Virtual tour of a blog III

The Something Itches Petting Zoo

1965

Speaking of television, I was thinking about the deteriorating quality of TV programming in relation to my last post. What bugs me the most about television programming today is the lack of originality. I flashed back to my youth, to the 1960s in particular, and the show “My Mother the Car.” Don’t know that show? Well, not surprising. It only lasted a single season. Basically, the show was about a man and his car. Not that unusual, you say? Consider that the man’s car was possessed by his dead mother. The car talked to him in his mother’s voice, using the car’s radio. Now that’s original! Really, really bad, but original! I did a quick internet search on the program and discovered that “My Mother the Car” was one of several “original programs” (i.e. strange) that were released in the year 1965 to compete with the avant-garde shows “Bewitched” and “The Man from Uncle,” both of which debuted a year earlier. The other unusual shows getting their start in the 1965 season included: “I Dream of Jeannie,” “Lost in Space,” “Get Smart,” “Green Acres,” and “Wild Wild West.” Just try and top that line-up.

High def

I haven’t watched television in about a week. My satellite service went out last Wednesday. I didn’t notice for a few days, and with a weekend thrown in, today was the first day a technician could come to diagnose the problem. It’s strange, I don’t watch a lot of TV, but when it’s not even an option, I find that I crave it. All week, I’ve been pacing around the house wondering what I’ve been missing. Not much, obviously, but still – not being able to tune in because it’s unavailable, well, that’s just creepy. I don’t know how else to explain it.

So, tonight with my satellite service repaired, I’m surfing through all 240 of my channels. There’s nothing to watch, nothing that will hold my attention for very long, of course. Still, the tactile pleasure of my thumb on the remote control is calming. It occurs to me that the steady decline in quality of television programming has been countered in recent years by the improvement of picture quality. I have a big screen TV with high definition. I’ll surf pass a couple of dozen normal resolution programs but stop at all the high def channels to admire the picture. It’s astounding really.

I’ll watch anything in high definition. Opera. Bass fishing. Balloon flyovers of the grand canyon. Rally racing across the Kalahari desert in Africa. Whatever. There’s a program that puts a high definition camera half above the water and half below in an Amazon river. Fish swim by. Bubbles rise to the surface. Plant detritus floats by. That’s it. No narration. Just splashing, gurgling and swirling river noises. I love that program. For about 30 seconds. Then I need to move on. Right now, I am watching a program depicting the Hawaiian Tropic Bikini Girls. You simply cannot believe the quality of this picture. I’m serious, you can actually see insects crawling up and down on the palm trees behind the scantily-clad girls with supple breasts, firm thighs and plucked eyebrows. Are those goose bumps on those poor girls? Who knew that it could get that chilly on the beaches of Maui?

Virtual tour of a blog II

The powerplant at Something Itches

Virtual tour of a blog

The view out the back door of Something Itches.

Lowest common denominator

www.supportourribbons.com/index.php

Rant of the day

I know that I've written on this topic before, but things have only gotten worse with the merger of Sprint and Nextel. I'm referring to the societal scourge of walkie-talkie mobile phones. It was bad enough when it was only Nextel that had them and mostly businesses that used them. But now telecom giant Sprint has thrown its weight behind the walkie-talkie network and these phones are showing up in the hands of gabby teenagers and a whole lot of other folks, too.

Isn't it enough that we have to listen to the blather of just one person on a regular mobile telephone while riding the bus or standing in line at the supermarket? Must we now endure both sides of the conversation? And then there is that annoying little chirping noise wedged in between the two chatterboxes indicating that the other person has stopped talking. <chirp>

Okay, so it's not the most important thing in the world. It's actually a pretty small thing <chirp> compared to the fact that we are a nation at war <chirp>, that politicians keep lying to us <chirp> and that religious zealots are redefining the nature of science <chirp>. Maybe I'm just overreacting <chirp> to this petty little nuisance. <chirp> It's just that <chirp> little nuisances <chirp> tend to grow into <chirp> bigger nuisances <chirp> eroding away <chirp> at our quality of life. <chirp> Then again <chirp> maybe it's only me that is bothered. <chirp> I look around <chirp> and no one seems to notice <chirp> except me. <chirp> I just wish it would stop <chirp>, disappear like so many failed fads. <chirp> But I doubt that it will. <chirp> Not this time. <chirp> You can't stop progress. <chirp> You can't stop the chirp. <chirp>

Mimes: my kid could be right!

"I'm afraid that one will break out of his box and try to kill me."

- Conor, 10.

Spot the looney

Take your time. It's not as easy as it looks!

Fractionated beverages

The guy in front of me at Starbucks today ordered a "quarter-caff." The girl behind the cash register seemed puzzled, so he explained. "Fill the cup with one-quarter caffeinated coffee and the rest with decaf." Just as she went off to prepare his drink, he said, "Oh, and leave some room for cream." It occurred to me that by the time all three liquids were mixed together, what this man really had was a one-eighth-caff or perhaps a three-sixteenth-caff. This raised some interesting questions in my mind: Just how low will Starbucks go when you order a fractionated beverage? Is a quarter-caff the lower limit? Or would they attempt a fifth-caff? Would they think you were messing with them if you ordered a 0.25-caff? And finally, at what point does this guy admit that he has a problem with caffeinated beverages and switch to herbal tea?

Happy Halloween!

The numbers have been tabulated for Halloween goodies dispensed at our house this evening. There were a few surprises in the mix this year.

Snickers bars 24%
MilkyWay bars 23%
Air Heads 20%
Fatty Ratty (rodent shaped gummy candy with tails!) 12%
Skittles 11%
Starbursts 10%
Frozen microwaveable mini-quiches 0%
One-a-Day vitamin supplement kits 0%
Chapstick 0%
Pennies (including some wheat ones) 0%

A Killer Ad

It's Hitchcock week on the Turner Classic Movies channel. I thought this advertisement (from last week's New Yorker) was just, well...

...classic.

Oh those crazy Canadian pre-teens

Grandma was looking for a gift to bring home to Conor from her Canadian vacation. She said she liked the bears on the t-shirt. She thought they were cute. She...didn't look too closely. Conor is only ten, eh?

The bug on my rug: Day 8

Midway through game six of the National League Championship Series, Karl the bug came out of his hole in the wall and strutted across the rug to a spot in the middle of the room in front of the television. Only, this time he wasn't alone. Following Karl was a gang of unsavory insects, the likes of which you might find in a back alley of the Bronx in the midst of a lengthy garbage strike. There were cockroaches and millipedes and crickets and pill bugs, and they walked around as if they owned this place.

"What the hell?" I murmured to myself. I didn't have any shoes on, which I realized pretty quickly, as instinct had me on my feet ready to start stomping. Karl and his entourage scattered when they sensed I might do them harm. Then as soon as I sat back down they gathered again in front of the television and did a little superiority dance to see if they could taunt me some more. These friends of Karl were not nice bugs.

I didn't take the bait. I decided to sit back and see what would happen next – on the carpet, not the baseball field. After all, I'm still rooting for the Chicago White Sox in the World Series. All that this evening's game would decide for me was who I would be rooting against. The Houston Astros had a comfortable lead and it appeared they would win the National League title on this night. The bugs on the rug were clearly thrilled by this. Every big play by the Astros was met with dancing and jumping (especially the crickets) and congratulatory mating. In the 8th inning, when the St. Louis batters went three and out, the bugs lined up in a row and did a tiny bug wave – with old Karl right in the middle, joining in the fun. This really surprised me because I was certain that Karl was a White Sox fan. What could possibly have changed in him to switch allegiances and, worse, to bring these bug thugs into our home?

The answer became clear when I leaned forward to get a better look at Karl. I couldn't believe my eyes. It wasn't Karl the beetle down there. This was a different beetle. It suddenly dawned on me what happened. I brought home the wrong bug from the Renaissance festival last weekend. I just assumed...I mean, what are the odds...Oh, what a mess.

But that meant Karl was still out there in rural Maryland fending for himself at the Renaissance fairgrounds. And who was this beetle? When I was finally able to get a close enough look, I realized that the new beetle looked like Karl, too. Only a different Karl. Not Karl Malden, but Karl Rove.

The resemblance is amazing, don't you think? So this beetle would have to be called Karl as well. Karl II. Only not for long, I hoped. The bugs scattered as I got up from my chair and went looking for my shoes.

The bug on my rug: Day 7

I took my son to the Maryland Renaissance festival on Sunday. Conor has been to the event five years in a row with his mother. I never went with them (preferring instead to have a day to myself). This year, though, I offered to give Cynde a break and she gladly accepted.

Conor took a friend along and I brought Karl the bug. The stress of the White Sox-Angels baseball series was taking its toll on the little guy. I figured a day away from pacing around on the carpet in the basement could only help take his mind off things. Besides, traveling back in time 500 years to the Renaissance period was just the thing for a beetle. No exterminators back then. No Roach Motels. No No Pest Strips. No insect sprays. Bugs were a part of life. Nobody got upset during the Renaissance when a bug crawled out and warmed himself by the fire. If people were hungry enough they might eat him, but otherwise bugs were pretty much left to themselves. I assured Karl that nobody was going to chow down on him in Maryland. Surely, there would be plenty of food and ale available at Ye Olde Hooters Tavern to keep folks satisfied.

I have to be honest with you here. I have always found the whole concept of dressing up in costumes and pretending to live in a different era to be more than a bit strange. For some people, life is a hopscotch of one Renaissance festival after another. Definitely, not my thing. Still, after just a few minutes at the fairgrounds, I found myself more relaxed than I have been in ages. People were laughing and having a good time. They may have been pretending to be something they weren’t, but they were happy. And why not? Combine the simpler way of life of the 15th and 16th centuries with the life expectancy and indoor plumbing of the 21st century. How can you go wrong?

We had a great time. We wandered aimlessly and enjoyed the many jugglers and acrobats and comedians and hucksters. I bought Conor a wooden sword and his friend, Derek, a magic trick. Everything was going along great until we stopped for lunch and I noticed that Karl the bug was gone. He had been up on my shoulder much of the time, ducking under my shirt collar occasionally when he was frightened by the pushed-up cleavage of a particularly well-endowed “wench.” (Who could blame him? If a bug were to fall into that black hole he might never be seen again!) As the boys munched on their Renaissance cuisine (chicken fingers and French fries), I scanned the ground for Karl. It felt hopeless. How would I ever find a beetle in this crowd? But he couldn’t have gone far. I looked and looked. Then, as if by providence, I spotted him: a little black smudge on a turkey leg in the hand of a kid at the next table. Just as I saw Karl, the kid did, too. “Ewww,” he cried, “a bug.” The kid shook the turkey leg back and forth until Karl could hang on no longer. He tumbled across the table close enough for me to grab him and stuff him into my shirt pocket (a distinctly non-Renaissance button down oxford).

Karl stayed in my pocket for the rest of the day. As the sun started to go down, we made our way out of the fairgrounds and on home. We were all dead tired from the excitement of the day. I had dinner with Karl still in my pocket. He was so quiet I forgot he was even there. Conor went to bed early dreaming of his fun Medieval day. I went down into the basement and turned on the television. The baseball game was on. The deciding game between the White Sox and the Angels. Suddenly remembering Karl, I reached into my pocket and pulled him out. I set him down on the arm of the chair so he could see. Strangely, he didn’t seem interested at all in the game, even though his favored White Sox were ahead. After a few minutes, Karl crawled down the side of the chair and walked away, disappearing into the crack in the baseboard on the wall. It was only the sixth inning of a tight match-up. The White Sox went on to win the game, and with it, a spot in the World Series. I’m not sure Karl even knows. I haven’t seen him since.

The bug on my rug: Day 5

Karl the bug has been pacing around on the carpet all evening. He's called Karl now because of the uncanny resemblance to Karl Malden. See for yourself.

Anyway, Karl did not like the way the last White Sox-Angels playoff game finished. Did you see the game? Let me recap. It's the bottom of the 9th inning. The score is tied 1-1. The White Sox are home, so they are at bat. There are two outs. AJ Pierzynski is at the plate. There are two strikes. One more strike and the game goes to extra innings. Angel's relief pitcher Kelvim Escobar throws a low pitch, but Pierzynski swings anyway. And misses. Inning over, right? Wrong! Pierzynski thinks the pitch hit the dirt and he sprints to first base. Why? Because of one of baseball's dumbest rules. If a batter strikes out on a ball that hits the dirt, he is not out until he is tagged or thrown out at first base. Stupid rule or not, the problem here is that the ball didn't hit the dirt. Pierzynski thought he heard it hit the dirt so he ran. The umpire, Doug Eddings, had called him out. There is nothing in Eddings reaction to indicate that he believed the ball hit the ground. But when he saw Pierzynski running to first, he changed is ruling. Safe at first. Pierzynski ultimately made it home and the game was won by the White Sox.

Karl the bug is concerned, I think (who knows what really goes on in the mind of a beetle?), that the White Sox could go on to win the World Series and all people will remember is that play in that game. He's wearing a path into the carpet as he wanders back and forth. This is one nervous bug.

Game three has just begun and already Chicago is up 3-0. Karl got up on his back legs and did a little dance. After the home run by Paul Konerko, I could swear that Karl offered one of his sticky little legs for a high five. I love this bug. I'm glad that I didn't squish him in a tissue.

Spring mix

Ten year olds and vegetables are an ill-fit. Ours eats them as long as there are no surprises. Green beans need to look like green beans with nothing stuck to them - no mushrooms or almond slivers, for example - and broccoli, boiled or microwaved, needs plenty of butter to help it go down. Peas and corn kernels should come from a bag in the freezer. Salad should be simple green leaf lettuce with some yellow peppers and cukes, tomato wedges. Tonight we served a "spring mix" salad with various leafy vegetables including spinach, red leaf lettuce, endive and mustard greens. Our ten year old did not revolt, but he did ask if he could finish the salad dressing, which still had about a quarter of its contents in the bottle. "Of course not," we said. Still, he applied a generous amount. Halfway through his salad, he reached for the salad dressing bottle again. "Why are you adding more?" we asked. Vigorously shaking the dressing into his bowl and with a puckered look about him, he said, "I can still taste the lettuce."

The bug on my rug: Day 2

The bug on my rug was back tonight for game one of the Los Angeles Angels vs. Chicago White Sox American League championship series. There was more spring to the beetle’s step this evening, leading me to believe that he was not a fan of the New York Yankees. Call me crazy, but this insect seems more self-assured knowing the Yankees are out of the playoffs. I may be misreading his body language, but, if I had to guess, I’d say my bug is a Chicago fan. He seemed to stop more and face the television set when the White Sox were at bat. And when they scored a run he did these little bug pushups and ran around in a circle. When the Angels were at bat, he turned his back to the television and did some other bug stuff. I wish I could ask the beetle on my rug what he thought about the magnificent 53” high definition television picture with full Dolby Digital 5.1 surround sound. Oh, he’s impressed all right. This is one lucky bug.

The bug on my rug

I’m watching a small beetle crawl along the floor in front of me. That and the Yankees-Angels playoff baseball game on television. Normally I would grab the bug in my hand and relocate him outside (if I was feeling charitable), or squash him with a tissue (if he was a menacing spider that would bite me in the ass given half a chance), but not this time. Not this beetle. He has given me a simile: “Watching baseball on television is about as interesting as watching a bug crawl across the carpet.” He has earned a reprieve. This bug stays.

Lovely cheeeeeze, Gromit!

Treat yourself to the latest Wallace and Gromit adventure by Nick Park: "The Curse of the Were-Rabbit." It's like a breath of Stinking Bishop cheese. (And that's a good thing!)

If the spell-binding plot isn't enough for you, then how about the love interest? Lady Tottington is hot!


Yes, those are bandages in her hair. Don't ask, just go see...

Real Men Wear Kilts

My son, Conor, who is ten and a fourth generation American, declared this evening over dinner that he wanted a Scottish kilt. His mother thinks he would look great in a kilt and played right along. “What about a sporran?” she asked. “Sure,” he said, “I want a sporran, too.” A sporran is the little pouch that goes on the kilt, you know, to carry your stuff, because it’s not like a Scottish kilt has pockets. This had to be explained to me. I had never heard of a sporran before. Apparently, they come in all different styles and materials. A lot of sporrans are made from real animal fur. None of us liked that idea. Conor explained that he just wanted something basic; nothing too fancy. “Any old sporran will do.”

Any old sporran will do? I nearly choked on my dinner with laughter. I wondered if an American boy had ever uttered those words before today.

If you try sometimes...

...you just might find, you'll get what you need.



Apparently, what I needed was a better seat!

Then again, a better seat would have meant this view:


Washington Post

Still, it was a great show, even from up in the nose-bleed section. The Stones were one of the few bands from my youth that I hadn't seen live in concert. Not counting the bands in which prominent members died before I could see them. How inconsiderate! (And you know who you are Mr. Dwayne Allman, Mr. Jerry Garcia, Mr. Lowell George.)

At least now I can say that I have seen the Stones. Well, people who looked like the Stones, prancing around on stage, only much, much smaller and much, much more wrinkled.

Been there.
Done that.
Couldn't afford the t-shirt.

~ ~ ~

So many great songs and a "mini-stage" that undocked from the main stage and rolled across the arena floor carrying the entire band as they played. What will they think of next!

The set list:

1. START ME UP
2. YOU GOT ME ROCKING
3. SHE'S SO COLD
4. TUMBLING DICE
5. ROUGH JUSTICE
6. BACK OF MY HAND
7. BEAST OF BURDEN
8. BITCH
9. MR. PITIFUL (Otis Redding)
10. THE WORST
11. INFAMY
12. MISS YOU
13. OH NO, NOT YOU AGAIN
14. SHATTERED
15. HONKY TONK WOMEN
16. SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
17. IT'S ONLY ROCK N ROLL
18. BROWN SUGAR
19. SATISFACTION
20. YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT
21. JUMPING JACK FLASH

Still waiting my turn

The Forbes magazine 400 Richest Americans list is out and once again I didn't make the cut. Damn! The last guy on the list (and I had to wade 16 pages into the report to find him) was worth about 900 million dollars. This means I would have to rob at least a hundred Brinks trucks to put me in contention. That's starting to sound too much like work. I'm thinking about having a serious accident on Bill Gates front lawn while delivering a pizza. Never mind that he didn't order pizza. These mistakes happen, you know?

(Interesting aside: 4 out of the top 5 on the Forbes list are college drop-outs. That's where I went wrong!)

Depends on the definition of hummer

This week a story that I posted on Peeling Wallpaper almost a year ago suddenly became popular. I had a clue that something was up because I received a few new comments on the piece. More than one comment on a ten month old story usually means that someone has unearthed it and left a link on a forum somewhere.

The story in question was called A Prius meets a Hummer at the gas pumps. On Wednesday of last week it received over 2,000 hits. It’s received probably a thousand more since then. That’s a lot of hits for my blog! What’s interesting is that most of those hits came from one source. A porn site. Well, in fairness, not so much a porn site as a porn forum. Yes, you will find the occasional porn imagery there, and there is a search engine to help you find more of it, but mostly the site is a forum for politics and social commentary (‘cause, you know, after the sex is done, you gotta talk).

It’s difficult to say if the link to my Prius-Hummer story originated at this porn forum. By the time I became aware of what was going on, I found links to the story on a dozen forums – most of them non-porn, mainstream sites. So where did all of this start? Who was the first to find it? What was the original Google search?

I thought for awhile that it might have started with a Google search for “hummer.” Not the vehicle Hummer, but the…well, you know, sexual reference. Or maybe you don’t. (If you don’t know, you can find a definition here.) Anyway, I don’t think “hummer” was the original Google search because my story is nowhere to be found when searching on that word alone. Now, type in “asshole Hummer driver” at Google and my story is the number one hit!

It’s just an interesting aside, all this. Another example of internet wildfire. Indeed, this one is nothing compared to Birdie’s Pledge of Allegiance story. That one literally shut down the Salon blog server for several days! Something the rest of can only strive for…

Just a black bear: A Yellowstone story

Way up in the northeast corner of Yellowstone National Park, I stopped my car at a pull out overlooking a beautiful valley – expansive and deep with a thin blue creek running down the middle. This area of the park is considered prime grizzly bear habitat. It was my last day in Yellowstone and I was hoping to catch a glimpse of a bear before I left. I had seen a lot of animals during my five day visit to the park - bison, mule deer, elk, river otters, coyote - but no bear.

The pull out was a popular place with bear fanciers - both the serious kind sporting powerful spotter's scopes and cameras with massive zoom lenses, and the recreational variety standing on rock outcrops and staring out into the valley with their own two eyes. There was much discussion about what there was to see out there. Unfortunately, the answer, at least on this day, was not much. People had stories, though. The bears they had seen here yesterday or last week. There was also the story of the mother grizzly and her cub that had been feeding on a bison carcass for the past five days. (And we worry when our meat from Whole Foods is one day past the expiration date.)

"Where are they?" some folks wanted to know. "Up in the Lamar valley, way up the hill on a plateau." "Well, where is that?" Maps came out. More stories flowed. Clearly, people get into bear watching up here. As a scientist who frequently works in National parks and wilderness areas, I have taken training on how to defend myself against a bear attack. The gossip about the grizzly-bison kill sighting made me smile. There are three important rules when dealing with bears: don't get between a mother and her cub; don't interfere with a feeding bear; and don't surprise a bear by walking up on it unexpectedly. This particular bear sighting violated all three rules. I'm surprised the witness survived to tell his tale!

In the end, nobody at this pull off was going to attempt to see the mamma bear and her cub. But not necessarily for any of the reasons above. It was just too far away and too far off the road. Someone asked if there was another spot nearby where they could see a bear. A guy who had just arrived at the pull off and was looking out through a pair of binoculars spoke up: "Well, I saw a black bear just up the road feeding on some shrubs." "Really?" People's interest perked up. "How long ago was that?" "Just a few minutes." "How far off the road to you have to hike to see it?" "I dunno. About five feet. He's literally right there."

Several of us jumped into our cars and headed in the direction that the guy indicated. He shouted to us as we were leaving, "It's just a black bear."

Just a black bear? It is so easy to become inured in this park with its rich population of wildlife. I was just minutes inside the Yellowstone park boundary when I spotted my first bison, feeding off the road in a ditch. I pulled my car over and snapped about a dozen pictures. Over time, I saw herds of bison – hundreds at a time. They're as commonplace here as squirrels in my neighborhood at home. I was stopped on the road many times in "bison jams," a common occurrence in which the animals congregate on the blacktop and bring traffic to a grinding halt. After just three days, I found myself getting irritated by the delays. People would confound the traffic woes by getting out of their cars to take photographs. They're just bison, I would mumble under my breath. It’s not a far cry from “just a bison” to “just a black bear.”

And speaking of black bears, the one I was trying to see was still wandering along the road when I arrived. There was a traffic jam, of course. But talk about a great sight. Here’s a picture of the big guy:

Even if I hadn’t taken my bear training, the National Park Service does an excellent job educating people about not getting too close to any of the wild animals in Yellowstone, but especially bears. There are reminders everywhere in the park. Still, when the opportunity arises, there will always be Darwin rejects who are willing to take the risk for a good photo. Note the couple who stepped out of their vehicle for a closer look. That’s about a two second sprint for the bear.

Surely, you know it’s only a matter of time. (Of course, you know where I am heading with this.)

"Ah, man, not another bison jam.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Well, something’s in the road. An elk?”

“No.”

“A moose?”

“Nah.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Just another tourist being mauled by a bear.”

“Damn, we’re going to be late for the old faithful eruption.”

Time to get back to writing!

Well, I'm back. I was gone for three weeks and came back to six weeks worth of work. I don't understand the new math. The trips were all great. Probably the most exciting part was my five days in Yellowstone National Park. It was quite a memorable experience, except for that one evening that I can't quite remember. Lesson learned: you get drunk on an empty stomach a lot faster at 8,000 feet elevation than you do at sea-level. That's probably all I should say until the lawyers finish sorting out the details. From Yellowstone I went to Berkeley, California - the most liberal spot on earth. As soon as I stepped out of the shuttle bus in front of my hotel, I heard this poof noise. I looked down and my shoes had transformed into Birkenstocks, my polo shirt to a tie-dye Grateful Dead t-shirt. A colleague of mine told me that he had encountered a beggar on a street corner who had a laptop computer. Berkeley is a different kind of place.

More this weekend...

Stepping out

I'll be crisscrossing the country over the next three weeks - from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina to Yellowstone National Park, Montana to San Francisco, California. See you back here in mid-September.

Water Play II

This past weekend, I took Conor and a friend back to Cub Run, the new indoor swimming pool in my neighborhood with its tall twisty water slides. It was a really hot day and, odd as it sounds, it seemed like a good idea to swim indoors in the air-conditioning. (Don’t want to overheat while swimming, you know?)

The place was packed. Lots of people had the same idea for escaping the heat. It was so crowded that the line for the water slides was most of the way down the stairs. It didn’t bother Conor or his friend, but I opted out, choosing, instead, to swim in the big pool (which had a lot less kids) and was considerably quieter.

Something new this time around: a mandatory break for kids sixteen and under. Now, every 45 minutes all kids need to get out of the pool and rest. There was a sign in the locker room explaining the new policy. How shall I say this decorously? The new policy was necessary because of the increased frequency with which fecal matter was being discovered in the pool. (Yeah, well, how do you think I felt when I saw that sign? Was this a swimming pool or a petri dish?) The logic behind this policy was laughable. Presumably, during the fifteen minute break, the little tikes responsible for dropping the Baby Ruth bars into the public pool might think to go to the bathroom somewhere more appropriate!

Okay, moving right along. The lifeguards blew their whistles for the first break and all the kids got out of the pool. I looked up and there was almost no one in line for the slides. My chance, at last! If you recall from my previous story about this place, I went down the really tall slide only one time. It’s an enclosed, opaque tube that whips you around, at high speeds, in the dark, and then unceremoniously dumps you into a shallow plunge pool. A true nightmare for a claustrophobe like me.

So, as I started toward the steps, I figured I’d go down the easier of the two slides, the one where I can actually look around and see where I’m going.

I didn’t get very far before I heard my son’s voice calling to me. “Dad.” I looked down and there he was, standing before me with a towel wrapped around him. “Which one are you going on?” he asked. I told him just what I told you.

“Ah, come on. Why don’t you go down the big one?” he implored.

"Because it freaks me out,” I said. “I’m really not up for it.”

Conor gave me a serious look. “If you don’t go on the big one, I don’t know how you can continue to be the World’s #1 Dad. You’ll be demoted.”

Huh? When did this ten year old of mine learn the fine art of psychological manipulation? Besides, I thought I was in the black when it came to Dad cred. A couple of years ago, I was in New Zealand at the height of the Lord of the Rings craze. At the end of my business trip, I took a tour of the filming locations for the movies. I even sneaked home a fern from the forest around the set of Rivendell. Conor, who is a big fan, was quite impressed. I figured I was good as gold to him for at least a few more years.

As I walked up the stairs to the slides, I turned to my son and said, "I'll decide when I get up there." I started thinking: if heaving myself into a narrow enclosed tube was all I needed to do to impress my son, what the hell, I'd do it. It won't be long before it will take considerably more than that (say, the keys to a new car).

So I went sliding down "the dark tunnel of death." This time I splayed my arms and legs to the sides of the tube, in an attempt to slow myself down. I kept my head up, too. There wasn't much light, but this posture helped to gather what little sensory information there was and send it to my brain. All in all, the ride went much easier this time. And when I came tumbling out the mouth of the tube into the plunge pool, Conor was standing there waiting for me. Except he was looking over at the plunge pool for the wimpy slide. "Hey," I said. "I'm over here." He turned around, surprised to see me there. I smiled, went back up the stairs and slid down the same slide one more time. Not only had I won back my Top Dad ranking, but I had conquered my claustrophobia - at least for the day.

When break was over, the kids all jumped back in and swam around for a good long time until we heard the whistles blowing again. It was way too soon for break. This time the whistles were meant to covey a different message. We watched as the lifeguards stood around pointing at something near the edge of the pool. Something gross, judging from their facial expressions. The head lifeguard was called over. He looked down and grimaced. He conferred with the other lifeguards for a moment and then made this announcement to the crowd: "Pool closed!"

Cow tippin'

The other day my son asked me, “Dad, is there an urban myth called cow tipping?” I had to stop and think about that. I have known conceptually about cow tipping since I was a teenager. But is it an urban myth? Or does it really happen?

I grew up in a moderately-sized, factory town in Pennsylvania, midway between the cabs of New York city to the east and the dairy farms to the west. I didn’t have a lot of firsthand experience with cows, except for seeing them munching on grass as my family blew by on weekend drives into the country. I did, however, have a pretty strong bias about country folk with their thick necks and lack of anything else to do but mend fences and ride around on tractors. It seemed to make sense to me that teenaged country boys would sneak out after dark, get drunk, flirt with the farmer’s daughter at the ice cream parlor and end the evening tipping a cow or two.

Honestly, I hadn’t given it a lot of thought back then and none since. So, I had to tell my son that I didn’t really know. “Cow tipping seems preposterous,” I told him, “but, you know, just maybe…”

Do you know the answer? Without question or doubt? Think about it for a minute. Think it through. Then go here for the answer and a hilarious discussion on the matter.

Insert head in vise, tighten

There are times when I laugh out loud as I am writing. I love those moments. But there are also moments when I am ready to scream in frustration, usually because I just can't find the "key" that unlocks a particular story I am trying to write.

My short story Overflow Parking finally came out this week in the premier issue of Mangrove Online. I say finally because the story was accepted for publication back in March. Technical difficulties have kept the web site offline until this week. Writing Overflow Parking was one of the most maddening (creative) experiences of my life.

Some background. Neil de la Flor, from the University of Miami, approached me to write a story for Mangrove Online, the web site he was developing which was to be the sister publication to Mangrove literary journal. "Sure," I said, "my pleasure." The Overflow Parking concept immediately came to mind as a story possibility for a lit publication like Mangrove. The core of that story had been in the back of my mind for over two years. Basically, I had this idea of someone driving back to the overflow parking lot of a major airport only to find a world of people who just hang out there. I really didn't know why they would be there or what my protagonist would do when he discovered them. I just knew I loved this idea.

So I tapped and I paced and I twiddled and I swiveled, all the usual nervous habits that help to jumpstart the creative process. I wrote a few quickie drafts and threw them away. I started to panic. I hadn't written under a deadline like this in a while, and I didn't like it one bit. But things weren't too bad yet. I hadn't come close to hitting rock bottom. That came on a Saturday a few weeks later. I had cleared my plate and dedicated the entire day to writing this story (I had promised it to Neil the following weekend). I had a pretty good idea where I wanted the story to go at this point. On that Saturday, I wrote for over six straight hours, stopping only to pee. At the end of the day, there was this horrifying realization. It wasn't working. I had written myself into a corner and there was no way out. I would have to scrap everything and start over. I lost an entire day of my life. And for what? I considered giving up. Screw it. Why bother?

But that night, as I was lying in bed trying to push thoughts of this awful day out of my mind, it hit me. The key to the story. The metaphorical light bulb. Finally, I had a workable idea. I can't begin to tell you how excited I was. So, now I went from not being able to sleep because of defeat to not being able to sleep because of the impatience of wanting to get started all over. On Sunday, I wrote all day again. This time, though, at the end of the day, I had my story. Well, a damn reasonable draft, anyway. I played with it, like a cat with a mouse between its paws, for the rest of the week, and turned it in on time.

Is Overflow Parking any good? I hope so. Could it be better? Sure. Would I write it differently if I was starting all over again? Don't make me cry.

Conor asks...

"Too much bling?"

Barber shop

This weekend I took my son to get his haircut at the barber shop. It’s a pretty large place, eight barber chairs, and they were all occupied on this particular morning. I had never seen all of the chairs taken before, and there were a half a dozen customers waiting as well. I considered leaving and coming back another time, but it was a hot summer day and I really didn’t want to come back another time. As luck would have it, just after we arrived half of the chairs opened up, and the wait was suddenly negligible. When it was Conor’s turn, I gave some instructions to the haircutter (because my son is still young enough to let me do that) and I sat back down in the waiting area. There was a dad sitting next to me who arrived just after we did. He had two small boys with him, aged about three and two. The dad sat and read the newspaper while he waited. The boys played with some trucks in their tight little corner of the floor. The waiting area was crowded again. There wasn’t a chair to be had. But all was right within this barber shop tableau: the sound of electric trimmers buzzed; scissors scissored; children played; Dads turned the pages of newspapers; the haircutters chatted amongst themselves. Until…

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, the guy next to me, the guy with the two young boys, gasped. There’s no other word for it. He gasped loudly. Then he screamed, “Oh, my God.” A second later he was on his feet and out the door of the barber shop. The buzzing and the scissoring came to an abrupt stop. Eight barbers suddenly stopped barbering. The silence only served to punctuate the uncertainty of what was going on. Four or five steps out of the shop, the father turned and stuck his head back inside the door. His two boys were still sitting on the floor. “I’ll be right back,” he said, clearly panicked. And then he was gone from sight.

Everyone thought their own version of the worst, although I’m guessing that most of us had the same thought. I’m guessing that you are having the same horrible thought right now. The guy was gone maybe two minutes, not a long time, but it sure seemed that way. In the meanwhile, the barbers went back to cutting hair, but not with the same fervor as before. Nobody spoke. The two boys stayed on the floor playing, but kept looking around nervously for their dad. When he finally showed up again at the door of the barber shop, our worst fear, or at least my worst fear, was confirmed. He was carrying a baby seat. And inside that seat was a newborn baby. Maybe a month or two old. All eyes were on the father as he came back inside. He had a look of abject horror on his face. When the seat he carried spun around, I could see that the baby’s eyes were open. It was alive. We have had midday temperature around here hovering around 100 degrees all this past week. The temperature inside of a parked car can easily soar to over one hundred sixty degrees. A few minutes in a car at that temperature would kill a baby. I calculated how long this baby had been out there. About fifteen minutes. It was still early in the day. The temperature outside was not expected to get quite so hot today. Thankfully.

The dad spoke a few words to all of us in the barber shop. I am amazed he was able to speak at all. He mumbled something about how he forgot that he was supposed to watch the baby. He thought that his wife had him or her. He was so unbelievably lucky. We all were. For who could ever get over witnessing such a horrible thing?

I paid for Conor’s haircut and we walked out together into the parking lot. We got into my car. I folded up the windshield screen I had put up to keep the car a bit cooler. The sun was beating down. When I turned the key, the air conditioner started blasting straight away. The outside temperature gauge on the dash read 85 degrees. It was 10:45 am.

Got one of these?

I received this rejection note from the New Yorker back in 1991. I put it aside until it became part of a pile of papers in my inbox and then a forgotten note buried in a file box with other items that I figured I needed to keep. But why? Why did I keep it? Why didn’t I just toss it in the can with a little shot of the “right back at you” dejection that I obviously felt by getting the thing in the first place? Because it came from the New Yorker, that’s why. This wasn’t just rejection, this was rejection by the absolute best. My manuscript sat on someone’s desk at The New Yorker for at least a few hours before it was returned to me. During that time, my words took up the same space once occupied by stories and poems from some of America’s finest writers. And now these words – “We regret that we are unable to used the enclosed material…” – from the editors of the New Yorker were proof of that fact. How do you throw away a note, even a rejection note, from the New Yorker?

Well, that was then. I’m not quite so philosophical about the rejection note these days. Now that I’ve unearthed it after fourteen years, I feel the time is right to get rid of the thing once and for all. But I don’t want to just throw it away. I want to give it a proper send-off. Next month I will be in San Francisco, a great literary city. I’m thinking of taking the rejection letter with me. There’s a bar I like to visit when I’m out there called Vesuvio Café. It’s in the North Beach neighborhood. Jack Kerouac used to get falling down drunk there. I love this place.

The plan is to walk into Vesuvio café, take the rejection letter from my pocket, fold it up into a little square, and use it to shore up the leg of the wobbliest bar stool in the place. Then I’ll sit down atop that stool, order a beer and smile.

Water play

Yesterday I took my son and his friend to our county’s newest indoor pool. It has two large water slides, a lazy river, a not-so-lazy whirlpool and some fun high-pressure hydraulics that blast you when you walk under them. I went straight for the water slides. I walked up the three flights of steps and stood in line with kids less than half my height and one-fifth my age. I tried the tallest water side first. It’s thirty feet high. The tube starts inside the building at the very top of the steps, but then goes outside where it loops around and around before feeding back into the building, dumping the rider into a three foot deep plunge pool. What I didn’t know (or didn’t think about ahead of time) was that the slide was opaque. It was a relatively thin tube, completely enclosed and painted a dark green. It wasn’t until I was in the yaw of this thing and on my way down that I realized there was no light, that the ride was completely in the dark. There are some pretty basic rules of physics at play here. I was aware of them as my body twisted around the curves that I couldn’t see coming. Particularly, the law of physics pertaining to velocity and mass, the one that says “you big fat old man, you are going to travel a heck of a lot faster down this tube than the children.” My body was being thrown back and forth without warning. The adrenaline was flowing inside my body to match the roaring water in the tube. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel (literally!) just before I was thrown into the plunge tube with a tidal wave splash. I got up and collected myself. I think I even let out a loud whoop. A bunch of people stood watching. They were all smiling and laughing as I got up. People apparently like to watch the reactions of the riders, especially the first time riders, as they are spit out of the tube.

I didn’t go back on that ride again. I’m a big-time claustrophobic. I got into that tube the first time not knowing what I was in for, but you just couldn’t make me get in there again. I did, however, ride the other slide, the one you can see in the photograph, over and over again. On that one, you can at least see over your head, and down slope. I could prepare my back for what was coming next. It was a blast.

Speaking of my back, this morning I can twist and turn my body and feel every curve and drop of those water slides in my cranky old vertebrae. I feel all at once like a ten year old kid and a fifty year old man in that special head space where they happily coexist.

Flirting with #3

Mike says he’s bored with my other two blogs.
Carolyn would remodel them both right down to the bare walls.
Matt says a third blog is the solution to all my problems.
I don’t know what he means by that.
Why would I want a third blog?
I’m still getting used to having two.
Still, three blogs.
There’s a certain ring to it.
I could call it “My Three Blogs.”
Hey, I just checked: that name is available at blogger.
Maybe it’s a sign.
I already know what it will be about.
It’s all coming together now.
This is so exciting.
I’ll write a blog about having three blogs.
The logistics; the difficulties; the lack of sleep.
The lack of anything to say.
People will want to read about that, won’t they?
Won’t they?

Bud's blog #5

My old friend, Bud, requests a moment of your time over at Peeling Wallpaper to read about his latest escapades.

A visit to the dentist

My son, Conor, rarely loses his baby teeth the old-fashioned way. By that I mean, a tooth gets loose, you wiggle it, and wiggle it some more, grossing out your friends and family by tilting it ninety degrees from upright, until one day the dang thing pops out between your fingers. No, that would be too easy. In my son’s case, the baby tooth gets a little bit loose, then the permanent tooth shoots up through the gum behind it and the baby tooth has to be extracted at the dentist’s office.

Last week we noticed that both of Conor’s lower lateral incisors had permanent counterparts poking up through his gums. A double extraction. Great.

I know that dentistry has improved over the years and is not as painful as the old days. The problem is: I grew up in the old days and remember a lot of excruciating trips to the dentist. I lost a permanent molar when I was about twelve. The tooth had a deep cavity and probably needed a root canal – a big money fix for my family in those days. My father knew of a dentist who offered discounted rates. In retrospect, I suspect it was because of a suspended license. This was not our regular dentist. My father took me to see this guy. This was not a regular thing, either. It was usually my mother’s job. I put two and two together and figured out that my father had taken me to see this guy (probably without my mother’s knowledge), to save some money. I’m sure Dad figured this guy would do a fine job. Good enough.

When we arrived at the dentist’s office, I was the only patient. It was a dingy place. I smelled alcohol on the dentist’s breath, despite the fact that it was only mid-morning. The dentist, I don’t remember his name or, mercifully, what he looked like, peered into my mouth for about five seconds and pronounced that the tooth would have to come out. No x-rays, no plan B. A fee was discussed. I believe it was $5. *

I was numbed up with Novocain. Presumably, the needle was…well, let’s not go there. Molars are big teeth. Even a twelve year old’s molars have deep roots. The dentist went at the tooth with a pliers-like tool, or maybe they were pliers. I wasn’t in a position to ask questions. I can, to this day, hear the cracking noise my tooth made when it finally gave up and sent the dentist flying backwards. Thinking about it can still make my skin crawl.

So, despite the fact that we now live in the relatively golden age of “painless dentistry,” the thought of my son having his baby teeth pulled is a source of much anxiety for me. I’ve known for a couple of days now that it would be me who took him to the dentist this time around – for the double extraction!! I have been fretting about it ever since. Conor, on the other hand, hasn’t given it a second thought. No big deal for him. He’s been through this many times before. He’s a real trouper. Not me. All day today, I walked around at work thinking to myself, “Oh my God, we’re having our teeth pulled; we’re having our teeth pulled.”

Of course, “we” got through it. Conor was comfortably numb. First with laughing gas; then with topical anesthetic; and finally with Novocain. Still, there was that cracking noise. I heard it. Twice. Click. Click. Conor winced slightly both times. I nearly screamed.

When it was over, I took him home. Put him in front of the TV. Made him a plate of spaghetti (soft food only tonight). Gave him some Ibuprofen. Put him in a warm bath. He’s doing fine. Me? Well, I’m getting there. Two tumblers of Scotch later, I can finally write about it.

*Twenty years after that fateful day, it cost me $1600 in reconstructive dental work to fix the mistake.

Letters from the moon

Good news! Matt's back. Well, he's not actually back. He's on the moon. But somehow he's found a way to blog from up there. I wonder if he's picking up a stray wifi signal from somebody's house here on earth. Who knows? I'm sure Matt will explain all that in time. Drop on by and say "welcome back" to our good friend, Matt, at his new bog, Letters from the Moon. And check out his wicked cool banner. The moon is shown in its real phase, so you don't even have to go outside and look at it. Thanks, Matt, that frees up some time!

Off to the beach

Back on Sunday.

Pinup posit

When I first considered a pinup calendar for Peeling Wallpaper I knew I would have to choose carefully. I wanted the first image (they will change every couple of months) to be artful but a little bit naughty. At the same time I had a theme in mind: girl on car with tool. I looked at a lot of “classic” pinup art from the 1940s and 50s. The choice was not easy. There were a lot of talented artists to choose from. Their drawings were beautiful, as were the women they featured. Women with curves. Refreshingly, not waifs. Generally speaking, the state of undress in which these women are caught on canvas is no more revealing than the average teen-aged girl cruising the shopping mall these days.

In the end, it was the work of Gil Elvgrin (1914-1980) that I kept coming back to. In my mind, he was the best. There is so much detail in his drawings. Everything is perfectly proportioned. Everything catches your eye: the legs, the stockings, the flare of the skirt, the shoes, the hair, the lipstick. Everything.

As obvious as it was to me that Gil Elvgrin was the guy for me, it was equally obvious that Art Frahm was not! Frahm (1907-1981) was best known for his “ladies in distress” series. The scenes from this series are ludicrous. The women are quite literally having trouble keeping their panties up. Whether they are bowling, getting off the elevator, feeding the parking meter, changing a flat tire, getting on the bus, their undies keep falling down. What’s up with that, Art? Maybe it really was a problem back then. It was the post-Depression era, after all. Maybe these women were wearing hand-me-down knickers that were just too big. Hmm. Then again, maybe it was their diet. Too much celery. Maybe it was the celery!

A ten year old's logic

This thought from my son while driving past the construction of yet another strip mall in our neighborhood:

"You know, if they keep cutting down the trees there's not going to be any oxygen left to breathe and everybody's going to die. Then there won't be anybody alive to shop at their stupid stores."

Please Lindsay, eat!

I've been busy setting up this blog and updating the look of Peeling Wallpaper, but I took a moment this morning to sign the on-line petition to put a few pounds back on Lindsay Lohan. Some things are just too important to let slide. I mean, come on, did you see her in Herbie: Fully Loaded? Or any of her other movies? Well, neither did I, but I hear that she's gotten too darn skinny and it's affecting her ability to be cute. We can't have that.

The petition reads as follows:

To: Lindsay
We urge you Lindsay to please, pick up a sandwich and eat it, or ice cream, or any food that might put those oh so cute pounds back on.
Sincerely,
The Undersigned

(I'm thinking of starting my own petition urging the use of proper grammar and punctuation in all petition statements.)

Hot enough for you?

It's so hot that http://blogs.salon.com/0003174/2004/07/02.html. (Hot enough to dredge up an old post.)

Cheap eats

Two young women (clearly underpaid) leaving work for the day.

"I'm starving. Is it dinner time yet?"
"It's only 4 o'clock."
"I can't help it; I'm still starving."
"What are you going to have tonight?"
"It's Friday. There's not much in the house. Macaroni and cheese in a box. Tuna fish. Frozen peas."

Now, what I can't remember for certain is how the next line went. Either she said, "It tastes better than it sounds" or "It sounds better than it tastes." Whatever the exact wording, neither statement is even remotely true.

Meet Juck Pulver's girlfriend

She's hot!!!

The Night Crusher

Go to enough dinner parties and the conversation will eventually turn to the strange dream somebody had the night before. Honestly, though, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a dream told quite like this one:

As a college student in 1964, David J. Hufford met the dreaded Night Crusher. Exhausted from a bout of mononucleosis and studying for finals, Hufford retreated one December day to his rented, off-campus room and fell into a deep sleep. An hour later, he awoke with a start to the sound of the bedroom door creaking open—the same door he had locked and bolted before going to bed. Hufford then heard footsteps moving toward his bed and felt an evil presence. Terror gripped the young man, who couldn't move a muscle, his eyes plastered open in fright.

Without warning, the malevolent entity, whatever it was, jumped onto Hufford's chest. An oppressive weight compressed his rib cage. Breathing became difficult, and Hufford felt a pair of hands encircle his neck and start to squeeze. "I thought I was going to die," he says.

This week’s Science News carries a fascinating article about Sleep Paralysis, the phenomenon described above. Apparently, loads of people have dreams like this. "Most cases unfold as follows: A person wakes up paralyzed and perceives an evil presence. A hag or witch then climbs on top of the petrified victim, creating a crushing sensation on his or her chest."

I don’t remember my dreams. After reading this article, I consider myself lucky.

Cover painting: The Nightmare, 1781, Henry Fuseli…pretty damn creepy, if you ask me.

Skateboard guy

There is an old guy I see from time to time who rides a skateboard to work. I’m old, so when I say “an old guy” I mean older than me. I’m guessing he’s in his mid- to late-sixties. You don’t see many older people riding skateboards. At least not here on the east coast. Maybe he’s from California. People out there are not adverse to standing out in a crowd. I would not be surprised if my skateboard guy is the only one of his kind for hundreds of miles. I think it is really cool. I mean, why not ride a skateboard when you are old? It’s a good way to stay fit. It’s great for balance and coordination at a time in life when those qualities are normally starting to slip away.

So, I really like this guy. I love that he doesn’t care what people think, that they might be looking at him with bemusement. I sure as hell can’t help watching him as he skates by me. We work in the same building but I’ve never met skateboard guy. He doesn’t skate very far. To be clear, he drives to the outer parking lot of our campus and then skates down the moderately steep hill about a quarter mile or so to the entrance of the building. Once there, he picks up his board, walks through the revolving door and checks in – just like everyone else. I’ve only ever seen him skating down the hill. He looks quite comfortable on his skateboard. He gets up a good head of steam. Does a few tricks along the way. He really seems to enjoy himself. Going back up the hill can’t be as much fun. Surely, though, it’s a good workout.

Last week, I saw skateboard guy as I was getting ready to pull into the upper parking lot one morning. He was standing on the outer edge of the lot, waiting for an opening to get back on the road. I should point out that skateboard guy rides on the main road and then turns into a service road that brings him down near the side entrance to the building. On this particular day, I noticed that he was carrying something rather large under his arm. I looked over at him as I drove past. It was a framed painting or photograph. I craned my neck to get a look, but he was already on his way. I couldn’t see the image. It was maddening. I really wanted to know what it was that skateboard guy was carrying. Obviously, he would be hanging this on his office wall and I needed to know what it was.

I briefly considered turning my car around and trying to catch up with him so I could get a look, but I didn’t. First of all, I doubted that I could catch him. Second, in trying to get close enough to see what this man was carrying, I risked hitting him. Imagine explaining that to his next of kin!

So I never did find out what skateboard guy was carrying. It has been haunting me ever since. Okay, it’s one thing for an old dude to skateboard to work. It’s another thing entirely for him to be carrying a framed picture under his arm. The combined effect is simply too quirky. Did he consider for even a second that his actions might drive certain people crazy with curiosity? People like me? Did he? I think not.

A midlife wakeup call

In recent years I have thought about buying a motorcycle. It’s probably some kind of midlife crisis thing. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle in my life. Yet, nowadays when that Harley Davidson commercial comes on TV where the guy takes his friends to his garage and describes in drooling detail the Harley of his dreams (the garage is actually empty), I start to think: yeah maybe it’s time for me to get a Harley, too. But there are midlife crisis lists just like with everything else, and a motorcycle is near the bottom of mine.

Today I pulled up to a stop sign as I was leaving the Safeway parking lot. I was distracted, fidgeting with the radio. I stopped completely, but a little bit beyond the stop sign. Perhaps a quarter car length beyond. I looked left, saw nothing, and lifted my foot from the brake pedal. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a Harley. Heard it, but didn’t see it. I looked left again. The motorcycle was hidden behind the width of a utility pole. It was completely lost to my blind spot. It reappeared just as I hit the brakes again. I looked at the driver as he approached. He swerved a little, anticipating that I would pull out and hit him. He got a little closer. There was another surprise: a passenger. A little boy about my son’s age sitting behind the driver, clinging to his waist. Like the utility pole, the driver (his dad?) blocked him from my view until…there he was. They rumbled by. Thankfully, nobody was hurt. My midlife crisis list is in need of a revision, though.

I got your runtime error right here, buster

I spent the entire day today at work trying to reconstruct an important computer macro that somebody had written for me a few years ago: somebody much more savvy at this sort of thing than me. I’m not a computer programmer. I just use them and try to understand them to the best of my ability (I stop short of reading the manual). My computer crashed several weeks ago and of course I lost the macro. No I didn't back it up. (Insert lecture here. I'll read it later). The point is I don't do this sort of software manipulation very often or very well or very eagerly or very anything. When I do try to run sophisticated computer programs, there is usually a lot of "huh, that didn't work" and "I wonder what happens when I push this button" and "hey, it's lunch time already." The only certainty at the end of the day is that nothing will have changed. The program will still not work and I will be totally brain dead. It's very easy to see how computer nerds become the way they are. By 4pm today I could feel my eyebrow hair growing over the bridge of my nose.

I approach computer programming just like I do writing. I give it my all and I don’t like to give up until I have a finished product. The difference is that with writing I can at any point say “good enough,” push a button and publish the results. With computer programming, I can give up, too. But when I push that publish button, a message box appears stating that I am guilty of “runtime error 2604: unable to parse variable waveform.”

That’s a hell of a thing to say to someone. I’m sure that message means something to someone. Just not me. Now I get to think about runtime error 2604 all weekend. And face it again on Monday morning. I just hope I can sort this problem out before I end up with a full blown unibrow.

My other blog is a Kia

Welcome to Something Itches. No, the title has nothing to do with the nasty rash all over my body. I have that pretty much under control with this new wonder drug from China made from the larva of, well, never mind. It would just gross you out. Something Itches refers to an ineffable quest for knowledge, a restlessness, a yearning – an itch that you scratch again and again because you want to know what that feels like. The kind of itch that you seek out for what it can teach you.

Oh, that’s a load of crap, too. The truth is, I queried Blogger with about a hundred perfectly good blog titles, but they were all taken. Finally, I typed in Something Itches, you know, as a joke. Damn if I didn’t get past the rejection screen. A pop-up box asked me to confirm my choice. I hit ‘Yes’ and the deal was done.

I already have a perfectly good blog called Peeling Wallpaper over on the Salon network of blogs. I’ve been blogging there for about a year and a half. So why start a new blog? Well, because this is America and I can. Because I hate Hummers and I simply can’t state that on enough web sites. Because blogger is free and as a cheap bastard I can’t pass up anything free. Because I can’t stop writing. (Oh, God, please help me to stop!)

Mostly, though, I started this blog because Peeling Wallpaper is the place that I publish my stories and poems. I set it up that way from the beginning. It’s a portfolio for my writing. You won’t find very much over there about me. It’s all fiction and crafty nonsense. But I can’t relax at Peeling Wallpaper. It’s a humor blog, but I take it very seriously. I need a place where I can just write what’s on my mind. Let it all out and not worry about every word being perfect. So now there is Something Itches.

This blog is my front porch. I plan on coming here often to sit on the sofa, sip on some moonshine and whittle. You can join me if you like. Don’t mind the rash.