Mamas, Don't Let Your Young Babies Grow Up To Be Dragons

Thanks to Andy Whitman and Cindy Collins for inspiring this!

I met Smaug's parents once just outside Düsseldorf. They were pretty embarrassed about their son. In his Mom's words (recorded on a Grundig reel to reel tape recorder) "We taught that boy better. So destructive, but of course our home was blown up in the war, you know, we barely got all the gold out, and then we had to roast the Nazis because they wanted to take it. About the only thing that dragon got right was his name; he never said 'Smog' even though it was all the rage. And he could make such a nice fire, if only he hadn't run around roasting everyone like some sort of flying volcano. Here, would you like some more Schnapps?"

Of course what she really said was,

"Wir brachten den Jungen besser. So destruktiv, aber natürlich wurde unser Haus in den Krieg geblasen, wissen Sie, wir kaum stand das Gold aus, und dann mussten wir die Nazis zu braten, weil sie wollte, es zu nehmen. Über die einzige, was die Drachen bekam Recht war sein Name, er sagte nie 'Smog', obwohl es der letzte Schrei Und er konnte so ein schönes Feuer zu machen, wenn nur er nicht herumlaufen Rösten jeder wie eine Art fliegende Vulkan.. Hier, möchten Sie noch mehr Schnaps?"

I hope Google translated it into English properly.

With Two You Get Tachycardia

At one point in my software career I was responsible for developing, maintaining, and supporting a certain piece of software[1]. At this point I happened to sit between the marketing and marcomm folks at work. A vendor brought each of those departments (one and two people respectively) a gift basket.

The free coffee at this particular job was pretty bad. Coffee shops were nowhere near as ubiquitous as they are today. I rode a motorcycle to work so a travel mug wouldn't work. The only thermos I trusted to survive on a bike cost over $100, so most days I made do with the caffeinated nastiness they called coffee. Working 60-70 hours a week and working with youth evenings and weekends, I needed the caffeine.

Remember those gift baskets? Included in each was a quart of chocolate covered espresso beans. Since none of the recipients cared for those, they ended up on my desk. around noon I could have kissed my co-workers; they were speaking my love languages-- chocolate and espresso!

These were really good chocolate covered espresso beans. They were practically magical beans, delicious and potent. I'd munch a couple, work on code or documentation, munch a couple, support a customer, munch a couple...

Matthew, Pam, and Angela began to laugh as I typed faster and talked faster to customers. It got to the point I asked what they were laughing about. "You can't type that fast!"

"Huh!" I thought. "Not before now, anyway."

About two o'clock they all came to my cube. "Dude, what are you doing?"

"I'm working! What are you doing? What are you staring at?" I looked down. My hands were off the keyboard, but my fingers were still going a mile a minute, practically a blur. On the desktop.

"Stop that!" I told my fingers. I don't think they even knew I had spoken. I moved my hands off the desk, but found that as I talked they kept moving. I thought if speed freaks I'd known in college, and said so. I spoke too quickly, with far more words than necessary and plenty of stuttering.

Pam started. "Did you eat two whole cans in two hours???" She picked up an empty chocolate covered espresso bean can.

Matthew picked up the other one. "He ate half this one. I'm going to put it in my desk until tomorrow."

"That's probably a good idea," I said. Or thought, anyway. The way it came out was, "Hey! No! Gimme those!"

Pam and Angela blocked the way as Matthew carried the rest of the food of the gods off. Relieved and infuriated, I growled a thanks, sat back down, and returned to thrashing my poor keyboard.

I'd calmed down enough by 6PM they let me ride my motorcycle to dinner.

They were gone when I got back from eating. I was proud of my self control; I had no more magical beans that night.

Mainly because Matthew locked his desk.

 

Notes
1. Its name was Co-Xist, which is utterly irrelevant to the story so why are you reading this?

Random Dark Thorness

Or is that Random Thar Dorkness?

Random things from seeing Thor: The Dark World tonight with Sharon.

1. I liked Thor much better in 3D. It was still an excellent movie in 2D, but 3D was a far better experience.
2. That is the first movie this has been true for me. Josiah said he finds Marvel to always be worth the 3D price.
3. We went to Flix Brewhouse. I'm sure their beer is good, but I know their coffee is.
4. The pepperoni / bacon / cheeseburger was really interesting. Not my favorite ever, but I would definitely eat it again. And not just because of BACON.
5. But still... BACON!
6. The current Marvel movies' Loki is the Best. Villain. Ever.
7. At Flix, like Alamo, you order food and eat during the movie. After I finished eating by alternately leaning way forward and by holding my basket under my mouth, I noticed the gal in the seat next to me had pulled the desk/tray all the way to her seat. I didn't realize they did that. I didn't feel too dumb after all the other people saw me play with mine and try theirs.
8. Since I've also been watching Agents of SHIELD, I have to ask why the Asgardian guards (Asguards?) at the palace had such lame weapons that the dark elves pretty much just rolled over them.
9. They borrowed a little too obviously from Star Wars in places. Can't blame them, but it was very blatant.
10. The monochrome plus red comics when the end credits start are brilliant.
11. I had to cheat and google to see who Don Payne (RIP) and Steve Scott were / are.
12. I still have no clue which one was Steve Scott.
13. These are some of my favorite actors, based solely on the Marvel movies.

This is mainly the fault of Jim Kohli and Robert Norris. Well, after Stan Lee, Don Payne, Chris Hemsworth, Natalie Portman, Tom Hiddleston, Joss Whedon, et al.

Mama Died

I type this listening to songs from It's a Beautiful Day by the band of the same name. I played "White Bird " for Mom and she loved it as much as I did. I don't recall what she thought of the rest, but several of the other songs are strangely apropo as well.

It's been several years since Mom died. To this day, though, for some unfathomable reason, when I say or type "Mom died", I hear the Grateful dead singing Merle Haggard's "Mama Tried" as "Mama died, mama died."

We had seen her for the first time in a while at Esther's boot camp graduation. Kathleen said she had finally convinced Mom to go to the doctor about her severe stomach pain (IIRC). We headed home a few days later, not too concerned. But we soon got The Call.

"The doctor says Mom's skin is a big bag full of cancer and she has very little time to live." We were on a plane back east within a week. We watched Mom go downhill over the week, but we had so much fun! We relived all sorts of fun, weird, sand, and scary times. I'd brought my guitar; we sang her a song. We laughed, we cried, we ate...

We had been at Dad's 80th birthday that spring and I had promised Mom we would go to her 80th birthday. Since it was now clear she wouldn't be here for that we celebrated early. We went to her favorite restaurant. She was occasionally confused about the occasion and didn't eat much, but we still had fun. It was wonderful how much she remembered, and how interesting our life with her had been, and her life had been before us.

Somewhere in there Dad asked me if I would ask Mom if he could talk to her (their divorce had been, and had remained, less than amicable). Mom agreed, Dad came over, and the rest of us disappeared for a while. They somehow came to terms with each other, with themselves, with life, and reconciled. I find myself in tears just typing this. Obviously I wasn't happy that Mom was dying, but under the circumstances I don't think any of us could have been happier.

One day Wink (who calls herself Mean Old Stepmom but has been a Godsend for Dad and us), a counselor and hospice director, called the kids together to prepare us for what we would be going through. But we had been through enough to know, and shortly in she lost control of the conversation as we joked about Mom, her funeral, the grave, whatever. Her eyes were pretty big as we laughed til we cried, talking about bronzing Mom as a tombstone. But she realized we were coping in the O'Neal way, and she relaxed.

we flew home and Mom was dead within a week. She went downhill much faster that week; I think she had quit fighting after she got her time with all her kids and grandkids. Reconciling with Dad probably helped as well.

The morning of the funeral Bill got a call that we couldn't put Mom in the remaining family plot. Despite the lack of a gravestone, despite the cemetery records saying the space was empty, a relative who shall remain Nameless insisted there was a baby buried there, and that she (Aunt Nameless, not the Dead Baby) would go to court if necessary to prevent Mom being buried with her family. Bill, normally very calm, was nearly apoplectic.

I was pretty skeptical. Even if there was a baby buried there, why was it a big deal to Aunt Nameless who had never bothered to put any sort of marker up, and couldn't really explain who the baby was? (I have since wondered if this wasn't a baby born out of wedlock or out of a "shameful union" and best forgotten from times when such things were scandalous at best.)

Eventually the cemetery found something indicating there was, after all, a baby buried there. They found an alternate location and dug it up. Fast. May I suggest that a cemetery should perhaps be more careful and have accessible records? But we appreciated their speed once they found the mistake.

The funeral occurred, as they are wont to do. Mom was interred. We all went to eat, caught up with cousins, aunts and uncles (Aunt Nameless was absent), nieces and nephews, and assorted relations. We all went home.

Mom's tombstone was delayed as well. Given the cemetery fiasco, it surprised no one. It eventually showed up.

The following Valentine's Day I heard a commercial for PajamaGram. I was inspired. I decided to order a negligee and have it delivered to the cemetery, where it would be draped over the tombstone with a note, "I miss you, Mom! Your loving son." Mom would have loved it, but this was Selma, AL, and I figured the next time one of my siblings showed up at the grave they might get arrested, so I didn't do it.

Yet.

I keep thinking how hysterical Mom would find that.

The Great Coffee Disaster

That should be disasters. Plural.

OK, full disclosure. I haven't been involved in any monumental coffee disasters, at least of the magnitude that requires the EPA or WHO to get involved. But on a personal, need to wake up level... well, that's when most coffee disasters happen, when you need to make coffee but can't function because you need to make coffee. Classic Catch 22 writ small.

I think I have made almost every mistake you can make with a Mr Coffee style drip coffee maker:

• No grounds- great for making hot water, which is great of your name is Eb and you want Hot Water Soup for breakfast.
• No filter, no grounds- ibid
• Using beans you forgot to grind- great if you want soggy coffee beans to eat. Except that they happen to be revolting.
• No basket, no pot- great if you need an excuse to clean the counter and floor before you are awake enough to do that, either.
• No filter- great if you like the grounds in your coffee a la wild west coffee at a campfire.
• No water- the only disaster here is the wait while you wonder where your coffee is and then finally add water.
• No pot- a lovely coffee waterfall, only a disaster if you don't get your mouth under it, or don't like your coffee scalding and black with counter crud.
• Double grounds- hardly a disaster, but it does waste some for the coffee ability of the grounds, which is a terrible tragedy.
• Double water- ugh. Weak coffee is disgusting!
• Pouring water into the grounds- makes a mess, costs time, wastes coffee and water (in a drought you think about these things).

Eons ago we used a stove top percolator. We still have it for emergencies. We made nearly all the mistakes you can with that as well; there are less possible. At least we never melted the pot leaving it empty over a flame too long.

Sadly we never had a stove top espresso or single cup maker. Apparently you can launch boiling grounds 8 feet if you leave the strainer out. Or at least that's what I gather from author Sally Hanan's Facebook page.

The worst was the day I was making a full pot (12 "cups" (who uses a 6 oz coffee cup?)) extra strength and dumped the grounds in without a basket or pot, putting most of the grounds on the floor... in front of everyone I was making coffee for. And it was half of what I had left. Two grinders full later, after sweeping and cleaning the counter, we started a pot of coffee. Thankfully the next morning I found my emergency cache of Starbucks Double Shots.

Growing Up Miles, Part 3a: The Espionage Days

In fifth grade I wanted to be the Miles version of Harriet the Spy. (If you haven't read the book, I highly recommend it.) Despite my nearly boundless imagination, I almost slavishly tried to copy Harriet. This led to difficulties.

For reasons I can't recall, I wanted a spy outfit identical to Harriet's. This would have required:

• a flashlight I could hook onto a belt,
• wearing a sweatshirt year round in El Paso, Texas,
• convincing my mom to never wash a certain pair of jeans,
• using my allowance for notebooks instead of comics, and
• trying to sneak around a completely flat neighborhood consisting of wide open front yards and completely fenced in back yards, with no other cover at all.

I solved the flashlight problem by making a hook from a piece of wire. Of course, I then had the problem of sneaking my Dad's flashlight out and looking like a goofus because I pretty much couldn't' go anywhere at night. A flashlight is somewhat conspicuous at 4 in the afternoon in broad daylight. Even if I could have snuck around at night with a flashlight this was extremely west Texas in the 60s. I'd probably have been shot or eaten by dogs.

I also gave up on the sweatshirt, deciding that tee shirts were anonymous enough and would attract less attention than passing out from heat stroke. (West Texas, remember?)

I also decided that dirty, smelly jeans might not be required spy gear. Spies in the movies seldom wore dirty jeans in the suburbs, so I might just get away with it.

We had no alleyways to skulk through. Peeking in windows or going over walls in plain view of an entire neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else seemed like a good way to get my backside tanned. Once per neighbor who caught me and a second time at home when they called my folks.

This left only the problem of... The Notebook. If you have read the story, you know that notebooks are the heart and soul of a spy's life. Poking around the house I realized that while we didn't have a surfeit of notebooks (I wasn't willing to touch my comic book money) we did have lots of 3x5 index cards. I found some wax paper envelopes just the right size to hold several 3x5 cards, which would make organization easy-- at least until I had a lot of notes on a subject. This was probably when I started writing in very small letters.

Every spy has to start somewhere. I started by taking notes on my family, neighbors, school mates, and teachers-- just like Harriet did. Faithfully following my hero's example, my notes were generally derogatory. I might, for example, have written that "Fred Mickle is mean and ugly. If I were that mean and ugly I'd have myself hung as a horse thief." (That name is completely fictitious.) I'd like to hope that I hadn't yet finished the book and seen where this would get Harriet, but I probably just thought I was safe since I could put my cards in my pocket.

I'd been a spy for a couple of weeks when Mom ran across my notes while I was out playing. After I explained what they were she read some of them out loud.

"How would these make you feel if your family and friends had writing these about you?", she asked.

"But Mom, they aren't about me!"

Eventually I got her point, and it all hit home.

This left me out of a job. I had no idea what else a spy might write about other than communists (this was, after all, 1965 or 1966). I was pretty sure I didn't know any commies because they all looked evil and foreign in the comic books. I didn't know anybody like that. I destroyed the cards and hung up my spy gear, a has been at 10 or 11, a forlorn, minuscule footnote in the annals of spydom. I hoped I'd never meet Harriet, or that if I did my failed career wouldn't come up. Thankfully, we never met outside her book.

I still reread her book about once a year.

Tesseract Me, Baby

If you look really closely at the end of the movie you'll realize that Asgard entrusted the tesseract to me.

Essentially infinite energy!

I could drop a whole herd of pregnant elephants on your house quicker than your Mini Cooper gets away from a stop light, and it wouldn't cost me a plastic penny.

It does attract the odd alien invasion but that's what the Avengers are for.

Grown Up Miles- Adventures in Musicland, Part I

After years of not playing guitar much I got serious about playing again in 2009. This was prompted by a need for live music at church (singing along with CDs can only take you so far). I realized that the prospect of playing in front of the congregation didn't bother me nearly as much as I thought it would. That was a fairly big (if happy) shock. To find out why, let's hop into our 1967 Shelby Time Machine (the muscle car years were also the glory years for time machines, despite Doc Brown's later work with Deloreans).

---

The first time I can recall playing guitar and singing in front of more than two people was at the Midtown Mission in Atlanta. I'd practiced one of my songs on my electric, but at the last minute chickened out of playing an electric in front of this particular group of people (who would have undoubtedly been fine with it, but I apparently needed things to be nervous about). So I borrowed Will Bozeman's brand new acoustic. As I walked up to the music stand (too nervous to trust my memory for the lyrics) I whacked the guitar really hard against the massive, steel, music stand. I tried not to think about what Will was going to say about the dent in his new guitar.

When I started to sing the music stand collapsed on itself. I nervously mumbled the first thing that came to mind, something about the magic stand I brought as a joke. I somehow made it through the song despite wondering how I could afford to replace this lovely guitar. My knees were knocking, my voice developed a tremolo, and I was sweating so much I figured the people on the front row were ready to build an ark. Everyone was shocked later when I told them how nervous I had been. ("You seemed so relaxed, making jokes and stuff!") And the guitar was intact. It was a couple of years before I played outside my living room again...

---

I met a guy named Alan who wanted to start a band. We jammed a little and decided to practice some songs together (I had a couple and he had a couple of dozen). After two or three months, when I was just beginning to think that some day I might be good enough to play in public, Alan says, "I got us a gig next week." The phrase "panic attack" hadn't been invented yet, but I had one, anyway. "Oh, don't worry, it's just a small party at a friend's house. They'll have food, and we'll just play 20 or 30 minutes while people hang out. No big deal."

I practiced like a driven man the next few days. By the day of the party I was confident I could play a set for 15 or 20 random strangers who were all concentrating on their food and talking to each other. Background music, no big deal. We arrive at a pretty big house... and there are 20 to 30 cars.

"What's all this?" I asked

"Don't worry, maybe it's a little bigger party than we thought."

We carry the first load of gear in (two amps, a small PA, a few guitars). There's a stage set up with drums, keys, a half dozen amps and stacks of guitar cases nearby! There are 40 to 50 chairs set up in front of the stage.

"Alan???"

"Um, well, I didn't want you to be nervous, so I never got around to mentioning that everyone here is a musician, and they'll all be playing tonight." Further questioning revealed that the other bands had all been playing together for years.

Years.

We were on first. Of course.

Alan and I had worked out an introduction with a little stage patter. I have a vague recollection of forgetting everything and ad libbing something as Alan stuck to his lines. (I had the script on my music stand, but momentarily forgot how to read.) I fumbled the intro to the first song (Alan's song, my lead part). The next song was one of mine, and just as I started to sing, the mic cut out. Vague jokes, panic, somehow we got things working again. Maybe someone swapped mics; it's all a hellish, vague memory. As we started again, a string broke. Swap guitars, start AGAIN. I don't really remember the rest of the set except that the room was very attentive, much too attentive, rare specimen under glass attentive. My vocal tremolo returned. I don't recall ever flubbing anything so horribly in public. I was sure the applause after the set was either for Alan or sheer relief it was over. As we started to remove our amps and guitars for the next act to go on, I excused myself to go put some of the gear in the van. I stowed the gear, then stowed myself on the van floor where I sat in misery for a few hours.

Alan finally brought the rest of our gear out. "Where have you been? Everyone wanted to meet you and tell you what a great job you did!" We hardly talked on the way home. Eventually he convinced me that I did fine, that everyone felt that way some days ("though not to the extent of hiding and snubbing the hosts and guests"), and that if I ever did that again he would feed me my guitar and maybe my amp.

We had some crazy gigs after that (and I had plenty more running sound for a couple of bands), but no matter how weird things got, after these first two times playing in public, the others were all much, much easier.

---

If there are lessons to be learned here, I guess they are:

1. It's not nearly as bad as you thought it was. It might even have been good.
2. Get over yourself.
3. Don't embarrass Alan unless you are prepared to eat a guitar and maybe an amp.

For the record, I never had to eat my guitar or amp.

Kissing The Twins

One afternoon shortly after Sharon and I were formally engaged, I'd gone to her dorm to pick her up. Guys were not allowed upstairs so after calling to let her know I had arrived, I waited downstairs at the pool table. I was playing eight ball, solo. I forget whether I was winning.

After a few minutes Karen (Sharon's identical twin) came up behind me and said, "Hey, honey." This was not unusual; we were in the deep south and everyone talked like this. Additionally, Karen often called me this as a joke. I had never had any problem telling them apart, but she sometimes pretended we were together, just to mess with people.

Concentrating on a tricky bank shot, I said, "Hey, Karen". I took the shot, sunk the last solid, and smiled over my shoulder at her. But she was disappearing back around the corner. A couple of seconds later I heard giggling. I knew instantly.

They had plotted together to fool me. "This!", I thought in a Daffy Duck voice, "This! Means! WARRR!"

I called the eight ball in the side pocket and sunk it, mostly on luck. (I still don't recall if I won, or the other me won.) I laid the cue on the table (there was no rack) and headed around the same corner Karen where Karen had disappeared. The twins stood side by side, grinning. I gave them my biggest smile and looked at Sharon.

"Nice try! If you ever do that again, I will act like you fooled me and give her," (here I nodded toward Karen), "a bigger kiss than I have ever given you... Are we ready to go?"

They never tried it again. Sharon swears to this day it was just because there was no point (I had never had any trouble telling them apart). And that may be the truth, or most of it. But I know they both looked a bit nervous at the time!

Would I have done it? I can't honestly say whether at the time I would have tried to give Karen that kiss or not. I can say Sharon would have gotten an even bigger one. But it was a moot point. They've never tried to fool me again. At least in person. On the phone they sound very alike, so I'm never sure whether it's intentional or not.

Bu that's OK. I'd rather wage love than war, so I let it slide. Plus, I'm totally content with Sharon's kisses. Never look a gifted kisser in the mouth; just hold on and kiss back.

Dental company excepted.

Treasonous Leaks

The light came on without warning.

As usual.

It blinded Eric.

As usual.

Mike picked him up but paused almost immediately.

"Uh oh. Looks like you peed all over the place."

"I don't pee. I leak!"

"Whatever. Let me get you a diaper and clean this up."

"What? I don't need a diaper!"

Mike ignored the protests. Not finding what he wanted, he wrapped Eric's nether regions in plastic wrap, held on loosely with a large rubber band.

Settling Eric on the counter a moment,. Mike wet a dish cloth and cleaned the shelf. Picking Eric up, he poured some milk into his coffee, then returned Eric to the fridge. "Well, Mr. Mooden, I hope you weren't abused too badly in your past. I assume that's why you lost control. I'm so sorry."

Eric seethed. "I was not abused! I choose to leak these things, you pompous..."

But the door had closed, the dark returned. He was alone again.

Naturally.

He went back to sleep, disgruntled. Leaking into a "diaper" was pointless. And Mike had wasted his recent leak-- a day's work down the drain with a rinsed dish cloth. A single tear, which Mike would have thought mere condensation, slid slowly down Eric's face.

Mike tasted his coffee and sighed happily, then turned back to the sink. Dirty dishes called.

But something caught his eye, motion on the periphery of his vision. Something dark out the window. On the back porch, much too big to be Gizmo, the neighborhood cat. Much too dark to be one of the deer that occasionally came up on the porch to nibble the plants.

Drying his hands he stepped outside to investigate. He kept one hand on his Glock, snug in its concealed holster. he could find nothing amiss.

Again something tugged at his peripheral vision, this time from inside the house. A light went out, a light that should not have been on. A light from the fridge. A hint-- just a hint-- of darkness fled the kitchen.

Glock in hand, Mike moved quietly back inside. As he reached the back of the house, he heard a familiar voice. Eric Mooden sreamed. "Nooo! I..." It faded quickly, eerily, as if Eric had fallen asleep mid-scream.

The front door shut.

Mike darted to the front window and eased the blinds aside a smidgen with the Glock. Two men in black, one holding a black bag, both holding black guns, each wrapped a black rope around an arm and a leg. Before he could react, they darted skyward.

Rushing outside Mike caught sight of feet disappearing over his house. A muffled sound like a large fan nagged at his hearing. He darted into the yard, dropped and rolled, ending on his knees, pistol aimed high, turning to look over his roof...

A black helicopter-- one of the blackest things he had ever seen-- was disappearing quickly beyond the tree line. Two men disappeared into a nondescript blackness in its side.

It was gone, nothing but the scent of jet exhaust marking its passing.

Taking no chances Mike methodically searched the house, ready to shoot anything black, anything that moved. But there was no one there, no trace anyone had been there.

Deep in thought, he wandered back to the kitchen. He eased the refrigerator door open, Glock ready. He laughed. Was he expecting a spook inside? Nevertheless he kept the pistol in hand, finger near the trigger.

There was no milk. Carton, diaper, and all, Eric Mooden and all his terrible secrets were gone.

It was a relief, really. Eric (and the secrets) were no longer his responsibility. He hadn't examined the leaks closely, having neither a security clearance nor the desire to know. "What you don't know can't be subpoenaed," he had reminded himself only moments ago.

He holstered the Glock.

For a moment Mike felt guilty. After all, the milk carton, a guest in his home, was now in federal custody. And not just any federal custody, but Eric was in the hands of a black ops team.

His knees nearly buckled. His heart, which had finally slowed to normal speed, returned to Formula One mode. A black ops team! In his house! In his kitchen! In his fridge! And they had Mooden and his milk!

And Mike had pulled a gun on them.

He needed to sit down.

The sink. He stared at it. "What's wrong? Something's wrong. What are you trying to tell me?"

Oh. The dish cloth was gone, too. They had the dish cloth he had used to clean up the leaks. His head pounded in time to his heart.

Mike called in sick, staggered to his room, and fell into his waterbed's warm embrace. Despite the coffee, sleep came quickly.

In his dreams, Mooden appeared alternately as Neo and Kevin Anderson, sometimes watching suspicious messages on an ancient computer terminal, sometimes futilely attempting to flee men in black.

Nobody showed up to save him.

Sunlight registered somewhere in Mike's brain. After blinking for a few minutes he got up. The guilt was gone; Mooden should have told him exactly what was going on. Mike knew Eric had secrets but had no idea of their magnitude. Mooden had brought this on himself.

But still... Black helicopters. Spooks. His milk and dish cloth whisked off to some federal facility that might as well not exist. He walked into the bathroom and stared in the mirror."Well, what do I do now? Go on as if nothing happened? Run?" Seeing his expression, he finally laughed.

"You watch too many movies. This isn't the Matrix or Jason Bourne's world. Chill out."

Smiling for the first time since finding Mooden's leak, he sat at his computer and typed his password. His desktop appeared, then disappeared. "Great. Now my computer is crashing." He waited for a restart message.

Instead, green letters began to appear on the black background, noisily as if he were typing on an old school terminal. They appeared a few at a time. He froze, unable to breathe.

YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN'T HIDE.

He heard a noise, a distant, muffled fan, at the threshold of hearing. The roof creaked. He refused to look at the windows or the bedroom doorway. He most definitely didn't reach for the Glock. A suggestion of a breeze wafted past. Something like a mosquito bit his neck. Everything faded.

 

The light came on without warning.

As usual.

It blinded Mike.

As usual.

Someone started to lift his head but paused almost immediately.

"Uh oh. Looks like you peed all over the place."

"I don't pee. I leak!" He didn't say it, but the thought bounced around in his mind until slipping into darkness.

He waited for the diaper and the inevitable abuse as they demanded to know what Mooden had told him. He understood now what the fuss over waterboarding was about,

Mike had one last, sane thought. "What you don't know can't be subpoenaed, but it can get you disappeared."

Madness beckoned; for the first time in his life, he found her beautiful. He weighed the alternatives, grinned, hugged her tightly and kissed her full on the lips.

When they came up for air, Madness giggled. "I can't wait to see what they make of this!"

Hand in hand, they wandered off into the vibrant chaos.

Room Without a View

(Originally: Zik and the Salad Lesbians Rent a House)

In case you don't know, there is a weird city called Stin.

Stin is proud to be weird.

There are not too many rules in Stin, but one rule is that names have to be monosyllabic. (The irony is not lost on anyone.)

One day in Stin three Mexster friends decided to set up housekeeping.

Ha ha ha! Stin is in Texas, not Merrie Oulde England. People in Texas do not set up housekeeping. They just find a house and move in.

Dee was a barista and had been away from home the longest. She had a small dog. She also had a roommate with a dog bigger than Dee's car. This dog might as well have been a factory. All day long it manufactured hair, which it faithfully delivered onto every surface of the apartment, including Dee's coffee cups. Even the full ones. Oddly enough, Dee wanted a change.

Lo, the youngest, had only been on her own a short time. She taught dance. She loved to dance. She even danced while she vacuumed. Often nude. Lo liked the music really loud while she did this. Her favorite time for vacuum dancing was in the middle of the day.

Zik was the oldest but had never lived on his own. He threw boxes around for a living. No one knows why but this pays pretty well. Zik felt if he was old enough to get paid to throw boxes and to buy a Harley he was old enough to move out. Zik worked at night and slept during the day. He suggested Lo invest in a pair of ear buds, and wear clothes while dance vacuuming.

 

Lo found the perfect house. Apparently she was a good salesperson because she convinced Dee and Zik to sign the contract before seeing the house.

Lo explained the house to her friends. "It has three bedrooms and two bathrooms. It has a back yard. It has room for dogs... and a garden... and cars and a motorcycle. It's perfect!"

"How big are the bedrooms?" Dee asked.

"Huge!" said Lo. "Well, one is a wee bit smaller. I think Zik should take that because he doesn't have as many clothes."

"How much smaller?" Zik wondered.

Lo laughed. "Only a smidgen. You'll hardly notice."

The big day came, and they met at their new home. Lo showed Dee and Zik the house, and where she would dance and vacuum ("with ear buds," she laughed) and where they would park, and the yard, and where they would have a garden, and where Dee's dog could chase birds and squirrels.

"Ear buds good," Zik smiled. "Clothes good, too."

"Clothes good, too!" Lo laughed back.

Zik stopped abruptly in the middle of where the dog would chase things, wearing a confused expression.

"Wait. I only saw two bedrooms. One was yours and one was yours. Where is mine?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Lo took his hand and pulled him toward the house.

"It's not a closet under the stairs like Harry Potter's? With spiders?"

"Of course not, silly. We don't have stairs."

"What about spiders?"

"No spiders."

"Oh. OK."

They stopped in the kitchen. Lo pointed. "It's in there."

"Where? Under the sink?" Zik laughed.

Lo opened a cabinet door. "Exactly!"

"That's not a bedroom! It's a cabinet! Under a sink!"

"But I put a pillow and blanket in for you!"

Dee stooped and looked in. "It's a lot more room than Kreacher had."

Zik crossed his arms. "That's silly."

There was a brief scuffle. Doors slammed. Dee and Lo stood panting against the cabinets. A muffled cry came from the sink. "Let me out! Spiders!"

 

Eventually Zik got used to his new room.

But he always refused to pay more than 10% of the rent, and every morning he looked hopefully toward the mail slot. Sadly, not a single owl ever came through.

Months later, Zik moved back in with his parents. At least there he had half a linen closet. THE END

X

Author's forward: this was written when I first started getting really down and dirty with X. R2 was just out, there was very little documentation, I was working way too late...

Dedicated to Tyler Stevens (tyler@tigger.colorado.edu) who said, 'Actually, you are permitted to call X "poetry".'

(metzo forte. with feeling)

   You can call X "poetry".
   But I have seen the X held high
   and bright as a symbol of pride
   and arrogance.

   And you may call it "lines",
   for lines it is, twain lines,
   criss-crossing about their navels,
   a lewd romance.

   But I call X 11
   as does its creator, the vast
   and sprawling complex known as MIT,
   that makes the windows dance.

(metzo spaghetti. droning.)

   So oft have I watched your glowing
   (radioactive) cursors flowing,
   blowing, snowing
   across the grey'd out background of a thousand
   clients dead,
   or asleep, perchance, adreaming they are going,
   watching the mice crowing,
   slowing, throwing
   their electronic tails capriciously across my desk
   with dread.

(With apologies to Carl Sandburg, and the X Development folk.)

 

Copyright 1989, 2013 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.

Dem Ol' Newbie Blues

dedicated to talk.bizarre
(written in Atlanta, GA)

Newbie is a state of mind,
Newbie is a friend of mine
Newbie he be feelin' fine
Newbie is a state of mine.

Newbie, he lost in the mine
Newbie, he lost in his mind
Newbie stepped on the land mine
Newbie's jes' a state of mind

Oh Newbie, whar you done gone, boy
You done blowed up yo'self, little homeboy
Oh Newbie, Leo Fender cast aspersions on yo grave,
In the land of the buffalo and home of the Braves

Newbie now bout six feet down
Like the baseball in this town
Newbie no more nettin' round
Newbie might as well jes' drown

Newbie is a state of mind,
Newbie is a friend of mine
Newbie he be feelin' fine
Newbie is a state of mine.

 

When We Were Very Young-- or at least when the internet was-- there were things called newsgroups. They were effectively public forums. Each group had a purpose. There was a general set of rules, and some groups had their own rules. Always there was net etiquette, or netiquette.

And inevitably, no matter where you turned, there was a newbie diving in where angels refused to tread. In September, especially, there were vast herds of newbies, outnumbering all the buffalo that ever roamed the Great Plains, doing as much damage as a rampaging stampede. Virtually, anyway.

This was an ode (and a mockery with a side of pathetic, pathological poetry (or at least alliteration)) to newbies in a newsfroup created as a black hole for things and people the rest of the net didn't want to deal with, a newsfroup where various cabals (There Is No Cabal[tm]) and individuals (those we had in spades) were wont to engage in newbie baiting, mockery, pinking, plinking, and scatting.

And of course, Berke Breathed figured prominently in my thoughts as I wrote this. You should be able to see (and hear!) Binkley, Opus, and the rest as you read. If not, you need a good dose of Bloom County. Go read. Now.

 

Copyright 1989, 2013 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.

Brazen Shore

On a brazen shore
 In southern Alabama
  Thousands of years ago
   Where false idols fell

In a barren waste
 By a rocky cairn
  By a boat's dried ruins
   By a sun-bleached skull

There washed the waves
 Of a long dead storm
  Which spilt the blood
   Of a kinder soul

Than any now walked
 That wilted beach
  With greasy kelp
   And slimy fishheads

When a ray of sun
 Broke the clouds' dark pallor
  And a child walked free
   For a moment.

It was a start.
 Beginning of the end.
  End of the beginning.
   The death of death.

 

Copyright 1989, 1994, 2013 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.

Greeting Postcard Blues

The proof of this poem is not nj-complete.

I sailed the cambrian seas
In a boat of greenish spam
Fishing for new jersey
With bait named Sam-I-Am.

When Greasy Jane keels potes
Armadas spawn and die
While naugas in their saucers
Split the mesmosaic sky.

Oh! Waisted youth on pancakes,
Whose syrupy poems we read,
While conquering the Inca Spots
With records by Lou reed,

Canst nae thee, sir, hae naught
For burt, and gentle ernie too?
The sesame hae hae all baen squasht
By a bird as big as two.

 

Please don't ask about this. I have no idea, really, other than the title--a play on words, subbing a rather brilliant talk.bizarre personality for "np". If you don't know what "NP complete" is, feel free to look it up on Wikipedia. Or just don't worry about it. It's a geek thing.

 

Copyright 1989, 1994, 2013 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.

Round and Round

Bright jewels whirling,
laughing,
speeding,
frolicking
about the Glory in their midst.

Spinning,
dancing,
shouting to each other,
and to that in their center,
rejoicing perpetually.

Darting about,
madcap,
furiously,
calmly,
hastily,
slowly,
in their endless orbits.

 

Atoms? Solar systems? Creatures
and Creator?

 

Your view, perhaps,
depends upon
who you are
and where you stand.

 

NOTE: This was inspired in part by a vision I had while reading C. S. Lewis's Perelandra. Astute observers among the more widely read Lewis fans will note other influences as well.

 

Copyright 1989, 1994, 2013 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.

Dreams So Real, pt I

These may well some day appear in a story. Some of my more interesting stories started as dream fragments (including my first novel).

[Dream fragment (2013-07-07 AM)]

A Hero Among Hosers

Someone went down a series of tunnels to rescue a baby or animal. They ran a half mile or longer garden hose down the tunnels ahead of them, with the water running. for some reason I now forget. I went down to rescue the water. When I got back, the HEB (Texas grocery store chain) cashier (a redhead, was it Ariella?) was so impressed she told me to pick out a free shirt.

[Dream fragment (2013-07-07 AM)]

From the "Just Like Narnia, Only Totally Different Dept":

I stepped into my closet to get something.
"Unca Miles, there's not enough air in here!"
Kylie was on the floor, coloring.
"Huh?" And why are you in here?"
"There's not enough air flow. It's stuffy. You need better climate control. I like to hide in here and color. But now it's all crowded."
It was then I realized that mixed in amongst my clothes on hangers, a variety pf people stood holding shiny rails, or sat on brightly colored, vinyl bench seats. There were windows; a pleasant city landscape rolled by. My closet was apparently public transportation to somewhere. I decided to go along for the ride.
Looking around the (closet? car? compartment?), I recognized Kylie's oldest sister, Kayla. I snuck up and tickled her. When she turned around to hug me, I noticed the twins, Amanda and Brittany. One of them, of course, was flirting with a stranger. He was cute, but something told he was both gay and over 80, despite acting interested and looking like a teenager.
I stayed out of it.

Occupy Communication: Do Ask, Do Tell!

Senior year of high school was almost over. It was Friday and prom was the next day. Just before school, Dan Croft told me that no one had asked Jane, the homecoming queen-- a fun, sweet, bright, beautiful young lady-- to the prom. Everyone assumed she had a date but she and her boyfriend had broken up and no one else had asked her. Dan had a date but I didn't. "Why don't you go ask her?" The bell rang.

Mr. Alford, normally a stickler for the rules, let me out of home room when I explained. "Hurry up! get going!"

I practically ran down the hall. I explained to Jane's homeroom teacher that I had an urgent question for Jane. Jane and I went back to the hallway, and I asked her to the prom.

She looked at me oddly. "Why are you just now asking me?"

"You're super popular. Everybody loves you! All the guys assumed everyone else had asked you. I'd have asked but... I didn't really think I had a chance."

She smiled wistfully. "You're sweet. Last night I gave up hope. I decided nobody cared. I was so embarrassed not to have a date to the prom I called my cousin in Tennessee. He's going to drive two hours here to take me. I wish you'd asked sooner! I'd have been happy to go with you."

Jane made sure I got a dance the next night, ahead of the popular guys.

We both learned something about communication and assumptions.

And we both learned that sometimes people cared after all.

 

I was reminded of this reading Leigh's story on community and comments on that story at http://www.leighkramer.com/blog/2013/07/the-risk-of-community.html .

Copyright 2013, Miles O'Neal, Round Rock, TX. All rights reserved.

Snake, Mitochondria, Ecthroi: I MIss You

Snake on garden wall
Leads to mitochondria
Love destroys ecthroi

 

Madeleine L'Engle
Beloved doctor of words
Mercury crater

Twilight of the Red Man

Cochise rode off into the sunset. As usual.

It was just the sort of thing Indians did. Had always done. Had expected to always do. His father, and his father's father, and all his ancestors as far back as he could remember, had done this. Many of his tribe had done this. He, himself, had done this many times.

But this would be the last time. The White Man had come so Cochise and his women and his children and his chief warriors all rode off into the sunset.

This was the last ride. The entire tribe had gathered to watch. They sensed that this was the twilight of their empire. Cochise would return tomorrow with wisdom, renewed for another year to lead the People.

But only for one more year.

Dawn arrived. As one, the People turned to greet the rising Sun, their still solemnness belying their excitement as they awaited the return of Cochise.

By noon it was evident Cochise was not returning. All turned to the medicine man, Shoshime.

"I warned you," he began softly. "I warned Cochise, too. There was not enough rocket fuel for a final, round trip. He should have left that vain ride for a White Man."

Silently, the People formed up and rode off on their war horses to their last battle.

Copyright 1995, 1996, 2013 Triple R Publishing, Round Rock, TX. All rights reserved.

 

[225 words exactly, counting the title, not counting copyright or this-- that would be cheating.]

Peggy's Bored? Easy to Fix!

I'm used to teenagers posting that they're bored. I usually just hand them a list of things to do (from workouts to creative things to reading or watching movies). But when one of my brilliant adult friends said she was bored, it caught me off guard. But hey, software geekdom can mix with counseling! Here's the result.

Top 10 Reasons North Korea Threatened to Nuke austin

10) Pyongyang isn't on the list of Chuys openings this year.
9) TXDOT figured a nuclear war was cheaper than building all the roads we need, so they slipped him some money to help out.
8) He's still mad about Dallas going off the air, but forgot the city name.
7) Translation error; they meant to nuke Boston.
6) He's jealous of Rick Perry's hair.
5) We've been in the news a lot lately (SXSW, etc) so he figures we must be important.
4) He's hoping we'll pay him off not to nuke us. Probably with SXSW VIP passes.
3) The whole thing was a joke. I mean, invading with imaginary hovercraft?
2) He likes Austin, and figures with mutations we'll be even weirder.
1) He wants to be the weirdest thing on the planet, which means we gotta go.

Kids: How to Tell if a Possum is Really Dead or Just Faking

1. Pick it up by the tail.
2. Shake it.
3. Drop it into a large pot of boiling water on the stove.
4. Watch possum scream, jump out of pot, and run hide somewhere in your house.
5. Watch Mom freak out.
6. Pack some clothes and run for your life.

Was it worth it?

All I know is I wish I could have tried this!

Changing of the Guard

For Sharon, Esther, Josiah and Raine the Paine

(with apologies to A. A. Milne, Christopher, Pooh (the swan and the bear), and especially Hoo)

Brought to you by Simpers, the disposable diaper favored by Beefeaters everywhere.

Author's foreward:

This is NOT, repeat NOT, a political statement. Like most of my work, it has a "life" of its own, and surprised even me with the ending.

They're changing the guard at Buckingham Palace
 Christopher Robin was told by Alice
  They're going to throw the old ones away
   And install the newer models today
    Said Alice.

We'll scavenge some guards from Buckingham Palace
 Christopher Robin shouted to Alice
  The old ones have dried out from too much sun
   And their marching's as rusty as their old guns,
    Dear Alice.

We'll fix up the guards from Buckingham Palace
 Christopher Robin heard from Alice
  Though their hats are growing a black fuzzy mold
   To us they'll be worth their weight in gold
    Said Alice.

Go grab us a dozen from Buckingham Palace
 We'll use them to clean up the yard said Alice
  We'll have them do dishes and pick up the floor
   I won't lift a finger again for a chore
    Sang Alice.

They're KEEPING the guards at Buckingham Palace
 Christopher Robin heard sobbed by Alice
  They've oiled them all, hydrated them, too
   And I've heard they're coming to look for you
    Shrieked Alice.

Say hi to the guards from Buckingham Palace
 Christoper Robin whispered to Alice
  And don't press the trigger until they arrive
   I'm ever so sorry that you'll not survive
    Dear Alice.

You do hate the guards at Buckingham Palace
 Christopher Robin, I know, said Alice
  But why leave me tied in this house with a nuke
   And expect me to die here like some kind of kook?
    Cried Alice.

I do hate the guards from Buckingham Palace
 My name's really Shamus O'Leary, dear Alice
  I'll never be getting a shot at the queen
   With all of those silly old guards in between,
    My Alice.

They were changing the guards at Buckingham Palace
 When numerous pieces of Shamus and Alice
  Came raining down in a nuclear glow
   Thanks to a patriot you'll never know
    Named Alice.

Copyright 1989, 1993 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.

Probably the World's Only Song About Gall Stones

This was written on the fly in one take and recorded on my desktop keyboard in the office. Sorry about the quality; you may need to squint to hear it. They always say, "We'll fix it in the mix" but that almost never works.

(Fast paced, modern country song with prominent guitars)

Mama had her gall stones out;
She kept them in a jar.
They looked like big, fat olives
So I put them on the bar.

One day we found our drunk Aunt Tess
Unconscious on the floor...
Mama saw the empty jar
And bolted for the door!

Daddy called up nine one one.
They came and got Aunt Tess.
While she was in the ambulance
She threw up on her dress.

They pumped her out and dumped the stones
In a bio-hazard bin,
But she could smell the alcohol
And downed them all again!

(guitar break: 16 bars sizzling telecaster,
16 bars soaring steel guitar, 16 bars duel and duet)

Tess no longer drinks martinis,
Mom feels really bad.
But Tess told me, "Those olives were
The best I ever had!"

"Nothing can compare with those."
But soon she'll have some more;
The doc took my gall bladder out,
And I'm still kinda sore.

My stones are all the size and shape
My Mom remembers well.
I'll put the jar upon the bar
And never, ever tell!

(guitar solo, fade)

Dedicated to Betty Castleberry, who wrote in her blog that there are no songs about gall stones.

Old Age and Treachery, Lesson 1

A friend (let's call him Jack) who is hardly a senior citizen was given a senior citizen "free drink" at a fast food chain today. He then observed:

"Just try and get a refill. The machine is behind the counter and all of these young whippersnappers are ahead of me..."

My response? ``If you have chosen to grow up (you fool!) you must learn the wisdom of the ages: "Old age and treachery beats youth and skill every time."''

This (true) example above is an easy introduction into this way of thinking. Let's first take the case where the soda machine is not behind the counter, simply because the reaction is more fun.

Jack: "Look out! There's a brown recluse on that handle!"
(stampede away from the machine)
Jack: "You have to drown them in Diet Dr. Pepper. I'll just refill my cup and..." (refill) "...flick her in..." (flick imaginary spider into cup). "Now, you wait three seconds, and she's dead and neutralized, and you don't even have to waste the drink!" (slurp)
(Youngster's eyes get really wide. At least one goes, "Gross!")

But in Jack's case, where the soda machine is behind the counter, the basic strategy still works.

Jack: "Look out! There's a brown recluse on that handle!"
(crowd moves nervously back from the counter)
Jack: "Sorry,. my mistake. That's just a speck on the handle. But since I'm here, more Diet Dr. Pepper, please!"

Diamonds Are A Girl's Worst Nightmare

I found out a little while back you can have your dearly departed's ashes compressed into a diamond. Seriously!

I got to wondering... If a guy's wife died, would he want to keep her around as a different sort of jewel than before? Then it hit me. What if he remarried? He could save money on an engagement ring and keep both wives! If he had the old one set into a new ring, that would be the old and new thing his new bride wore for the ceremony. "Yes, honey, that diamond is like a part of the family."

Of course, if she ever found out, he might end up with his former wife embedded in his forehead. This would give new meaning to the phrase, "always on my mind".

Or a Mom could give her former hubbie to her daughter at the point boys started noticing her. "Just remember, baby, your Daddy is always right there with you."

I am assuming, of course, that the raw material for each diamond is legally cremated. But if this technology fell into the wrong hands we could start seeing illegal diamond labs. Criminals, unhappy spouses, politicians, and parents who don't get their teenagers would love this. Pawn shops would be full of people who simply disappeared. You can't get DNA from a diamond.

Therefore I propose that the government turn this whole thing over to the same National Security Agency team responsible for disappearing the 100MPH carburetor. Soon the idea of turning Aunt Suzy into a diamond would be seen as just another conspiracy theory.

Aunt Suzy will sleep a lot better.

Don't Sit Under the Hippo Tree With Anyone Else But Me

I would love to publish this, but it's a kid's story, and I'm not sure anyone in their right mind would print it, at least before I'm a highly sought after author.

It was a beautiful spring day. The birds were blooming, the flowers were singing.

It was a great day to be in love.

Dave and Ginger went for a stroll in the fields and woods near the palace. They ended up, as always, in the great orchard.

Somehow, they always ended up under the hippo tree. Today was no different.

As Dave gazed down at Ginger, she looked up in return. Her eyes widened with joy. "Look!" she exclaimed, "The hippos are ripe!"

Indeed they were. They gazed fondly up at the hippos squirming amidst the leaves. Soon they would be falling, to prance off gaily in search of the nearby river.

Dave led Ginger to the base of the tree. He spread out his cloak and they sat down under an especially ripe hippo, the biggest they had ever seen. Tenderly he kissed her brow, then pulled out a small box. "For you."

Her face lit up with a smile; it put the sun to shame. As she opened it, a diamond glistened from a golden ring. "Will you marry me, Ginger?"

Ginger gasped. She looked deep into Dave's eyes and opened her mouth to reply.

The full, ripe hippo fell with a loud plop onto the lovers and their cloak.

ILLUSTRATOR'S NOTES
Ginger has the elegance and looks of Ginger from Gilligan's Island but her personality and demeanor are more like Mary Ann (but slightly less perky).
Dave is a tall, lean but muscular, dark haired cowboy who went to a university and started wearing polos.

 

Copyright 2013 Triple R Publishing, Round Rock, TX.

---

I went back to this for some reason and started thinking about who I would want to cast in the movie version. (Yes, I realize it would be a very short movie-- even shorter than Hardware Wars, but at least it would be longer than Bambi vs Godzilla.)

Dave: Spencer Davis
Ginger: Joanie Anderson
Hippos: my nieces and nephews, with me in a cameo
Falling hippo: a piñata

If we were forced to use big names, I would be tempted to go with Brad and Angela, looking for the intensity they brought to Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I would use piñatas for the hippos, and Tim Conway as the falling hippo. My cameo would require my death as I would be the diamond in the ring.

Who would you cast? Would you have a cameo?

Life of Pie

(Inspired by Leigh Ballinger's constantly taunting me with pictures of pies.)

Pie's earliest memories were of extreme heat. Gradually he became aware of a red-orange glow. He grew and his skin toughened. Suddenly, the light changed. Cooler air washed over him. He shivered. Something fuzzy grabbed him and he flew through the air to land softly on a veritable ocean of wires. The great vessel in which he had lived was gone. He felt shipwrecked.

Pie was roused from sleep by noises. He was saved! A boy crept up from Pie's left. A tiger crept from his right. Surely one of these would help him, perhaps both!

The boy made a sound Pie didn't recognize, a snarl. The tiger replied with a louder version. The boy whipped out something bright and sharp and dangerous, a knife! The tiger unsheathed several dark and dangerous claws. Each moved closer, still snarling. Pie was confused; how would this help him get back into a nice, warm vessel to go home?

The boy, closer than the tiger, leaped suddenly, the knife descending. Sharp pain split Pie from one side to the other. By the time the tiger got to Pie, the boy had pulled half of him out of his metal exoskeleton. The tiger took the rest.

Rapidly finishing, the boy and the tiger licked their lips, grinned at one another, and fled the ship's kitchen before the baker returned.

THE END.

The Case of the Missing Balloon

On Valentine's Day each year for some time now, Sharon has snuck a gift into my office, or at my current job left it at the security desk. Last year was no different; she brought a giant, helium-filled frog that barely sat on the ground and hopped when I towed him, attached to a dozen, large, bright red, heart shaped balloons.

As usual, I put him up on my top shelf in my cube.

Meanwhile, our upper management, realizing that some people had been working long hours and forgotten to get their Significant Other anything for the holiday, brought in bunches of flowers, candy and cards for the miscreants to take home. Our CEO announced this in an email beginning, "In many ways I think it is the company's best interests to help our employees achieve a reasonably high level of domestic tranquility." The man has wisdom beyond his years.

Not having forgotten the holiday, I didn't need anything, which was a good thing, as the scene downstairs afterward was a wasteland; the marcomm group handling distribution looked stunned and a bit frightened.

Sitting at my desk the next morning, happily working away, our travel person (let's call her Carol) walked by. She smiled and said, "I took one of your balloons last night."

I laughed. "No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did!"

"Nonsense, there are still twelve..." I counted. Eleven. I counted again. "Oh, so you did. Why?"

"I wanted a little extra something for my husband. But you don't know how many balloons there are!"

"Of course I do. My wife sent me a dozen."

"She did not! You got those downstairs!"

"No, they didn't have balloons."

Consternation. "Are you serious?"

Steve popped his head over the cube wall. "They didn't have balloons. Those are from his wife."

"Oh, no! I thought you just grabbed a bunch of extras from downstairs!"

I teased her a bit, then realized she was really upset. I assured her it was no big deal. I thought it was funny. So, of course, did Sharon when I told her.

The next morning when I got to work, there were two really nice, red roses in a wine bottle. Carol had felt so bad she wanted to try to make it up to me! "I'd have brought it back, but I had written on it with a Sharpie[tm]." (She didn't say, "[tm]".)

She must have apologized a dozen times that day.

The frog is now flat, like roadkill. I released the rest of the balloons into the wild (either outside to disappear into the sky, or inside with their ribbons trimmed so they floated around about chest high). The roses withered and wandered off into a trash can.

The wine bottle sits on my desk. I still grin when I look at it.

Uncool

From the middle of sixth grade on, I was usually the uncool geek. Sometimes extremely so. If uncool geekiness had been an extreme sport, there are a lot of days I'd almost have won a gold medal. Why only almost? Because winning would have been at least a little bit cool.

I struggled to be cool-- at least when I wasn't lost in geeky things-- science, chess, comic books, reading, writing, and so on. I finally achieved coolness as a hippie during my college years. Then my world came crashing down. In the midst of despair at having totally made a wreck of things, I came face to face (literally) with God. He hadn't given up. He loved me as much as ever. I fell into Love's embrace.

I was promptly pronounced uncool by some of my friends. It felt surprisingly good. Over time, as I got comfy with who I am, and decided to not sweat it, and just love people, I found myself being treated as cool. Only I no longer cared. I didn't even know what to do with it. So I ignored it.

Just being able to not care if I'm cool is very cool.

You're cool? That's cool. Uncool? That's cool, too. Be you, and enjoy it. Love on folk. The ones who aren't all caught up in themselves and worried about being cool will come around.

Be cool. Whether you think you are or not. Be cool with being you. There's nobody more awesome than you.

Tumbleweeds on my Mind

Regardless of the temperature it's technically winter. All over the western plains of Texas, tumbleweeds have dried up, put their travelin' shoes on, and hitchhiked with the breeze. In high winds the weeds stampede en masse; they make lemmings look like severely introverted loners.

I grew up on the northeastern edge of El Paso with nothing over our back wall but desert. The winter winds inevitably headed west and invariably left an interlocked tumbleweed ramp many feet deep against the cinder block wall running the length of the neighborhood. The first calm weekend day, Dad and a bunch of other neighborhood men would drive to the end of the neighborhood, head into the desert behind the mass of weeds, park the cars a ways off, and spread out along the line of tumbleweeds.

After stuffing a newspaper or two into some of the weeds, each man would hold a lighter or match ready. On signal, each would light their section of tumbleweeds. A spouse or child would be in each back yard with a hose and shovel, just in case. The flames would leap 10-20 feet in the air; the whole conflagration lasted maybe a minute. Fast and furious, that's how they burn.

As a kid, it was exciting, always over much too fast. I suspect for the adults, it lasted a lot longer. Who wants to be party to setting the desert on fire and maybe burning half of El Paso? But of there was a problem, I never knew about it. Five minutes later, the fine ash was cool enough to walk through. After the first light breeze, it was gone, spread across the city too thinly to notice. But it's burned deeply into my mind.

Last month Sharon and I finally took our long overdue, first Vacation Out West together. A small tumbleweed named Dusty stuck a thumb out as we pulled over for a photo shoot, and Sharon brought him home. He seems content to just hang out, with no trace of the usual wanderlust. So far I've avoided mentioning fire around him. He seems sensitive.

Notice Dusty's color. He's a chameleon, blending into the desert to avoid predators-- mainly off-road pickup trucks and disgruntled homeowners with fire. It doesn't always work, which I suspect is why he's happy to be an indoor recluse. A brown recluse, but we are not afraid.

Thanks to Annie Hoffman Fentz for sharing the video and asking the questions that inspired this.