Occupy Christmas Presents

A month or so before Christmas, Sharon said, "Honey, all I really want for Christmas this year is a round trip ticket to see Esther, Eric and the girls. It's expensive flying the day after Christmas." How could I say no? Of course I got her a couple of other things to open that morning (ear rings and clothes), but the ticket was the main thing one.

We did something similar for me. In late November I needed to buy a djembe. I wanted a medium size, such as a 14", to have reasonable bass but not need a trailer to move. I was going to get a plain one and ask one of my artist friends to decorate it, but fell for a nicer djembe with a tribal mask design-- which cost more. "Why don't we let this be my Christmas present?"

Sharon looked at the price tag. "That can be one of them."

I added a padded carrying bag, a Shure SM58 and a cable.

"OK, I guess that works."

Of course, she had a couple of things for me to open as well, some candy and two more, lovely, tie dyed tees by Happy Hippy Rose. (The third tie dye, the one with the djembe, was a birthday present.) And I had a couple of things for her to open.

One of the nice things about doing it this way is that it was very easy to not focus on the materialistic side of Christmas on the day. I love it when a plan comes together-- even when it's not mine.

Occupy Ourself!

My employer is building a new, six story headquarters because we are growing like crazy. As it turns out, we are growing even crazier than planned so the new building will be full by the time we occupy it. We've asked whether the building could be taller and were told no. So imagine my surprise today when I was given the proposed building usage by floor, including "floor 8: boardroom and labs".

My first guess was that we had talked the city into more floors, and the seventh was a super secret, unplottable floor, perhaps patterned after Number 12, Grimmauld Place, which would be pretty cool. Xilu suggested that perhaps there will be no seventh, and the eighth floor will hover. I like that idea even more because it would mean our anti-gravity research has paid off and our stock price will go through the roof-- assuming we know where the roof is, because that depends on the number of floors. My boss ominously hinted that I wasn't on the "need to know" list, which inclined me toward Xilu's idea.

But one of our copious Davids explained that seven and eight were actually part of the parking garage connected to the building.

Now there's a concept! Have the board meet in the parking garage! That will attract only the best people to our board. In case it's not obvious why, here's a short list of the pros and cons.

Pros:
- If board meetings go late, they can hear whatever band is playing on the roof at Momo's. We are, after all, in the Live Music Capital of the World.
- An excellent view of the sunset.

Cons:
- Exhaust fumes
- Skateboarders
- Austin weather varies from 15 on severe winter days to 115 on severe summer days.

Pros:
- Free sauna on severe summer days

Clearly the pros outweigh the cons, unless the board members all die from extreme temperatures and exhaust inhalation. In that case I'm sure we could get some of the skateboarders to fill in if we promise them the free food and drinks the board would otherwise consume, and access to the exclusive upper floor via elevator. After all, skaters gotta skate.

A Silver Spoon in Mom's Mouth

Mom grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in Selma during the Great Depression. Technically they weren't dirt poor; there was plenty of dirt. But not as much of everything else.

The youngest of three girls, all quite lovely, Mom was occasionally spoiled as the baby of the bunch. One of her uncles, a cab driver an hour away in Montgomery[1], used to come visit on Saturday. He'd give her a double handful of change-- mostly nickels and dimes.[2] It was usually around five dollars. Today that will barely buy you a fast food lunch; back then it could have fed the family for a week. But her uncle was adamant that his princess could spend it however she liked, so she and her sisters or friends blew it on ice cream, sodas and movies.

Given that movies cost a dime and sodas a nickel at the time, this is the equivalent of blowing several hundred dollars a week on movies and sodas today. She did occasionally buy something she wanted or needed, or presents, but overall, they didn't have much.

When Sharon and I were getting married, Mom was appalled that we weren't registering for fine china, glassware, silverware, etc. It meant a lot to her to have nice things, and she was adamant we deserved them. But there were a lot of things we needed (we had next to nothing) and stuff we couldn't use every day was not high on our list.

We went back and forth for a couple of weeks. Finally, she threw out the big one. "What of the president comes to eat?" I'm pretty sure I laughed, or at least snorted.

"Mom, Jimmy Carter is President. While I don't see him coming to eat with us, I think he'd like it eating on everyday stuff, like just folk. But if not, he could go eat somewhere else."

Aghast at what her son had become, she gave up.

Or so I thought. Fast forward at least a decade.

Mom found some silverware at an estate sale. The chest was hand painted (stenciled?). She bought it for us as a gift. She said it was really cheap; I was never quite sure if that was the case, or if she was afraid we wouldn't take it otherwise. We would have; how do you turn down a loving gift from your Mom or dad?

We only use it a few times a year; we really should use it more (frequent use keeps it shiny!) Whereas a lot of wedding silver tends to be heavy and ornate, this is simple and light, and I love it. I don't normally notice the utensils I use for eating unless there's a problem, but I love using these. (The serving utensils are clearly not original, but we're pretty much a mix and match family, so that works just fine!)

Mom could be very gracious, but one of the times she could be a sore loser was when she thought her kids were settling for less than they should. I'm glad she won this round.

[1] The world was bigger then, and the roads rougher. Especially in Alabama.
[2] Trivia fact: Dimes were still 90% silver at this time.

Early Morning Breakdown

(From the college years...)

I've never been a morning person. The closest I came was during a certain semester in college when I had an 8AM class. Previous 8AM classes had been routinely destructive to my GPA. But this time I had a deus ex machina, a sky rack-- a bed on stilts so high the mattress was a foot from the ceiling. My desk sat under the sky rack; my clock radio sat on the desk. I intentionally did NOT put a ladder on the bed. This meant I had to stand on the desk and haul myself into the bed-- hard enough at night when I was tired, but almost impossible when I was barely awake in the morning. To make sure I got down in the morning I would set the clock's radio to the most obnoxious station possible, with the volume all the way up. That was the only noise I couldn't sleep through. So long as I set the alarm and slept in my bed, I got up.

I was in full zombie mode, walking into walls, searching for brains (my own), but I was up! It worked pretty well throughout the quarter.

Fast forward to final exams. On the morning of the third in a row 8AM exam (after staying up til the wee hours each night cramming), the alarm went off. I forget whether it was bad disco music or bad country music, but I came close to murdering the poor clock. Once mostly dressed, I sat down on the sofa to put on my socks (I'm not sure why, as I almost always went barefoot). Suddenly the light in the room changed drastically. This was seriously spooky. I stared around the room, confused. What just happened? Then I saw the clock. I had fallen asleep sitting upright on the edge of the couch, with my right leg over my left knee, sock half on. Frozen like a statue, I'd slept through the exam. Instead of "The Thinker", I was "The Sock Putter On-er".

That was the point I gave up having to do anything regularly at 8AM for any length of time.

Lemon Tree, Very Tasty!

A year or so after moving to Georgia, we went on vacation to Florida for spring break. We visited relatives all along the Atlantic and Gulf coasts.

In Delray Beach, we stopped to spend the day with Dad's Uncle Fred and his wife. This delightful, slender, couple-- who seemed about a hundred years old at the time-- had the two, coolest, craziest lemon trees we had ever seen, about four feet tall and four to five feet wide. The lemons were bigger than most grapefruit, almost as big as my younger brother Bill's head. Very tangy, a little sweet, not bitter at all. They offered to let us take a couple. Bill picked the largest lemon on each tree.

Once we were home, mom made some lemon meringue pies. She made four pies from one lemon. Seriously. And they were awesome, as befits pies made from lemons so big Texas was jealous.

Bill took a lemon to school (William Robinson Elementary School) for Show & Tell. He was in either first or second grade. His teacher, who shall remain nameless, "corrected" him, explaining he had a grapefruit. My brother insisted it was a lemon and explained that Mom had made two pies from half a lemon. The teacher called him a liar and made him sit back down.

This story came out, slowly, at the dinner table, when Mom or Dad asked Bill how Show & Tell had gone. I remember the gasps from the other kids (and me), mom's indignation, the quiet fury on Dad's face. We almost felt sorry for the teacher. Almost, but not quite. She'd grossly misjudged our brother. She had impugned not only his honor, but the whole family's. We siblings all felt personally impugned because we knew she'd have called us liars as well. She was doomed, and rightly so.

Dad went by Willy Rob first thing the next morning to discuss it with Mr. Strelec, the Principal (a great guy, who rightfully later became the county's Superintendent of Schools). Mr. Strelec called the teacher in and asked her what had happened. She looked right at him and Dad and told the same story as Bill had. She admitted calling Bill a liar.

I don't recall all the details, but I do recall the quiet victory, the joy in justice, on Dad's face as he relayed the teacher's withering under the Principal's response. She called Bill up in front of the class and apologized for calling him a liar, explaining that he had been correct. Dad and Mr. Strelec were there, and Dad was under the distinct impression that had they to been there, she wouldn't have done it. She seriously resented having to. Bill was vindicated. We all were.

The teacher was gone the next year. Hopefully she learned some life lessons from this, perhaps about integrity, the very virtue she said my brother lacked. "Let she who is without sin cast the first lemon."

Auntie Grizelda's Story

If you've never heard the Monkees' song, "Auntie Grizelda", click on this sentence to listen to it before reading this.

(We tracked Auntie Grizelda down in a Pinellas Park, Florida retirement home and interviewed her. Here's what she remembers about the Monkees. She's rather old, hard of hearing, and nearly blind. Out of respect for her, this chapter is printed in large type. -Ed)

``No, I never did like that boy one bit. All that hair, and all those strange clothes, and he just couldn't keep his hands off dear Esmerelda. She was named to rhyme with me, you know. I was her mother's best friend, as well as her favorite sister. In fact, none of those boys could leave that girl alone.

``Yes, that boy was all of the time tryin' to put his arm on her shoulder, and hug on her. I daresay he even tried to kiss her a time or two, and they only dated eight weeks. And all the boys crazy about her, and she about them. What was that girl a'thinkin'? I like to had a fit!

``Esmerelda was a good girl. Still is. She ended up a'marryin' that other Monkee boy, what's his name, Davey Jones. I'd like to send him to Davey Jones' locker! They hadn't been married no time a'tall, I mean they weren't even through with the reception, and that boy had the marriage annulled!

``At least he didn't get her in the family way first. I guess that's somethin' to be grateful for.

``Anyways, that one boy, Michael, he always scared me. Somethin' strange about that boy, how he'd look at me. And always a'wearin' that silly cap, no matter the weather! But I fixed him.

``People say, of course, that the Monkees broke up over some artistic argument, or some such thing. But when that Michael fella kept a'comin' around, and don't think I didn't know what they wanted, even after Esmerelda finally listened to me, and wouldn't have nothin' to do with any of 'em no more, I just got sick and tired of it, and like I said, he scared me.

``This was about a year after the day of the marriage. I called my nephew Frankie over to Brandon, and asked him to come see me. So he did. And I explained about this boy, Michael, and Esmerelda. I tell you, I wished I had thought of Frankie before, and told him about the whole lot of them!

``Anyway, Frankie and a couple of his friends went and paid that Michael a visit. And nobody ever saw him again. I wish I'd a told Frankie about that Davey fella, too, only Frankie could only keep one thing straight at a time.

``Anyway, Frankie took care of things. And today, you always hear about that Michael making movies, or having a song, only nobody ever has any new pictures, just those old ones with that silly hat. And when the Monkees get together for a concert, there's only the three of them, Mickey, Davey, and that other one, but no Michael. On account of I had Frankie take care of him.

``Now, Mickey, after he got over being silly about my niece, he was an all right boy sometimes. Always complimented me on my fudge. But that other one, I'd catch Esmerelda looking at him, and he'd just look back, plain as day, like a deer stuck in the headlights.

``I couldn't abide none of 'em except Mickey, and I only liked him over for tea and fudge when Esmerelda was gone. And one day after he was there, I found all the water splashed out of the wading pool our budgie, Grace, liked to play in. Never knew why, but it always made me wonder.

``Anyway, that's the story. I hear they wrote a song about me. Probably mean and hateful. I don't know, on account of I never listened to that trash they called music. I miss Lawrence Welk. He played good music. Not just any old noise, and hateful words, like those boys played.

``That was what ruined this country, you know. That awful, loud noise and hateful words. And all that hair. Didn't even look like boys! And nowadays, most of 'em look like they stuck their head in somewhere it don't belong, blenders or light sockets or toilets or some such.

``But not my Frankie. He still looks so good. Takes care of himself. That boy keeps his hair nice, and dresses nice. And he still listens to classical music. He's so nice. If only he weren't Esmerelda's cousin, but then I guess he couldn't have taken care of that Monkee fella, and then they wouldn't have left her alone, and I don't know what would have happened then.''

Sniper School Pays Off (One Shot, One Kill)

WARNING: If you can't deal with killing vermin, don't read this.

This was written 1998-Nov-08 when we lived in the country, near Jonestown.

The other night, I found out we had a mouse in the house.

I realized that we had no mouse traps.

After pumping up Josiah's air rifle (mine needs a new cocking spring), I realized it was empty - no BBs. The mouse disappeared, and did not come back out, even though I went through the trouble of getting the pellets out and inserting one in the air rifle.

The next day, both Sharon and I forgot to get mouse traps. That night, wen everyone else was in bed, I heard a noise in the kitchen; the mouse was using the gas range top as a playground. It disappeared as I peeped around the corner. Clever little devil.

I chose a suitable, hidden location (the table), complete with rifle rest (a small, wooden tissue box cover someone with bizarre taste gave us). I cleared all collateral objects (salt shakers, dish washing detergent, ceramic duck) from the field of fire. I made sure there was a suitable backdrop (a wall), to avoid any collateral damage (broken windows). I baited the trap (placed grated cheese in the middle of the range top).

I then sighted in my rifle on the target area, all of six feet away. Since the rifle was actually sighted in for 25 feet, I guesstimated that I needed 1/2 inch of additional muzzle elevation (tall sights). I settled in and waited.

After a few moments, the enemy made a scouting mission. He darted across the field of fire, reconnoitered, and darted back. I focused on the front sight and continued to breathe slowly and evenly. Again he darted through, pausing briefly near the cheese this time. I kept my finger over the trigger, but didn't move it.

A moment later, he darted straight into the middle of the cheese. Stopped dead in my sights. I aimed just above his spine, slowly squeezed the trigger.

There was a loud pop. The sights jumped slightly. The mouse did a flip in the air. I heard the whine of the ricochet. Something lodged in my hair. The mouse landed on its feet, scurried a few inches, and stopped across the burner hole. It relaxed and fell through, dead. As I got up and walked over to check it, the pellet, thoroughly flattened, fell out of my hair. [1]

I put the mouse in a Ziploc body bag, cleaned up the blood, and buried him under the coffee grounds in the kitchen trash can.

How did it feel? It didn't really. Not really good or bad. A tad sad, but I just did the job I had to do. Not that hard a shot, nothing to be especially proud of. Just an unpleasant job that had to be done.

It was the next morning I realized I'd blown it. I should have put the body bag in the freezer, next to Sharon's frozen snake. "Frozen Roadkill City - Fun For The Whole Family! 5 Miles Ahead!"

-Miles, Great White Hunter

[1] "Oh, gross! Mouse guts and blood in your hair!" -Sharon

The Outer Limits... Facebook Style

(cue spooky theremin music)

``There is nothing wrong with your browser. Do not attempt to adjust the updates. We are in control. If we wish to make you see everything, we will feed you our database. If we wish to make it sparser, we will show next to nothing. We control the width. We control the automatic scrolling. We can roll the ads, make them flutter. We can change your focus to a soft blur or sharpen it to crystal clarity. For the next few hours, sit quietly and we will control all that you see and hear. We repeat: there is nothing wrong with your internet. You are about to participate in a great adventure. You are about to experience the awe and aggravation which reaches from your subconscious to... The Facebook Limits.''

Suzi: A Homeless Person's Story

(A True tale)
(As told by Suzi Styrofoam & Miles "Ampersands-R-Us" O'Neal)

Miles: I had just started out for work at Solid Waste Systems (Not Its Real Name) on my Interceptor, when I saw her laying beside the road in the grass.

Suzi: I'm not really sure what happened. I just woke up really disoriented, with no idea how I got there or anything. Just totally weird.

Miles: I stopped to check on her. She was kind of battered. What kind of creep would do that to someone and then just discard her like she was rubbish? It made my blood boil.

Suzi: He was really nice. He checked me over, asked where I wanted to go. I said I really didn't know, I didn't have anywhere to go.

Miles: So I put her on the back of the bike and took her on to work. She seemed really interested - she just sat there, didn't make a sound. She watched me work on a nasty code bug all day.

Suzi: I always thought computers would be boring. But they were so awesome! Daddy was an Assistant Undersecretary of COBOL Programming to the US Soviet Attache, or something, and his job just seemed totally boring!

Miles: Later that day, She Who Must Be Obeyed (the only truly evil person I ever worked for) came around to harass me about project status. She'd marked me as her next victim. I'd had about all I could put up with but I wasn't ready to chance getting fired. In a fit of inspiration, I discussed the project status with Suzi.

Suzi: At first she just looked back and forth between us, kind of like she was lost. Then she interrupted, and demanded to know the technical details of why the project still wasn't done...

Miles: ...which she was totally incapable of understanding, but she wanted to needle me...

Suzi: ...so Miles just started discussing it with me again...

Miles: ...and she asked what I was doing. I apologized, and introduced them. "Jezebel," (Not Her Real Name) "this is Suzi, my new administrative assistant. We were just discussing the project status. Suzi, this is Jezebel, my boss." Then I want back to discussing status with Suzi...

Suzi... he'd occasionally tell her something...

Miles: ...her eyes got real big, and she backed away, and left, and never got very close to me again.

Suzi: She seemed to think he'd gone crazy. I think she was afraid of him! Silly woman.

Miles: I found another job a few weeks later, and hightailed it out of there. I was one of the few people who managed to leave that company without getting fired. I could never have done it without Suzi.

Suzi: So he let me be his admin, and I learned engineering and software from him, and I've just sort of been hanging around ever since.

Sharon bought her sister, Matilda, out of bondage. She lives with us, too. We'll have to interview her one day.

My Sheep Story

(To get the full effect of this story, you need to make the animal noises. Better yet, read this with friends, while one of you plays me and others play everyone else.)

Let's go back to second grade for a bit. (A chorus of "No way!"s fills the air.) Our beloved Dolphin Terrace, still practically brand new, was already bursting at the seams and had gained portable buildings to handle overflow. Second graders got the portables that year. Each portable had indoor plumbing (I guess they were semi-portable or something) complete with a bathroom. In our class, if the bathroom was occupied, you wrote your name on a sheet of paper on the bathroom door. After you used the bathroom, you crossed your name out, and the next person on the list went in, locking the door as the bathroom was zoned for single occupancy only.

One Monday morning I really needed to go, but there were several names on the list. By the time I got in, I was going to be a while. Naturally, being me, hating to waste time, I started daydreaming. The day before in Sunday School we had learned about a shepherd boy named David, taking care of his sheep, defending them against all comers, such as lions and bears. (Possibly Injuns and rustlers as well, but they'd never been mentioned. Still, I'd seen enough movies to know you had to watch out for these tricky types.)

So while I was waiting to see how things came out, I was being David, guarding the sheep, herding them up the Chisholm trail, protecting them from lions, bears, coyotes, whatever (no Injuns or rustlers that day). As far as I can recall, Goliath never showd up, either.

Outside, or rather inside the classroom, the teacher eventually noticed a disturbance. This mainly took the form of laughter in the corner nearest the bathroom. She spoke sternly, and the group managed to mostly scale back to snickers and giggles. Above those, the whole class plainly heard, "Baaaa! Baaaaa!" with an occasional wild animal growl. Bedlam ensued. I later heard that one girl literally fell out of her chair she was laughing so hard.

Meanwhile, David, oblivious to second grade, was happily taking care of the sheep when a sudden pounding, a deranged thunder, shook him from his reveries. As he stared, perplexed, at a white ceramic basin in front of him, wondering where he was, a voice (not the voice of God, but the next thing to it) called, "Miles! Miles! Are you all right in there?"

Huh? Oh. yeah. Of course! " Yes, ma'am! Be out in a little while!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Well, hurry up!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

Uh oh.

As quickly as possible I finished my business. I unlocked the door, opened it, and was nearly knocked down by gale force winds of laughter from my 23 classmates. [1] I would have closed the door and locked myself in but the face of the Teacher who sits at the right hand of the One who sits at the right hand of the Father made it clear I'd best get to my desk PRONTO.

The laughter refused to subside for somewhere between 15 and 30 minutes despite the best efforts of our (truly wonderful) teacher. Even after order was restored, every few minutes, a "Baaaa" would float gently from a random part of the room and everyone would lose it again. By mid afternoon, I think we finally went 10 minutes with no laughter, when the teacher got a funny look on her face, and went, "Baaaaa...." I think I even laughed at that point.

That day was one of the longest years of my entire life.


[1] 4 rows of 6 chairs... Amazing what a geek will remember.

Growing Up Miles: The O'Neal Dynasty

Another installment of the O'Neal Siblings' Saga.

Dad is a brilliant man. I'm quite certain he's a certifiable genius but as far as I am aware, he has never taken an IQ test. He doesn't care. That's a healthy attitude; he's content to just be him. I freely admit, though, that I always wanted the bragging rights.

Being a PhD, a college professor and an accomplished researcher, Dad naturally hoped his children would follow in his footsteps to some extent. He never pushed us to get PhDs, but I know he hoped some of us would. He is, after all, a Dad, and that's the sort of thing a well educated, bright Dad hopes for.

While none of us has attained a PhD (only Kathleen has more than one degree, Bill and Sharon have one each, and I have none) his four, oldest children did establish an educational dynasty of sorts at Westside High School.


In the late summer of the Year of Our Lord 1970, Westside High School of Richmond County, Georgia, USA opened its doors to students for the first time. I was among those entering 10th grade (the lowest class served). I had the great fortune to be placed in the sixth period English class of Mrs. Francis Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson was a physically diminutive lady I estimated to be in her fifties. She was an old school teacher who brooked no silliness or trouble in her classroom. I generally got along well with my teachers but somehow got off on the wrong foot with Mrs. Johnson. I felt she was too harsh. She felt I wasn't living up to my potential. She, at least, was dead on in her evaluation.

A hopeless romantic, an insecure sophomore, a dreamer, I did what I usually did in uncomfortable circumstances and retreated into my imagination. Contrary to popular belief, the worst that can happen is not that one gets in trouble for being off in fantasy land when one should be in the real world. One can get in far worse trouble when one drags fantasy land into the real world.

This is especially true when electricity is involved.

While I generally loved the subject material (the language itself, grammar, reading, writing, diagramming, all of it!) if I had a teacher who didn't inspire me, I struggled to care about the material or my grades.

I should also point out that I sat in the middle of the back of the class.

I'd started carrying a pocket screwdriver with me, the type with a hollow handle holding several, detachable drivers. One fine day when Mrs. Johnson was having us read something I didn't care about, I noticed that the electrical outlet was right beside my seat. Since all things electrical and electronic were near and dear to my heart, and since I never seemed to have enough money for such things, I did what any idiot would do-- I decided to steal the outlet.

The cover was a brushed steel plate. I stealthily removed my pocket screwdriver, quietly opened it, and lovingly installed the flat head blade. I surreptitiously, oh so slowly, oh so carefully, moved it to the outlet cover. By feel I found the screw. It took a minute or so of slow, easy going, but the screw came out. I removed the cover. Carefully, casually, I placed it on the floor beside my chair, the screw sticking out of the hole in the middle.

Then I waited a couple of days.

Friday afternoon I reassembled the screwdriver, more confidently this time. Staring at my open literature book (it was most likely Dickens or Shakespeare but who knows? It wasn't Poe; I would remember that for sure.) I moved the screwdriver down. I chanced a glance, not wanting to find live wiring with my fingers! Once I had the tool in the screw's slot, I stared studiously at my book and started turning the screw.

After only a few seconds, all Hell broke loose at my fingertips.

There was an extremely loud crack and buzz-- a cross between a firecracker and a fire alarm-- but only for an instant. Great, beautiful, golden sparks flew, hundreds, maybe thousands of them, from the outlet to every part of the room. I distinctly recall watching some hit the farthest corner. Girls shrieked. Guys roared. People jumped in their desks.

The screwdriver, apparently of its own volition, found its way deep within the coils of one of my notebooks under my literature book. My hands were on the desk. I was jumping and yelling with everyone else. Why not? I was as startled as they were.

But the best reaction, the very best of all, was poor Mrs. Johnson's. She bolted upright as she jumped, hit her knees against the bottom of her massive, wooden teacher's desk, fell back into her massive, wooden backed teacher's chair, jumped up and banged her knees again, fell back into her chair, and she and chair fell to the side together, her hand fiercely clutching the broken halves of her pencil.

After the worst of the pandemonium calmed down, the girl in the farthest corner (whose huge fro had caught a couple of sparks) started yelling. "Mrs. Johnson, he did it! He did it! It was Miles! I saw him! I saw him!" What she saw I was never sure, but she was sure she did, and that was that.

I tried to explain that I had noticed the outlet cover on the floor for a couple of days and decided to reinstall it. Mrs. Johnson didn't buy it. The tattler said she'd seen me putting a huge, yellow screwdriver in my pocket. Mrs. Johnson made me turn out my pockets and checked my sleeves and socks. All were, of course, devoid of screwdrivers, huge or otherwise.

Mrs. Johnson returned to her desk, up-righted her chair, threw the pencil away in disgust and picked up another. "Back to work!" We back to worked.

After a moment curiosity got the better of me. I pulled the screwdriver out and examined it, hidden by my book. Half the tip was gone, with a large blob of copper in its place. Too much damage for that brief instant, but there it was (We later found the school had been mis-wired for 30 amp service in a 15 amp outlet.)

I put the screwdriver (still warm) in my pocket. After a minute, paranoia made me move it to my sock.

Or perhaps it was my guardian angel.

A moment later Mrs. Johnson jumped up, rushed back, and looked through my books and notebooks. She stared at me intently, returned to her desk, called me up, and scribbled furiously on a hall pass. "Take this to the office, find out what class Hank is in, and bring him here." Speculatively she watched my face. "He's the only other person with that seating assignment, and I want to hear what he has to say. Empty your pockets again, please." She was disappointed that the screwdriver hadn't found its way back to its presumed lair.

On the way to get Hank, I put the screwdriver in the several inches of papers mashed into the bottom of my locker. I explained to Hank what had happened, and asked him to say he'd seen the plate on the floor (which he had). But Hank was stoned, and afraid to admit anything to anyone in authority. He stammered his way through his denials. My one consolation was that now at least half of Mr's Johnson's rather sharp mind was on Hank's nervousness rather than my culpability in electrical terrorism.

She then remembered to check my socks again, finding only inadequately hairy legs (from my perspective; I've no idea of hers) and more disappointment in terms of finding actual evidence of malfeasance.

Our relationship, needless to say, was rather strained the rest of the year. Fortunately for both of us, I wasn't in her class the next two years. One day during my senior year I found her walking beside me in the hall between classes. Except for a few lines on her face and some gray in her hair, she could have been a student. She startled me with a very school girlish, warm, friendly smile.

"You know, I never could prove it, but I always knew you shorted that outlet and caused that electrical storm. What were you really doing?"

Stunned, I could think of neither witty repartee nor anything plausibly deniable. I smiled what I hoped was an enigmatic smile and said, "Why, Mrs. Johnson, what ever do you mean?" She laugh, I laughed. She went into her room. I cringed my way to my next class.


The following year, my sister Sharon entered Westside, having of course heard all my friends' and my stories. Sharon wasn't as studious as I was (and I had been nowhere near the top of my game that year). She was also dealing with a lot of insecurity and loneliness. Like me, she had begun to blur the line between reality and her happy place-- sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.

Naturally, she drew Mrs. Johnson as her English teacher. She sat (I forget whether it was wittingly or un) in my old seat. When Mrs. Johnson got to her name while calling roll the first day of class, she paused. "You wouldn't, by any chance, be Miles O'Neal's sister?"

Sharon smiled brightly. "Uh huh!"

Not even a "Yes, ma'am." Mrs. Johnson took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

A few days later the class was exposed to the first of many pop quizzes (they bloomed like wildflowers in Mrs. Johnson's realm). As was her habit, she walked the room watching for any sign of cheating. As she came beside Sharon, Sharon bolted upright. In her best southern drawl, she nearly growled a warning. "Don't you step on his tail! He'll kill you!" She bent back over her quiz.

Mrs. Johnson froze in her tracks, amazed. What was this O'Neal child up to? "Don't step on whose tail?"

Sharon sat back up wearily but patiently. "My pet black panther. Right there. If anyone steps on his tail, he kills them. His tail's right beside your foot." She pointed helpfully at a spot near one shoe.

Mrs. Johnson looked at the floor. She looked at Sharon. "You know perfectly well there's nothing there."

"He's invisible." Sharon shrugged and gave the teacher a pitiful look. "I tried to warn you. Watch out for his tail." She went back to the quiz. After a few seconds, Mrs. Johnson went back to pacing the classroom. She gave the O'Neal and her Pet Panther a wide berth.

If I recall correctly, she pretty much left Sharon alone the rest of the year, though Sharon kept providing evidence of the O'Neal strain of insanity.


The following year our sister Kathleen entered Westside for the first time, having of course heard all our stories. To her great delight, she ended up in the fabled Mrs. Johnson's class. Happily, the O'Neal seat was open. (I'm surprised it wasn't roped off with a sign reading "Already Disturbed"). She claimed it and waited patiently for roll call. She was not disappointed.

Mrs. Johnson trailed off halfway through the last name, then repeated it. "O'Neal... I don't suppose you are the sister of Miles..."

"Yes, ma'am!" A mischievous, delighted gleam in her eyes, Kathleen grinned and nodded, her curly hair flouncing.

Hopelessly the trapped teacher continued. "...and... Sharon?"

A bigger smile and nod. "Yes'm!"

Mrs. Johnson looked like she'd cry. Kathleen, a good student, went through the year pretty well ignored by her English teacher except for an occasional congratulatory remark on her excellent grades and scholarship. Kat never did anything beyond her over-eager first response, but that was enough. She had cowed the tiger.


Two or three years later Bill arrived at Westside High, having heard all our stories. As he took his seat in Mr. Alford's home room he scanned his schedule. To his utter dismay, he did not have Mrs. Francis Johnson for English. With the three of us having helped water and fertilize his imagination (never mind traumatizing it) Bill easily rose to the occasion. He introduced himself to Mr. Alford (with whom I'd gotten along famously my senior year). As the home room bell sounded, Bill asked if he could be excused for a minute.

"Why on earth would I do that? Surely Miles told you we stick to the rules in my class!"

With a wicked grin, our brother explained what he wanted. Mr. Alford started writing with a flourish. As Bill finished, Mr. Alford handed Bill a hall pass. "What are you waiting for? Why are you still here?" I never found out why, but Mr. Alford and Mrs. Johnson, while hardly mortal enemies, were certainly not on good terms. That was all we needed to know.

Bill sauntered into Mrs. Johnson's room as she called roll. She spared the tardy student a withering glance and kept going. A chair in the middle of the back of the class sat forlorn and empty. It called to O'Neals like gold called prospectors to California in the 1800s. As always, O'Neal gallantry stepped up. Bill sat on the O'Neal throne, confidently, buoyantly, happily, beaming at his hapless victim.

Having finished the roll, Mrs. Johnson asked the expected question. "Is there anyone whose name I didn't call?" Bill's hand was in the air with the first word. "I meant anyone who was on time", she replied menacingly.

Bill dropped his hand and sat quietly, beaming away. No one else responded. No
one else moved. They all knew this teacher's reputation.

Mrs. Johnson glared at Bill, straightened her notebook, and raised her pencil. "And your name is...?"

"William Floyd O'Neal. But I go by Bill."

Silence fell like summer rain. Time slowed to glacial speed. Nobody else understood but they knew something was wrong. Mrs. Johnson understood. Or thought she did. She tried to speak. She licked her suddenly dry lips and tried again. "O'Neal? As in Miles?"

Bill nodded. "Yes, ma'am!"

"...and Sharon??" A beam and a nod. "Kathleen?" A nod and a beam.

"Yes, ma'am. They're my brothers and sisters!" Innocently he cranked the smile up a notch.

"Mrs. Johnson, looking as if she would cry, put her head on her desk, softly saying something sounding suspiciously like, "Why me?"

After a perfectly calculated interval Bill jumped to his feet. "Well, if that's the way you're going to be, I'm leaving and never coming back!" he stalked moodily from the classroom, leaving the O'Neal throne empty at last.


We never heard what happened afterward in her class, but the amazing thing is that Mrs. Johnson-- a stickler among sticklers for discipline and rules-- apparently never looked into it. Bill told Mr. Alford (and later all of us) in loving detail what happened. Mr. Alford barely managed not to howl and slap his desk, unlike the O'Neal clan (including not just Mom, but that bastion of schoolness, Dad, as well,

Mr. Alford kept his ears open and even made discreet inquiries. In the teacher's lounge, nothing untoward had happened, although Mrs. Johnson seemed a little nervous for a day or so. But she quickly returned to her normal good cheer.

I like to think the chair escaped to a better place, perhaps a verdant mesa on a planet where school chairs live in peaceful harmony with enema bags and other things most of us are glad to never see again.

Looking back, I hope Mrs. Johnson had a happy, uneventful career after she was through with the O'Neals. She certainly deserved it.

And God help any O'Neals in her class after we'd gone through.

Lost in Albania (OK, Not Quite)

I left Durres, and Abi (I hated that, knowing it would likely be months before I'd see her again) around six on a Sunday afternoon. Right after boarding the bus I realized I couldn't recall what my stop in Tirane looked like. Getting back to the Qendra Stefan had seemed easy Saturday morning, but suddenly it hit me that I was a foreigner, alone in a country where I could say little more than please and thank you, and that Tirane was a decent sized city. Worst case I could get a taxi, or just stop on every street corner and say, "Qendra Stefan?" in a loud voice. How pathetic.

Instead, I did the obvious thing, and prayed. "Please help me get there without any problems. Thanks!" Notice I didn't specify how. I really didn't care. Why limit God to my imagination in these things?

Within a minute or so, a man around my age sat down next to me. He looked like an Albanian businessman. He nodded, I nodded. That was it. I spent about half the trip writing in my journal. I write small, and most people can't read it. I suppose it's possible he saw that. I don't know. I spent the rest of it looking out the window at my second home country.

Once in Tirane, I looked up whenever we'd slow down. Eventually we got to a spot that looked familiar. Was this it? I wasn't sure. I debated walking up front and asking the driver, "Qendra Stefan?" The man next to me spoke.

"Do you know the city well?" The accent was Albanian, but his English was clear. How did he know I American?

"Not really. I'm trying to decide if this is my stop or not."

"Where are you trying to go?"

"The Qendra Stefan."

"Ah. Do not get off here. The next stop is closer. And I live near there. Come with me and I will show you."

The next stop did not look familiar. The more I thought about it, the last stop was where we had taken the bus yesterday. But he seemed like a good guy. Let's go.

The walk to the Stefan took maybe five minutes. We chatted along the way; he was a former veterinarian. Such jobs went away after the fall of communism and during the civil wars, so he now worked in a bank (I ran across several such stories of vets becoming bankers). He and his young wife and child lived in Tirane, but he worked quite a bit in Durres, and sometimes had to go down on weekends.

"There is the Qendra Stefan". It was across the street, half a block away.

"Where do you live?"

"About 200 meters that way." He pointed away from the Stefan.

I thanked him, and he assured me it was nothing. I wanted to offer something, but was sure that doing so would be insulting. He'd simply been hospitable. I realized later I should have at least let him know he was an answer to prayer, but I suspect he knew.

Maybe he was an angel. Maybe he was simply a nice guy, either perceptive or nudged by the Spirit. I really don't care. I was just happy to be back without having to make Americans look absurd, stopping on every street corner, going, "Qendra Stefan? QENDRA STEFAN? HELP!"

Trailer: Jerusalem Jones & the Temple of D00M

So I had this vision[1], like Kelley Reilly from the ridiculously awesome heavy band Jerusalem was in _Jerusalem Jones and the Temple of D00M_. And this demon fella reaches into Kelley's chest, and pulls out his beating heart. Kelley just smirks at the ugly freak. Ol demon guy realizes there's a crank on the side. He rotates it, and it plays a song we all know, and POP goes the Jesus! right out of that beating heart into his smelly face.

Hell spawn falls over screaming and vanishes in a puff of nasty smoke. The heart grows legs and scurries back up onto Kelley's belly. Just before leaping inside, this big ol glowy flying sort of thing comes screaming in from another dimension, carrying tongs with a coal so bright it makes white hot look like a black hole. It drops the coal into Kelley's chest and coalesces back whence it came. The hole glows like the coal. The heart leaps in after the coal, Jesus' head on a spring smiling with raucous joy dropping in chasing the heart, and Kelley's chest seals up like nothing ever happened, except now it sports a tattoo of some cat named Joy who seems to be thrilled to be on fire.

Kelley whips out a pair of drum sticks and starts wailing on nearby 55 gallon drums to wake the dead and... wakes the dead.

I'd watch that movie. Oh, wait! I just did!

[1] Not that kind of vision, you know, just seein' stuff inside my head.

(This is partly Kelly Reilly's fault.)

Growing Up Miles - Siblings, Part 2

Being the oldest child has its perks. It also has its responsibilities and... un-perks (anti-perks?), for lack of a better term. One of the more mixed blessings occurs when you are old enough to be Left In Charge. This is basically the same as child sitting, only with less respect from those being sat. Plus, you may not get paid for it. You may not always have an option whether you do it or not. I guess one could argue the case that it prepares you for real life...

I don't believe I was a tyrant. Feel free to ask my siblings for their perspectives, but I really did try to be fair. On the other hand, I've always had a pretty strong sense of right and wrong (which I admit, I have locked away in a box (my sense of right and wrong, not my siblings)) from time to time, and a strong sense of justice. It's entirely possible I was a little too zealous in enforcing the rules, and in demanding that they do things my way. Especially at 13 or 14, when it was fairly common to be asked to take care of my sibs when our parents went out.

We lived on the Hill in Augusta. Most of the homes were older, nice, two story houses on a half acre. Once The Place to live in Augusta, it was still pretty nice. We knew the neighbors and they knew us. It was a Respectable Neighborhood. Things simply don't happen in Respectable Neighborhoods.


It was a lovely, late spring night on the Hill. The weather was typical for Augusta-- pleasant, with azaleas, honeysuckle, roses and various wildflowers and grass scents everywhere. Most people kept their windows open nights like this. Why pay for A/C when it was free? While a little more humid, it smelled delicious.

My parents had gone somewhere, leaving me in charge.

I don't recall too many details of the evening, which means we probably ate, watched TV, maybe played a game or read, talked, bathed, and got ready for bed. Just a typical night or I'd recall more about it. Of course, being the oldest, I didn't have to get ready for bed, but the others did. And there began the trouble.

Nobody really wanted to go to bed. Frankly, I didn't blame them. It was a gorgeous night, a weekend night, a night made to stay up late. But Mom and Dad had given bedtimes, and that was The Law.

Bill argued. He railed. He joked. He ignored me. Eventually I ran out of my limited options and a switch flipped somewhere inside. I went into Tyrant Mode. Bill eventually got in bed. By now the girls were in bed as well. Maybe they were just more compliant. Maybe I scared them more. Not having shared a room with me and kept me awake night after night until Dr. Miles became Mr. Revenge, they weren't immune to my wrath.

Finally, the house was quiet. My duty to parents and siblings fulfilled, I settled down to watch TV and read. I heard footsteps. "What are you doing?" I roared. Bill ran back to his bed, laughing. After a couple more episodes, the footsteps didn't return. Ah, peace...

Not so much. I heard the girls laughing. I trod firmly up the stairs, only to find Bill running back to his room. I turned on the lights. I lectured as best I could from memory as my parents might have. I don't think anyone laughed, but I recall a couple of smirks and grins. Lights off. Down I went. Ah, peace...

Giggling again. I stomped upstairs. Bill ran to his room. Lights on. Lecture. Mild argument. Lights off. I barely stomped going back down the stairs. I held my breath.... Quiet... Quiet... Ah, peace.

Raucous laughter. Weary with the cares on my poor, teenage shoulders, I trudged upstairs. Running. A body hitting a bed. More laughter. Snorts of hysteria. Lights on. More laughter, apparently at my besieged and weary, once noble countenance. "Mom and Dad... How can you... Why... You'd better... Or else..." Up til now, it was as fine a speech as the perfect, teenage, surrogate parent might give. But that last phrase has to come from either a true parent or a dangerous sibling. I was neither. I was a geeky kid with horn rim glasses, the muscle development of roadkill, and the menacing demeanor of baked trout.

And Bill had learned the truth about Space Robot.

"Or else? Or else what?", demanded my brother between howls of laughter. He bounced on his bed. He pounded his pillow as he laughed. He jumped out of bed and danced. It was too much. Another switch flipped. I was no longer in Tyrant Mode. I was now in Sad Punisher Mode.

"You leave me no choice. Mom and Dad told me I could if I had to. I'm going outside to get..."

Bill stopped. Out of the corner of my eye, through the connecting door to their room, I sensed my sisters hold their breath.

"...a switch."

My sisters gasped.

Bell was in denial. "No you aren't! You can't do that! You wouldn't dare! You better not!"

"I have permission. They said to do it if I have to."

"No! You won't!"

I turned around. I walked out, leaving his light on. I turned the girls' light off. "Lie down and go to sleep. I don't think he'll bother you any more tonight."

"Miles, do you have to?" Bill sounded sorry.

"Yeah. I do." I was angry. I was sad. I was miserable. But Bill was going to join me there. I stalked downstairs. He called something after me. It made no difference. I ignored him. I was steeling myself. Part of me, Dr. Revenge, was ecstatic. But part of me was afraid. I'd never whipped anyone before. I hated the switch. Man, was this what my parents felt like? I was amazed when I found myself preparing to speak an age old truth to Bill. "This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you." Knowing it was true, and that it couldn't possibly be true.

Out by the sidewalk, I chose and broke off a wisteria branch. As I began to strip the leaves, I heard my brother speaking loud enough for me to hear. "Miles, please! I'll stop. I'll be good. I swear!" I looked up and saw him in my sisters' room, standing at their open window. It was too late; I knew how this worked. Once punishment was promised, it must be imposed.

"I have no choice." I shook my head. "Get back to your room. I'll be there in a minute."

The beautiful silence resting upon the Hill was ripped to shreds by the tortured cry of a lost soul. "No, Miles! No! Please! Don't hit me, I'll be good, I promise! I swear! AHHHH! Ow! Stop! Please! Don't beat me any more, I'll be good! AHHHH! OW! OW!"

I stood frozen, mortified, the switch half stripped in my hand, as my brother-- an excellent actor by now-- went on and on and on. I saw lights come on in other houses. I heard a window slam between yells. As I looked helplessly around, a couple of neighbors stepped onto their porches to see what was going on.

You know in the old Frankenstein movies, the huge, double bladed knife switches? The ones they throw to let the lightning's current bring a monster to life? Well, Bill's theatrics threw several of those at once, and a monster roared to life inside me. I ripped the rest of the leaves off with a single stroke, not realizing til later I had cut my hand. I stormed the house, waving the switch like a sword over my head, a war cry on my lips. "Death! Death to the infidel!" Well, not quite, but something close to that.

Thankfully, Bill hadn't take the simple step of locking me out. I nearly ripped the screen door off its hinges, bounded up the stairs, grabbed Bill by an arm, drug him from our sisters' room, slipping and sliding across the polished wood floor (hoping he got lots of splinters), sat on his bed, threw him across my lap, pulled his pajama pants down, and started to beat the tar out of him.

The switch broke after a couple of licks. Shrieks turned to laughter. Bill escaped as I stared dumbly at what little wisteria remained in my hand. Bill locked himself in the closet or bathroom or somewhere similar, I turned the lights out, went downstairs, went outside, and talked to the night until my parents got home. God, the stars, the trees, the flowers, the darkness... none of them answered me that night. But I'd calmed down somewhat when Mom and Dad walked up from the car.

"What are you doing out here? Is everything OK? Did the others do all right?" As we walked inside, my story poured out, I was nearly crying with rage and embarrassment. The whole Respectable Neighborhood had heard! That little brat! It was a wonder the police weren't called! What would the neighbors think? How could he do this to me? I've never been so humiliated in my life! You left me in charge and...

My parents couldn't hold it back any longer. It wasn't incredulity at my brother's disobedience and disrespect that strained their faces. Grins tugged the corners of their mouths. They glanced at each other and burst out laughing. They laughed until they cried. Mom sat down, but Dad fell to the floor and rolled around.

I was wrong. I only thought I had never been so humiliated in my life. This was worse. Far worse. Betrayed by my own parents when I had kept their trust. I was unloved. Unwanted. Doomed. Alone in the world. I couldn't help it. At 14, I started to cry.

Seeing this, my parents mostly quit laughing. Mere giggles remained. Their faces softened. Dad spoke. "Son, I'm sorry."

Mom added, "So sorry. But now... at least you know..." (was she trying not to laugh again??? "...what it feels like..." Yes, she burst out laughing.

"...to be a parent!" So did Dad.

It was years before I forgave them.

Growing Up Miles - Siblings, Part 1

It's time to introduce my siblings. For the moment, I'll skip my sisters, but I don't think they'll mind. In fact. there's a pretty good chance they'll try to bribe me not to write about them. We'll see.

My brother, Bill, is 6 1/2 years younger than I. That makes him 4 1/2 when we moved to Augusta.

We moved in November. We stayed in a motel until the furniture arrived on a moving truck, but Dad took us to see the house that first night.

It was a two story house built in the mid to late 1800s. It had an attic and a basement. Storm windows. A huge, brick chimney topped the slate roof. A front porch with columns. Electrical fixtures right out of a Frankenstein movie. Somewhere there were bound to be hidden passages.

It was a dark and stormy night, and the power was off at the house. We took the tour by flashlight. It was pretty cool. It was pretty creepy. With no power, barren of furniture, the house was right out of a scary movie. A massive (to us kids) fireplace. Ancient, wooden floors. Dark corners. Cobwebs. What little outside light there was that night cast eerie shadows as branches outside the windows waved furiously in the wind. That wind howled through the chimney, whistled under the doors, rattled the wooden windows in their casings-- windows with old glass that distorted things just that little extra bit Alfred Hitchcock would have loved.

Mom and Dad, of course, were impervious to the mood. I don't recall what the other kids thought. I was excited. I was nervous. It was even money whether we'd find a cut throat like Injun Joe, or a dancing skeleton. Either would have been excellent. I loved every thrilling moment of it.

Then we opened the basement door. It was pitch black down there. A musty smell wafted up the steps into our faces. Here was some serious adventure. Bill darted ahead into the darkness, holding onto the rail, running down the steps, and

Bam! Whap! "Aaahhh!" Bam, Blat! Thump! Roll THUMP roll Bump! Bump!

Silence.

Mom screamed, and drug Dad and the flashlight down the stairs, yelling something like, "My baby! My baby!" Their feet pounded on the wooden steps. My heart pounded in my chest as my sisters and I groped our way down after them, expecting any moment to fall down a well or be nabbed by witches or cannibals.

Suddenly they stopped. I heard Bill laughing. "Do it again! Do it again!" His thick coat and hard head had held up just fine. The steps turned to the right, getting very narrow on the inside. He'd fallen, bounced and rolled to the landing, shot across, bounced off the door to the outside, bounced across the landing and down two more steps to the dry, red clay floor. And loved it. To him it was a carnival ride, the Dark Steps of Doom, and he was ready to ride again, reaching for that brass ring.

Mom decided we should leave and come back when it was daylight.


During the nearly 7 years I lived there my parents changed my brother's and my sleeping arrangements several times, alternating between us sharing a room and not. Why they ever thought us sharing was a good idea I have no idea. At least after a year or so.

Even back in El Paso, when Bill and I were in the same room it could get wiggy. But once I got to about 12 or 13, it was a really bad idea.

Many were the nights Bill would keep me awake when I needed to get to sleep because I had to be up a lot earlier for school than he did. He'd tell stories, cut up, whatever, just to entertain himself. Or to get my attention or taunt me, I'm still not sure which. After a couple of hours he'd start winding down. By then, however, I'd be wide awake. Second wind wide awake. Can't go to sleep for hours awake. Vengefully, cruelly, mad scientist laughingly awake. This was payback time.

Many nights I'd get completely under the sheet and get really quiet. Eventually he'd bite, whether out of boredom or nervousness. "Miles? Are you awake?"

(monotone, bad movie robot voice) "No. This. Is. Space. Robot." Space robots would come for all sorts of heinous reasons, usually involving ghastly death, horrible humiliation, and ultimately the eating of younger brothers. Every now and then Space Robot would beam back out and I'd return, and console Bill, only to be replaced again. Once Bill was too terrified to sleep, but especially to move or talk, I could go to sleep.

Occasionally he'd scream in sheer terror. I became very convincing at either sleeping through it (once awakened, "He must be having nightmares again!") or being startled out of a sound sleep. Falling out of bed was a specialty.

Other nights I'd have a spare, light colored sheet or towel hidden somewhere in or near my bed. As he'd wind down, I could tell when he was almost asleep. Then a ghost would sail across the room. Inevitably, he'd yell, and typically hide under the covers. Exactly like lightning, only without any flash, thunderclap or electrical destruction and ozone, I'd retrieve the ghost, stash it somewhere safe, and be asleep before anyone was there.

But my favorite revenge, my very favorite of all time, was when I hatched a long term plan. We talked off and on for weeks about what lived under our beds-- monsters, witches, ghosts, tarantulas, scorpions, vampires, mummies, invisible brains, and... Space Robots. One night I feigned sleep through probably a half hour of his usual monologue, after which he kind of wound down. (Had I learned this tactic earlier, we'd both have had a lot more sleep and a lot less trauma.)

Once he was in that gentle, quiet, cozy valley between wakefulness and sleep, where moonbeam dreams graze the cheeks and lips of our minds with gentle lover's caress, yet we can still hear, taste, see, smell, feel the real world, I somehow found myself slithering gently off the bed, gliding beneath it, moving Ninja-like across the polished, antique wooden floors.

It was late spring and the windows were open. Far off noises-- a dog barking, a car motor, a door slamming, faint voices-- wafted in on the dark, dreamy breeze along with hints of every flower in Augusta, especially honeysuckle. Starlight and moonlight, as well as a scattered, few ambient rays creeping upstairs from the living room played across the floor. I knew that floor well so I moved without a sound. It probably took me a minute to go six feet. I'm not sure I breathed more than once during that time.

I was beside Bill's bed. I was half under it. I wasn't afraid of anything under that bed. I was the nightmare under the bed, the monster, witch, ghost, tarantula, scorpion, vampire, mummy, invisible brain, and... Space Robot. My hand crept up beside the bed. I recalled exactly how he'd been laying, where his arm was. I grabbed that arm, made some sort of quiet, menacing noise, and yanked down as if to drag him under the bed.

Between the time he started to react and the time the scream came out of his mouth-- perhaps a tenth of a second-- I teleported back into my bed. A tenth of a second later, as his eyes went well past wide open, so open I was certain his eyeballs would pop out of his head, I had snuggled under the covers, resting peacefully. The scream went on. Where did he get all that air from? I jumped up. screaming, twisting, getting the covers all tangled. With impeccable timing, I fell out of bed just as Dad flew into the room. As an afterthought I whacked my (incredibly hard) head against the floor for good measure. (Seriously.)

The light came on. Mom and Dad ran to Bill, then stopped, staring back and forth. One of them (so many details are vivid, but not this one) was holding Bill. I think it was Mom, which means Dad helped me untangle. Having whacked my head, I could play dazed as well as confused. Eventually, of course, they decided Bill was having a nightmare. It took a while, but they got him calmed down, made sure I was OK, got Sharon and Kathleen calmed down (they'd been sound asleep when all Hell broke loose in the room next door), got me back in bed and convinced me to stay there, that it wasn't time for school (it was a Friday night), turned out the light, and headed back downstairs.

I snuggled down under the covers and got really, really still. I wasn't even a Ninja now. I was like a heard of dust bunnies, inanimate, no substance, practically non-existent.

Except to Bill. After a minute or three, a quite voice hissed. "You! You did that! I'll get you for this!"

"Space. Robot. Is. Hungry."

Silence.

It was golden.

Growing Up Miles, Part T2 (T for Train)

"There's something about a train that needs watching. I think we forget that." -Neil Ellis Orts

"In Soviet Russia, train watches you!" -Me

Ah, summer time! It was July 4th after we graduated from high school. Martin O'Rourke and I had spent the day riding our 10 speeds up and down a several story bank parking lot in downtown Augusta. Eventually we took a break and wandered out to admire the ancient train bridge over the Savannah River.

Built of giant, concrete pylons and massive, steel girders forming trusses, it stretches about 250 yards from bank to bank. Across the river, the tracks curve out of sight into the woods.

We talked about walking across it.

"I don't think any trains still use it," Martin opined.

"I'm not sure. I know I've seen trains downtown..." I looked back down the tracks away toward downtown. "But I don't recall if they came this way."

We discussed it a while from all points of view. We examined the tracks. Rusty, not shiny. Martin was certain. "Shiny rails mean use. Rusty rails mean nobody comes this way."

"Makes sense to me. Let's go."

We meandered out, stopping to climb the girders a bit (but not too much, neither of us being in love with heights). We explored a little, concrete room with no apparent purpose, a little ways out. We noticed that the river was broad and shallow, with lots of rocks.

"No wonder nobody ever jumps off it." We weren't about to.

Just over half way out, we stopped to do what almost any teenage boy would do at this point. We spat. We soaked up the Independence Day sun and relaxed, staring down into the river, minds floating away with it.

We heard a rumble in the distance. We looked at the sky; not enough clouds for lightning. We laughed. "Wouldn't it be funny if there was a train coming?" Quietly, secretly, carefully hidden away, neither of us thought it would be funny. I didn't want to think about it enough to name it.

We felt something. The faintest of tremors, a thrumming. Very low frequency. Something powerful. Something dangerous. Something like an earthquake. The trestle, that tower of strength, those huge girders, now reminded me of an Erector Set[tm]. Not very reassuring.

Still convinced a train couldn't possibly be coming, I thought back to a childhood of westerns, dropped to all fours, and laid my right ear against the track. I wasn't sure what to listen for, but three things happened in quick succession.

The rumble grew, in my ears, against my feet, against my hands, against my head.

The unmistakable, wild scream of a train horn-- all too near-- pierced every fiber of my being.

A light, followed by the front of a diesel locomotive, flew out of the trees, around the curve of the tracks on the South Carolina side of the river.

"Ahhhhhhh!!!!!" We ran. Lord, how we ran! The horn screamed fiercely. The rumble grew. Looking back, that light got bigger, flying mercilessly on, dragging the ridiculous mass of that steel monster with it, faster than we were running. Several thoughts danced nimbly through my head, far faster than my feet were moving.

"It's too far; we can't make it!"

"We're going to die!"

"Maybe we should jump! But what if we break our backs and necks and limbs and live? That's worse than getting creamed by a train?"

The behemoth grew closer, horn bellowing, brakes hissing, metal wheels screeching on the tracks in a desperate, futile attempt to slow down. The engineer had his head out the window, yelling. To this day, I can hear him screaming at us to get out of the way, begging, cursing, calling us stupid. It's impossible, of course, but I heard it in my mind then, and I can hear it now.

I honestly don't recall whose idea it was, but as we passed a support beam, one of us grabbed the other and drug them off the tracks. A steel girder stuck up at maybe a ten degree angle from a concrete pier, just a couple of feet from the tracks. One of us leaned into the girder, the other leaned back under it, and we locked our hands around each others' arms. We only had about three inches of concrete to stand on. A second or two later, the train roared by inches away. We screamed loudly enough to hear each other. The engineer's flew over us, goggle eyed, relieved, furious, amazed.

The train was interminable, rumbling by forever, shaking and jarring us as if trying to toss us into the river for daring to play in its path.

After a few hours, or a minute or two (it was hard to tell), the train was racing away from us, its red light mocking us from the caboose. The rumble died away, the horn screamed to clear a path through traffic, and the train was gone.

It had to be at least a minute before either of us could let go of the other. Somehow neither of us fell, and somehow we climbed back onto the tracks despite shaking like mad.

We still had a quarter of the bridge to go. We walked part of it. We ran part of it. We vibrated part of it. When we regained the ability to speak, we mostly just laughed. At one point we were laughing so hard we almost fell down. Then one of us made a train horn sound, and we laughed harder, but somehow got moving again. When we got to the grass, we staggered at least 15 feet from the tracks, fell down, and just stared at the sky, waiting for the ground-- or perhaps our bodies and souls-- to stop trembling, vibrating, and rumbling.

The sky was beautiful. The grass was beautiful. The incredibly empty railroad bridge was beautiful. My shoes (dear, magnificent, grippy shoes!) were beautiful. Life... life was beautiful. Trains, at the moment, not so much.

Eventually we were able to walk, then to ride, and headed home, laughing and reliving every terrifying, glorious moment over and over.

We got over the fear pretty soon. I loved trains again, and still do. I've been out on train bridges since then.

But never without an escape plan.

Or three.

Growing Up Miles, Part T1 (T for Train)

"There's something about a train that needs watching. I think we forget that." -Neil Ellis Orts

I rarely, if ever, forget that.

Having grown up in the desert, just the sound of a train in the distance calls my name like you wouldn't believe. Unless you grew up somewhere huge, wild and empty... where you could hear trains.

We used to run across the desert to the railroad tracks to stand as close as we could to the trains rushing by. Since they were in the wide open spaces, they were flying. According to Google Maps, the tracks were a little over 200 yards from our house. You could definitely hear the trains pass, even feel them somewhat. But we'd hear the horns long before they were close enough to hear the rumble of the diesels, the squeal of the metal on metal, the clanks and hisses and other delicious noises that go with trains.

But we could always hear the horn.

There's something lonesome yet inviting, wild and wonderful and mournful, about that sound. How much is auditory, based on the specific frequencies (which certainly cut through other noise, nevermind the stillness of an empty land) and how much is cultural, I don't know. I just know what it does to me, reaching way down inside, and calling me to join it, whether in person, or late at night in the distance, in my mind.

When we could get out to the tracks, we'd see who dared to stand closest. Usually that meant we each[1] ended up the same distance away, carefully watching each other's toes, hands, and heads to make sure we weren't being chicken. I know we were within three feet of some of those trains, probably a foot and a half at times. They were going 50 to 70 MPH. The wind, the ground's vibration, the sound of the horn frantically yelling at us to move back when we got there before the train arrived... nothing quite compares to this.

In later years railroadmen told me tales of banding steel coming loose on flat cars, flinging itself wide like invisible, scrawny, steel bird wings, cropping bushes-- and people-- too close to the tracks. I don't know if these stories are true or folklore, but it certainly seems possible. And only makes the adventures more wonderful. Today I suspect it's most often be banding plastic, which wouldn't be likely to decapitate or disembowel you, but could flail you pretty well.

Which means I can't recommend getting closer than, say, six feet to a fast moving freight train. Or 100 yards if you're terrified of derailments. Does that mean I'd stay that far away? No way. I don't know if I'd get as close as I used to. I guess it depends who else is there, and how close they were. Not because I'd still worry about being chicken, but because there's just something about sharing adventures with friends. And train watching up close is always an adventure.


[1] The main people I recall doing this with were Clifford Bossie and Freddy whose last name I forget. But I'm pretty sure Randy Johnson and a couple of others were involved at some point.

Rapture!

Secret Agent 86, Maxwell Smart, was kidnapped by Kaos. Conrad Siegfried, in one of his most twisted, heinous plots yet, had decided not just to get Smart, but to condemn him eternally. Since Kaos was on schedule to put the Beast (a.k.a., Da Craw) in power soon, Siegfried decided to deal with key leaders of the forces of good by having the Mark of the Beast[tm] indelibly tattooed on their foreheads.

In a speech to his minions, Siegfried gloated, "Ve vill zhow zem zat evil alvays trumps goot!" The minions, still unable to fathom their leader's accent, all nodded sagely and hoped it didn't matter.

Siegfried hired the most despicable tattoo artists on the planet, artists who made gang bangers look like your Aunt Petunia. Unfortunately for Kaos, Siegfried didn't realize that most of these artists were illiterate.

One such tattoo artist, Inky Dreads, was sent into the room where Max was duct taped to a dentist's chair. "Why a dentist's chair?" Max had asked. Siegfried had shrugged. "Ve got a goot deal on zem!"

"Now, Inky," Siegfried purred, "put ze mark of ze beast on Schmart's forehead, a bright, red, six six six!"

Max winced. "Couldn't we go with something a bit more subdued? Perhaps a nice flesh tone? Or at least a pastel blue?"

"NO!, roared Siegfried. "Red, red, red! Ze color of blood! Ze color of wine! Ze color of six six six on your forehead!"

"Would you believe I'm violently allergic to red tattoos, and that if you do this, I'll become a bio-hazard and wipe out your headquarters?"

"No, Schmart, I don't theenk so."

"Oh. Well, would you believe that I'll sneeze a lot and my nose will run, and your chair will be all nasty?"

"No!"

"OK, how about my eyes will water? The salt can't be good for this chair."

"Eet is ze finest Zherman stainless seteel! Unlike your backbone, vhich seems to be made of rubber chickenz! Inky, do it!" Siegfried turned neatly on his heel and stormed from the room.

Fifteen minutes later, Inky was through. Sure enough, Max's eyes had watered. "But it didn't hurt, I'm allergic to red."

"Suuure," Inky replied. he held up a mirror for Max to see his forehead.

"Wait! That's not six six six! That's six six five!"

"What?" Inky stared. "Oh, great. I gotta get you outa here before da boss comes back and sees this!" He whipped out a knife, sliced through the duct tape, tossed Max over his shoulders, and chunked him out the window into a flower bed. "Now git!" Brushing his shoulders with dignity, Max got.

Weeks later, on May 21, the rapture hit. On his way up, Max passed Siegfried, who was skydiving. Siegfried screamed in shock and rage. "How can you be raptured? Ve tattooed ze number on your forehead!!!"

Max grinned and pointed to the five. "Missed it by that much!"

Thanks to Harold Camping, Cindy Howard and Sheila Arinder-Shaw for the inspiration. I suppose I should note that the latter two have no association wit the former, and that it was their joking about the former which really inspired this. Also, Blondie's "Rapture" was playing in my head the entire time I was working on this.

Growing Up Miles, Part 1024 (Dance)

Dance... it was never, as far as I can recall, a big part of my life growing up in El Paso. I do recall getting bored when it came on TV or in a movie, though it was fun to watch my parents dance. And I enjoyed watching ballet (sometimes), "Spanish dancing" of any sort, and a couple of other things. But if I danced at all, I don't recall it.

Until 7th grade in Augusta, GA. There was a dance, and my best friend, Claude, didn't refused to let me be a wallflower. The day before a dance, he put on a couple of records and taught me some basic dance moves. (I distinctly remember dancing to the Monkees' "Last Train to Clarkesville".) I might have danced a couple of dances, but not being Mr. Popularity (in fact, being both The Outsider and That Weirdo) it's amazing I danced at all.

In 7th grade in Augusta, if you lived On The Hill, you went to cotillion to learn manners, social graces, and ballroom dancing. (I can neither recall nor find on the web the name of the place nor its mistress). I, however, was told that two extracurricular activities would be one too many and had to choose between boy scouts and cotillion. Boy Scouts won and my pathetic social life went even deeper into the manure pile.

The next year, however, Patsy Brown's mother and Mom (possibly with Patsy's help) arranged for Patsy and me to attend cotillion together. She and I had never been especially friendly; between that and the ideas of wearing a suit every week and learning to behave like British aristocracy, I was mortified. I was very nearly determined not to enjoy it.

After the shock and strangeness of everything wore off (including holding girls, a fearful delight for most of us guys) I had a blast. Patsy and I got along great, and I found out that a bunch of other girls I'd never been able to talk to (including Jane, an amazingly sweet, pretty girl I'd always admired, but who had a boyfriend) were easy enough to get along with as well. We just needed some social structure. Under our amazing (if ancient) tutor's hand, we learned how to fill out dance cards (a skill I have used not once since graduating that class), to (among others) waltz, foxtrot and cha cha, the proper way to be seated at table, the proper use of various knives, forks and spoons, and-- in short-- all the basics we'd need if we ever had to take jobs as British aristocrats. I'm still waiting for that to happen, or at least an invitation to dine with an ex-president or something.

While I didn't get a chance to use any of these dance moves until long after my feet had forgotten them, it gave me the confidence to dance and ask girls to dance.

(Quick aside- the most dreaded thing for most of us boys was getting picked by the lady in charge to demonstrate the proper way to do something. She was about a hundred years old, had a rigid spine that would make a drill instructor jealous, was perfect at everything she did, and was one of the most imposing women I have met in my life. Her outfits were proper and beautiful antebellum. She was a lady of the sort who demands perfection in men, even 13 year old men. Just being picked to help show a new dance with her almost brought football players to tears. Nobody else could have taught us as she did. We loved her, we feared her. She was our royal monarch, ruling our lives for two hours a week.)

I went to a few more dances, mainly sock hops[1]. Then, in 9th grade, we had the Junior High Prom. It was Kind Of A Big Deal. Again, Claude came to the rescue. He and his date, Edith, took me with them. I think I might have danced 4 or 5 times that evening, and talked to actual girls a total of 20 minutes when not dancing. Life was looking up.

Since I didn't help put on the Junior-Senior Prom in 11th grade, I didn't go to it. A lot changed my senior year, and I actually had something of a social life. I went to quite a few dances, with dates even (mostly with a girlfriend, but also a couple when I didn't have one). But when prom hit the next year, I had neither a girlfriend nor a date.

The morning of prom, just before school started, I found out that Jane (yes, that Jane), our Homecoming Queen, one of the sweetest young ladies on the planet, had no date. Everyone assumed she had been first pick, so nobody asked. The bell rang. I rushed to homeroom, explained to Mr Alford (awesome math prof and good guy) what was up. He gave me a hall pass. I went to Jane's homeroom and got permission to speak with her. When I asked her, she gave me a really strange look. "Why are you asking me now?"

"Are you kidding? You're the homecoming queen. I couldn't imagine you'd not have 50 guys asking you out the day the prom was announced." ("All cooler than me,", I continued in my head.) "That's what everyone else thought, too. But as soon as I found out, I came to ask you."

Her expression was one of mingled delight and relief. "Wow. That's really sweet." Then she looked embarrassed. "Last night I called my cousin. He's driving down from Tennessee today to take me to the prom tonight."

"Oh. OK. Well, um... have a good time."

"You, too. Thanks!" (She didn't kiss me, but the look she gave me felt like one.)

At lunch, I found out that a friend, a junior working with me in the lunch line (let's call her Sadie), also didn't have a prom date. "Want to go? Just as friends?"

"Sure," she said. She and her twin sister had been planning to go dateless, so she had a dress. After school I went shopping and found a dark purple tux. It was a lot frillier than I wanted, but since it was 1973 and James Brown was cool (and lived there in Augusta), it worked out well. We had a good time at the prom. I danced quite a few dances (including a couple with Jane). It was a lot more fun than I had expected. Until..

I forget who we were riding with, but they dropped me off first. As I got ready to get out of the car, Sadie-- just a friend-- grabbed me and gave me a fairly serious goodnight kiss. I went inside in shock. I liked her as a friend, but that was it, and she'd said the same thing all along. The punch wasn't spiked, so I guess my good manners, spiffy purple frilly tux and dance moves won her over. Without my permission.

I think I saw her twice that summer, and we talked on the phone 2 or 3 times. But when I left for Georgia Tech that fall, she had our life together planned out (college, air force, marriage, open our own restaurant, kids...) Once off at college, I was all too happy to forget about all this. But when I came home at Thanksgiving, she called me (a HUGE deal, as in her world, only a floozy would call a guy). 'Why haven't you called me?"

"Um, I'm in college. It's super busy." (This was true, but sadly had far more to do with partying and goofing off than academics.) We talked for a while, and I had to go somewhere. I didn't call her back. Over Christmas, Sharon (my sister) got onto me. Sadie had been telling her how I'd done her dirty, leading her on, etc. I explained what had really happened. "Oh, I'm glad you didn't do all that then. But she's really mad. She said, 'I'm going to find some fat, rich, older, bald guy who smokes stinky cigars and marry him. That'll show him!'"

Later that year, Sadie dropped out of school. A few weeks later, Sharon said Sadie showed up at a pep rally, trophy husband in tow. He was fat, rich, older, bald, and smoked stinky cigars. Yep, she showed me. Imagine how bad I felt.

Despite the outcome of prom, I kept dancing. Various groups of friends and I went to Underground Atlanta a lot (at the time, it had at least a dozen clubs where dancing was big. I liked The Mad Hatter the best, with a psychedelic dance floor, lots of black lights, and a fun crowd-- not too rowdy, not too snooty, not too grubby). I seldom had a hard time finding gals to dance with, but the only time I ever got past a dance or two, I was rather drunk. I insisted on memorizing her phone number rather than letting her write it down, and of course by the next morning I forgot it. Brilliant.

One night at The Mad Hatter I couldn't find a partner fast enough for an unannounced dance contest. I jumped up on a table and danced solo. The DJ called me out and said that if I'd had a partner, I'd have won. But per the rules, only couples could play. On the other hand, I had all the dances I wanted the rest of the night.


Fast forward a couple of years. I met another Sharon and in short order we were married. While we both liked to dance, somehow we never did. She remembers me not wanting to, but I recall her not wanting to. I think I win, because at my 10 year HS reunion, Fran came over and asked Sharon if she could borrow me for a dance or two. "My husband won't dance, and I notice y'all aren't dancing, and I remember Miles could dance!" Sharon said yes, and Fran and I danced. I think Sharon and I only danced a slow dance or two all night. Either way, we almost never danced.

A few years later, I went with Nick (a best friend) down to Tampa for his brother Mark's wedding. The reception was from around dusk until dawn the next day. Apart from sitting down to eat and spend a few minutes with Nick's (extremely awesome, extremely Italian) family, I danced non-stop the entire time, up until about an hour before dawn. I danced with every woman in the place, because i was one of the few guys willing to dance who didn't have a jealous wife glaring at anyone who looked my way. (Sharon wasn't there, but she's the polar opposite of that sort of insecurity.) I danced with girls and women from 2 years old to 80 or more (she could jitterbug!) School girls, college girls, bar maids, housewives, moms, a couple of mildly drunk recent divorcees who were a little too friendly, grandmothers, cousins, aunts, nieces, you name it. I had a blast. Right up until the seat of my suit pants split. I sat down. I got asked at least a half dozen more times to dance.


Fast forward again, this time 10 to 12 years. Sharon and I were at Shawn and Tiffany's wedding. At the reception, a couple of decades worth of bottled up dancing exploded. Sharon danced non-stop for hours. Since then, if we go anywhere there's dancing, she's usually ready whether I am or not. I've had to learn how all over. Sometimes we just fake it. The best part is that we're having fun and look confident, so sometimes people watch us to try to figure out how to dance! The real dancers just smile and leave us in their dust. We don't care. We dance.

And when it's dancing time, we look for people who have nobody to dance with, the lonely ones or the ones afraid to try to dance- the people we were in school. We split up and ask them to dance. "I don't know how" is their inevitable response.

"It's OK, I don't either. We just fake it and look like confident."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

And just as inevitably, we dance.


I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,
You get your fill to eat,
But always keep that hunger.
May you never take one single breath for granted;
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed...
I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean.
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens.
Promise me you'll give faith a fighting chance...

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance.
I hope you dance...

-Lee Ann Womack, Copyright © 2000, Uni/Mca Nashville. All Rights Reserved.



[1] All gym floors were wood, and you were only allowed to wear clean tennis shoes on them. For dances, you dressed up, and you didn't want rubber soles, anyway, so you danced in your socks.

I Don't Get Lou Reed

A lot of my friends in college were Lou Reed and Velvet Underground fans. With a few exceptions I wasn't. ("Take a Walk on the Wild Side" was intriguing.) They said it was an acquired taste, like Andy Warhol. I wasn't a huge Warhol fan, but at least I got his art. Lou? Not so much.

Then I learned that Lou Reed wasn't as one dimensional as the softer music I kept hearing on the radio. Two of his albums woke me up, kicked me out of bed, and set my pants on fire.

First, of course, was _Rock 'n' Roll Animal_, a live album recorded at Howard Stein's Academy of Music in NYC in 1974. From the first, liquid notes of "Intro/Sweet Jane" to the butt kicking end of "Rock 'n; Roll", something leaped out of the speakers, grabbed hold and refused to let go. I don't tend to rank everything into lists the way some people (cough, Andy Whitman, cough) do, but this has to be one of my top ten favorite rock albums of all time. It's a party trapped in a disk (box, whatever). If nothing on this album makes you get up and dance, your legs were probably stolen while you weren't looking. I have a lot of guitar heroes, but this album put Steve Hunter and Dick Wagner near the top of the heap.

Next up, in 1975, was _Metal Machine Music_. This was as different from Animal as Animal was from any of Reed's early music you'd hear on the radio. MMM was essentially a wall of noise, either electronics going berserk per the original liner notes) or guitar feedback gone berserk (per Reed's later statements). The industrial scene and noise rock owe a lot to this album. It was originally released as a double vinyl album; the end of side four looped back on itself-- whether this was art or a joke is anyone's guess. But most people didn't even notice for quite some time. You either love or hate this one. I happen to love it. I have listened to it all the way through many, many times; I only know a handful of other people who have done so. In college, it nearly brought stoned peaceniks to blows on more than one occasion-- it grated on their ears too much.

So maybe I do get Lou Reed-- at least somewhat. Whether he would get me, I have no idea.

[The mix I currently listen to in my car includes soft to medium praise music, Rock 'n' Roll Animal, 90s punk, It's a Beautiful Day, the Allman Brothers Live at the Fillmore East, the 77s (rock), various incarnations of Daniel Amos (some of the weirdest music in all of Christendom), Skynyrd, Johnny Cash and many others. Pretty much everything but Nashville Country, bad rap... and soft Lou Reed.]

Is it Hot in Here, or is it Just You?

People disagree over what "hot" means. This is true regardless of context. I would like to offer my definition of "hot" as it pertains to spicy foods. There are four criteria:

1. If it makes your forehead sweat and / or your eyes water, and
   
2. if it clears your sinuses / makes your nose run, and
   
3. if it burns going in, and
   
4. if it burns coming out,
   

then, and only then, it's hot.

Love Monster Meets Schrödinger's Cat

Almost a year ago, someone from another church noticed how many of their youth were hanging out with me. They expressed concern that I was building a "cult of Miles". I believe they meant this in terms of "cult of personality", but we didn't get much chance to discuss it, beyond my assuring them that wasn't the case, as they were busy.

But as I've pondered where this question came from, I realized what had happened. They were perhaps too busy, concentrating on teaching and programs. I was simply loving on the kids. Don't get me wrong, this leader is awesome and loves his students. But teenagers-- like pretty much everyone else-- respond to love. As Jeff Kyle used to say, "Teenagers spell love "T-I-M-E" and "M-O-N-E-Y". I throw in a third spelling: "F-O-O-D". Since I was hanging out with them, going to eat with them (sometimes buying), we built relationships. I not only earned the right to speak into their lives, many of them wanted me to.

I couldn't really help it if I wanted to; I just love people. Especially teens and young adults. As Pogo might have said, "It just come all over notchural." While it's an effective way to impact people, I don't focus on that as then I wouldn't really be loving anyone. I don't think much about it, I just do it.

And as it turns out, I have a pretty good role model. I read about this guy who spent a lot of time teaching and helping people but he did it in the context of just hanging out with them, living life with them, having fun with them, crying and hurting with them, meeting their needs-- in short, loving them. Eventually he died for them. Then, blowing their minds, he came back for them, setting them all free.

I can't do everything Jesus did, but I can do a lot of it..

If you're reading this, you should know that I think you're awesome and I love you. If you aren't reading this, you should know that I think you're awesome and I love you. If you can't tell if you're reading this or not, you are probably a cat; please say hello to Schrödinger for me.