Wonderful World News

Happy Birthday!!!! July 18

2011-07-18T15:56:00.000-06:00

Stick to the Plan

2011-07-12T10:05:00.004-06:00

When walking over a bridge, it’s much more difficult if you aren’t concentrating on one foot in front of the other and getting to the other side. If you are questioning your balance and calculating the distance you might fall, you’re tormenting yourself with the near and imagined failures from the past. It is not only more difficult, it‘s painful.

Stick to the plan. Bring yourself back to the plan. Don’t require success at every moment or demand that your state of mind always be at its highest pitch. That will signal (convincingly, but falsely) irreparable inadequacy.

Do what you can, when you can. Conserve the dazzle for when it’s really needed. Ask for and seek help from wherever it may be available. Don’t succumb to destructive and distracting fatigue and fear. None of that will or can help you.

Exercise the strength and knowledge you’ve developed through hard won experience. Remain grateful and sensitive to what is happening at this moment. Be aware of what’s around you as you take each step forward – each breath that sends you energy, the line of the horizon where green meets blue, the distinct sound of the bird perched somewhere nearby. Breathe with conscious recognition of the magic involved in this accustomed act.

Rest, eat, move. Don’t give aid or comfort to the fears that are begging for your company. Stick to the plan. Study the plan. Add to or adjust the plan. Expand it. Refine it. Realize that this is what your soul, your unconscious, your solid self has assembled as what is needed, what is essential to move you forward. Trust it and make use of it.

Live long and prosper, Earthling.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Tesla!

2011-07-10T10:05:00.000-06:00

Happy Birthday!!!! July 6.

2011-07-10T09:48:00.000-06:00

Wednesday

2011-02-25T11:23:00.000-07:00

Every two weeks I go to the cancer place. Up two flights to the infusion center. As far as I know, it’s like that flavored vodka or tea, except that they infuse me with something that comes out of a needle.

I’ve been doing this for eight years. There are others there who also just walk in, but then they have to stay there, connected to tubes infusing something much more potent than what I’m getting. Their situation is infinitely more serious than mine and, often, they don’t have one year, let alone eight.

I’m kind of a drive-by in that I sign in, wait a couple of minutes until Lisa or Michelle or Don come by and poke me in the arm. Then, I’m free to go. Everyone is as nice as can be and they have even provided snacks for the patients to tide them over and to settle their stomachs.

I’m usually there around lunch and, sometimes, I see the snack cart with its goodies and check out the selection. Most of it is of no interest, but this week I saw the shiny blue wrapper of a pack of Oreos. I looked around and put one of the packages into my pocket, unseen. I’m both six and about sixty when I do this.

Out in the car, once I’ve left the parking lot, I read on the blue wrapper that this is America’s Favorite Cookie. That’s certainly true in this moment.

I separate the halves to better enjoy the filling, as I wonder what else I can learn to love like Oreos.

2011-02-15T08:18:00.001-07:00

Xmas is Near _ Twitter Novel Reprint Part One

2010-12-13T18:01:00.002-07:00

I have been writing two novels on Twitter.FitToLove_novel, is a novel I started months ago and it seems like there’s no end in sight. That's why I began XmasIsNear. There could be a logical end to it.

In Twitter, your postings can only be 140 characters long. Including spaces. This has its obvious limitations, but it also provides unique opportunities.Each post has two purposes. One is to further the ongoing story. And, two, is to be entertaining, in its own right. It can communicate more than just what the words say. Like a haiku.

Some people post many times a day. To let you know they’re eating breakfast. To let you know they want to go to Target. To let you know the broccoli at dinner was awful. It’s kind of crazy.

But it’s fun. It can keep a writer sharp. Or, it can seriously warp his mind and, perhaps, cramp his style.

The story is too long to put into one posting here, so this and the next one will bring you up to date withXmasIsNear. The first three are in Twitter format.

XmasisNear

Nearer than you think. Only 54 days. Now, the first step to Xmas success and my present resolution: I will be good on Halloween. 9:53 AM Oct 31st fromSeesmic

XmasisNear

I didn’t trash. I didn’t smash. I only took one piece of candy at each stop and I didn’t eat everything at one time. Dang, I’m good. 9:59 AM Nov 1st fromSeesmic

XmasisNear

I am goal-oriented. I want on be on the good list. I want, what some might consider, a mountain of presents. Oh yeah, world peace, too. 9:14 AM Nov 2nd from Seesmic

Xmas is more than a state of mind. More than a commercial holiday that our nation depends on. More than just presents. Sure.

I’m serious. As never before. I have a feeling that this Xmas is going to change everything. I mean it. See, it’s already working. Isn’t it?

Santa has his list, but I’m making a plan. Be worthy. Think of others first. Help out. Visualize that mountain of presents. Stay calm.

Two days ago, 20 inches of snow. The scene was set. Today, 65° and it’s gone. I’m trying to hold onto my dreams, but they’re slippery.

To stay in the mood, I’m reading, The Night Before Xmas. Yeah, it’s a little early, but to Santa, the elves, and the reindeer it’s imminent.

When visualizing, the clearer, the more specific you can be, the better. Okay. A stocking worthy of Bigfoot.

I can see it now, my every Xmas wish answered. To get it to work, I’ll have to write it all down. No wish too small or too big. Here goes.

First, I need… I mean, I’d like a giant TV, big enough to walk into. Braces that light up at night. A box of Oreo’s from Costco. Some milk.

A pillow that's just right. One of those robot vacuum cleaners, but one I don't have to be afraid of. A drawer full of socks the same color.

Curtains that don't let the light in. Pants that fit. And, while we're at it, some of that self-slimming underwear. Clothes make the man.

I am so domestic! How about a shower head that will knock my socks off. Veggies that won't turn brown. Some earmuffs. A case of Hamm's.

An iPhone with an app that apologizes for being annoying. A hard drive I'll never have to replace or worry about. One cord to rule them all.

A watch I can read. An endless cup of coffee. Sufficient half and half. A river of agave. Bananas every morning. Wait, breakfast is ready.

Another box of Oreos from Costco. A mood ring I can control. The infinite Amazon gift card. More socks. Three wishes. Jeeves. A barn.

Diamonds! Emeralds! Gold! Wait a second. Maybe I'm getting carried away.

I'm not just materialistic. I did mention world peace.

What about a new mantra? And, some yogurt. Mother Teresa's humility. Gandhi's conviction. Einstein's brains. MLK's perseverance.

Fats Waller's sense of enjoyment. Horton's devotion. Pooh's equanimity. Harold's imagination. George and Martha's generosity.

That ought to do it for right now. There's more, but there's time, too. I should concentrate on good deeds for a while. Or, watch the game.

Today, I'm only going to do the right thing and only speak the truth. I'll be so good that Santa will put me on the right list for sure.

Let's see... I'll recycle. I'll go to the gym. I'll give money to that guy at the intersection, who can't play the guitar. I won't swear.

Oh, ****. Heck, it's a process. Thanksgiving tomorrow. I'll say the grace this year. I won't have too much of anything. I'll do the dishes.

Xmas is Near _ Twitter Novel Reprint Part Two

2010-12-13T17:59:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving!!!!!

I'm ready! The big warmup holiday. Well, I mean, it has its own tradition, but I'm focused on the Big One. The one with the presents.

I was so good I feel terrible today. I was nice to the turkey, the mashed potatoes, the rolls, the wine, the gravy, the pies, the ...

It feels like Sunday. Or, is that just my relaxed nature? Plenty to do, but I don't want to rush into it today. Maybe tomorrow. No, Monday.

Each week, each day, brings me closer to my goal, my favorite holiday, my fate. And, being the master of that fate, I say, Bring It On!!!!!!

Mamma Mia! I think I'll transform my world into a musical. I'm walking down the street, when suddenly I break into song, "Deck the halls..."

The next thing I know, first one and then another of the other pedestrians join in and, before I know it, we're all singing and smiling.

We enter the bookstore, en masse, waving our credit cards. We tell the clerks, It's beginning to look a lot like Xmas. They begin smiling.

We disperse to our favorite departments. Mine is beauty aids. Just kidding. I head for power tools and snow shovels.

This was a practice run. I don't like bags with names on them. I'm much more discreet.

Besides, this year I'm making everything. A gift that will say, I really care. For instance, I'm sewing pajama bottoms.

For my sister, I'm re-gifting a T shirt, from last year, that says, I'm With Child. I couldn't go anywhere.

For my other sister, I'm cooking Christmas dinner. I hope it gets to Seattle before it goes bad.

I wrote a song for my wife. "I'm just mad about dinner. But she's just mad at me. (repeat) They call me Chubby Hubby. (quite rightly)

For my brother, I'm going to build an Art Deco bedroom set for his kids. It should be ready in no time.

I've begun volunteering. You just can't do too much to stay on Santa's good list. You probably think I'm too old for Santa. Me, too.

I can't shake it. Despite my true nature, I'll feel bad, if I haven't earned those presents. Besides, Santa is real. I know it!

I'm the librarian at the Homeless Shelter. That's the kind of shelter we have in our town. I'm wheeling old guys around at the nursing home.

What's come over me? It's like I don't even think of presents anymore. Well...,except for those big boxes of Oreos from Costco.

Today, cookies for everyone. The homeless joint, the nursing home, the people with the cardboard signs. All of us fat. That's the spirit!

The guys at the shelter started calling me, Santa. They like my beard. They even asked about Rudolph, like they meant it

I can't stop thinking about cookies. And sugarplums, whatever they are. Eggnog, chocolate, and candy. I'm getting huge!

I played Santa at the shelter. Some of the guys are too big to be sitting on my lap, but I don't want to disappoint anyone.

Afterwards, I celebrated with my gang of elves. A bit too much eggnog. I fell asleep in my suit. I woke up hungry and didn't change.

Xmas is Near _ Twitter Novel Reprint Conclusion

2010-12-13T17:54:00.001-07:00

The waitress just smiled. Hat, glasses, boots, red nose. As I’m walking home, I feel a tug on my coat. I look down. Not an elf. A kid!

We walk around, all day. He tells me about his family and what they need for Xmas. He is holding my hand. What a weird kid.

He doesn’t want anything for himself. Now, that IS weird! Just dinner for his parents and his sister. He’s really got the spirit!

I walk him home, in the dark. The snow begins to fall. I meet the family. I say, “Let’s go out to eat. My treat!” We head for Moe’s.

I had forgotten it was Xmas Eve. My reflection in the window says, Santa! Everyone is smiling, cheerful. The manager refuses to let me pay.

I never slept better. ‘Tis the season for giving, but forget the Oreos. I only want this suit and the feeling I have already. Merry Xmas!

Next Xmas is a long way away, but I think I know what I need to do, to make it even better than this year. See you then.

The Lure of the Garage

2010-10-17T14:25:00.001-06:00

Chapter 5 - Venerable Chaos

Victor's skateboard had been put away and they were on their sixth cup of coffee.

"Max, the life of an inventor is never easy." He shook his head. "No, it's never easy. And, of course, it goes without saying that it can sometimes be frustrating. The specter of failure looms over all of us, breathing down our necks with its stale breath of futility and waste. Poverty and, indeed, madness are not unknown. Poor eyesight and bad nerves plague us. Credibility is hard to come by and respect is almost non-existent. We are looked upon as eccentric, if not downright dimwitted. Our way is never clear. Our voices seldom heard. Woe, I tell you is not just an exclamation, it is an injunction."

Victor hung his shaggy head and Max wondered what he had let himself in for. As a child, Max had thought that this business of inventing, despite its dangers, was exciting in a way that seemed filled with hope. And it had been prosperous. Hadn't his father and his grandfather both made money? And if both of them had been a little eccentric, at least neither of them had worn glasses. He was about to ask Victor about this when Victor looked up and stared at Max, his eyes not only undamaged but quite powerful.

He smiled, which banished all the gloom and doom and said, "For some reason, this shop and the work of your father and grandfather has always been blessed with success. We have had our share of disappointments but we have also had more than our fair share of discoveries.

"Max, I can't pretend to understand it. Sure, we worked hard, we studied, we stayed up late, we got up early, we ate our vegetables, but that can't account for it. Maybe it was the coffee."

Victor started laughing and choking. The coffee in question was boiling on the burner. It seemed to Max that it had been boiling there for years. In fact, he wouldn't have recognized it as coffee except for the sugar and cream that Victor had offered with it, which toned it down a little.

Finally, Victor recovered and said, "Would you like to see your room?"

"No thanks." Max had other things on his mind. He didn't know what to say, so he said, "Victor, what was my father working on when he died? He told me his papers might help me someday."

Victor turned serious. "Max, I can't tell you. What I mean is I don't really know. As I look back on it, I see that he had become secretive and a little weird. He was always shaking his head as if he couldn't believe the data. And I would find him here, with a cup of coffee, looking out the window with a worried look on his face. We had always worked together but that last six months he wouldn't show me anything and when I asked if I could help, he would look at me and say, 'Not yet, it's not quite clear'.

"Well, that was ridiculous. Nothing is ever clear until it presents itself, until the last piece of the puzzle falls into place and that had never stopped us from working together before. I think he was scared. Both for himself and for me. Scared of what he was finding out. I think he was trying to protect me."

Max, against his better judgment, poured himself another cup of coffee and asked, "But what was it? What do his papers say?"

"I never looked at the papers. The night he died, he collapsed at that table over there. I heard the noise and ran to his side. As I held him, his last words were, 'I think I've got it' but he didn't look happy. He was dying, of course, why should he be happy, but the look on his face was frightening. As if he had seen something, as if whatever it was that he thought he had gotten had turned out to be overwhelming, and dangerous. Maybe it was just perplexing, but it was obviously more than nail polish or curlers or something." Victor bent his head and, thinking of the papers, said, "I guess I never had the nerve to look."

They both fell silent while the room hummed and the coffee boiled on.

His father's death had scared him somehow, too, even at a distance, although his reaction had always been just a feeling, an intuition with no reason or information to support it. Now, what Victor was telling him started him thinking and he began to see a direction for the work he was about to begin.

Victor's words were spooking him a little but he wanted to know what it was his father had found out. He was just as curious and determined as his father had been and he decided, in the space of a breath, that he would pursue the work of his father no matter what it turned up. He needed to know whether it was this discovery and its implications or the sixty years of terrible coffee, which had killed him.

He saw that Victor was saddened by this talk and was looking older than he had before, if that was possible, so he cleared his throat in preface to changing the subject and bowing toward Victor, said, "O, venerable creator of chaos, show me what you've been up to."

Victor snorted. "I couldn't possibly show it to you in one night." He gestured to the vast room, half of it engulfed in shadow, but all of it filled with the odds and ends of projects, some finished and some left incomplete in a moment of inspiration or despair. Max looked around at it. The huge room hummed with a latent energy that Max could never quite pinpoint but which kept things exciting and hopeful. Through some serendipity of design, this vast workspace stayed warm in the winter and cool throughout the summer. For all its endless square footage and high ceilings and earnest sense of purpose, it was a homey, relaxed, and agreeable place.

Victor said, "Of course, this is mostly all play." He looked seriously at Max. "That's the nature of our work. The basis of everything. Let me show you a few things."

They wandered down one of the long aisles and stopped first at a bench covered with nails. They were lined up in neat, orderly rows and the first four and a half rows were flush with the table. The rest were standing at attention, only the tips of them embedded in the table's surface. There was a hammer nearby.

"Therapy," Victor explained.

Next, they paused before a table covered with what looked like brightly colored spaghetti. This turned out to be a mess of wires and they were connected in a way that baffled Max. Several pieces of equipment stood to one side, their screens flickering, measuring, recording. Max looked to Victor for an explanation.

Victor shook his head and said, "I can't remember what this is. Maybe it will come back to me."

In a corner, they came upon a worktable with several small gadgets on it that resembled portable radios. There were many dials on the surface of these boxes and set into each one was a clock face with only one hand. The hands appeared to be all pointing the same way.

"Synchronized," said Victor. "This was C.J.'s attempt at harmonic convergence. He called it a major breakthrough but I never understood it. He was all set to spring it on an unsuspecting public when something else snagged his attention and he forgot all about it. Now it just sits here until I stumble onto the notes and can figure it out or we need the space for something else."

He then took Max to a cluttered corner with a computer monitor on a desk, surrounded by piles of paper and several empty cups.

"This is my spot. The last couple of years, I've been glued to this box. I first got it to organize the archives. Your father generated so much stuff, I thought I'd go crazy. But then I got hooked on the games and that's all I've really done since I discovered them."

Max raised his eyebrows. "Two years of computer games?"

Victor shrugged and said, "I even started making up my own and, of course, marketing them. No one can say that this shop ever let a potential profit gather dust. My latest is called 'Teenage Hostage.' Want to try it?"

The Lure of the Garage

2010-09-05T08:40:00.004-06:00

Chapter Four - Young At Heart.

He drove on through the rolling flatness of the country towards Minnesota. Recent snow had covered everything, giving it a peaceful appearance, but left the road a bit slick. Max's attention was running on reserve and was only sustained by the excitement that grew as he recognized certain landmarks: a town called Blooming Prairie, the signs, which towered above him and indicated the crest of a flood in 1972, as he crossed the river, and the Dairy Queen, where his school bus had miraculously stopped one warm spring afternoon.

Finally he was on the home stretch. He turned into the long drive, went up the hill, and pulled to a stop. Before he felt ready to get out and reacquaint himself with his legs, he looked around at the quiet grounds and the massive brick building where he had begun his life. He took a deep breath, got out of the car and walked toward the door of the old house, returning home now to start a new life.

He saw that the door was obscured by a cloud of light snow. As he approached, the snow settled slowly and a figure in boots emerged. The figure leaned on a shovel and looked at him from between a red scarf, drawn high on the nose, and a wool hat pulled down to, but not over, the eyebrows. Max saw the eyes grow wide and then he heard a muffled voice shout the words, "Mr. Max, you're back."

The snowman was revealed to be Victor, who, for as long as Max could remember, had been his father's assistant. Even as a child, he had thought of Victor as impossibly old and yet here he was, throwing snow all over the place and lifting him off the ground in his embrace.

Max had always believed that Victor had another name and that C.J., as a joke, just called him Victor, after Victor Frankenstein. When he was young and hanging around the garage, Max would hunch himself over and limp to Victor's side and ask, in a hoarse voice, "Tonight, Master? Tonight?" And Victor would turn to him and, stroking his thin mustache, answer, "No, Igor. How many times do I have to tell you? Tomorrow night!"

Once inside the big house, Max dropped his suitcase and coat next to a collection of canes standing in an ornate champagne cooler. Victor removed a few layers of clothing, looked into the mirror, and tried to arrange his hair. He shook his hands at his side to get his circulation going. Max saw that he was impossibly old - round face with uncountable wrinkles, wild white hair and eyebrows, large hairy ears, a couple of chins, and piercing eyes of deep blue.

Victor was neither thin nor heavy but he was very tall and stood with a posture that made Max, who was no slouch, stretch a bit. Though Victor was old - how old Max had no idea - he seemed to have more energy than Max or anyone Max had ever met. Victor bustled around for a moment getting warm and then he drew himself together and seemed even taller.

In a strong voice, he said, "Max, it's good to see you. I've been waiting for you. I knew that you'd be back after you got all that stuff out of your system. Thank God, you're done. Now we can get back to work. It will be just like the old days."

Max was about to say something but Victor interrupted him.

"Max, let me do my Holmes on you." He stepped back and turned his searchlights on the young man, who, with a smile, executed a graceful twirl and took a few steps back and forth.

"Ah ha!" Victor exclaimed dramatically. "Uh huh. Your name is Max Colvin. You are twenty-eight years old. You have dark hair and brown eyes. You are of a respectable height, though you could do without a few pounds. You have a gracious, casual manner. Your shoes need polishing. Your expression, right now, is a mix of tolerance and amusement. You have one suitcase and no hat and you are still driving that old car. Quite astute of me, eh?" He chuckled. Then he held out his hand to stop any further developments and said, "But now, for real."

Victor closed his eyes. His white eyebrows huddled in concentration and then, as if he were in truth shining a light, he opened his eyes and said, "You have been reading a book you aren't sure you want to finish. Last night, no, yesterday at lunch, you had Moo Shoo Pork and perhaps a glass too much sake. You've had your hair cut for the first time in a long while. You still play the guitar. You have no girlfriend. You've eaten more than your fair share of candy and you recently had a cold." He smiled, quite pleased with himself. "How'd I do?"

Max shook his head, unbelieving. "Amazing. What's the secret?"

"It's elementary, my dear Max. When you are as old as I am, you know a few things."

"Just how old are you?" Max said, casually.

"I'm not telling, you crafty little boy. I'm trying to create a sense of mystery. Is it working?"

Max's mother joined them at this point and, without a word, embraced him and held on to him tightly. Max looked over her gray curls at Victor whose old eyes seemed to be suddenly watering from the heat in the great hallway.

His mother had changed little in the six years he had been gone. It's true her hair was grayer but her eyes shone in the same way and her voice was clear and conveyed a strength that warmed his heart. She had been alone these last six years but that had not stopped her from moving forward. In her letters, she had kept him up to date on her activities. She had traveled on horseback through the mountains of Peru. She had taken up painting and one of her bright landscapes was a prized possession of Max. She also oversaw the organization that had resulted from C.J.'s many inventions. She had kept her curiosity intact and her calm energy seemed endless.

She welcomed Max home with an obvious delight and after they had talked for a short time and after she had gotten a good look at him, she, with a mother's firmness and affection, sent him straight to bed for a most needed nap.

That night, over dinner, Max filled his mother in on the state of his health and the state of his love life, the two things she was most interested in. Neither took much explaining.

"I can drive all night without going off the road and I haven't had a cold in two years." He knocked lightly on the table.

His mother nodded her approval and asked, "What about love, Max?"

"Mom, I only saw three girls the whole time I was in Wyoming."

"Tell me about them."

Max was embarrassed.

"Max, you know how I feel about romance."

"Mom, this was not romance. One worked at the Frosty Freeze and had a boyfriend named Big Darryl. And the other two were twins who blinked a lot. All three of them chewed gum constantly."

"Well Max, there's someone out there. I know it. Just keep looking."

He then repeated the reasoning he had put forth in his last letter concerning his decision to return home and pursue what seemed to be his destiny. He looked at his plate. He thought it odd that his destiny should end up in the same place where he had started out, but he was young and had a lot to learn. His mother patted his hand and said as much.

She told him that his room was ready and waiting for him but Max surprised her by saying that he would be staying out in the garage with Victor, if Victor would have him. He had decided that if he was really going to pursue this inventing, then he must be ready at any hour of the day or night for inspiration to shake him by the shoulders and shout at him, "Get to work." She was sorry he would not be staying with her, but she understood and approved.

The garage was actually a separate building set off from the main house amid a green cloud of pine trees. It was long and low and built into the side of the hill with a rough stone foundation and several chimneys. Both his father and his grandfather had spent their entire working lives in this building. The thought sobered him a little.

The inside of the garage was a well-lit, high-ceilinged cavern on whose floor rested a maze of workbenches covered with what, to the untrained eye, appeared to be an unlimited collection of junk. The walls held several large blackboards covered with inscrutable equations and short inspirational messages like "I wouldn't trade spots with a leopard" or "Blackjack's Pizza 338-2453". There was an odor to the place that had always been like perfume to Max and the room, even when empty, seemed to hum with activity.

Upstairs there were two rooms and a bathroom. These had been Victor's living quarters since before Max was born. Now, if Victor agreed, he would have company.

After dinner, Max walked through the cold dark air to the garage to ask Victor if he would like a roommate. As he stood before the big door, he shivered a little with anticipation. Then he knocked loudly and entered.

The place was exactly as he remembered it except that there seemed to be even more junk inside. He remembered his father once saying to him, "Max, someday this will all be yours." At the time, Max had laughed and his father had also. But now, it really was all his and he didn't know if it wasn't more of a burden than a gift.

He had just started looking for Victor at one end of the huge room when, with a loud noise and a rush of air, the old assistant flew past him, screaming with an insane pleasure and flapping his arms like a bird.

Max ducked and started laughing. It was good to be back...

The Lure of the Garage

2010-07-31T15:06:00.001-06:00

Chapter Three - Stepping On The Gas.

He was driving his old car; a car the guys at the bar had always laughed at. One of them, a friend, had taken him aside and said, "Max, you've got to get yourself a real vehicle." The big cowboy looked dismissively at the almost pre-industrial Volvo. "You know, a truck."

In Wyoming, there were three kinds of vehicles - pickups with brooms and beer cans in the bed, big cars with lots of power that were really oversized boats on spongy wheels, or tractors. Max didn't care; the car had never stopped running and its mute loyalty appealed to him.

He had been driving for eleven hours and because the radio had never worked he had a lot of time to think. He was crossing the wide plains of Nebraska, late at night.

"You know," a calm seeming voice said. "This is probably unnecessary."

He looked around. He then heard himself say, "Couldn't you be an inventor in Wyoming?"

He started laughing.

He kept thinking and, after a few minutes, though he didn't come right out and admit it, he realized that he had been a little homesick ever since he had left. Escaped, he always called it. He missed the green and the water. His mom was there and he knew he missed her clear warmth and concern. Her love. Her cooking. Her name was Rosemary and, like her name, she was a kind of spice that was in him and sprinkled all over and around him.

He also missed his father. Thinking about him made him grouchy and he growled at the dust on the dashboard. It was a mixed thing. He had loved him without a doubt, but C.J. had always been working. He loved to work and Max felt that he had received less than his fair share of his father's time. And, when he had seen him, it was like visiting with the encyclopedia. Max never knew what he was talking about. Maybe because of this, Max had hung around the garage incessantly watching and listening. When he was younger he believed that if he simply took in the words and whatever action was going on, it wouldn't matter whether he understood or not, somehow his brain would digest it all and one day he would find that everything made sense and he and his father would be able to communicate. He still believed in this general principle. It was an optimism, though unproven, that he depended on.

His mother had always been there when his father was "in the moment", as she put it. "In the moment.” to Max, had meant his father and his assistant running around the garage in their white lab coats, waving their arms in the air and shouting. As he thought of it now, his father had always seemed to be either "in the moment" or quite reserved.

In his reserved moments he had a distant look on his face and a pencil in his hand with which he made constant notations and drawings. A steaming mug of coffee never left his side. To Max's requests for attention, his father had invariably replied, "That's wonderful. Let me explain this to you," and then he would be off describing the workings of the microscope in front of them or, putting Max's small hand to the mug, he would explain the physics involved in heat transference. Max was appreciative of the information but always went away a little frustrated. He had "escaped" because of this frustration and, since his father's death, he had stayed away because he was afraid that it might still be there, floating in the thick air of the garage where he thought he had left it.

Despite its age, Max's old car was maintaining a steady 70 miles per hour down the straight and seemingly endless freeway that ran east through Nebraska. The headlights bore a bright tunnel through the night and the heater was working overtime to keep Max wrapped up and comfortable in the dark February cold. He could have been anywhere. At night, the road was just a road. Scenery and variety, always a high point of freeway travel, slept like everything else, and all Max could see were the white lines racing toward him and the glow from the lights on the dash. His thoughts were inescapable.

"Well, big guy," he said out loud. "I guess we're really doing this."

There was no answer, but none was needed. Max looked at himself in the mirror. It was too dark to see but he knew the image that was reflected or would have been, given enough light. Now, there was a physics problem and a philosophical one as well. Does the mirror reflect without light?

Max reached for the candy bar on the seat next to him and thought, I've still got a lot of hair, I'm not bad looking, and my teeth are straight. It's true I could lose a few pounds and that I'm restless, hungry, and irritable, but is that any reason to go home? What am I doing? What do I think I'm going to find there? Am I just going in circles? What's the meaning of life? Is God dead? Do ants sleep? Why do those 8 foot tall rabbits gather at each overpass? The questions escalated.

It was time to pull over. Max eased onto the ramp and rolled into an Amoco station which sat at the side of an empty road, next to an abandoned Stuckey's. It was lit up in a desperate way, as if without the light, the pumps, the attendant, and all the tires, batteries, and cases of oil would slip into a deep sleep.

He left the car in front of the pumps and went inside for coffee. The place was empty. As Max filled a large paper cup with fuel, he listened to the hum of the lights above him. He sat down on a chair that complained but he was not sympathetic, only tired. He closed his eyes and immediately opened them in shock. He had seen the white lines still rushing toward him and was afraid he would fall asleep and end up in the ditch. He took a deep shaky breath. He was having trouble slowing down and began to wonder if he could sleep in the cold car.

Just then, he heard a rough voice say, "I'll show you," and then heard a terrible crash. Max jumped to his feet and rushed past the counter full of candy and antacids and through the door into the garage area of the station. There was no relief from the lights, as this area was lit up like the rest of the place. Max looked around and in the corner he saw a tall man, dressed in one of those one-piece mechanic's outfits which are blue, tinged with the gray of the grease. He had long stringy hair and he was sitting on the floor. He was surrounded by junk and his head was in his hands. He was muttering something.

"Are you OK?"

The man jumped, setting off more noise, and angrily said, "Don't sneak up on me like that."

Max, still somewhat numb from the drive, was unmoved. He repeated his question.

The man, who Max saw was wearing sunglasses, got to his feet upsetting tools and parts and unidentifiable debris. He brushed himself off and said, "Sorry. You're the first person I've seen in four hours. I get so spaced out here at night. And these lights. They drive me crazy."

Max nodded.

"What can I get you?"

"Oh, I'll get some gas in a minute. I had to pull off. I was getting a little spaced out myself. What are you working on?"

The man, whose name was Jones, told him the whole story and, as he did, they examined parts, flexed hoses, and wiggled wires. Over coffee, they discussed the problem and broke it down into separate principles and possibilities. After about an hour of this, they were both looking at a part with wires hanging from it like a bad hairdo. This was the crux of the matter. Jones started shaking the part and swearing. He gave Max a look, which the fluorescent lights might have exaggerated, and said, "I'll fix this." He reached for a hammer.

Max stared at the part and, at the last moment, stopped Jones from adjusting it out of existence by saying in his quiet voice, "Wait a minute. Let me try something."

Max placed the part on the workbench and bent over it with the concentration of a surgeon. "Pliers." Jones slapped the tool into Max's hand. Max winced and shot him a reproving look. "Staple gun." Jones gently handed it over. "Paper clip." Max was working intensely now, his elbows flailing above his ears. "Crazy glue." The hand-off was precise. Finally, Max straightened up, released the tension of the moment in a long exhale of breath, and looked at his assistant.

"I think that's it."

Max, with delicate care, returned the part to its proper place. He tightened a couple of screws while Jones got behind the wheel. Max gave him the nod. Jones turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared back to life. Jones switched it off and came over to Max. He was beaming and thumped him on the back.

"Too much. You just pulled it right out of the hat."

They celebrated by splitting a Kit Kat and each had another cup of coffee. Eventually, Max filled his tank and prepared to leave. Before he pulled away into what was left of the night, Jones leaned over and said through the window, "Thanks for your help. It was beautiful. If you ever need a job, just come on back. Drive safe now, you hear?" He slapped the roof of the old car and walked back into the light.

Max fastened his seatbelt, found his way onto the freeway, and stepped on the gas.

The Lure of the Garage

2010-07-21T16:15:00.000-06:00

Chapter Two - There's No Place Like Home.

Home was Minnesota, the land of ice and snow. Or, as the state tourism board optimistically put it, the place "where many are called, but few are frozen.” And though it was only early November when Max arrived, the snow had already begun to pile up.

Max had not been home in six years, not since he returned for his father's funeral. At that sad time, he took a night flight in from Wyoming; his boots still caked with dirt. The funeral had been uncomfortable for him, not only because he knew he would miss his father and had felt the loss go straight to his heart, but because everyone - before, during, and after - had looked at him with eyes full of expectation. That's how he saw it. The only son, the (now) head of the family, the next inventor. Even his mother seemed to look at him in a new way. It was as if not only his father had died, but also a part of himself.

This had confused Max. He was having enough trouble accepting the fact that his father was dead, without having to assume a new kind of identity that he hadn't prepared himself for. He had always felt himself capable of understanding only one thing at a time, and in the proper order, even though this was totally untrue. It was one of the reasons he was in Wyoming.

After all the talking was through and everyone had left, his mother had said quietly, "Your father was a good man and had a big heart. He was always proud of you and loved you and he hoped that you, too, would become an inventor."

Max nodded and sighed and began to look toward the door.

"There's always a place for you here. The garage has everything you need."

She hesitated.

"I'd even make bread pudding for you, from time to time."

Max smiled, but said nothing. He looked at his mother with love, both for her and her bread pudding.

His mother looked away for a moment and, then, straightened up.

"Well, you're a big boy now and you'll know what it is you need to do. The door is always open."

She reached into her pocket and removed an envelope. She touched his arm gently as she handed it to him.

"Your father left this letter for you. See you at dinner."

He went to his room and removed the single sheet of paper from the plain envelope which bore his name, written in his father's round hand. Max thought of the cryptic postcards his father used to send him, all written in that crude handwriting and containing some obscure message. It had never been - "Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here." It had been more likely –

Or –

But now his father was gone. Max took a deep breath.

The letter read:

Late Monday night

My Dear Max,

I am expecting many more fruitful years, but I am thinking of this now and

so, while the iron is hot...

I have had my time and, except for getting involved with the Navy, I think I have been able to use it well. You are my only son and, though a father likes to wish what he thinks best on the one he cares most about, a wise father knows that his son has a mind of his own. A life of his own.

A wise father would say, "If wrestling muddy animals in Wyoming is what makes you happy, then I am glad for you. Go wrestle them to the best of your ability."

Unwisely, I say to you that I have observed a gift in you for invention and that for you to do anything else would be an entire waste of your time and talents. Your grandfather would be amazed at your potential and would immediately claim responsibility. I, too, am amazed, but am not so presumptuous.

When you read this I will be dead, but my love will be with you always. The garage is now yours to do with as you think best. Do what you want, but a life in which one creates for the benefit of others is not a bad one. Do not destroy any of my papers. You may someday find them useful. Take care of your mother and stay away from sweets.

Your loving father,

Max was moved by his father's words. The house was quiet and, as he sat there, he seemed to be able to feel his father's spirit hovering in the hallway outside his door. He felt, also, the somewhat heavier spirit of his grandfather making his way downstairs for dinner. These feelings disturbed him and, absently, he searched in his pocket for a mint.

At dinner, he made no mention of the letter. He could tell that his mother was trying her best not to, but all the same, was giving him that look of expectation he dreaded. As he pushed his beets around on the plate, he told her of his decision to return to Wyoming. She had smiled thinly and nodded, and then rose to get the dessert from the oven. He knew what that dessert was, but still he didn't, he couldn't, change his mind.

That was six years ago and during those six years he had written faithfully and in detail to his mother. He had tried hard to forget his father's words. He had eaten a lot of sweets and many things had happened. He had often thought, with a hint of regret, despite the weather, that his life in Minnesota was firmly in the past. But now, he realized that something very much like destiny was following him and he changed his mind. Returning home would either put the demons of invention to rest or encourage them in a way he didn't really want to contemplate. He was on his way home. He didn't know what to expect, but at least he knew how to get there.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Tesla!

2010-07-10T16:20:00.000-06:00

Speaking of Garages, he did his part.

The Lure of the Garage

2010-07-10T15:38:00.005-06:00

Chapter Two - There's No Place Like Home

Max nodded and sighed and began to look toward the door.

"There's always a place for you here. The garage has everything you need."

She hesitated.

"I'd even make bread pudding for you, from time to time."

Max smiled, but said nothing. He looked at his mother with love, both for her and her bread pudding.

His mother looked away for a moment and, then, straightened up.

"Well, you're a big boy now and you'll know what it is you need to do. The door is always open."

She reached into her pocket and removed an envelope. She touched his arm gently as she handed it to him.

"Your father left this letter for you. See you at dinner."

Or –

But now his father was gone. Max took a deep breath.

The letter read:

Late Monday night

My Dear Max,

I am expecting many more fruitful years, but I am thinking of this now and

so, while the iron is hot...

A wise father would say, "If wrestling muddy animals in Wyoming is what makes you happy, then I am glad for you. Go wrestle them to the best of your ability."

Your loving father,

2010-07-10T13:17:00.001-06:00

Happy Birthday, Mr. Tesla!

Speaking of garages, he did his part.

The Lure of the Garage

2010-06-18T20:19:00.001-06:00

The Lure of the Garage

Ted Ringer

Chapter One - The Call of the Wild

He stood at the end of a long line of inventors. This line consisted of himself, his father, and his father before him, or as we say in modern usage, his grandfather. This may not seem like a long line, but it involved over 100 years of trying to make something from nothing and, at the same time, keep food on the table. His father and grandfather had done just that and had done it with both style and success. Until he came along, the line had been quite straight but not necessarily narrow.

His grandfather, Charles Maxwell Colvin, or Charles, the First, as he liked to be called, had been a loud, overweight man with large whiskers. He had invented, among other things, a kind of tube that vastly improved radio reception. He always referred to this invention as "The Miracle." This one invention had made it possible for his family to live in luxury. It also allowed his grandson, the present inventor, to spend his childhood nights tuning in the important games from Chicago or rock and roll from Oklahoma City or news from Des Moines. His grandfather, had he lived, would probably have shuddered at the content of these programs, but it had been the device and its mechanics and not its ultimate uses that had sparked his interest.

The son of Charles, the First, Charles Maxwell Colvin, Jr., had been called C.J. He hated being referred to as Junior. He was a more quiet man, perhaps subdued by his father's volume, and had, among his many creations, developed a sonar-based improvement during the war that the Navy snapped up and ordered into the classified mists. He was not enamored of the military, especially after this experience, and he spent the rest of his life working on items he thought might truly benefit mankind at large. Items such as comfortable hair curlers or a fountain pen that would write at any angle or, his favorite, a special nail polish for classical guitarists.

Both forebears had died while working. His grandfather, from a blow to the head, caused by a low beam of considerable thickness. He had encountered this as he responded to a bell, an invention of which he was quite proud, that signaled dinner. They found him on the floor of his workroom amidst half-finished projects. For once, he didn't look hungry. The father of our present day inventor had died of an apparent heart attack, possibly occasioned by a discovery no one could understand. His last words had been "I think I've got it!" These deaths, in the line of duty, had a profound impact on Charles Maxwell Colvin III, known as, Max. They scared him.

Max, the invention of his creative father and patient mother, had, without actually deciding such a course, steered himself away from inventing. As a student, he was receptive, though unfocused, and possessed enough curiosity to be considered dangerous by his teachers, but, once out of school, he tried hard to place himself beyond the range of what his father had called, "the Lure of the Garage" - that being the place where all this inventing supposedly took place.

As a result, he had done ranch work in Wyoming. He had driven large trucks in Colorado. He had worked as a printer in Wisconsin. These had been wonderful experiences for him, but ultimately they proved to be disasters. In Wyoming, in response to what was referred to there as ‘ornery critters’, he created a system of metal fencing that caught on big time. In Colorado, at a desperate moment, he made a kind of tire chain out of plastic soda pop holders that, with a few modifications, went on to become standard equipment on mountain passes. And, in Wisconsin, after he found himself threatening a printing press with a hammer, he came to his senses and devised a paper feeder that made the hammer unnecessary.

No matter what he did or where he went, it seemed he couldn't escape his heritage of inventing. It asserted itself at moments of crisis. It whispered to him as he showered in the morning. It suggested improvements as he crossed at the streetlight. It shouted at him as he balanced his checkbook.

He never intended to come up with these things. He had never worked in the methodical way of inventors to improve things; it never occurred to him. They simply popped out in response to a need and, as they did, Max feared that he was hearing that call of the garage he had been trying all his life to leave behind.

It worried him. He kept moving from place to place, but it did no good. He was afraid to lie down at night because his dreams were filled with discoveries he would rather forget. A doorknocker that tap danced. A non-clogging drain. Unbreakable shoelaces. This kind of thing, this obsession with making, had killed his father and had indirectly brought about his grandfather's death and he wanted no part of it.

He tried hypnosis, he sought out non-materialistic religions, he considered the Foreign Legion but, in the end, he found that all driveways led to that innocent-looking hotbed of activity. The lure of the garage had proven itself too strong for him. His genes had spoken. His past had shaken hands with his present. He was going home.

Fit To love - Part 4

2010-05-18T07:47:00.000-06:00

I was in the best shape of my life and I had already had coffee with a beautiful girl. Not bad for three weeks of hard work. And, yet… I ached with love.

Does that sound desperate? Okay. But I had waited this long and, if it took a little longer, so what?

I worked hard for the next few days. The sweat flew! I strained with the incredible weight of the world, and of my dreams.

I began to think I was taking this a little too seriously, if not a bit too dramatically. Was I wrong? No. Just delirious.

My iPod was full of inspirational messages and affirmations. I’m da one! Here I’m is. You can’t always get what you want. But if you…

I kept my eyeballs peeled for an opportunity. The right time. The right girl. The right song. Do you love me? Now, that I can …

Watch me now. Uhh! There’s a lot to be said for exercise. No matter what. Right now, my endorphins were swimming with the whales.

It began to seem like I had been at this gym forever. And, yet, it had only been a month. $25! Okay, $26.75. Now, that’s a deal.

Silent TVs hung from the ceiling. Lots of them. I got the news. I learned how to sauté. I was getting caught up on the 80s! The 90s!

Politics became just a bunch of guys moving their mouths, saying nothing. It seemed like everyone else was a cop or dissecting a body.

On one screen, to keep us in line, I suppose, were two very hot babes and a hunky guy, exercising near a beach in Mexico. Or, Hawaii. Or…

Love was burning a hole in my pocket. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. But it was overpowering. It was as if…

As if, Little Richard had just appeared on top of the piano. As if, Caesar had just split Gaul into four pieces. As if, General Sherman had just set fire to the Dairy Queen on the other side of town. As if, 6 were 9. As if, grits were groceries.

This love was a love with no object. A love with no subject. A burning hunk of love. A groovy kind of love. No present and no past.

There was a love inside of me, desperate to get out. Desperate to get out and have some fun. Desperate, but not in a weird way.

I’m an optimist. I took stock. Young, handsome, and hopeful. It would take more than this to discourage me. Loyal, brave, clean, kind…

Cheerful, courteous, friendly, helpful, obedient, reverent, and trustworthy. Does that sound too good to be true? Okay, forget obedient.

You might think that in a context like this, love was happening to everyone, all the time. You’d be wrong. That only happens in fiction.

For the rest of us, love is usually going down one street, while we’re going up the other. It’s going home, when we just got here.

Hope abounds, but reality is like dirt. Easy to come by, but hard to wash off. With that in mind, I headed for the showers.

Fit To Love - Part 3

2010-05-15T15:44:00.001-06:00

This posting is a continuation of a novel, Fit To Love, that I am writing on Twitter. It’s here, in case you are not a Twitterer. Many are not. On Twitter, each entry can be only 140 characters in length, including spaces. This is a structure that requires a different kind of writing than any other. Hmmm…

As our last installment ended, our hero had been working out, developing himself into a man whose muscles called out to the softer parts of a woman and drew her to him like a magnet. Or, so he thought. So far, he has struck out at each encounter, but he is hopeful and determined.

The first three entries are in the Twitter format to give you a feel for this unique medium.

Heck, I didn’t want to be like that. I saw myself as debonair, suave, sophisticated, and a prince among men. Oh, who was I kidding? 7:36 AM Aug 15th, 2009 via twhirl

I WAS debonair, suave, sophisticated, and some kind of royalty. And, yet, just a guy. A guy who longed for a girl. I mean, woman. 7:59 AM Aug 16th, 2009 via twhirl

Exercise, for whatever purpose, is a noble thing. No matter your intentions, your heart will always benefit. Mine was pounding. 8:08 AM Aug 17th, 2009 via twhirl

It seemed everywhere I looked, each possibility was working out. At the treadmill. At the rowing machine. With the dumbbells.

This was encouraging. Grandpa, a dumbbell himself, had always said, keeping everlastingly at it brought success. He might not have had this in mind.

He would have thought I was crazy – he always did – but so what? This was wisdom in action.

I refined my search for love. I developed a set of principles. I decided I would not stand for failure. Love would conquer all.

The next few times, at the club, I worked on myself, so to speak. In particular, my abs, which were more keg, than six-pack.

Sure, I saw there were gorgeous women everywhere. But I was doing everything I could to prevent the kind of rejection I had gotten so far.

I tried to keep my head down and my mind focused. One, two, three. One, two, three. That’s how elementary, it’s gonna be.

Simplicity was the key. Keep breathing. Don’t stop. Till you get enough. Ok, I wasn’t swearing, but these tunes were making me crazy.

As I gazed at the mirror, I could see the progress I was making. I could also see a blond, with long legs, on the bike behind me.

She was pedaling, but getting nowhere. Perhaps the time was right. I felt good. I would go over there and end her loneliness.

I walked nearer and gave a small wave. She looked at me and pedaled faster. Was I scary or something? What could I do? I smiled.

She skidded to a stop, leaned forward, and asked, ‘Was I going too fast?‘ Who was the flirt here? “No, but don’t let it happen again.”

She tried not to smile. Wow, I was good! “Maybe we could ride together sometime? Or, get a cup of coffee?” Smooth devil.

Our plan was to meet at Vic’s the next morning, before our workouts. I couldn’t sleep the night before. I had been practicing coffee.

I splashed on, “Eau de Love”, and pulled up my collar. I brushed my teeth and turned my eyebrows on extra cool. I headed out.

The sun! Morning! I felt like a million bucks. Coffee was now as important to me as it was to normal people. Wow! Let the love begin.

She was beautiful. She was a treat for sore eyes. No, a feast. Her complexion was creamy. Her hair was like frosting. I was hungry.

Hungry for love. She smelled like coffee. No, that must have been what we ordered. That, and a couple of muffins.

The first thing she said was, Hi. It was like music. She kept talking and I was floating, like Pepe Le Pew, upon the sound of her voice.

I tried to tell her of my feelings. Of my endless, so far, search for love. She talked on, as if I wasn’t even there. She took a breath.

I jumped in, but she blinked her eyes and asked for another muffin. I got it. She smiled and began again. I gazed at her, silent and sad.

I guess that, back at the gym, she had been exercising too hard to talk and now had returned to her regular M.O. OMG! Was she 4 real?

After about 45 minutes, she looked at me, a little startled. Like I was someone she hadn’t yet been introduced to. Well, we did just meet.

House MD - Vampire Killer

2010-05-06T08:49:00.001-06:00

“What’s House going to think of this?”

“His process is always going to be a mystery to me. And, I really don’t care.”

Foreman went back to his reading. It looked suspiciously like a comic book.

People had been dropping like flies all week, not that that was unusual. To quote House, “There’re always more where they came from.”

He was expected back any minute. Dr. House had been on a forced vacation. Orders from Cuddy. No one knew where he was or how to get in touch with him, they only knew he wasn’t at the beach. It was February and House hated the water. “It’s wet,” he once famously explained.

“Did someone die in here? I don’t recognize any signs of life.” House stood in the door, leaning on his cane. He had three additional days of beard and a scowl on his face.

Foreman actually sat up – not a sign of respect, he was just reaching for a soda - and said facetiously, “Welcome back.” He started to fill House in on the latest run of disease.

“Just give me the good ones.”

Foreman looked over at Chase and began to relate how there had been four patients with unusual symptoms. “Heavy loss of blood, puncture marks, and enlarged lymph nodes.”

House didn’t move. “How enlarged?”

“Out of the ordinary. Two of them died.”

“From node fat? You guys are getting careless.”

Foreman took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. He was already exasperated and House had just gotten back.

Just then, Cuddy came up behind House, said “My office.” She turned and walked away. House rolled his eyes and swung around, leaving the two doctors shaking their heads.

House closed the door to her office and said, ”I missed you, Sweetie.”

Cuddy ignored this and slapped a file down onto the desk for House to inspect. He winked at her and leaned toward the file. After a second, he sat down hard, in the chair. He absently rubbed his bad leg. He reached into his pocket, took out a small plastic pill bottle and emptied it into his mouth.

“Stop that!”

“Cuddy, this is serious.”

“Dead usually is.”

House shrugged. “Maybe.”

He turned and went to his office to think.

He closed the door and pulled the curtains. He stared into the darkness. He had hoped to never see a case like this. But the file had said it all. His mind traveled back to the scene of his accident. The accident that was the cause of everything – his limp, his addiction, his attitude. Well, maybe not his attitude, he had always been bent out of shape.

He had always said it was a motorcycle accident that had injured his leg, but there, in the darkness, he relived that moment the way it had really happened. He was hiking in the Poconos, alone, the way he liked it. It was getting dark and he was on his way back to his motorcycle (that part was true), when he heard a noise just off the trail. He stopped and called out. After a moment, he began walking again, and then two shadows appeared a few yards in front of him.

One was man, he knew enough anatomy for that identification, and the other was a small dog. The man was in black and the dog was a small mutt of some kind, also black. He came closer and saw to his horror that both man and dog had eyes that were red and almost glowing and that they were breathing heavily. On closer inspection, he saw that their mouths were stained with blood.

For a second, House considered the symptoms, but before he could reach any conclusion, the dog leapt for him and sunk his long incisors into House’s right leg. Everything sped up then and all of them were screaming.

With a kick, House sent the dog flying and ran past the man toward his bike. Luckily, it was pointed in the right direction and the engine started immediately. House raced away, the blood gushing from his leg and covering the motorcycle.

He rushed to the hospital, was treated, but never told anyone the real story. He never had. He tried to forget it and had almost convinced himself that he had actually been in an accident.

Years passed, but now, faced with medical evidence that only he was crazy enough to recognize, he realized he had to do something to put an end to it. He knew the truth and knew he couldn’t deny it any longer. He had to stop this, before it grew into a deadly pandemic. He was no longer just House MD, he must now become, House – Vampire Killer.

John Wayne - Demon Hunter

2010-05-06T08:41:00.003-06:00

“I’ll tell you this, but don’t make too much of it.”

He cocked his head my way and, for a moment, squinted imposingly at me. He turned then and looked away from the campfire, out into the darkness. I had admired this man my entire life. He was an icon. A cowboy. A soldier. A hard-bitten, hard drinking, survivor of many battles and betrayals. He always got his man and he always got even.

We had finished the interview that afternoon and I was going back to New York the next morning.

I assumed it was just a story.

“Well, kid, it sounds like one, but … “ He began coughing. This went on for a while and I thought about the distance to the nearest town.

He stopped at last and took a slug from the bottle we were passing back and forth.

He nodded his thanks.

“We were in Europe filming The Longest Day. It was wet as hell and wasn’t getting any better. We couldn’t shoot and were just hanging around waiting. At this point, we had been drunk for a couple of days. This scrawny little kid came up and started pulling on my sleeve. His English was terrible, but we got the idea that he needed our help.

“He took me and Bob Mitchum to a little house. A shack, really, and a woman, good looking, too, who spoke a little better than he did, told us a wild tale about some guy who lived in their village, a big shot. Had a big house and all.

“The kid said his dad had gone to see this guy and never returned. Bob and I rolled our eyes and told him he’d probably be back soon. The kid and the woman were really worked up and convinced us to go see this guy. What the hell, we thought. We weren’t doing anything anyway. Maybe we could help?

“By the time we got to the big house, it was dark and the weather had gotten worse, if that was possible. We knocked at this huge door that looked as if it had been there forever.”

He started coughing again and I wondered if he was really sick or doing this for effect. He took another swig. He was quiet, immobile, as if he were looking into the past.

“And… “ I prompted.

“Well, we were kept waiting there, while the butler, or whatever he was, went to get the guy. He finally appeared and looked like Halloween, only scarier. Cape, black hair, the whole thing. Bob started laughing and said, ‘Count, we’re very glad to meet you.’ He was a tall guy and bowed toward us and smiled. His teeth looked huge and sharp. His gums were blood red. The boy and his mother hid behind us.

“Well, as I said, I was pretty looped, but this guy scared me plenty and I wanted to get the hell out of there. I blurted out, ‘What about his dad?’

“The count, or whatever he was, drew himself up and his smile turned nasty. He raised his arms and was holding the cape out at his sides, like he was going to take off or something.

“Bob, in that smooth manner and deep voice he had, slowly buttered him up and we made our apologies and left. I felt like a little girl, but we almost ran back to the village. That’s the way the whole thing started.”

“Jesus!”

“Jesus is right. Scared the hell out of me. We talked about it all night and went back the next day, but the whole placed was closed up. It was as if no one had ever been there.

“Before we went back to the States, I promised both of them I’d try to find out what had happened. That was the beginning of something that has been as important to me as my career and has been a part of my life ever since. I’m not going to tell you anymore than that. So, don’t even bother asking.”

“Are you kidding? What a story!”

He looked at me, nailing me with his good eye.

“Kid, it isn’t a story. And, if anyone asks me about it, I’ll deny it.”

That’s the way we left it. I thought about it all the way back to New York. It was unbelievable and, maybe he was just putting me on, but it’s something I’ve never forgotten. It’s haunted me ever since.

The Case of the Mysterious Kegger

2010-05-01T07:42:00.001-06:00

The Hardy Boys - Teenage Demon Hunters

“Do you think that man looks a little strange?” whispered Joe Hardy, as he peeked from behind the curtain of the upstairs bedroom window. “He looks disturbed.”

The man in question was walking away from their house and appeared hunched over, with the collar of his coat pulled high, near his face.

His brother suggested they go down and ask Aunt Gertrude, “She just talked with him.”

Joe took off and jumped down the stairs, two at a time. He was blonde, seventeen, and impatient. His brother, Frank, was a year older, dark-haired and much more mature, though Joe sometimes wanted to debate this point. For the moment, they were both clueless.

“Aunt Gertrude, what did that man want?” Joe blurted out.

“That was no man, Joe. That was your friend, Chet Morton, and I don’t mind saying he looked terrible.”

“Chet!?” the brothers asked in unison.

“From upstairs, I couldn’t even tell it was him. He. Him. Whatever.”

“He did look strange.” Frank confirmed.

“Well, I didn’t let him in. He was scaring me. He was raving about something. Something about blood and a lot of other disgusting stuff.” Gertrude, a dark-haired woman, was the sister of Fenton Hardy, the boy’s father. She lived with them and kept the house. No one was sure what had happened to the boy’s mother and Fenton would never talk about it.

“Chet? That doesn’t sound like him.” Frank wore an expression of concern on his brow.

“I’m not sure it was.” said Aunt Gertrude.

“Gee, G, what do you mean?” Joe asked.

Gertrude just kept shaking her head and stared out the screen door.

The fellows packed a couple of sandwiches and headed out to Chet’s home, on the other side of town. Bayport had been a quiet place, until the Hardy family moved in. Had things just started happening or was it the fact that their father was a private detective and the boys had begun helping him, as amateur sleuths?

Chet’s parents were away for the weekend that had just started. Chet must have been on the lookout for them and met them at the door. The inside of the house was dark, with all the curtains pulled tight. Chet didn’t open the screen door and was kind of hidden in the shadows.

Both Frank and Joe thought this was odd, but Chet had always been a little different.

“Hey, guys, come back after dark and let’s have a kegger.” He shut the door quickly, without giving either of them a chance to speak. The boys stared at each other.

Frank said, “What an odd thing for Chet to say.”

“Yeah, and he was acting really weird. I wonder what’s gotten into him. Aunt Gertrude was right. He looks terrible.”

“Don’t tell Dad. We’ll come back tonight and find out what’s wrong.”

The night was a blustery one. Leaves were blowing by and Joe pulled his jacket closed. There was barely a moon out and this put both the boys a bit on edge. When they got to Chet’s, it looked deserted. The whole house was dark.

“This is creepy,” whined Joe.

“I guess he’s not home,” said Frank, with a note of relief in his voice.

Just then, the door opened a crack and they heard a voice like Chet’s say, “Come on in.”

They came closer to the darkened house. They were going up the steps of the porch toward the open door, when they heard a moaning coming from the lilac bushes on the right. Frank turned and rustled about, but couldn’t see anything.

Joe called, “Hey, Chet!”

It was silent for a moment and then they both heard a shout. It sounded like Chet. They rushed in and the door closed behind them, with a slam. At the same time, in the darkness, a large shadow rushed at them and tackled Joe. This wasn’t a practical joke on Chet’s part. Something was really wrong.

Both boys struggled with the shadow and it seemed it was everywhere and possessed superhuman strength. It was growling and breathing heavily, with breath that could have stopped a clock and them, except, at the moment, time was the least of their worries.

They caught flashes of what looked like a monster, not Chet. Whatever it was, it was stronger than both of them together and Frank made the sensible decision to leave. He managed to trip the beast, grab Joe, and fled through the door. They didn’t stop running until they got to Willow River road.

Trying to catch his breath, Joe gasped, “That was awful! I hate Chet. I’m never going back there.”

Frank, composed, even after the incident, said, “We have to go back. Chet’s in trouble.”

“He tried to kill us!”

Frank looked Joe straight in the eyes, “He didn’t want to kill us. He wanted to convert us. He wanted to bite our necks. “

“You mean…”

Frank nodded somberly, “Yes, Chet is a vampire. A demon. A zombie.”

“Hey, I know you never liked him as much as I did, but …”

Without speaking, Frank continued to confront his brother.

Joe turned away and said, “Oh, no. Not another one?”

Frank nodded again. “We better get Aunt Gertrude to give us some garlic.”

The Site of the Bite

2010-04-28T11:15:00.002-06:00

Ernest Hemingway, Demon Hunter

Ernest Hemingway was a humorless man. But he was a clever one. He wrote many stories. Some were longer than others. He liked to hunt and he killed what he liked. This did not help his humor. He was loved by many women, but could not love them back. He romanticized many things and was a survivalist. War was in his nature. Truth was in his heart. His beard was on his face.

Once, in Barcelona, he met a man. They shared a few drinks. They argued late into the night, which was a sure sign of Hemingway’s friendship. In a haze of conviviality, the man leaned toward Hemingway, who thought he was about to be kissed. Shocked, H stood up abruptly and upset the table with their drinks. He didn’t see the sly smile on the man’s face, who went quickly out the door.

This incident, though treated as a joke by H’s buddies, bothered him more than it should have. A sense of humor might have helped at this point. But, as you know, that was like wishing for rain, in a dry country.

Several days later, Hemingway saw this same man on the other side of a room, where he was attending a party. Their eyes met and, this time, H saw that smile. He confronted the man, who only said he wanted to get to know him better. Hemingway said, “How much better?” The man answered, “Let me show you a little trick.”

By this time, several partygoers were looking on. The man moved his hands like a magician and following these, Hemingway was taken by surprise, as the man suddenly, but gently, leaned over and bit his neck. H reflexively raised his hand to the site of the bite. When he brought it down, everyone could see the blood. He started to say something, in an immoderate tone, but the man had vanished.

H looked round, the victim of this urbane, but hideous creature. H was red and furious. He tried to make a joke to the people gathered there, but, of course, the joke fell flat. He said, That Dracula son of a bitch!

At the time, He didn’t know how close to the truth he was. Though he gave no sign, he made a vow in that moment, to find and kill the man who had so completely scared and humiliated him. This was how Hemingway, now haunted by this mysterious and, somehow, erotic encounter, became known not only as a celebrated writer, defined by his own ideas of masculinity, but also a dedicated and persistent Demon Hunter. His nights would never be the same again.

Indeed, many years later, in Cuba, desperately tired of the campaign he had waged against the Demons for so long, and losing his will, he famously took his own life. Hunters come and go, but the creatures of the night, eternally on the prowl and dashing, in their own way, continue to disturb and taunt mankind throughout the ages.

Lassie - Vampire Hunter

2010-03-10T20:31:00.000-07:00

Timmy and Porky were out in the woods with Lassie in the lead. She had been acting funny, lately. They both had noticed it.

Porky said, “Not funny, ha ha, but funny strange.” Timmy nodded because he was Porky’s friend.

The last few days Lassie had been insistent about their rambling. It was as if she were on a mission. Strange, indeed. Yesterday, after they broke for lunch, Lassie had frozen, paw up, pointing at something. Timmy couldn’t figure it out. She was a Collie.

Today, the sun was beginning to set, but Lassie insisted they go a bit farther. They weren’t familiar with this part of the woods and they were a little nervous. To change the mood, Timmy told Porky the joke about the mechanic and the bus driver. They cackled with abandon, even though they had both heard it before. They knew it well and had even told it to each other over the last few days. As Timmy said, if a joke is good, it’s good.

This lighter moment didn’t last. Lassie wasn’t laughing. She was pointing again. She was looking intently at the trees and sniffing the air. It was growing darker and the boys were concerned that nothing seemed to look familiar.

“Timmy?” Porky pointed at Lassie. “She’s doing it again. This is kind of creepy.”

“I know. I don’t get it.”

Timmy’s big eyes had a look of concern for his pal.

Porky said, “We should go home. I’m hungry.”

But what he meant was that he was scared.

Timmy called to her.

“Lassie? What’s going on? Lassie…”

She gave him a look he couldn’t translate and turned quickly back to the woods. She gave a low growl and then began to bark loudly.

“What is it girl? A well? A mine shaft? Quicksand?”

Suddenly, they heard a scream. It was in front of them, further up the trail. Lassie bolted.

The boys ran toward it, trying to follow Lassie, even as the scream grew in desperation. The hair on the back of their necks stood on end, like frightened soldiers. They rounded a curve in the path that skirted a large boulder, and found a scene that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

A girl, not much older than they were, was in the rude grasp of a tall man in black. He was shaking her and looked as if he was trying to kiss her. With a shock, Timmy and Porky recognized her as Becky, the Olson girl, from the next farm over. They thought kissing was gross, but obviously Becky was trying to get away from the tall stranger.

Timmy drew himself up to his full height and yelled, “Let her go or I’ll… I’ll…”

The stranger, without releasing the girl, turned toward the threesome and snarled at them. Like an animal. His eyes were glowing red and he had a scrawny beard.

“Or, what, you bean-sized blonde blob? I‘ll deal with you two, after I’m done with her. You look like tasty little morsels.”

The man laughed and threw his head back, causing his top hat to fall off and into the bushes. Timmy and Porky turned to each other and, at the same time, cried, “Abe!”

It was impossible, yet there he was. No one else had ever had a face like that. They were really scared now.

Lassie bared her teeth and did a little snarling of her own. The man spat into the dust and, in the twilight, they saw him bend toward the girl. As he did, his mouth opened unnaturally wide. He looked like an animal with fangs extended, which dripped some kind of disgusting venom.

That’s when they gasped with shock. It wasn’t just Abe, strange as that was, but Abe was a vampire! It was obvious.

Porky said, “We just had President’s Day off.”

They couldn’t move.

Lassie, who didn’t know much about history, but knew a lot of other things, leapt at this cruel and deranged man and sunk her own incisors into his arm.

He let the girl go, as he fought for his life with the enraged Lassie. Whorls of dust rose and all Timmy and Porky could see was the rolling bundle of dog and man. Every now and then, a raised paw appeared or a hairy fist or a big black boot. The boys covered their ears, but it was no use. They couldn’t block out the unearthly growling coming from this unnatural union.

At last, the dust settled and Lassie emerged victorious. Not only had she subdued the man, who either was Abe Lincoln or a very talented re-enactor, but she had also tied him up with the tie he had previously worn around his neck.

Becky was crying and Porky looked at Timmy, rolled his eyes, and mouthed the word, “Girls.” But, truthfully, he felt like crying, too. What would they have done without their best friend, who now stood over, well, stood next to, this tall creature of the night?

“Porky, you go on ahead and get Mom and have her call Mr. Olson. Have her bring the gun and hurry. I’ll walk with Becky and Lassie will take care of Abe.”

Porky said, “Why don’t you go and I’ll walk with Becky?”

“No, you.”

“No, you!”

Lassie looked back and forth at the boys and was about to bite one of them, herself, if they didn’t stop arguing, when Porky threw his hat to the ground and said, “Dog gone it, Timmy!”

He stopped himself and looked at Lassie.

“Sorry, girl. Okay, I’ll go.”

Timmy smiled and then said, “Thank God for Lassie. What would we have done without you?”

Lassie turned back to Abe, pretending not to hear. She knew she was just one of a larger brotherhood of Vampire Hunters, a brotherhood that had existed throughout time and throughout the world. She couldn’t be sure, of course, but she thought she was probably the best-looking one of the whole bunch.

Timmy interrupted her reverie, by saying, “Girl, it’s getting late. We better get home for supper.”

Feedback, so far.

2010-02-27T08:44:00.000-07:00

The PDF and the downloadable Ebook edition of Ringer's Secret School of Writing's, Learn To Write Creatively has been out about two weeks now and I would like to share some of the great feedback we've received.

Thanks to everyone who is a part of this. Book available at www.secretschool.com

Now, I see how to do it. – James Thurber

This guy cracks me up. – Humpty Dumpty

He’s got a beard, like me. – Ernest Hemingway

What’s a metaphor, anyway? – Herman Melville

So helpful, it’s scary. – Edgar Allan Poe

I wish they’d translate this. – Pablo Neruda

What the hell, try it. - Raymond Chandler

Get a pencil, some paper, and a bottle. – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Pretty dramatic, sometimes far-fetched, but quite entertaining. – Charles Dickens

I read this before I left home. – Thomas Wolfe

I certify that it is made in the USA. - #12

A hell of a book. – Dante

Now I get it. - James Joyce

A complete fantasy. – J.R.R. Tolkien

He can spell. - Miss Swann

As Good As My Word

2010-02-06T16:38:00.001-07:00

It’s not like me to say one thing and do another. Sometimes, I want to and, sometimes, I try to, but there’s something going on that prohibits it. It’s like a natural law – the law of gravity, the two poles of magnetism, or photosynthesis. I can’t control it.

For example, I say I’m going to clean the garage. It’s not like me to say that and not do it. Of course, I take the long perspective on things and maybe I don’t clean the garage that afternoon. It may be next week. Or, it may be next year, but, by God, I’m going to do it. I haven’t forgotten.

It works for me. My wife, on the other hand, doesn’t see it like this. She just sees the garage the way it’s always been. She doesn’t understand the depth of my principles and the tenacity that is at the very core of my being.

I’ve tried to talk to her about it, but she has some kind of physical reaction to this kind of talk that makes her roll her eyes and turn away. I try to reason with her and defend myself. At least, I used to, in the beginning.

Now, I just let it go. I think it’s an age thing. At this point in my life, I’ve gotten to know myself fairly well and, at this point in my marriage, though I would never mention it, I have a pretty good idea of how my wife operates.

Nonetheless, I can maintain my equilibrium, because I know how I am. That garage is in my sights. It’s only a matter of time. I am girding my loins, so to speak, to follow through on my promise. I say promise, because my word is my bond.

Fiends From Suburbia

2010-01-23T17:16:00.001-07:00

“I want to bite your neck.” I always thought that statement was funny and kind of endearing. With his cape raised in his outstretched arms, in imitation of a bat, Bela Lugosi was intent on bloody fulfillment. He was resigned to his nature, but when he wasn’t actually sucking blood, he appeared a little embarrassed by his condition.

Things have come a long way since then. Once a quaint addition to literature and Hollywood, this idea of sucking your blood seems to have become pervasive and a staple of modern life. You can’t turn around, without someone wanting to bite you. Teenagers are especially dangerous. It appears that vampirism is part of that whole mess called, adolescence, and is unavoidable, if you want to graduate from high school.

In the last quarter of the twentieth-century – I love to say that – the author, Ann Rice, revived vampire mania with her books. It was exciting. The Interview was maybe the only book I actually stayed up all night to finish. (Unemployment makes for cultural possibility.) But after two or three volumes, the obsession with blood became too much. It was all these characters thought about. All of us were potential donors.

I was relieved to leave them in the wake of Gravity’s Rainbow or George and Martha Go to the Zoo. I thought of it, as just a phase in both my own development and our advancing culture. Boy, was I naïve.

Things were pretty quiet, for a while, until Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt had to make their fangs known to all. You can still see them on cable. Hollywood B movies, once forgotten, were raised from the dead and are now all over the Web. Everywhere, the Living Dead, vampires of various descriptions, and Zombies from Denmark, seem to have taken on a life of their own, so to speak. Books, movies, apps. The paranormal is now much more normal than you think.

Some of our children are possessed. They wander the streets, Goth-garbed, in search of pale, low-energy, but deadly sensation. I am, once more, afraid of the dark and suspicious of anyone with a certain glint in their eye. It’s possible they’re not really my friends. They might want to recruit me to their ranks. The ranks of the living dead - those who must live by night, complicating their lives with an endless search for an almost orgasmic kind of bloody sustenance. Kind of creepy.

But that was okay by me; everyone has a right to pursue their dreams. Sure, it was obsessive. And, gross. Not to mention, anti-social, which is probably the point, but you have to draw the line somewhere. Despite the incredible boost to literacy that all this has provided, I knew I had to speak out when I encountered the book, Abraham Lincoln – Vampire Hunter. That is going a little too far.

My memories of Abe have been informed by history, or somewhat factual anecdote, as it’s often called. Of course, we don’t know everything he did, but I’m sure he had his hands full with the Civil War and his own domestic challenges. The poor guy can’t defend against this kind of historical revisionism. And, though it’s more complimentary than, Abraham Lincoln – Incompetent Chef, I can’t help but think this is just plain wrong. What’s next? George Washington – Wife Beater?

I’m a fan of imagination, but imagining weird stuff, just because it’s weird, seems weird to me. If you actually have an imagination, wouldn’t it be more imaginative to think up something that moves the world (and us with it) forward to an ongoing, imaginative fulfillment of true love, cosmic exploration, and spiritual enlightenment?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Pollyanna. I still howl, when the moon is full. But, even Frankenstein wanted to be friends with that little girl and, by extension, the rest of us.

I’ve had it with blood. And, guts. And, scary stuff. Discovery, possibility, and redemption seem to be much more in line with the spirit of everything that life’s about, rather than fear, possession, and darkness.

I’m all for donating blood, but not to these guys.

Fit To Love Part II

2010-01-22T12:11:00.000-07:00

At this point, the sweat was pouring off me. I thought, I’m probably looking my best. I turned to a sweet-looking girl to my left. I smiled.

Right away, I could tell she was nervous, too. She felt my presence and barked, “What are you looking at?” I, silently, checked my pulse.

I hadn’t expected this reaction. Maybe, I wasn’t the prime specimen of manhood I thought I was. I returned to the mirror. Was, too!

The heck with that, I thought. I puffed up my chest, held my head high and strode to the water fountain. Love was all around me. Somewhere.

My next visit to the club was better. Or, so I thought at first. I was dressed to kill. Too violent? Let’s say, I was barely clothed.

Or, provocatively clothed. A wolf in sheep’s workout attire? A macho man in a sleeveless T? A dreamboat stripped for action?

A fiend, masked as a… Enough! I was ready for whatever came my way. I knew I was Born to be Wild. I had heard that on the way over.

I pretended to look at the clock, but I was surveying the battlefield. Violent? Again. War of the Sexes? Where was this imagery coming from?

What I really wanted was love. Does that sound sappy? I don’t care. It’s true. I hoped there was someone who agreed.

I was hearing music, sweet music, in my head, and trying to squeeze between the leg lift and the bicep machine, when I saw her.

Well, really, I only saw part of her. She was tying her shoes. At least, I thought so. When she straightened up, she held a huge barbell.

She was what Mom would call statuesque. What Dad would call an Amazon. She could have been an East German shot putter of old. Except…

She wasn’t old and she was probably from California. Not only that, she was the strongest woman I had ever seen. Heck, ever imagined.

She glowed with health. The light refracted off her sweat. Each muscle, no matter how small, was enunciating like a speech teacher.

Allow me to be carried away by love - Her teeth were like a dentist’s assistant’s. Her eyes, burning coals. Her arms like Jesse Ventura’s.

Her two, red lips were like a Burma Shave sign, saying, As you go, Along the way, Don’t forget, To stop and play.

She was like the Colossus of Rhodes. Or, she, at least, had long shapely legs about 50 feet high. With Nikes at the end of each.

With her eyes closed, it was safe to take a close look at her. No fantasy, she was real. The barbell above her head kept me at a distance.

I’m no Shakespeare, but I called out… "Juliet?" One eye opened and looked down at me. I knew, right then, that Juliet was not her name.

I gazed up at her, sweetly, but felt she wanted something else. So I smirked, “You gorgeous hunk.” The one eye closed. The moment passed.

Though possibility was everywhere, I was starting to believe that true love or even a good time, was going to be hard to come by.

I decided to settle down and begin my exercise in earnest. I’d become so ripped, I think they call it, that none of them could resist.

I huffed, I puffed, I lifted, I repeated. And, repeated. And, repeated. Would I ever be able to hold a conversation after this?

Maybe it was like manual labor, where your language skills devolved with each effort and, at the end of things, all you could do was swear.

Fit To Love Part I

2010-01-18T16:53:00.003-07:00

I have another novel on Twitter that has been going for months. There’s no end in sight. It is the tale of a love-starved young man, who thinks there is a close relationship between fitness and romance.

Just for info’s sake, Twitter is social media that allows postings of up to 140 characters. That 140 character limit includes not only letters and punctuation, but also spaces. This imposes a structure on the author that requires different skills and techniques than other sorts of composition.

I’m including the first two or three, in their Twitter format, and, then, I go narrative on you.

Fit To Love

I admit it. I was looking for love. And, if not love, something similar and, possibly, less complicated. I thought I was prepared for this. 8:32 PM Jul 22nd, 2009 from twhirl

I was romantic. At least, I looked it. Eyes - piercing. Eyebrows – devilishly wiggly. Teeth – lasered, a possible interrogation tool. 12:51 PM Jul 23rd, 2009 from twhirl

To some, I was hot. To myself, incandescent. I felt I looked best under effort. It could be working out, rocking out, or in the sack. 8:44 AM Jul 24th, 2009 from twhirl

In the sack. I know that’s kind of crude, but try to picture it.

Okay, don’t. But I joined this health club for a reason. And, it wasn’t to lose weight, improve my circulatory system, or the cheap dues.

That’s right. As I said, it was love. This was where the babes were. My sister told me so, though she called them ‘the cute girls.’

I am not a sexist pig. I’m not a pig, at all. I’m anxious. I talk like this when I’m nervous and who wouldn’t be? This was Babe Central.

They were everywhere. Athletes, models, girlfriends, wives. I just hoped they wanted love as much as I did.

They called it their routine, yet it was anything but routine, to me. I kept blinking and shaking the sweat out of my eyes. I was amazed.

Shortly, I began to get the looks. A girl in blue shorts and a tank top came over and asked if I was having a seizure. I couldn’t speak.

When I only stared, I thought she took it as a sign. But, she turned, muttering, “Creep.” Crushed, I mouthed, “I’ll wait for you.”

I could have waited forever, but I didn’t. I had my own routine. I knew I needed practice. I grabbed a dumbbell and faced the mirror.

I was lop-sided. I grabbed the other dumbbell and brought it to my chin. A bit too enthusiastically. I recovered and wiggled my eyebrows.

My head tilted to one side, I practiced, “Hi, doll.” No. No. Calm down, Eddie, I told myself. “Ma’am, I like you.” Ma’am?

Okay, I was nervous. Here, in a heaven created by the changing ideals of a culture gone whacko, we were all supposed to be beautiful.

I’m not only romantic, I’m a philosopher. My philosophy is: we’re young, we’re in shape, let’s fall in love. Is that too esoteric?

I’m also practical and I knew that I needed to live up to the same standards I was holding other people to. I kept the elliptical churning.

Xmas is Near! The Conclusion.

2009-12-26T15:25:00.003-07:00

The waitress just smiled. Hat, glasses, boots, red nose. As I’m walking home, I feel a tug on my coat. I look down. Not an elf. A kid!

We walk around, all day. He tells me about his family and what they need for Xmas. He is holding my hand. What a weird kid.

He doesn’t want anything for himself. Now, that IS weird! Just dinner for his parents and his sister. He’s really got the spirit!

I walk him home, in the dark. The snow begins to fall. I meet the family. I say, “Let’s go out to eat. My treat!” We head for Moe’s.

I had forgotten it was Xmas Eve. My reflection in the window says, Santa! Everyone is smiling, cheerful. The manager refuses to let me pay.

I never slept better. ‘Tis the season for giving, but forget the Oreos. I only want this suit and the feeling I have already. Merry Xmas!

Next Xmas is a long way away, but I think I know what I need to do, to make it even better than this year. See you then.

Xmas Is Near Part II

2009-12-19T17:28:00.002-07:00