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?
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
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?
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?
Thursday, June 14, 2007
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."
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."
Monday, June 11, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
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
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
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