The Lighter Side Of My Root Canal

Admittedly, in this imperfect world, there is no lighter side to a root canal. But in order to survive mine, I feel a need to excuse myself from the reality of it all.

A few fellow cowards of my acquaintance prefer to be completely removed from reality and use nitrous oxide...laughing gas. A very stoic, very few others, meditate and work through the pain. This class of patient would never be counted among the cowards. I call this group the idiots. Me? Knowing full well the wonders of modern dentistry, I take the chicken way, seemingly the scariest way out...Novocaine. Novocaine, a long-since proven local anesthetic, itself isn't too scary...no, not at all. But that damned needle is terrifying. Still, the bottom line is, overall, it's far and away the least horrific.

In truth, both the excruciating pain and the terror are short lived. With Novocaine, one soon feels nothing. My dentist could go in through the cheek and I wouldn't feel it. (And for all I know, he has.) But a root canal. The very phrase will strike fear deep in the soul of even the most heroic Navy Seal.

In my case, the root canal wasn't the problem. I'd already suffered through it eight months ago. After a time that long, spent in therapy to erase the memory, I finally felt that I had put the horror behind me. Then I got a toothache. Worse. It seemed to be the dead one.

As it happened, the arrival of the toothache more-or-less coincided with my thrice yearly cleaning. I mentioned it to the dentist when he came in to check his hygienist's work. It was as though I had had a coronary right there in the chair. He instantly ordered a full set of x-rays and jacked my mouth open with something that resembled the jaws of life. I wanted to protest, but all that came out was "Ghach!"

It was over in minutes. The verdict? My dead tooth had become infected. He was going to have to go back in. But first, I needed to go on an antibiotic for ten days.

The assistant raised the chair. I was directed to rinse in the sink, handed a plastic bag of tooth cleaning samples and sent on my way with an unreadable prescription and an appointment for ten days hence.

I took the prescription to my local pharmacy and was a bit shaken when the pharmacist said"

"An antibiotic?"

I didn't know if he was just curious about why, or if he was asking because he couldn't read it either.

"You tell me!"

"Oh no," he replied. "I can read it. It's Clindamypimicyniminicenen."

At least that's what it sounded like. All I really got from that conversation was that it was strong stuff. What I later picked up was 30 gigantic caplets of the generic version, squeezed into what seemed like a 5 gallon Sparklett's bottle. The phrase, "Choke a horse," kept running through my mind. And the name. It could've tongue tied a Giraffe. I think it read Claptimindrolongicin. It was a bit hard to see because there were so many words squeezed into the bottom two lines of the label that most of the letters printed over each other. The important line was clear however. It read:

"Take one by mouth, three times daily." Thank God. They could've been suppositories. The instructions also said to take the pills with lots of water. Well boy howdy! Those suckers were not going to go down with just a little sip.

Now usually, these broad-spectrum antibiotics tend to mess with my system in ways I feel need no discussion here. And sadly, this batch was no exception. Let's just say I spent the next nine days in close proximity to men's rooms. I was forced to make as many as five trips a day. I considered this a blessing...better than usual.

At the end of the ten days, I had made an early appointment for the re-opening of my dead tooth's final resting place. It was so early, that the dentist's assistant, delayed in heavy traffic hadn't even made it to the office.

I entered the darkened lobby, and peered down the labyrinthine halls. All the rooms were dark, save one at the end, from which horrible moans and screams emanated to the strains of "Satisfaction." As the screams died away, a hulking figure in a surgical mask emerged from the room. It spoke in a distinctly Carpathian dialect, it's voice resonating menacingly down the hall in my direction.

"Ah. Meester Weinstein. Velcome. Pardon the darkness of the hallvays. The rest of mein shtaff haff not arrived as yet and I don't know vere all the svitches are. Please, come this vay. I shall put you in room two."

Okay. Maybe my imagination was getting the better of me there. The man was from Thousand Oaks. But I swear it was spooky.

He settled me into room two, a foreboding cavern filled with machines straight out of the 1931 version of Frankenstein. He instructed...no, commanded me to relax while he finished up with the patient in room one. No more sounds came from the other room until I heard a loud thump, like the sound of a side of beef hitting the floor. Then, there was this scraping noise...as though someone was dragging something, maybe as big as a body. I laughed at myself. I knew it was my imagination. But the noise got the better of my curiosity and turning to see what was behind me, I glimpsed what looked suspiciously like the last few inches of a lawn and leaf bag disappearing along he floor, past the doorway.

Presently, the dentist re-entered in the room, wiping something red from his hands with a golf towel. He told me that first he wanted to get another x-ray to see how much of the infection I still might have. He then jammed this gadget into my mouth, telling me it was to hold the x-ray film. It looked like it was designed to pinch off the circulation in a dog's groin. It felt worse than that.

Walking over to the console that controlled the x-ray machine, he began twiddling dials in a seemingly random fashion. I began to ask him why the controls weren't preset at the factory, but the groin-grabber hurt when I tried to move my mouth. So, being a pragmatic sort, I decided he was the doctor and he knew what he was doing and I had better calm down and let him do his job.

Then he turned to a box, from which protruded a cone-shaped tube. This particular torture device was mounted on a menacing-looking scissors arm, attached to a metal beam on the wall. It looked like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe novel...with a cannon on the end.

He lifted the thing from its berth on the wall and aimed the cone squarely at my cheek. Then he picked up a lead-lined, leather chest protector and put it on himself. I wanted to say:

"Shouldn't I be wearing that?"

But the x-ray film digging into the side of my tongue made it come out like: "Hounher?"

He clipped a napkin around my neck with an alligator clip chain and stepped from the room. I heard a click and a benign buzz. I wanted to feel re-assured, but glancing left, I could swear that my entire jaw was momentarily projected on the far wall of the room. Then, it was over. He came back in, hung up the chest-protector and with a little maneuver that is best described as inhumane, removed the film from my mouth. Then he disappeared into the bowels of the office as silently as the Tooth Fairy...the bad one. Minutes later, he returned and triumphantly announced that he had cured the infection. I don't know what he meant by that. I was the one who had to valiantly shove pills the size of mangoes down my throat thrice daily. Still, the upshot was that I was healthy enough to be drilled out. But first I had to be numbed.

"But isn't my tooth already dead? Isn't the root gone? Why do I need to be numbed."

"I expect to go deeper than man has ever gone before. I just want to save you the discomfort, if I...shall we say...strike a nerve?"

Then he cackled a most unnerving cackle. I was very afraid, but weighing the pain of the needle against the hellfire of deep exploration, I chose the former.

First, he did something unexpected. he soaked a cotton swab in some tasty fluid and stuck it into my mouth next to the infected area.

"Tastes like licorice doc. What is it?"

"Oh it's just some Aniset...to numb your gums so the needle won't hurt much. We'll give it a minute or two." Then he left the room.

Much. The word cut like a machete through over-ripe sugar cane. And Aniset? No doubt some kind of slow-acting poison. I'd probably be the next lawn and leaf bag dragged away.

A minute or two later, I realized I had no tongue. The fiend had removed it while I wasn't looking. I'd have given him a severe tongue lashing about it, but, well you know.

It must have been a side-effect of the Aniset. It made me complacent. He had me open my mouth, and I complied with no argument. Of course, any arguments would have sounded like: "Grouhungh."

I felt a sharp pain that ran from my ankles to my ear-lobes. Then after a moment, another. But this one stretched only from my knees to my carotid artery. Then I discovered that I no longer had a face. I felt nothing...nothing at all. It was as though I had died and gone to anesthesia heaven. And my heart filled with the warm afterglow of having survived the shots. I would never, ever feel pain again. I just knew it. But I would know fear!

In my mellowed out state, I didn't even care that he had picked up a tool designed for tree root removal from four inch drain lines. It was a slow-moving device that made a sound inside my head like nails scraping on a chalkboard from within.

Oddly, between the rounds of drilling, I discovered that I had regained the power of speech. Though just as the pharmacist was the only one who could read the prescription, only the dentist could understand me. I couldn't even understand me. I just knew what I was going to say. It all came out like. "Fluhingterumblip."

At one point, I guess to show that he could be regular guy, the dentist began to tell me about an old Carol Burnett show skit, in which Tim Conway was a hysterical apprentice dentist who kept accidentally injecting himself with Novocaine. I remembered it, and politely asked that he not drill until he stopped laughing. His laugh was infectious, despite the antibiotic and I soon found myself chortling and drooling all over the napkin on my chest.

Soon, all laughed out, he began drilling again in earnest. He kept stopping to see if he'd gotten all the old filling out, but it was being stubborn. He kept switching to increasingly wider drill bits. Finally, he got one that could've dug the Chunnel. He said: "I just need to make it a bit wider."

I replied in my dentally challenged way: "Any wider and ships could pass through it."

A bit more drilling. Then, a probe was dispatched down into the tooth, along a main artery and finally, with a mighty tug, the last plug of filling was popped from somewhere near my heel.

All that remained was for some medicine, a temporary filling and I could go home.

I asked him what the medicine was and he told me it was formaldehyde.

"Isn't that what they preserve dead bodies with?"

"Your tooth is dead."

"But..."

"It won't kill you. It'll just kill any lingering infection."

"Are you sure? Because as I see it, killing me will also kill the infection."

"True. But killing you won't pay the patient portion of my bill."

For some reason, I felt much better. He squirted enough formaldehyde into my tooth to preserve my entire torso. Then, he mixed up a batch of this rubbery goo to fill the tooth.

By now, Igor, his assistant and Brunhilda, the receptionist had arrived and the lights came on all over the office. He took the napkin away and told me to go to the sink and rinse. I still couldn't feel anything, and kept looking in the mirror to see if I actually had a mouth.

Satisfied that all the obvious parts were intact, I rinsed and drooled, rinsed and drooled and pretty soon felt much better. A tiny bit of feeling was beginning to return to my face. Unfortunately, the feeling was a phantom itch. In the next half hour, I nearly clawed off my chin trying to get at an itch that couldn't be scratched.

As I re-entered the hallway, I saw the streaks lining his decorator wall-coverings. I couldn't detect a pattern repeat so indicative of wallpaper. And it was blood red! I thought of that poor soul who had the appointment before me. There but for the grace of God...

I left the office quickly and went straight to Starbucks for a double cap. It felt good going down, that which made it past the dead pieces of chicken liver posing as my lips. When I got to work, I had drooled away more than half a vente. I guess I just had a single cap in all. But now, the feeling in my face had pretty much returned. My jaw hurt again and my chin was nearly bloody and raw.

I walked into the office. Our receptionist took one look at me and said: "How'd the dental appointment go?"

I was about to ask her how she knew. But I quickly realized that I had drooled half a cup of coffee on my shirt and my face looked like it had been etched with acid.

"Pretty well."

"Well. Do you have another one? I can put it in the book and remind you about it like I did this one. Oh. And did you know you spilled coffee on your shirt?"

I mumbled something like a yes and handed her my appointment card. I had a week to prepare.
That night, I examined my mouth in the bathroom mirror. When I was satisfied that I had survived the procedure for now. I flicked off the bathroom light. My head glowed.

The Witch's Hat

Jock Prattle was slumped over in his chair, snoozing face-down on the desk, when a witch walked into his office.

“Jock! Jocko! Tie one on over lunch again?”

Jock stirred, struggling to sit up in the chair. As he did so, his elbow bumped an empty bottle which formerly held a fifth of scotch. The bottle tipped and teetered on the edge of the desk before diving headlong, to be greeted by the linoleum floor and oblivion.

The crash did the trick. Jock was awake...unhappy and hung over, but awake. As his vision cleared, he saw his tormentor. She was pretty typical as witches go; black hat that resembled a traffic cone with a hair lip, covering long scraggly black hair with a couple shocks of gray woven in. A wart the size and shape of a black olive protruded from the side of her corpse-green nose and tattered brown robes draped loosely from her shoulders to her knees. One non-traditional anomaly, was that the horizontally striped socks emerging from beneath the robes rooted in a pair of pink Reeboks. Also, stuck to her robes was a greeting tag. It read: “Hi. I'm Hilda.”

“Fletcher's out for blood. You missed the conference call with Toronto.”

“I told you to call me when it happened,” groaned Jock.”

“I called you. I shook you. A nuclear blast wouldn't have awakened you.”

“Where's Fletcher now?”

“Meeting. I'm taking off early...going to a Halloween party.”

“I'd never have guessed.”

“What are you going to do about Fletcher?”

“Take off early. Got a Halloween party.”

Hilda shook her head with a mixture of pity and disgust, turned and left the room.

The sentiment wasn't entirely lost on the still foggy Jock, who managed a retort...albeit weak and unworthy of an ad agency creative director..

“Love you in green!”

His legs still wobbly, Jock struggled to his feet and managed crossing to the office door where his rumpled jacket dangled. Reaching for the jacket, he stumbled, grabbed a sleeve and tore the hapless garment off the coat hook, ripping the hook from the door in the process. His head pounding, he looked at his jacket, saw that he had torn the collar and tossed it aside. Holding onto the door handle for stability, he peered out furtively, saw no sign of Fletcher and skulked out of the office.

For the next few hours, Jock enjoyed the company of the like-minded, at the aptly-named “Wild Things” bar, where Halloween skeletons and spider webs adorned the walls and peanut shells littered the floor. Music blared a bit too loudly and people shouted to be heard. Demons and sirens mingled with vampires and super-heroes. A grim reaper busily chatted up a French maid. A headsman showed off his double-bladed ax to a buxom visitor from another star. A coven of witches at one end of the bar downed mugs of witches' brew from the well and scanned the scene for hot guys dressed as, well...anything. The whole place was happily engaged in the age-old search for a piece of non-demonic tail.

Jock occupied a small booth, with a kitty and some sort of slug, holding court for passers-by who knew him as a regular. And through it all, he just got drunker. But even several sheets to the wind, Jock knew that he had to get home to make sure the house was dark. The last thing he wanted was to be overrun with trick-or-treaters. He didn't have any candy and he didn't want a bunch of kids asking for it.

Jock headed for the parking lot. Plastered as he was, driving home shouldn't have even been on the table, but universally, drunks have little sense. As he passed the entrance to the lot, a temporary sign caught his eye. It read: “Parking For Witches Only...Violators Will Be Toads” He grinned. The sign was his idea and it got him free drinks for a week. He reached in his pants pocket and pulled out his car's remote. Pressing it, he saw lights flash a few rows down and heard the familiar honk of his Boxster. As he arrived at the car, suddenly the whole world went awry. Jock spun around and collapsed face-up on the hood.

When he woke up again, Jock was staring in the face of evil. It was Lucifer himself, except that this particular Lucifer seemed genuinely concerned with Jock's welfare.

“You okay pal? I saw you kinda twist around and faint.”

“I didn't...Why am I lying on my car?”

“Like I said...”

“Uh thanks. I'm much better now. Jeez. Hope I didn't scratch the paint.”

“Nah. Paint looks okay. Sure you are?”

“Um. Guess I tripped. Yeah. I'm sure. Uh. Happy Halloween.”

“Okay. Happy Halloween.”

And the Devil sprinted off after his companions...Mary Poppins and a Bag of M&M's. Jock climbed into the Boxster, started it, gunned the engine and with little thought as to who or what might be around the next bend, drove off at high speed, bottoming out as he left the driveway. Making matters worse, he had a flask in the glove compartment and no clue that he had a drinking problem.

Jock was within a half mile of home when he had drained the flask. It was only then that he noticed the small evil things...and the heroes and ballerinas. They were scampering all over the place, accompanied by vigilant parents. There was this year, an abundance of ogres and rats, but that little statistic went unnoticed by Jock. All he cared about was avoiding the little monsters. Rather than slowing and being cautious, Jock took to swerving around the kids as parents yelled at him and gestured in some most un-parently ways. Jock swung a left into an alley. Thankfully, for everyone involved, there were no kids in sight. He would just head the rest of the way home along here.

The Boxster shot down the alley, playing chicken with the groups of garbage cans dotting one side, then the other. As Jock closed to within a block of his house, something swooped down in front of the car. It was a Crow. Crows were a problem in the neighborhood because of the Walnut trees. They cracked open the walnuts by dropping them on driveways and the cars parked on them. And that was by far, the more benign of the stuff that they dropped on the cars. They were fearless and taunted drivers by hopping in front of cars and always escaping at the last second. Jock hated them. And the flask of old No. 7 just stoked the fire. He began chasing this one. It was a big sucker. And it zoomed ahead of him weaving back and forth like a Formula One car. But he was in a Boxster. Zero to Sixty in 5.7 seconds. He down-shifted, wound it up to six K, popped the clutch and in a few seconds, heard the satisfying thump of Crow to bumper. He didn't even care if he scratched the paint.

Jock stopped the car and walked back to see his kill. What he found shook him to his very core. There wasn't any crow. Instead, there was a tall black, conical hat, bent in the middle, a black robe, and a broom! Jock's first thought was that he had killed someone in a Halloween costume. But there was no body and no blood, just a witch's outfit! He'd killed a costume! But that didn't make any sense, not even drunk He had to be the victim of an elaborate prank and it frightened Jock considerably...at least at first. He begrudgingly admitted to himself, some slight admiration for the prankster. The joke had style.

He picked up the costume, tossed it in the car and climbed back in. As he started to pull away, the broom levitated. Jock was so startled, he slammed on the brakes and nearly flew through the windshield since he hadn't bothered to belt himself in. As though it had a mind of its own, the broom tested first one window with a hard tap, then spun and repeated the action on another and yet another. Finally, with a mighty thrust, it tore a hole in the car's convertible top and flew up into the air. Jock watched in awe as the broom, illuminated by the full moon, flew a hundred feet above him, in a tightening spiral, eventually twirling in place. Suddenly, it vanished in a flash of unearthly light.

Jock knew that he'd had enough. It was time to hit the hay. But as sobering a sight as a broom flying from his car had to be, he remained pretty impaired. As he turned into his driveway, he hit the mailbox. It fell off it's post, landing upside down on the lawn. His address, 1999, now read 666, the number one, having flown off entirely from the impact. Jock didn't care. He slammed the car door and headed inside. He never made it. A pumpkin, stolen from a neighbor's porch, was smashed on Jock's driveway. Jock stepped on it and slipped on the melted wax inside. His leg flew up and he fell, hitting his head on a sprinkler. His final thought as he went down was: “Not again!”

Jock's vision cleared to a bizarre sight...torches. He was lying flat on his back and all he could see was torches and dirt...dirt with roots protruding from it. He sat up, realizing that wherever he was, it wasn't home. Looking around, he could see that he was in an earthen chamber with a dirt floor. It seemed to be hollowed out from within and had no apparent openings. Jock had no idea how he got in or how he'd get out. So far, he wasn't worried. And that worried him. Another thing...he wasn't the least hung over. That seemed wrong. Off in the distance, he could hear what seemed to be muffled moans and screams...but from where? Then he noticed the stench. It was every awful smell he'd ever smelled or imagined. And it was seeping into the chamber. As awful as they were, they also didn't seem to bother him. And that seemed wrong too. What was going on? Was this another elaborate prank? It wouldn't be long before he regretted the questions.

After a time, a section of the chamber wall vanished. It was very subtle. There was no rumbling, no dirt falling. The wall was there, then it wasn't. Where the wall had stood, a coiled serpent lay. It seemed to be an unholy cross between a snake and a crocodile. Also, it spoke, calling Jock's name. For some reason, that didn't surprise Jock at all. What he fixed on was the sound of it's voice.

“Lousy stereotype,” Jock thought derisively. “I'd fire the guy who came up
with the hissing voice if I was the boss here.”

“Well you're not,” replied the serpent, as though he'd read Jock's thoughts.

“I didn't say anything, he replied.”

“You didn't have to. There are no secrets in Hell, save the Master's own.”

“Oh God is this the lamest nightmare ever?”

Without warning, the serpent let out a gigantic exhale of searing flame which surrounded Jock and burned off most of his clothes. His skin was charred like barbecued chicken. It hurt terribly, but again, for some reason, though he knew it, he didn't actually feel it. Then the serpent bent down nose-to-nose with Jock.

“Don't ever utter that word again!”

“Word?”

The serpent hesitantly rolled its eyes heavenward, its expression scarcely masking a terrible fear of something. Jock saw it, but had no idea what to make of it. Certain he was in a lucid nightmare, Jock assumed a cocky posture, strolling behind the coils of the monster. The sight that next met Jock's eyes momentarily took his breath away. Writhing in boiling pools of indescribable sludge were people, or what used to be people. There were untold millions of them...billions! The scene stretched as far as Jock could see, and he presumed, many times farther. Plumes of fire randomly burst forth from the muck.

“Are you ready to take your place amongst the damned?”

Quickly regaining his swagger, Jock replied in his usual manner.

“I was kinda hoping for something with an ocean view.”

Before Jock could gauge the serpent's reaction, he found himself under water, caught in a tangle of kelp, with sharks ripping off chunks of his burned flesh. He couldn't hold his breath very long and just as his lungs were about to burst, he was back in the chamber and whole again. The boiling sea of souls was gone, as was the serpent.

A point of light appeared in the distance. The light grew in size and took on form. It was The Master, an enormous demon, dozens of meters tall and with a body that continually morphed from one hideous monstrosity into another.

“Do you run this place?”

“I run everything!”

“Oh no! I know who runs everything,” said Jock, glancing Heavenward.

“And you think HE has dominion here? No! HE runs Heaven. Hell is my territory,” said the Master, suddenly morphing into a gooey parody of a 1920's mob boss.

“But I gotta admit, you kinda remind me of me. I like arrogant.”

The sea of boiling souls appeared from nowhere behind the Master.

“I can't stand those wimps,” it said, gesturing over its shoulder at the soul soup.

Randomly several souls exploded in fireballs across the Hellscape..

Blobs of seared flesh and sinewy bone fragments landed around the Master and all over Jock. Creatures whose description no sane mortal could comprehend and whose visages defied classification, congregated at the hooves of the Master. All were covered in the vilest goo, and all smelled awful beyond compare. At a nod from the Master, they began to gorge themselves on the rotting flesh lying about. A few picked off the remnants that were stuck to Jock. He recoiled at their touches. They devoured the seared flesh with such relish that nothing could have stopped their feeding frenzy. Nothing, that is, save any sound from the Master. It cleared it's throat and the beasts froze, mid-chew.

“An error has been made,” the Master said. “This soul should not yet be here.”

The assembled monsters and demons all appeared confused in their own ways.

“No one dies from clonking their head on a sprinkler!”

The beasts groveled their assent. The Master turned back and addressed Jock.”

“Jock Prattle! You shall be returned to the world of the living until it is your time. But we are keeping our eye on you.”

Jock awakened, weak and groggy, on the ground outside his house in a small pool of dried blood. He got to his feet and shuffled to his front porch. The Jack O' Lantern over which he'd tripped was whole and on the porch rail, a candle burning within.

“What a nightmare! I gotta lay off the booze!”

As Jock unlocked the door and went inside. the pumpkin's eyes followed him. He flipped up the light switch...only darkness. He spun around, talking to the room itself.

“Great! What now?”

“Surprise,” howled out an unearthly chorus.

The room...his very world, had vanished. He again stood in the earthen chamber, before the Master of Hell and the creatures that did his bidding.

“Oh God. I'm still in the nightmare.”

“Don't EVER say HIS name. And you're not in any nightmare. You are stone-cold dead...and on my turf. So bow before me puny mortal and receive my judgment!”

Jock began to tremble. But he gained control of his emotions, even as the power of the Master's command drove him to his knees.

“But I thought you were returning me to the world of the living. You said a mistake had been made. You said it wasn't my time!”

“I was messing with you. I can do that.”

“What?”

“I lied.”

“But...”

The Master raised a foreclaw and clenched it into a fist. Simultaneously, Jock's mouth sealed itself tightly.

“I weary of the game, Jock Prattle. You are accused of a crime. And while your transgression has no actual significance here since I can patch up the witch with a mere gesture, it is none-the-less a violation of the laws of Hell. And if it is not, I hereby make it so.”

As though with one voice, the demons and monsters growled their enthusiastic assent.

“Therefore, since I just love to make the punishment fit the crime...well, not the severity, but the irony. I have decided that for deliberately killing a witch...Yeah yeah. You thought it was a Crow! Look big fella. Lots of Crows work for me too. You lose either way. So for killing a witch, my judgment...oh this is juicy...is that for all eternity, you shall be a Witch's Hat. And no. It's not what you think.”

As Jock's eyes widened in a mixture of fear and utter confusion, the Master curled its lip and it was all over. Everything and everyone vanished, including Jock.

A few weeks later, the full impact of the Master's pronouncement finally struck home with Jock. And it did so in the form of a very heavy SUV driven, ironically, by a drunk. It dragged him, screaming and shredding his body for half a mile. Of course, no one could hear the scream except Jock. After all, who really listens to the sounds made by a traffic cone under the axle of a car? Who among mere mortals is even aware that a bright orange Witch's Hat may house a damned soul?

Results Of A Study Of The Migratory Pattern Of The North American Male Hair Follicle

It has long been assumed that a significant percentage of the male population in North America suffers a condition described as male-pattern baldness. Conventional wisdom and generally unscientific observation bears this out.

However, conclusions reached after a 23 year study by the Western Hair Institute for Protein Development, (WHIPD) which analyzed the percentage of body weight in hair by men, has arrived at a surprisingly different result. As men age, the hair atop their heads only "seemingly" recedes. Men do not go bald! Their follicles migrate...in a southward direction...relative to the cranium, to be precise.

In actuality, the mechanism by which follicles relocate to other parts of the body, is driven by gravity. Simply put, this is due in large part to those parts being closer to the ground and therefore more affected by gravitational forces. Just as the skin of males and females alike tends to stretch with aging, so too, after a fashion, does hair. Though for hair, the "Sag" is actually relocation on the host body.

With women, the effect is less pronounced. The hair on their heads tends to thin slightly and a small amount of it is displaced to the upper lip. The skin sag is more noticeable however, particularly in the chest area, under the eyes and on those areas identified as being cellulite prone.


For men, the skin sag is most noticeable in the abdominal area and while there is speculation about a connection to male E.D., this is thus far, just that. Clinical studies are underway and may yield results of a connection in a few years. Lest this discourse wander too far afield from point, back to follicles.

For the North American male Homo Sapiens, (The study may apply across all regions and ethnic groups, but the study was confined to the North American sub-continent only.) Hair migration begins at different ages for virtually everyone involved. This would be the genetic component.

The less significant environmental component has more to do with how much hair goes, and to where. In the northern portions of the sub-continent, the migration southward of cranial hair is more significant and is even accelerated during the colder. winter months. This is roughly analogous to other species growing winter coats. It has been documented that in these regions, during the winter, a greater amount of hair migrates to the groin area. It has been theorized that this is an environmentally actuated effect dating back to prehistoric times when snowball fights invariably led to large quantities of frozen water in the caveman's animal-skin loin cloth. Cave paintings in northern Minnesota, like those in the Pyrenees provide pictographic evidence of these battles. The natural human response to snow down the pants is to cry out. Thus, this admittedly controversial point of view, has been deemed the "Ooohmagooolees Theorem."

The farther to the South the study tracks, the less significant the relocation of the lower follicles. However, in this region, nasal, ear and even facial hair is viewed as generally thicker. In the past, this was called the "Hillbilly Effect." Although for the purposes of the study, and to satisfy federal requirements concerning political correctness, it has been renamed "Hog-Holler Syndrome."

One anomaly that has cropped up in the analysis of the study reflects an out sized statistic. Within the Hog-Holler group, the amount of hair that migrates Earthward is significantly greater than that which disappears from the top of the head.

There is no shortage of theories to explain the differential. These range from a scientifically un-provable corollary to Einstein's theory of general relativity to several that run a gamut from preposterous to plausible. The one that is most widely accepted, though less elegant and profound than some of the others is the "Hair grows in dirt like a plant," theory. This grew out of an old wives' tale told by mothers to recalcitrant children who wouldn't wash their ears. As the tale goes: "If you don't wash out your ears, potatoes will grow in them." The theory is that hair will grow in dirty ears and nostrils. And while the evidence mounts supporting the validity of this concept, no full scientific study has, as of this writing, been undertaken to substantiate the assumptions.

One thing that has been substantiated is that the older the study participant, the further south the body hair travels. A man who was officially 107 years old at the close of the study presented a significant amount of grey hair growing out of his feet, some even between the toes. (Although, anecdotally, this has been discounted because the researchers involved were not certain if the hair was actually hair or merely sock lint.)

Further this decrepit example of manhood had virtually no hair above the knees. Photographs showing his calves and feet looked as though he wore muck-lucks. Yet, it is documented that he was barefoot. Computer extrapolations of the trends supported by the data draw to a disturbing conclusion. That conclusion states that as medical science extends the human life-span, all male hair will eventually settle around the foot by the age of 132.

New devices for the trimming and shaving of pedal extremity hair will have to be devised. A joint task force, supported by the Schick, Gillette, Norelco and Remington companies are studying the engineering challenges involved in such a technical advance.

Also, medical remedies involving topical exfoliates in combination with cranial follicle transplantation and/or stimulation are being explored.

The scientific community awaits the results eagerly.

A Friend Of The Family

I have found my true calling. And I'm raking it in, hand over fist. I always knew I was a pretty good public speaker. At one time I was touring the lecture circuit, collecting honorariums equal in a week to what many earn in a year.

But the constant travel, the living out of suitcases, the dining in expensive restaurants and the entertaining (heads of state, celebrities...university faculty) was beginning to wear on me. Also, my family was clamoring for more attention. Never mind that my children were enrolled in the finest schools...that my wife had nearly a servant for every room in the house, and she could spend hours daily on the charities I founded to occupy her free time. My family wanted more of ME. And being the kind of person I know myself to be, I could understand why.

I decided to downsize. No, not the house or any of our hard-earned creature comforts. I downsized the speaking engagements. It all happened in what I would describe as an evolutionary manner. Some several years back, I was called upon by the bereaved widow of an old and dear friend, to deliver the eulogy at her husband's funeral.

I told the widow I was honored to be asked, and of course, accepted. After all, I knew that my presence on the dais would lend an emphatic underscore to this dear old friend's life. I was going to tell the stories of how he and I (at my urging of course) used to volunteer to feed the homeless. I would recount how we went into the Red Cross during a blood shortage and gave multiple pints each. (He gave two...I, the more robust of the pair, gave four.) I would speak, in tears, of how he took a bullet trying to save a dying soldier in Viet Nam and how I then had to pull him to safety, taking one myself in the process. These were the vivid, life-affirming stories I would tell about my old friend. I knew hearing these stories about her husband would make my old friend's loving widow happy. And I was happy for her.

But then the old biddy threw me a curve. She wanted me to tell funny stories about him. She didn't want his funeral to lament of a wonderful life, lost. She wanted a tacky celebration of the quirkiness that made her dear departed funny...and in her demented old mind, special. Being the soul of diplomacy, I smiled warmly and of course, accepted the challenge.

But deep down, I seethed. How dare she request I demean my old friend? The things that were funniest about him would also make him out to be, dare I say it, a fool. I had to be careful to avoid that path. I undertook to craft a speech that would be both funny and uplifting. It was a difficult task, for if truth be known, my old friend was a bit of a dimwit. Still, as I stressed over each and every syllable, I began warming to the idea. Not because the old coot was all that funny, but because with the proper turn of a phrase, I could make him seem so. I actually began giggling as I read my speech into the mirror. This was funny stuff!

I wouldn't tell the assembled mourners that he couldn't cook. I'd tell them of the time he boiled water to make hard boiled eggs and neglected to add the eggs. And then, while they were laughing at that, I would tell them how in a fit of pique, he tossed out the boiled water and began heating another pot to make coffee. I'd relate how when I questioned what he was doing, he replied that the first pot was "Egg water." He was now making "Coffee water." Before too long, I had constructed a eulogy that would have them rolling in the aisles. And you know, it did.

One gentleman at the funeral came up to me afterward and told me he'd like me to deliver the eulogy at his funeral. I pointed out to him in the gentlest way possible that he was still alive. When he told me he was suffering a terminal illness, what could I do? I humbly accepted. Over the next few months, he sent me various snippets about his life that were...unfunny.

But I didn't hold 4 honorary chairs in literature for nothing. In my hands, his Christmas eve picketing of a union busting ex-employer became a warm and cherished memory of he and his pals burning paper doll effigies of their ex-boss over an oil-drum and waiting for Santa. His battle with a landlord became a hysterical anecdote about pancakes covering the lawn of the man's home, neatly tooth-picked into the earth. And his brush with death in an airline crash landing, morphed into an entertaining anecdote about what not to do when the plane comes down with no landing gear.

He was thrilled, and insisted I take a small payment for all my work. I refused of course. A couple of months later, I was called by the man's nephew. His uncle had passed on. Would I come a deliver the eulogy I had authored. How could I refuse? I did so, on an dreary afternoon. But inside the chapel, it might as well have been warm and sunny. The assemblage had tears streaming down their cheeks. They were not tears of anguish,but tears of joy. When it was all over, several mourners left complaining of severe aches in their sides from laughing.

I began to get more calls. I had to refuse many, because I was still travelling to lecture. But as I was getting off the plane in Sandusky, Ohio, for a lecture to a group of lobbyists, my cell phone rang.

I am not easily startled. But this call took me by surprise. I was actually speechless for a brief moment. The old man's attorney...You will recall, I declined remuneration from him...was infoming me that I had been named in his will. In fact, I was named as his sole beneficiary. I had inherited 23 million dollars.

But there was, the lawyer continued, a complication. The old man's family (all nieces and nephews) were challenging the will. I infomed the lawyer that, of course, I happened to agree to a large extent with the family's point-of-view. After all, it is not in my generally altruistic nature to be a predator, else I too would have become an attorney. I told the lawyer to negotiate an equitable five way split for the four plaintiffs and myself. I made the old man's family happy...and after all, that's what I am really about. After legal fees, inheritance taxes and various and sundry items I won't go into, I made nearly three million dollars. And all because I did what came naturally to me. I performed a selfless act for a fellow human being.

It was at this point that I cancelled my lecture tour and decided that the time was at hand to go into a new line of work. I became a Eulogizer. For a small honorarium, I would travel (locally only) and deliver stirring, usually hilarious, speeches about the dear departeds. Sometimes I might do four in a day.

I held my captive audiences spellbound. Each and every eulogy led to inquiries for perhaps dozens more. I would simply hand my card to whomsoever inquired and they would contact me later. I called myself simply, "A Family Friend ." My phone rang off the hook. You'd be surprised how many people might cash in their chips within 50 miles of my home every week.

But as fine a writer as I am, (and the large wall dedicated to my numerous awards silently attests to that) I found that my, you should pardon the expression, "Deadlines," grew more and more tightly spaced as the business expanded. I began to take shortcuts. I recycled some of the older material...going to the trunk, so to speak. No one seemed to notice. As long as I peppered the speech with a few truths about the departed, I could say just about anything I wanted and the audiences would laugh. After all, it was all in good, clean fun.

Then one day, I left the speech on my desk at home. I was too far along to go back. I would have been late for the funeral and the deceased is the only one allowed to be "late" at a funeral. I had to recall what the man's life was about as I drove to the cemetery. And when I stepped to the podium, I spoke extemporaneously. I winged it.

I knew he had himself been widowed four times. His fifth wife was left a widow. So, I strongly intimated...in fact, all but accused him of being a womanizer! The audience burst into raucous laughter. He owned a restaurant. So I made up a story about how one day the Health Department shut him down for unsanitary conditions, and how he fought back by sending a meal to that same department, made from day-old food. They howled. I even recycled some Catskills resort humor by paraphrasing an old Henny Youngman joke. I said that on my last visit to the hospital, I found my friend...(They are always my friend.)...kneeling beside his bed praying to the Almighty. I told them I overheard him saying: "Dear Lord...Take my wife...Please!" His widow was so grateful to me for "getting" the essence of her husband, that she doubled my fee.

It began to sink in that no one speaks ill of the dead. And that's the whole point. If they know you're going to say something funny, they'll laugh at the punchline, no matter what it is. At the next funeral, I delivered the occasional phrase in Spanish. They laughed anyway. Why? Because they were supposed to.

The very next day, I observed that the woman being laid to rest in a graveside service had been a prostitute during the Korean conflict and that her two sons were illegitimate. They loved the story. None of it was true. But neither boy actually knew their father. He had died a soldier's death in that very war, and they just naturally assumed from my eulogy that their mother had always protected them from the truth.

So, now I have a staff of writers who flesh out the information that families provide me with. My chauffeur drives me from cemetery to cemetery on a daily basis and I edit and memorize my speeches en route. But, of late, I've grown a bit weary of the grind. And I have all these filing cabinets chock full of great material.

I'm thinking of going to an open mike night at a comedy club and trying out my material on the living. Who knows? Maybe I'll be the next big thing in standup.

Robot Parts?

Gentlemen and Ladies:

It has been predicted that over the next decade or perhaps two, robots in the home and at the workplace will become commonplace, even ubiquitous. It will require enormous amounts of resources to build and maintain these labor-saving devices.

The irony should not go unnoticed, that it will take humans to service the robots, so that they in turn, can take a load off humans. Of course, we could build service-specific robots whose sole function it would be to repair robots in need of fixing. But who or what would fix them? It could be vicious cycle.

When a robot finally clanks its last clank, it will be recycled into a new, more efficient version of itself. That is, unless we, idiotic humans make it from materials that are difficult to recycle or design obsolescence into the things like we do with cars.


But these aren't insurmountable issues. The big one...the one over which I mull constantly, is what do we do with robotic waste? We are already designing organically-based light emitting diodes for televisions and organically based processors for computers.

As this trend continues and inevitably expands, we are likely to see computers and their mobile counter-parts, robots, commencing rudimentary metabolic processes akin to those of lower life forms. As robots "Evolve," so too will their metabolic processes. Even a robotic sensor can see where this will lead. We may have to design entirely new septic systems to accommodate robotic organic waste unless we are willing to share our commodes with the electric help. Will their shiny metal behinds scratch the paint on our toilet seats? The future approaches, riddled with questions for which there are not as yet answers.


I have to proposed to the National Science Foundation that a study be undertaken to determine what form the disposal of robot waste products shall take. But the government is typically unwilling at this point to address the issue. Privately, more than a few of those who would not take a public stance have expressed their opinions that this is a serious issue. However, the current administration has, ostensibly for now, tabled any discussion. I suspect that this is because those automatons in the administration would rather spend their dollars for pork than to plan for the future.


Therefore, it falls to private industry to puzzle out a solution to this problem before it becomes a reality. Which is why I am appealing to you, the American Society of Plumbing Manufacturers and Contractors to privately fund a research project on the proper way to dispose of robot refuse. Given the various toxic and non-toxic power sources robots will use and use up, we must be prepared to dispose of them all in a safe, economically feasible and environmentally sound fashion. I await your response.

Klaatu Barado Nikto,

Gort

To See And Be Seen

The concept of invisibility. A familiar theme in both science fiction and fantasy has long been something of a holy grail. "The Invisible Man" caused his body to become transparent by means of the injection of a secret formula. He was unable to reverse the condition and was made mad in the process. The Romulans of "Star Trek" unnerved the galaxy with their cloaked ships. "Rocky Jones Space Ranger," back in the in 1950's, used the novel, "Cold Light" to make his ship, the Silver Moon unseen. Harry Potter used a magic cloak to achieve a similar end. And in an intuitive take on what science is actually attempting today, the 1980's film, "Predator," introduced an alien camouflage suit.

Modern-day optical and materials scientists are experimenting with what they call "Metamaterials." These exotic and largely theoretical compounds will capture and bend light around the shapes they envelop so that the viewer effectively sees right through them. So far, success has been achieved only on the microwave level. The cloaking paints on the stealth fighter have reduced it's radar signature to the size of a pigeon. But you can still see both the pigeon and the plane if you look up.

All this is a large-scale waste of science and money. Here, I present a solution that is both far less complex and creates a shield of invisibility so powerful, so foolproof, that one can gain entry with impunity nearly anywhere.

I call it "Celebritinvisibleness," a bit of a mouthful to be sure, but the process is quite simple. To take advantage of it's properties, one must be a nobody, which most of my readers are, and one must be in the company of a celebrity as he or she goes someplace public. You need do nothing more. You will find yourself completely invisible. Further, the harder you try to be seen, the less you will be seen.

The effect can be expressed as the following formula, wherein A List = Any Celebrity and Big Zero = You. A List+Big Zero =1. In this mathematical expression, it is clear that regardless of the number of Big Zeroes computed within the formula, the end result is always one. The math can easily be validated with empirical proof. Multiples of Big Zero are referred to as either the "Posse" or "Entourage" corollary. In layman's terms, if you are with a celebrity, you don't exist for the rest of the world. Therefore, you are without substance...light passes directly through anything without substance...hence, you are invisible.

The effect first came to my attention when I was interviewing an undeservedly famous Hollywood actress on the set of her latest movie. Being a well-known, celebrity author, I was of course, given the star treatment...champagne, director's chair with my name stencilled on...the whole shmearcase, though the caviar was not entirely up to par. (I wasn't asked my opinion on the subject, but I remember thinking that a little more in the craft-services budget would have served the production well.) Not everyone is treated as well as I am, but not everyone is so fortunate as I, nor so deserving.

This diva, who shall remain nameless due to the legal complexities involved with the mention of her name, had been married to her high school sweetheart for nine years. It was one of those "Hollywood" secrets, since she made a career of seducing young men on the screen and teens, from the screen. She decided that since this was...as she put it...a "Breakout" role, she wanted to share with the world that she was married and had three children, whom her husband had brought by to visit.

She turned and gestured to her right. There was no one there. At first, I thought she was insane. And though, based on the subsequent reviews of her movie, that may have been an accurate guess, it was in this case, not the case.

Her mousy house-husband had been raising the kids for six years and living off the fruits of her acting. And he and the kids were right there, but I could not see them. I also couldn't hear them, though she insisted that the kids were acting up.

I was ready to call the film's bond company to inform them of the risk they were taking when the most extraordinary thing occurred. She picked up a glass of milk and handed it to no one. It hung, suspended in space for a long moment and then tilted over and began to empty into thin air. It was being consumed by an invisible kid. I am told my mouth hung open to below my knees. I suspect this is an exaggeration.

A moment later, the assistant director came up to his star and told her she was wanted on the set for rehearsal. She excused herself and walked off. I turned and caught a few shots of her leaving. As she departed, a terrible din arose gradually, from where she had been sitting. I turned back and saw to my surprise, that the kids and their father were slowly becoming visible and audible. Out of her presence, they were eventually entirely as opaque as anyone.

The husband and I chatted for a bit, me, gathering background for my story (in which I would, of course, make no mention of him or his trio of screeching, pre-adolescent banshees) and he, attempting to secure a position in a Hollywood hierarchy that would never so much as acknowledge his existence. As we concluded our chat, his wife returned and he and the kids vanished, though I knew they were still around somewhere.

I actually felt sorry for the guy. He seemed nice enough, but he was an insurance underwriter. Not only would no one want to know he existed, no one would ever want to know what an insurance underwriter does. But their marriage endured, and some years later, one of the kids followed his mother into acting. He is today, nearly semi-transparent.

But all this is anecdotal evidence of the phenomenon. I spoke to agencies of the federal government and various branches of the military about the effect, and after some initial skepticism, they opted to fund a study.

In a test of the system, a famous supermodel was strapped to the hood of a heavily armed Hummer and sent into an unruly urban crowd. The guns and clubs were dropped in favor of pens and pads of paper. Later interviews confirmed that not one in the crowd even noticed the 50 caliber machine gun or its operator on the roof. For that matter, the Hummer was invisible as well. Not so much as one member of the crowd even knew how the supermodel came to be in their midst.

In a subsequent test, a famous blond celebrity walked into a police station, her assistant accompanying her. The assistant wore a dummy bomb belt, with a clearly visible countdown time flashing across her mid-section. She was not noticed at all, except by her celebrity companion who mistook the countdown timer for a clock and asked her what time it was.

The final test was when the Air Force allowed both women to overfly the Rose Parade in a stealth bomber. You may remember the supermarket tabloid headline the next day.

"Stars Fly Over New Years Day Parade-Stealth Bomber A No-Show"

I have developed an algorithm that takes into account the celebrity's age, sex, TVQ, (if he or she is a television star) and a variety of other factors which gives us a number that translates into a celebrity's cloaking factor. The gist of it is, the more famous the celebrity you accompany, the more transparent you become.

Yes, there are degrees of invisibility. For instance, if you are in the company of Nicole Kidman, anywhere, you will not exist. And if you are in the company of Tiger Woods, no matter how you dress, you will be mistaken for a caddie. That is, unless you are with him on a golf course, in which case, you will be perceived as a bunker. In a tournament, you will simply not be there.

The system works predictably and consistently. And there is another interesting side to it as well, which I have named the "Paparazzeffect." It is loosely based on the law of physics which states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. It is possible to become so completely visible that you cannot be made invisible. Once celebrity is achieved. You will be visible and it will stay with you for many years as long as your notoriety endures . As your star eclipses, due to advancing age or generational indifference, you will eventually, again become invisible. When you die, you will need to cross over in the company of nobodies like yourself or the undertaker will not be able to find your corpse.

Therefore, having been advised of the potential pitfalls, should you still clamor for fame and the visibility that comes with it, your goal can be reached. The simplest way to achieve it is to be part of a very minor celebrity's entourage for a time. Then do something splashy out of his or her presence...something so outrageous, that you are noticed on your own. If that celebrity's star continues to rise, you will be forever linked to that rise and will remain visible while the rest of entourage is ignored into transparency at the velvet rope.

If that celebrity's star begins to dim, you need only distance yourself from him or her and your own rise will continue unabated. However, you must work to firmly establish your own level of renown or you will fade into obscurity and the transparency that comes with it.

I can personally attest to this, because for a time, I ignored my duty to my image and effectively disappeared off the face of the Earth. It wasn't until the publication of my most widely read and prize-winning novel that I regained my rightful place among the famous. Of course, today I am sort of a celebrity Emeritus...a term of my own devising...and am therefore wholly immune to the side effects of fading stardom. I stand as the only exception to my own rule. And really, isn't that how things should be?

Why Do Foods Fall In Love?

Over time, I've had countless occasions to utilize the skills I acquired in a small Shaolin culinary temple in China, apprenticed as I was, to a Kung-Fu Master Chef. His name was Kang Wu, and he was an inscrutably steel-eyed seventy five year old when, protesting, he took a brash young American under his wing.

It is not generally known, but Kung Fu Cheffery is actually a martial art. It involves the use of kitchen implements to prepare a gourmet meal while warding off hordes of hungry invaders. At least that was the historical use of the art.

Today, Kung Fu Cheffery has only a very few remaining practitioners in the world. Sadly, the time of the hero-chef has passed in most of the civilized world. I am the oldest and most skilled of the remaining few, and even my prodigious talents are seldom called upon anymore. For the dwindling faithful, dedication to the art means giving up all else to follow the way of the serrated blade. My story traces an especially difficult path.

The Master considered me unworthy of his tutelage. I was simply a spoiled American kid who he believed, lacked the passion and the commitment to become a Kung Fu Master Chef . Just to prove I could be humble, I washed pots and pans in the temple for fully seven years. My reward for such dedication was to be unfairly labelled as having so overblown an ego that I felt it necessary to prove I was good enough to wash dishes. In showing I had worth, I had demonstrated in the old man's eyes an utter lack of it.

But I was not to be denied. I was eventually stuffed down the gullet of the culinary goose and my acceptance forced upon the master. It was through the efforts of my maternal great grand-father, the second cousin twice removed, by marriage, of the high priest at the temple. He sent a letter that eventually got me considered for apprenticeship. And then I still had to overcome centuries of Chinese food-centric bigotry. I couldn't possibly have either the discipline or the moral fiber to become a Kung Fu Chef.

I didn't speak the language aside from being able to passably name a few side dishes, so I don't know what great grandpa put in his letter. But he and the priest had been together on a United States gunboat sailing the Yangtze around the turn of the twentieth century. My great grandfather was an American sailor and the high-priest-to-be was the cook. They weren't exactly friends, but great grandpa was known to be a lavish tipper. Evidently, the High-Priest never forgot the sailor with the tattoo of an anchor on his forearm.

Master Chef Wu turned beet red when he was told of the letter and the High Priest's decision. He stormed off, stomping on a walnut as he departed and commanding me to gather up the nut meat. I stood defiantly in place. Actually, it wasn't defiance, though being a teenager, I looked kind of defiant. He was speaking Chinese. I had not the slightest idea what he was saying. When he returned, he scowled at me and gathered up the nut meats himself, then told me to clean up the shell. Again I was clueless and consequently, motionless.

The old man picked up a wooden staff and struck me on my head. Finally speaking in a kind of broken English, he said: "The student never questions the master." I answered: "Why?", and got whacked a second time. He made it clear that he was not happy with my presence and that at best, I might one day aspire to putting together a simple dessert...but more likely, only serving green tea. I learned much later that Wu had a touch of arthritis and didn't like cracking walnuts.

It took many years, but measure by excruciating measure, we came to understand each other. I might even say we became friends, this master and his pupil, though he never gave me any real indication that he actually liked me, only that he accepted my presence. I, in turn, came to embrace the recipes behind this man's martial arts cooking regimen and have applied it throughout my life since.

In time, we might have eventually bonded, but for the fateful night he tossed a tomato in the air to demonstrate slicing it in 13 perfect segments as it fell to the plate. Unfortunately, he'd sampled a little too much of the sake in which he was marinating the tomato. His first thrust missed and so threw off his timing that all his subsequent strikes as well, found only air.

Furious, he screamed at the top of his lungs something that, though in his native tongue, would have been an unprintable vulgarity in any language. The tomato meanwhile, came down upon a carving fork on the cutting board on which a meat muscle trimming lay. The trimming flipped into the air, came down into the master's open mouth and lodged there, deep in his windpipe. The Heimlich maneuver had not yet reached the shores of China. To the horror of all present, he choked and died a gristly death.

This kind of tragedy had never happened in the temple's 1800 year history. We had no menus...no guidelines...no way to deal with the sadness of the Master's passing. We wandered the kitchens flipping our spatulas and playing mumbledy-peg in the hanging carcasses of beef going to waste in the freezer.

Finally, the High Priest announced that to honor the memory of the Master Chef, each day at dawn, we would rise and make a 'mourning' meal. We would prepare and eat this instead of breakfast. That it consisted in its entirety of the same items as in our regular morning meal, was both convenient and a testament to the aged high priest's failing mental abilities. Out of respect and hunger, the students complied and we threw ourselves whole-heartedly into the endeavour every day.

Eventually, the Master was replaced with a young Chinese master from the Sorbonne. His style was different. And now, I had to learn yet another language. But at least the playing field had been levelled. No one knew what the Master was saying.

And then there was the Chen girl. I followed her about day and night like a lame puppy. She had the most beautiful cleaver I had ever seen or have ever seen since. And the beautifully sculpted cleavage in which she carried her cleaver made me tremble. I was horribly torn, not knowing for certain which I desired more, the cleaver or the sheath in which it as so lovingly cradled.


So long as I can still identify an aroma, I will never forget that night. We had been preparing an appetizer of braised Koi with a ginger Parmesan glaze and we just got a little too...close. My fillet knife, dripping with ginger, brushed her sleeve. Her cheese grater full of Parmesan slid languidly into my breast pocket. We fell into each other's arms, fillet knife and grater doing things to each other best left to the imagination. It was a culinary harmony fit for the gods. Even today, I can't prepare Koi without tears streaming from my eyes. And onions are not even in the mix.

That was all many years ago, and I have had more than my share of adventures. I have cooked for countesses and kings. I have saved many a monarchy from falling to a hungry horde. I have taught at the finest cooking schools...headed up the kitchens at the finest hotels from Dubai to Las Vegas and have passed on the magic to at least a few gifted apprentices. It is my hope that they will carry on the traditions and stand ready to take up their cheese slicers and rolling pins in defense of their homelands. For such is the path of the Kung Fu Chef. Such is the way of the serrated blade.

But for now...for me...the path has come to an end. And it has ended, it seems, at the fry cooker of McDonalds. The world has moved on to fast food. Trans-fats heated and soaked into anything remotely edible. There is no longer need for one with my abilities. Perhaps one day, but not likely in what remains of my lifetime.

I am sorry, but I have little time left. My lunch break is nearly over and I need to finish my Whopper. Would you like to share my fries?

A Bedroom Decorating Saga

Admittedly, I was a newbie. But how hard could it be to hang wallpaper? A DVD from the home improvement center explained the whole process step-by-step. What it didn't take into account, was my wife. It was her idea to wallpaper the bedroom in the first place. And it wasn't because the paint was dingy or the furniture looked shabby. It was because Macy's had bought Robinsons May.

It began one fateful morning as we drove past the mall. Ol' Mrs. Eagle Eye spotted a sign that read: "This Store Closing-Liquidation...All Items 40-70% Off." In truth, the sign could have been seen unaided from high orbit. It stretched the entire length of the store, screaming out its message with ten-foot high letters in nearly every color of the spectrum. Sunglasses were necessary to avert a kind of snow-blindness. Lassie began to go all Pavlovian on me, salivating onto passenger-side door sill until I could stand it no longer. Anticipating the question, I told her we could go inside for a quick look around, but that we weren't buying anything.

As soon as we entered the store, I was ordered to wander among the guy stuff and meet up in a half-hour. That was fine with me, averse as I was to shopping with the wife. She could spend days with me in tow, checking every garment in every rack in every size, and decline them all. Then, when I was not with her, she would finally buy one she liked at some other store, on the first pick from the first rack. Actually I despised shopping with her.

A half hour later, I waited at the appointed door, excited about the great prices on Circulon pots and pans...though I seldom cooked. Also I really liked that $17.99 card shuffler. Never mind that I hadn't played poker in eleven years. If I got that shuffler, I'd call the boys and have a game. Anyway, none of that was going to happen. What was going to happen sneaked up and cold-cocked me from behind. It was named Laura Ashley.

My wife arrived several minutes later, existing as she does in a temporal continuum apart from the rest of humanity. I call it "Charlene Time." She had this glassy-eyed look that radiated from her face. It seemed to fill the room with an aura...an aura that was going to cost me money. For I had seen this look before...and it made me tremble.

A sense of impending doom overwhelmed every cell in my body, but I managed to put on my concerned face and ask if anything was the matter. I already knew the answer but she was an old hand at marital jousting. Her reply was an enigmatic "Nothing. Really" and a brilliant deflection. I had lost this round. We were on her turf. I had to get to a new arena...and fast.

I hustled car and wife to the car wash. We stood in the tunnel, staring through the water-spotted window, waiting for the car to emerge from the Poly-Acrylic Foam Bath and De-Ionizing Rinse. She fired the next salvo.

"They had the most beautiful comforter set. And it was 60% off."

"Off what," I quickly regretted asking.

"Off their regular price."

"Yeah yeah. I got that. Bottom line?"

"Only $349.50."

"Only?"

"That's 60% off!"

"It's still an arm, a leg...and a pair of my most treasured family jewels!"

"Well. It doesn't matter. It's a discontinued Laura Ashley pattern anyway...and I wouldn't want it without the matching throws."

"And how much are they?"

"Sixty percent off."

"Sixty percent off how much?"

"A hundred and twenty dollars."

"So you want to spend $48.00 each, for throw pillows?"

I began to hyperventilate. In a cold sweat, I cast my gaze about the tunnel, frantically searching for sanctuary...a bathroom or a fallout shelter...until she came to her senses. But every husband knows instinctively, the greater the need, the smaller the opportunity. My search for salvation was paramount. Therefore it was denied me. There was not a door, nor an alcove...not even a soda machine to which I might feign turning my attention. I was so doomed!

"No. That's the problem. They only have one. I need two but they only have the one and they can't order another...it's a discontinued pattern. But I do so love Laura Ashley."

Suddenly, the clouds of despair hanging above me parted and a ray of hope shone down. This wasn't about getting the comforter. This was a wish list. It was what she would get if she could. The weight of a million bolts of cloth lifted off me. I began to breathe normally. The crisis was over. I was relieved. I was so horribly naive!

The next night, as I left work, my cell phone rang. It was the Mrs. Loony, all excited. The salesgirl-demon-from-Hell-whom-I'd-never-met-but-would-strangle-with-my-bare-hands-if-I-ever-got-the-chance, had called other stores and found a second throw pillow. My heart began to thump like it was digging a tunnel to escape my chest and run off. I could tell that I was going to be working fifty hours a week to support Laura "Discontinued Pattern" freakin' Ashley. I would never get a good night's sleep again. With covers like those on top of me, I'd never be able to relax. I'd have nightmares of being devoured by a ravenous Visa.

Then I made the mistake of glancing at my beloved. She was insane of course. But she was also a loving wife and mother. And she was so excited. I was reminded of our courtship...her excitement as I'd pick her up for a dinner date. That look was on her face. This was something she really wanted. It was the second broadside...and it breached my hull below the waterline. With my heart sinking lower and knowing I would regret my reply no matter what, I said the only thing I could.

"Well, honey. If you really want it...get it."

At least one of us would be happy. And she was thrilled, and the blather commenced. She started going on about how wonderful the bedroom was going to look with the new comforter and sheets and blankets and wallpaper and throw pillows and... I caught up with her at throw pillows.

"Whoa! What? What wallpaper? What sheets and blankets? I thought we're just replacing the comforter!"

"Well honey. It doesn't match anything in the room!"

"What color is it?"

"Blue."

"The room is earth tones and you are buying a blue comforter?"

"Navy."

"What?"

"Navy Blue."

I grasped at the only straw available to me, though I already knew the answer.

"And that won't go with earth tones?"

"Oh please!"

I swear by all that is holy, I could actually see the look of disdain on her face as she spoke to me on the cell phone, so strong was the inflection in her voice. Apparently I knew nothing of interior design. I should just open my checkbook and keep my trap shut.

I was met at the door with a can of seltzer and a quarter pounder with cheese and told to eat in the car. They would only hold the pillows and comforter until 8 p.m.

We arrived back at the store and I stared longingly at the card shuffler while she went to the dry goods department and emptied our life savings.

This brings me back to the DVD. I watched it several times. With each viewing I became more convinced that this was doable. Problem was, each time I asked my wife to watch with me, the phone would ring...or the kids would distract her and she would disappear into some other part of the house, not to return until the credits rolled. I was sure she was evading the DVD so that she could plead ignorance later and avoid the papering. I hit on a plan.

It was our weekly "Date night." I'd gotten take-out Chinese food and a movie for us to relax and watch together. But unbeknown to my wife, I had switched the movie for the wallpapering DVD. She would be forced to watch it...the time already set aside for a movie.
The KungPao chicken and fried rice consumed, we settled in for the movie. When the title came on, my little ruse was uncovered. I expected a negative reaction. But she did seemed perfectly happy to sit through the entire DVD and even asked questions at the end that told me she had been paying attention. I was impressed. What I didn't know, was that she had been using the chapter breaks to plan her revenge.

The next day, she dragged me wallpaper shopping. "How bad could that be?" I thought. I figured we'd look through a few books, pick a few possibilities, take home some samples, measure the room and go back to order our selection.

It wasn't until we arrived at the decorating center, that I learned to my horror, the full extent of my punishment. For daring to drag her into the wallpapering part of the wallpapering, I had obligated myself to browse all the sample books with my tormentor. And there were more than a few books. There were, it seemed, millions or at least thousands, or hundreds…certainly hundreds. And my wife was determined that we go through every one.

I plea-bargained not looking through children's wallpaper books. She countered that she might want to paper the kids' rooms. My admonishing glance that told her "Keep your eye the prize or lose this round." She capitulated. That eliminated about 16 books. Some capitulation!

She began...naturally...with the Laura Ashley books. I randomly selected a book of floral patterns, since I knew she liked them and opened it to a shade of Navy Blue that was perfect. Bingo! Got it on the first try. I excitedly showed it to her. She kind of screwed up her face and finally said: "That's very nice dear, but not really what I had in mind." It was clear my parole had been denied. And a shiv had been plunged into my heart by my willing cellmate.

Finally, as my stubble had grown into a full iron jaw, she made her selections. Twisting the shiv, one of those selections was the "Bingo!" I'd picked on the first try all those decades earlier. We arrived home, and while I mowed the forest that had grown in our front yard while we were gone, Charlene went inside to compare the wallpaper with the comforter. When I came in to shower, she was measuring the room.

"How'd we do?"

"I like the one you chose."

And my punishment was complete. Though she'd admired the pattern all along, she'd now hammered home that it was her choice not mine. To be fair, I think that if she had opened the book first, she would've chosen it herself. Still, her need to exact revenge for movie night would have trumped any desire to buy and be done with it. Besides, she did like to shop. I could, however, take some small solace in the fact that we had selected a pattern that was NOT Laura Ashley! But irony threads its way through everything in my life. And in this instance, the pattern we chose...the pattern we agreed upon...was more expensive than Laura Ashley...a lot more expensive.

The next day, we cashed in our children's college funds, took a second on the house and went to order the paper. We presented our measurements to the store clerk and were told that we would have to buy even more paper than the outrageous amount that we already figured we had to buy. Why? Because this supplier only sells this pattern as double rolls, packed three to a sleeve. Could we buy single rolls? There was of course, no such thing from this supplier. When I inquired why they didn't just call them rolls, the clerk and my wife looked at each other as if to agree that I was an idiot. I opened my checkbook and grumbling, shut my trap.

We also had to buy tools, gallons of special wall primer, and an equal amount of "Liner paper" that cost as much as some wallpapers. It looked a lot like the stuff in which you mailed packages. I knew where to get tons of it, cheap. But the clerk said the store couldn't guarantee the performance of the wallpaper unless we used their special "Brown Kraft" liner. Then there was the glue. Oh...and don't forget the long table. Boards and sawhorses? Not for us. We had to have the finest collapsible pasting table that money could buy. Never mind that we would never use it again, and that it would soon be caked with wheat paste. Before long, the car was loaded to the roof with stuff for wallpapering and we didn't even have the wallpaper yet. I wondered aloud if it would've been cheaper to hire a wallpaper hanger. My wife replied something about how much fun it would be for us. Like I said, she's insane.

In a few days, the wallpaper arrived and we set aside the whole of Saturday to do the bedroom. I got up early Saturday, as is my custom and took great pleasure in interrupting my wife's favorite Saturday custom...sleeping in. I dragged her out of bed and we had coffee. Then, while she washed down the walls of the room, I emptied it of furniture. The phone rang. I never saw her again.

I began my solo career as a wallpaper hanger full of energy. I sized the walls...that's wallpaperer lingo for prepping them. Then I carefully laid out a chalk snap-line for the first sheet of "Brown Kraft" liner paper. I might add that I checked. It was the same brand I could get.

Still no sign of the wife. I looked around. Her car was still in the driveway. Her purse was still in the kitchen. We had no secret passages. She'd simply vanished. Then I heard a sound from the pipes in the attic. She was watering! I ran downstairs and demanded through the den window that she drop whatever she was doing and get back inside to help. She said she'd be right in. So having made my point, I returned to the bedroom. Did I mention my creeping exhaustion and backache?

I laid out the first sheet of wallpaper, and following the DVD's instructions to the letter, pasted and folded the paper. This would be a snap. I set the ladder, carried the paper up and working from the top down, slowly unfolded the strip of paper and pressed it into place against the wall. It went on diagonally. I wrestled with it for a while and finally got it where it was supposed to be. I took the brush thingy and smoothed out all the bumps. It was a beautiful sight. Only about fifty more to go. Where is she? I found her taking a shower in the guest bathroom.

"What are you showering for?"

"I feel all yucky."

"Yucky? You're going to be hanging wallpaper. You're going to be covered in wheat paste!"

"I'll be right there."

I returned to the bedroom, laid out another strip of paper and matched the pattern. Off in the distance, I heard the telltale squeak of the shower faucet shutting off. She'd be here soon. In a flash, I had pasted and folded the second strip. I bent over to stretch my back and in the distance, I heard the phone ring.

"Let the answering machine get it!"

Too late, it never rang a second time. When I finished the second strip, which went up much more easily than the first one, I was feeling pretty confident. Only 48 more to go. I went to find the mythical Charlene. She had finished the phone call and was drying her hair.

"Would you stop getting ready and get in the bedroom?"

"I'll be right there!"

I had finished eleven more strips when she appeared at the door to the bedroom, snacking on an apple wedge.

"Do you want a sandwich?"

"No. I want you to help me."

"Well. I just thought you might be hungry."

"No dear. I'm dying. Get in here and paste something."

"Okay."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Okay. Open that roll and unroll about nine feet of it. Then measure the pattern match and make sure you cut off enough."

"I don't understand."

"You watched the DVD."

"Once! You watched it like six times."

"Okay," I sighed in defeat. "I'll have a ham and cheese on rye and find me some Ben-Gay."

"Right away dear."

She skipped off happily to make lunch. I was mired in quicksand with no overhanging branches. Survival meant move slowly...pace myself. No sweat. I hurt too much to move fast.
She came back three strips later with a couple of sandwiches and chips. I had stopped relating to time as a measure of hours, minutes and seconds, but as a measure of strips of wallpaper. I was nineteen strips away from finishing...or dying, whichever came first. My back felt as though someone had removed every other vertebra with a corkscrew. We broke to eat,sitting on the floor and chatting. She bubbled over with the excitement about how beautiful the room would look. I remarked that all those who came back to the house from my funeral would truly admire the room and the beautiful comforter on which they would drop their coats.

When we finished lunch, rather than running off again, she dove right in, pasting, folding, cutting, and smoothing. We were a team now and the teamwork paid off. A mere 19 strips later, the room was complete. And it was a sight to behold. So were we. You could barely see her hair for the paste that was in it. My shirt would have to be chiseled off me. But the room was done.
Another hour of back-breaking labor, putting all the tools and extra paper away...we had two full double rolls left over...and all that remained was to put back the furniture and make up the bed with the new linens and comforter.

Oh yeah, the furniture. We have this iron bed. It weighs about six tons. I still had welts on my hands from moving it out of the bedroom. But with my wife's help, we wrestled it right back into the same dents in the carpet I’d dragged it from that morning. Also, we have nearly an entire department store of clothing in the dresser. I'd actually pulled a muscle moving it out in the morning. When I went to bring it back in, my wife was removing the drawers.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"It'll be lighter this way."

"But that's more trips."

"Survivable ones."

I hated to admit it, but she was right. The dresser slid right into the room and in five minutes, we had all the drawers back in. At this point, I was shooed away to take my shower. When I came out, before me was a vision of loveliness. It was the bed...made up with the new comforter and those damned throws and all set up against the backdrop of the new wallpaper. It was quite beautiful. It was also nearly ten o'clock at night. We'd been at if for sixteen hours. The shower had helped, but my back still felt a lot like a Clydesdale had ridden me hard. My wife came into the room in her robe, all showered and I could tell by her expression that she was thinking we should break-in the new room. I agreed. We climbed into bed. Gently kissed each other. Turned out the lights...and immediately fell fast asleep.

My fears about never sleeping again were groundless. That night I was a hibernating bear. We awoke in the morning, went down to the kitchen for coffee, and with mugs in hand, returned to the room to survey our handiwork in the light of day.

My wife turned to me and said: "See. Now wasn't it worth all the time and effort and expense?"

What could I say? My back still hurt like I’d been stretched on a medieval rack. But I looked over at my wife and saw the expression of sheer joy on her face. I could only give her the one answer. I said "No."

God Is My Ghostwriter

Okay, with a contentious title like that, you're probably thinking this guy's a crackpot. But that's a separate issue and a subject for another time. Read the tale before you pass judgment on my sanity.

To begin with, I am a devout agnostic, a non-believer who is more than willing to be proven wrong. All it would take is one lousy miracle and I'd be on board for life...and the afterlife.

And as most of you know, I am also an exceptionally well-rounded individual with more hobbies and avocations than Windows Vista has flaws. I am a respected authority on a wide variety of subjects with speaking engagements worldwide. Even as I write this, I am also thinking about a border dispute I must mediate based on the historical record, between France and Spain at a little-known, remote spring in the Pyrenees. Or was it the Catskills? Doesn't matter..I'm still researching it anyway. And that's not even the point.

Among my relevant interests are science and how it dovetails with theology. Lending credence to my theological background is the fact that I am an ordained minister. I am the Right Reverend Burton Mark Weinstein, duly ordained by the Universal Life Church of Modesto,CA. And lest you think this some sort of conflict with my also being a Jew, remember...there is only one God...if there is a God.

Now you have the background. Weigh the facts for yourself.

I was seated at my computer some months back, explaining in layman's theological terms my grand unifying theory. Scientist have called this heretofore unresolved issue, The Theory of Everything. I just call it The Theory. I was wrapping up the section that clarifies how the weak, sub-atomic force and the strong force intertwine with that of gravity quantum level that can only be achieved through the introduction at a low level, of prayer and...

Well, best not to weigh you down with details just yet. Suffice to say, I was fleshing out an important section when my computer beeped at me. I looked at the screen and a little happy face was flashing at me. Actually, it wasn't a happy face at all. It was just in the same place that the little "Instant Message" happy face usually shows up.

Instead, it was a minuscule representation of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel...you know, Michelangelo's painting in which God touches Adam's hand...except that where Adam should have been, it was a beautifully drawn rendering of me.

A message popped up. It said simply, "You spelled unifying wrong."

I looked at my document, and sure enough, I had left out the y.

"Who is this?," I replied. "And how did you tap into my computer?"

The message that came back was ludicrous.

"I am called many things by many religions...Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah, Odin, Osiris, Zeus, Adonye...But you can call me God."

"Yeah, right."

"You're wearing a white t-shirt, blue shorts and argyle socks."

"Jesus! You've tapped into my web-cam too!"

"I'm not Jesus, and I don't need to tap into your web-cam. I'll show you."

An image of unimaginable power that, try as I might, I cannot accurately describe, began to form on my monitor and then floated off of it into the air. It hung there for a moment and vanished. I was starting to think aliens had invaded.

"Pretty cool huh?"

"Okay. Just for the sake of argument. Let's say you are God."

"Let's say."

"Okay. Why are you contacting me? And why through my coputer?"

"You spelled computer wrong."

"What? Oh. Funny."

"The reason I chose you, is that among all my children on Earth, you are the first to get it right. Your Grand Unification Theory has finally cemented science and religion together as it should be. But, my son, your spelling is atrocious!"

"So, you're like the ultimate spellchecker?"

"And I don't have a web-cam."

"Why not? Everyone has a web-cam."

"I don't even have a computer."

"Well then how are you doing this"

"Umm...I'm God?"

"Oh yeah. I forgot."

I must have seemed sarcastic, because the ground trembled and terrified, I ducked under my desk.

"Earthquake" I screamed.

The trembling stopped, and I noticed that all this stuff had fallen off the shelves in my room. But none of it landed on the floor. It hung in mid-air and then slowly, floated back up into place on the various shelves.

Another message popped up.

"No earthquake. Your office was the only place that shook. Are you starting to believe now?"

I have to admit, the evidence was pretty compelling. Then, he scared years off my life.

"Would you like to see me? Face to face?"

"Isn't that forbidden?"

"I make the rules. I can break them."

And with that, a countenance appeared on my monitor. It was the most beautiful visage I have ever seen...and yet, I cannot recount it to you. But just let me say, that God is one righteous dude!

"So, my spelling is atrocious."

"Yes. And as the God in this relationship, I feel it is my duty to edit your work for you."

"But it's my theory," I whined.

"Yes it is, but think how it will be when you go to a publisher with it already translated into every language on the face of the Earth?"

"Wow. Yeah. I hadn't thought of that. Okay. You've got a deal. I assume I can trust you,"

"You want me to swear?"

That was three months ago, and I've submitted the re-written manuscript to the big guy four times. I've gotta admit, he knows his grammar and punctuation. But I'm not that happy with all of his "Thou shalts" and "It Came To Passes."

Still, I think we're on the home stretch now. He got me a pitch meeting with a big publisher. And we go to press next week.

Soon, everyone in the world will come to feel the same sense of joy and wonder I feel every day, knowing that the Lord in his infinite glory is really there for his children...all of them. Publication of The Theory will quickly lead to an end of all war. Poverty, hunger and sickness will vanish overnight. Infinitely renewable energy will take mankind to the next evolutionary level. (Yes. We have been evolving and yes, we do share a common ancestor with our simian cousins.) Crime will disappear along with it's root causes and there will be peace and ethical unanimity throughout our blessed world. Racism and factionalism and even nationalism will be a forgotten relic of the past. It's all in The Theory.

Still, not all is perfect. What I didn't know before, and what might have easily queered the deal if I found out earlier, is that he wants to split the royalties. I mean what does he need them for. He's got more money than...er...God.

The Music Biz

It seems that my brief foray into the Country/Western music world is finally going to pay some dividends. But, not in the way I'd hoped.

It's abundantly clear to me, that Nashville is extremely unreceptive to any new twist on their formulaic genre. The stage of the Grand Ol' Opry will probably never present music that pushes the envelope even a little around its traditional themes. How do I know this? I spent 11 weeks in that town, with demos of some great country music and had doors slammed unceremoniously in my face by stodgy old men who wouldn't know a great song if it bit them on the leg.

Granted, my offerings were all by young Jewish performers, but they fit the classic country mold to a "T."

For instance, how could they not have loved "Farblunjet" by Patsy Klein? Or the chilling tale of a young Jewish soldier fighting in Iraq whose life was saved when an armor piercing shell couldn't penetrate the page with Thou Shalt Not Kill on it in "The First Five Books Are Good Enough For Me." And I was politely, but firmly, told that the public wasn't interested in a beautiful ballad like Garth Schimmerfelt's "I Love How Your Touch Calms My Gas."

But I wasn't to be deterred. There are a courageous few executives out there who can see beyond a lack of steel guitars and ten gallon hats. And I have broken new ground with the upcoming release of my record label's premiere CD. It will be packaged by Manischevitz with every box of Passover Matzoh they sell this year. And, it will be the first Kosher release ever.

The title track alone should sell millions on iTunes. It's called: "But For You...$9.98." It is the bittersweet tale of a young, Jewish, Texan girl...an innocent, who has an ill-advised and ill-fated affair with a soon-to-be-ex-President of these United States. She is devastated, but recovers her self-esteem when she realizes that she is not alone...that he has been doing to all of us what he has been doing to her.. I'm not saying this is a true story...and I'm not saying it's fiction. I'm just not saying. And you can quote me on that. But either way, Nashville, you had your chance. Bite me.

Journal Through Time

I've decided to keep a diary of my travels through time. Time travel isn't all that difficult to accomplish after all. To go back in time you merely have to travel more slowly than time. To travel forward in time, you only have to go faster than time.

Einstein proved that you can go faster than time...but the minute you slowed down, time caught up. So, the trick is to stand stock still at an acceleration in excess of the speed of light. Conversely, to travel back in time, you must move slowly and let time pass you up. In fact, you must be standing stock still more slowly than standing still. This takes some practice, but you can learn to do it with scrupulous practice. Of course, the time spent practicing will be wasted because it will not have happened when you are successful.

The difficult thing is/are paradoxes. For instance, I wish to keep a journal of my travels through the fourth dimension. But if I travel forward in time and write about it, the minute I travel back in time, my journal entry vanishes. It doesn't exist yet. So, I am working on a "temporal indelibility ink" that should solve the problem. So far, it works for about two days into the past.

Another paradox occurs when you travel to the future. Since you are when you aren't yet, the future tries to slow down for you to catch up. And the farther you go into the future, the more obvious the slowing. If you are only an hour or so in the future, it's no big deal. All that happens, is you wait a bit longer for things like elevators and traffic lights. But go, say a week into the future and order a hamburger. It will always be cold when it arrives, like a day later.

Therefore, it's advisable to pack a hot lunch for extended trips into the future. And if you've decided to journal about the trip, don't bother. When you go back into the past, it'll already be there. I know this sounds counter-intuitive, but time-travel tends to be so.

Time travel is, as I have indicated (or is that, "will indicate"?) a tricky little devil. In violation of logic, there is one thing that can travel in time with no effort at all. And that thing is not a physical item like a dog or a spacecraft...that thing is an idea...ethics.

It seems that value systems exist outside the space-time continuum and are able to turn the clock backwards or forwards at will. For instance, assisted suicide is an idea who's time has not come, but for a time, it existed in our time. And many of the forward-thinking ideas of the framers of our constitution have reverted to a time before they were written by the ethical manipulations of the Bush administration. It seems that Democrats have a better aptitude for generating ethical ideas towards the future. And Republicans, naturally, return ethically into the past, often even before ethics existed. It is the rare Republican who can be enlightened into the future.

To be clear, this is not a political commentary. It is merely an example of the dangers of unfettered time travel by amateurs.

So, I am going to keep a journal of my forays across the space-time continuum, and for anyone who wants to read them, you can click on the hyper-temporal link below. But be advised, someTIMES it works and someTIMES it doesn't.

ttt:/journalof time.fst