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)