Well, the computer is dead again and I sit here on the crappy one watching the words catch up to my typing. Bad hard drive again. Those who are at fault know who they are, but cannot accept blame for faulty products (many times over) because they can’t hear complaints with their heads shoved so neatly up their rectal regions.

It happened last night. All of a sudden. No warning. Scanning for viruses and then . . . Freeze. Restart. Nothing. Restart. Nothing. Restart. Nothing. Dead. Gone. All data lost. All the work I’ve done in the past few months gone. Stupid me didn’t back up in that time because my file size quota hadn’t been reached.

I plan on purchasing an automated back up system now. I’ve had it with incidents and accidents. It’s over. Now vengeance shall be mine. No matter what happens, I’ll always have my data. It’ll be portable and totally separate.

Yes. I’m hiring monks to transcribe my files for me. I will be victorious in the data wars!

Sadly, I lost a story I had written. The first short story I had written in a long, long time. I hope someone in Boston still has it. Maybe he can send me a copy.

It was funny, though. I didn’t react to my data loss the way I thought I would. Or the way I thought I should. When all this started happening I just sat there numb and a little nauseated. Chris asked me what was wrong and Kaitlyn said, “Don’t! He’ll get upset!”

But I didn’t. Irritated, perhaps, but not upset. Not angry. I just felt . . . detached bitterness. The way a Nihilist would feel if he discovered there was something that he could believe in. His own ethos.

But, alas, I didn’t rage against the dying of the drive. I accepted it with grace and humility. To fight the fight another day! Today is that day. I’m being cool, calm and collected as I talk to my various customer service reps. They’ll learn that, just because they can fix it doesn’t mean that the problem will go away. A faulty component will not suddenly be healed by their divine touch. Replace the damn thing. Start anew. Let it wash away its data sins in the rubbish bin.

Why didn’t I get angry? Why wasn’t I upset?

Well, it’s simple, really. Despite the fact that I lost megabytes of wonderful data and beautiful photos of my children, I still had the most important things.

I have a back up computer, for one. Little time lost in the working arena, except for the few hours I have to recreate material.

But, after I gave up I went upstairs. Lying in bed was a beautiful six-year-old girl who is growing into such a poised and intelligent young lady. She’s carving her own path in life, discovering who she is. She’s finding out the blissful pains that this life causes. She’s learning that the Universe isn’t always a fair playmate.

Across the room, in the crib was a little girl who is just beginning this journey. So fresh, and young. Innocence embodied. She doesn’t yet know what a skinned knee feels like. Or a paper cut. She doesn’t know think that you need TV to enjoy yourself. She’s content to roll around on the floor, giggling at her newfound mobility. She’s on the cusp of crawling. Determined, she gets on all fours and rocks back and forth, vigorously. Without fail, she falls. But one of these times, she knows, something magical will happen and her arms and legs will figure out what to do.

In the next room was a beautiful woman waiting to hug me and tell me that we’ll figure this out. That we can replace what was lost. Even though I know she didn’t believe it herself, she knew that I needed to be reassured.

And so, how could I be angry with a computer? It’s just a piece of machinery. Life is happening around me every second. Why waste time on dark feelings when my house is full of the joy of discovery?

Wow. What a weekend. Filled with fun, excitement and noxious fumes.

Well, at least two of the three.

Young Gertrude is having a bout with the vapors. Every movement, every twitch, every roll is followed by a loud report and a smell that could knock over a horse. For such a little body, she can produce an awful smell.

I guess I know she’s my daughter . . .

Yesterday we went to dinner with my family to celebrate the confirmation of my nieces Melissa and Christina (both looked so beautiful, poised and grown up it was hard to believe they were once the toddlers we called “Binker” and “Sissa”.) My sister was holding Gertrude and making her giggle when she said, “Whew. I think she’s got a full diaper! Something is stinky.” Gertrude giggled and I said I’d check it out.

The restaurant was too crowded and noisy to have heard Gertrude’s reverse raspberry, so I didn’t mention her current state of gastrointestinal weakness. I just didn’t have the heart to tell my sister that the cute little Pampered bottom she had just been patting had released mustard gas. I figured they were both having so much fun, why ruin it with the fact that my lovely daughter had broken a taboo and farted at her.

In my family, airborne fart particles are a way of life, but still a crime.

Her poor little belly hurts so much that’s she’s having trouble sleeping. We have to calm and soothe her until the bubble bursts and she can expel it. Between her and the cat, my room smells like a colostomy bag.

But she’s so pathetic. She grunts and whines and whimpers rolls around until she feels better. Because she needs nearly constant comfort, she’s been sleeping with us so her big sister gets a little sleep.

She’s restless though, so she flops back and forth, throwing her little sausage arms to and fro. (Side note: Where is fro?) Whenever she points her little bottom at me, I live in fear. I know it’s loaded and it could go off at any minute.

I’ve been walking around shell-shocked. I wonder, when will it strike? When will it hit? Will I survive?

Oh well. She’ll get hers. Just wait until she’s a teenager and she brings her first boyfriend over for dinner. I already have the menu planned.

Five-alarm chili.

U.S. Envisions Blueprint on Iraq Including Big Invasion Next Year

Hey look everyone in Iraq! We're coming! Just wanted to warn you. Here we come.

I don't undestand the logic here. I mean what happened to surprising people?

Or maybe I watch too many movies?

Oy.

I have nothing to say today. Sorry about that.

If you must, blame Jim. He caused me to use all my funniest jokes earlier today via email. Surely, after such a deluge of grossness, I cannot attempt seriousness. Therefore I will not be posting anything of substance today, be it joke, musing, thoughts, befuddlement or stock tip.

I also blame my wife, who made me wake up this morning and work. Had I been left alone, perhaps my dream state would have allowed me to find some sort of inspiration via the sweet darkness of slumber.

In addition, I'd like to blame Todd, who does not have a nickname. I cannot imagine such a life and I've been fretting over his horrible childhood ever since. I've conferred with many people and we've chosen "Puff Toddy." Todd immediately bought several cream colored linen suits and changed his name to P-Tiddy.

I also blame the March of Dimes, who is forcing me to walk several miles tomorrow in the name of saving children. This is a worthy cause. Yet, after hearing about the "official t-shirt" I will be wearing, which is bright orange, I cannot help but think that the March of Dimes has named me the official traffic cone of 2002.

And finally, I must blame my children for causing me to sing such songs as "Going down the highway, doing 94" and "U-G-L-Y, you ain't got no alibi." Had it not been for these moments, I may have been able to muster some sort of creative or communicative energy to post today.

So, clearly, this is not my fault.

Eric, of The State of the Union, would like to point out that this is the reason why Cheerios pays all that money for the LPGA sponsorship:

10 REASONS WHY I SHOULD GET TO GO TO SPACE

10. I love space, astronomy and physics. I don’t necessarily understand it all. But, does that really have to be a prerequisite?

9. I’ve always wanted to be an astronaut.

8. I look up in the sky almost nightly and wonder to myself, “What’s out there?

7. I’ve always had a deep interest in medical experiments. Specifically when I’m the subject.

6. I’ve always loved Tang. I’d propose we bring the space program back to its roots.

5. I could finally play, “If I throw this at the moon, will it ever make it there?”

4. I’ve seen 2001: A Space Odyssey many, many times. The HAL 9000 jokes alone would make my trip worth it for the other astronauts.

3. I’d bring lots of CDs. We could rock to Elvis Costello while we added new modules to the ISS.

2. I could finally answer the question that has been bothering people ever since John Glenn first orbited the Earth. “Can you put yourself into high orbit by opening beer cans in space?”

1. If NASA is willing to spend the money to send Chuckles the Monkey to space, why can’t I go? Is there something wrong with me? What does the monkey have that I don’t?

The world's ugliest CEO. Look! His hair actually glows with evil! You can see in his eyes the bloodlust against widescreen DVDs. He's thinking, "Must make the entire world Pan and Scan! Mwhahahahahahahaha."

Beer, of course, is actually a depressant. But poor people will never stop hoping otherwise.
--Kurt Vonnegut

I was watching the news at lunch today as they talked about some big shake up at Annheuser-Busch. Something about one of the pretty boy rich kids stepping down to let another pretty boy rich kid do more work so the first pretty boy rich kid can sit on his but and eat lobster all day.

But that’s beside the point.

They had a stock analyst on discussing how this decision would affect the AB stocks. Oddly, she looked more like a haggard marketing manager than a stock analyst. No sharp suit. No slim pointy nose that seems to say “superior”, no smart Marlo Thomas “That Girl” haircut. Just a blobby, frumpy woman who, based on her K-Mart Jacquelyn Smith outfit and her wind blown do, I would never buy stock from. Clearly her own portfolio’s performance precludes her from being able to afford high-end clothes. Like Target.

“AB is a very untraditional stock,” she said. “It seems to defy logic. When the market is up, AB is down. When the market is down, AB is up.”

To this I say, with complete superiority, “well DUH.” AB sells beer. Beer, for one reason or another, makes people happy, or forget their sorrows. When the market is up, people are already happy. They don’t need beer. Or at least cheap beer. They can afford to buy imports and high-end microbrews.

But when the market is down, people are depressed. What do they do? Drink? It’s a time-honored tradition. Feel like crap, drink crappy beer. Suck down the brewskies and forget you even have feet, much less the fact that your wife left you, your dog has been repossessed and your secretary, with whom you had an affair, turned out to be a man. These things happen! But with our amber colored effervescent friend, anything is possible. And anyone is attractive.

Granted, you can’t get home until you sober up and by that time it’s too late. Life has come crashing back down on you. You’ve become the pathetic, balding lout with an enormous beer gut and stains, the source of which has long been forgotten, all over your shirt. You trod back to your car, a 1988 Honda held together with rust and a prayer, sucking the final remnants of wing sauce from under your fingernails.

But tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day. Tomorrow you may kill the final pesky brain cell that demands you have some modicum of self-respect. Tomorrow, just maybe, the cheap beer will finally make you “fitter, happier, more productive.” Maybe tomorrow that hoppy medicine will finally make you attractive to the ladies. You’ll be successful, important, and rich.

Of course, these are the same fantasies that workers in a varnish factory play out by the end of their careers. It’s called “delirium.”

That’s why I recommend Guinness. It’s more expensive, so you’ll drink less. You won’t feel guilty spending your grocery money on it because it contains enough calories to keep a football team going for a month. Plus, any drink you can’t see through is certainly worth its weight in beer nuts.

But, most of all, you’ll look successful. “Oh, he drinks an import.” You’ll be beating off the barflies like a horse on the trail. Well, you’ll be beating off something.

But you’ll have self-respect. And in the end, isn’t that all you wanted in the first place?

Of course not. You bought Busch. You wanted to get hammered.

Moral of the story: When in a recession, buy stock in liquor companies. No matter how far down the toilet the economy gets, people will surely be sticking their heads further down that toilet while saying, “No, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

I was talking to my lovely wife (whose post yesterday is STILL SATIRE) the other day about soup. Yes soup. She was asking me what I wanted for lunches during the week. Would soup be good? And, if so, which soups are acceptable luncheon dining?

Well, I said, I like potato soup. Mmm. Especially with bacon. I also used to get the cheese soup at Denny’s when I was in high school. I liked it for some reason, even though by definition it’s gross. Melted, milky cheese doesn’t seem appetizing. Might as well just stick a spoon in nacho cheese dip (I probably would) and chow down on that.

But it’s good with bacon.

Well, she went shopping last night and brought me soup. Granted, there’s the traditional chicken noodle soup, and the like.

But she fulfilled my wishes.

She brought me potato cheddar cheese bacon soup. One soup, all three wishes. What an amazing woman.

I'm glad I didn't say I liked peanutbutter too . . .

It gets better. It’s Campbell’s Chunky Soup. It’s the soup that eats like a meal. It’s also the official soup sponsor of the NFL. Seriously. It is. I’m not lying. Why would I make that up? I couldn’t make up something that stupid if I tried.

If I were a famous athlete (and it’s still possible, if they make sitting on your ass a competitive sport . . . we’re trying to get it into the 2004 Olympics), my wife would be following me to the locker room, making sure I ate a hearty meal before my competition. “You need energy! Eat Papa! Eat!” she’d say. I’d be really embarrassed because a manly man like me doesn’t need his wife following him around forcing soup into his mouth. What will the other guys think of me?

Well, it’s okay. Because my wife bought me Chunky soup, the soup that eats like a meal, I feel loved. And it’s a wonderful warm feeling.

Either that or the soup isn’t digesting well . . . No wonder why the Rams lost the Super Bowl. Kurt Warner had a chunk of soup lodged in his intestines.

New Elvis is here!

Okay, I saw Frailty yesterday . . . and the more I think about it, the more the picture of the president bothers me.
All the elements are there. Work gloves. Axe. He's missing the lead pipe, but that may be out of frame.

Today I bought a few DVDs with the booty collected from my wild birthday extravaganza. (The DVDs were Mulholland Drive and Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, if you care.)

Each disc was encased in security tape along all opening edges. It took me ten minutes per DVD to open them. Ten minutes of my life wasted just so I could look inside and see, oooooh, there’s a DVD.

Now, I understand fully why this tape exists. It’s to prevent morons from opening the case and stealing the disc. Which, by the way is a reprehensible action.

Not because it is stealing. Which it is. And that’s inherently wrong. However, this is a crime worse than stealing. This is the mistreatment of the media. Bad! Bad!

So, you’re a criminal who refuses to plop down $20 for a DVD. I understand that, though the $100 you spent on crack last week was a justifiable expense. But, do you realize that by the time you get home after stuffing that disc in your pocket you won’t be able to watch the disc because of the scratches? Are you an idiot?

Wait. Don’t answer that.

So, I have to pay for your folly by spending a good portion of my day trying to liberate the films I’ve just purchased from their prison of a sticky tape-like substance that is covering every possible surface of the case.

Yargh.

As if this is even an issue anymore. The Internet allows you to download films, if you have no desire for quality (or morals for that matter). So, instead of risking incarceration, you can just download it from the Internet without ever leaving your home. Better yet, you can continue to smoke crack the whole time! Get high while pirating movies!

As an added bonus, now that you are a pirate, you get to use all the accoutrements of the trade. Parrot, eye patch and the right to say, “Yargh.”

Security doesn’t stop at the tape all over the packaging. CDs have this too. But now they are putting encryption in CDs that will prevent you from ripping MP3s of the music and distributing it via the Internet. Worthy attempt, I suppose.

However, this technology has rendered the discs unplayable, in many instances. No better way to alienate your audience than to cause your product to be incompatible with their equipment. Brilliant!

The record industry reports that: “In 2000, music sales dropped 9.3%, from $869.7 million to $788 million. Total revenues slipped 2.3%, from $13 billion to $12.7 billion.“ (Business Week)

Well . . . it’s all the fault of people downloading from the Internet, right?

Sure, I’ll give you that. But I have a different theory: the music that is distributed by the companies that are included in Soundscan tracking sucks ass.

In the past few years bands such as Cowboy Junkies, Tori Amos, Liz Phair, and many others, have been dropped from their labels. In the same time, there have been clones of ‘Nsync, Brittany Spears and Creed have popped up everywhere. Listen to one radio station that plays new music for four hours and odds are you’ll only hear a total of 40 songs. All the same songs. Over and over and over. And worse yet, they all sound the same.

However, I’m sure if you look at labels that promote smaller labels such as Not Lame, Bomp, and others, you’ll find a spike in sales.

Makes you wonder why, eh? Could it be that the audience that these record companies once depended upon is getting tired of the same old thing? Of the next big thing? Perhaps they are searching for new bands. Hmmm.

Let’s look at the CDs I’ve purchased, or been given, during the period of slow down: Stew, The Incredible Moses Leroy, Cloud 11, The Negro Problem, Cornelius, Air, The Wondermints, Cherry Twister , The Auteurs, Sarah Harmer , Linus of Hollywood , Ben Folds . . .

The biggest of these names are fringe. The smaller ones are hard to find. But the music is different, strange, off the wall, experimental.

Of course, I’ve also bought reissues of Elvis Costello’s albums. Discs I already own in one, and sometimes two, different forms.

Who knows? Maybe the music world as we know it will come crashing down. We’ll see.

Wow. I got off track there. Sorry!

Please note that my wife's blog dated today is SATIRE. If you do not understand it, I reccomend a hearty dose of Swift, Twain, Vonnegut and Heller.

I thank you for your time and attention.

Real post to follow. Or precede, depending upon how you look at it.

The President wishes you a happy Earth Day.

I wish I was kidding.

I knew they were going to say that.

Wow. This really matters. I mean, the world as we know it may end. Dogs and cats living together! Complete chaos! The order of the universe has just been unsettled.

I need more coffee . . .

Remember how I made a joke yesterday about the planets lining up and how scientists coined the term "neato" for it?

Check out the quote from uber-science guy Richard Schuler in today's St. Louis Post Dispatch.

But Schuler, an adjunct faculty member at UMSL, sees no over-arching significance in the celestial show.

"It's just kind of cool," he said.


See? I'm not an idiot! Well . . . not always.

Hi kids! Just wanted to let you know that I've installed a handy-dandy tool to let you know when I update the page. Just pop your email in the box on the side of the page and it'll email you to let you know that we've got an update. Plus, you'll get a preview of the glory that is the crap I put on this page.

Enjoy! And remember, don't let the monkey fool you.

I don’t want to work. I want to bang on the drum all day.

Why? Because it makes neat sounds and I can keep time with the clock.

Bang, whack, bang.

Seriously, I’ve been working on this one task (for nine projects, mind you) for a few weeks and I’m not sure my brain can handle it anymore. I think it may actually be turning to jelly. Headline:

MAN DIES OF JELLY BRAIN, WIFE EATS TOAST

I imagine, however, that it would be buried on page 12 of the automotive section. I just don’t think I’d rate front page, despite the fact that my brain turned into a condiment that should have been refrigerated.

Clearly I’ve been bitter lately. I’m not sure why. It may have something to do with my caffeine consumption. (Which, I might add, I was supposed to cut down on, according to the doctor, if I wanted to end the reign of GERD in my stomach. Hey, that sounds like an evil corporation in a Sci-Fi flick. GERD seeks world domination through the ruin of the gastrointestinal system of humans. It starts as a burning. Then you can’t sleep and then you puny humans die. AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Or something. This is a long parenthetical statement. I wonder if I wrote an entire book as a parenthetical statement, would you be able to discount the work in its entirety as a side comment?)

The other day my wife came home and watched me make a cup of coffee. For some reason I decided to add a few scoops of International Coffee. I hate the stuff, but it makes a good cup of coffee taste like a treat.

“What are you doing”, my wife asked, eyes wide in terror.

“I’m adding this to my coffee. For flavor, you know.”

“That IS coffee. That has caffeine it too! You’ve just made your one cup of coffee into two!”

“Duh! Did you think I was doing it to remind me of our Parisian waiter Jean-Luc?”

She’s currently not speaking to me because she thinks I’m going to die of a heart attack right about . . . now.

Headline:

MAN DIES OF HEART SEIZURE FROM INTERNATIONAL COFFEE MIX: WIFE RUNS OFF WITH JEAN-LUC

That might make the front page.

Well, this weekend is the big birthday. 29. I’m supposed to be freaked out because I’m nearly thirty. But I’m not. Hell, it’s only age. The fact that my youth is over is greatly exaggerated. In fact, I relive my youth every day of my life. I may have become a responsible adult, but I can still wear Mickey Mouse underwear with the best of them.

You didn’t need to know that did you?

Gary's Pate o'Bitterness Pt. 4

Hang on to your hats. Rumor has it that we are in for a celestial event heretofore unheard of in our times. For the next few weeks Jupiter, Mars, Mercury, Saturn and Venus will be aligned.

I hope somebody fixes the crystal before it’s over. Otherwise the evil Skekses will last forever.

Apparently this will not happen again until 2040, which in celestial terms is equal to an eye blink. To us mortals, however, it’s very exciting. This just doesn’t happen.

I see you’re having a hard time understanding this. Okay, I’ll put it into terms we can all understand.

Imagine you and your coworkers decide to go out for lunch and you all agree on an eatery on the first attempt.

That’s how amazing this is!

Actually, beyond how cool it’ll look in the sky, this isn’t all that scientifically interesting. It’s not like a supernova or a comet passing by or one of those asteroids that NEARLY MISS THE EARTH (but we tell you two days later). Those are SIGNIFICANT events. This is a minor event, for which astronomers have coined the term “neato.”

How insignificant is it to those of us who don’t believe that with this alignment we’ll suddenly be able to converse with our dogs? Well . . . it’s like seeing four red cars in a row on the highway. Statistically, odds are against it happening are high. Realistically, it’s jut not all that interesting.

Essentially what we’re saying is this, “AH! All the planets are on the same plane! AH!” It looks cool, but means very little.

Yes, I’m railing against this because it isn’t science. It’s the Universe’s ability to make a straight line. Nature has proven, time and again, that it is capable of coloring inside the lines. Yet we get excited about this.

OOOH! Planets in a line! Wow!

Oooh! A vehicle that can travel 15 miles on 5 cents of energy that could let us become a society based on intermediate distances rather than being forced to choose between walking or driving! Wow! A revolutionary mode of transportation! Oh, it’s just a friggin’ scooter.

Yeah, well. . . . Dean Kamen’s brain could kick your ass.

Gary's Pate o'Bitterness, Pt. 3

“I agree with you in principle . . .”

No you don’t. What you do is you agree that morally what I’m proposing is correct, but you don’t want to do it because you want to reap the benefits of what is against what you say are your principles.

It is impossible to agree with someone in principle. That means you agree in thought but not in action. That’s not an option. If your actions don’t support your beliefs then you are a simple hypocrite.

And I say “simple” in the meanest way possible.

This phrase is a cliché designed to allow pseudo-intellectuals and ne’er-do-wells to acknowledge that they know their actions are morally incorrect, but provides them with an excuse to continue doing so.

“Mr. Manson, murder is wrong.”

“I agree with you . . . in principle.”

“Oh, okay. You can go now. My bad.”

It doesn’t work that way. There is no get out of jail free card on principles. Either you agree or not.

In fact, if you don’t agree then say so. I’d prefer the reasonable debate to your rolling over and then not backing up your beliefs. You smarmy weasel.

Or maybe you don’t understand the word. Maybe you think, “Principle” is “Principal.” And you agree with me in the sense that you agreed with Dr. Russell in sixth grade that it was wrong to hide in the girls’ bathroom.

Gary's Pate o'Bitterness, Pt. 2

Recently somebody said to me “the media serves us our news like a fast food meal. Get it quick and finish it.”

I agree with her. If you get your news from television. You see, television shows only have so much time allotted to them in order to tell you about the day’s events. And, guess what? Usually that news is more complicated than “bomb go boom and people go ow.” Sadly, the television news only has space for that sort of reporting.

Plus, television is a visual medium. Ifin’ they don’t have pitchers to back up they’s words they ain’t gone to talk ‘bout it.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret. There is something called a “newspaper.” In this newspaper, there or stories about the news. And the stories are written in order to give you more depth and insight into the events. Neat huh?

There’s a draw back, though. The pictures in the newspaper don’t talk for you (except in the funnies) and you might actually have to practice your reading comprehension in order to understand what is being said.

I’ll help you with this handy-dandy guide to big words and phrases in the paper.

Suicide Bomber – splodeydope

Congress – Law Hookers

Collateral Damage – Oops. Bomb go boom in the wrong place.

Flat Tax – It’ll never work.

Liberal Bias – Just blame it on Berkeley. Or those damn hippies raising their kids to be fruity nuts.

Pop Music – Don’t bother. It’s tripe. Once, in the sixties and seventies, “pop” meant something. Now the word only means “Corporate Crap.”

Good luck with your assignment. Go read the news. It may be more work than the fast food version of news that you’re used to, but you just might find it’s worth it. You might be a little more informed.

And, no, USA Today does not count as a newspaper. That’s Weekly Reader for adults.

Gary's Pate o'Bitterness, Pt. 1

You know, I’m all for safety. Honestly I am. I think safety is a really good thing. It allows you to not get hurt and you don’t hurt others.

All around, it’s a great thing. I like traffic lights, safety nets. I like seatbelts and bagel cutters. Outlet covers are great. I think airbags really save lives. I also believe that toothless dogs will lead us to a safer society.

However, I’m concerned about where safety concerns are taking us. At what point do we say, “No. Technology won’t help. We must stop what we’re doing because the action itself is not safe. It has nothing to do with the tools of the activity.”

What am I talking about? Well let me explain.

I was at the grocery store last Saturday. It was a lovely day outside and we decided to have some fresh corn with dinner (on sale at Schnucks and very tasty. Wish I could meet the guy who was responsible for making the decision to stock the racks with this tasty agricultural treat.)

So I was looking at the corn, peeling back the leaves and silk to find the perfect kernels that would best bring for the flavor of summer freshness into my mouth.

“How do I know which kind to choose,” the guy said next to me.

I gave him the Travis Bickle, “You talkin’ to me?” look. He seemed to respond.

“Do I want white or yellow? Which is better? What kind should I get?”

“Well,” I said, “White is a little sweeter and crispier. It has a taste that is a little bolder than the yellow. The yellow is a nice traditional corn, and you can’t really go wrong.”

He turned his head and looked at me like I was insane. That’s when I noticed it. The earpiece in his ear attached to the wireless phone. Luckily it was the kind that was just a wire sticking out of his ear. Not the, “Hello, I’m a Time Life Operator” variety. I smiled and just continued to talk to the corn as if it were my original companion.

“But your widdle siwlk make you vewy hawd to eat. Doesn’t it little corny?”

Yes it does.

So, not that it’s dangerous to drive while talking on the phone, we have to deal with people who appear to be talking to themselves. What kind of world do we live in? I remember the days when a reasonable and sane person could separate himself from the crazies based on the fact that he alone knew when NOT to speak. We were able to make our rash judgments and sift out our stereotypes within a fraction of a second.

Now we have nothing. The schizophrenics have won. They’ve become virtually indistinguishable from the rest of us. I’ll bet Brian Wilson is walking around right now on the phone with Mike Love saying, “See, you miserable, bald prick? Other people hear voices too! Except their voices talk back!”

Of course, where will we stop? Other safety problems while driving are: Eating, reading, shaving, putting on make up and turning around to hit your kids. I have seen all of these things occurring. I suppose that sexual acts are also an issue, but I pretend that doesn’t happen because I might buy that person’s car someday. Ew. I always wondered what those stains were.

But I digress. What sort of technological innovation are we going to get next? An auto-eating machine that shovels McDonalds into your mouth for you? A seat extension that you can mount your shaver to that memorizes the contours of your face and shaves you while you drive?

Or maybe we shouldn’t be talking on the phone when we drive. We’re all guilty of it and yet. . . it’s so easy to do.

“Honey! I’m about to turn the corner! Open the door!”

Or, maybe we all need to slow down a bit. Stop worrying about how quickly life is passing us by and start enjoying those moments that we rush through. Maybe, instead of putting our make up on in the car we can wake up a few minutes earlier and do it leisurely at home. Maybe we can shave in the shower?

And maybe we can eat dinner with our families.

Ugh. I have just had no interest in communication lately. I have emails that have gone unanswered in my inbox for at least a month. I look at them and figure that I’ll answer them eventually, or the person will die and I won’t have to worry about it.

In the end, everyone will die. If I die first, then I’m exonerated. If the intended recipient dies first then the grudge is dropped.

I mean, really, to carry a grudge into the afterlife is pretty petty, don’t you think? What would they be thinking? You’re dead. Get over yourself. Jeez. If I were dead, I’d be investigating all that meant. If a dead Indian can inspire Jim Morrison, then I want to be the dead spiritual advisor to someone.

“Oh Gary, my dead spiritual advisor, what should I do?”

”Change the station to channel 8. ALF is on.”

I just haven’t really wanted to talk to anyone of late. I’m being stingy with my thoughts. Unless, of course, those thoughts are pointless.

For example. Why the hell does my next-door neighbor vacuum ten times a day? I’m all for cleanliness, but this borders on OCD.

Another. Why does my other neighbor think it’s acceptable to bear her midriff? Even her doctor doesn’t want to see her midriff.

Another. The girl who lives downstairs appears to have a child that slips into a time vortex. Sometimes he exists. Sometimes he doesn’t. Perhaps he has powers that are beyond my comprehension. However, he may be trying to escape his skanky mother and her tattoo on the small of her back and the back of her neck. Sometimes he looks at me with saddened eyes as if saying, “Do all moms wear Daisy Dukes and tube tops? Help me! She smokes when she changes my diaper. I’m going to get cancer and diaper rash at the same time.”

That was mean. Ah hell, who cares. Anyone else want to be attacked? I’m in a mood. Hmmmmmmmmm. Who else sucks?

Hey, I did see something uplifting yesterday. A young woman had a flat tire on our street. As I was walking out to bring her a phone or offer her a ride to get help (I have an infant . . . not much else I could do on a hot day) a young man walking his dog offered to help. 45 minutes later, she had her spare tire on and the guy just walked away. The clearly didn’t know one another. That made me feel good.

Anything else? Well, I turn 29 on Sunday. No big deal. I bought my own present by accident this year. Looking forward to that. New Elvis Costello on Tuesday. That’s cool. Wife said I could preorder the Lord of the Rings DVD today, even though we’re going to be buying another version in November (today’s will be the original cut of the film. November’s is a director’s cut. That’s important.)

Oh, and I’m having Gertrude wired for a null suit. Figure she might need to survive in a vacuum if those morons in the Middle East can’t figure out a way to stop killing one another.

I may be back later today. I’ve heard so many stupid comments lately that I have to say something . . . Or should I say, I must make fun of others.

To blog or not to blog, that is the question.

Just decided not to today. Why? Because I'm doing other stuff. Like investigating the possible side effects of relaxing and enjoying down time.

I'll let you know how the experiment goes.

I have nothing to write about today, which, by the way, just proves I lead a boring life.

We watched a depressing movie on Friday and drank some beer on Saturday. It was good beer. The sad thing is, we didn’t need it. The Wife and the Friend and I were slaphappy before we even opened the first bottle. Halfway through it, the concept of hiccups was hilarious.

The sad thing is, I had more fun sitting at my house drinking beer from a bottle than I’ve had out in a true social environment for a long, long time. We laughed and laughed and laughed. It felt good. We didn’t get hammered or anything. Hell, I don’t even think we drank enough to get “drunk.” It was a much-needed release.

Sometimes we all forget how stupid life is. We immerse ourselves in stories of teens blowing themselves up, cancer-causing agents in the water, teen pregnancy and what not; that we forget how moronic and pointless all this seems to us sometimes.

I remembered on Saturday. We sat and giggled and snorted and made fun of our neighbors. Then we got tired and everyone left.

Granted, Friend and I had to spend an hour outside discussing workable urban planning first, but that’s beside the point.

We were stupid for a change. It gave us a new outlook.

I feel recharged. Therefore, I’m ready to go back to regular life and be worried about war, pestilence and David Hasselhoff.

I was riding the elevator ascending to the swanky mid-town offices that is currently doing business as “McGraw-Hill.” This building was designed by someone who was either blind, stupid or had some sort of fetish involving a checkerboard.

But I digress.

Playing, rather mawkishly, over the speaker in the elevator was a commercial for a local riverboat casino. Now, this riverboat isn’t actually in a river. It’s in a puddle next to a river. The boat doesn’t actually move. I suppose it’s really a building in the shape of a boat, imitating a boat. If the area flooded, would it float? Probably not.

But I digress.

The commercial informed me that, if I partake in the gambling activities that this particular casino offers that I could, in fact, “Wang Chung tonight.” Yes. Wang Chung.

Now, I’m hardly a prude. I like adventure. I like doing things that are exciting and off the beaten path of normal entertainment. I enjoy letting loose and partying like it’s 1999. I’m adventurous. I like offensive movies and music that no one has ever heard of. I’m not afraid of wearing Mickey Mouse underwear. Hell, I grew up in the eighties.

But, I have never actually Wang Chunged. I have gotten down. I fought for my right to party. More than once I’ve shook my groove thang and let my freak flag fly. I’ve even gotten the party started. However, I have never in my life had the opportunity to Wang Chung.

But the commercial went on. It was adamant. If I gambled there, I could Wang Chung.

Does this casino hold the secrets of Wang Chung? Could this casino actually be the center of the Wang Chung universe?

I don’t know. Because, I have absolutely no idea how to Wang Chung. If I’ve seen Wang Chung in progress, I may not have understood it. Just like the time I went to the modern dance recital and watch the fall of Rome performed. I thought I was watching a reimagining of Fame. But I was wrong. But they had naked ladies cavorting and it was art.

Maybe that was Wang Chung? I don’t know.

Once I went to an art exhibit where a man painted pictures of various religious figures out of dog feces. At the exhibit was a man with silver hair and a cane. He was followed by a group of young boys and a pale, rail thin woman. Perhaps they would Wang Chung later while drinking mimosas and discussing the finer art of dog feces.

What is Wang Chung? Is it a state of mind or an action? Is it an ancient Oriental art that has been passed down for centuries from generation to generation of the chosen people? The truly enlightened?

Did Buddha Wang Chung? What about Jesus? Or was Wang Chung before his time? Can you safely Wang Chung in the street, or do you do it in private?

Probably not. If you can Wang Chung at a casino, it must not involve anything perverse.

Can children Wang Chung, or is it an adult activity? If I happened to Wang Chung at Disney World, would I be asked to leave? Or arrested?

These are the things I think about. Welcome to my mind.

I have to go now. I have to find Mickey’s Monkey who may be doing the Watusi with the Shimmy Shimmy Coco Pops.

Parenting 101: First give up your dignity.

Kids are cute. There is no way around that fact. They are drooly, pudgy masses of cuteness designed to make us love them, in a primal way, so that we do not leave them behind when we uproot our lives and move on to the next encampment where the nuts and berries are plentiful.

“Kachuk, where baby?”

”Me left at other camp because baby heavy.”

”Good idea. We got other one.”

That’s why nature makes them irresistible. Just try to tell your wife that you left the baby at the supermarket because there was no way you could fit that charcoal in the cart with the baby in there too. You have to set your priorities.

Once the baby has you firmly wrapped around her little finger, you find that your entire life is spent on meeting her needs. Be it food, comfort, sleep or entertainment. The first three are easy. If she isn’t hungry she must need to be held. If that doesn’t help, try to get her to sleep.

It’s the entertainment portion that gets tricky. After all, this is a being who has no concept of entertainment. Where Harold Lloyd may make you laugh uncontrollably, a baby will have no frame of reference. What makes a baby laugh is a mystery and, it may not work two times in a row.

Raspberries? Hilarious. For a while, but you better have more material than that. Tickling? It moves from spot to spot. It takes time to find its home on the chubby body. Funny faces? Yeah, that’s nice. But you have to have a wide repertoire. Remember, everything is new to this little mind. While it may stand to reason that fish lips will be a time-honored, hilarious gesture, the kid is seeking more challenging material. Why get stuck on fish lips when wind is cool? “Something is touching me, yet . . . nothing is touching me. Woah.”

That’s why we lose our dignity. It’s all for the sake of the kids, man. It’s all for the kids.

That’s why, for some reason, all of Gertrude’s toys have names. And we’re not talking “Blue Rattle”, no. It goes beyond that.

Our family has the following toys:
Floofy Fly
Chewy Fly
Bumpy Star
Orbit Ball
Snozzleberries
The Chronosynclastic Infandibulator
Butterfly Guy
Ladybug Guy

And on and on. If you were to come in from the outside and say, “What’s Gertrude playing with” we would genially reply, “Floofy Fly.” If you were to be hanging out, we may ask you to hand us the Chronosynclastic Infandibulator.

That you don’t understand is your own fault.

Parents, at the moment of birth, become their own mysterious culture. We have our own language. We have our own customs. We have our own relics. We even have our own music. (How many sane adults choose to listen to music by The Wiggles. None. Because you have to be insane. Having a child automatically makes you insane.)

Eventually we may have our sanity return. Perhaps by the time Gertrude hits school.

But by then, Kaitlyn will be 12.

And just the thought of Kaitlyn going through puberty, becoming interested in boys and being only four years away from a driver’s license makes me yearn for the blissful ignorance of complete, utter insanity.

We will go blogless today. Why? Well, let's just say that a cup of coffee in your file cabinet is not a good thing. All my files are brown.

I guess if I ever get tired, I can suck on a spreadsheet and get a rush.

There’s been another bombing in Israel. This time they think 20 people died.

I see these stories and feel so helpless. I can’t imagine living a life where you are terrified to ride a bus, go get pizza or let your kids play outside for fear that some ass with dynamite strapped to his body will blow everything you love up into bits.

Of course, were I a peace loving Palestinian, I’d be afraid of my kids getting run over by a tank.

It’s a horrible situation, and there is just no solution. Land for peace won’t work. At this point, I don’t think anything will guarantee peace, short of stripping everyone of his or her nationality and religion.

All these suicides and deaths in the name of “God” has gotten me thinking. What would Jesus do? This man, as well as his counterparts in Islam and Judaism is probably sitting in the Afterlife vomiting right now. Jesus will turn to Mohammad and say, “I gave them a book. It gave them instructions. We get David Koresh and Jim Jones.” Mohammed will reply, “Tell me about it. I’ve got a bunch of young kids strapping explosives to themselves or flying planes into buildings, killing and maiming in the name of Allah. I’m pretty sure I never said to do that.” Buddha probably is sitting there saying, “I ask for nothing, I receive nothing. I am at peace. Except for that Richard Gere guy. He’s screwing it up.”

How many wars have been fought in the name of God, be it God, Yahweh, Allah, etc.? How many people have killed themselves because they felt God wanted it? That God wanted them to kill others.

Look. God has plenty of ways to get rid of us, should he so choose. There are diseases, Earthquakes, floods . . . and if we continue this way, we may just be giving him reason to scrap his plans. According to the Old Testament, he’s done it before. He’ll flood the damn place and yell, “Do over!” Or he’ll just give the planet to the monkeys.

Think about the deaths cause over the millennia over religion. At their heart, these religions teach peace and tolerance. Yet, it only takes one charismatic zealot with a twisted interpretation on the doctrine and you start a group of people bent on destroying him or herself, or another group.

God doesn’t want war any more than he wanted Kurt Warner to win the Super Bowl. He has trusted us with this little blue and green orb and, in many different ways, left us with instructions. Heck, you can boil down Jesus’ teachings to “Be nice.” Judaism has a wonderful mysticism and the Muslims I’ve known, and respected, have had an enviable sense of peace.

It’s the Osama bin Ladens, David Koreshes, Jim Joneses and all those other psychotic asses who claim God wants us to hurt one another because, in essence, “I’m right. You’re wrong. Die.” The truly great men and women of religion spend their days in the trenches, with their communities and congregations, helping people heal and communicate. These men are rarely heard from because they are trying to change the world through a message of kindness and caring.

So, even though I’m sure I’ll be setting myself up for argument . . .

I propose an agnostic government. In general agnostics respect religion, but they do not have the faith in religion. They agree that there is an intelligent design behind this whole “life” thing, but they don’t know who or what did it. Many agnostics spend their lives seeking these answers, but are unsatisfied by the answer of one religion. It doesn’t sufficiently explain the universe to them. Or, they find no comfort in the religious doctrine.

Not atheists. I’m speaking of agnostics. Agnostics believe that life couldn’t possibly just be one happy accident, but they question the answers they’ve been given. They seek knowledge and understanding.

So, agnostics should run countries. They would allow all religions equal access, since it may bring solace or happiness to another. They would preach tolerance of all reasonable points of view because, at their heart, agnostics believe in being good human beings. Generally, they believe they should be good because it’s the decent thing to do, not for the promise of an afterlife, or 20 virgins. They believe that the community is important. Those extended families are the secret to our happiness. They know that loneliness is the number one killer in our world. Our coins would say, “In something we trust . . . maybe.”

Agnostics understand the flaws of human nature and would work together to find a solution. They understand there is a black and white and a gray and purple and blue and orange and polka dot . . .

Agnostics don’t have all the answers. No one does. But I can guarantee that the answer isn’t bombing the shit out of everyone around you in the name of piety.

I’m not saying religion is bad. I’m not saying any religion is bad. In fact, I envy anyone with the capacity for faith. I, for one, do not have that capacity. I fear I will never find my answers, but I find solace in the search.

What I am saying is that religion with firepower is bad.

Think about it. When was the last war fought in the name of “Something . . . maybe”?

I don’t really have anything to say today. The little sausage (Gertrude) and I slept in for a while this morning and we’re both a little groggy. For some reason, neither of us really wanted to begin the day. No reason why, really, since all we do is play, eat and mess our diapers. (Well, I clean the diapers.)

Yesterday I picked up a Boppy for her. She’s become more interested in vertical, versus horizontal, play. Unfortunately for all of us, she can only sit up for about 1/1000th of a second. The Boppy gives her the ability of not falling over. To an infant, this is a major boon to her life.

Now she can sit up and play without the fear of spilling backward and slamming her head against the floor. That little melon of hers is sensitive!

I feel I must explain the sausage bit. Gertrude has gained a chubby quality that is as adorable as it is dangerous. Her little arms have a cute little pudginess that makes you go, “Aw she’s so cuuuuuuute!” Flash forward to six am where she’ll only finish off her fitful night of sleep in bed with me, while mom gets ready for work.

That cute little pudgy arm flails about with the power of a sausage shot from an air cannon. When it goes slamming into your face, it hurts.

Last night I actually wrote something that would merit the phrase “creative writing.” I don’t know what I’ll do with it. I certainly can’t publish it here because, well . . . it’s not bloggy.

It all started when I was driving in the car listening to Steve Ward and Cherry Twister do a killer cover of McCartney’s “Another Day.” I started thinking about this woman looking into a mirror wondering if she’s pretty. Everything else formed from there.

Seriously, though, I don’t know what to do with it. It’s only about three pages long, so it couldn’t possibly be published. It’s only a vignette, so it’s not really a beginning of something larger.

I just don’t know what it is.

Ah well, this was the most useless blog I’ve ever written. Sorry about that. Tomorrow I want to discuss the differences between a state that is ruled by religion and a state that is ruled by agnostics.

I have to go now. I’ve been asked to solve the problems in the Mid East. (Mid East? Why is it called the Mid East? I’m sure the residents would call it “here.” And we don’t call the US the “Evil West.”)

I have a solution to the problem, which will clear up all the animosity that thousands of years of conflict have stirred up. It’s not a simple solution, but I think with a little faith and good judgment Sharon and Arafat will accept.

It involves cheese. No one is unhappy when they have cheese.

It’s a slow day. Quiet, rainy and slightly painful. I have this compulsion inside me to do something other than sit here and work. I want to . . . do something. What, I don’t know.

Gertrude is currently asleep, which is frightening. She slept all night long. In fact, she woke up two hours ago. This means that by 3 p.m. when I’m ready for the crash cart, she’ll be bouncing off the walls.

Tonight I have to send out reviewer letters for the textbooks I’m developing. Let’s just say that this is my least favorite portion of the process. I love working with the authors, love getting manuscript in, love processing artwork. Love turning over the manuscript and reviewing pages. Getting reviews is almost like measuring the wall you’re about to paint. Important to the end result, but doesn’t appeal to the creative instinct.

These thoughts came to me as I was writing an email (note official eMaritz spelling . . . I can't get rid of it) today.

A few weeks ago I came across the website of a local photographer who has traveled across “America’s Highway”, or Route 66, in search of the remnants of a bygone era when highway lanes could be counted on one hand and pulling off the highway didn’t always require a cloverleaf and three hours of prayer. Fewer people owned cars, teenagers rarely, and Mom and Dad held the magical powers of the combustion engine.

It’s still fun to try to find these examples of archeological significance when you’re driving. Naturally, you have to leave the interstate and drive down highways that don’t receive regular attention. Except for the periodic angry young man with a loud, thumping penis in the shape of a car zooming past you, it’s easy to forget the franchised, corporate, rarely locally owned businesses that dot the highways, and sometimes our communities.

These photos remind me of hot summer days spent in my father’s red Chevy Impala station wagon. And I mean red. There were at least six kids piled in the back, along with luggage, snacks and drinks and a pop-up camper being towed behind us. One brother would invariably be asleep, with his head resting on the back of the seat, nose pointing straight up at the ceiling. His mouth was always open when he slept.

We usually tried not to put gum wrappers in his open mouth. But it was hard not to.

We were crammed into the car as close as could be. It was summer, so we were all wearing shorts. How many of my childhood memories involve peeling my sweaty skin off of the vinyl seats of the car? How many involve peeling my skin away from that of a brother or sister? We were packed so tight that we’d often stick together. Literally.

We’d take the scenic route to our destinations. Often because a) the Interstate freaked my mother out, b) it was more relaxing, c) Dad was lost but wouldn’t admit it, or c) our destination was in the middle of nowhere. Often the destination would have some sort of historical significance. . . and a pool or a lake. Most often, a lake. Camping was the most affordable way to house up to eight kids on a vacation. Sometimes we’d meet cousins with the same predicament. Once, in Shelbyville, I think we had 140 blood relatives roaming around the campsite. When swimming, we drove off the rest of the campground. Forget the Hell’s Angels, Helen Kremsreiter’s kids and grandkids had just invaded town.

“What are you rebelling against?”

“Nothing. Do you have an Rocket Pops in the freezer?”

We’d see these dead signs, in obscura, partially hidden by trees or scrub. Most of us missed out on the days when the secret destinations lauded by these signs were flourishing. To us the Skyview 66 had the same personal significance as the great library in Alexandria. It was an ancient memory. The Skyview had more weeds.

I see fewer of these remnants these days. Either their memory has become obscured, or their physicality has. But, the truth of the matter is, I spend my time on major interstates these days.

I don’t often venture off into the road less traveled. Maybe I should.

gra·tu·i·ty
n. pl. gra·tu·i·ties
A favor or gift, usually in the form of money, given in return for service.

Got that? It’s a favor or a gift in return for a service. It is not expected, nor required. Do you understand? Now put your damn tip jar away.

Why is this the sudden rage? Everywhere you go there is a jar with a hand written note saying “Tips” pasted to it. Generally, these are counter-service related places like sandwich shops and coffee joints.

It’s always galled me that I have to tip a bartender for filling a glass with a beer. Now the pimply little bastard behind the counter of Starbucks, with his grimy “hipper-than-thou” mussed up hair and pasty white skin expects me to donate a portion of my change to him and his cohorts?

They are making coffee, for Christ’s sake. It’s a service I perform at home for free. Or, if I need coffee on the road, I can stop off at 7-11 and pour my own cup.

But, this is Starbucks, the flannel home of the disenfranchised youth and last refuge for persecuted Yuppies of old. This is special coffee. Coffee that is over-roasted and over-brewed. This is coffee that costs a buck eighty per cup. Quite the bargain, if you live in Antarctica. However, in a society where there’s a Starbucks on every corner, paying a premium for the McDonalds of the heated beverage world seems exorbitant. Add on to that an extra dime for the talents of the kid behind the counter . . . well, you have a two-dollar cup of Joe there. More than some beer. Not good beer, mind you. But at least beer makes you forget that you’re fat and ugly.

Perhaps I’m being hasty. Maybe I’m not giving enough credence to the talents of this young Barrista. This cowboy of java. Let’s review my order:

One Venti (not large . . . that’s not “cool” enough) brew of the day. No flavor other than what nature intended. A tiny bit of room for cream.

What does Starbucks boy have to do in order to seal the deal?

1. Pick up cup.
2. Place cup under spigot.
3. Pull.
4. Hold cup steady under spigot, lest he risk serious injury.
5. Release spigot.
6. Put top on coffee.
7. Press button that automatically calculates what I owe him.
8. Press button that tallies what I gave him and automatically calculates my change.
9. Hand me change.
10. Look at me with contempt when I dare put my twenty cents back into my pocket.

Elapsed time: 30 seconds. Which, I might add, he is being paid at least $5.75 per hour for.

It’s not a complicated job and he is not making his money on gratuity. He is making a decent wage. If it’s not enough to meet his bills well, get a friggin’ college education.

OH! He is getting a college education? That’s why he’s forced to work a lowly job in the service industry? Well tough crap. Take out a friggin’ loan. That’s what I did when I was in college and working a minimum wage job.

His services extended into the trained monkey range. Not to slight the work he does on more complicated fru-fru coffee drinks. Steam my milk and I’ll consider a dime tip. MAYBE.

You see, I reserve gratuities for a) skilled workers or b) true service related jobs. Not filling my coffee cup one time and ringing it up on the register. No extra mile gone. Nothing special offered to me.

This has me wondering. Perhaps I should put a tip jar on this site? How much is reading my inane ramblings worth to you?

Yeah, I wouldn’t pay me either.

Damn this movie addiction. Damn them all to Hell!

Great, even in my rebellion against movies I can’t help but quote them.

Last night I was in a fog of exhaustion and illness. My wife and the kids went to bed early. Rather than start my night fighting with sleep combined with sinus pain, I went downstairs to watch TV.

Normally, there isn’t anything on, so I thought the flickering lights would soothe me off to sleep. Wouldn’t you know it, TCM was playing a tribute to the late Billy Wilder. Within seconds, I was hooked.

Cinema lost one of the true unsung greats last week when Wilder died. Though he hadn’t made a film in decades, his brand of writing and versatile direction has been echoing through film ever since he began writing films in the thirties.

His wordplay, whether for strong drama or screwball comedy was brilliant. He had a sense of meter that few writers will ever understand. Though written rather unpoetically, Wilder’s words were beautiful, harsh and startling at times. The words he chose were the words we would choose ourselves. His characters were as flawed and inarticulate as we are, and yet these awkward speeches and dialogues would beat their way into a poetic form unlike any other.

Particularly strong was the movie that sucked me in yesterday, Some Like It Hot. Wilder took his everyman alter-ego Jack Lemmon and city-bred, sensitive tough guy Tony Curtis and transformed them into men, dressed as women who were on the lam. A simple story that shouldn’t have made it past ten minutes. Yet, when you place these young men, trying to pass themselves off as women, directly across from the raw sexuality of Marilyn Monroe . . . they don’t have a chance.

Few films can make you laugh like this one. But they followed with The Apartment, a film of such bitter-sweetness that you cannot help but cringe and laugh at the same time. On one level, the film is the painful story of a man (Lemmon again) who allows himself to be taken advantage of by his superiors in the name of getting ahead. He loans out his apartment for his boss’ marital infidelities.

But at its core is a lovely love story between a lowly secretary and a beaten down man. That the secretary is sleeping with their married boss and its Lemmon’s apartment that is used for the secret rendezvous doesn’t matter. Both characters not only forgive the others flaws, they love them. Accept them.

Without Billy Wilder we wouldn’t have Cameron Crowe or Nora Ephron or even Rob Reiner. Names that we all know who owe a great debt to the wit and wizardry of Billy Wilder.

Gertrude is finally asleep. Thank God. I’m exhausted.

Despite the fact that I took some form of NyQuil last night, I feel like crap. I didn’t sleep well and the sleep aid in the drug only served to make me feel cloudier and less alert.

My sinuses feel like two giant tennis balls, complete with fuzz. No decongestant works. Nothing makes me feel better except a washcloth dabbed in Vicks Vapo Rub. The menthol somehow soothes the irritated sinus passages. I look like someone with an ether addiction, lying on the floor with a washcloth over my face huffing the fumes.

The only other respite from pain comes from the teapot. When it starts to whistle, I stick my nostril right on the column of steam, sending searing hot water vapor traveling through my nasal passages scorching and opening up passages like Sherman marching through Atlanta.

Other than that, a nice hot cup of tea is rather soothing. Except. . . the only tea in the house my wife’s. It is tinged with all sorts of unnecessary spices, scents, fruits and flowers. A cup tastes like a steaming pot of potpourri. In the very least, my breath smells like my grandma’s apartment.

Every time I take a sip, I can’t help but think I’m ingesting the ground up bones of two of Strawberry Shortcake’s friends. Cinnamon Candy and Plora Plumbpie. They gave their lives to soothe my fevered brow.

Taking care of a baby who feels like crap while you feel like crap is impossible. Neither of us feels very cared for, so we sit together on the couch having moaning contests.

With the technical scores for timbre and length, I’m doing well. However, for sympathy and patheticness, Gertrude’s deep sighs and minimal whimpers far outweigh my gargantuan moans.

She looks so peaceful right now. I’m jealous. She’s off in slumber land while I’m stuck out here with sporting equipment shoved up my nose.

There was a time in my life when I read only Literature. Steinbeck. Faulkner. Vonnegut. Joyce (took me a while though).

If I strayed from Literature I only read cutting edge new fiction that the commentators on NPR would commend me for undertaking.

The past two years have been different. I’ve cast aside my pseudo-intellectualism for stories and novels that tickle my mind, excite my sense of adventure and let my imagination soar into lands that are yet untouched by man, or even unimagined.

They are stories of allegory and whimsy. Satire and commentary, written by authors who have one foot in the present, one foot in the future and another unnamed appendage in their imagination.

By my description, one would think I’m speaking of high literary art. And I am, but few fell that way.

I’m talking about Science Fiction. This is a genre that many people feel the need to urinate on. And, often, rightly so. There is a plethora of pastiche that is written by little boys who never grew up and feel the need to splay out their bizarre sexual fantasies that involve princesses of other worlds and imaginary animals. Men who, though they are financially wealthy, still live in their parents’ basement write them.

The Sci-Fi I’m reading is considered “hard sci-fi.” What does this mean? The stories contain technology that is either on the horizon, or should be. The best example of this is anything written by Arthur C. Clarke. Remember that space elevator I mentioned last week? Clarke’s idea. Solar sail? Clarke’s idea. A space faring propulsion system that uses water? Clarke’s idea. The communications satellite? Clarke’s idea.

This is actual science based upon real physics theories that are being expounded to day by the likes of Hawking, Barrow and Kaku. Or based on theories that were posited by the likes of Richard Feynman and are now beginning to take shape.

Using technology as a device, these books and stories look at the world we have created and what may be happening to it. They deal not with the geeky aspect of science (though that is a part), but they look at how we are reshaping the world.

Any great story is simply an allegory. Whether it is a murder mystery, romance, or science fiction, a great story can teach you something about yourself. It doesn’t matter that it takes place on a space colony or on a different planet. The characters that inhabit this imaginary world are human and, as we’ve learned so brutally, human beings never change. But their toys do.

Once upon a time the chain and mace was a weapon of mass destruction that was replaced by the catapult that was replaced by a cannon that was replaced by a missile and so on. Science Fiction merely takes a step beyond and looks at what we may do with the power we’ve discovered in the future. Often, it is as bleak picture because . . . well. . . we’re an odd damn species.

Satire, allegory, morality. These are the benchmarks of great literature. Where I once felt a pang of guilt for reading what I once considered tripe, I now feel great pride. Why? Because I have discovered something that few realize.

That Science Fiction, great Science Fiction, is a mirror of our own lives, obsessions, fears and faults. That a great story, no matter what the form, is a great story.

It is no more my fault that Piers Anthony writes juvenile tripe, as it is your fault that John Grisham writes juvenile tripe.

Paul Auster? Great modern author who has peered into our souls and writes absurd, poignant, funny stories. John Varley? Great modern author who has peered into our future and writes absurd, poignant funny stories.

But few will agree. I blame Ice Pirates.

Sorry for the lack of updates. I say that often, don't I?

I've been on full-time daddy duty. Working at night. I'd say I'm tired, but my wife would probably try to kill me. I soothe my soul by listening to Nick Cave which, by the way, only rips it open further. Found out my soul is made of saw dust. Very messy.

Let's see . . . is there anything I can update you on since my last installment?

Well, one of my authors at my freelance gig died. Figures. I'm the angel of death when it comes to authors. No matter what project I work on, someone ends up dying. They're currently making a list of all the authors they want to give me.

Easter was joyous, I suppose. I got to see Panic Room, which stars Jodie Foster, a woman whom I love. I once had a theory that she'd run away with me. Besides the fact that she's a decade older than I am, possibly a lesbian, inspired a presidential assassin, a powerful and talented movie star and MENSA smart . . . I figured it was a plausible fantasy. She never called.

I wonder why Easter has no songs to go with it. Why is it that Christmas gets all the music? I mean, if Easter marks the culmination of everything Jesus was supposed to do, isn't that a little more important than his birth? I don't want to deny Jesus his free dinner at Denny's, mind you, but I would like his work to be appreciated. The guy not only died, but he came back to life. That's not easy. Hell, Elvis didn't do that and look at all the recognition he gets. The world needs more Velvet Jesuses.

By the way, I may have said the most offensive thing of my entire life yesterday. I was thinking about Easter and Passover, the whole religious angle. So, I said, "Jesus died for your sins, but came back for the buffet." I was promptly told I was going to Hell.

What's a holiday if your soul hasn't been damned for eternity? Next I plan to ruin Memorial Day.