Holy goodness

It came to me in a dream, as I stumbled about a scorched landscape under a harsh sun, where what little life there was struggled to survive.

Yet on the horizon was a warm golden glow, a richer, more inviting place to which I was inexorably drawn. And as I approached the landscape was less scorched and more baked, and I soon felt inexplicably comforted. For in front of me it stood, asking for nothing but faith in reward for its unending love.

And when I bowed at the feet of my savior Cheez-Its, I knew I had been baked again.

I awoke knowing that Cheez-Its had fried for me, so that I may revel in a love of cheddar and, more recently, white cheddar, cheddar jack and hot & spicy.

Going to the pantry, I placed one of the delicate crackers on my tongue, the body of Cheez-Its, and I could taste the cheddar, the enriched flour, and the riboflavin, a holy trinity of goodness.

I knew this is what I had been seeking to many years, and am now studying to become a Chezuit.

I know that not all share my passion of Cheez-Its Christ, but once you see the sign as I have, you too will believe.

Race relations, retro style

In the summer of 1972, the one movie I really wanted to see was “Superfly,” in which a badass dude killed lots of people (really all the plot a 14-year-old needs). It starred Ron O’Neill as the badass dude, and I have no idea why I remember his name. But I think he wore a hat and a badass coat. But he definitely killed a lot of people. Drug dealers, I think, making it morally OK.

“Superfly” and dozens of similar movies (badass dude killing lots of people) would come to be known as “Blaxploitation” films, because it starred badass black guys killing lots of people, with a decent share of them being white.

But all I knew at the time was, right, badass dude killing people. The whole race thing never occurred to me, partly because I grew up in a very white town in the Bay Area. How white? I would not meet my first black acquaintance until the following year, who also was the only black person to attend our school. But our real understanding of race relations was stunted because A) his name was Willie and B) he was a starter on the basketball team despite a unique combination of inabilities to dribble and shoot. And Willie also would be the most popular kid in school, as much a reflection of his personality as it may have been guilt – it just wasn’t something we thought about then.

And it was on a Saturday morning I eagerly looked through the entertainment section of the Oakland Tribune and was dismayed to see “Superfly” was not playing in any theater within 10 miles of us. That seemed odd for a film about a badass dude killing people. Who wouldn’t want to see that?

I mentioned that to my dad, who had promised to take me to “Superfly.”

“Dad, is Telegraph Avenue far from here"?” I said.

“I’m not sure where it is,” dad said. “Why?”

“Because that’s wher ‘Superfly’ is playing. At the Rialto.”

“Nothing closer? What about the Regency?”

“Nope, just at the Rialto.”

My dad looked at the newspaper, because it’s well-known fathers do not take anything at face value, particularly the ability of 14-year-olds to accurately read a newspaper.

“Hmm.” he said. handing it back to me. “Well, that’s pretty far, but I did promise.”

And with that we chose the early afternoon show and soon set off in our green Pinto station wagon toward the heart of Oakland.

Within 35 minutes, we exited the freeway and cruised along streets that decidedly were not suburban. No yards, no redwood fences, just a lot of concrete and chainlink. As we turned onto telegraph the Rialto came into view, with “Superfly” on the marquee.

And there was already a huge crowd lined up outside.

“Gee, son, I’m not sure I can find a parking spot,” my dad said, slowing as we passed the theater. “And to be honest, I didn’t think it be so crowded, you know, and it looks like we’re a little late to get a good seat.”

But here is what I was thinking.

“Holy CRAP, look at all the BLACK people.”

And though my did was talking about parking and lines, this is what he was thinking.

“Holy CRAP, look at all the BLACK people.”

As far as I knew, we were the only white people in that area code. And I was positive we were the only people driving in a green Pinto station wagon. We circled the block once, mutually agreeing that even though it was about a badass dude killing a bunch of people, it was too crowded so we would try another time.

We never tried another time.

I can look back now and appreciate what my dad did. Of course he knew what the audience would be in the heart of Oakland, but he took me anyway, perhaps hoping both of us could overcome our discomfort in a time when race relations were still rather strained.

We couldn’t, of course, but it was another story to add to the family lore, and yet another reason I’ve had so much respect for my father.

All about the beer

Scene: The small bar behind the country restaurant at Schnepf Farms, site of the annual Pumpkin and Chili Party where thousands of kids are making life absolutely miserable for the adults who really need a drink.

Here, in this oasis of calm and alcohol, adults whose kids are old enough to wander by themselves, or who have pawned their children off on visiting grandparents (suckers) have gathered for a respite from noise and dust and little ones. Especially the little ones.

The players: The bartender, (B), whose unenviable job not only includes dealing with parents who have maybe five minutes to get on their drink before returning to the chaos around the corner, but explaining just why a glass of wine of bottle of beer costs upward of $8 (a price that, for a few, seems reasonable, because what price escape?)

The customer, (C-1), who is interested in getting something, anything, that does not cost her more than a few bucks.

The other customer, (C-2), who really just wants a couple of beers since he and his co-drinker have maybe 20 minutes of peace before being called back to the din by children.

CAMERA focuses on bartender, both her hands on the bar, leaning toward CUSTOMER 1, and as camera pulls back, it reveals a short, 40-something brunette, her palms braced against the edge of the bar, a credit card wedged between the first and middle finger of her left hand.

ENTERING frame from left, CUSTOMER 2 places left elbow on bar, he holds a $10 bill in his left hand. He listens to the conversation between C1 and B.

C1: But you said it was two for one.

B: No, I said it was half-price. Which, if you order two, is two for one.

C1: Right, but you said it would be $8. That doesn’t sound two for one.

B: It’s $4 a glass. So two is $8.

C1: How is that two for one?

B (still calm): It’s not two for one. Half price. When happy hour is over, it will be $8 a glass. But right now it’s $4 a glass. Half price.

C1: You mean $4 is half price?

B: Right.

C1: Oh, well, that’s just too much. Do you have anything cheaper?

B: You can get a bottle of beer for $2.

C1: Beer? Well, I don’t know … (looking off camera) Beer? You want beer? Because wine is $4. No, for one glass (nodding) OK, then, beer? Beer, right. (Looking back to bartender). We’ll have beer, then.

B: Fine, what would you like?

C1: Well, I don’t know, I don’t really drink beer.

B: Everything we have is on the shelf behind me.

C1: I can’t … I can’t really see them. What beer is $2.

B: The domestics are.

C1: Domestic? What’s that?

B: That’s beer brewed by the big companies. Budweiser, Coors.

C1: What else do you have?

B (hint of exasperation): They’re behind me. The bottles.

C1: Well, I guess, I don’t know … (pointing) how about that one?

B: This? Sam Adams?

C1: Yes.

B; That will be $4.

C1: Wait, $4? You said it was $2.

B: Right, for domestics. But this is $4.

C1: Hold on just a second. You just told me it was $2, and now it’s $4? Why is it $4?

B: Because this isn’t a domestic. This is a more expensive beer. Only the domestics are $2.

C1: I don’t understand. Beer is beer.

B: No, not really (slightly more exasperated). Some are cheaper, some are more expensive.

C1: Well, fine then. I don’t care what it is as long as it’s $2.

B: That would be Budweiser or Coors.

C1: Anything else?

B: That’s all we have.

C1: What was it again?

B: Budweiser or Coors.

C1: Oh, I know. Corona. I’ve heard of that before. Do you have those?

B: Yes.

C1: OK, two of those.

B: I can do that, but those are $4 each. So it would be $8.

C1: What? Why?

B: Because Corona is an import-

C1: Look, I don’t care-

B: –from Mexico-

C1: You are telling me more than I want to know.

B: –so it’s more expensive.

C1: I don’t care where it’s from. What I care about is paying $2.

B: That would be Budweiser of Coors.

C1: Let me see Coors.

B: What?

C1: Coors. Let me see the Coors.

B reaches into the beer cooler to her right, takes out a bottle of Coors from the bottom shelf, places it on the bar in front of C1. C1 stares at it for a few seconds. C2, in the background, is shaking his head.

C1: Yes, that’s good. And that’s $2, right?

B: Yes. $2.

C1: I’ll have two of those. $4, right?

B: Yes, $4.

B grabs another Coors, and holding both bottles in her left hand, reaches under the bar with her right and in one quick and practiced motion, extracts a bottle opener and opens the two beers.

C1: Wait, why did you open them? We didn’t want them yet.

B (exasperated): By state law you have to drink them here, so I have to open them when I sell them to you.

C1: Well, why didn’t you say that before? We really weren’t ready to have them, we wanted to walk around.

B: I’m sorry, but I can’t let you have them unopened. That will be $4.

C1: Fine. (Thrusts credit card toward B). Put it on this.

B: I have to go into the restaurant, if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes.

C2 (interrupting): No, wait, I’ll be happy to get it.

C1: What? no … why?

C2: Really, it’s my pleasure. Put those on my bill.

C1: I don’t … I don’t know why you’re doing this.

C2: Because it’s my pleasure.

C1: Why? It doesn’t make any sense.

C2: I’m happy to do it.

C1: Are you sure? You really don’t have to.

C2: I know, which is why I’m doing it.

C2: You’re not … we don’t … we’d prefer to drink by ourselves.

C2: Of course.

C1: You really don’t have to.

C2: Please. I’ve got this, go enjoy your Coors and have a pleasant evening.

C1 (taking beers)” Well, thank you.

C1 turns and departs to her table, where her friend is waiting, leaving B and C2 alone at the bar.

C2: I apologize for her. Some people just don’t get it.

B: Oh, you know her?

C2: No.

B: I thought you were together.

C2: God, no. No way.

B: Then why did you pay for her drinks? Like a pay it forward kind of thing?

C2: More like I-just-wanted-my-beer kind of thing.

B: I understand that.

Fade to black

What if all types of insurance were sold like health insurance?

“Hi, I'd like to buy some car insurance.”

“We can certainly help you with that. Do you smoke?”

“Uh, well, no.”

“How old are you?”

“I'm 57.”

“Is this just for you or will other people be in the car?”

“Mostly me, but I'll probably be driving other people at some point.”

“OK, your premium is $849 a month.”

“What? You don't even know what I drive.”

“What do you drive?”

“A 2008 Lexus CRV.”

“Wonderful. Your premium is $849 a month.”

“How can you charge me that much without even knowing anything about me or my car? I've never had an accident. Ever. I haven't had a ticket in more than 30 years. I pride myself on my safe driving record.”

“As well you should. It's very impressive.”

“Now that you know, it seems $849 a month is a little excessive. And we haven't even talked about deductibles.”

“Sorry, but based on everything you've told me about yourself, there it is on this chart. That's $849 a month.”

“But I bought one of the safest cars on the road. Airbags up front, side-curtain airbags too. Earned a 5-star crash rating. You would literally have to have yourself run over by this car in order to get hurt by it. It's a womb on wheels.”

“Yeah, Lexus makes great cars. There is one way I can reduce the price. Drive alone. If it's just you, the monthly premium goes down to $699.”

“I can't do that, others depend on me to get around.”

“Then we're back at $849.”

“Fine, I'll take it but only because I can't go without insurance.”

“Good, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I was in the market for home insurance.”

“Let's see, based on everything, that's $399 a month.”

“But you don't even know what kind of house I … oh, never mind. I'll take it.”

I visited by parents recently and they showed me a photobook I had put together for them five years ago. It documented the year in photos, largely those of my son Bryson. This was my intro I wrote, more like a letter to my parents. I am sharing it because I think its sentiments are shared by all parents --


It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ... wait, aside for those moments necessitating various punishments -- most of them involving time spent alone silently contemplating why dad was being so mean -- the past year really was the best of times. It was the best Christmas ever, the best Easter ever, the best summer vacation ever, the best ... well, you certainly get the idea. And next year it will be the best of tmes, too, because somehow, my son finds new ways to enrich my life. There are days I wish there was a big red button on the wall labeled "Replay," and with one press I would be waking up that same morning, having no idea what was ahead. and enjoying anew a day so rich that I was compelled to live it again (and I know you two probably had thousands of days like that as Gary and I grew up). Within these 30-odd pages you will find just a fraction of the moments that made this year so special. From Christmas to Easter-egg hunts to wondrous vacations, this book cannot hope to capture the magic. But it does manage a pretty good reflection, one that will no doubt remind you of the joys of parenthood. And as you page through, remember yourselves as the young energetic parents of my childhood, the mom and dad that still fill my memories of the best Christmases ever, the best Easter mornings ever, the best summer vacations ever. Those days are as alive as ever, made even more vibrant by a 9-year-old boy who continues to be the best thing that happened to me. Enjoy, and thank you for being the best parents ever.

Did you see that study that found if you consume two drinks a day, it lowers your risk for dementia? I used to think that when I forgot things, it was the onset of dementia. Now I know I'm just drunk.

There comes that point in every teen's life when he realizes the world does not revolve around him. And that realization typically is delivered by a frustrated parent.

My moment occurred when I was 13, seconds after I said, “Like, right now?” when my dad asked offered to drive me to the store to buy a Mother's Day. It was an epic lecture, beginning with 14 hours of labor and ending with that day's mom-made breakfast of toaster waffles (his tone of voice made up for dwindling impact).

Recently, however, I was on the delivery end, completing the circle of life.

Seconds after my 14-year-old son and I disembarked the Durango-Silverton (Colo.) train after a three-hour ride through rocky canyons and along narrow ledges, he said, “OK, I have to say that was the most boring thing we've done on this trip, seriously. Really, dad, I am so happy to be off that thing.”

After a silent drive back to the vacation rental house, followed by a cooling-off period lest temper interfere with the message, my son and I had a talk. Perhaps it was more a lecture than anything else.

I mentioned all the things we had done based on his wishes — rafting, mountain biking, a jeep tour, etc. And it was all very enjoyable.

“I knew the train wouldn’t be your thing, but I was hoping two things,” I said. “First, that you would open yourself up enough to appreciate the amazing things we would see. And two, that even though this trip wasn’t for you, you’d see how much it meant to me, and gain some sort of respect for the way others feel.

“But the second you turned on your iPod and shoved in those earbuds, what, 10 minutes into the trip, I knew I’d lost you.”

Funny thing happened then. He apologized and in a soft, contrite voice told me the things he appreciated about the trip. As we talked, the mood warmed.

Of course more rough spots are ahead. But in helping my son become a caring, well-rounded individual, this was a nice start.

At around 3:45 a.m. on a weekday, there are roughly three cars on the road in Gilbert – the guy delivering the newspaper, a guy coming off a night-long drunk knowing that his house has to be one of these, and me. And so it was Tuesday, as I pulled out of my quiet Gilbert subdivision on the way to my Tempe gym and then into work (and yes, as I have had to tell friends and colleagues, I do work out, even if my body says it's a lie).

This is how that drive usually goes. Out of my driveway, go down about four houses, take a right. Another right, then a left, another left, follow the street as it curves to the right, another left and anohter left. All this time I am still in a subdivision because, in addition to hair salons and water stores, Gilbert welcomes large subdivisions. It's motto, I am pretty sure, is “If you see stucco and red tile roofs, you're home.”

From there, the usual route takes me right onto Baseline, a major traffic artery (though not at 3:45 a.m., where I have encountered headlight maybe three times in the last five years), and then north on Val Vista (another major street) to the freeway. Such is the timing of traffic lights that I know exactly what speed I should maintain, which normally is “no hurry” since I invariably hit the first light red, meaning that even if I merely stay at the speed limit, I will hit two more reds before entering the freeway (where the ESPN radio crew will take a commercial break lasting roughly 3.5 miles, returning with a brief report of the previous night's score).

So, yeah. Bit of a rut, it seems. Although maybe it's just migratory instinct. As what steers fat people to McDonald's for that breakfast burrito each day.

Everything was normal earlier this week with the rights and lefts and such, just driving, not thinking about it (which is driving safe for conditions – empty head and empty streets). Until shortly after I turned north on Val Vista, when I noticed something in the rear view mirror. Lights. Blue and red. Flashing.

Hmmm, my brain wondered at 3:51 a.m., those are pretty lights. Look at the way they blink and light everything up so nicely.

But as my brain enjoyed the sight, the ancient part related to base functions – like stifling laughter when someone farts – sent out this signal to my respiratory system: “Oh shit, red and blue lights, those are cops man, this can't be good; heart, you need to start pumping faster; lungs, keep up; and please, someone get rid of that joint.” OK, that part of the brain was still thinking in college years, so I really didn't have to worry about that last one.

Instinctively I pulled over and onto a quiet side street (not sure what part of my brain acted so reasonably). And, just as instinctively, I grabbed my wallet, removed my license and insurance card, and rolled down the window. And seriously had no idea what was going on.

I knew what was coming – “License and registration, please.” Oh crap, registration. This was not my car. This was my friend's, a Prius that I used when I needed its superpower of being eligible for the carpool lane.

I punched open the glove compartment, ruffled through, but only found the owner's manual (wondering if it had a section called, “No registration? You're fucked”) and some other papers. Everything was far too dark to actually read, but nothing seemed ---
“License, insurance and registration, please.”

There he was, Gilbert's finest, which really surprised me because, seriously, why would a town so quiet need a cop working at 3:54 a.m. on a Tuesday? Even if someone broke into a water store, you can just report it in the morning.

“Yes, here,” I said, handing him the license and insurance card, “but, uh, I don't see the registration (at this point I had the owner's manual in my hand, leafing through it as if to prove I was at least trying) but this car belongs to a friend, neighbor, see, she let's me, I have it for carpool and ...”

Where was that ancient part of my brain now when I needed a decent explanation so as not to be hauled off? But wait, a simple phone call could clear this up. But it's not even 4 a.m. yet. I really don't want to wake anyone.

“Mind if I ask you where you're going?”

“No, not at all, I'm on the way to my gym and then to work.”

“Wow, you work out? Never would have guessed.” No, he didn't really say that. What he did say was, “You know why I pulled out over?”

Because there's some guy saying I ran him over? Because someone broke into a water store not too far from here? Because the only reason for someone to be on the road right now is because he was up all night drinking?

“No, I honestly don't.”

“I saw you turn out from the side street and you didn't stop, and then you didn't signal for a lane change when you went across those two lanes to turn left.”

“Holy shit, officer, it's a good thing you pulled me over. Such a criminal offense, particularly this early in the morning when there just might be another car on the road in Gilbert, is inexcusable. No telling how many lives your brave action has saved this morning.” No, I didn't say that. I said, “To be honest, I take this route every day at this time and guess there are times I don't even think, since there's usually no one else on the road.”

Then I was thinking, “Where the fuck did this guy come from? I never saw headlights, just the blues and reds when he pulled me over?” I remembered seeing an odd sight on one of the side street earlier, two cars pulled to the side with a Gilbert cop car, but there were no lights or anything. Were they looking for someone? Was there an APB for a white guy, medium build, obviously doesn't work out?

“OK, well, just give me a minute and I'll be right back.”

I returned to my search for that elusive registration, because I really didn't feel like being hauled in for car theft (and pushing me way past that point of politeness that, until now, forced me to refrain from waking anyone up).

He did return, and it really was not more than a few minutes. He handed me my license and insurance card. “I'm going to let you off with a warning. Just make sure you come to a complete stop, even if there isn't much traffic.”

“Oh, absolutely, officer, I definitely need to pay more attention this early in the morning. You are so right, I'm actually fortunate you pulled me over, which will erase my complacency. So, is it customary for me to put out now?”

I didn't say that last thing, because I think it was mutually understood my level of obsequiousness attained the “putting out” part.

He pulled an illegal U-turn, and I meekly circumnavigated a bank parking lot to get back on track. By the time I entered the freeway, ESPN was halfway through giving scores from last night. Meaning that stop put me 6.5 minutes behind.

The other day, our science writer at the paper got a call from a reader wondering just how big Mars was going to look the next Sunday. Is it true it was the closest it ever has been to the Earth, and that it will appear as big as a full moon?

"No," our writer said. "Mars will be closer than usual, but it won't look much different."

"Really? Because I read about it in your newspaper."

"Well, I wrote about it a few months ago because it was going around the Internet that Mars was going to look like the moon, and that's just not true. Is that what you read?"

"No, I read that Mars was going to be as big as a full moon this Sunday."

"Where did you read that? What section?"

"The comics."

"The comics?"

"Yes, in Non Sequiter. One of the characters said Mars was going to look like the moon."

"That's just not the case. Because, you know, it is just the comics."

"I was so excited too. You need to send a note to that comics writer not to put falsehoods in his strip. It's wrong to mislead people like that."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you." (Away for the phone) "No, it's just going be look like Mars always does. I know, it" (click)

So this week Bryson had his "promotion ceremony” celebrating that momentous occasion in any student's life where he passes from one grade to the next (also known as “summer break").

But apparently it is even more momentous when that transition involves ascendancy from 8^th grade to 9^th grade, since it also celebrates that students survived junior high without A) snapping tendons while being shoved in a locker, and B) have no drug addiction (or at least one hard to detect). There is a C) for girls, having to do with being pregnant and being a member of the "non-" category.

Hundreds of people, 90 percent of them parents who no doubt would have suffered the kind of guilt reserved for missing their kids' chorus performances or softball games, sat in the school's courtyard on a rather hot day to listen to school administrators and a couple of students talk about how proud they were that so many students done graddy-ated the 8th grade (emphasis mine, because it just seems right). Maybe this is a big deal in, say, North Dakota, because what else is there to celebrate there? But in a civilized society, even in an extremely bored civilized society, you'd think 8th-grade promotions would have disappeared when a legal drinking age was established (“Gee, daddy, school is a heck more easy now that I ain't drunk alla time!”)

For roughly 45 minutes each student stepped up to the dais to accept a bit of rolled parchment (symbolic, thus an extreme waste of parchment) and later picked up their "real" certificates that pronounced them fit for high school. In a letter to parents sent home about two weeks before the ceremony, moms and dads (and, I assume, any “funny” uncles) were asked to stay in their seats even as their child was promoted, thus preserving the "sanctity of the ceremony." Apparently if a parent dared to stand, or perhaps sneak closer to the dais, everyone would be taken out of the moment ("Oh, it was beautiful, beautiful I tell you, until some man just stood up as if the sanctity of the ceremony meant nothing!"). And the child of that parent would have his “Certificate of Promotion” withdrawn, meaning he would get nothing for the Altar of Meaningless Achievements in the den (right next to that ASU degree).

And yes, there were many family members there with balloons that said, "Congrats Grad," and others with "Congrats Grad" gift bags and bouquets of flowers. Perhaps their math was as misguided as their intentions – remember, people, these children have four more years of school, if not eight or even more. Yet their fervor was unabated. Perhaps this was the first child in the family to get through 8th grade, holding their breath and hoping beyond hope for success since the 6th grade promotion ceremony. For all those children of parents with "Congrats Grad" presents, my guess is they will be felled during high school by one of the three reasons above. So you might as well celebrate "graduation" while it presents itself.

The principal spoke solemnly of the impact the 8th graders had in their two years at the school, from good citizenship awards to many yearbook photos. "Hard to believe that just two years ago, you were just getting out of elementary school, and here you are about to enter high school." Hmm, yeah, that's the way most people remember it, even without the sanctity of a ceremony.

In the row in front of me, some guy arrived about 45 minutes early and staked out 16 seats. Yes, 16. In overhearing the conversations he had with the many people who were curious about these circumstances -- "They're all saved? Seriously?" "Yes." "All of them." "Yes." All of them?" "Yes. "Could I get just two?" "No, see, our extended family flew in from Minnesota." -- I discovered that Minnesota was home to at least 15 of the most clueless people this planet had known. (Well, probably way more than that because Minnesota once elected Jesse “The Body” Ventura as governor. Wow, I am really beginning to feel sorry for Minnesota).

Five minutes before things got started with the Pledge of Allegiance and the National Anthem (establishing the sanctity of the ceremony), people started going into empty classrooms and taking chairs. A few in the back sat at school desks. One of them was holding a “Congrats Grad” balloon, a gift bag and a bouquet of flowers. And it was probably the first time he'd sat in a school desk in his life.

Thankfully every student that showed received written proof they had received education commensurate to the eighth-grade level. Just like ASU graduates (rim shot).

Newspapers are dying and I may be out of a job in a year or so. Should I be forced to leave after 30 years of telling other people's stories, I will still feel lucky because of the hundreds of amazing men, women and children I've been fortunate to have written about.

And two stand out, a pair that proves the adage, “It's not the money you have, but the people you've met, that enrich life.” Having the privilege of meeting, talking to and getting to know Morris and Mark has certainly made me a rich man.

When I walked into Morris's small apartment in Mesa about 10 years ago, I was amazed at how neat and tidy it was. Figurines, trinkets, photos and more filled almost every square inch of space. A duvet was neatly folded over the couch, and a quilt covered the back of a wooden rocker so precisely, you wondered when someone last sat in it.

Maybe years, because Morris, 74 at the time, lived alone. He talked of his daily rituals, waking with a cup of coffee poured into the same mug, the radio turned to a talk station. Some quality time with a newspaper, then he'd flip on the small TV almost lost in the perfectly arranged clutter.

During this time, he could not help but look at the photos from a very happy and rewarding life. He and his wife smiled from each and every one. On his coffee table was a thick photo book, one he gladly shared with any visitors he might receive (including myself).

The smile never left his face as he told me of his love story, one that echoed others through time and yet was a special as if he had invented such deep feelings. He dated her sister, realizing he had fallen in love with the sibling, the tentative first date, the slow evolving relationship that would become a lifelong bond (a tinge of regret as he spoke of children, as she had been unable to have any, the couple “adopting” the children of the neighborhood). As Morris hunched over the photos, pointing at each one and identifying the faces peering out as if these shots had been taken yesterday rather than 30 years ago, he seemed to be reliving the happiest days of his life, which spread over decades (and I thought what a lucky man he was do be so blessed with a lifelong relationship he cherished as much today as he did on his wedding day).

When the clocked showed 11, he got up and shuffled out the door, me in step beside him. We walked across the courtyard, traveling the same path he'd taken twice a day for three years now. As we entered the antiseptic environs of the care home, the nurses greeted Morris warmly.

“She's in the community room, Morris,” a nurse said. “A good day, so far. Lunch at 11:30.”

Morris nodded, as if this were his first time here and he did not live in the adjoining apartments, where many families of these Alzheimer's patients lived.

We pushed open the swinging doors at the end of the hallway and entered a large white room bathed in fluorescent light. A silent TV bolted high in a far corner flickered with images of a soap opera. Older men and women wearing hospital gowns sat in recliners, none of them turning to look at us as the doors swung shut behind us.

Morris hesitated for just a moment before turning to the right and settling into a chair next to a woman who rhythmically was tapping the armrests. He scooted closer but she continued to stare straight ahead.

“Hello dear, how are you today,” he said, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek. She leaned away, her hand brushing the cheek he had just kissed.

Morris reached over and took the hand tapping on the armrest, nestling it between his hands. Her other hand continued tapping away.

“Isn't she beautiful?” Morris asked. “Is it any wonder I fell in love with her? How lucky it was she fell in love with me too.”

To me, she looked like any of the other people who suffered from one of life's cruelest diseases. Each had their memories stripped from them slowly, no doubt wanting to cry out in frustration as they remembered less and less. But the disease had progressed to much so for these patients that dwindling memories no longer haunted them. Save for a few brief moments of clarity that could come at any time, they were lost in a world where only the now was real.

Morris's wife had been diagnosed almost a decade ago, slowly succumbing to Alzheimer's inevitability. Now he suffered, silently of course, because how do you come to grips with mourning someone who is still in your life?

His wife had not had a period of lucidity for more than a year, but Morris visited dutifully twice a day, staying the full two hours, helping nurses feed her lunch and dinner, patting her mouth with a napkin after each bite.

This day was like any other. Morris sitting beside her until it was time for lunch, when he would escort her to the dining room, his arm linked in hers, forever the gentleman. They would sit in the same seats at the same table, this kind of repetition having a calming effect on his wife.

He reached over to smooth her hair, a wild sprout of thinning gray, and she pulled away and slapped at his hand.

“What, no, what, what.” she said. “Who, no, go away.” She continued a patter of words, as sentences had eluded her, what, a year now? Two?

An unflustered Morris took his hand away and leaned over for another kiss. “There there, dear, just trying to make you look more beautiful, that's all.”

I stood there stupidly, my pen in my right hand, my notebook in my left, and not writing the one thing that occurred to me – Morris is a stronger man than I will ever be.

Thirty minutes later I left, and did my best to translate Morris's love story, knowing I could never do it justice in a 30-inch newspaper article.

I don't know where Morris is, I only hope that one way or another, he's found the peace he so long deserved.

–

I wasn't sure what to expect before meeting Mark. To make things go more smoothly, I'd emailed him several question beforehand, and he diligently emailed his responses the next day. I wouldn't know until our visit how long it had taken him to type out those responses, and how taking it had been.

Mark suffers from ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease), an insidious affliction that steals the body's ability to control its muscles, yet leaving the mind intact – for example, renowned physicist Stephen Hawking suffers from ALS, his thoughts going a million miles an hour, yet communication slowed to a crawl because he can't move or speak.

Mark had noticed something odd a few years ago – arms and legs became slow to respond to his mind's commands. When the diagnosis came, he was of course shocked, for he had been an athlete most of his life. ALS was going to steal away what was most precious from him.

But that was just it, as I was to realize over the next few hours with Mark. ALS didn't steal what was most precious. Mark may have been in a wheelchair and able to move just his eyes and his left big toe. If there was ever a man who could curse life for being unfair, it was the man who could talk to me only by staring at his computer, focusing on a letter until the computer “typed” it, and slowly write a sentence.

One he wrote was, “I will not let ALS define me.”

Mark, married with three four daughters, did not utter one complaint. With the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator that kept him alive (his lungs stopped working about 6 months earlier), he wrote that if he felt sorry for anyone, it was his wife, who had to wake every few hours to turn him in bed. Who had to bathe him, change him, feed him.

I had to remind myself that inside this shell was a man whose mind was as sharp as when he worked in the health field, developing curricula for high schools and colleges (as he still did today, consulting for the company he helped to found).

Mark was surrounded by family and friends, and he certainly did not take this for granted. But the man's determination to not only accept his fate, but to use it to make him stronger, astounded me. He had not sealed himself away in fits of self-pity (and who could blame him if he had?). He didn't waste one second complaining. He continued to embrace life and its rewards, even though is place in all of it was affixed to a wheelchair, staring at a computer.

Morris and Mark are the two most inspirational people I've ever met. One who faced down a disease that robbed the mind, the other who refused to be cowed by a disease that robbed the body.

Just having met them makes me a better person.

Random thoughts and observations:

On May 22, South Valley Junior High (and nearly all other junior and middle schools in Arizona) is holding “promotion” ceremonies for 8^th graders. Why? Apparently to celebrate the fact that most, if not all, students learned enough about algebra, astronomy and the Civil War to be allowed to go to high school, where they will spend their first year trying to avoid giving seniors reasons to beat them up.

Promotion? Are you serious? Why not just call it the “Hey, lookit what these kids done did!” ceremony, like they do in Arkansas. Of course, in Arkansas the 8^th grade graduates are the ones that go into that state's institutions of higher learning (truck-driving schools, beauty schools or prison) and accomplish something so few Arkansans do – keep their teeth through most of their lifetimes (something to do with staying off meth).

Otherwise, call “promotion” ceremonies what they really are – “It's the end of the year, we're all cranky, so let's hand out cake and get outta here early.”

–

Text conversation between myself and my son (spelling cleaned up so as to not require knowledge of “textese”):

Me: “Hey, you see that cop who tased that 14 yr old?”

Bryson: “No, what happened?”

Me: “Cop went to break up a fight and tased one of the kids.”

Bryson: “Cool”

Me: “Cool? That kid got 50K volts. Why is a cop tasing a kid?”

Bryson: “Yeah, that's not good'”

Me: “So why did you say cool? What if you got tased?”

Bryson: “It would hurt but then I'd brag about it.”

–

Having been fortunate enough to interview many celebrities over the years as a reporter, here off the top of my head are these three ratings:

Coolest celeb: The late George Carlin. His publicist said I had to record it (I never recorded interviews, a big pain in the ass) so I thought he was going to be a jerk. But he talked to me way longer than “allowed,” answered questions thoughtfully, and injected humor without forcing it (some comedians – yes you, Judy Tenuta – use interviews to try out material and get mad if you don't laugh). George Carlin was such a pleasure to talk to.

Nicest celeb – Dwayne Johnson. Met him at a local hotel as he pimped Game Plan, and he was extremely gracious and pleasant. Again, we went over the time limit (as his “handlers" grew more exasperated because he had numerous interviews to do that day), and as I left, he expressed condolences for a colleague who had recently passed, our movie reviewer Bill Muller. Johnson said he had never “had the pleasure” of meeting Bill, but had heard many wonderful things about him in the industry. Class act all the way.

Biggest jerk – (tie) Chris Rock and Norm Macdonald. Rock, doing standup at the time, was at a party and made it clear how much talking to a reporter annoyed him. Macdonald (you may remember him as a member of Saturday Night Live, or maybe not because he's pretty much disappeared) was in the middle of moving. Several times he put me on hold so he could talk to his agent, something about his new address and where his couch was. Talked to him roughly 12 minutes over an hour. His answers were unresponsive and tedious.

–

Everyone I know loves those two Sonic guys. Their series of commercials are consistently funny (well, 1 or 2 clinkers, like the time the stupid one drove), but my favorite usually runs during the NCAA basketball tournament when the two are talking about their love of tater tots. The driver goes to put one in his mouth and the other guy slaps it away screaming, “Oh no, not in my house! I'm not putting up with that weak tot action! When you go to the mouth, you go strong or not at all!” Brilliant. So is the one about being a cheap date. Keep up the good work, Sonic guys.

–

A friend and I were having beers at the mall and the Kentucky Derby happened to be on. With what happened last year (Eight Belles breaking both ankles at the finish and having to be euthanized right there), I was not too keen about watching it this year. But it was on, so what the heck. We watched the horses being introduced, and I kept giving the thumbs-down until one particular horse was introduced. I loved the name. I mean, Mine That Bird? WTF? Where did that come from? Not “Mind That Bird,” like, “Hey, watch out for that bird,” or “Dude, be careful where you flip that bird.” But “Mine That Bird.” Who mines birds? My mind immediately created this dimly lit cavern with the seven dwarves carving away with pick axes and every now and then a piercing squawk as they hit another rich vein of bird. So I was all over Mine That Bird. Yup, that was the one I was gonna root for.

The race starts and, having not paid attention to the horses' numbers, I made the casual observation that the last-place horse was probably Mine That Bird (it was). And when the winner stormed out of nowhere, I said, “Did that announcer just say Mine That Bird won?” (he did). So I just wanted all those bookies and experts that a guy who knows as much about horse racing as he does about particle physics (he doesn't) picked that 50-1 shot. And somebody somewhere owes me money.

(This file was forwarded to me by a friend deep inside Homeland Security, so deep that he if he were to issue a memo denying he existed, it would be accepted unequivocally. I share it not in the interest of national security, but just because it's fun to mess with the government.)

File T09-1138HS-0503

ATTN: Domestic Supervisory Attachment, Homeland Security, White House

RE: Transcription of TC-00284, recorded 05-01-09 by Operator 329-G4, Homeland Hotline.

Operator: You've reached HO-HO, what is the nature of this call – reporting an immigration violation, witnessing events that could be considered detrimental to the security of the homeland, discovering potential threatening memorandum combing through trash of suspected Syrian neighbor, the rental of a movie or purchase of a book considered unpatriotic, impure thoughts regarding terrorism--

Caller (unidentified male, voice pattern consistent with that of Anglo male, 37 years old; regional accent suggests terrorist leanings): Uh, you know, how long is this going to go on?

Operator: … foreign plans to overthrow the government, bioterrorist plots to raise global temperature more than 0.3 degrees in the next five years, the creation and distribution of Social Security numbers for the sole purpose of obtaining jobs in the landscaping or the hospitality industries--

Caller: OK, wait, hold on, look, none of those, OK? Hello? Is this a real person or a recording?

Operator: This is the Homeland Hotline, HOHO, I am operator Steve.

Caller: Good, Steve, that's great, but I really want to get down to business.

Operator: Just a few more options. If this is about taking five ounces of gel or liquid aboard a jetliner, exceeding federal requirements by two ounces, you may qualify for our amnesty program guaranteeing swift deportation to any of the following lawless or liberal countries where that kind of violation still flies: Sudan, Iran, India, the Netherlands--

Caller: No, look, you better listen and listen closely. Because if you don't pay me one million dollars, I am going to bring this country to its knees.

Operator: Excuse me sir? Is that a threat.

Caller: Hmm, yeah. I thought I made that pretty clear, what with the whole “Bring the country to its knees” part.

Operator: I'm going to have to get my supervisor--

Caller: No, you're not. I'm not going to be on the line long enough for you to trace me.

Operator: All due respect, but Caller ID allows us to--

Caller: You think I didn't know that? You think I'm gonna threaten the government without first dialing *69 to block the call.

Operator: Clever.

Caller: Yes. Now listen, because if you don't follow my instructions, the United States you knew will no longer exist.

Operator: Go on. Oh, I should remind you this call is recorded and may be monitored for customer-service purposes only.

Caller: You think I buy that? One time I called Dell and they said the same thing, and after spending 20 minutes detailing my problem the guy transferred me and he asked me what the problem was, and I said. “Hey, genius, just rewind the tape you made for customer-service purposes” and you know what he said? There IS no tape. And calls are NEVER monitored. It's all bullshit. They don't give a damn, hiring people in some far off countries getting paid one dollar a day to shuffle you around so when you have to repeat your story for the 27^th time you are just so tired you slam--

Operator: Threat?

Caller: Huh?

Operator: You said you were phoning in a threat.

Caller: Yeah, that's right. Unless you meet my demands, I am going to send my son to school tomorrow. Public school. Where a lot of kids go.

Operator: That's … good. We here at HOHO believe that a strong education leads to positive indoctrination and thus a greater inclination to keep an eye on neighbors and report suspicious activity, like the building of 13-foot ladders when it is well-known that current border fences are 12 feet.

Caller: You don't get it. My boy has a fever, is coughing and is achy.

Operator: Jesus, you don't mean … you can't possibly be thinking …

Caller: That's right. Odds are pretty good he's got swine flu, and I am not afraid to use it.

Operator: Good God in heaven, man, you can't be serious.

Caller: I most certainly am. Unless I am paid two million doll-

Operator: You said one million.

Caller: Huh?

Operator: Earlier. You said one million.

Caller: Really?

Operator: Yeah.

Caller: Well, just play back the tape.

Operator: Damn.

Caller: And now the price is three million. Got that? Three million dollars or tomorrow morning, I send my son to school. And just in case you think I'm not serious, every time he coughs, I've been admonishing him about covering his mouth.

Operator: You don't mean …?

Caller: Exactly. With each cough, billions of swine flu germs are hurled into the atmosphere, health-seeking missiles delivering a cough and overall achy feelings to anyone within several feet.

Operator: You monster!

Caller: Me, a monster, in a country where routinely, food-preparation workers leave the restroom after merely RINSING their hands, making a show of it and yet using no soap? Leading to many, if not dozens, of people contracting food poisoning at Herman's Hummus Hut, and I had to miss work for three days while puking my guts out?

Operator: So that's what this is about? A personal vendetta?

Caller: Not anymore. It's gone beyond that, especially when Herman refused to take the tainted hummus off the bill. Herman will pay, you will pay, the country will pay.

Operator: Even if you do carry out this nefarious plot, even if your son gets past the vigilant school nurse on duty--

Caller: Tomorrow is Tuesday. She only comes in Thursdays.

Operator: You've thought of everything, haven't you?

Caller: Yes. And there's more. After school, I am going to take my son to the mall.

Operator: You wouldn't!

Caller: I would. And am. By the time he touches, but does not take, samples at Chick-Fil-A and Cinnabon, he will not have washed in hands for more than 24 hours.

Operator: Have you thought this out? Do you know what you're doing? You are subjecting complete strangers to a virus that may keep them bedridden for days. Has the world hurt you so much that you need to lash out like this?

Caller: There's one more thing.

Operator: Dear god, what might that be.

Caller: We're flying.

Operator: NO!!!

Caller: Oh yes. And we have not one, not two, but three layovers. Each in large cities.

Operator: This can't be happening.

Caller: Yes it is. And did I tell you my son has a penchant for hugging strangers? He'll just go up to pretty much anyone and give them a big old hug. Which, now that I think of it, isn't really as cute as it was when he was 4. But, anyway, unless you transfer 10 million dollars into my account--

Operator: Ten? But you said – oh, never mind.

Caller: As I was saying, unless that amount is wired into my offshore account by 8 p.m. today, you are risking the relative health of dozens, if not more, throughout the day tomorrow. And as the infected spread it to others, a governmental overreaction will result in the closings of schools, malls, airports … the list goes on. You might as well put a “Closed Until Further Notice” sign on the Statue of Liberty.

Operator: You've made your point. I will start putting the money together now. Really, should only take a few minutes, I know there's some leftover bailout money around here somewhere. Hey, Sam, can you check the filing cabinet over there? No, third drawer. There, good. How much? Great, thanks.

Caller: (door slam, background conversation, unintelligible).

Operator: Sir? Hello? Hey, look, we got the money. Sir?

Caller: (Unidentified woman's voice, unintelligible).

Operator: Sir?

Caller: You're kidding. The flu? The regular flu? Was he sure?

Operator: Sir? What's that about a regular flu? Your son has a regular flu?

Caller: No no, swine flu. I swear, it's swine.

Operator: Sir, I think our conversation is finished.

(Caller logs off – investigation pending on HOHO's possession of petty bailout cash)

My advice to anyone who takes a rock-climbing class -- trust your shoes. Special rock-climbing shoes, which are like slippers with a rubber sole and are uncomfortably tight, can adhere to any gap. crack or nub found on a rocky face. Trust me. When you are roughly 50 feet up and are at about an 80-degree angle, and both hands are pinching tiny granite bumps for support, you must have faith in the shoes, since all that's keeping you up are your big toes purchased upon a couple of rocky protruberances that feel as firm as a three-foot ledge (and that is what you tell yourself as you cling precariously).

My son and I took a day-long course from REI, scaling rocks in the McDowell Mountains in far north Scottsdale. After about an hour of learning techniques and scaling a boulder, we were ready to challenge Headsmacker (or Headclobber or Headwhacker -- it was aptly named as we would discover later), a climb to the top of a granite slab.

The first part was easy, a scramble up a short boulder to an overhang (where, yes, you inevitably would smack your head). Then the tricky part: Hoisting your leg over to wedge your left foot into a crack, then twisting your body while swinging your right leg as your left hand sought a grip, any grip, at the top of the crack where it slimmed to a very narrow crevice. One the left hand was set, attention was focused to the right foot which needed to find, well, anything.

This is where the rubber really came through. (A note on the shoes -- worn without socks, they were like a second skin and damned uncomfortable, squeezing your toes into the kind of point that only the high-heel warriors of the fashion runways could endure for more than 10 minutes.) On my first of two climbs, my right foot scraped rock as I removed my left foot from the crack, thus slipping about four inches before coming to a stop about a half-foot from the drop-off created by the overhang. Yes, I was tied in and belayed by Megan, climbing professional, but still ...

Had I stopped there, where the slab was "thin" as Megan had warned earlier (that meant very few available holds, and I really wish she had not told us that), I would have frozen. Megan and colleague Jason shared many wonderful stories later about climber who refused to budge, becoming so scared that they had to be physically removed from the rock, fingernail scraping as they were lifted. But even when petrified, bad things can happen. As Jason said, "I've seen something come out of every orifice. Yes, even that."

So I focused on the next handhold, scanning the granite for anything and, as I stepped up, put full trust in the shoes to stick to any protrubance no matter how slight (and all were slight, save for a three-inch-long bump about halfway up that was the perfect resting point -- at the time it seemed so generous you could do jumping jacks on it).

Once past the thin area, it was relatively easy with enough bumps and indentations to successfully maneuver to the top (you can see what I saw in the photo looking down at the people looking up).

As happy as I was to make the climb twice, Bryson would ascend four times, the last two taking more difficult routes (rather than using the tilted boulder as a starting point, one climb started on a steeper, smoother rock face, while his last involved a difficult climb up a narrow crack, leading to an overhang that required precise hand and leg movements -- it was impressive).

I would recommend rock-climbing to anyone. Just make sure you have the right shoes.

 
Bryson won his first match as wreslter this year. OK, this is just a test of the Picasa add-a-photo blogging system. If this had been a real blog entry, it would have been way more interesting.

There is very little reason to engage in a baseless discussion of a meaningless TV show. Particularly when that show devolves into the most ludicrous situations even as it touts the “gritty realism” of modern-day terrorist-inspired warfare.

But the fact there is very little reason to engage in such a debate only fuels the fire because there is nothing like focusing a passionate argument around made-up stuff, defending your position with logic and example (as I did), or ridiculous patter that falls apart after just a few seconds of examination (as my friend Monty did).

Here is our recent e-mail debate on the merits of the Fox show 24:

Me: speaking of sucky, did you ever watch 24 this year?

Monty: yes, i've been watching "24." i actually am really into it. if you expect plausibility, it destroys the experience. i mean, in the world of "24," this is now the seventh crisis to hit the u.s., almost like having a 9/11 every other year. if you let the stupidness wash over and envelop you, it makes the show a lot better.

Me: dude, i was a pretty decent 24 fan, and i could even put up with the totally outrageous stuff (as when the female fbi agent, rather than describe the ugly yellow utility van used as a getaway car, waits to get its plate and of course is caught before then; or when she finds the most wanted man in america holed up with a small invading force -- how'd he get thru immigration anyway? -- and the fbi dude in charge tells her it will be 15 minutes which is pretty horrible response time given the fictional equivalent of saddam hussein has just shown up). But when the general and his cronies are able to swim to the white house via the potomac, well, you know, maybe i could go along with that. but when they broke down the first wall to get in -- i can just imagine the conversation that took place among those who may have renovated the white house many years ago:
"so everything is up to code now, but i gotta tell ya, i'm still a little bothered by that possible entrance off the potomac. i mean, everyone can break down that wall, there's no rebar or anything."
"well, first of all, how is anyone gonna find it?"
"we did file those blueprints at the public library. that pretty much spells it out.'
"sure, but no one's going to see those. whoever goes into the public documents section?"
"maybe, but i still wish the first page wasn't a big drawing of the white house. really brings attention to it."
"ok, how about this. let's place a bunch of laser beams across the hole. if anyone crosses them, a bunch of alarms will go off."
"that seems pretty good. and we can run power from that junction box right in that same room."
"yeah, that will work. we'll just have to label it 'laser security' or something on the panel so no one switches if off by mistake."
"perfect. problem solved."
so as soon as the general cleared the laser array, marched in and started shooting secret service officers, who merely stood as attention as they were gunned down, i switched it off. 24 is -30-.

Monty: anyway, "24." you do realize that if you've watched it this long, you've given up any claim to being outraged. to attack the latest plot twist as "just too unbelievable" is to admit that you've been ok with every other preposterous turn of events the show has thrown at you. at this point, complaining about the unbelievable is like watching a porno and saying, "you know, i was ok when the super hot chick greeted the pizza delivery man at her door wearing nothing but a bathrobe. i was fine when she pulled him into her apartment, threw the pizza to the side and started sucking his dick, which happened to be abnormally large. i also felt it was quite possible that he would then fuck her in a variety of positions for roughly 20 minutes without his manager or other employees wondering where he was. but when he came on her face and she pretended to like it, i just felt that was too unrealistic and, frankly, ruined the whole experience for me."

Me: while i agree that 24 is preposterous and has been since its inception, there is a line you still can't cross (not gonna go into your porn argument because a) it's invalid and b) no one watches for plot). Even in the most outlandish of shows, they stick with rhe reality they have established. in lost, even with time travel and moving islands and shit, not once have they introduced a parallel universe, or that john locke is in a coma and all of this is in  his mind. because that shit would not fly in a world where certain parameters have been established. in the terminator chronicles, the terminators have not yet sent a robot back to the 15th century to kill the defenseless squire who's progeny eventually would result in john connor; nor have they sent back an army of terminators to the first century where they could easily wipe out humans in about 20 minutes. because none of that fits into the established reality.
i can give 24 miles of leeway, as when it takes 15 minutes to reach the world's most wanted man ("hey, i just stumbled across osama at a burger king in terre haute -- 15 minutes? well, ok, but it looks like his order is coming up now so you might want to send in a few local cops even though you and i know they will be nothing but bullet fodder"). i can forgive how bad guys fire 349 bullets at jack and miss, then he pops up and gets 5 kills in 5 shots. i can even allow for how you can get anywhere in DC (or los angeles) in 3 minutes. but a back door to the white house? with laser beams guarding a gap between two walls? from the potomac? no. not even close.

Monty: my porn argument is totally valid. you say that no one watches porn for plot, but in the next breath you suggest that people watch "24" for realism? i mean, that's my point right there: complaining about the lack of realism in "24" is like lamenting the poor structural narrative of "pump friction." basically, you're mad because you just wanted to see fucking and sucking, and then they snuck in a chick getting two dicks in her ass, and you were like, "hey, i didn't sign up for this! no way! they crossed my arbitrary line!" we're talking about a show where, for an entire season, a president was holed up in an underground bunker -- which, for some reason, is now totally unneeded, even when DC is under attack and the president's own life is in danger. the only "parameters" of "24" are these: chloe can hack into anything; major events occur only at the top of the hour, give or take one or two minutes; and if you want to make it out of here alive, you're going to have to do exactly what jack bauer says.

Me: also, your last attempt at a 24 argument makes it clear that your knowledge of the intricacies of the prn film is rather alarming. dude, you know more than most porn directors. did you write one at some point? if not, you should. seriously, you just might have a career in the porn industry. behind the camera, of course.  we do happen to agree on the essential truths of 24, though i would add one more; you get romantic with jack, you signed your death warrant. but as far as plotting, your porn argument still falls apart (and please don't send another porn scenario -- i get it). because you watch a porn for maybe 5 minutes. then you lose all interest. you just don't care anymore how it turns out, or who's involved, or what is going to happen. until your interest is rekindled in another hour or so, and that has nothing to do with the porn plot. 24, however, is based somewhat on our reality as it established during its first season (which i think is still the best). i was even willing to really give the series some leeway when people were hacking into valuable US targets via some device that kinda looked like a PSP. but really, writing in a secret entrance to the white house to let terrorists inside was weak and lazy. that is directly from the george lucas school of writing, when luke sent a torpedo down the air vent of the death star ("what, they blew up the death star? it wasn't even paid for yet .. uh huh, a vent? are you shitting me? a fucking vent? it was a goddamned mini-planet, what the hell did it need a vent for? ... oh, EPA regulations, fine, but did you think maybe it shouldn't have led directly to the core? maybe a couple of kinks or something?")

Monty: the porn scenarios come from the howard stern show. he has these porn stars on, and since it's on satellite radio, they can get as graphic as they want (and no, mailee is not in the car when stern is on). there's stuff i don't even want to hear about, much less see. anyway, i'll probably keep watching "24," if only because i don't know when to quit.

So that was it, an obvious end to the discussion, pretty much a victory for me as Monty admits he watches 24 for no discernible reasons other than it's on. And while the debate was meaningless, it was cathartic. And thus very worth the time.

VOID



“Goddamn it, Vince, get in here, these corns ain't gonna scrape themselves.”

No, they sure weren't, Vince knew. Nor did her toenails cut themselves. Or her eyebrows pluck themselves. Or tampons buy themselves.

No sir, they sure didn't, no matter how hard Vince wished for it.

“Sorry, hon, I was just-”

“Just nothing, like usual, now get your fat ass in here, Jeezus, how many times do I ...”

Vince let her voice go to Jello in his head, this spongy mass of words that globbed together in a kind of nothingness that made it all tolerable.

He went into the bathroom, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Wrinkles deeper under his eyes, hair higher on his forehead, and his jowls sank low enough to create a narrow chasm just underneath his chin.

Not always like this, no sir. Up until 10 years ago he was in pretty good shape. Not quite the kind of guy people would mistake for being captain of the football team when he was in high school, but he could walk up a couple of flights of stairs without gasping like a fish out of water.

He opened the cabinet below the sink and thrust his hand into the cleaners, the brushes, the stained clothes, all the crap that usually takes refuge in areas rarely seen during the week.

It was somewhere here, the new pumice stone. Damn, he's just bought it a few weeks ago, knowing how the last one was wearing down to the nub, Glenda's corns winning the weekly battle of flesh vs. abrasive.

Words burst through the Jello.

“Kee-rist, Vincent, I ask you one simple goddamn thing, please, they're done soaking and you know how they'll get in another few-”

The words again vanished into the amorphous black void he kept within his brain for moments as this. Survival mechanism, his therapist said. Well, when he went to a therapist. Until Glenda said she wasn't paying for advice for any free-thinking holier-than-thou sonuvabitch making more in an hour than most people make in a week.

As if he were spending any of his wife's money. She hadn't held a job in 15 years. And if there were any spare money Vince was making between two jobs, it went to a bed, or a clawing post, or another case of canned tuna for Bubbles, Glenda's cat.

Where the hell was that pumice stone? His hand swept the back of the cabinet, knocking aside cans of air freshener and stain removers.

Nothing.

“Hon,” he called. “I can't find the, at least I was pretty sure that a couple weeks ago, I swore I picked one up, but I think-”

“Vincent, you never freakin' think, that's your problem. Spit it out, what the hell is wrong? And you better not tell me we ain't got a goddamn stone cause I told you about that just the other day, make sure it's in decent shape because this has been a real bad week and I was gonna-”

Vince balled up the words again and shoved them into the void, a move so natural that he never really thought about it anymore. If he had, he might realize it was quite a talent, to make bad things disappear like that, shoving everything into some sort of soupy glop and draining slowly away.

He withdrew his hand from the cabinet, knowing he could search all day and never find what was not there. He closed the door, stood and took a deep breath.

Glenda was not going to be happy about this.

He entered the hallway, took a right and paused, looking through the doorway of her bedroom --which used to be our bedroom, he thought, but that was, what, four years ago? Five? He would wake her coming home late from his second job, she said, and she needed her nine hours. Never asked if he would mind. Came home one night to find the bedroom door closed and a note on it – “I left a pillow and sheets for you in the den.”

And she did just that, in a tidy little pile on the couch. Where he's spent nights ever since. Which was fine, since he hadn't been attracted to her for, well, long before moving to the den.

Something about removing a woman's corns kills any romantic notions that may try to rise from the dead every now and then.

Taking a deep breath, he walked into her bedroom where she reclined, as usual, in the leather chair he picked from a catalog at work, rewarding him for 15 years. She stroked Bubbles, who was curled in her lap, her pale blue frock pulled above her knees.

“Hon, I couldn't find the pumice stone, but I'll go get one-”

“You damn sure will, Vincent G. Wurrbach, you dumbass, not that it's gonna help me a whole lot since I gotta do a resoak now, and you know damn well the water's cold ...”

Void. Done.

Vince turned, left, made sure he was out of sight before checking his watch. 9:30. And he had to be up in six hours for work. And it was going to take 30 minutes to get to the CVS because they lived in the middle of nowhere, the only place they could afford on his two salaries. And of course the builder went belly-up less than a year after they moved in, so the seven homes on their street now faced an expansive weed-choked lot where, if you looked closely, you could pick out the ribboned stakes that marked out nothing more than the vision of a neighborhood.

Vince opened the door to the garage, patting his back pocket to make sure his wallet was there. Yup, and should have a few bucks, if he remembered right.

He opened the door of the Volvo, its hinge letting loose a creaky protest. Settling into the driver's seat, the vinyl snapping as it accepted his full weight, Vince closed the door and backed down the drive, crimping the wheels as he entered the street. Clutch down, he forced the gear shift into first, pressed the gas and waited for the engine to catch up.

As the Volvo inched ahead, he turned to the left to see if it was still there. But he wasn't even sure it qualified as an “it.”

He'd noticed it maybe two weeks ago, leaving for work in the pre-dawn darkness. That morning, he was encouraged by this new look, thinking it signaled some new construction (which he realized was incredibly stupid, it was not as if they could erect a wall overnight without anyone every knowing.

The sky wasn't right. Looking across the field, he noticed the stars disappeared, well, too soon, as if the horizon had been raised 10 feet.

A trick of the darkness, perhaps, but he noticed it again the next night, and the next. Only the horizon was rising more and more, the blackness getting taller.

As Vince reached the corner and turned right, heading toward the parkway into town. The clerk at CVS said nothing when he dropped the pumice stone on the counter, since he added some cold medicine to “justify” a late-night run (the one thing he would never run out of was cold medicine).

After pahying, he grabbed the bag and headed back home. It was after 10, and sleep was likely another hour away, once he was done with his chore.

Turning onto the street, his right foot slammed down the brake pedal.

He finally realized what was happening,

The darkness wasn't getting taller.

It was coming closer. That black line of, something, was advancing.

As he turned, his headlights panned an inky wall of nothingness. Looking down his street, it seemed the homes were facing the edge of the world. To the left, normalcy. To the right, a void.

A void, Vince thought.

He suddenly felt comforted.

Minutes later, as Vince bent over his wife's feet, pumice stone in hand, he could honestly say he was not surprised by the deep, hollow and thunderous knock at the door. Once, twice, three times, each echoing in the night.

Vince's voice was calm as he looked into his wife's startled eyes.

“It's for you.”

Ever since Bryson was 6, his birthday gift has included a coupon book from dear old dad. Typically he receives 10 or so. Some are consistent (each year, two or three allow him to trade the coupon for a purchase, which is a lot cooler than a gift card because it's good every where they accept cash from the Bank of Dad, which is everywhere). Over the years, he's received coupons to get out of one chore for free, to do one thing he really wants to do with no excuses from dad (including transportation), a dinner at a place of his choosing, and a “I know I messed up, I really don't want a lecture” coupon, good for one “Leave me alone” moment. Bryson will tuck these away for the appropriate moment, some used right away (the ones good for purchases are gone right away, and he has always used the “Get out of a chore” coupon at the first opportunity), though some do expire at the end of a year, sitting unused in his room.

On a weeknight not very long ago, as I asked him to take his shower as bedtime was fast approaching, he left the room allowing me to watch American Idol on the DVR.

(NOTE – do not judge me because I watch American Idol. I watch America's most popular show – see how scary that sounds? – only for the first few weeks, through auditions and the cuts in Hollywood because there are so many histrionic moments that are too good to miss, reminding all of us we are not the only ones with shattered dreams; once the final 12 or 16 or 24 are chosen, I am outta there.)

On this particular night, Idol is focusing on group auditions, when singers must band in three- or foursomes, rehearse through the night and perform the following day. It's great fun because one prissy diva can upset everything, and the best singers can be sent home because they could not play well with others.

At this particular moment, Idol cameras were lingering on a group calling themselves, aptly, The Divas, and included a young woman who had become known as Bikini Girl, who was as beautiful as she was clueless. Though Bikini Girl have a somewhat lovely voice, her personality was as ugly as the U.S. economy. Bryson, now riveted by Bikini Girl's unseemly behavior, departed to take a shower that to this day is his record for the shortest (roughly 3 minutes). He returned, still dripping, just as The Divas took to the stage.

And yes, they meshed about as well as peanuts and salmonella. Two of the four survived to the next round. The other two, including Bikini Girl, were asked to leave. Bikini Girl exited stage left, posing for the camera as she strutted up the aisle.

“Oh my gosh, I can't believe her,” Bryson said. “She doesn't even care what she did.”

Cut to later, when The Divas are backstage talking about their performance and how it was such a disappointment. Well, three of the Divas were talking. Bikini Girl, standing to the side, merely waved her hand, dismissing them, and walked.

“Oh, oh, oh, she is such a, you know, rrrrrrr,” said Bryson. “I can't even, oh my gosh, she is so bad. Why the heck … she is so ridiculous. Why don't they just … rrrrr!”

Cut to a little more later, and The Divas are in the lobby, trying one last time to make nice. They gather for a group hug. But no Bikini Girl. “I don't want all this fakey hug stuff,” she said, walking away. “I don't need it.”

“What the … oh my gosh … I can't believe she …. what the hey!” Bryson stammered. “Oh, she is such a, she is such a … wait--”

He grabbed the remote and hit the pause button, freezing the action. Jumping up, he ran to his bedroom. I heard a drawer open, the shuffling of papers, a drawer shutting, footsteps down the hall.

Bryson flopped back into his chair, leaned over and slapped a slip of paper in my hand. I had a feeling I knew what it was, but I opened it. On it was printed:

“This coupon good for the use of one (1) swear word to be uttered withing listening distance of Dad. Meant to be used in times of anger or pain (neither of which may be directed at said Dad). Example: While weedwacking, you cut your ankle abd scream “Son of a b-!” Coupon not good for sear wo4ds used in front of friends overheard by dad, for that will still get you in trouble. Use this coupon wisely, if at all. Expires 3-30-09.”

Bryson hit the play button, and we were once again watching Bikini Girl vs. The Divas.

“She is such a (slight pause for dramatic effect) BITCH!” he said.

He used the coupon wisely.

CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS POST

Nothing. One week of hitting 3-4 newspapers a day and nothing.

My rules didn't help, since they did not scream of desperation. I applied only at small and medium-sized dailies (working for a weekly was too depressing, since they typically had a staff of three who covered city meetings, took photos and designed the pages – fun, but earning just slightly more than minimum wage, and they day they're hired, they are looking to move up). When in Denver, I didn't bother dropping in at the Denver Post or Rocky Mountain News. Each, I figured was out of my range.

Each day was the same, only the highway was different (and sometimes that was not the case, since I often had to double-back to resume my journey; Colorado's roads are not conducive to streamlined job searching). I started in the northern part of the state, working my way down south. Since this was 1979, I had to do it the old-fashioned way, with maps and lots of pulling over to the side of the road to figure out where I was. Kids today don't have any idea how easy they have it with Google Maps and GPS systems. Oh, that assumes a physical job search with, with the Internet, makes about as much sense as me riding a horse and buggy 30 years ago.

I'd rise by 8 a.m., shower, shave, skip breakfast, pay the hotel bill and hit the road. Typically I ended the previous day's trip in the city of my next stop, and so it was I woke up in Colorado Springs on my last full day in the state.

It had been disheartening. My dream job would have been in Boulder, but odds were heavily against me. The editor in Fort Collins was encouraging, suggesting an entry-level job might be opening in a few weeks, promising me I was first on the list (showing me a file cabinet filled with resumes, and pointing out mine was the only one accompanied by a personal visit).

Other than that, nothing. After making my stops today, I was going to stay the night in Fort Collins, stopping in at the newspaper there the next morning before resuming my search in Oregon (No. 2 on the dream-state list; not sure why, just seemed a helluva lot better than anything in the Midwest).

But first, I was going to visit two newspapers in Colorado Springs, the Sun and the Gazette Telegraph. The GT was by far the biggest of the two, thus decreasing my chances. I started at the Sun, walking in the door at around 9 a.m.

The two-story building obviously was new. Its open and airy layout revealed an atrium in the middle, ringed by the wade balconies of the second floor (and home of the newsroom). Downstairs people were busy at their desks, low partitions separating them (I assumed) into departments.

The receptionist asked me to take a seat and picked up her phone. After 30 minutes or so (typical of the waits I experienced while waiting to speak with an editor; if I was sent to a human resources employee, I knew I was doomed), an older gentleman descended the stairs, walked over and held out his hand.

“”Hi, I'm Frank Boggs,” he said. “Sports editor. Would you like to come up?”

Sports editor? I wasn't looking to work in sports, nor was I in any position to say no. I accompanied him up the steps and was amazed by what I saw.

There were no walls, save for a few offices around the perimeter. A picture window near the southwest side revealed a view of snow-covered Pikes Peak, a landmark on the Front Range. About half the desks were occupied by reporters either on the phone or tapping away on their stories.
Yes there was not a typewriter to be seen. A computer monitor was on every desk, showing pale letters on a glowing green background. Every few desks, a narrow metal column ran ceiling to floor. Wires burst from the bottom of each one, bundles of which snaked to the back of each computer.

I stared at each monitor as we walked to Frank's office.

“You should have seen the old building,” he said, noticing my reaction. “This place is heaven. I can't tell you how much easier that his made everything.”

“When did you move in?” I said.

“About two months ago. We're still getting used to it.”

He ushered me into his office. Photos of athletes shared space with framed sports pages on his walls. A couple of awards stood high on his shelves.

I handed him my resume and clips, and he took a few minutes to glance at them. Luckily I'd included a sports story or two, since I had covered sports during my sophomore year at the college paper. Sports was fun, but I'd outgrown them, wishing to pursue something more serious. I wanted to be Woodward and or Bernstein, as with any other journalism graduate at the time. Watergate was still relatively fresh, and had lost nothing when it came to inspiration.

Frank asked me how I had come to Colorado Springs from California, and I explained I wanted a change of scenery and though Colorado worth visiting (not telling him of my car in parking lot filled with my worldly possessions, as it smacked with desperation.)

“Well, look, I'm going to be honest,” Frank said, flipping my resume onto his desk. “We may have something coming up, but it's probably not for another week or so, if it happens at all. And it may not be for a month.”

“Well, that's fine, I'm open to just about any possibility,” like staying in a hotel for a week because, as I had decided this morning, Colorado Springs was second to Boulder when it came to fitting in with my perceived Colorado. Razor-sharp granite cliffs rose just to the south (Cheyenne Mountain as it turned out, hollowed out years ago to house NOTAD headquarters). Directly to the west, pine-covered foothills gave way to mountains, and lord over it all was majestic Pikes Peak, snow covering its stony pinnacle most of the year.

“There's more. If the job does open, it's only part-time. And there are no benefit, unless you go full-time, but that would be at least a year. And there isn't any writing involved. It's on the desk, where you'd gather scores and take dictation, and move wire copy. I have to be honest, it really isn't much.”

“No, sounds great.” Damn, desperation snuck in without me noticing.

“Oh, well, OK. Do you have a phone number in case it happens?”

This being the pre-cellphone era, I gave him my parents' number, as I did at all my stops. Each evening I checked in with mom and dad, not just for their peace of mind, but to see if anyone had called.
We shook hands, and I was on my way to the Gazette Telegraph just a few miles down the road. The building was more cramped, darker. At least from what I saw at the reception desk. No one had time to see me, and I left my resume at the front desk.

I could have searched in easterb Colorado, out of the mountains' shadows, but what was the point? I was there to experience a Rocky Mountain High, not land that could have been western Kansas.

I headed to Fort Collins, the miles and time meaningless at this point. I was spending as many as 10 hours on the road each day, so I had lost all sense of distance. I stopped at the same Motel 6 I stayed in at my earlier stop, roughly five days before. That night I spread the road atlas over the bed, charting the best way to Oregon. I figured it to be a two day trip, but this time planned on an overnight stay rather than pulling off to the side of the road.

But here is what I was really thinking, when I allowed the optimist to come in – tomorrow morning, the Fort Collins editor would have promising news. Not enough to make me stay, but at least with something hopeful to get me to Oregon. And perhaps just as I was leaving Oregon to, well, I hadn't planned that far – Washington, maybe – I would hear from Fort Collins.

Another week on the road, perhaps, and I would have a job. I had to think that way, or else there was little motivation to continue. I was already questioning my credentials, thinking perhaps it wasn't my timing, it was me and what I (didn't) have to offer. If I were a more qualified candidate, I'd have a job by now.

At around 8 p.m., I went to the Motel 6 lobby and the pay phone (opting not to spend the money needed to activate the room phone). Slipping in 50 cents, I dialed my parents, taking a big breath first because there could be no disappointment in my voice when I told them Colorado was a bust, and I was heading to Oregon.

“Hey mom, how is everything tonight?” I said. I was still plotting how I was going to break the news, and that I may need more money. Would they continued to fund this folly?

“Scott, where are you now?” she said.

“Fort Collins,” I said, wondering if she would remember I'd been here before.

“Oh, well, do you know a man by the name of Frank Boggs?”

“Frank Boggs? Uh, Frank Boggs, yeah, Frank Boggs, he, uh, he was at the, uh, yeah ...”

My heart was beating so loud my brain couldn't get its shit together. Frank Boggs would only call for one reason.

“Scott? Frank Boggs? He called.”

“Yeah, right. What did he say?”

“I think he wants to offer you a job. He said you talked this morning.”

“Yeah, we did, but he said he might have something but not for, something, or a week, or maybe longer … are you sure? Frank Boggs?”

“Yes, I have his number. He said to call as soon as you got the message.”

“When did he call?”

“Oh, I don't know. This afternoon sometime. Hon, do you remember when Frank Boggs called? No, it was after lunch. Maybe around 3? Yes, around 3 I think.”

Christ, that was 5 hours ago. Was the job still open or did someone else grab it? Or was it a job at all? Maybe he just wanted to update me on the possible offer. Maybe he just wanted to say hello.

Scratch that last one. Brain still having hard time engaging.

“You have his number?” I said.

“Yes. Do you want to write it down?”

Yeah, I think I want to write it down. No pen or paper. After having them ready over the last half-dozen calls home, I didn't bring them with me. “Let me go get something to write with, two minutes, call you back.”

Optimism snuck in again. I won't have to go to Oregon after all. I will see the mountains from my window. Boulder will be within driving distance.

I will be a resident of Colorado. Rocky Mountain High, baby.

I dialed Mom again, pen and paper in hand. She gave me his number. I said a quick “Bye” and dialed.

And got no answer. Of course (pre-voicemail; the things we take for granted today).

I don't remember how much sleep I got that night. Some, I am sure. Starting at about 7:30 a.m., I was in the lobby callng him. No answer. Returned to my room. Ten minutes later, back in the lobby. Same thing. Back to my room. Back to the lobby. Dial. Back to my room.

At 9:30.

“Frank Boggs.”

“Mr. Boggs, hi.” I identified myself. “We spoke yesterday morning. About a job. At the Sun. In the sports department.”

“Yes, I remember. May be old, but not that old. So, are you interested?”

“I am. Definitely.”

“OK, it's like I spelled out yesterday. Part-time, no benefits for about a year. No writing. But it's a start, and it's the kind of job you can make the most out of.”

“Yes, I'd like to take it. Definitely.”

“Definitely. Sounds good. When can you start?”

“I'm in Fort Collins right now, but I can start as soon as I get there. Ninety minutes or so?”

“Not unless you're taking a plane. More like 2 ½ hours, son, if you follow the speed limit. Which I highly suggest. Are you sure you can start that soon?”

“Yes, I pretty much have everything with me. I can starts whenever you want me to.”

“Fine, then. Come see me when you get in and we'll set you up.”

Goddamn, it's a Rocky Mountain High after all. Not a bad outcome for something that went back to a conversation at a urinal.

Not bad at all.

EPILOGUE – Turned out that the day I walked into the Sun, one of their sports guys had just submitted his resignation. He was on the slot, meaning he did all the stuff Frank Boggs told me I would do. I lived in a hotel for a week before finding an apartment – the live-in attic on the fourth floor of a three-story Victorian home just 5 minutes from the Suns' building (which I would come to find lacking two very important things – heat and insulation. I survived winter thanks to a space heater that was my constant companion). The official job was 39 hours and no benefits, though I often worked 60-hour weeks and volunteered for as many reporting assignments as possible. Within a year I was made a full-time
reporter, and within another year was covering Air Force football and the USFL (a league started to compete against the NFL and … oh, never mind).