Mary Tyler Moore House

"Is this it?" Katherine asked, Pressing her face forward, and bending her neck back so her nose and chin almost touched the glass on the car window.
"No. I think it's down another block." Phil replied, staring forward, his face without expression. "I don't know what's causing the fad to come back, but you're the third friend from out of town to make me bring 'em here."
"I've just been ordering the DVD's from Netflix, so since I'm here... Is that it?"
"No."
"None of this looks familiar."
"They didn't really film any of the show in Minneapolis. They filmed it in California I think."
"But if you looked out her window you could see the houses across the street."
"No you couldn't."
Katherine looked at him with confusion and eyes flaring in shock. "Yes I did!"
"It was fake. It was a set. The houses you 'saw' through her window were fake."
"They were based on the real neighborhood!"
Phil sighed, and ducked his head down to scan the upper floors of the houses for the infamous window. "Here." He said after a moment, "This is it."

Phil slowed the car down and the two of them peered out the drivers side window. There it was, brown, smaller than it looked on the show, and under construction. Katherine was quiet, her face frozen in an expression of anticipation and strain. Neither one spoke as Katherine got out of the car and walked carefully toward the sidewalk, both hands held out delicately at her sides as if she were balancing on a high-wire. She stood there as jetta's sped past the narrow streets and wealthy men in pink dress shirts made their way home. Her eyes were fixed on the arching upstairs windows as if she saw a ghost. Then her face began to sour. She looked around at the other houses and up the street. "This isn't it."
"Christ!" Phil exclaimed, still sitting in the car with the window rolled down and arms draped over the edge like an ape. "It is! I've been here a million times!" He added in frustration.
"It's not. It's too small. And this street isn't familiar."
"It's television you moron! Plus it's been 30 years since the show's been on!" He yelled.
Katherine turned to Phil. Her grimace softened as she looked to him.
"I'm sorry." Phil said after seeing her expression. "It really is the house though."
"But... My divorce... Phyllis..." She whispered to herself as she turned to the house again, staring pleadingly to the window.
"C'mon Katherine. I'll take you to Sabastian Joe's for a coyote chocolate cone." Phil said, now out of his car, and guiding her back to her seat.



The two of them sat on the steps of the purple Masonic Temple, licking their spicy ice creams and not speaking. Katherine looking sad, took slow, deliberate licks from her cone. Phil was slouched, sulking from annoyance with his legs spread eagle across the steps below him, and one elbow on the step behind. Finally, without provocation, Katherine stood up, throwing her ice cream cone down on the ground before her. Some people who were seated outside the ice cream shop groaned in annoyance. "That wasn't the house Phil." She announced, staring off into the distance.
"Yes it was dick. You want me google the fucking thing on my phone and prove it to you?"
"That wasn't the house Phil, and we're not going home until we find the real one."
"Look. See? Right here. 21^st and Kenwood. We were at the house." He pleaded, holding his cellphone up to her.
Katherine turned to him with teeth clenched and eyes narrowed, "Were. Going. To. Keep. Looking."
"You need to go back to Wisconsin."
She knocked the cellphone out of his hand and stormed to the car. Since the doors were locked, she paused at the passenger door and proceeded to pull the handle up and down, making a repetitive clacking sound.
"Christ! Alright!" Phil growled, scooping his phone off the pavement and storming toward his car. He pressed the unlock button on his key chain and Katherine slid into her seat.

Slamming the door, Phil put the key in the ignition and, without looking at her, demanded to know where she planned on looking.
"We'll start at lake Calhoon, and widen our search until we find it." She said matter of factly, then adding, "Mary loved to walk around the lake after work."
"What the fuck?"
Katherine stared at Phil with intensity. He turned the key and revved the engine while muttering, 'You're divorce is going to ruin the whole weekend' as he peeled out- nearly hitting a wealthy looking teenage girl in a tube top.

Terrorist Suicide Attack Chipmunks

I was getting into my car to go to work when I saw a chipmunk scurry from under the car and into a nearby bush. I thought to myself we can't be having any of that!, tore off my suit coat, dropped my briefcase, and took chase.

The little bugger was running through the gladiolas my wife had recently planted along the side of the house as part of a neighborhood beautification project when he made the mistake of looking back to see where I was and ran full speed into the new central air conditioning unit we'd had installed while building an addition to the house. I had been against central air conditioning, considering it a luxury that we couldn't really afford, but my wife, god bless her and the hives she breaks out into when she gets too hot, had insisted.

I bent over, grabbed the dazed chipmunk, and was straightening up when I felt an excruciatingly sharp pain in my left ankle. I looked down and, through tears of pain, saw a second chipmunk holding an orange lawn dart from our lawn dart set. Sure, I knew lawn darts were illegal, but they're such fun during family get-togethers. He was pulling it back for a second strike when Felix, our cat that my wife and I had compromised on after Angela, our oldest, had come home from school asking for a dog last month, pounced on him.



With the second chipmunk taken care of I grabbed the lawn dart before any of our neighbors could see it and tell the overly stern president of our neighborhood association about my violation and went into the garage. I closed the door behind me, there was dirty work to do.

I put the chipmunk in a vise my family had gotten me for Father's Day and put the lawn dart away. The chipmunk was struggling for all he was worth when Felix came through the cat flap with what was left of the second chipmunk. Felix dropped the carcass at my feet and stared up at the first chipmunk with a predatory look. I explained to the little terrorist critter what would happen to him if he didn't tell me everything. He glanced at Felix, nodded his furry little head, and spilled the beans.

Afterwards I let Felix have him anyway.

I picked up my briefcase and suit coat and got into the car to go to work. The car was actually a high-end Land Rover we had recently purchased to pull the boat we bought for the lake our new summer cabin was on. The Land Rover usually handled pretty well but the brakes seemed a bit squishy - and then I remembered that I'd seen the first chipmunk scurrying away from under the car. He must have chewed through the brake lines

I was coming to an intersection and tried the brakes again - the pedal went all the way to the floor this time. I looked for the emergency brake or a way to shift the transmission into a lower gear but the Land Rover was so new that I couldn't figure out how to do either of those things. I flew into the intersection and was sideswiped by a semi delivering fuel to gas stations.

Oh cruel fate! Oh cruel irony!

My last thought as I was consumed by flame was you may have won this round, terrorist suicide attack chipmunks, but as long as there is one American left to fight your tyranny of terror, you will not win the war!

Swooping Bird Shat

This past Sunday morning my wife was getting ready to do her weekly church thing while I was getting ready to do my weekly bar thing - while we both agree that zoning out, drinking liquor and throwing money away on useless things once a week is a good, healthy thing, we just can't seem to come to a mutual agreement on the execution of that belief. Anyway, as I was going out to my car I noticed that the trunk had been shat upon by a bird.

Now, I say "shat upon by a bird", but if it was the work of a sole shatter then there was an extremely large bird of prey with severe, possibly even fatal, gastrointestinal distress in the neighborhood, the entire trunk area looked like I had decided to paint it bird doo-doo white with black specks.

My wife was pulling out of the driveway and when she saw what I was looking at she glanced toward the back of her car, looked at me, and said, "God protects the good Christian." She smiled that annoyingly amazing smile she has and drove off.



"God may protect the good Christian and her car," I mumbled to myself while getting into, and starting, my car, "but He can do it without the help of the garage from now on because that's where the heathen is parking his car."

This was, of course, much easier and better said out of earshot of my wife and turned out to not be the case.

At the bar I was thinking of the other times I had been tagged by birds, usually it only happened when I had hit a bird first. What happened in these cases was: I hit a bird without knowing it, the bird lay dead on my front grille, and sometime later in the day a couple of liters of bird shat ended up on my car.

This cycle of violence and revenge upsets me greatly.

Killing a bird just plain sucks. I dig birds. If there is such a thing as reincarnation I almost surely want to come back as a bird - if you're a large bird you get to soar majestically, if you're a small bird you get to twitter hither and yon, if you're a medium-sized bird you get to do a bit of both, and if you're a Big Bird you get to have your own tv show and make lots of money. The only thing possible holding me back from being 100% sure about wanting to be reincarnated as a bird is the whole regurgitation thing.

You may, at this point, be wondering how I can "hit a bird without knowing it". This is a cause of concern for me too. Birds are constantly swooping in front of my car as I'm driving down the road and I don't know 1) why, or 2) if this happens only to me. I see the birds swoop in front of my car and almost never see if they make it or not. The little buggers are so light that I can almost never hear the thump.

The whole swooping in front of the car thing baffles me. Birds have 3-dimensional space with which to work - forward and backward, left and right, and up and down, whereas I, as a driver on a fairly busy street, have approximately .5-dimensional space with which to work - forward, and forward slightly less quickly. Backwards is right out because there's usually cars behind me, left and right, while technically possible, doesn't happen often because of the other lanes of traffic/parking, and while I will admit to a single occasion of up and down it only happened once when I was trying to see how fast my parents car could go on a hilly road.

My point here is that birds have a very large number of dimensional choices available to them, including, I might add, the fourth temporal dimension of time - why do they have to swoop at that exact moment - while my dimensional choices, both spatial and temporal, are severely limited.

I have only been able to come up with two possible reasons for birds swooping in front of my car.

The first is that these birds are little daredevils with too much free time available to them. They probably get hopped up on some amalgamation of earthworm and lawn fertilizer and think they're invincible. If this is the case then the shatters who visit my car later are probably upset with me for creaming their little friend all over the front of my car and while I can't agree with their methods, I can understand the sentiments, and admire the chutzpah behind the shatting action. I just hope they understand that it isn't my fault their friend took birdie cocaine and tried to race my car.

The second scenario I imagine is a bunch of birds making fun of an unpopular, smaller, weaker, slower bird until the bird tries to prove himself by swooping in front of my car. When the bird doesn't make it the others birds are, I imagine, secretly happy because their parents always made them play with the bird and now they won't have to anymore. But they still have to pretend they are upset because if they don't their parents will yell at them and so they find my car and shat all over it.

Either way, chemically unbalanced bird or unfairly treated bird, I don't think I deserve to have my car shat on and it all seems like senseless birdie politics to me, although, I suppose I should be grateful that the birds that do this are the smaller sparrow-like birds and not the larger birds of prey.

Weekend News Briefs

Female Fistfight Forces Plane Landing

"JetBlue Flight 561 took off from Newark, New Jersey, at 12:01 a.m. ET on Sunday. One woman apparently started a fistfight with two other women," said Steve Coleman, a spokesman for the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, which runs the region's airports.

"When pilots Steve Aguillera and Ronald Davidson were told of the disturbance they declared an emergency landing at JFK airport so passengers could get money from ATMs, snacks and beer," continued Coleman. "One passenger, showing great American can-do spirit, was even able to obtain a truckload of mud. When passengers re-embarked, a space was cleared and the women continued fighting."

Coleman assured FBI officials that betting occurred only in airspace above New Jersey and then again over international waters.

Warren Buffett Gives Away His Fortune

The world's second richest man - who's now worth $44 billion - will start giving away 85% of his wealth in July - most of it to Bill & Melinda Gates.

Buffett said, "Rich people have been giving their money to less fortunate people for years, I thought it was time to give back to the rich people."

When asked how he planned to live on only six or seven billion dollars Buffett dropped his head, shook it and replied, "It won't be easy ... it won't be easy at all." He then lifted his head, wiped a tear from his eye and smiled, "But it's the right thing to do."

Forest Rangers Report Growing Job Dangers

Attacks and lesser altercations involving Forest Service workers reached an all-time high last year, according to government documents obtained by a public employees advocacy group.

Agriculture Undersecretary Mark Rey, who oversees the Forest Service, said, "With programs to increase populations of wolves, bears and wild cats having great success in the last decade or so, well, this was to be expected. Those ever-increasing populations of wild animals have to eat something."

T.V. women and time travel

It was when Neal was sitting in his cramped, one room apartment watching the "Mary Tyler Moore" show that the idea hit him. 'If I was at my age now, back then, I'd clean up. I'd get all the women.' It was an idea that absorbed him for the duration of the show until he realized that there really wasn't a reason that he would be so successful with women back then as opposed to his current failures. He tried to analyze what about the show would bring him to that conclusion, but couldn't put a finger on it. If he was at his current age, back in the 70's he would be no different than any other guy who spends all his time arguing with people on his favorite website about what constituted as being 'off topic', and who should get banned in a flame-war. Except that there wouldn't be any Internet- just dial up B.B.S.'s- if even that. No, he wouldn't 'clean up' as he was right now.



He decided to break the thought process down, to better understand why he came to the conclusion that he could 'bag' Rhoda. First, it was their innocent, and fun-loving nature. But he quickly realized that no one was really like that. It was just television, and no one in the 70's was prepared for the kind of realistic television we have now. So the show did a disservice portraying women in the 70's as being more accessible. Second, he wouldn't be popular back then with his personality as it is now. The only reason why he thought he would have an upper-hand was if they knew he was from the future. And, since they don't know what people are like in the future, they would be more accepting of his social deficiencies. They wouldn't know any better. His tight, Star Wars shirt would seem mysterious and intriguing to them, and his obsession with Buffy figurines all the more attractive. He would give them samples of his knowledge of future events, but never give them the full story with the explanation being that it would "upset the fabric of space-time". But since that was an impossibility, he realized that he would just be another single guy sitting in an equally cramped, one bedroom apartment watching the same shows he his now, but they wouldn't be reruns.

He should of felt depressed at that point, and start calling women he knew from high school- Instead, he was comforted by the image of a coifed Mary Tyler Moore, smiling at him with sparkling white teeth while swooning, "Oooooh Neal. I think it's just fascinating when you talk about World of Warcraft. I can't wait until the Internet is invented so I can play it..."

Are There Divorce Lawyers In Heaven?

I wonder, if my wife died, would I remarry? And if my wife died and I got remarried, would she be up in heaven watching me?

During sex with my second wife, would my first wife be critical of my second wife? Would she be up in heaven shaking her head and saying, "Oh my, it looks like she could stand to lose a few pounds?" Would she slap her forehead when my second wife tried something new and say, "He never liked it when I tried that, honey, you better not...ooooooh...see...I told you so?" Would she come down to earth for some ghostly menage-a-trois and possess the body of my second wife, or, worse, would she have discovered in heaven that she was a lesbian and possess me during sex because she found my wife attractive?

And what about when everyone was dead? What if my second wife didn't make it to heaven and my first wife started nagging, saying that she knew that bitch was no good and what was I thinking marrying her in the first place and she's lucky she didn't make it up here because what I'd have done to her is far worse than anything they'll do to her down there?



Or what if we all made it to heaven and I find out my first wife had remarried in heaven? I imagine the introductions would be a bit awkward, especially when some guy came up to us and hugged my second wife and introduced himself as her first husband when I didn't know she had been married before me and all five of us are so embarrassed that we'd stare down at our feet until the new guy's second wife walked over from a nearby cloud with her original husband and a guy she just had sex with on the side but then we'd all decide, hey, this is heaven, so we'd dream up a fabulous house and live together happily for awhile because my first wife's second husband's new girlfriend's boyfriend used to be a five-star chef in Paris and what with all the new people constantly moving in there'd never a problem finding enough people to get a soccer match going and boy howdy all this would be great until one night I'd sneak out of the bedroom where I slept with my second wife to go down to my newest girlfriend's room and as I was reaching for the doorknob the door would swing open and I'd run into my Uncle Pete sneaking out of her room backwards - who knew the old codger would make it to heaven - and I'd decide I've finally had enough and choose reincarnation and end up as a Mormon with four wives and twelve kids and we'd all die at once in a terrible bus crash that received national media attention and now the heaven house would be really full and I'd notice my oldest son start taking an interest in my first wife from a couple of lifetimes back.

It's a wonderful life

Chris and Janice had just sat down to watch a movie like they do every night. Right after they put the kids to sleep, they make a snack and curl up on the couch to watch whatever had come in the mail from netflix. This night it was the 1946 classic, "It's a Wonderful Life" starring James Stewert.

Janice had fallen asleep while laying in her bathrobe, something she always changed into when she came home from work. After many evenings of wearing it while making dinner and cleaning up after the kids, it had worn though around the butt and elbows and accumulated a patchwork of faded stains. Tonight, it's tacky surface held on to the popcorn that she had been stuffing into her mouth as she watched the grainy, black and white film. She fell asleep with her hand still in the Orville Redenbacher bag, which was burnt brown on the edges from baking in the microwave for a few minutes too long. Around her neck, laid a necklace of popcorn that had missed her mouth to curl up next to her aged cheeks.



Chris had moved from the couch onto the floor. He wore a white under shirt from earlier in the day, and a pair of boxers. He had woke his wife when he got up to take a leak, and didn't want to disturb her by trying to curl up next to her again. He lay on his stomach with his face only a few feet away from the screen, much like a young child does when it has the television all to it's self on a Saturday morning. His eyes were wide and darted around, canvassing everything that happened before them. His mouth was open and his face expressed a type of dumb awe. Suddenly, without warning, he leaped from the floor and landed on his feet with the type of spring he hadn't had since he was in 10th grade wrestling. His wife awoke, choking briefly on a kernel of corn that sat unfinished in her mouth. "Christopher! What's wrong?"
"I can do it!" He bleated, completely ignoring Janice's plea.
"What?"
"I can make a difference!" He whispered, more aloud for effect than to himself. He then darted, still in his t-shirt and boxers, out the front door and into the street.

Janice waited for a while. She put the movie on pause and watched a re-run of "Everybody Loves Raymond" while munching on the cold popcorn. She was still munching, without expression, when Chris came back in the middle of a back-to-back line up of Seinfeld episodes. She looked to him and he looked back, his face graven. He slowly laid back down on his stomach and put his chin in his hands. His ankles raised up and began swinging past each other behind his head. Janice pressed the pause button on the DVD player and the movie resumed where it had left off. She then got up, shook the popcorn off her robe, and walked slowly with swollen feet to the front door. She turned on the porch light and went to bed.

It’s a wonderful life

Chris and Janice had just sat down to watch a movie like they do every night. Right after they put the kids to sleep, they make a snack and curl up on the couch to watch whatever had come in the mail from netflix. This night it was the 1946 classic, "It's a Wonderful Life" starring James Stewert.

Janice had fallen asleep while laying in her bathrobe, something she always changed into when she came home from work. After many evenings of wearing it while making dinner and cleaning up after the kids, it had worn though around the butt and elbows and accumulated a patchwork of faded stains. Tonight, it's tacky surface held on to the popcorn that she had been stuffing into her mouth as she watched the grainy, black and white film. She fell asleep with her hand still in the Orville Redenbacher bag, which was burnt brown on the edges from baking in the microwave for a few minutes too long. Around her neck, laid a necklace of popcorn that had missed her mouth to curl up next to her aged cheeks.



Chris had moved from the couch onto the floor. He wore a white under shirt from earlier in the day, and a pair of boxers. He had woke his wife when he got up to take a leak, and didn't want to disturb her by trying to curl up next to her again. He lay on his stomach with his face only a few feet away from the screen, much like a young child does when it has the television all to it's self on a Saturday morning. His eyes were wide and darted around, canvassing everything that happened before them. His mouth was open and his face expressed a type of dumb awe. Suddenly, without warning, he leaped from the floor and landed on his feet with the type of spring he hadn't had since he was in 10th grade wrestling. His wife awoke, choking briefly on a kernel of corn that sat unfinished in her mouth. "Christopher! What's wrong?"
"I can do it!" He bleated, completely ignoring Janice's plea.
"What?"
"I can make a difference!" He whispered, more aloud for effect than to himself. He then darted, still in his t-shirt and boxers, out the front door and into the street.

Janice waited for a while. She put the movie on pause and watched a re-run of "Everybody Loves Raymond" while munching on the cold popcorn. She was still munching, without expression, when Chris came back in the middle of a back-to-back line up of Seinfeld episodes. She looked to him and he looked back, his face graven. He slowly laid back down on his stomach and put his chin in his hands. His ankles raised up and began swinging past each other behind his head. Janice pressed the pause button on the DVD player and the movie resumed where it had left off. She then got up, shook the popcorn off her robe, and walked slowly with swollen feet to the front door. She turned on the porch light and went to bed.

20 June 2006

Dear Diary,

I met up with Juan and the other peons Tuesday morning and we took off together for the weeklong hike to the secret cocoa farm. Truth be told, I was a little worried about the trip although it turned out I needn't be. All along the trail there were vendors selling food and drink, and at night we got nice rooms to sleep in and a gram of cocaine to help us wake up in the morning and get on our way.

It was all rather pleasant.

When we got to the secret cocoa farm we were met by the jefe. At first I was scared because he pulled a big gun on me and started yelling and screaming about me working for the Federales! Some of the guys I made the hike with grabbed my arms and held them behind my back and I almost started crying until I saw Juan standing off to the side smirking, then jefe burst into laughter and the guys started patting me on the back. It turns out that this is how they haze all the new guys and we all had a good laugh after I went into my bunk and changed my shorts.

I went to HR to fill out some paperwork and provide my two forms of identification to prove that I was legal to work in Mexico and then went was straight to the cocoa fields.

I never thought picking leaves off of a plant could be so hard! We have to use a very sharp cocoa knife to get the leaf off and I am ashamed to say that I cut myself frequently. Jefe saw my distress and sent me to the infirmary with a clap on the back and a hearty "Don't worry about it!" Jefe says it happens a lot and that the blood adds a pleasant bouquet to the cocaine - something about the blood cells bonding with the chlorophyll in the leaf during the heat extraction process, or, well, something like that, it was interesting but a bit over my head really. Jefe also said they market the blood cocaine under Ricardo Carlos' 'Sangre de Cristo' label, so everything is just fine.

Jefe said he liked my pluck and if I keep it up he hinted that I might make Peon II by the end of the year!

I think I'm going to like it here, Diary!

Fathers Day

Gus was a well-respected project manager at his office. Quiet but strong. Friendly but dependable. A gentleman with a strong sense of right and wrong. People around the office looked up to him and depended on him to make the hard decisions. He had two beautiful and well-mannered children and a lovely wife, which was expected of someone of his stature.

He wasn't the type to display his emotions often, so when people saw him more up-beat and making jokes, they all thought something really good was happening in his life. When one coworker asked him what the good mood was all about, he only winked and carried on with his day. So it was understandable when people whispered anxiously to each other when they saw him on the Monday after Fathers Day with his head sunk down to his desk, crying. One person asked him if he was ok. Never imagining someone as strong as him crying for anything less then a death of someone dear, they imagined the worse. He only yelled, "Leave me alone!" while pushing them away, sobbing. Finally he was sent home for the day, and never returned. People wondered aloud in the break room about the downfall of Gus, but how would they of known the real reason was pizza.

He had only mentioned in passing that his wife wanted the children to eat only organically grown foods. He, himself was a junk food addict. He loved ice cream, chips and most of all pizza. Not gourmet, or restraunt pizza either- but the really greasy kind you order from Pizza Hut. That was all cut off from him by his concerned wife, who didn't want him to be a bad influence on the children. He understood the importance of appearance since he prided himself on his conduct, and how he carried himself around the office. He knew the importance of leading by example, and he made the sacrafice since he children were in awe of his stern, but loving parenting. So, his coworkers would of never known that the reason he was so happy the week before was because his wife, more as a joke than anything, told him that for Fathers Day he would be allowed to order a pizza from any place he wanted to. He realized that it was all in good fun, but he couldn't help but anticipate it. He had been planning it for days ahead of time, and could almost taste the juicy tomato sauce, oily peperoni's and hot, buttery cheese.



When he finally was able to make the call, he was like a kid on Christmas morning. Barely able to keep himself in one spot as he waited for the pizza delivery person to arrive. When it came, he hurriedly sat down to eat hot slices right out of the box. That's when he started to cry. He cried as he ate each slice. At first his wife thought he was kidding, but quickly drew back in horror when he wouldn't share any with his kids. He cried as he finished every piece of the large, hand-tossed, meat lovers pizza with extra cheese and sauce. He sucked clean every crust and used them to mop up all the remnants on the cardboard box while weeping with deep, uncontrollable sobs. That night, he cried himself to sleep as the wife laid reservedly on her side of the bed, silent and without effort to console him. He seemed o.k. when he woke in the morning and showered, but broke down again as he was shaving.

His coworkers tried to send cards of consolation to his house, and others called to inquire on how he was doing, but there was no answer or response. They never heard from him again.

Close Encounters Of The Born Again Kind

I was walking the hills of a nearby state forest when I came across two dozen or so people standing on the trail. There were three people on one side of the trail and everybody else on the other. As I got closer I saw a single length of rope at the feet of the large group and just as I started wondering what the rope might be for it happened - they, all of them, turned to me and smiled.

Walking in state forests you get used to people being friendly - a smile here or a "hello" there - but this was different, they'd all done it at the same time and there was a glassy look to their eyes. My initial thought was "stoners", but then I got a better look at their smiles and thought "born again Christians". Their smiles seemed to say "we know absolutely without a doubt that we are in good with Christ and are filled with His love and while you may be an evil sinner who will burn in hell for all eternity for not accepting Him as your Savior we do not hate you as such but rather take great pity on you and hope to help you see the errors of your unholy ways."

Granted, that's probably a rough translation.

As I walked by I returned their smiles with one my own that, I hope, said something along the lines of "this heathen is terribly sorry to have interrupted your obviously important gathering, I won't be but a brief minute, please do not hand me any pamphlets." Their heads swiveled together to watch me pass and as I continued on my way I was finally able to wonder what the rope was for.

Were they perhaps training to lasso non-Christians? Take down the unbelievers, hog-tying their hands and feet rodeo-style in order to brand them with "sinner" or "needs saving"?



Or maybe they were doing some group exercise comparing Christians with mountain climbers? Something about mountain climbers tying-off with each other for safety and Christians, like mountain climbers, should do the same so if one falls into the crevasse of sin the others can help them get back to the surefooted path of righteousness?

Or possible it was a Rapture thing? Remember in grade school when you had a buddy on field trips and wherever your buddy went you went too? And if the teacher was really mean you didn't get to pick your buddy but instead got assigned buddies and you'd always end up with the kid with asthma so while all the other kids were riding the ferris wheel or looking at the apes you were stuck sitting on a bench while your buddy pushed the button on his inhaler? Maybe there are Rapture buddies and they were practicing for the big day. Only I bet they really hope that they'll be able to pick their own Rapture buddies because when it comes to the Rapture you don't want to get tied to a fornicator or an in-the-closet homosexual - who knows if you'd be able to get into heaven with them on the line.

Or, I guess they could have just been really bad mountain climbers who were amazed that someone was braving the hazards of the state forest trail with a solo, free-walk.

Mr. Patches runs for city council

When he came home from work, he was greeted at the door by his cat, Mr. Patches. He stood at the door motionless, he had never been greeted in such a confrontational manner before. Though it was almost impossible for anyone else to read underneath his fur, he could tell that Mr. Patches had a facial expression of contempt. He knew Mr. Patches that well.
"You ok Mr. Patches?" He said hesitantly.
"No." Mr. Patches said, maintaining his facial expression.

He hadn't ever heard any sound like that come from Mr. Patches before, but he could of swore the kitten said, "No". He blinked a few times and shook his head with his mouth agape. "Mr. Patches- I could of swore you just said no. You silly kitten! When did you learn to make that noise?"
"I've been able to do it for a while now, Dick. But you're too wrapped up in your own little bubble to have ever noticed."
He was speechless, he continued to stand at the door, frozen in the same position as when he first came in with one hand on the knob and another on his briefcase.
"I'm going to run for city council." Mr. Patches said flatly. "I'm not asking, I'm telling you."
"How... How do you?"
"A shoe-leather campaign. I'm going door to door to get the word out." He added, as he pushed him aside with his little paws to get through the door. On the way, he grabbed a small bag full of buttons, and slung it around his shoulder.
"where... Where did you get the buttons?"
"Your credit card. I'm sure you don't mind. You couldn't of expected to keep me here against my will forever you know."


As Mr. Patches walked down the sidewalk, he turned toward the screen door where his owner stood, looking out at him wide-eyed. "Things are going to change around here, and I'm going to use the political machine to make it happen." He looked at his owner with large, soft kitten eyes. "I'm sorry." Then he turned and walked down the driveway. He had a hard road ahead of him, but Mr. Patches was prepared for it.

My Life As An Amateur Layabout

Being an amateur layabout is no picnic, at least if you're doing it right. You can't get up to go to the picnic for one thing.



I've been in training to go pro for three years now but it's hard going what with a wife, kids and a full-time job - those things add all kinds of social pressures that can keep a guy from going pro. The wife wants help at home, the boss wants deadlines met at the office, and it's not like I can tell them I'm in training to be a layabout because layabouts don't make the effort to explain themselves.



A lot of people have the wrong impression of layabouts, they think it's all junk food on the couch and TV. Ha! It's true that I have to eat junk food and watch television per National Layabout League rules, but the NLL allows only so many channel changes and bathroom breaks per day before imposing severe penalties - you try watching an unexpected Matlock marathon with a full bladder.



That's right, being an amateur layabout isn't easy, but with a lot of hard work and dedication I might just go pro one day.

My Life As The Ununundead

Three nights ago I got bit by a werewolf.

Two nights ago I got bit by a vampire.

One night ago I got bit by a zombie.

So now, I crave human flesh, human blood and human brains.

When I go out tonight, well, I really hope there's not some kind of semen monster out there.

Kindly, old lazer pointer repair-man

When Janet's laser pointer broke during her big presentation, she ran from the meeting room crying. She knew her power point was weak on the standard special effects of text sliding in, and dissolving into the next screen but it didn't matter. She had purchased an inexpensive laser pointer at Target and planned on carrying her presentation with that. She had spent the night before practicing her 'wristing' and figure eights on her bedroom wall. She was certain that her flair for pointing would wow the execs, and cause them to instantly approve her project. But only 30 seconds into the presentation it stopped working. She thought she jarred the batteries loose, so she slapped it a few times but it flew from her hand and landed on the floor lifeless. Scooping it up, she began to cry. She looked to the others, but was met with a dissaproving scowl, which made her frantic to repair the situation. But she quickly realized that there was nothing she could do to reverse it. That's why she was now seated outside the building on the front steps weeping.



Then a shadow fell over her. It was the shadow of an old man with a push-cart. He was gray haired and wearing worn, bib overalls. He had thick glasses magnified his eyes to ridiculous proportions, and his two enormous pupils smiled down on her. "Now, what is a sweet girl like you doing crying on such a beautiful day like this?" He cooed.
"My... My presentation... My... Laser pointer..." She managed to spit out before bursting into tears again.
"Now, now. Let's not get all excited." He said, leaning down to get a better look at the pointer. "Oh well, that's nothing big! I think we can fix it up good as new."
"You really think so? You think you can fix it?"
"Sure we can." He said, gently taking it from her hands. After opening it up to peer into it's battery carriage, then scratching his head, he finally lit up. "I know!" He whispered excitedly as if to himself. Then he opened up his push-cart and pulled out a tiny spring. "There we go!" He announced, "Good as new."
"Gee, thanks mister!" Janet squealed as she jumped up and down in excitement.
"Nothin' doin'. Why don't you go back in there, and I bet you everything will be all right now." He said, a smile peeking out from his large, silver mustache. After a moment, Janet quickly gave him a smooch on his cheek and dashed, embarrassed, into the building.

The old man stood on the sidewalk in front of the steps looking after her. Then, he turned toward the sun contemplating the cloudless, blue sky. Opening his cart again, he pulled out a soda and took a careful, and deliberate swig, "Mmmmm... Cracklin' good." He said to himself, then pushed on to the next office building.

08 June 2006

Dear Diary,

Just a quick entry today - I asked Maria to marry me and she said yes!

It was the Wednesday before I had to leave for the one week hike to the secret cocoa farm. We were celebrating our last night together by eating at Chez Chihuaha - the fanciest place in town. I slipped the ring into her champagne and when she found it I thought she was going to explode from happiness! When she calmed down enough, I got down on one knee and asked her, she was shaking and crying so hard, but she finally managed to say yes.

When she said yes our families came in from the kitchen where they were hiding and we had a big celebration. You should have seen the look on Maria's father's face - he still doesn't like me but there is nothing he can do about it - ha!

And when Maria and I got home, we did some extra celebrating of our own!

I found out that I will be working with Juan at the secret cocoa farm, we leave soon.

It is all very exciting, Diary!

The soul of Sir Winston Churchill in my cellphone

At first I thought it was all in my head. That I was hallucinating what I heard, but when other people heard it too I knew it was for real. You'd think it would be cool to have Winston Churchill's soul taking residence in your cell phone, but actually it's pretty annoying.

It first started when I was making out with my girlfriend on her couch. I heard a voice softly mumble, "All great things are simple, and many can be expressed in single words: freedom, justice, honor, duty, mercy, hope." We both stopped. It seemed to emanate from my pocket. When I pulled my cellphone out from it, the screen said 'W.C.'. I stared at it blankly trying to figure out who I know with those initials, and why it pulled that up instead of a phone number, until my girlfriend said that I probably dialed some strange number by accident from all the dry humping we were doing. I hung up and continued with my work.



The next incident was when I was in the grocery store. I was digging through the row of kipper snacks when I heard, "I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals." My initial shock quickly turned to joy when I realized that I had the soul of one of the greatest leaders of the 20th century at my disposal. I held the phone up to my ear and listened. I could hear his labored breathing on the other end. "Mr. Churchill, sir?" I said hesitantly. "Is that you?"
"Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing ever happened." He replied with slurred speech.
"This is great!" I bleated loud enough for a lady down the isle to hear. "Hey, maybe you can help me with something. My coworkers don't respect me..."
"Never hold discussions with the monkey when the organ grinder is in the room." He interrupted, his voice raising with bravado.
"What? No, I was wondering how I can instill a sense of respect..."
"Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm." He said seriously. I tried to digest what he said, apply it to my situation, but I could make no connection.
"No sir, I don't think you understand..."
"When the eagles are silent, the parrots begin to jabber."
"That doesn't even make sense!"
"The price of greatness is responsibility."
"You're not listening. I'm trying to tell you that I want to gain the respect of my coworkers. There's this one guy, Steve, he doesn't finish his reports on time, and I keep looking bad because..."
"An appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile - hoping it will eat him last."
I waited a moment, trying to understand why he was so disconnected from my end of the conversation, then I asked, "Wait. Are you talking about Hitler?"
"It is a mistake to try to look too far ahead. The chain of destiny can only be grasped one link at a time."
I didn't respond. I heard a stifled gasp on his end, as if he were about to say something. Then he added, "Don't talk to me about naval tradition. It's nothing but rum, sodomy and the lash?"
"Oh Jesus, I've heard that one before!" I yelled. "You're not even saying anything original, you're just regurgitating your old lines!"

We were both silent for a while. I began to feel a little guilty that I had yelled at him, and was about to tell him so until he interrupted again to say in a meek tone, "Although prepared for martyrdom, I preferred that it be postponed."
Then I understood. Here I had a man's soul in my phone who was used to saying great things, and having people hang on his every word, but now in death there's no one to talk to. He didn't have the opportunity to hone his word-smithing skills with anyone so all he could do was spit up old, memorable quotes from his glory days. He was trying to be helpful, but was at a loss to offer any help. "I see." I added softly. "Look, don't call here anymore."
There was a click on his end, and I never heard from him again.

06 June 2006

Dear Diary,
I got the job! I am now a Peon I! My job duties include picking cocoa leaf plants and throwing myself blindly in front of bullets should the secret cocoa farm be discovered. I start next Tuesday. I told the jefe that I would be able to start immediately but he said it would take a while for HR to process the paperwork.

Having this job means that I will finally be able to ask for Maria's father's blessing for marriage. He wouldn't give it to me before because I didn't have a job but now that I am working for one of the cartels he can't say no - as a Peon I, I am making enough money to support Maria well and, besides, I could now have him shot.

The work won't be easy and the hours are long - it takes a week to hike to the secret cocoa farm, then I work for a week picking cocoa leafs, and then another week to hike back to town where we get a week off. Maria and I are sad that we won't be together as much but she is very excited about all of the new stuff she can now afford to decorate our home with.

That, Diary, makes it all worthwhile.

05 June 2006

Dear Diary,

I am very excited! My best friend Juan has gotten me an interview at one of Ricardo Carlos' secret cocoa farms. I've been applying to Ricardo Carlos' drug cartel for years without success, but now with Juan as a reference, I am a shoe-in.

Juan tells me the interview is mostly a formality, but the jefe wants to take a good look at me to make sure I am peon material before he signs me up. It is my understanding that there has been some trouble recruiting quality cocoa leaf picking peons lately although I cannot imagine why - what an opportunity!

Juan seems as excited about this as me. We were up half the night going over possible interview questions. I kept getting the answer to 'How many cocoa plants does it take to produce one kilo of cocaine?" wrong but Juan was very patient with me and I think I'll do well on the written part of the test tomorrow.

I am a bit worried about the drug test as I've never taken cocaine before tonight but Juan assures me that with the amount I sniffed a few minutes ago I will have plenty in my system by tomorrow to pass with flying colors.

Wish me luck, Diary!

Farmers and the internet

Buck was drawn to the farmers life after reading about the murdered man from "In Cold Blood". It wasn't the part about being murdered that he found attractive, but how stoic and rugged he seemed. In his darkest moments while working late at the office, he found him self overtaken with a vision of himself rising up from the center of a cornfield, scythe in hand, and wiping sweat from his brow while peering pensively into the sunset. He considered it a sign when he was turned down for his quarterly bonus due to being a "flibbity gibbet" and a "dreamer". He went to the courthouse, legally changed his name to Buck McTibbits, purchased an old Ford truck, purchased a dog with a bandanna tied around it's neck that could sit in the back, and headed for Iowa.

Since non-corporate farming was a dying art, he was able to purchase a farm for practically nothing. He moved in, and drove the truck and his dog Bucky into town to purchase supplies. But the sight of Buck and Bucky rolling in to Ted's Feed and Supply brought awkward stares from the locals. He was dressed much like Henry Fonda was in "Grapes of Wrath". He didn't help their souring opinion since his social skills were hampered by not being able to discern between stoic and creepy. He treated how he wanted the locals to perceive him much like one would treat their first day in prison- you find the biggest person in the prison yard and crack a chair over their head. The store clerk qualified as that big man, and when he asked Buck, "What can I do yer fer mister?" Buck simply didn't respond, and only peered with a determined look that conveyed a sense of sadness over the clerk's shoulder to the window behind him.



The clerk, having seen this all before simply nodded to Phil, the man delivering the Budd Light to the stock room. Phil, taking the hint, casually walked up to the counter and stuck up a conversation while eyeing the ball game playing on the small, black and white television mounted above the restroom doors. "Mornin' Lou."
"Mornin' Phil." the clerk answered back, sucking his teeth.
"Storms-a-brewin." Phil added. Leaning one elbow on the counter so that his shoulder nearly touched his ear, while turning his back to Buck and Lou to see the game. Though Buck never changed his gaze or expression, Lou could tell he was trying to see Phil from the corner of his eye.
"Helen's knees acting up are they?"
"Yep. Yep they are... Doc Hoffman said she should take one of them, what you call, HER-bal remedies for her arthritis."
"Hmm.. whelp, where you guessin' you goin' to buy that?"
"IN-ner-net." Phil added, his pose becoming a little more tense at the deliverary of this last line. Buck's expression changes a little. Though common sense would tell him that the internet is common all over the world, he couldn't help but feel a little upset that his vision of the farmers life was tarnished. There was a silence as the tinny sound of a croud cheering eminated from the ball game. Lou broke the silence once he felt that Phils comment had sunk in.
"You doin much huntin' there Phil?"
"No sir."
"How so? Thought you loved ta hunt."
"Din' think it was humane Lou. Just din' seem right to make animals suffer like that for sport. Could just as easily provide for my family by goin' to the grocery store." Phil said. Buck took a few glances at Phil. Lou sensed that he would crack soon.
"Goin' vegi-TEAR-eean are ya Phil?"
"No sir, veegan."
"That right?"
"Yep. Don't think it's right to force animals to provide milk and such, when they should be grazin the lan' like God wanted em'."
"You're a good Christian Phil. My wife and I went Veegan many years ago, and don't regret a thing. But I couldn't help but noticed the leather boots you're a-wearin'."
"Oh, they're not leather. No good veegan worth their salt would wear leather. No, I purchased these from a shop out in Greenwich Village."
"You talkin' about New York City there Phil?"
"Yep I am."
"Now, when you get the money to fly out to the Big Apple on your pay Phil?"
"Hell, fly nothin'. I just bought em'."
"IN-ner-net?"
"Thas right."

The two of them hadn't even noticed that Buck was gone. In his haste he left Bucky behind, and had actually shed his depression area bib overalls as he bolted out the door. "Better send the dog to the humane society Phil. I don't think a naked, city boy is going to come back for this scruffy little thing."
"What about the clothes Lou?"
"Burn 'em."