The Site of the Bite

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

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.

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

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

“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

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

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.

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

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! A Twitter Novel

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 with XmasIsNear. 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 from Seesmic

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 from Seesmic

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.

Black Friday! Come on down! Bring the kids, the pets, the

Okay. I now know what Black Friday is. You can't get away from it. Everyone, who has something to sell, is waving their black flags and keeping their fingers crossed.

Of course, not only stubbornness on my part, but also a studied and self-delusional defensiveness permitted me that blissful ignorance for so long.

I'm still staying home.

Black Friday! Yikes!

I keep hearing about this. Is it plague? An economic crash or its aftershocks? A Mayan Day of Reckoning? It seems to be scheduled for the day after Thanksgiving, so, perhaps it signals nationwide indigestion.

I’m not sure, but I think it’s some kind of shopping extravaganza. This seems so unlike that world. So against the principles (principles?) and public relations of our consumer economy. Shouldn’t it be something like, The First Day of Christmas? Or, Viernes Gigante!? Or, The First Day of the Rest of Your Shopping Life?

Have I grown up? Have I grown old? Have I lost my wallet?

I have purposefully averted my eyes and ears, when the topic is raised. Ignorance of some things can be more than bliss; it may actually be a legitimate defense.

I’ll continue to speculate on the possible meaning of Black Friday. That sounds like a lot more fun than going shopping at the same time as a majority of the population.

For me, Black Friday can be a peaceful day at home. It can be the absence of all shopping. It may sound scary, but it is right in line with that long-held belief – TGIF!

Sarah Palin’s Book Tour Begins!

I was at the gym, where I get in most of my TV watching. Screens, on either side of me, hung from the ceiling. One showed a fantasy workout in Hawaii, with unnatural women lifting weights. On the other side, was SportsCenter. The one directly in front of me was reporting serious entertainment. It was the kind of show we once imagined was the news.

An attractive reporter made it hard to completely focus on exactly what she was saying. Also, I was reading subtitles. She was at a mall in Michigan. There was an endless line of people behind her. They were in line to buy Sarah Palin’s book, Going Rogue, and to have her sign their copies.

The line snaked off into the distance, through the deserted boulevards of the mall. It was nine in the morning. She wasn’t to appear until six o’clock tonight. They had been in line a long time already.

The reporter was amazed at the number of people and praised their determination. She spoke of their diversity, although I didn’t see anyone of color behind her. She said Sarah Palin was giving a voice to the people in line and to a great number of citizens around the country.

Sarah Palin is someone we have watched now for more than a year. In detail. Through many situations. I don’t know why, but giving her voice, one that is simplistic, narrow-minded, and shortsighted, manipulative and self-serving, to all these people shocked me. Could this really be the voice of these patient, peaceful people in line?

It was reported that she is a force that the Republican Party would have to take into account in the next election. The pundits, back at the station, said Sarah Palin is a skilled and influential politician. You can’t ever count her out. They, for one, or two, would never underestimate her. Plus, they said, she is on the cover of this week’s Newsweek, in running shorts!

Everyone took a deep breath. Then, they broke for a commercial.