led Zeppelin.

A very, very old man smiling broadly shuffled past us and out the door. We all took a tiny step forward.

Then, right in the middle of my air guitar rendition of ZZ Top’s “I’m Bad, I’m Nationwide” I heard the magical words:

“Next!”

I had the exact change in several currencies. I said “First Class, no confirmation, ground, red, white and blue truck, driver named ‘Ed’, keep the change.” I was out of there. Done. Cut loose. Sprung. Free as a bird.

And wouldn’t you know it the iPod was pumping out Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird.” How cool was that?

I’m freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. And the bird you cannot changeyangeyangeyange…

Nationwide

There are times I could use a fast rewind in life. You know, a remote control that would let me pause, rewind and see that bit over again. Or, do that bit over again.

Case in point, a conversation today that SHOULD have gone like this:

“Did you call the Honda dealer about the tags?”

“Yes, I called the Honda dealer about the tags, but, and I beg forgiveness on this point, I neglected to tell you about the positive outcome of that conversation in that the tags have arrived and we could have picked up the tags at lunchtime if I had remembered. Alas, I forgot to convey that detail to you. I will flog myself when we get home for my negligence and eat only bread and water for a week.”

However, conversations in my life seldom go as they SHOULD. In this case I skipped over the first bit:

I called the dealer, ascertained that the tags were available, but forgot to communicate that fact during lunch.

Rather, I launched into the second bit about forgetting with, well ‘different’ results. You be the judge. Let’s watch:

“Did you call the Honda dealer about the tags?”

“Oh, I forgot…”

“What do you mean you forgot? Didn’t I remind you at breakfast this morning to call them? Didn’t I staple a reminder to your briefcase? Didn’t I leave a message on your office voice mail to call the dealer? Didn’t I send you an email on the subject, and several IM’s this morning? Huh, huh, didn’t I, huh?”

“I, uh…”

“What do I need to do, follow you around all day? Take out an ad in the newspaper? Book a radio spot? Hire an assistant? Call you every 10 minutes? Can’t you do a simple task like call a car dealer? What do I have to do, hire a sky writer?”

Skywriter, I thought. That would be cool. A skywriter doing your bidding. Yeah, I see it all now…

S U R R E N D E R     D O R O T H Y !

What’s that up in the sky!

It’s the witch! It’s the witch! Who’s Dorothy? The Wizard will know! We’re off to see the Wizard!

Great, I thought, maybe I can get out of here. A few clicks…

I looked down at my feet expecting to see the Ruby Slippers but I was in for a shock.

Black paws.

What? Black paws! What’s this? Rats, I’m not Dorothy, I’m (arf) Toto!

I checked myself out. Short stature, black fur, large moustache. Whew! At least I’m not a bichon frise! How embarrassing would that be?

Quickly, I turned tight little circles and did a bit of a hop. I heard a voice.

“Down, Toto, down! Look, the witch!”

I looked up and saw the witch finish off the exclamation point and zoom off to the west. That figured. After all, she’s the Wicked
Witch of the West.

I had to get out of here. Jumping up I grabbed Dorothy’s dress with my teeth and tugged. Dorothy looked down and I did my best to click my heels.

“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home!” I thought.

It came out like “Arf! Bow wow wow wow wow! Arf arf!”

Dorothy looked down and said, “I know it’s scary, but you should have called the Honda dealer, you Bad Dog!”

I paused then said, “But, I did call the dealer and the tags are in and we can pick them up!”

All that came out was “Arffie, arf, arf!”

I looked down in shame, but from my vantage point all I could see were the Ruby Slippers worn by Dorothy.

Mmmmm, I thought, slipperrrrrrs…

Suddenly, I leapt forward, grabbed the slippers, wrenched them off her feet and ran into the forest.

She exclaimed very un-Dorothy-like, “WTF?”

But, it was too late! Off I scampered with the slippers in my teeth and once I was safe in the forest, I dropped the shoes, put my hind legs in them and clicked.

“There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home!”

A fog began to encircle me and soon I was lifted up, up, and up, until…

“Are you listening to me at all? Do I have to do all your thinking for you? Knock, knock. Is anybody home?”

I said, “I called the dealer this morning and the tags are in. I forgot to tell you at lunch and we could have picked them up at that time, but I’ll go out on Saturday and get them. It’s not a problem. Also, I’ll get some stuff to fix the fence while I’m doing errands.”

Silence.

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry I jumped on your case. My bad.”

“Bad? You’re Nationwide!”

Mobius Trip

“Get in the right lane.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I’m the Navigator and I say so. Get in the right lane, go down the frontage road and take Eldridge. The Beltway is bunged up.”

We approached the interchange and I was still in the center lane weighing my options.

“Looks like it’s moving to me.”

“You need to turn right. Right! Turn.”

“I think it’s moving. Look! Look, Jane, look. See the cars. See the cars go. Go, cars, go!”

“OK, OK, turn left if you want. Fine. Left full rudder.”

I turned left and the traffic stopped. There were police lights ahead, but only at the entrance ramp.

“See?” I chortled, “We can go up to the next light and we’ll be on our way, Little Ms Pessimist Person.”

At that moment the radio announcer broke in with a traffic report.

“A fuel spill on I-10 has all lanes blocked. Traffic is already backed up to San Francisco. Expect delays of one to three years.”

We were five minutes from work and five minutes into our journey. Twenty minutes later we would still be five minutes from work.

“Take the next side street,” said Navigator, “or I’ll reach over there and snatch your ear off.”

“Aye,” I replied.

“This looks bad. I’m going to make the call.”

“Mobius?”

“Mobius.”

Beeeep boop boop beeeep beep boop beep beep.

“Mobius control, hold on.”

Sxxxxxxttt-ccccchhhhh-bing-dong-bing-dong-shhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

“You’re in.” I could hear Mobius’ baritone voice through the cell phone.

“Listen carefully and do exactly as I say or you’ll be lost in the Matrix and the next people to find you will be archaeologists.”

“Go ahead,” Navigator replied, “I’ll put you on speaker so The Driver can hear.”

“Who’s The Driver today?” Mobius asked.

Pause.

“You know.”

Pause.

“Sorry to hear that.” Mobius sounded sincere.

He continued, “You’re coming up to a construction site. There’s a gate on the right. It’s closed but only with a thin wire. Go through the gate. Don’t stop.”

“Now!” Navigator yelled.

I wrenched the truck to the right, bounced up the curb neatly avoiding a bichon friche out for a stroll, crashed through the gate and bounded across the contstruction site.

“There’s a dirt mound straight ahead. You need to hit the base of it at exactly 82.33 miles per hour.”

“Got it,” I replied pressing hard on the accelerator. The truck leapt forward as the speedometer climbed to 50, 66, 78, 82 and as we struck the edge of the dirt pile 82.33. We rocketed up the pile and gracefully sailed over the other side of the construction, barely brushing the Bradford pear trees along the street and landed squarely in the road bouncing once. I fought to get the truck under control.

We roared down the road into a sea of red taillights. Refugees from the I-10 arterial blockage.

Mobius intoned calmly, “Two hundred yards ahead there is a break in the median. Cross to the left into oncoming traffic. Straddle the center line.”

“Three, two, one…now!” shouted Navigator.

I pulled hard on the steering wheel fishtailing into oncoming traffic and amid the blaring of horns the traffic parted as if by magic. We cut through like a hot knife through butter, Moses in the Red Sea or a really bad intestinal problem in a disco. Whatever metaphor you want, people got out of our way.

“OK,” Mobius said, “you’re almost there but this is going to be tricky and require split second timing. When you see a red Lexus being driven by a Hungarian woman named Doris, turn left in front of her.”

Cars and trucks were a blur to the left and right. I focused on red cars. Red, red, red!

Suddenly, I saw a red Lexus driven by a blonde lady. In the reflection of her sunglasses I could see a bag of groceries in the passenger seat and there, on top, was a tin of paprika.

Hungarian paprika. Her personalized license plate read “D0R1S.”

I hauled on the steering wheel and the truck slid neatly in front of the Lexus and into the entrance of a Taco Bell. I hit the brakes and skidded to a stop in front of the drive-thru speaker.

“May I take your order?”

Mobius: “Order a combination number 2 and a Sprite. They’re out of Dr. Pepper.”

We pulled up to the drive thru window to get our order. Mobius broke in, “When I say ‘now’ floor it. Don’t look left. Don’t look right. Just go.”

We waited. Seconds ticked by. We heard sirens. Fire trucks? Police? We couldn’t tell, but the sirens were getting louder.

Suddenly, a fire truck roared by and there was a slight gap in the traffic.

“Now!” Mobius crackled.

We shot out of the Taco Bell parking lot and into traffic neatly threading ourselves between vehicles and across to the other side.

We were through! The streets were clear ahead. We were home free. The clouds parted and a golden shaft of sunlight beamed down. Bluebirds sang. I pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.

Silence.

“If you had turned right in the first place, like I asked, we would have been home hours ago,” Navigator said, unable to let it go.

“Yeah, maybe,” I replied holding up the Taco Bell bag, “but I would have had to cook!”

Navigator smiled as I handed her a taco.

Phat Lady Sings

At the mall I overheard a teenage conversation that went something like this:

She’s fat!

Yeah, man, fat!

Think she’d go out with me?

Naw, man, she’s too fat for you! Now me, she’d go for me ‘cause I’m fat, too.

I checked out the teenagers in question and neither were what I would call fat. If anything, they weighed 100 pounds…together.

What’s this obsession with fat? In my day, the Day of the Dog, the fat girl was the one with a “great personality.” Yikes, pothole ahead! Danger, Will Robinson!

Of course, I was suffering from a culture collision. Missed the exit ramp at Alpha Centuri. George Jetson paging Judi. Hello Feebville.

Fat was Phat.

Fat was out. Phat was in.

Fast forward a few years and I’m interviewing a programmer for a job. She’s just about as cool a programmer as ever walked this green planet. She could dereference a pointer in her head, 32-bit or 64. I said FEEB and she said DEAF in hexidecimal.

And when I asked her One-Oh-Two-Oh-Seven-Seven?

She responded: Halt code 77, octal, Hewlett-Packard 2116 minicomputer circa 1975.

“Geeze Louise,” I exclaimed, “you’re phat!”

“Excuse me,” she replied, “I’m pregnant.”

“No, no no!” I persisted, “you’re, like, way phat! I mean like cool phat. Phatness to the n-th degree.”

My interviewee’s eyes narrowed. She leaned forward, grabbed me by the tie, pulled my head down to the desk and hissed…

“I’m not fat. I’m pregnant. And if you say the fat word one more time it will be your last word. Got it, skinny boy?”

As the world began to turn grey I reached for a pen and with my last moments of consciousness I scribbled the word:

P H A T

On my desk pad.

She looked down, released my throat, sat up in her seat and chirped,

“Oh, phat like phat phat. Why, thank you! You’re a little fat yourself.” Batting her eyes.

“So, do I have the job?” the phat lady enquired?

“You had me at 102077.”

And phat was that.

Caller Number One

“Caller Number One, you’re on the air.”

That’s how I’m answering the phone this year. I used to say things like “Computer Applications, Bill speaking, how may I help you?” or “This is Bill in Comp Apps. Make it a great day.”

But after years of trying to be helpful and polite I shortened the entire thing down to one word:

“Yello.”

Sometimes I’d say “Yello, Simpson here.” That was good for a laugh. I got a lot of hang-ups with that one, though. Except for Mr. Burns in Accounting who would inevitably say “Simpson, eh?”

Oh, Simpson, I was calling Bill, I must have dialed the wrong number, better hang up quick!

This year I decided on a Radio Talk Show motif.

Caller Number One was not taken aback.

“What did I win?”

“Why you won the privilege of taking me out to lunch. Larry.”

“How’d you know it was me?” Larry was caught off-guard as usual.

“Caller ID, my friend. Greatest invention since that thing that takes a loaf of bread and cuts it all up. What’s that called, I’ve had a synapse relapse?”

“Sliced bread.”

“Yeah, Larry, right on! Sliced bread. How quaint. So, are we on for lunch?”

“I guess. It’s my turn to buy, right?”

“And drive. Don’t forget that, my friend, buy and drive. Meet you at the top in 5.”

Click.

Five minutes later we were heading out to the parking lot solving the World’s problems.

“And then I’d merge IBM with Tyson and we’d have chicken-powered computers,” Larry enthused.

Mmmmmmmm, chicken! I thought.

We arrived at Larry’s car and at that moment Larry had that deer-in-the-headlights look as he patted himself down in search of keys.

Before he could offer an excuse, though, I suggested we take my car and soon we were on our way.

Although I heard this “ding ding” alarm bell, I ignored it as is my way.

For example, “Honey, do these shorts make my butt look big?”

DING! DING! DING! DING!

“Well, now that you mention it…”

(Ice Age follows.)

So, we arrived at $u$hi Jin for an exquisite meal of Japanese delicacies and service second to none in Houston and chowed down like raw fish was going out of style. We went on what the movie critics call a “roaring rampage.”

We roared and we rampaged and we got fishy satisfaction.

The conversation was great and not only did we solve the World’s problems but we designed several new philosophical schools to boot. All in all, an event on a Galactic scale.

Accordingly, the bill was astronomical.

“Whoa, Larry, I think you’re going to have to take a second mortgage on this one!” I chuckled.

Larry looked at the bill, calculated the tip and said “No problem. You’ve paid for your share of lunches. Yeah, my daughter may have to drop out of college, but it’s worth it. Great lunch.”

Then, Larry reached into his coat, patted his rear pockets and did a general Hawaii 5-O frisk, looked up and said “Oops.”

“Oops?” I replied, “What oops?”

“Oops like I left my wallet at the office with my car keys. Oops like I have no money. No keys. And, oops.”

You know, I should have stood up at that moment and walked out but the thought that ran through my mind was “A friend in need is a friend indeed.”

I pony upped the bill and soon we were on our way back to the office.

“Hey, I owe you one,” Larry chimed as he disappeared down the corridor to his little cubicle amongst the galley slaves.

“De rien,” I replied as I headed to my spacious office in the Executive Wing.

My assistant who had a worried look on her face met me.

“Sir, this just came in from the Continent.”

I looked at the Telex which read “Le singe et sur la branche.”

Uh, oh. This spelled trouble. I went into my office and dialed 2176, my emergency number.

“Yello.”

“Larry, how’s your French?”

Google’s Got You Covered

I can barely remember what life was like before cell phones and Google. Actually, I can: I spent more time looking up stuff in books and being lost. Not really lost as in Lost lost, just in the wrong place which is just as bad; the “wrong place” being not the place my wife was.

I digress.

Here I am in sunny Allen, Texas. Ha! You thought that previous posting was a joke. So did I. I really am in Allen, Texas and it’s a fine town.

The first thing I did when I got into my hotel room was unpack the PowerBook and hook it up to the Internet cable. I guess a close third after cell phones and Google is hotels with Internet connections. Especially FREE Internet connections. Imagine that! My $200 a night room has FREE Internet. I am a King.

So, I hooked up the PowerBook, brought up Google and went to Google Maps where I typed in “krogers, allen, texas” and faster than the Sackmeiser could bag a can of Turkey ‘n’ Giblets, up came a map of local Kroger’s stores. The closest Kroger’s was on the corner of Allen Heights and Bethany.

I needed to pick up a few things: bagel crisps, beef jerky and a box of sushi. I can tell you for sure, you can’t get bagel crisps just anywhere. I called my wife on the cell phone from Kroger’s.

“They got sushi in Allen, Texas?”

“Yeah-huh, they do! They got cheese balls on rice and minnows on rice. And some crickets. Never seen that before, but it looks good.”

Also, I needed to find a Mexican restaurant for dinner and using Google I found La Finca right there on Bethany within field goal distance of the hotel. How conveeeeeeeenient!

Soon I was back in the car and in short order had completed my shopping, enjoyed a fine Camarones A La Diabla (with Crow Poblano) and was back in my Internet saturated room for a night of surfing and listening to the chaperones of a middle school girl’s gymnastics team shouting “Don’t jump on the beds! Don’t jump on the beds!”

Allen, Texas. Just north of Dallas, hardly even out of Dallas. Founded in the 1800’s by Ebenezer Allen, a railroad promoter. Old Eb promoted railroads by hauling great, long flatcars piled high with gold bullion, gleaming in the sun.

The first train robbery was in Allen, Texas in 1878, committed by Sam Bass and his gang.

Bankrupt, Ebenezer emigrated to England where, embittered by his loss, he founded an accounting firm, developed a reputation for meanness, then, suddenly, one Christmas Eve, turned over a new leaf and learned to keep the spirit of Christmas like no man before or since.

As for Sam Bass and the Gang, they did some time in jail but Sam emerged to start a chain of Pro Fishing Shops and made a second fortune as a motivational speaker.

And that’s all the news from Allen, Texas. Next stop: Tinkerbell.

Tinkerbell, Texas

“Hi, I’m Allen and it’s my pleasure to serve you tonight! Could I get you a drink?”

“Sure thing, Allen, double margarita on the rocks with salt.”

Allen paused and stared at me.

“You want two margaritas?”

“No, I want one margarita. A giant margarita. On the rocks. With salt.”

Allen was writing a thesis on his little pad.

“That would be our Special.”

“Great. One Special.”

“You want that frozen?”

“No, thanks. On the rocks. With salt.”

“On……..the…….roooooooockkkkksssss.”

“Salted rim?”

I paused.

“I dunno. What kind of salt do you have?” And, as soon as the quip left my lips to float on the ether, before I could reel it back for a do-over Allen turned on his heels and headed off into the kitchen.

Over his shoulder he called, “I’ll check!” And he was gone.

Rats, rats, rats and double rats! Memo to self: don’t mess with the waiter until AFTER you get your drink.

The next Ice Age came and went and Allen returned with my Special, on the rocks with salt.

He explained, “We only have one kind of salt, so I used my initiative.”

“I hope you didn’t use it all up at once,” I quipped unthinkingly.

“Pardon me?”

Engaging brain and slipping it into high gear damage control I replied, “The salt. I hope you didn’t use it all up. My, that’s quite a large glass the Special comes in. Yes, indeed, must use a lot of salt. A veritable dome of salt, I’d say…” and I trailed off muttering.

Quickly, I changed the subject.

“So, Allen, you from around here?”

“Yep, born and raised.”

“Here in Allen, Texas.”

“Yep, my home town.”

“Allen from Allen.” I took a pull on my Special. Restraint. Restraint!

“That’s right" Allen continued, "Funny, but I’ve got a friend, Bob, who’s from Bob, Texas.”

I swallowed a chunk of ice, coughing for a few moments. Wiping the tears from my eyes I couldn’t help myself from offering…

“Well, Allen, lucky for you this place wasn’t named Tinkerbell, Texas.”

Allen was still and quiet as the consequence of what I had just said sank in. Then, he bent down close. His eyes narrowed. His brow furrowed. Quietly he hissed so only I could hear.

“If’n the town had been named Tinkerbell, then I would be proud to be called Tinkerbell. Very proud.”

And with that, Allen marched into the kitchen and was gone.

Some time later, I’d say two Ice Ages worth, another waiter came up to my table and offered an explanation.

“Allen’s gone off shift. I’ll take your order. My name is Dallas.”

I decided, for once, that discretion was the better part of valor and placed my order.

“I’ll have two more Specials, and the crow poblano looks good. Yes, I’m definitely in the mood for crow tonight.”

Grackle Whisperer

The grackle. I love that bird. Such a character! The male grackle is a black bird who is distinguished by fluffing himself up to look bigger, thrusting his beak into the air and flying with a twisted tail. The tail thing alone endears me to the grackle.

But, it’s the grackle’s call that’s the best. “Graaaaaaaaaaackle!”

We stopped at Kroger’s the other night, the kids and me, and grackles were everywhere.

“Uh, Dad, just drop us off here and we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“What? We’re a mile away.”

“Yeah, Dad, we know. Just drop us off. We’ll be OK. We’ve got water and a little food. Meet you in the bread section.”

I stopped and let them out.

Pulling into the parking lot the grackles were everywhere. Thousands of them.

I got out of the car and took my Grackle Stance. I learned from observation that if you take the Grackle Stance the birds will recognize you as one of their own.

I held my arms out, thrust my nose in the air and tried to puff up.

“Graaaaaaaaaaaaaakle!” I screeched.

Several people turned to stare. A mother, obviously new to the neighborhood, grabbed her child’s hand and scuttled off.

“What’s that funny man doing, Mommy?” I heard.

“Don’t stare at the strange man, Allison, and let this be a lesson to you about drugs!”

As a professional I’ve been called the Grackle Whisperer. Only you can’t whisper to a grackle. You have to shout. I guess the Grackle Shouter doesn’t quite have the same ring.

“Graaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaakle!” I screeched.

An entire flock of birds wheeling around the Kroger’s sign shifted direction and headed my way.

I started to do the Grackle Strut. Puffed up, nose in the air, hands tucked firmly in my armpits I pranced around the parking lot.

“Graaaaaaaaaaaaaakle!” I screeched.

Thousands of birds wheeled around me in a black tornado of feathers and beaks all screeching little “Graaaaakle!” noises. I could feel their wing beats.

Then, like the first drops at the beginning of a thunderstorm the first plop of grackle poop hit my hand.

Undaunted, surrounded by my posse I issued the call: “Graaaaaaaakle!”

And the storm hit in full fury. In an immense display of affection each individual grackle dropped his or her personal load upon my outstretched body. Pelted from head to foot I called out “Graaaaaaaakle!” and my brothers and sisters, caught up in the moment, honored me in their unique way.

Plop! On the head. Plop! On the shoulder. Plop! Plop! Plop! The frequency intensified until plops became a torrent; a great rushing of honor.

“Graaaaaaaaakle!” I cried and their honor increased until the plops merged into a deafening roar of appreciation.

Then, as suddenly as they had appeared the grackles wheeled off into the twilight sky, circling twice around the Kroger’s sign and off west into the distance. Shortly they were gone and the parking lot was still.

Slowly I made my way to the front door and was greeted by Carlos.

“Honored again I see,” Carlos the Observant said.

“Yes. My people. What can I say?” I replied sagely, dripping in honor.

“Ah, yes, sir.” Carlos paused, then continued, “you are honored indeed.”

Carlos eyed me up and down. Grackle honor dripping off my nose, down my back and into my shoes. A small, white puddle of honor pooled in the foyer, ran out the front door and into the gutter.

Eying me with appreciation Carlos said,

“I’ll get a hose.”

Fries with Your Ketchup?

Before too much heartburn is generated over this I will state right off that I am a Ketchup Fan.

I am a fan of ketchup.

Ketchup.

Prounced “KETCH-up” as in y’all better hurry and ketchup wit us, now.

I have no idea what catsup is. And I don’t want to know.

What I do know is that Google gives 4,670,000 hits for “ketchup” and a paltry 617,000 for “catsup.”

So, ketchup wins. Google says so.

Now that we got that settled I was wondering the other day what life would be like if ketchup was the main event instead of the condiment.

This all started when a friend of mine informed a caffeine-deprived group of workers one too bright morning that “they” were auctioning stuff from AstroWorld which closed down here in Houston a few months ago, and one of the items up for sale was a 40-gallon ketchup dispenser.

Whoa, said someone who was at least two cups of coffee behind the rest of us, how many packets would that be?

Being the math major of the group I quickly estimated that a packet ‘this’ long, ‘that’ wide and ‘yea’ thick would have such-and-such volume which when divided into 40 gallons, naught and naught is naught, carry the one, thirty days hath September yielded…

…about a zillion, give or take this many (and I flashed my fingers a few times for effect)

The coffee bar fell silent for a few minutes until Ten Cup Ed stuttered, y-y-y-ou k-k-k-k-k-know, I th-th-th-think he’s r-r-r-r-r-r-ight, and then Ed not so much walked, but jittered down the hall and banged into his cubicle.

The rest of us slowly filed out of the coffee bar as the words of Ed’s pronouncement sank in.

Wow, a zillion packets, someone let out a low whistle, that’s like all the ketchup you’d ever need. Ever!

Yeah, someone else said, you could like have ketchup all the time, like.

“Whoa, dude, 24-7 ketchup blows my mind,” he paused, “like.”

So, instead of working on my 2006 Goals and Objectives I devoted my day to a world in which ketchup was king. (I mean, really, Goals and Objectives? Give me a break! What’s the point? The year’s almost over. Sheesh.)

In the Ketchup World tomatoes would grow to the size of cows. The great tomato barons would have conquered the West with vast fields of tomatoes stretching from the banks of the Mississippi to the Pacific Ocean, or at least to Ogden, Utah.

As Gramps explained:

Yep, I remember as a kid the Ketchup Truck coming down the street. Big old honking red truck and the Ketchup Man was all decked out in his red coveralls, hauling the great red hose over his shoulder as he trudged across the lawn to the Ketchup Spigot. He’d screw that sucker in and start the pump that would fill the Ketchup Bin in the cellar plumb full. Then we’d all run up and stand around him as he released the spigot clamp and sure as shooting there would be a little back pressure and we’d all get squirted from head to foot with great gobs of ketchup.

Heh, heh, yeah, boy, those were the days.

Wow, Gramps, you had a Ketchup Bin in the cellar? Didn’t you have no Binford 3000 40-gallon Ketchup Dispenser in the kitchen?

“No, dummy,” some older kid would say, “they weren’t invented yet.”

Oh. The thought of hauling buckets of ketchup up the stairs was daunting.

Man, you had it tough Gramps. Poor Gramps.

Suddenly, the back door would fly open and Mom would yell “Dinner Time!” and we’d all zoom into the house.

“What’s for dinner, Ma?” we’d all shout!

“How about a great big bowl of ketchup with fried potato sprinkles?”

“Yea! Potato sprinkles!”

We’d all beam with pleasure, “Aw, Mom, you’re too good to us. We don’t deserve it!”

But, secretly we knew we did.

A Weevil Ait Yor Paprika!

Julia Louis-Dreyfus's Elaine on Seinfeld once offered a non sequitur at a party just to relieve her own boredom: "The dingo ate your baby," she blurted in a bad Australian accent.

Imagine my shock, then, when after I tried to shake some paprika out of my favorite supply nothing came out.

Wha?

I opened up the tin and, lo and behold, it was full of “weevils!” Not just a weevil here or there, but Full Of Weevils, as in gigantic, solid, crawling mass o’ weevil. WeevFest. Smackdown WeevilMania!

I was thoroughly disgustipated, not to mention out of paprika. The container was more weevil than paprika! Not to be outdone, I had a backup, but, guess what? It was weevilized, too.

Not only that, but my cache of cayenne pepper was totally weevilized. These things eat cayenne pepper? I couldn’t believe it, but there it was. Weevils on pepper.

My immediate response, after discarding the spices, was to get on Google and find out what these things were that could and would eat paprika and cayenne pepper.

The closest reference I found was to the Drugstore Beetle. Not a weevil at all; that’s just a nickname. The Drugstore Beetle is known to eat peppers, lead paint, flour, dried beans and wood.

Whatever. My paprika was gone and I needed a new supply.

“I’ll pick up some paprika at Kroger’s the next time I go out,” the Voice said.

“No, that won’t work,” I replied, “they only sell sweet paprika. We need the hot.”

“Paprika’s not hot.”

“The hot type is hot which is why I keep both. Sometimes I need hot, sometimes not.” I was pleased with my little rhyme.

“Well then you deal with it. I forfeit my responsibility for acquiring the paprika.”

“Forfeit your responsibility for acquiring paprika? Give me a break,” I thought very, very silently.

“OK, Light of my Life, I’ll handle it,” I said out loud cheerfully. And I headed out to World Market, the supplier of hot paprika.

I arrived at World Market and the place was dead. Post-Christmas slump. I picked up a few specials on my way to the spice aisle. Picture frame. Carved monkey. Shirt from Indonesia that was a print of either a crocodile or a dancing girl with a terrible overbite.

Finally, I reached the spice aisle and snagged the very last Hot Paprika tin they had. I checked the contents for weevils, being a little gun shy at this point. I also picked up some sweet paprika since it was in ready supply.

At long last, after a day battling the Drugstore Beetle/Weevil I returned home with paprikas galore and ready to cook.

“What are you doing for dinner tonight,” said the Voice?

“I bought some stuff to do my Mexican Pork Stew,” I said.

“Does that call for paprika?”

I thought long and hard about that answer. “Not usually,” pause, pause, pause, “but I think it would benefit from paprika. Yes, most definitely, it would.”

Yes, paprika for all. I’m sure the weevils would approve.

The Year of…

A blogger friend of mine who is a designer starts off the new year by setting a personal theme. Each theme has been challenging and difficult to quantify like the Year of the Rock Star, of the Year of the Turkish Delight, but, perhaps, that’s what the ideal theme should be; a general direction. Go west, young man!

Today, Beth Cherry wrote:

2006 is the Year of the Butterfly.

I've given this a lot of thought. This is a big year with a lot happening for a lot of people I know, and the common thread is transformation, a movement from one state to another. The thing though that is most important to me, more important than my graduation and subsequent life change, will be the birth of my niece in February.

What then, is better than being born in the year of the butterfly? The butterfly represents freedom, creativity, divine inspiration, and change. I hope that it will be a year filled with beauty and a new, lighthearted perspective on life.

It's going to be a good year.

Now, that’s what I call a theme! It sets the tone for the entire year. I think it’s such a grand idea that I’m going to declare a theme for the year, too.

More about that later.

Meanwhile, a conversation overheard last night, New Year’s Eve:

“I’d love to sing in a band. But, I can’t sing. Although, I do love karaoke, but I’m too shy. So, by the time I’ve had enough drinks to sing, I can’t stand. And then it’s stand or sing, stand or sing. What to do? I finally figure it out, but, then, everyone’s gone home.”

I laughed until I cried. Then it was laugh, cry, laugh, cry.

The topic of conversation last night was, of course, the weather (what else?) but in particular what a mild winter we’re having here in Houston. It must have been 80 degrees F last night and people were commenting all night how hotttttttttt it was while fanning themselves furiously.

Everybody complains about the weather but nobody does anything about it.

I say embrace the heat. Sweating can be a vocation.

“Hi, what do you do for a Jay Oh Bee?”

“I sweat.”

“Professional or amateur.”

“Pro circuit. I travel with the PSA.”

“Wow, I never met a Pro before! What’s your average?”

“I can hold a bead of sweat on the tip of my nose for 90 minutes. 110 is my personal best back in Oh-Two.”

Low whistle, “Whoa, baby, 90 minutes! That’s awesome. Hey, you got any tips you could share?”

“Yeah, I’ve got one I could share out. I wax my spine. Not the whole back, just the spine. Then I can control the sweat like millions of tiny, hairy tributaries all over my back feeding the main channel. On a good day, say late July, I can deliver about a pint of liquid off my tailbone alone,” I paused for effect, then continued, “without breaking a sweat!”

Yep, if I could just learn to shake like a dog I’d be Olympic material, for sure.

OK, I’ve been sitting here for 15 minutes, now, trying to find a way to bridge between vocational sweating and black eyed peas and I’m just out of ideas at this point, so there’s nothing left to do but dive right in.

Black eyed peas eaten on New Year’s Eve or Day are a Southern tradition. Whether it’s eve or day doesn’t matter to me at this juncture because I didn’t prepare them last night. Eve is moot. And, I can honestly say that I’ve never before written those three words together.

I don’t have a recipe for my black eyed peas. The only constant is that I use dried peas and not peas out of a can. That’s because I can then call myself a gourmet and be snooty about it.

Anyway, I quick-soak my peas by bringing them to a boil, turning off the heat and letting them sit for an hour or so. Then I add whatever I have at hand. This year I had a smoked sausage, an onion, some strained tomatoes and the usual assortment of spices: garlic, onion flakes, cayenne pepper and grey sea salt. All that stuff will simmer in the pot for a few hours.

Meanwhile, I’ll rustle up some cornbread and fix a large salad to go along.

Finally, my theme for the year.

2006 is the Year of Discovery.

When I announced this theme a friend of mine asked “What are you going to discover?”

Well, if I knew that it wouldn’t be discovery, would it?

Personal discovery, though, is more to the point. I have some books on the back roads of Texas so I’m going to discover some countryside new to me. New restaurants are high on the list. I’d like to discover a new author, someone I’ve never read before. I’m going to try to read one new blog, at random, each day.

Two hundred years ago Lewis and Clark returned from their voyage of discovery. This year I set out on mine.

It's going to be a good year. You're all are invited to come along.

Happy Old Mac

New Year’s Eve and it’s time to fire up the old Macintosh Plus for its annual countdown. The old Mac turns 20 in March; still going strong. I start it up once a year just for the countdown.

The Mac booted up just fine displaying the charming message “Welcome to Macintosh” and displayed the date: 12/31/ 5. The time was a little off, but easily corrected.

We’ll spend the evening playing some of the old games on the tiny, 9-inch black-and-white screen.

Ah, the simpler times.

Take that you pesky Daleks!

Happy New Year to all of you and here’s to 2006, Daleks and all.

Spuds ‘R’ Us

I’ve been cutting down on the spuds this year in a vain attempt to reduce the overall girth of the household.

OK, it’s probably just a vain attempt. Who knows?

However, tonight’s dinner cried out for spudmania.

White fish on spinach with cream sauce.

The fish yelled for potatoes. The spinach yelled for potatoes. I capitulated.

But, what potato dish to do? It had to be something new so I pulled out my French Country cookbook and found the following:

Thin slice some potatoes and rinse them well and dry them off. Season.
In a large pot boil up some cream and butter and garlic.
Dump in the potatoes and simmer for 8 minutes.
Meanwhile, butter a baking dish, heat the oven to 350.
Dump the potatoes into the baking dish and cover with Gruyere.
Bake for 90 minutes.

Very much like potatoes au gratin, in fact, almost exactly like potatoes au gratin except that I have never simmered the potato slices in cream before.

In short: Rave Reviews.

There were no actual fights during the serving of this meal, but there was a tense staredown over the ultimate crusty bit in the pan on the table.

“You going to eat that?”

“I was thinking about it. You?”

“I was thinking about it, too. I’m older, you know. It’s my right.”

“It’s my birthday. Birthday trumps right.”

Short pause.

“Arm wrestle you for it.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Chicken.”

“I’m not chicken and I’m not arm wrestling you and it’s still my birthday.”

“Yeah, maybe. For two hours maybe.”

“That golden bit of cheesy, buttery potato ambrosia ain’t going to last two seconds. Loser.”

“Yeah? Well, you just wait a few months until my birthday and we’ll see. Yeah, we’ll just see!” And a little tear fell to the table.

The teary bluff was called, the golden, cheesy, buttery potato morsel was scooped up, deposited down the hatch and the Birthday Girl slumped back in her chair, a smile upon her lips, drool running out of the corner of her mouth and proceeded to utter contented noises.

We didn’t bother putting her to bed. We just threw a sheet over her and turned off the kitchen lights. Some things are best left undisturbed.

Austin

We’ve been in Austin the past couple of days. That statement doesn’t excuse the lack of postings on this blog because we enjoy a very broadband, wireless experience in Austin and, in fact, can connect to eight totally open networks in our condo.

Such nice people to let us surf the Internet on their dime, so to speak. And, you know, I’m really sorry for that couple across the hall who got hauled away by the FBI for accessing that sensitive website. Hey, I was only curious!

Anyway, I decided to secure our wireless network so I gave it some weird name I can never remember, but, fortunately, my Macintosh remembers and reminds me that I’m about to connect to “that weird network” and is that OK. Yeah, that’s OK.

Austin, Texas is a cool town because it’s three things at once:

1. It’s a university town, University of Texas. Woo Hoo, go Longhorns! Rose Bowl, 2006! Wooooooo, Bevo!
2. It’s the State Capital and has lots of cool stuff to do like the Capitol and museums and libraries and stuff like that.
3. It’s a restaurant mecca with cuisines out the wazoo.

We took advantage of all three. First, we cruised though the UT campus several times trying not to run down engineering students who had a habit of reading textbooks in crosswalks. What’s up with that?

Second, we avoided all the museums because once you’ve seen a stuffed Davy Crockett, you’ve seen them all.

And, third, we took advantage of every Mexican restaurant Austin has to offer, except for Taco Bell and Jack in the Box.

On the third point I’ll mention Trudy’s in particular.

Trudy’s, on 30th street just off Guadeloupe is located in a rambling house, and full of students, faculty and Austin glitterati.

We, of course, fell into the ultimate category.

Offered a table in the centre of the restaurant, we quickly downed a couple of the house margaritas before our dinners arrived. The margaritas were not diluted with mixture, rather represented the tequila appropriately.

Maybe too appropriately.

Dinner was, thankfully, a reasonable proportion of food. That is to say not a Houston Papadeaux quantity: enough to feed a navy.

The smoked chicken enchiladas were tender and flavorful and the chicken chipotle was tangy and interesting.

A lovely dinner in a vibrant restaurant.

Later that evening was the following conversation:

“Hey, at Trudy’s did you notice that couple across from us?”

“You mean the striking blonde about 5’10”, 130 lbs., possibly of German descent but definitely Northern European, with the way-too-tight eggshell white top, wearing grey ski pants, thong, red pumps and no socks, with the guy who was, like, four times her age?”

“No, the family with the baby!”

“Uh, no.”

Austin. Can’t wait to go back!

Old Hand, New Store

Christmas Eve and it’s going to be a long night.

One present left to buy.

The big one for Someone Special.

The mall is all but deserted. The kiosk vendors are packing up their cell phones, woodcarvings, hair straighteners, sun glasses and massage chairs and, in some cases, erecting Easter displays. Somehow the sight of an Easter bunny with a Santa Claus backdrop is disquieting.

I trudged through the ever-thinning crowds as store after store turned off their lights and brought down their security gates.

Oh well, I thought, as I made my way to the exit, looks like a gift certificate or an IOU or an envelope of cash dredged from the bottom of my closet will have to do. I’m out of ideas and out of time.

About that moment I spied a familiar shape shuffling towards me.

It was the Old Hand.

“Yo, bud,” I called out, “what brings you to the mall at this late hour?”

The Old Hand moseyed up and stood in front of me full of Christmas cheer and holding a bag full of goodies that nearly crawled out of their confines in joy.

“Hey, yourself,” the Old Hand greeted me warmly, “Season’s greetings to you, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Your sacking arm is recovering nicely, and I was talking with Carlos the other day and he sends his best.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I replied downcast, “happy whatever to you and Carlos. Well, I gotta go.”

And with that I turned away and headed towards the door.

“Hey,” the Old Hand called, “what did you think of the New Store that opened up this week?”

I turned around and asked, “What new store?”

“The one down from Foley’s. You checked it out, didn’t you?”

True, I had been down by Foley’s but I didn’t see any new store. There was The Gap and Buckles and the Watch Store and the Bagel Shop, but nothing new.

“No,” I replied, “I didn’t see the new store. What do they sell?”

“All sorts of stuff,” the Old Hand replied, “I think you’d find what you’re looking for there.”

“I dunno,” I replied dejectedly, “I’ve been all over the mall all night and I’m empty handed and it’s 10 PM. I’m just going to crawl home and…” I trailed off.

“Follow me!”, the Old Hand said enthusiastically, “You won’t be disappointed.” The Old Hand disappeared down the mall calling “Follow me!”

I turned and followed the Old Hand who was nearly skipping down the deserted mall walkway. Man, I thought, he can move when he wants to.

I hurried along.

Shortly we pulled up in front of a store I had overlooked during my shopping. The bright sign above the doorway flashed “New Store – Opening Soon.”

As we crossed the threshold I heard an all too familiar tinkling sound and through a fog in the back of the store, in slow motion, blonde hair swishing back and forth ever so slow, came Gizelle; hips pivoting, long legs reaching out atop 8-inch spiked heels. She was as ever beautiful.

Breathlessly, Gizelle stopped, towering above us and asked, “Is there something I could show you? Boys?”

Boy, howdy, could you, I thought, but said out loud, “I’m looking for a gift.”

“This way,” Gizelle replied without even asking me who the gift was for or how much I wanted to spend.

We followed Gizelle through aisle after aisle of exquisite gifts until finally she stopped and pointed to an object on the middle shelf.

“This will this do,” she stated petulantly.

I looked down and feasted my eyes on the perfect gift ever. I closed my eyes as in a dream, opened them again and, yes, it was still perfect. I checked the price tag having already decided that money was no object and the price was reasonable.

“Oh, yeah, babe,” I said, “this is way cool. I’ll take it. Do you gift wrap?”

Gizelle regarded me as she would an insect and replied, “Of course.”

The gift wrapped, the Old Hand and I left the new store and made our way to the mall entrance.

“Thanks, Old Hand,” I said as I shook his hand, “This gift is the most perfect gift I’ve ever found. It embodies what I feel, you know what I mean? It’s not just a thing to buy and give, but it expresses what my heart wants to say. It’s, well, perfect.” My voice trailed off.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said the Old Hand, “Well, Merry Christmas to you and yours and we’ll see you next year, old pal.”

And with that the Old Hand disappeared into the gently falling snow and in a moment was gone.

Just before I headed out the mall doors myself I spied the mall manager doing his nightly duties. I strolled up to the manager and told him…

“That new store of yours is a stroke of genius and I wanted to thank you personally for saving my hide on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh”, the mall manager said, “what new store?”

“The one down by Foley’s, where the Texas Store used to be before it closed.”

“There’s no store there,” the mall manager replied, “it’s still an empty property.”

Together we walked through the now deserted mall towards Foley’s where the New Store should be. As we rounded the corner we passed The Gap and Buckles and finally…

For Let

The storefront was dark and empty. Gizelle was nowhere to be seen. We peered through the window but there was no life inside.

“Are you sure this is where you bought your gift?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, look,” and I opened my bag clearly labeled New
Store.

The mall manager looked in and let out a low whistle, “Whoa, man, that’s a cool gift. Wish I’d found my wife something that cool. You say you got that here?” The mall manager looked around wistfully.

“Yeah,” I said, “I think so.” And, suddenly, it all seemed not as clear.

The mall manager shook his head, and we walked back up the mall to the main entrance. We said our good-byes and I headed off into the parking lot.

As I got to my truck I heard some laughing and looking up, I thought I saw Gizelle climbing into a low-slung, red sports car, the Old Hand sliding into the driver’s seat. I closed my eyes, shook my head and when I opened my eyes again the sports car was gone.

Is this a dream, I thought? I looked into my bag and gazed upon the perfect gift. I guess not.

Shouting into the night I proclaimed, “Merry Christmas, Old Hand!” And in the distance I heard a throaty varrrooommm and a high-pitched, tinkling laugh.

The Pain of Bread

Christmas shopping done; I was heading back to the barn at flank speed.

“What’s the rush to get home?”

“I’ve got to get my bread started.”

(pause)

“What bread?”

“French bread! Baguettes! My specialty. I found a new baguette recipe that I want to try. Claims to make the bread, how do you English say, ze more airey, like ze cloudz.”

“Light would be good,” she said licking her front tooth.

I must say, the dentist did a fine job on that repair. You can hardly tell it was chipped.

“Hey, look over there, it’s La Madeline bakery. Why don’t we just stop in and buy some baguettes?”

“What?”, I was shocked, “buy bread when I can make it myself AND I have a new recipe? Sacre bleu, what a thought!” (I was getting into the French thing.)

We were getting close to La Madeline’s entrance.

“But, La Madeline’s bread is b…” she said hurriedly, biting off the last word.

“Buh, what? You said their bread is ‘buh’ and then stopped.”

I thought for a second then said, “Were you going to say their bread is ‘bitter?’ Or, was it ‘buttery?’ Can’t say I’ve experienced either. ‘Batter?” Their bread is batter? That doesn’t even make sense.”

Slowly a revelation began to dawn on me like biting into a mouldy chestnut or hearing a particularly bad mixed metaphor.

“You weren’t going to say, were you,” I said in my best Spanish Inquisitor’s voice, “you weren’t going to say that La Madeline’s bread was better, were you?”

Crickets chirped. Somewhere in the distance a coyote howled mournfully. A tumbleweed rolled by. Silence.

Choosing her words carefully she explained, “No, I wasn’t going to say that La Madeline’s bread is ‘better’ , per se , rather I was going to say that it would be a better use of your time to buy La Madeline’s admittedly inferior-to-yours bread so you could concentrate on the more intricate, delicate aspects of preparing Christmas dinner, without being distracted by unrising yeast, malfunctioning ovens and weevily flour. That’s what I was going to say.”

Ah.

Quickly, I turned into La Madeline’s entrance, cutting off only a couple of drivers who acknowledged my skillful maneuver with cheerful honking of horns and seasonal holiday hand waving.

“Merry Christmas to you, too!” I waved back excitedly.

“People are so nice this time of year,” I observed brightly.

As I strode into the bakery I thought of my wife’s incisive observation that buying French bread would be a better use of my time. Always thinking about me, I thought, how about that?

Later, with loaves in hand I returned to the truck.

“You were gone a long time. Was it crowded?”

“Nope, the place was mostly empty. I got to talk with the Master Baker Guy, Jean-Paul, or Pierre or something.”

“And?”

“Well, being somewhat of a master baker myself, I gave Jean-Paul or Pierre or something some of my baking tips and techniques. I don’t know how much he understood, being French and all, but I used my best French accent and I think he got the message.”

“And?”

“And, well, he listened attentively, although it was obvious he had something in the oven because he kept checking his watch, so I wrapped it up quickly, bought my loaves and left.”

“And?”

“And, as I was leaving he wished me a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. In French, no less! What a guy. I think he was grateful for my tips. He said, and I quote,”

Imbécile, ne laissez pas la porte frapper votre derrière comme vous partez.

“What a guy. We ought to come back here more often. Such a friendly place…”

Aftermath

Thanks to everyone around the world who celebrated Twelve Two Two with fondue. Here are some highlights.

First, thanks to s'kat for the link, description and pictures.

HoldTheRaisins also held a fondue with fun for all.

Here at Chez 12TuTuFondue we were visited by Pammer of Outside Voice shown here with the Old Hand in full Kroger regalia.



Everybody who attended Twelve Two Two Fondue II had a great time, wherever they were! Here's to next year!

It is...

December 22, 2005 - Twelve Two Two

Live on the webcam!

The day for



Update

The World celebrated fondue on Twelve Two Two 2005! Thanks, all, for joining in the fun!

Fantasy Meets Reality

First, the news.

Twelve Two Two Fondue II is less than 24 hours away.

Host your own fondue party on December 22, to celebrate Twelve Two Two.

With that Claire and I went shopping for dinner and stuff for the party. After buying a Christmas tree and libations we ended up at the Kroger’s.

“Where’s the Old Hand?” Claire whispered.

“Nobody sees the Old Hand, Claire,” I replied, “he’s like Bigfoot or the Yeti. Mysterious, but there when you need him.”

“What about Carlos?”

“I haven’t seen Carlos, oh, wait, there he is!”

Sure enough, Carlos was just getting off shift and heading out the door.

“He’s cute.”

“If you like ruthless,” I recollected our past encounters.

“You know,” Claire continued, “this is a nice place, Kroger’s that is.”

I had to agree. Aside from the electrocution events of this summer my shopping experience had been, on the whole, positive.

Snapping back to reality I sprung into action.

“Claire, we have a fondue party to get ready for! We need a 100 pounds of cheese and fifty bottles of wine!”

We grabbed two shopping carts each and headed into the store. Victory would be ours.

For Evan

Evan’s been working the meat counter for as long as I can remember. He’s outlasted all the checkers and sackers, and store managers, produce stockers and folks in the front and back office.

Evan is a survivor.

Evan is also a professional. His meat and fish counter is immaculate and always laid out in an interesting and entertaining fashion. Soon after we moved to this part of the world and started shopping, Evan recognized us as ‘regulars’ and began to greet us as we foraged for our daily fare.

Soon I learned that being asked which cut of meat I wanted was really a formality. I could say “that one”, pointing in a vague direction and Evan would instinctively grab the best cut on display.

So, it was somewhat of a surprise when I ordered a couple of filet mignons that Evan deviated from his normal routine. I could see two very El Primo cuts at the bottom of the tray, partly covered by decorations made of Romaine lettuce and red bell peppers carved into the shape of little palm trees.

Evan’s hand reached almost that far, but hesitated and picked a couple of steaks not quite as filet mignon-ish as the two choice cuts below.

“What about those?” I asked.

“What those?” Evan replied defensively, “you mean those dried up, old, yesterday cuts? You don’t want those.”

“They look pretty good to me,” I countered.

“Naw,” Evan looked around, “they’re not that great. I’ll probably wrap them up for myself so a customer doesn’t get disappointed.”

Evan looked pretty earnest and a little nervous at the same time. Obviously, he wanted those two cuts and I was raining on his parade.

I decided to play along and agreed to the cuts Evan selected for me. Relieved, Evan was chattier than usual as he weighed and wrapped the meat and wished me a Merry Christmas and a speedy checkout.

Later, I returned to the meat counter when Evan was in the back room and placed a second order.

Checkout was indeed speedy. Carlos had been promoted to Floor Supervisor and was working the checkers into a check-out frenzy. Hands were a blur and customers were being hurled through the lanes at a dizzying pace. Not that anybody minded. We all had places to go, things to do and people to see.

I made my way home, fired up the grill and created a splendid dinner with the Next-But-Perfect filets. Rave reviews, nevertheless.

Meanwhile, it was shift change at the meat counter…

“Checking out, Evan?” Chuck asked.

“Yep. Got plans for tonight. Green pepper encrusted filet mignons, Chalk Creek zinfandel, and some morel mushrooms that a friend of mine FedEx’d me from Oklahoma. I’ll do those in butter and brandy. Gizelle’s in town for the Southern Supermodel shoot and I’m certain those perfect filet mignons will really impress her. I’m counting on it, if you know what I mean.”

Evan pulled out the filet tray and reached under the Romaine camouflage.

His hand met bare tray, not filet.

Frantically, he hauled the tray out of the cooler and tossed lettuce and peppers left and right. Wide-eyed he looked around, searching.

“The steaks,” he managed to say, “they’re gone!”

“Yeah,” Chuck said, “some guy bought them earlier this evening.”

Evan stared at Chuck resolutely. “Really?” he said.

“Really.”

“Ratso rizzo.” Evan hung his head in resignation. His evening plans with Gizelle were dashed.

Evan sighed.

“I was hoping, you know…” his voice trailed off. Evan pulled on his coat, adjusted his cap and headed out the back door.

Chuck called after him, “Wait, Evan, I’ve got something for you.”

Evan turned around and Chuck handed him a package of meat, about two filet mignons in weight.

“What’s this?” Evan asked.

“Some guy bought those filets you were trying to save and told me to give them to you at the end of your shift. He didn’t want some doofus buying them by mistake because he knew they were special. Nice guy, huh?”

Through misty eyes Evan looked down at the package. Written along the side of the butcher paper was an inscription.

“Merry Christmas, Evan!” Signed “The Sackmeister.”

Evan showed the package to Chuck, “Look, the Sackmeister.”

“Yowza,” muttered Chuck, “that’s a pretty nice present. I didn’t know the Sackmeister had a heart.”

“I dunno,” Evan said, “this time of year does things to people. Good things, ya know?”

“Yeah, I guess,” agreed Chuck, “Merry Christmas, Evan!”

“Merry Christmas, Chuck. And Merry Christmas, Sackmeister, wherever your are!”

Four Days, More Forks

Four days until Twelve Two Two Fondue II. Here’s the blueprint:

It’s a party!

You’re all invited!

Yes, everyone. All of you. Even you who are reading this now.

Fondue Party
Twelve Two Two Fondue II
December 22, 2005
7pm local time
At Your House
RSVP 12tutufondue

Send me pictures and descriptions of your party as it’s happening and I’ll post them on the site throughout the day. Here’s the address:

12tutufondue

“How many people have you invited for Thursday?”

“Uh, I dunno. A few?”

“What’s ‘a few?’”

“Well,” counting fast on fingers, “a dozen or couple of dozen?” I searched for the proper spin to this, “Give or take a couple of twenty. Or so.”

“I see,” said the Practical One, “and how many fondue forks do we have? Maybe 6 or 8?”

Being short of fondue forks was not so much a miscalculation as a little problem that ripened all too quickly. Fondue forks. Everybody sells fondue forks. Dime a dozen.

Or not.

It turns out that nobody sells fondue forks outside of an entire fondue set. Ratso rizzo, I was already thinking of how I could convince the Practical One that toothpicks could substitute as fine fondue forks. Very fine, indeed.

Then a little shop caught my eye. Coffee, Tea and Kitchen Stuff. An obscure specialty kitchen supply store.

I pulled in.

Entering the store I was greeted by a tall, bearded man wearing a chef’s apron and sporting a name tag that read:

Wolfgang

Obviously, I was fixated on the name tag because “Wolfgang’s” first words were:

“You’re wondering if my name is really Wolfgang, as in Wolfgang Puck, yes?”

“Yes,” I wimpered.

“Ah, I thought so. Wolfgang is not my name, it’s Ed, but it’s curious how many people come in the store, take one look at my name tag and walk straight out.” Ed paused. “Since you’re still here you must be desparate.”

I nodded.

“Well, what is it? Fruitcake tin? Jell-O mold? Perhaps a spatula?”

I pulled myself together, looked “Ed” in the eye and said, “Fondue forks. Lots and lots of fondue forks. Enough for all of Switzerland.”


Ed was taken aback. He had met a worthy opponent.

“Fondue forks? Hmmm, normally they don’t sell them outside of fondue sets. You wouldn’t be interested in a couple of hundred fondue sets would you?”

Not even resembling Bill Gates I replied, “No, I wouldn’t. If you don’t sell the forks stand-alone, I’ll just leave and go to Target. I’m sure they’ve got an entire Fondue Fork Department.”

I could tell Ed was shocked and embarrassed. Target! Fie on Target! A pox on Target! From the bowels of Hell I reach out and stab thee in the heart Target!

Ed breathed heavily, collected himself, brushed down his chef’s apron and mumbled something about “checking in the back.”

After much rattling around and clattering, boxes being ripped open and cursing, a much disheveled Ed returned with a plastic bag filled with fondue forks.

“Here,” he said and handed me the bag.

I looked inside and there must have been a hundred fondue forks. I asked, “So, what do I owe?”

“Nothing,” Ed replied, “today is Fondue Fork Day. All forks free. Yours. Go forth and multiply or whatever.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

As I moseyed out the door a lady entered, went up to Ed and asked if they sold fondue sets.

“Yes, we do,” Ed replied to her, he paused and looked in my direction, “but the forks are extra.”

I beat a hasty retreat.

Free Bird

“Where you at?”

“I’m about 5 minutes from home. Just coming into the neighborhood.”

Much later…

“Where you at?”

“Almost home.”

“You said that 20 minutes ago. Where you been?”

Long pause.

“Free Bird.”

“The long version?”

“Yeah.”

“Was that you driving by the house three times?”

“Yeah.”

“What part did you get?”

“Rhythm air guitar.”

“So, that was you driving by the house, batting the steering wheel, eyes closed, like a lunatic strumming an air guitar.”

“Yeah.”

“Steering with your knees?”

“Sometimes.”

“Singing too loud?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, where are you now?”

“In the driveway.”

“Should I come get you?”

“No. I’ll cool down in a few minutes and come in on my own.”

Free Bird. It should be a Controlled Substance.

Home Office

“Yo, Mr. --------, nice apron! And hat! Is that a new hat?”

The Old Hand removed his hat, ran his finger across the embossed Kroger and carefully placed it back on his head, smoothing the bill in a practiced gesture.

“Yep,” the Old Hand replied, “the Home Office in Wilmington sent me this today. Spiffy, huh?”

The Old Hand performed a slow turn showing off his teal and maroon apron, festooned with “flair” buttons and his new salt ‘n’ pepper “golf” shirt.

Carlos let out with a low whistle of approval. “Yeah, man, that’s way cool. From Ohio you say? That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?” the Old Hand replied.

“Well, I got this in the mail today,” Carlos explained, and he turned to show the Old Hand his new, black apron (festooned with flair), white shirt and tan hat.

“Cool,” intoned the Old Hand.

“Wait, there’s more,” Carlos continued, and he reached his hand into his pocket and produced a handful of Kroger key rings. Primo booty by any standard.

“Check this out!” and Carlos offered the Kroger key rings for inspection.

The Old Hand examined the key rings impassively, reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of his own Kroger key rings.

“Where’d you get this stuff,” they both asked simultaneously.

“The home office in Ohio,” they both answered simultaneously.

“How weird is that?” one of them said.

Carlos frowned. “Hey,” he said, “you haven’t seen the Sackmeister lately, have you?”

“Naw,” replied the Old Hand, “not since you gave him that shellacking the other day. He’s been pretty low key.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Carlos mused, “the Sackmeister will be back, that’s for sure but right now we need to be thankful for Christmas Present. And Christmas presents.” Carlos chuckled at his own bon mot.

The Old Hand nodded. “Yes, and I for one would like to thank the Kroger Home Office in Wilmington, Ohio for these fine gifts. How about you, Carlos?”

Carlos looked up and beamed, “Right on, Mr. -------, those guys are the best. I mean, what a thoughtful gesture.”

Carlos turned away and wiped his eye, “Allergies,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” the Old Hand said and placed his hand on Carlos’ shoulder.

Meanwhile, far, far away…

The Sackmeister typed in “moron-seeking rockets” and pressed RETURN. Twelve hits. Moron seeking this. Moron seeking that. No moron seeking rockets.

Dang.

The Sackmeister clicked on eBay and entered a search: Kroger aprons Ohio.

200 hits.

Ah, so.

Cheese Fondue

I cook from the hip. “Iron Chef” is my favorite TV show because their experience is my daily life. What’s in the fridge? What can I do with it to make a meal?

That’s it. Give me some stuff and I’ll figure out what to do with it.

That said, I do use cookbooks and have a nice, growing collection of ideas and wisdom from the Great and the Unknown.

One book I like in particular is “Cooking for You” by Robert Carrier.

And, today’s recipe for cheese fondue comes from page 155 of his book. Here’s the blueprint:

1 lb cheese (8 oz Gruyere, 8 oz Emmenthal) grated
1 teaspoon cornflour (corn starch)
1 clove garlic
half pint dry white wine
salt/pepper/nutmeg

1. Toss grated cheese with cornflour.
2. Rub inside of Fondue Pot with garlic. Add white wine and cook until wine starts to bubble.
3. Add cheese gradually and blend, stirring continuously, until smooth.
4. Add grated nutmeg, salt, pepper
5. Serve with chunks of French bread

This is a basic, cheese fondue recipe. Cut the French loaf into one-inch cubes and dip the bread into the cheese to coat.

Serve with lots of wine and Cuka Rocka playing on the stereo.

Global Fondue Event

Public Safety Announcement

Christmas season or not I’m going to install moron-seeking rockets on my car, and I’m going to use them. If you resemble that remark then you might consider staying off the roads for the next few days because I’ve got one nerve left and you’re standing on it.

Thank you for your attention, short span and all.

Seven days and counting

It’s a party!

You’re all invited!

Yes, everyone. All of you. Even you who are reading this now.

Here’s the blueprint.

Fondue Party
Twelve Two Two Fondue II
December 22, 2005
7pm local time
At Your House
RSVP 12tutufondue

Send me pictures and descriptions of your party as it’s happening and I’ll post them on the site throughout the day. Here’s the address:

12tutufondue

People from all over the World have replied with plans for hosting their own parties. Join in the fun.

Check out the original entry for this blog on December 20, 2004, A Fondue Happening.

Possum

Hank eyed the possum.

Ms. Possum eyed Hank.

Hank looked around to make sure his retreat path was clear.

Ms. Possum didn’t look around. She was backed into a corner of the deck.

Hank didn’t look happy.

Ms. Possum didn’t look happy. Ms. Possum sneered showing rows of sharp, white teeth.

Hank swallowed hard and gripped the broom tightly.

“I’ll just nudge her out of this corner and she’ll trot over to the steps and down the deck?” Hank meant that to be a confident statement of intent and purpose, but, his voice raised an octave or two, it came out a question.

“You go, girl, I mean, Hank,” I offered from a safe vantage point. I wasn’t going to mess with a cornered possum. I was content to go inside, close the door and turn in for the night knowing that Ms. Possum would be long gone in the morning.

Not Hank. Ms. Possum must go. Now.

“They don’t bite, do they?”

“Only when cornered or provoked, Hank, and by the looks of things you’ve got two-out-of-two.”

I decided to turn up the heat a little, “They can jump 15 feet and run 40 miles an hour. They can outrun a horse, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” Hank replied uncertainly, “Maybe if I just nudge it a bit it will get the hint.”

Gingerly, Hank offered the broom to Ms. Possum as if he were selling it.

“Good evening, Ms. Possum! Could I interest you in this Fine Broom? Yes, indeed, it’s a Fine Broom and a Fine day for Sweeping. A fine day for sweeping, yes m’am!”

Ms. Possum grinned at the prospect of a new broom. Why, she nearly split her face in two she grinned so wide. As her mouth grew larger from furry ear to furry ear, her lips pulled back in a rigor mortis expression exposing rows or razor sharp, pearly white teeth, moonlight reflecting in dripping saliva. Her eyes became large, sparkling, obsidian discs. Raising up on her legs, her fur standing on end Ms. Possum expressed her appreciation of the Fine Broom by exhaling a great sigh, her eyes becoming larger, her grin even wider.

“Gaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!” exclaimed Ms. Possum.

“Yaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!” exclaimed Hank.

Suddenly, Hank forgot the rest of Salesmanship 101, “Closing the Deal” and beat a hasty retreat. Stage Left. He shot through the cabin door and closed it with a slam. Snick! The door locked.

Safe inside Hank returned the broom to the cupboard and joined us for some coffee by the fire.

None of us spoke for a while.

Finally, Hank observed, “That possum was pretty scared, poor critter.”

We sipped our coffee.

Hank continued, “I figger the best thing to do is let it calm down and we’ll deal with it in the morning. When it’s calmed down, that is.”

And with that Hank checked his watch, mumbled something about having to get up in the morning, long day, things to do, and shuffled off to his bunk.

After Hank settled down and we heard snoring noises, I gathered up a banana, part of a granola bar and some grapes, and put them in a small dish.

I went out on the deck. Ms. Possum was still backed into the corner licking her hind foot. Her tail twitched lazily.

I put down the bowl of food, and peeling the banana, ate half of it while Ms. Possum dived into the grapes.

“That ‘Gaaaaaaaahh’ thing was brilliant,” I said, “you really had old Hank going.”

Ms. Possum looked up, grape juice dripping off her pointy little chin and wheezed a little possum-laugh, her shoulders hunching up and down in mirth.

We chatted for a while, and then I said my ‘good nights’, went inside, and turned out the deck light.

Ms. Possum finished her snack, washed out the bowl, and took the granola bar home to surprise the kids. And, she had a tale to tell.

Didn’t we all!

Twilight Zone Returns

Camera zooms in on a blue Ford Explorer cruising down the highway on a calm day with blue skies, green pastures and McDonalds at every mile.

Camera angle switches to an interior view of a driver enjoying music on the radio, rapping his fingers on the steering more or less in time with the music, singing embarrassingly loudly more or less in tune with the music.

Voice over narrative by Rod Serling: This is Bill. Returning home from an ordinary weekend get-away that included some camping, a fire on the beach, hot dogs, potato salad and the other little diversions that comprise recreation in the Twenty-first Century. Bill is heading home. He has a full tank of gas, he knows the way and he’s looking forward to that hot shower that awaits him at the termination of his journey. What Bill doesn’t realize is that his next stop won’t be home. Not on this highway. This highway leads to another dimension of sight and sound. On this highway Bill’s next stop will be…The Twilight Zone.

Dum dum dummmmmmmmm…diddily dump de dump. (Bongo music)

Background

When I was a kid I watched The Twilight Zone every Friday night and it used to creep me out.

I watched it, anyway.

Like a moth to a flame I was drawn to tales of the weird and weird tales. Twists of fate, the unexpected turn of events, the shock, the horror, the anticipation that something strange was going to happen.

In retrospect, Twilight Zone was never about horror. The monsters were in our own minds, not on the screen. We anticipated the worst. We anticipated something shocking. It was psychological. The stories were all fake. This stuff didn’t really happen.

Or did it?

In the Twilight Zone episode 91, “Little Girl Lost” (March 16, 1962) (Thank you, Google!) a little girl disappears through the wall under her bed into the Fourth Dimension. She’s there one minute and gone the next. Through the wall into a rift opened up into the Fourth Dimension.

I’m convinced that’s where single socks go.

I’m also convinced that a rift into the Forth Dimension swallowed a chestnut many years ago and a cell phone antenna today.

Years ago, as a college student, I was sorting chestnuts to roast. I was looking for chestnuts that were rotten or full of mold. At one point I dropped a chestnut and it rolled “somewhere.” Now, “somewhere” wasn’t a Great Where because I was in a dorm room, a concrete cube 10 by 10 by 10 with a single door. I heard the chestnut hit the floor, roll for a while, then…nothing.

I figured the chestnut rolled under the bed I was sitting near. Nope. We searched the room for a while and never found the nut. Eventually, we were distracted by beer and forgot about the disappearing chestnut.

A few weeks later, however, was the end of term and as we cleaned out the dorm room I was reminded of the Lost Chestnut and kept a sharp eye out for it. We all did. Finally, the dorm cell was totally empty of everything: beds, desks, chairs, carpets, kegs and the pesky nuclear reactor that we could never get going above 25%.

No chestnut.

It simply wasn’t there. It’s like it bounced twice, rolled a bit, and disappeared into the Fourth Dimension.

Today

Today I was unpacking the blue Ford Explorer from a weekend of camping, fires on the beach, hot dogs, potato salad and a generally great time. I used my cell phone several times during the journey from the Wilderness to Civilization, so I know the cell phone sported its little nubby antenna.

I returned home to my house, apparently my house, not the Fourth Dimensional house, enjoyed a hot shower and prepared a nice lunch. Then I went out to put the camping stuff away.

That’s when I whacked my cell phone. It was a little whack. Just getting too close to the car or the wall or what I was carrying or whatever. I felt a whack where my cell phone lives on my hip.

Shortly later, like a minute, I noticed that my cell phone antenna, that little stubby thing that sticks up on a Motorola cell phone, was gone.

What?

Gone. Missing. Absent. Detached.

I looked around and found nothing that resembled the grey, rubber antenna. I searched under the car, around the carport and in the flower bed.

No antenna.

“It has to be in this general area,” I thought.

But it wasn’t. I searched for an hour. Under the car. I moved the car. Under the Explorer. I moved the Explorer. In the grass. In the flowers. I looked in my pockets. Under my belt. In the cell phone holster. I expanded the search to the kitchen, bathroom and pool.

No antenna.

Finally, I gave up. It’s gone. Disappeared. In the Fourth Dimension. It was getting late and I had used up two sets of AA batteries searching the carport and flower beds.

Finally, I decided that this (and other) problem was best resolved by a good night’s sleep. As I drifted into the Land of Nod I distinctly heard the Antenna and the Chestnut.

“Yo, Antenna, Wazzzzzup?” Chestnut said enthusiastically.

“Not much, Chestmeister, just got here,” replied Antenna, “what’s with all the socks?”

Meanwhile

Meanwhile back in the Third Dimension the following conversation is occurring.

“Is that a coat hanger sticking up out of your cell phone?”

“Yeah, it’s all the rage. I’m surprised you don’t have one.”

Epilogue

Exit one Bill. Denier of Reality. He lost a chestnut and a cell phone antenna into the Fourth Dimension. Bill denies this and continues to pretend that the chestnut and antenna went “somewhere.”

To Bill, they went “somewhere” but we know that Somewhere is signposted: The Twilight Zone.

Not the Santa!

My favorite time of the year is here: Christmastime!

Christmas lover; I am fond of Christmas. I like the music, the food, the spirit and, well, the whole thing. Bring it on, I’m ready!

Which is to say I’m never ready. Occasionally I’ve been “ready,” but generally it’s Christmas Here I come Ready or Not. I’ve learned not to mind but just let the season flow around me and soak it all in.

And that reminds me, you’re all invited to host a fondue party at your house on Thursday, December 22. Send me email updates and pictures as your party is happening and by hook and by crook I’ll post them here.

Global Fondue Party.

OK, back to Christmas.

“It’s a Wonderful Life” with James Stewart, I can watch that at least once, maybe twice if I’m cooking and only see bits and pieces. “Simpson’s Christmas”, a classic. All of them; I’m sure there’s been more than one. “Charlie Brown Christmas” I’ll listen to for the music but I’m not likely to plop down and watch it from start to finish.

As for Christmas music I can listen to it year round. It really puts me in a good mood at this time of year, though. Manheim Steamroller, Liz Story, Cambridge Singers…I’m all over it.

Now, lest we think that I’m a total pushover let’s spend a moment in the reality of the season. I went to the Mall this weekend. I usually avoid the Mall and I REALLY avoid the mall between October and February. However, this weekend I needed a particular item only available at the Mall so I went.

Big mistake. I won’t go into the details but they involved parking, parking, parking, crowds, crowds crowds and kiosk vendors selling flying things that basically scare the hell out of me. Who are these people and why are they selling this stuff? Score for me, I got my cell phone belt clip and beat a hasty retreat. That’s it for the year.

One of my favorite TV shows was Dinosaurs, about a dinosaur family and a rip-off of the Honeymooners. The baby dinosaur would often whack his father on the head with a spoon and exclaim “Not the Mama! Not the Mama!”

I sympathize with Baby D looking next door. Not the Santa! Not the Santa!

The Neighbor’s Christmas Display. If there’s not a law against inflatable, lit from inside, plastic Santas and Snowmen, there should be. At the very least there should be a hunting season on these gaudy, offensive blights and the owners should be required to fill them with hydrogen gas so they explode magnificently when shot.

“Come on, kids, let’s go see the lights and shoot us some snowmen!”

“Yeaaaaa!”

These monstrosities rise from the lawn at dusk like Yule time zombies glowing and swaying in the wind, maniacal, rigor mortis grins fixed on their cheap, plastic faces and proclaim to the world “Crass is good!”

Finally, I’m a terrible shopper. That is, I’m terrible at figuring out what to get for someone else.

In a perfect world everybody would get a quad processor Macintosh G5 with dual 30” monitors and 10 Tb of disc storage. And that’s just for email.

A few years ago I gave my daughter a really cool stapler. Metallic silver, ergonomic design and a Swingline, too! I’m hoping this year she’ll start speaking to me again. You’d think she’d appreciate quality, but noooooo.

Nobody gave me a stapler. I dropped hints, yes I did. Oh, well. There’s always this year.