Campus Martinet

I was back on campus, some campus somewhere. Maybe my alma mater, although probably not. Just a school close to where I was living now. Some general, some guy I respected and had always admired, was speaking at the campus. As a local retired officer, I’d gotten a special invitation, in which was included the invitation for retired soldiers to wear their uniforms if they chose to. So I went for it.

It’d been a very long time since I’d put my uniform on, almost seven years now, and it felt both strange and wonderful to wear it once again. My dress uniform didn’t fit; I knew that it wouldn’t even before I made the embarrassing attempt to put it on, by myself in the safety of the upstairs closet where even my wife wouldn’t see. But my battle-dress uniform fit just fine. I spent the evening before polishing my boots, and they were as squared-away as they’d ever been, like mirrors. I checked my uniform, pulling the unit patch from which I’d retired, put it on, and headed out to the meeting.

I didn’t really want to, and my wife especially didn’t, but I shaved my beard off. Didn’t even keep the moustache. Hell, it would all be back in less than a month anyway, just a temporary change of pace. Went and got a squared-away haircut, too. I was surprised at myself at my efforts for all of maybe three hours in uniform, but it was fun, and nostalgic. As cynical as I am, I had missed aspects of service, of being a soldier, of being a commissioned officer, and wanted to relive it a bit, if only for a few hours.

Walking across the main square toward the auditorium complex, I saw a troop in a physical training uniform. ROTC cadet or soldier, or assigned teaching officer, I couldn’t tell. I nodded a hello, and the soldier seemed to be looking at me a little strangely. Probably a cadet.

Then I heard a screaming, close and approaching, from my left. A uniformed officer was approaching, maybe fifty feet from me and closing. I could see already he was a lieutenant colonel, that blackened subdued oak leaf unmistakable on the badge in the center of his battle-dress uniform. Me, I was a retired Major, so the first order of business was to salute. I prepared to do so once he closed to the proper distance. But he was screaming at me. Wait, at me? Before he even came close enough for me to salute, his arm was up, his finger pointing at me as he charged toward me, bellowing. I couldn’t make out his words, I couldn’t tell what he was on about yet, but he was upset, and I was somehow at the center of it.

As he drew closer I made out he was screaming about my uniform. I was wearing an outdated uniform, apparently. Well, no shit there, colonel, as I’m retired, and my uniform would be the standard battle dress uniform from the year I retired. I would expect it might be a bit outdated. I don’t go out and buy $100 worth of new battle dress for a retired officer dress-up at the local college every time one comes up. I saluted as smartly as I could, and he waved it away with a derisive half-salute, giving me nothing of the professional courtesy I’d just given him. He was already in the wrong, and regardless of whether he was right or I was right in this upcoming confrontation, he was already on my bad side.

His approach was doing nothing to show that he knew what he was doing. His screaming continued unabated, loud, extremely derogatory, using every phrase and military term he could think of to belittle me. He was screaming about me being a disgusting dirtbag, a slacker, a piece of washed-out history, a disgrace for wearing an unauthorized uniform, a disgrace to the flag and the country and the corps and the Army and the Department of Defense, for being ignorant and ill-informed, for being out of uniform, for conduct unbecoming, for failure to follow uniform regulations, and on and on and on. He was just repeating himself now, the same stupid crap, over and over. He was on ass-chewing autopilot, and he had no idea what he was talking about.

I let him have his little rant as he circled me slowly, about five feet away. I just stopped walking, stood still and let him have his say. I then attempted to tell him that I was a retired officer, acting upon the explicit invitation by today’s guest speaker, which would explain my less than up-to-date uniform. But when it became clear to him that I actually had an explanation that made him look like a fool, he wheeled on me, his finger leading the way, accusatory. He ordered me to attention. I stood there and before I could take it back actually said, “What?” That pissed him off even more. He screamed “Attention!” as loudly and as fiercely as he could, and my twenty-plus years of soldiering kicked in without me even thinking, and I was standing at attention. He had me.

He returned to circling me, continuing his ridiculous tirade. I only now became aware of a growing little crowd around us. A few civilians seeing what all of the noise was about, but most turning away when they saw it was some kind of military thing, a hazing ritual, you know, that kind of thing. But there was a growing knot of ROTC cadets, maybe about two dozen. They formed a circle around us. As the colonel crossed my path I could see the ROTC patch on his shoulder, under the Ranger tab, opposite the 1st Armored Division combat patch on his right shoulder. He had his Jumpmaster badge, and his Air Assault badge. I knew he was Infantry.

So he was training cadre for the college’s ROTC program. I guessed he was probably the program’s Professor of Military Science, the actual title given to the senior ROTC leader on each campus. And this snotty little—I only noticed now that he was maybe 5’11” at the absolute tallest—martinet was going to get some personal mileage out of me, a victim who’d slink away and never come back. He was trying to prop himself up as the gung-ho leader he no doubt projected himself to be to his ignorant, inexperienced cadets, all at my expense. He was going to make an example out of me.

When he came around for the third time, I just relaxed and as my arms pulled away from my sides as I relaxed out of the position of attention, said clearly, “Enough.” Again he turned on me, charging right up to me, screaming into my face to stand at attention now, to shut my mouth, to give him the respect he deserved. I looked him straight in the eye, and answered with a simple, “No.”

I took my beret off my head, and I slowly unbuttoned my tunic, and pulled it off, leaving me there in my battle dress camouflage pants, my sparkling boots, and my brown t-shirt. Yeah, I had a bit of a paunch which was plain to see, but I didn’t really care, not one bit. He was screaming about the proper uniform, how out of shape and fat I was, and then he latched onto insubordination. He started screaming about formal charges and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Over and over he was screaming at me, “Major” this and “Major” that. Having noticed his name tape, I looked at him and said clearly and level, “Lieutenant Colonel Albemarle, I’m not in the Army anymore.” I paused, “So you can take your hollow attempt at leadership and shove it up your tight ass.”

Of course, I knew how that would go over, and it only pissed him off more. His face was almost purple, every muscle tense as he struggled to maintain control over a situation that had turned in a way he hadn’t anticipated. I knew he was out of his element now, ad-libbing, but he didn’t think I knew it. He yelled more about uniform this, uniform that, how fat I was, how he was a lieutenant colonel and I had to obey him. My response: “Albemarle, I’m just wearing boots, camo pants, and a brown t-shirt. I’m not wearing a uniform, so I don’t hear you. ”

That, naturally, made no difference, and he switched to respect and authority, institutional norms of tradition and deference, anything he could think of to yell about. He paused for breath and I said, “If you knew anything about tradition and respect, you’d be saluting me, and thanking me for my service.”

I knew that would send him again, and it did. More screaming, more yelling, and I noticed more cadets looking at me than him. They were waiting to hear what I’d say next. I promised myself no profanity-laced tirade, no losing control like this fool was doing. I would let him look the idiot and the unprofessional through his conduct, and I’d maintain my own composure. I chose my next response carefully: “It’s you who’s the unprofessional fool.”

And that did what I wanted, stepping him up even more than before. He came at me, and grabbed me with his right hand by the shirt collar on my left side, close under my chin. I stood stock still and said evenly, “Take your hand off me, now.” He smiled, like he was going to teach me a lesson, and tightened his right fist to make a ball with the collar of my shirt, pushing upward just enough on my chin to make it a clear threat. I’d already dropped my beret and blouse, and a couple of the more attentive cadets noticed that. He was too focused on himself to think about me. That and since he was shorter, he was looking up at me, not down. His conceited mistake.

My hands came up and grabbed him by his battle-dress tunic under his elbows. Before he could move, I was pulling him to me, my head dipping down. In the blink of an eye my head-butt landed on the bridge of his nose. The crunch was audible, telling everyone around it was broken even before I started to pull back. Already he’d let go of my shirt and his hands were flying to his broken nose. My right foot was already moving out as I started to tip him downward, and he went over in the classic take-down like a training example. As he fell straight backward, his eyes wide now as he fell, I drove him downward, my body already moving downward with his own. At the instant his head and back hit the brick plaza, my left knee drove square into his stomach, taking his wind. Atop him, I ended with the classic rugby move of dominance, taking the flat of my right hand against the side of his face, turning his face to the side, and leaning down onto it with all of my upper-body weight, pinning him painfully.

He was gasping for air, the blood streaming from his nose, his hands fluttering trying to get to it. I waited, and made my speech: “I’ve never seen you before in my life, but I’ve got my measure of you. You may be a Ranger combat veteran, but you don’t know anything about fighting. You’re a pathetic little bully, and I’m sorry these cadets have you as a role model. You’re just the type of hollow, rank-pulling puppet that made it easy for me to retire from the Army. I may have left as a Major, but I chose to leave.”

I stood up, opening my wallet to pull a business card. I threw it down onto him. “If you want a rematch, Albemarle, in or out of uniform, you just give me a call.”

I picked up my blouse and beret and walked on across the plaza to the auditorium, wiping his blood from my hands with my tunic. I did not put my uniform back on.

The general’s talk was on the dull side, but I didn’t really mind. Lieutenant Colonel Albemarle was there, of course, up on the stage, both of his eyes black and swollen, a ragged bandage taped across his nose. Of course, he'd run off and changed his bloodstained uniform. He wisely chose to have one of his Captains give the opening and welcoming remarks. He stayed in his seat the entire time. And not once did I catch him looking at me.

About a week later, the first email arrived from one of the cadets, asking me if we could meet to talk about the Army.

Down the Tourist Hill

It was a gentle slope, not a strenuous hike, but it went on for quite a bit, maybe a half-mile. It was some kind of national monument, maybe a memorial. Maybe it was a battlefield site, something from the Revolutionary or maybe Civil War. The ground and the environment was like upstate New York, the Northeast, something like that. I didn't really care.

I was at the top, and ready to head down. All by myself, the wife off doing something else, shopping I think (how cliche' is that?), and the kids off exploring on their own as well. I was in a small souvenir store, and I'd struck up a conversation with the owner, a surprisingly attractive older lady who I found to be more and more beautiful as we stood and chatted.

She was a sort of Twin Peaks Peggy Lipton, tall and blond. Erect posture, with just magnificently formed arms and legs. She was no stick, but just a tall, maybe 6'1" stunning blonde. She was captivating, smart, and as we talked I was more and more attracted.

Just a normal store owner, selling local crafts, things folks brought to her on consignment, along with the usual tourist trinkets. She won me over early when she said she refused to sell the rattlesnakes in clear resin, the stretched rubber Indian (feather, not dot) drums made in Bangladesh, the lame, cheap kiddie muskets. There were plenty of places selling that carp--her word--so there was no need for her to degrade herself of her business by offering the same. Yeah, she was losing traffic and some profit in that, but it was a decision of principle. Man, I thought she was the greatest.

And so it was time for me to walk on down to the car. I guess it was a rendezvous time or something. She asked if I'd like her to walk along with me, and I quickly agreed. She left the store with a clerk and we headed down the meandering paved path, beautiful grass and trees all around, the occasional souvenir joint along the way. It was a beautiful day, spring I believe, and I couldn't be happier than to be walking with her.

I wanted so badly to take her hand. Not a move, not a precursor of something to come, just because I liked her and found her interesting, and wanted to let her know that in a deeper way. As I mulled this, she took mine.

Now it was clear, as usual the lady taking the lead for me. That's the way I work, and it's worked out okay so far. She was soft and warm, just perfect as we walked.

Everything was just great, perfect. I was a perfectly happy guy. No thoughts of the wife or the kids (this is a dream, after all). She would ask me about my car, where it was parked, how big it was, etc. She was not being crude, but her line of inquiry was clearly geared to what two consenting adults might be able to do in such a space.

And we were well in luck, as I just happened to have a converted dually pickup that had a sort of cabin in the back. It was a camper shell, nothing pre-fab or store-bought, but instead was an all-wood cabin that I'd made myself and put into the back of the truck. It was a neat thing, an eye-catcher, and I'd done it all myself. I was pretty proud of it, and wanted to show it to her. She was interested in seeing it, and she wanted to climb inside.

Yeah, my arousal was building, but more than anything I just wanted to lay with her. She was so perfect that I just wanted to hold her, feel her warmth, be with her, make her feel good. The raw physical pull of the promise of soon-to-be sex with a beautiful and energetic woman was there, sure, but I was actually more interested in a deeper connection rather than a quickie in a rocking pickup box in a tourist parking lot.

We got to the bottom of the hill and arrived at the truck just as both my wife and kids came up. She dropped my hand smoothly and quietly, and was so cool with everyone, she was instantly friends with them as well. She was a perfect person. As the wife and kids compared adventures and purchases, she gave me a slight shrug and a wink, and unspoken, "Well, we tried." She wanted to, and so did I, but it just wouldn't work out. And that was that, no huge disappointment, no feelings of anguish or anger; it just didn't happen, that's all.

So we all piled into the truck, which now had a glass hatchback, the wooden cabin gone. I offered my blond tourist lady a ride back up to her place, and she accepted, sitting in the back with the kids. They thought she was great, and they'd only known her for five minutes.

We took the meandering road to the top, and I opened the the hatchback and pulled her out the back. She gave me the slightest touch on the chest as I did, and she whispered, "Come on back sometime." I smiled and nodded, and she was off through the manicured paths back to her shop.

I crested the hill, and there was a creek. (A creek running along the crest of a big hill? Whatever.) But not deep, and across was where we wanted to go. Why go all the way back down and around, when we could ford on the gravel bottom? I eased the truck into the creek, and as the kids and wife screamed like the idiots they were being, we sloshed right on across the creek, maybe 40 feet all together. Up and out, but not onto a street. It was more like a river walk path, narrow concrete, for pedestrians, not large trucks. I turned right, down another hill. The wife and kids were screaming about cops and walkers and all kinds of stupid crap. I eased it down, nice and slow, and we pulled out onto a suburban street with the slightest bump as we drove off the curb. No problem.

And we were only blocks from the turn to our way home. Right on Route 1.2, and off we went. It hadn't been a bad trip.

Road Race

It was a nice day, hazy clouds, and not too warm. Just a little bit of light breeze taking the heat off the perfectly smooth asphalt road as I ran at a good, steady pace in whatever 10k race I was in. No competition for me; I just wanted to have a run, get a medal, and then drink some free Gatorade. Something to do on a Saturday, just to keep things moving.

And there was this woman who was starting to get to me. Her running form caught my eye first. Now, I'm no Frank Shorter when it comes to running style, but I'm also not Frankenstein. But this woman looked as if every single stride she was taking was absolute agony. She was canted to one side, as if in permanent pain on the other. Her arms were up tight against her body, clenched, fists white with her exertion. How much energy was she expending just keeping those arms up, keeping them so tight and rigid, her hands balled up? Pain, or just the way she was? Her face was a picture of pure displeasure, an unchanging grimace of pain and exertion. She was a dark pink, her face completely flushed as she panted through gritting teeth, her jaw a taut line on both sides. She was loping along, in frayed dock tennies, not even running shoes. She looked like the Gyro Captain in The Road Warrior, minus the funky long johns and bad teeth.

And she was keeping up with me. Again, I'm now Kenyan marathoner, but when I'm in my own personal running groove, I can do a 7:30 mile for six or eight miles. Today I was at about 8 minutes per mile, no big deal. I was having fun, just out for a run, and now she was doing more than distracting me; she was pushing me. I could hear her labored, agonizing breaths behind me, and even as I consciously stepped up my pace, forcing me to put out a bit more than I'd planned or was eager to do, she was right there, maybe 20 feet behind me. She was non-rhythm in motion, but she was putting down a pretty good pace.

And we hit the turn-around, and she passed me. No words, nothing, just a flash of her stupid shoes, and she was a good 25 yards out in front of me. How in the hell did that happen?

Now, did I want to chase her down? Did I really want to make a race out of this? And is this what she was doing? She seemed to be struggling so much just with staying on her feet that she couldn't possibly be interested in a finish ranking, but there she was, in front of me. Three km to go, and she was out front. Okay, what was my strategy? First: keep up, don't let her widen the gap. Keep the distance at less than 30 yards, and then make the move in the final 500m, with the finish line in sight. She was so pathetic as she ran, surely she couldn't put out a true 300 or 400m sprint at the very end. Could she?

So now I was working hard, just keeping up. And here comes another runner past me. Didn't even hear the guy come up, and he startled me as he came by. And it's a goddamn kid. Maybe about 10, 12 years old. He just kind of lopes past me, not even breathing heavy. Goddamn kids.

And he trots up to the running bag lady, falls into pace with her, and says, "How ya doin', Mom?"

Her response is in an even, smooth voice, no sign of the stress and exertion so apparent in her face and body. "Just fine, Rick, doing just fine."

And they proceed to have a conversation, at about 7:15 minutes per mile. All about school, teachers, what was for lunch in the cafeteria, typical mom-son stuff. And I had to watch and listen as I kept up my accelerated pace, just to stay with them.

And then I felt this bump against the backs of my legs. Okay, another runner a bit too close--no problem. It wasn't a crowded course, not at all, but it happens, so it's no big deal, unless I go down. And then another bump. Whoever the idiot is, he's still behind me. And I look back to see a little blue economy car getting ready to bump me from behind again.

What the fuck? A car on the course? Who's in charge of this race anyway? And what kind of absolute moron drives a car onto what is clearly a running race course. So I slow to turn a bit, and see a lady all of 80, completely asleep inside the car. She's out cold, mouth open, slumped sideways so that she's almost sliding into the passenger seat. Hell, maybe she's dead. I take a couple of quick steps to the right, to get out of the way of the thing, and I think about running up the left side, opening the door and stopping the thing. Yeah, that would be the right thing to do, heroic and just plain common-sensical, but already the little car is outpacing me. Don't know if she's on cruise control or what's going on, but now that it's no longer bumping me, the little blue car is suring ahead just a little bit, well out of my running pace, up toward the mom and son running in front of me.

They both just glace over their shoulders, step aside and let the little car pass, with the woman still sleeping in the driver's seat. No sense of surprise or concern with Mom and Son, apparently, as they're still jabbering away about tater tots and that creepy blond moustache on Miss Yargo, the music teacher.

We round a little bend, and the stupid blue car just steers right on around it, right in the middle of the road. The driver may be asleep, but the car sure knows exactly where to go, and at just the right speed, apparently. I wonder if it was being polite when it 'asked' me to get out of the way a few minutes before.

And I notice that Mom and Son are hundreds of yards in front of me now. How the hell did they get way up there in such a short time? Have I slowed that much? Have they picked up the pace? Hell, there's no way I can catch them now, so they can have their finishing places ahead of me. Whatever.

And back to the house, walking off the heat and the sweat, the exertion of the run. Sore all over, but that wonderful weary-sore, knowing that what you've done has been good for you, that your body has done a great job and now deserves a nice rest. What a great property, one house down from the end of the road in the huge woods of elm and linden and ash. Big, big lots, divided decades ago and never sub-divided for maximum suburban profit. We were just miles from the city, but you'd never know that here. We were just a half-mile from the huge, tourist national monument-place, but the end of this street was worlds away, a fantastic quiet refuge from all of the urban and suburban crap going on so close-by.

And for whatever reason I'm headed to the back corner of the huge lot, maybe 8 acres all together, where the guest house is. Why the hell am I showering in the guest house? Don't know, but that's where I'm headed.

And now it was dark. Early morning? No, that couldn't be, having just run the race in the daylight (and where the hell had the little blue car taken the sleeping old lady by now?). So I guess it was night coming on. The overarching trees were taking away the light, and it was getting dark, fast. The guest house was completely dark, now a totally black, boxy silhouette as I approached, looming larger over me as I approached. No lights at all, which I also thought a bit strange. I didn't think anyone was in there, but didn't we keep a light on usually?

I felt a sense of dread, and I wondered if I should enter? And if I showered in there, with all of my clothes in the main house, how would I get to my clothes after I cleaned up? A nekked nighttime streak to the main house, just for funsies? Or a more dignified walk through the leaves with a towel around my middle down to my clothes? I just didn't know. I still had to decide if I were going to enter and shower there.

So I stood under the trees, amid the gently swirling leaves, the dark house towering over me.

Pipes

Sick, so overwhelmingly sick. Fever and chills, then the tacky, clammy damp on my pillow as the fever broke and I couldn't get cooled off fast enough. Back and forth, all night long, over and over. The deep ache in my bones and my muscles, the incredible feeling of heaviness, just wanting to lie down, close my eyes and sleep, but my mind racing, revved by the temperature swings, fighting its own struggle with the sickness.

And it was pipes. It was a schematic, a little drawing the size of a deck of cards on an 8 1/2 x 11 sheet of white paper (unruled). As I watched, it became translucent, a lucite and plexiglass schematic of interconnected pipes. It was an Escher drawing, the pipes connected in impossible angles and combinations, overlapping across so many dimensions that I couldn't keep track.

And then it was the size of a postage stamp, and I had to bring the paper close to see what I was doing.

And somehow I was forced to describe this system. I had to describe it technically, in complete detail. I had to codify directions and flow, flow rates, diameters and circumfrences, pipe bore, pressure variations. I had to measure run and flow, flow rate, minimums and maximums, and any variations. I had to measure angles, and changes in direction, across all of the dimensions I could observe. And the thing kept changing, always changing. Now it was almost the size of the paper on which it lived. I could watch it move and shift as I held the paper, pulsating, bigger and then smaller.

And I had to produce charts. Hundreds of graphs and charts showing every possible kind of measurement describing the cursed system. Every measurement had to be compared to every other one graphically, with one or two shown variables. Then all of them, the different combinations. It was a book in itself, just the goddamn graphics to describe this thing that never stopped changing. I had no place to start, no point of reference, because nothing was ever static long enough to measure it and begin the process or definining and describing. I owed answers to someone, and someone would be expecting my work, but there was no one to ask, no one to give me any help, just the pressing, heavy feeling of being under a deadline, being under an oppressive need to start, just so I could finish. The mental and physical stress were getting to me.

And all through this, some term, "CV" as constant in every theorem, in every formula. It was some kind of analytical code that was constant to every part of the system, the CV factor or rate or constant. I had no idea what it was, which only added to my dread and fear of failure.

And I was so tired, so incredibly tired. All I wanted to do was close my eyes and just sleep. I wanted so badly to just walk away from it, to drop it and never have to deal with it again, to leave the pulsating, endlessly internally generating knot of twisted pipes and tubes behind me. I wanted to free myself of thoughts of it, the kind of oppressive thoughts that carried actual weight, that made me feel as if the anguish would never end.

And throughout it all, I knew I was trying to sleep. I was sick, feverish, miserable, and I knew that I just needed to quiet my mind and my body, sleep peacefully, and recuperation would go that much faster. Even with that knowledge in my sleep-consciousness, I still couldn't wipe fucking "CV" from my mind, nor the recurring vision of the transluscent pipes, slowly sprouting more bends and runs, pushing more pipes forward and backward, always changing, never sitting still long enough to answer any of the questions put to me.

Puddle Game

As we rolled up in the school bus, things were just fine. It was absolutely pouring outside, a warm summer rain coming straight down in a huge volume. The gutters were washing clean, the streets swept with sheets of cleansing rain. And we were warm and dry inside the bus, headed for our outing. No one seemed put off by the fact that it was coming down in a steady pour out there.

We came around a slight bend, and there was a massive puddle to the right. Not muddy or filthy, just a quiet puddle of clear rainwater, the dark green grass submerged in its maybe 18" of temporary depth. Right then the leader, a guy who for whatever reason looked exactly like Joaquin Phoenix, right down to that bad, evil hair he had in Gladiator. We were some kind of scouts, apparently, maybe a youth club, and for whatever reason, he was in charge.

Well, this was the place he wanted, and the bus stopped.

"Okay," he said, clapping his hands together as he jumped into the aisle, "This is the place we want!" Everyone on the bus except me seemed to know what he was talking about.

"Let's head out for . . . boat race!" and all of the kids around, a mix of ages from probably six to 17 or 18, let out huge screams of pure joy.

And so right into the puddle they all went, and sat right down in the middle of it. Tons of squeals of surprise and reaction to the water, as the rain poured down. Everyone lined up in single file, sitting Indian-style, except with their crossed legs in the lap of the person in front of them. It was a tight line, and everyone had done this before.

Then Joaquin yelled out "Row!" and everyone started to pretend they were rowing a boat or a racing skull, splashing like mad in the puddle. Everyone thought it was the greatest thing they'd ever done.

Me, I just stood there drenched in front of the bus door, watching them having their fun in the rain puddle.

Pseudo-Zissou

It was a beautiful old-timey square, like something you'd find at Disney World, or on a movie set. Beautiful greenery everywhere in white-picketd planters. Incredibly well-placed garlands of white lights were above, in a delicate pattern, almost a spider web, a magical lattice against the distant starry palate of the night. It was night, and the place was just magical, a vision of how Man and his inventions could make things truly beautiful.

And I was standing next to Bill Murray, working on the latest Wes Anderson film. I was a co-star, or a producer, or somehow otherwise directly involved in the work. He was very much like he was in The Life Aquatic with STeve Zissou, minus the beard, and with a lot more clothing on.

I turned to him, and as earnestly as I could, told him that I was happy about what was going on. I felt great about the scene, about the project in general, and was thrilled to be working with a legend and a sort-of personal hero. I was trying so hard not so sound banal and common, but that's what was coming out. I ended with a simple, "Thanks for working with us," which strangely seemed to be the thing that resonated with him the most.

And cut to behind what I discerned to be the set. It was a darkened area, but much like the beautiful square only a few yards away. Same sort of decorations, but no lights. There were little shops and stalls here, manned by folks. There were massive trees along the perfectly done red brick sidewalk, but it was all dark. There was a gigantic tree, an oak or some such, and I noticed that right at its base, where it was probably 10 or more feet thick, the entire thing had been cut off. Like a Bugs Bunny cartoon, the massive, noble thing had been just chopped clean through, with it coming right back to rest on its base, maybe offset by an inch now. When would it fall? And where would it fall? How long would it take? How much danger were we all in, standing this close to it?

I looked up and down the path, and all of the massive, old trees I could see were the same. I could hear the grumblings of the merchants here, and the gist came to me that the area had been condemned and claimed by the city for a larger boulevard pass-through. They were going to run a huge urban thoroughfare through here, and there was nothing left to do about it.

There were noises that our movie had to do with it, but I knew that wasn't true. I made my way back to the set, behind the lights and gear, and watched from within the coils of the cables. There was a waist-high planter with a perfectly curled pile of dog shit on it, and as I wondered how a dog managed to get up on the planter and drop his load right there on the edge of it, suddenly it was in my mouth. The entire goddamn thing. I hadn't been that near it, hadn't even seen it other than to glance at it, and now it was in my goddamn mouth. I bent over to let it drop, not wanting to move my mouth at all, not wanting to move my tongue at all, no more interaction or movement other than to let it fall straight out, then all the spitting and rinsing I could manage. But it wouldn't fall. Its vile consistency, its size, something kept it in there, and I was dying a slow, agonizing death of heaving gagging, my mind reeling and my body quaking as I gagged and gagged, struggling to get the wretched thing out.

Finally it slopped out, the majority of it. Now how to get the rest out? Where was a hose, a bottle of water, something to pour into my still-open mouth to get as much out as possible, without any part of me, mouth, tongue, whatever, having to get further involved? A mental image of filthy peanut butter entered my mind, swiping my finger way back between the molars and gum to get it all out, and I was right back to gagging.

Then it struck me that someone might be watching. How mortifying would that be to be caught with a mouthful of dogshit? How to explain that? How to live that down? And what would my apparently new buddy Bill Murray think about me now, the on-set poop-eater? So, I've not gotta keep this quiet, keep it to myself, and get it fixed, fast.

Fade out as I ducked behind a planter, between a trailer and its huge concrete mass, squatting low amid the light cabling and thick power cords, my mouth still wide in its idiotic silent poop-scream, thinking of where I could go to fix things up . . .

The Hawaii Disney VIP Visit

I was near the end of the whirlwind visit to the Hawaii Disney area, the massive development that was both movie studio and theme park, a huge, sprawling area on one of the islands, someplace familiar in geography and terrain and foliage, but one where I'd never been before. I say I'd never been, but anyone who'd ever watched any television knew all of the landmarks, knew all of the lots and the houses, where all of the shows had been made. I even knew how many steps it was from certain locations to others, the colors of the bushes in between. I was here, living a dream.

I'd won some kind of contest, and I and a few others were VVIP guests of the place for a day or two or three. We'd been staying at the ultra-modern pad perched on the hillside, looking down the lush valley over the golf course to the perfectly placed and maintained white cottages and bungalows of the resort area. Up and to the rear lay the still-wild reaches of the upper valley, just beyond the working area of the studios, where land-clearing and construction was always happening, reshaping the world in order to create another mass-media version of another further different reality. The pad was something like a cartoon Frank Lloyd Wright, like the incredible place in North By Northwest, jutting out in cantilevered extreme, seemingly shooting out of hill in tiers of perpendicularly opposed ledges and decks and floors. Despite the raw angularity of it, it melded perfectly into the hill, its materials and colors perfectly blending the green of the land and the blue of the sky.

And inside it was cool and quiet, the floors a smooth stone. Fantastic amenities inside.

And now I was on the final tour, by myself on a fast-moving vehicle, kind of a bus, kind of a truck, moving through the massive corporate spaces of this place. I'd seen everything, the TV operations, the movie sets and filming, the theme parks, both the public and the behind-the-scenes areas. It was incredible, all of it, and now we were looping back, across public land and open spaces now in order to get back to where we wanted to be. We were on surface streets, but I was up above it all, at a height of maybe 30 or 40 feet. I don't know what kind of vehicle it was, but I liked the sensation of the movement, and of being above, looking down. It was almost flying.

And it seemed we were in LA, or a kind-of LA. It was some kind of amalgam of my imagined LA, coupled with what I know of the geography of Hawaii. Apartment buildings built right into the side of the volcanic faces, incredible architectural achievements and engineering triumphs, with windows and balconies jutting out from raw natural sheeer faces, with the ubiquitous ferns everywhere. It was spectacular, but I wondered about parking and vehicle access. What about evacuation and fire? It was neat to look at, but what about actually occupying it, and then managing it?

We were on a big highway, leading up a hill, toward what I knew from so many hours in front of the movie scree and TV face to be a sort-of back gate to the corporate property. More of the incredible buildings to my left, and the road slowly, gently narrowed. Eventually it was a winding two-way road, poorly maintained. And along the road, more and more people, all of them knowing about this back gate, all of them crowding the edges to maybe get in, to get a glimpse of the ones going in and out. So many folks, all looking at me/us (whoever the "us" was) as we moved on up the road.

And I saw the camera boom extended from the vehicle, and we were filming. I didn't know what we were shooting or why, but now I and our vehicle were really part of something concrete taking place, not just a passing truck. The crowd were excited, seeing the relative action, and they started to move. They were waving and jumping, trying to get the camera's attention. Folks were looking at me, too, and I wondered why they'd want to look at me, as I was literally just along for the ride. They thought I was a director, maybe, or possibly even a star. Hell, I was someone involved in the production, and by simple virtue of that these simple, media-dominated morons were interested in me. They had no idea who I was, but there were hundreds flowing by as our vehicle wound up the road who wanted nothing more than to get to know me, to shake my hand, probably even to tell me how great I was, just because I was on the truck carrying the camera making whatever film was being made. The power in that was unmistakable, the power to abuse so quickly and readily, the mischief that could be had if I were to take advantage of that. Just the hint of the available sex was more than enough to sign me up for the program.

But none of that, as we were approaching the gate. The crowd was huge here, backing up and off the road, up into the jungle fringes around the run-down houses near the cracked and rutted road, the asphalt years beyond its useful life. So many folks, refugees, just standing around a guarded chain-link gate, waiting for something they thought would make their lives better.

And we were through, no more crowds. And we were slowly lifting off, the vehicle no longer just a truck. Maybe a helo, maybe something else, but we were rising slowly from the ground as we moved across the open spaces between the fabulous guest house and the production areas. It was a huge grassy meadow, hundreds of acres of nothing but green, flowing grass. I could see the patterns of our wash in the movement of the grass, and we were rising. The crowds were growing smaller, so much smaller, the entire place shrinking as we rose.

And then it was just me, shot up, the incredible feeling of upward acceleration. I was flying, rocketing upward, that strange yet undeniable feeling of movement overwhelming me. I yelled out in sheer exhilaration, raw sounds of abandon and pleasure and wonder. The other contest winners were relatively close--somehow we'd all gotten to the same place as a sort of reunion climax to our visit. Together we rose, spinning, to maybe 10,000 feet. No cold, no thin air, just the most incredible view of the still towering mountains all around this incredible valley, and the head of the valley closing off behind the park, painting-perfect mountains of steep, jagged pyramids coming together in a jumble, a forest of King Kong environs up there, way up there. The wind was warm, there was a slight haze, and the feeling of the movement was intoxicating. Absolute bliss.

And then the balloon was done, slowly falling. I was drifting down, down to the meadow and the fringes of the expertly maintained golf course. The visit was ended, and now it was time to return to my life, normalcy, anonymmity. None of that bothered me, but I wanted so much to return to that incredible feeling of flying, that lift, that feeling of being in the air alone, drifting and moving. That was all I wanted, and was willing to give a lot to have it again.

I drifted down to the soft green grass, to meet Al Franken, clearly fresh off the golf course. Since I was a nobody now, he handed me his grass-caked golfing shoes, expensive things with custom embroidery and such. He made some noises that I couldn't make out, and it was all about getting them cleaned up and ready for his next outing, whenever that would be. Who was I to refuse Al Franken, so I took the shoes, damp from his sweat but surprisingly non-redolent (what a great word), and headed back up the slope to the guest house.

I set the shoes on the main table in the spacious dining room, confident someone on the staff would find them and get them to where they needed to go. After all, I'm not Al Franken's goddamn shoe-shine boy. I wasn't pissed at him, but I wasn't going to do his shoes either.

As I moved through the house to find my room and pack my stuff, I could hear a piped-in monologue from some semi-rising star, talking on one of the corporate networks about making it famous. He'd had a scene, in Saturday Night Live, or my dream interpretation of a show somewhat like it, and he'd ad-libbed a line and a move having to do with a pair of goggles. He'd just thought it up on the spot, literally a step away from saying his set and rehearsed bit. He hadn't planned it at all, no dark scheming to use the show to his own benefit. He'd just had a flash of the comically brilliant, said his throwaway line and made his comical move with the goggles, and the rest was comedy history. It was the funniest twenty seconds of television in the past 30 years, and the offers and the endorsements deals were cascading down upon him still, a good two years after he'd made such a huge and unplanned smash debut.

And so it was clear to me: One must remain open to and alert for opportunities. Planning is important, and constancy and security come best from planning and dedicated preparation, sure. That is undeniable. But major leaps forward, and disastrous falls occur in the blink of an eye, with little or no warning. One has to be awake, alert, and mentally ready for these things when they arrive unbidden or unanticipated.

747 Problems

Another air travel/crash/anxiety dreamm. I have them all the time:

The flight should be fine, and it's some kind of 747, or a model much like it. Lots of brigh orange and Cherokee red trim and plastic and dense carpeting. Quiet inside, despite the bustle of the hundreds cramming into the flying aluminum tube. It's an overseas flight, so we'll be full.

We taxi, and I'm looking out a massive window that's more like the observation gallery in the scenic car of a train than something on a plane. It's neat, sure, but is it strong enough for pressurization? Can it take the speeds and stresses of the plane?

We taxi, and it looks like we're actually taxiing right through another plane. I see the rows of seats outside my window, elements of fuselage, like our plane is moving up and through another, just like it. Strangely fascinating, but also discomforting.

We hit the runway, lots of green outside. We come up to speed, and I note that I'm right behind and below the flight deck, the backs of the crew's seats just in front of me. I'm listening to their conversation, and can hear the different radio feeds and what they're saying. I've flown enough, and I know that we've got to get to V1 speed, which is take-off speed, and then the pilot eases the stick back to lift the aircraft up and off. It's all about achieving and holding the speed to create the lift that will get us off the ground.

So we get up to speed, at least it seems that way to me. But I don't hear a "V1" call from the cockpit. And we're really moving down the runway, easily 150mph. Sure, it's a big plane, and I know we're at a big airport, but there's only so much runway, at the absolute most maybe about 15,000 feet. Who knows how much we've already used, but some quick calculations tell me that every second we're losing another 200 feet (not bad for a dream, as the real figure is 220 feet per second at 150 mph). That's a run of about a minute, tops, before there's no more runway, and the fences, walls, grass, trees, and other non-jumbo-jet-compatible items begin to crop up.

There's some insistent chatter on the radio, and the crew is talking fast, voices rushed. Yup, something isn't right, as I could tell. They confer, we're still hurtling down the tarmac, engines at full power. And then immediately they cut back, full thrust reversers on with the brakes down hard. We're really slowing, and I wonder when I'll feel the landing gear come off the runway and start to plow through the dirt and sand at the end. Will the fence cut the plane open, or will we just slice on through it?

And quickly, very quickly, we stop. Everyone behind me is freaking out. The crew is calm and ultimately professional, quietly telling each other how great they did to get us to stop.

They come on the intercom to tell us that we're headed back to the terminal to have an engine looked at. A male voice a few rows back says clearly, "No shit."

Back From the War

The weather was pretty nice, but not that sparkling-clear sunshine of a perfect June day. A little bit of high-high haze was in the air, dust floating as well, giving everything a slightly golden-brown sheen, an almost old-timey patina, a little bit of bronze on all surfaces. It was warm, but not hot, not a bit of wind.

The entire unit had already redeployed, so happy to head home. We were done with our work, and it had been hard and costly. Every element of the unit had been hit, and everyone had their own pains and scars to deal with. We'd all been bloodied, but we'd fought hard and non-stop like the no-shit soldiers we were, never letting up, never giving the enemey a chance, and ultimately we were victorious. There was never any doubt with us that we wouldn't be, just a question of how long it would take. It was a little longer than we'd conceived of, but now it was time to head home, to the rest and relaxation and relief to which we were entitled.

There were only about six of us left, the rear detachment of the unit. Everyone else was already on their way, many of them already home by now. Me, I was happy to have sent them on ahead, heroes all who had earned their trips home, earned their time with friends and family, who had earned a triumphant return. I was happy that I'd taken care of them, given them the respect they deserved, that the troops were taken care of first, and I as a senior leader, would follow once the mission was completely finished. Let the troops receive the glory and the pleasure first; they deserve it more than I do.

So, it was time to trudge up the hill to the station. It wasn't far, maybe about 500 yards, visible through the completely deserted village. There was no rubble, no clear destruction. No fire and no smoke, but what had happened here and in the other places where we'd been sent was no joke, and our arrival had left a mark. The enemy certainly regretted taking the actions that brought us here, and now it was time for us to go home.

My gear was surprisingly light, and I figured most of that was just the elation of heading home. A pack is always heavier when you begin the journey, lightening as you near the destination.

As I looked down as I walked through the dust, I saw that I was wearing my rugby gear. The boots, the socks, the black shorts and gray/red jersey, the whole bit. And it was clear I'd been playing in it. I wondered if I'd been fighting or if I'd been playing, and if there really was a difference between the two here. The victory was sure, but I wondered what the contest had been. I could've been in either, my joints and knees and elbows felt the pain of both operations and scrimmaging.

Up to the station, and it was about 1309, with the train arriving spot-on at 1315, just as I knew it would. No questions in my mind how the trains could run so perfectly in such a messed-up place, but they did.

The train was a spanking new thing, totally European, everything automated and both padded and carpeted, like a moving Star Trek set. So comfortable, the smell of brand-new carpet and plastic overwhelming. Maybe it was French; they were selfish bastards, sure, but they sure do know design and layout.

I wanted so badly to take a nap, to sink into the soft bunk. But I had so many connections to make at various stations, and I couldn't afford to sleep through even one.

The Precarious Railway

The mission was clear, but everything else was murky.

We were on the beach, way down at sea level, and high above us, miles away, was the destination, the cluster of buildings far atop the pinnacle of the mountains, the clouds swirling. You could see the place, but it was a tiny speck, so far away and so far up.

All we had to do was follow the track of the old line, clear and refurbish it, and then lay the track for the new line. I started out. The old line was pretty tough to see, but if you kind of squinted, kind of imagined, kind of got into the landscape, then the linear features of the old bed would come out and you could follow it.

The only problem was that the enemy was shooting at us. That made the going slow, miserably slow. Sure, this mission in itself was an absolute pisser, near impossible to begin with, given the topography, but now we had goddamn enemy dropping artillery and firing machine guns at us. What in the holy hell . . .

Soon enough I was up above the beach as the cliff rose from the flat sand. The old bed was hugging the contour of the coastline, still winding its way toward the center up in the mountains. I looked down, and I was hundreds of feet above the beach. It was a blinding white fuzz of sand, no sound coming from the surf. I was on the very edge of the cliff, and I was perilously close to toppling. I was on all fours, and the ground was incredibly soft and giving. I wondered how stable the cliff itself was, as I felt myself sinking down into it, feeling gravity pulling me toward the lip of the cliff, my feet and ankles already dangling into space.

Had to move slowly and carefully, very purposefully now. The ground was completely devoide of any undergrowth, no grass, weeds, sticks, leaves, nothing. The only thing I could think of was local critters that would eat the stuff. And there were the subtle movements of the crabs under the soft earth. Thousands of them, little tiny holes for their breathing and the subtle yet now so obvious to see movement of their fist-sized bodies a few inches below the surface. The soil was loose, dark, and powerfully redolent.

Man, I thought, the railway is going to take some work, some serious engineering work, to get it up here and working. But when it's all done, it'll be a breathtaking ride.

I moved on out, keeping low, toward the V-shaped valley ahead where the old right of way passe.

Industrial Germany at Christmastime

It's Germany, that much is for sure. I'm downtown, what city I can't quite be sure, but I think it's Mannheim. The streets are unfamiliar, and I'm not seeing anything that gives me a clue. But I know the basic direction in which I need to travel. I turn to my sister and my (long dead) grandmother and ask if they can follow in theihr own cars. Sure, they nod, ready and eager for the challenge. I tell them to stay tight, be aggressive, and we're off.

It's not three blocks before my dumbass sister mucks it all up. She hesitates, falls back, and is instantly out of sight in my rear-view. I pull over and stop, and the two cars are just gone. I walk around the block, looking for them, staying close to the curb, hoping they'll see me. Nothing.

I stumble into what is clearly the main square, flat and large, and amazingly open. The snow is falling, and is packed tightly onto the street. It crunches underfoot, that wonderful unique sound of snow. The bite in the air is sweet, mixed with the incredible wintertime smells of the city, even downtown that unmistakable German scent of woodsmoke. Floodlights pour down into the square, and I see from tracks in it that the annual holiday parade has just passed. Sorry that I missed it. I look up to the other side of the square to see the doors of the cathedral open wide, all of them, that golden glow pouring out, a few stragglers coming out, mass over now for a good 20 minutes or more.

In the distance is the even brighter glare of what I know to be the Christkindlmarkt. Everything to be had there, including a cold beer and some warm sausage on a fresh roll, and lots of mustard. Time for some chow.

I look up in the square to see the entire thing is fully enclosed, a massive and incredibly complex glass ceiling over everything, a good ten stories up. The cathedral spire actually penetrates it, soaring up into the darkness on the other side of the glass. I wonder how all of the snow got in, and I can see those clever Germans have actually put snowmaking apparatus on the buildings to generate snow under the roof. I wonder, then, what is the purpose of having it in the first place?

To Pakistan

I was on the gigantic plane, and it was absolutely silent. No high-pitched whir of the engines, none of the rushing sound of 700 mph going by the fuselage, none of that. It was strangely disturbing, the complete absence of any kind of typical sound of airline travel. I could hear tinkling glasses from first class, and the whispers of the teenage girls three rows ahead. The lighting was subdued, as it was night outside, but the interior sounds were warm and close, and I had a feeling of contentment and safety.

The view outside the window was even more fascinating. I was looking down at what appeared to be a highlighted outline of India. We were what I guessed to be a few hundred miles south of the southern tip, so we were looking a bit north. I guessed we were traveling from east to west. We were high above the sub-continent, and I mean really high. My view was almost that of looking down on a globe, and I realized we were far above the service ceiling of any aircraft I'd ever been on. I'd thought I was in a 747, but we had to be at 100,000 feet or more, probably even higher than that, given the incredible view. I realized that the darkness outside wasn't really nighttime, but the enveloping black of space. I didn't think we were in orbit, but we were awfully close.

I looked down at the outline of India, a subtle glowing bronze-yellow, quiet ant subdued, all of the surrounding features a darkened shade of light gray. It was incredibly breathtaking, the view, looking down onto India.

But I was headed to Pakistan and bam--on the ground and time to move out.

My buddy was there, a former Marine, now working in the embassy i some capacity that wasn't quite clear to me. Also in the car was the driver and a security guard. We climbed into the surprisingly small white sedan and headed out. My buddy, Pete, told me that we had to be ready for anything, and produced a huge Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun in matte combat black. He struggled to move it around in the front seat, and then started to hand it to the security guy in the back seat, riding with me on my right. As the gun bumped and wedged as he tried to get it over the seat--with us driving on down the street, me wondering why we hadn't sorted out weapons and security arrangements before we even got into the car--the muzzle swung right in front of my nose. I was staring down the gaping black barrel of this powerful shotgun, and I could smell the gun oil, and the smell of solvent and powder. A huge rush of memory of shooting with my dad, with my friends, of spending time on the range by myself, my time in the military.

The guy in the back, a really big, strapping lad, finally got the shotgun, and set it upright, the butt on the floor and the muzzle about 2 inches from the car's ceiling. I asked aloud how he'd employ this thing quickly and competently if it were needed. I didn't get much of an answer, but remember offering the idea of something like a modified flare gun that would shoot shotgun shells. Yeah, the kick and power of the thing would be a real strain on the shooter, but it would be a handy, easily concelable and highly maneuverable weapon in a closed space. That, and you could get half a dozen inside and available in a car like the one we were in. Nice idea, but we didn't have any of that now.

So, on the way to what I guessed was the embassy or wherever I was headed, it was time to stop at the shooting range. I didn't know if this was SOP or not, but I thought it was a good idea.

We were waved into a very nice parking area, and ambled into a sort of sporting club, very much like ones I'd been to in Germany. Nice appointments, and nice furniture. I got into my bag and started to pull out a number of weapons, wondering how it was I had them on my flight. I had a couple of .45s, a new .38 revolver, a folding stock auto-pistol in 9mm, and huge amount of magazines and ammo. Lots of spare parts, too, and I wondered why my bag wasn't as heavy as it should be.

Okay, we'd go shooting in a minute or two, but now it was time for local custom. The local hires we had were calling it "daiyar," whatever that means (and a Google search has not given me any clue as to why my mind came up with this term. It apparently was a mid-afternoon snack. And out came the food. Tons of it. We were around a nicely sized table, and it was just filling with food. I was hungry, sure, but wondered how I'd be able to eat dinner if I ate this stuff now. And what about the propriety of this? Could I refuse and not offend anyone? I had no idea. It all looked great, though.

And there was Mildred, a clear amalgam of all of the overweight, maternal, graying, and gruff-but-lovable character actresses from all of your favorite sitcoms and TV shows. Apparently she'd gotten a real-world gig doing security and admin for the embassy in Pakistan--were we really on the outskirts of Islamabad, I asked myself. She showed me a report she thought was particularly funny. It was an overly long, way too formalistic report of how a car had approached an embassy building and had not provided the correct number of automobile horn taps for the proper pass code or status report. Apparently they'd set up some kind of evolving code for horn taps to communicate status and security level. I wondered how that would work in a country like Pakistan, when the horn is constantly in use. Seemed a bit overcomplicated to me.

The report outlined a requied six horn toots, and only five had been given. Lots of comical confusion had ensued, with everyone ordered out of the car. Whoo, yeah, Mildred, that was some pretty funny, totally wacky stuff there. Thanks for sharing that.

And as we finally filed out of the clubhouse toward the range, things were looking up. The weather was magnificent, the sun low in the sky signalling autumn, but the air was warm. The air was still, with dust suspended, swirling like water in the slanting yellow rays streaming down. I didn't feel under threat, but it was time to go shoot a little bit.

Erotic Jean Smart

There she was, a wonderfully sexy Jean Smart, lounging on some kind of bed-like surface, wearing nothing but a pair of delightful black velvet high heels. She was happy to be where she was, and I was pretty stoked as well.

She was a professional, long since used to doing this kind of thing, so all I had to do was keep the camera steady and just clicking off those digital files. She was louging, rolling, stretching, bending, spreading, doing just about everything I could think of in erotic photography before I could even ask he to do it. She was a step ahead of me the whole time. Naturally, there were a great many poses and actions I was thinking about, beyond the realm of tasteful and even semi-tasteful boudoir photography, but I wasn't going to head there quite yet. If she was ahead of me, maybe she'd just get there and I'd happily follow. Just gotta wait for the context, see how things are going, and then decided about what to do. I was plenty happy with the situation right then, but it could always get better. As for actual sex, getting it on with Jean Smart, I just really couldn't place myself in that scenario. Too far out, too far down the fantasy pathway. Sure, it'd be a hoot, and I'd jump right on in, but no need to think on what was most likely to be the purely fantastic.

Even in my dream, I wondered how it got to be Jean Smart here, posing so deliciously for my own private erotic photography. She was a mighty good sport about it, and appeared to be enjoying herself. I had no recollection of a contrat or details on payment, but there was the niggling feeling that I might get handed some kind of obscene bill for modeling services or some such. Just had to remember if I'd signed a contract or not.

And why Jean Smart? Of all of the fantasy women, why her? Nope, I never had a thing for any of the "Designing Women" (http://www.topthat.net/DWT/index_alt.html) bunch, and absolutely detested that dumbass show. Delta Burke was a massive turn-off in every way, coming off more like a drag queen than some kind of zaftig southern belle with attitude. No amount of make-up and trendy, expensive clothing could fix her, ever.

Dixie Carter just didn't do it for me. Sure, she was the older, classier one, but still came off as cold and detached, a southern belle Joan Crawford, to my mind all smiles and gen-u-ine southern hospitality until you got behind the curtain and you saw the vicious, manipulative psychotic autocrat. That was just my impression. She was great to look at, but her character didn't work for me at all.

And Annie Potts. She was great in her early nubile phase, when she was in Ghostbusters. Petite, with that cool red hair and enough drawl to really make her something to pay attention to. But as she got older, she didn't keep that look and attitude, just got older, and less and less attractive.

But here was Jean, and she was hot. She most certainly without any clothing, and only now did I notice she had on some wonderfully matching jewelry, subtle and classy gold and diamond earrings and a bracelet, and a nice necklace. That and the heels was all there was. And she looked great there, as I clicked away with my puny digital camera.

War on Mars

How weird it was, to step onto the surface of the planet, to realize that I was standing on another world. To look up later in the evening, and see no moon. Familiar stars, sure, but our moon apparently gone. Very disconcerting, to realize that you can't seen something you've always known, but didn't realize it until now.

But the surface is just like home. Same vegetation. Clear air, no different than home. Just no cities. Everything a pristine wonderland of just flora. No fauna yet, still too much terra-forming to complete. I thought of it as an explorer to the New World might have, except there weren't any Indians to encounter. Thinking a bit more, like thinking on the moon, it was strange to walk an utterly silent forest, to see the grass swaying in the breeze, but see or hear no birds. Not even bugs. Beautiful, without a doubt, with such a clear promise for the future, but also very strange and out of the realm of the normal.

But I was here to fight the war. The unseen enemy was inside the planet, deep, and we were going after him.

I was at the rear door of the massive Chinook as it spun up for liftoff. The drop door was open, and the pilot was going to keep it that way as we flew. I was waiting for a few more to hop on, then I'd step on and we'd be off. I was a little more senior than the others, apparently. I wasn't in charge, but I also had a lot of freedom based on what I assumed to be a slightly higher rank. We were all in full battle gear.

As the helo lifted off, I could feel a clearly unusual shaking and vibration. Instinctively I rolled down the drop door and out of the helo, falling the ten feet or so to the dirt as the huge green thing struggled above me. Glancing up as I fell, I could see the problem; the idiot pilot hadn't even started the rear rotor. He was trying to fly the thing only on the front rotor, and it was failing. The helo was still climbing, but only barely, highly unstable. It was at about forty feet now, and things were going badly. Why didn't the pilot just set it back down? Nope, too easy, too cowardly for a jock-pilot. No glory in that, an admission of failure and weakness. No, he was going to fight through it.

As he did, it rolled over onto its side and began to fall. I hopped a wall as the spinning rotor hit the ground, splintering into supersonice shrapnel that ripped through the tree leaves above me like a weedeater. Limbs and leaves and branches were coming down, a sound of fluttering and splintering and cracking, and the scream of the Chinook's turbine as it came down.

I heard the thump, and was up in time to see the fireball erupt slowly from the crumpled airframe. It was on its side, the fuselage caved in from the impact. Only a few troops staggered out of the open back, then the flames filled the dark interior, and no one else came out.

Bam--I was up on a bluff, the burning wreck now below me to the right, a good 2000 yards away. I was looking down a beautiful vista of a sweeping green-grass meadown, right down to a wide and shallow river, a shimmering silver-blue, then another rise on the other side, up to a ridge higher than our own, a good 7000 yards away.

I guess I was on an aircraft now, as I began to fly low and fast down the slope, toward the river. A helo appeared to my left, flying across our path. I was worried, but saw it was above us. We crossed simultaneously, the helo no more than forty feet above us as we accelerated over the river. I felt I could reach down and touch the water with my hand, we were that close.

In a blink we were atop the opposite ridge, and I saw the massive gash in the planet--I had to remember that we were on Mars--below me. It was a huge abyss, a dark hole stretching down into the interior of the planet. Not a Grand Canyon, or even a volcanic caldera, but a massive hole, an entry wound down into the planet.

We descended in a circular flight, and I saw the regular rectangles indicative of the enemy in teh walls of the cavern. We let fly with our missiles, which hammered into the honeycomb in the walls. Explosions and flame filled the whole space, orange and flashing yellow, fascinating and beautiful in the darkness of the bottomless cavern. We were hammering the bad guys, but the extent of the honeycomb around us was more than we could handle with our limited ammunition. We'd have to pull out and come back. I wondered why they weren't fighting back, and if and when we came back, how well prepared they'd be.

I began to wonder about the nature of "the enemy." I couldn't even see them, and they weren't fighting. Who were they, and what was the nature of our fight? I was fighting because I was told to, because I was told they were a threat. I wasn't see that threat, or any indication that there was a threat. I began to doubt the mission and the war.

Hey, There's the Pope

Sitting in the hard wooden pew, in a very open and airy church. It's large, a very big space inside, but sparse, a lot more like a Luthern or Episcopalian structure, lots of wood, with only very modest decoration all around. Lots of natural light, but none of the often gaudy colors of stained glass streaming through. Sunlight coming from behind me, over my right shoulder, wonderful white-gold bars of slanted light angling down to the foot of the altar.

And in the middle of the mass, there's the Pope, right up there in the middle of it all. It seems that it's a regular mass, but what's he doing here? And why isn't this place just absolutely packed? I mean, there is empty pew space to my left, all the way to the aisle, room enough for another dozen folks. No one standing in the aisles. Come to think of it, no security at all, at least that I can discern.

And the Pope is yabbering away the mass words, just dribbling them out as he's done thousands of times before. I can't help but wonder if the words just don't spill out on auto-pilot, the meaning of the day-to-day mass lost after so much repetition. Sure, the meaning would come through on the Biggies, the Christmas masses, the Easter masses, but for something like today? I have to wonder if he's really feeling it, really into what he's putting out.

And what the hell am I doing here? I'm an atheist, for Chrissakes. But it's interesting, something new, and maybe the Pope will offer something of interest.

There's a question-and-answer, but the Pope is answering confusingly. There's a swanky cardinal in the pew in front of me, and all this guy does is clarify and refine and qualify every utterance the Holy Father puts out. So why isn't this crimson-bedecked guy, right down to the gloves, up on the altar holding the press conference? And why doesn't the Pope tell him to shut the hell up and sit down?

The Pope looks pretty healthy, a little guy with a big head. His English is excellent, but thick with his native German. He speaks clearly, to my listening fully in command of what he's saying and wants to say. Except this dickhead cardinal who keeps interrupting and making stupid qualifying remarks.

Then communion comes around. It's not traditional Catholic communion, the everybody-go-to-the-altar thing, but is more of a Church of Christ communion, with the wine coming down the rows in tiny little glasses in those fascinating round, silver holders. My two kids want a drink, and I've got to be a lot more stern that I thought I'd have to be to get them to be quiet and to keep their hands away from the holder. I'm not about to take any of this stuff, but I'm respectful enough to keep the kids quiet and focused. After all, we're in church. I may not believe in any of this bullshit, but I'll be polite enough to show respect for others' beliefs, as hollow and meaningless and baseless as they are.

Then comes the hosts, like little beige Necco wafers in neato little wooden bowls. Everyone just grabs one and pops it in, mumbling their rote "Body of Christ" as they do so. Yep, this is a departure from the Catholic communion I saw as a kid.

I just push the wine and the hosts on down the row, taking them and passing them on. Neighbors are around, and they notice that I'm not partaking. Whatever, although I'd like the opportunity to clearly and all at once explain to them where I'm coming from. I'd like to do that, but won't have the chance. I'll just explain myself and my beliefs as opportunities arise, in the weeks and months and years that follow.

Traffic Altercation

I was headed down the gentle sweep on the six-lane concrete connector in town. The weather was beautiful, a flawless sky of purest clear azure above, the sun beaming brilliantly, and the river bouncing golden sparks below the white concrete bridge. The concrete of the deck was new, pure and yet unmarred by the passage of so many vehicles. Great day to be out, driving, driving anywhere.

I was in the left lane, and drifted left into a lane that I could see would veer to the left. An exit of some sort, apparently, and I went with it, for whatever reason. Once across the river, the road began to rise with the bluff, and I could see a few hundred yards ahead a sort of T intersection, another road entering from the left. My lane continued on as a feeder for the road I'd just left, and a left-turn lane began to open. Traffic entering from the left had their own merge lane on the left, and the whole feeder led right back to the main travel lanes from which I'd exited just before.

I just kep going, straight along the feeder, headed back to the main road. Where to? I have no idea, but I had exited left for some reason, and then was getting right back onto the main road for some reason, whatever it was/they were.

As I prepared to merge, I glanced over my right shoulder to check. There was a just a glimpse of a white vehicle there, but not too close, so I gassed the car a bit and slid into the merge lane, then merged right. There was a stoplight turning red, so I slowed. The white vehicle was right up my ass, tight, the only explanations being he'd charged there to try to cut me off, or to protest my merge in front of him.

As I rolled gently to the stopline and halted, I was no longer in a car but kind of on foot. I had a big mattress sort of thingy, like a big dog bed, soft and fluffy, but not heavy at all. I plopped it down at the stopline and sat down on it, Aladdin-style. That's when the white car behind me inched up and hit me. I was offended, scared at first, but it was only canvas and some polypro fill in my doggie-bed-vehicle, nothing to get worked up about. No scratches, no dents, no injuries, so what should I get uptight about? Sure, the guy did it on purpose, but he was just an ass, so best to just let it go.

The light changed, and I on my magic dog bed glided forward, taking my time, but also not intentionally dawdlilng, not trying to pick a fight with the guy behind. The nature of my propulsion in my, ah, unique mode of transportation was not a concern at all. A few hundred yards down was another stoplight. I was going straight, and the white car, which I now identified as a beater white boxy Toyota or some such, whipped into the right lane, came up alongside me, and the guy leaned out and spit the biggest honkin' phlegm gloob I'd ever seen onto me and my cool doggie bed ride. Okay, ya fuck, it's go time.

Since I was so low to the street, all I could do was reach out with a fist, and as hard as I could I pounded flat and hard into his left rear quarter panel, smack in the center. The effect was exactly what I wanted, the metal buckling in and a huge, prominent dent appearing in the panel.

White Toyota guy was waiting for a comeback, as his reaction was immediate. He pulled up over the curb onto the sidewalk, and was out the open door almost before he had the car fully stopped. Me, I was still sitting, literally, in the main travel lane. No reason to get upset, not yet. I just sat there, crossy-legged, waiting for things to develop.

He charged toward me and I held up a flat hand in admonishment, "Let it go, pal. Just let it go."

He stopped, not ready for that kind of approach. He took another step and I again warned, "We're even now, and if you're smart you won't push it."

I could see his brow wrinkling in thought, my words replaying in his head, his mind churning through the individual word meanings, adding up the bigger meaning, working through a couple of scenarios and possible outcomes. He was cogitating hard, only now starting to think ahead to what might develop now, what I'd been doing since I exited the road before the bridge and he'd tapped me.

He looked like a Weird Al Yankovich without the cheezy moustache, but with those same dated aviator frame glasses, the lenses thick inside the frames with green mold and grime under the glass. He matched his car, cheap and beat and poorly maintained. Except he had jet-black dreads, long too. And a soiled Disneyland Goofy hat, with the muzzle of Goofy jutting out jauntily toward me. A fascinating picture, I noted.

He'd made his decision, and charged me. As he did, I simply stood up, to silently emphasize my size. As I rose to my full height, he measured out about 5'8", to my 6'4". That didn't deter him at all, and he came at me. I reached out and tweaked the Goofy hat nose as hard as I could, and it stunned him like I'd hit him. I couldn't tell if he was hooked to the nose, or just that offended by my desecration of his treasured hat. He came at me again, really hot. I knocked him down, to discover, only now for some reason, that below his soiled school-gym-gray baggy shorts, he had prosthetic metal legs. Kind of like really shiny chrome erector-set rigs, with lots of struts and bracing. It was a strangely mesmerizing visual presentation, the metal and its arrangement.

But he was still fighting, and fighting hard. He was unhinged, going all out, at least trying to go all out. But off his metal feet, there wasn't much he could do. I simply pulled both metal legs off, out of the dirty shorts. I bent them over and over, folding them like an aluminum can, and threw them into the street. Only then did I notice a small crowd had formed. The crumpled legs were being hit by the passing cross-traffic, flattening with every strike.

I sat back down on my doggie bed vehicle, and merged slowly back out into traffic to continue on my way.

Lame

It was the downtown scene, but not in the heart of the city itself, but in one of the outlying, mini-downtowns outside the main core. Not quite suburbia, but still its own little mini downtown. And I was in the scene.

I was producing and directing and finding all of the talent for a new show, on public access I could only guess, called simply "Lame." It was ironic and bitter and biting and socially commentative all at the same time, depending on your point of view. Or it could be purely artistic. I offered no comment, only featured performers and others willing to go on camera and simply do what they did.

Today was some guy from Japan--who couldn't speak a lick of goddamn English--and his gig was eating strangers' toenails. He'd cut them, fondle them, and then just chew them up, right there on the street. He was clearly a fetishist, from the pure rapture he exhibited in the practice, but there was more to him, I felt. He'd just get people to agree on the street to drop their shoes and socks, and he'd snip all kinds of toenails right there, and then just pop them in. There was more than enough pure carny in this act, but I felt there was just a little more. He was equal opportunity in his act, which I loved.

I shot quite a bit of him doing his thing in various venues, but then turned to some kind of act that I knew to be arriving via parachute. I was in an open-air mall, about three stories around me on all four sides, and I wasn't too sure about the safety of them coming in. I didn't know anything about the act, what they did and how, and if it would even be interesting, but I was more than willing to film a few folks drifting into this open-air mall in broad daylight without any warning.

I wondered if there was any liability in it for me.

The Salt Cave Abyss

I was approaching what I knew to be, what I'd been told to expect, was the most awe-inspiring natural geologic formation in the world. Even more spectacular than the Grand Canyon, Victoria Falls, anything like that. It was the Great Salt Cave Abyss, a yawning, jagged gash deep into the earth, stretching down and down and down, and on and on, as far as the eye could see. I was really looking forward to it, and couldn't help but feel a dread.

Ahead of me was a shoddy plywood wall. Maybe 20 feet high, it ran about 60 feet from side to side. Folks were peering around the sides, through the poorly sealed seams, and even below it in some spots where the ground was uneven. Who would block the view of the abyss, if that's what this was? And how was a screen of this size blockign the view of a hole that was miles and miles in size?

I sidled up on the right, and it was a sort of cave, an outcropping/cliff rising to my right in a gentle arc, up and over the partition. I just stepped around it, and looked to my left to see the abyss. No abyss at all. It was just a smallish cave with salt crystals everywhere. I felt like I was standing inside a geode. It was impressive, sure, but no great abyss, not even close. The space was small and close, and humid as well, with a strong saline smell--duh. It was a geologic oddity, a natural wonder, sure, but nothing on a grand scale.

Then I heard the disturbance outside and turned and ran up the stairs of the building that had sprung up behind me, where the large partition/wall had been. I ran up to the open window, looking out over a greenish meadow, the grass short and well-maintained. A crowd was coming towad what appeared to be the town frontage, as I leaned out and peered left and right.

It was a military unit, and apparently was my military unit. I couldn't remember if I was a cadet, or a soldier, and what my unit would be doing out there, walking toward where I was, in apparent anger. Why wasn't I with them?

I ducked inside the room, stepping back into the relative darknes inside so I could still watch and yet not be seen. Then the room started to shake, and just like in tha climactic scenes of No Name City sinking into the mud in Paint Your Wagon, the entire room started to sink down, until the window sill was even with the ground. They were either going to march right on in, or I was going to go out. Well, I wasn't one to await the inevitable, or dodge my duty, so out I stepped, into what I was not sure.

Indoor Football

Inside an empty house. No furniture, but the fixtures are all still there. Bare floors, no carpeting. All of the windows still in place. And I'm guessing we're in the dining room, at least that's what it seems given its placement in the house, the ceiling light, the modest paneling.

I'm in full football gear, but a practice jersey. We're in the red mesh penneys, and the other guys are in blue. We're in a scrum in the middle of the room, some on the deck and others on their feet, and we're all battling over the ball, which I can only guess is at the bottom of the pile. I feel a coach nearby egging us on, calling out pointers, but I can't see him.

This isn't football, and it's not rugby. It's no game I'm familiar with, although the various component parts seem clear enough. I'm guessing we block, and whoever has the ball is in control and likely to win. That's enough for me to figure out, so I'm ready to go.

Suddenly the ball is ripped out, up and out of the wriggling pile on the floor and it's in the hands of my team. Five of us head for the corner of the room, a couple of blues chasing. We round the corner with a flash of kitchen, then it's another sharp left through the empty family room. As we rumbled through the family room and into the front foyer, again angling left, I hear one of the guys say clearly, "Let's take it around again and stick it to the blues." So we form up tight, holding onto each other's jerseys, a five-guy ball-carrying element. We turn the left from the foyer into the empty living room, and I suddenly wonder why we aren't having problems with gaining our footing on the hard bare wood floors, given the football boots we're wearing. The noise of the studs on our boots is deafening as we rush into the living room, the wide open portal into the dining room right in front of us, with the remnants of the just-completed pile just starting to sort out.

We pull even more closer as we take the final rushing strides toward the pile, oblivious to whether there are blue or red players in front of us. The other guys are just seeing us rumbling toward them, and they're trying to organize a defense. But they're not ready, not together, not linked or cohesive. We've got the ball, and we're going to run it right down the throat of anyone in our way. As the first cascading ripple of the hit reaches me, back in my third position, everything shifts.

It's now after practice, and we're all at a large table, right there in the same dining room. We're in our playing pants and the t-shirts we wear under our pads, still sweaty and hot. The table is circular, and big, maybe 15 feet across. We're all around it, what I'm guessing to be my team, maybe 20 of us all together. I think a coach is talking/lecturing, but I can't be sure. I'm fascinated to watch what I guess to be some kind of strange team ritual. There are a couple of large shallow bowls, made of that elementary school cafeteria, mustard yellow clay-plastic material to make them indestructible and impervious to all damage. There's a single large plastic spoon in each very shallow bowl, almost a big plate other than it's subtle depth. Filling each bowl is a thick red salsa. I can smell it, unable to tell if it's fresh or factory. Each player takes a big spoonful and just slurps it down, then pushes the bowl back toward the center of the table. There's no apparent order in this, and no one appears to be in a rush. I wonder if it's spicy. To me it looks like some kind of strange communion, something that everyone just does, sharing from the same bowl and the same spoon. I can't think of a reason why in the world the communion medium would be salsa, though.

The Retiring General

Civil War era? I couldn't quite telll. The vibe was there, but the uniforms weren't quite right. The way we interacted was different, not temporally appropriate, and I could swear I was seeing electric lights and fax machines in some offices as I moved through the mansion.

The General was mustering out. I didn't know if we were in 1862, 63, 64, 65, or when, but the guy had had enough of it all, and he was done. He'd submitted his paperwork, a simple and surprisingly short letter. I'd delivered it to the superior, and it had been accepted only hours later. So now it was time to move the general on out. Time to update his awards and decorations, and it turned out he was a good five years behind on wearing and accounting for all of the medals and such he'd earned in the war, on the frontier, all of that stuff. As they were read out and confirmed, I helped the general pore through the little partitioned box of pins and badges and medals and ribbons. A lot of them were service oriented awards, so the medals just got update stripes or stars or number, tiny little devices that had to be punched into or stuck onto his existing awards. The goddamn things were so tiny it was infuriating. Sure, it's great to get a military decoration, but to go through all of this shit just to show you've been in 18 battles instead of 15? I didn't see the utility in any of that.

No one seemed to care about his replacement, either. I guessed the deputy, the assistant general guy would step up and take over, as is usually the SOP. There didn't seem to be any drama about the guy leaving in the middle of a war (the apparent war, that is), no anxiety about finding a man as able and enthusiastic as him to lead the men. Me, I didn't really care either, and apparently I was the aide de camp, or at the very least on the adjutant's staff.

And out the door he went.

Scummy Caribbean

The path down to the beach area, and the actual beach area itself told me enough about what I was in for. It was like the Spanish Riviera coast I'd been to as a kid, so many visitors for so many years that the underbrush was a web of interconnecting trails, around big bushes and trees, all headed more or less to and from the beach. Lots of trash around, old and new, big and small. And move to far into the woods in any direction and you're knee-deep in the urine and excrement of 200 years of bathers. I was not impressed with this opening salvo of the vacation experience.

So it was down the dusty/sandy trail, and a little rancid lagoon of water filtering through the sand, maybe 100 yards from the actual beach. Little open patch of sunlight streaming down, highlighting the discarded plastic. Not a total dump, but more than enough trash to ruin the image completely. A small rock outcropping, with the standard international grafitti, more reasons to be depressed.

And through the woods to the old red brick building. The windows and doors gone years and years ago, sand moving in and out with the tide. The placid sea lapping right up to the threshold at the far double-door opening. And inside, a huge open room, wide and long, with no columns inside. The guys were in some kind of small cars, zooming around on what looked like an amazingly smooth and preserved wood floor. Impossible, sure, given the conditions, but there it was.

Out through the door and into the warm, ankle-deep water. Across the bay we could see the drunken motorcycle soccer match going on. The locals on big powerful bikes, street bikes, scooters, dirt bikes, all with one hand on the gas and the other gripping huge magnums of pink champagne. I could see the pink froth and mist as they struck at the ball, as they spilled their drinks down their fronts, onto their already filthy t-shirts. The sound was overwhelming, amazingly loud for being a few hundreds yards away. To our front, coral and sandstone rock outcroppings as far as we could see, making it all picturesque; all I could think of was how much of a hazard to navigation all of the rocks would be.

And there was Art McWinkle. I knew the guy, and knew this to be a pseudonym. I had no idea whether I was to call him Thom (the name I originally knew him by) or Alexander DeLarge (a past pseudo I'd heard him use), or Art, the apparent current moniker. So I just sat and watched, looking for a cue.

Art hopped on a bike and sped around the inside of the room. He was nuts, out of control, knocking into people low and hard, like a soccer slide-tackler, going in to take the person out. I could see legs buckling and hear the bones breaking. Lots of screams of pain, and I just got out of his way. No one made a move to stop him, only hushed complaints of how they wished he wouldn't do what he was doing. No confrontation, no direct action against him, all of it instead subdued and quiet, respectful and indirect.

I didn't like the whole setup, and was ready to end this sunny climate holiday right now. I turned for the trashy walk back up to the road.

Steam Cleanin' in the House

I was at home, but it wasn't my current home. It was my dream home, but not in terms of HGTV 'dream home,' but just my home in this dream. Nothing like I would think it would be, but that was the way it was. Whatever.

I was in another room, and came into the main kitchen/dining/family area to hear a huge noise, power equipment. I look around a corner and see the old family kitchen table, the one I inherited from my grandmother, stripped bare. Sure, we'd been thinking of refinishing it for a few years, and there it was, just about there. My first impression was that of an animal without its skin. The wood was a light blond, very different than the dark brown from before, and it was some really beautiful wood underneath, still needing some detailed refinishing. But it was going to be really nice once it was done.

And the noise? Well, it seemed that it had been power-washed, right there in the kitchen. I was suddenly aware that I was in standing water, a good 1/2 inch of it on the floor. As I looked down, I could see the hardwood floor slats starting to warp and buckle, slow-motion-like, like a time-lapse of a flower blooming. Okay, I had a table ready for refinishing, and $8000 in floor replacement now. That was not a good trade-off.

It couldn't possibly have been my wife who was stupid enough to do this, right? The idea to power-wash was pretty good, I saw that, but inside? That was a bit daft.

And then the compressor started thumping again, and the hiss of the hose was going. Whoever was at it was doing it again. I stepped around a corner, and there was Teri, one of the soccer moms on my daughter's teams of which I am coach, power-blasting our antique Gulbransen piano. I couldn't really fathom what I was looking at.

She was fast, and thorough, and why I didn't jump in, I don't really know. The whole thing apparently was modular, as she just pulled parts off the piano, blasted them with the power washer, and then set them aside. Flecks of the ebony finish were flying everywhere, on the walls, floor, ceiling, all over her. The water was sloshing all over the place, flowing out the front door, down the stairs and into the basement. I had no idea what in the holy living bat fuck on a stick was going on.

Then there was the wife? What the hell? Well, she explained, Teri had volunteered to do this, and she liked doing it, and was doing it for free, and was working fast, and blah blah blah. What about the destroyed floor? No answer for that? What about the ruined piano? Refinished, sure, but the felt, the strings, the pedals, all of the internal parts? What about the ruined antique piano, the gift from my dead grandmother? No answer on that one either.

And the water just kept on a-flowin' out the door, sparkling as the sun caught it, throwing really neat designs and reflections onto the ceiling above us, the black flecks in the water like something from a Chihuly work, magnificently random flecks of color in the clear water, the light bouncing.

Back to School

I was back on campus, again, the leafy, stately campus of the undergrad alma mater, in its early fall midwest glory. Pretty much the same as it was before, 20-odd years ago, but some subtle changes. The library had gotten a pretty significant makeover, and looked like a space ship now, not the large white block that it was when I spent days and nights inside, not like that night my girlfriend and I hid in the stacks and got drunk and had deliciously abandoned sex on the reference librarian's desk, and then again (I was that quick?) way down deep in the sub-basement, on the couch outside the map collection, and then a 1-2-3 and through the break-bar emergency alarm and out into the October chill. Man, hadn't thought of that in a while.

Trying to find a place to park, and I suddenly realized that I was driving a big SUV right down campus. Good thing the place was relatively uncrowded, although we were just creeping along. Who the hell was with me? Fellow alum? At least it seemed that way. Over to the north side of campus, where the radio station used to be, the building we climbed one night like a cliff face, using the native limestone blocks as hand- and foot holds as we went right on up the outside, and in a third floor window to poke around and goof off.

So much for the parking, now we were just trying to find a way out. I just wanted to get down to the big avenue at the bottom of the hill which lay only about 200 yards behind the northern line of buildings. But how the hell to get there? Turned behind a building, the Suburban or whatever it was, huge and black and shiny, sluggish yet throbbing with power. Nope, nothing there but two brand-new buildings, with a fascinating dark brick exterior, incorporating what I thought was a brilliant and artistic flash of very subtle red, blue, white, orange, and black tiles under the windows. The building looked low and sleek, modern and sporty, but it was just a brick building. I was impressed.

So backed up and around to the other side. There used to be a parking lot here, with a road down, but no more. How the hell to get down? And then finally, around another building, parked cars and a way out. But an access control point. Not a drop-bar for smart cards, but an actual point controlled by guards. But these guards were students, or at least student-aged people. Both had their oranged vests on, but had put their heads through the arm holes, so the vest draped down their fronts, folded, like some kind of day-glo bib for idiots. I looked, and was relieved to see they had no weapons.

We passed through, down the shaded way and over the speed bumps and out, and I was back up in one of the buildings, moving from room to room for a medical check-up. The guys were very thorough, with a whole team of doctors coming and going to see me. Lots of questions, all about my history, my complaints, all kinds of stuff. They were really paying attention to me.

And then a breakthrough. I'd been having some problem with my feet, and the line of questioning got very detailed, very intense. They didn't let on, but just the atmosphere told me there were moving toward something. They were conferring, nodding, an agreement being reached. Then one doc approached and told me he was happy they'd concurred on what the problem was. And he was even more happy that it could be fixed very, very quickly. Okay, that was good, but he was holding back.

Well, it seems that the nature of the foot problems also was extremely esoteric and rare, something hardly ever seen. In fact the only reason my situation had been caught was that a passing senior research physician had stopped into the doctor's lounge, overheard their puzzled discussions of my feets, and had plugged it into his own highly obscure work, and it had all fallen into place. Huzzah!

Yeah, okay . . . and? Well, what the docs wanted was for my curing procedure to take place in front of a class audience. They wanted to use me as a teaching tool. Okay, that's not a problem, I'm up for that. The doc paused, and I knew that wasn't quite it.

Well, the nature of the problem is a parasitic organism. Yeah, and? Well, it lives and breeds . . . in the rectum. Oh, so I was going to be splayed out and dealt with in front of 300 medical students, any number of doctors with their hands and feet and large, cold medical instruments up my ass? Well, yeah, most likely . . . and the chrome buttock spreaders . . . What!?

The doc intimated that they'd fix me, and quickly, and for free, if I'd agree. If I didn't, well, then they didin't know when they could fit me into their busy schedules, and that they didin't know if I'd get their full concentration on this difficult procedure and . . . Yeah, I got it, doc, cooperate or don't get treated.

Okay, I'll do it, but want to be anonymous to the students. I don't care how, just no face, no identifiers. A curtain or something. The doc volunteered: a hood? Yeah, sure, I don't care. It's not like I need to be seeing what's going on. So, he pursued, do you want to bring your own, or should we give you one? We'd probably just give you a pillow case or something. Sure, that's fine. Or maybe you could make something yourself, something customr, with some padding, maybe a nice collar, form-fitting, with some decoration on the outside, something you'd want to be seen in . . .

And I faded right on out.