If there is one good thing to come out of the tragedy at Virginia Tech, you probably think it has to do with how we’ve come together as a nation, offering aid and comfort to those so in need of the support of total strangers.

And you would be wrong. That whole “outpouring of love” stuff is OK as it goes, but is it really going to change things? Of course not.

No, the real good thing to come out of the Virginia Tech shootings is that pointed out the enormous flaws in our gun control laws. Ever since the Founding Fathers guaranteed the right to bear arms, the nation has struggled with what this really means. Over the last 200-plus years, we’ve added pages and pages of laws in an attempt to logically interpret and implement the Second Amendment in ways that would fit with today’s technology with current moral standards.

And it’s been a colossal failure. Virginia Tech was just the latest example. Every time someone with a grudge, a gun and a loose grip on reality opens fire in a public place, the gun-control debate escalates to a point where it’s nothing more than a political shouting match.

It’s time for the debate to end. The answer is clear.

Everyone should be packing heat. And I mean everyone. If you are old enough to fingerpaint, you are old enough to draw down.

Imagine if the Virginia Tech killer walked into a classroom of fully armed students learning German. Before you could say “Achtung, baby,” Mr. Mass Murderer is felled in a hail of bullets, from the 9mm semiautomatic emptied by the captain of the wrestling team to the .38 caliber snub-nose that takes up so little room in the stylish Dooney & Bourke carried by the cheerleader. End of story. OK, a few unfortunates sitting in the front row might have been cut down by the crossfire, but that’s the price we pay for a safer nation. Once everyone is carrying, compare the number of dead bad guys to the total number of friendly fire casualties and odds are excellent that bad guys would outnumber collateral damage victims by 2 or even 3 to 1. Throw in some voluntary gun training and that ratio goes up.

The problem is you’ll still have those folks who think guns will escalate violence, which is absolute garbage. Our world has lived in relative peace thanks to the concept of mutually assured destruction. Imagine if leaders in the Cold War did not develop enough nuclear bombs to destroy the Earth 300 times over. That kind of nuke-free peace woule be shaky at best. Only with an arsenal of intercontinental missiles trained on the enemy can we guarantee the kind of safe and secure world we have today.

That concept can easily be transferred to the neighborhood level. The key is to start young so that by the time our children are 9 or 10, a gun is as a natural part of their lunch as a juicebox.

Sidearms can be introduced as early as preschool. I know what you’re thinking – won’t the recoil of a Glock break their still-developing arms? Of course it would, which is where responsible parenting comes in. Start small. A .22 caliber handgun would be just fine at this age. Point a .22 at any preschooler, trust me, they’re going to back down because that thing is going to look like a cannon.

Teachers would carry as well, and with their advanced sense of targeting, they could make sure playground shootouts would be limited to antagonists. It’s a win-win situation.

There would have to be a few rules as guns become a natural part of the educational system. For example, you could not draw down on someone who just fouled you on the basketball court. Unless it was a flagrant foul. If that is the case, feel free to put a cap in his ass. Non-fatal wounds can have a lasting impact.

Also, no putting teachers in the crosshairs unless it is self-defense. Let’s say an English teacher has just ordered a disruptive student to the responsibility center. The student, clearly angry, quickly reaches into his backpack. The teacher, thinking the student is reaching for his Luger, a present from his grandfather for his ninth birthday, draws his favorite semiautomatic from the small of his back where he keeps it, comforted by its sharp metallic edges pressing against his flesh. The student, however, was merely digging for his iPod (that’s his story and he is sticking to it), but now that he’s looking down the barrel of a smartly designed handgun (thinking he’s going to ask for one of those for Christmas), he is free to pull his own weapon, and may the fastest draw win. Fair is fair.

No longer would schools be the unsafest places in the entire world as they are now. The mentally unbalanced would have to seek other havens to unleash Hell’s fury upon the unsuspecting.

But in this world, there is no such haven. Draw a weapon today at a convenience store and you’re going to walk out of there with $35 in small bills. Do the same when carrying a gun is mandatory and you’re committing suicide by annoyed public.

Arguments can be settled swiftly with no need for the intervention of law enforcement. That guy in the movie theater who doesn’t turn off his cellphone? See how cooperative he is when you’ve got Smith and Wesson pointed at his head. Dude bangs his door against your car outside Wal-Mart? Notice how quickly he offers to pay for damages when you are the first to get to your revolver. The woman who leaves her grocery cart in the middle of the aisle like, what, she owns the damn place, so screw you and find another way around? No need to say “Excuse me” when you can just as easily take out one of her kneecaps.

The Virginia Tech massacre could have been prevented if the gun lobby had had its way so many years ago. It’s not too late. Until legislators realize the wisdom of a gun in every pocket, purse and glovebox, we will be a society handcuffed by the unavailability of guns to protect ourselves. Or settle arguments. Or act on grudges.

Now for something I would never admit in public (yet it’s on a blog – go figure):

It begins on a Sunday afternoon in a quiet suburb with a man far too old for video games in the midst of an epic battle which, if victorious, would beat a game that has consumed way too much of his time over the last few months.

That man would be me. So? I’ve done worse things with my time. Like spending an afternoon stuffing children’s clothes with rags to make small bodies, then splattering them with fake blood and putting them on the driveway for a Halloween crime scene, a dazzling display seen by maybe 3 trick or treaters that night, the slowest Halloween of all time. And I’ve spent countless hours recounting the minutiae in my life for a blog read by, as far as I know, two people, including me. I know how to waste time and it never bothers me.

So I’m on the last boss in a game called Zelda: Twilight something or other, and this stage is 30 levels or so and if you quit you go all the way back to the entrance of the castle and start it all over again and whoever designed that needs to have 78 hours removed from his/her life for no good reason. I’m in the last battle where I’m swordfighting this very large bad guy who apparently was born with a cutlass in his hand, and it’s really not all that much fun by this point. I’m down to 4 lives but I’ve hit the boss at least a half-dozen times so I figure I’m close. Then my son Bryson comes in (I play the Wii on my computer since the monitor has inputs) and wants me to download a Weird Al song. He sits right next to me and I’m trying to parry and he has the gall to speak to me, mentioning something about music and a song and downloads and now he has maybe 2 percent of my attention, which is just enough for me not to see the boss make a move (which I am usually able to block) and now I’m down to 2.5 lives, so I say, "Look, I’m kinda busy here, can it wait" as my hero onscreen struggles to his feet, then I move him away from the bad guy, escaping like a wussy. And Bryson says how he was thinking about buying the album and his friend Cody has it and I mumble something about borrowing the album, so now he's got 5 percent of my attention and the boss hits me again. Down to 2 lives. and Bryson continues on about some frigging Santa song and so I give up and go for the pause button. And since the pause button is so small and badly located on the controller, I look down and the boss nails me with a full blow. Down to 1 life. Game paused. "Bryson, what!? Do you see what I’m doing here? I’m in the middle of a boss fight. You KNOW what that's LIKE. I just needed a few more minutes, I mean, what is your hurry. Is this really more important than what i'm doing?" Now, 99.9 percent of parents would rip m a new one about now. But for the few who have been a this point, only to be bothered by a young child begging for a moment of attention, I know you understand. But yeah, I apologized. And downloaded him the stupid song. And still beat the game.

Hey, Tori Spelling – you know that duck rattle you wanted for your baby on the way? Don’t worry. Taken care of.

Tori did me a favor – hell, she did all of us a favor – by making her baby registry very easy to find. The upscale baby boutique, Petit Tresor in Beverly Hills, posts its baby registry online (peteitresor.com), so you can indulge anyone pretentious enough to desire a $4,000 crib or $750 onesie. Is that fabulous or what?

Tori, like everyone,wants many things for her baby. Tori, unlike everyone, can afford to buy the store if she chooses to. But then what would she unwrap?

As I perused her list of 55 items, I briefly considered Dr. Brown’s Level 2 Nipples, wondering what one had to do to qualify for Level 1 nipples (and then wondering what the difference was between Level 1 and Level 2 nipples, and then wondering who the hell was Dr. Brown, and what made his/her nipples so damn good that you would want to buy them). The nipples were just $8, but maybe buying nipples for Tori is a little too personal.

I was drawn to the Mobi Cam Ultra Video Monitor, but what if Tori used it to put her baby on the Net? Do we really need videos of another Spelling? Let me answer that: No.

Also on the registry – a $500 Petit Tresor gift certificate. This is probably so TV producers who always hated her suggestions. On anything. Even her own baby stuff.

But what I needed was something cute. And cheap. Mostly cheap.

And there it was. A duck rattle. For $13 (plus an additional Petit Tresor-like $8.95 for shipping; better include some designer bubble wrap for that price). I filled out the form, included a nice note, and sent it on it sway. If you’re looking for the $13 duck rattle on the list, forget it. It’s gone. But there are still the Leaping Life Rings for $26.

I am not sure if Tori will send me a lovely thank-you note, or if one of her assistants will jot off a quick “Cease and desist all communications with Ms. Spelling” email.

But if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.

You know what I love? Those stick-figure families that people put on the back windows of their cars. How special it is that they have a family. I mean, a family! How amazing is that? Amazing enough to put it on the back of your car window. It is wonderful how they proclaim their unique talents to reproduce. Thank you so much for telling us you have a family, and how many members there are in that family, and that each member of the family has a name. I just wish they would tell us more rather than leave us wondering. Do they have homes or apartments? A stick-figure shelter should could let everyone know. What about an income? Maybe a stick-figure dollar sign too, because having a job is just something you should shout to the world. Yet there is so much more. Do they have friends or a restaurant they like to go to? Or maybe they like to see movies. A stick-figure theater could answer that burning question. Please, all you stick-figure family people, don’t stop there. Tell us all about you, because I know when I am on the road, I want to know more about the other drivers on the road. That is why I love to see the stickers on windshields that tell us how proud they are of where they park. Yea, really nice parking spot!

OK, so this happened several years ago. It’s my blog and I’ll write if I want to. Plus this is one of those humiliating experiences that need to be shared with the world, or at least with the three people who accidentally came across this entry while Googling “chump,” “dumbass” and “Jesus, what a fricking idiot.” (Not that this is the only thing that appeared; no doubt there are hundreds of entries at also include the phrase “George W. Bush.”)

I had an opportunity to speak to one RH (though the events that follow are true, RH is just narcissistic enough to Google her name every day, and I really don’t want to come up on her radar ever again, thus I am going to leave it RH). She was sponsoring an upcoming event and me, as a reporter for a major metropolitan daily, had just a few questions so I could write the kind of two-inch brief that has sadly defined my career over the years.

Warning sign No. 1: She was hiking through a local preserve when she answered, explaining she carried a cell phone not because of an emergency, but because she just loved to use this time to talk to friends, because she had so many of them and so little time to “share a few minutes of me.” Warning sign No. 2: She freely admitted this.

We talked about the event for about 10 minutes and then, impressed by my sense of humor (she said this later, I swear, when it was clear nothing else was measuring up), she started asking me questions. How old I was (fairly). If I had any kids (one). If I was married (that’d be a solid no).

Then she asked me out. Now if were testifying under oath, she would say something like, “I didn’t really ask him out. It was more of an implied thing.” Because RH is not a woman who needs to ask guys out. And that is exactly the way she would state it under oath.

The conversation was now 45 minutes old, and no end was in sight.

“So you should drop by my place sometime, we can go out and continue this conversation,” RH said. “I’d really like that.”

Recognizing a date was being implied, I said, “OK, sounds like fun.”

Jesus, what a fricking idiot. Which was pretty clear when Warning sign No. 3 appeared: She asked me how tall I was.

“About 5-8,” I said. Was there shame in my voice? Yes, because 5-8 is going to seem pretty short to a woman who asks your height.

“Oh, well, you’re not boyfriend material, but I still want you to come over.”

Warning sign No. 4: She truly, honestly said that.

I may not have been boyfriend material, but I thought that since we were hitting it off, maybe I could be one-night stand material. Even then I doubted it, but since was the very first time in my life that a woman implied a date, I was all over it.

We made plans for the following Tuesday. She gave me directions to her condo, then we’d go somewhere nearby for dinner. Splendid.

I showed up at the appointed time and was struck by my utter shortness when she answered the door. Maybe she couldn’t play center in the WNBA, but she was certainly forward material. I had never dated a woman taller than me because chicks don’t dig short. That’s just how it is. Tall women find tall guys and have tall children. Professional basketball is proof of that. So let’s just move on.

“Hi, nice to meet you.” I said that, not her as she wondered if I should be removed from the “non-boyfriend” pile to the “non-existent” pile. Apparently she didn’t want to be that rude, positioning the “See what a good person I am” bar pretty low. And for good reason as I would find out.

RH (a very attractive woman, by the way, not that there is anything wrong with that) suggested a restaurant less than a mile away. “It’s one of my favorite places. I know you’ll like it.”

We climbed into my car (“Watch your head’) and were off to her version of Cheers, where everyone knew her name.

Warning sign No., um, you know, it’s really not important at this point: She immediately recognized nearly everyone at the bar, each dressed in suits and sipping Scotch (no doubt single-malt, 21-year-old Scotch, by the looks of it; damn these Dockers of mine).

“Wow, it’s way busier than normal,” she said, scanning for a place to sit. “There, in the corner, let’s try that table.” We navigate among well-dressed men to the table around the bar and to the back. As soon as we sat a waitress appeared. RH ordered wine. Not sure of the make or vintage, only that it wasn’t the house wine.

“What beers do you have on tap?”

I did not say, “Whoops, I think I just crapped my pants,” even though that is how the waitress now was looking at me.

“We don’t have any beer on tap,” she said. “But we have some in bottles. Heineken, Amstel Light, and maybe one or two more, I have to ask the bartender so I’ll be-“

“No, that’s OK, a Heineken would be great,” I said. I did not say, “Oh my god, I am so sorry for inquiring about an inferior beverage,” but that is what my expression said.

RH waved to someone at the bar. “Hold on here just a second, I want to go say a quick hello to someone, be right back,” and suddenly her chair was empty.

OK, well, I could wait. For example, I wait all the time when I go to my dentist, watching how certain procedures can change those with Carnie Mouth (three teeth left, all of htem horribly rotted) into a beautiful smile. It’s done with quick fade-ins, which imply there was some sort of easy, painless and inexpensive work done in between.

Minutes passed. The drinks arrived, the waitress deftly placing a napkin below the glass of wine, then tossing the bottle of Heineken in my general direction. She held a juice glass in her hand.

“No glass, this will be fine,” I said, knowing the tiny glass might only emasculate me further.

Do I drink? Or wait? It would be far more polite to wait. More time passed. Soccer was on a small TV above the bar. I pined for dental videos.

About a half hour later she returned. “I want you to meet a few of my friends, come on,” she said, taking her wine. Her height really came in handy at this point, allowing me to track her through the crowd as I grabbed my beer and slid out of my chair and around the table, so by now she was already 20 feet ahead of me.

She sat at the bar between three men in their 50s. I stood behind her as she made introductions. There was John the developer, Tim the doctor and Ted the financial analyst. I do not really remember their names, but their occupations remain quite clear to this day. John was in the middle of this really huge custom-home subdivision where prices were amazingly low, you should definitely stop by if you were in the market before everyone realized just how far $850,000 could still go. The doctor just took on a new partner, so he had a lot more time to spend on his boat in San Diego. The financial analyst was tired working 60-hour weeks, but he could put up with it knowing he’ll have enough to retire in just a few years, if only his wife could understand that.

No one actually told me this. I gathered this among the conversations RH was juggling. Obviously she had a lot of experience at this.

All of them were plucking various finger foods from two platters on the bar in front of them. Not sure what they were, but they looked crustacean-based and not something designed to go with beer, not a deterrent to business since I was the only one with a beer in my hand.

“So, you build houses,” I said to John, catching him as he and RH just happened to be chewing at the same time.

I did not say, “So, John, you were arrested for child molestation not too long ago,” but that is how RH looked at me.

“Oh, no, John doesn’t build them,” she said. “I think you did that years ago, didn’t you John? When you were a contractor? John’s a dealmaker, the guy who finds the land and gets everyone together on it. John, tell him about those parcels you found up north, the ones everyone thought was out in the middle of nowhere, the ones that now have hous3s overlooking a lake and a golf course.”

“John, those are yours?” said Tim or Ted. “I was just looking up there for my brother, he and his wife and looking for a second home and love this area …”

I listened for another beer or so (yeah, I ordered a second one, secretly hoping the waitress had to go to a supermarket to pick up a six-pack), my eyes almost straying to the soccer game, but I wasn’t that bored. Yet.

“We’re going to continue this over at the bar,” RH said as the four of them stood as one. Did they practice this? Synchronized “Let’s get the hell out of here”? They were very good at it.

“I thought this was the bar.”

“No, the other bar. The more intimate bar. The owner bought it a few years ago because this place was getting so crowded. A nail salon went out of business to he grabbed it and opened up an annex. It’s perfect.”

At this point I wondered, is it a date if you don’t have dinner and never really say anything?

I pulled out my wallet to clear our tab (two beers and, what, three wines? Four?), but RH said the tab was being transferred.

We exit out the back and cross the parking lot that is crammed with large black sedans. Not only do people drink the same Scotch, they all drive the same cars. This must be where Stepford Executives drink.

(Actually, turned out that John Ashcroft was eating with a phalanx of Secret Service men in a private dining room above what I now called The Annex, which also explained the two men in dark suits standing at the bottom of the stairs, whom I assumed were waiting for a spot next to RH at the bar.)

New scenery, same old conversations. About an hour later, John left, shortly followed by Tim and Ted.

“Well, guess we should settle and get out of here. I’ve just got to visit the powder room, be right back.”

I sat at the bar for the first time and was served immediately with the bill. I glanced at the total and thought at first that the waitress did go to a supermarket for my beer, which was in another county and she charged me mileage.

Then I looked at the itemized portion. Not only was I paying for my two bottles of beer, but also for drinks and appetizers consumed by the developer, the doctor and the financial analyst, as well as wine ordered by my “date.” Who was in the “powder room.”

I paid it like a chump.

I took her home, she said it was late and hoped I didn’t mind not being asked to come in for a nightcap, and I drove the 27 miles home thinking that if anything good came out of this, it was that my dating life certainly couldn’t get any worse (I was partially right).

She called me the next morning, thanking me for a wonderful time. “We had such a great conversation, we really seemed to connect, don’t you think? I’d love to do it again.”

“Sure, sounds great, but how about this time I just drop off my Visa card so I will be there in spirit.” No, I didn’t say that, but I really wanted to.

No, we didn’t go out again. No doubt I went from the “non-boyfriend material” pile to “non-entity” pile. And that was just fine. I did not need another opportunity to be a dumbass.

Epilogue: A few months later a friend at work was doing a story on RH, since she had a fairly interesting occupation: matchmaker dealing exclusively with men making at least six figures per year (women had only to be young and attractive). I had told him about the “date,” and he casually mentioned to RH that I might be a candidate for her service. “No,” she said without hesitation. “He’s too mainstream.”

Just because this is the way I remember it doesn’t mean this is exactly the way it happened. When things like this occur, it is so out of the ordinary it’s almost as if you are operating on instinct. The mind goes on autopilot so details fly by at light speed, through the web that normally traps the most interesting minutiae. For example, I can tell you exactly what I did as my son was brought from the womb to the drying table, and what I was thinking as I looked upon him the first time. But I can’t tell you what items may have been scattered about the freeway near the overturned car, or where the guy with the badge came from. I’m not even sure when he arrived, if he was there before me and I never noticed.

But I do remember how it started.

I was driving north on Interstate 17 toward Sedona, where my son and I were going to stay the night, taking a jeep tour the next day through the back trails amid the red rocks. Bryson was in the back seat playing on the Playstation Portable. I was listening to talk radio because it reported on traffic conditions about every 15 minutes, not bad for the middle of the afternoon. It was a little after 1 o’clock.

We were somewhere near Anthem, a huge subdivision built in New River, about 30 miles north of Phoenix. I remember looking at the temperature gauge in my Toyota, wondering if it was getting colder as the storm moved in. There were thick gray clouds to the northwest, which thinned into the desert. The readout said it was 54, about the same as when we left Gilbert about an hour before.

My eye caught on a large cloud of dust spouting from the median about 200 feet up ahead. Maybe it was 300 feet. Or 100 feet. It was suddenly just there in the strip of desert, about 50 feet wide, separating the northbound and southbound lanes.

How odd, I remember thinking in the split second it took to realize what had really formed the plume. It must be a dust devil, a random whirlwind that kicks up dust every now and then. But those usually only happen in summer as hot air swirls together as it rises, but maybe the storm—

A car emerged from the cloud. A white car. A sedan. It was spinning in mid-air. Then it hit the ground. More dust and I can’t see it, then a glimpse. It landed on the pavement, dead center of the freeway.

Somewhere during this timeframe I screamed, “Bryson, call 911, call 911.” He had a brand new cellphone and had been programming it earlier in the trip, so I knew it was close by. My own phone was in the suitcase in the trunk, put there because I couldn’t think of a reason I would need it in the car.

I am sure Bryson said, “What is it?” and I said, “A car crash just up ahead” before screaming “Call 911” again, but I don’t know. It would make sense, but nothing makes sense when there is an upside-down car laying in the middle of the freeway. Did I tell you it was upside down? Because it was. It was white. It was a sedan.

I looked in the rearview mirror because I knew I had to stop and when I have to stop abruptly, I always look in the rearview mirror to make sure cars behind me are slowing too. If not I will make allowances, stopping just short of the guy in front of me to give them a few more feet. I was also in the left lane and needed to be in the center lane. There was an upside-down car in the center lane up ahead, laying perpendicular to the road and partially in the lane to each side, and I wanted to move into the center lane so I wouldn’t block traffic. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure there was room to pull over and did so. I did not put on my blinker. I remember that.

I stopped, switched off the ignition, set the parking brake (these are all instinctual things for me) and opened the door. There was one car ahead of me, then about 20 feet of nothing, then the upside-down car. When I got out of my car, I could hear her. She was screaming “Oh my God” over and over and over. Then I saw her, and she was wriggling out of the car on the driver’s side, the side closest to us. The man in the car in front of me was already there. I can’t remember if he helped her out, but when I got here she was laying on the freeway, her head, shoulders, torso, hips and upper legs on pavement. Her knees and lower legs were laying on the car’s ceiling. She was still screaming.

“Is there anybody else in the car?” I said it loudly, trying to be heard over her screams. “No, it’s just me, just me,” and thinking back how odd it was that for a moment, she was pretty lucid, answering that question without being asked over and over. Right after she answered, she went back to screaming.

She moved herself out of the car. That’s good, I thought. Not paralyzed. I didn’t see a lot of blood. Any, in fact. Then I looked closer and I have no idea why because blood is not something I like to see, but now it seemed really important. I had to see if she was injured, that way maybe I could … I don’t know what I could do.

I saw blood. It was splashed across the back of her left hand. The nail on her pinky was partially missing. What was left was long, shiny and perfectly curved at the tip before it stopped, then there was blood. I remember thinking that’s OK, that’s not bad for rolling your car into oncoming traffic.

“Dad, I can’t get anyone, it just says to wait my turn.” Bryson was right behind me. He’s got a look in his face. Not scared. Well, maybe. Scared and really worried. He pushed the phone toward me, and now I can understand why. This was an adult thing, not a kid thing.

I took the phone and listened to the recording. It went something like, “We’re sorry, but all available operators are busy, please hold on” and your call will be answered in the order it was received, as if I was phoning for tech support instead of trying to tell someone who can help that a woman screaming “Oh my God” is lying in the middle of the freeway next to her upside-down car.

I looked over and there is another woman on a cellphone and she looked at me and said she couldn’t get through, and I shook my head. I held the phone near Bryson and told him to hang on and see if anyone answered. Then I wasn’t holding the phone anymore.

That’s when the guy holding the badge appeared. Or maybe he heard me asking the woman if anyone else was in the car. Or was he the first guy and he just pulled the badge to identify himself. This much was clear: A man brandishing a gold badge in a leather case now stood by the upside-down car and he was telling everyone to get back.

Everyone? I turned around. Not one car in each of the three lanes was moving. Lots of people were standing around, nearly all of them with a cellphone to their ears. I couldn’t see more than five or six car-lengths away, but this thought hit me, “No one is going to be on time today.”

The guy with the badge was still screaming for everyone to get away. Perhaps one of us should have said something. Who are you, who are you with? What if he was just a prison guard or something?

But at the time there was a screaming woman, an upside-down car and a guy with a badge. A guy with a badge gets a lot of respect in that situation.

“Right now I just need everyone to get back to their cars,” he told people who only wanted to help. After all, we had been there first. Hadn’t we? But we didn’t have a badge.

And there was only a handful of us. Most people we’re waiting in their cars. But the few of us standing there, we saw a car flipping through the median. We saw it roll to a stop. Everyone else, all they knew was that everyone was stopping. Perhaps even a few noticed an upside-down car in the middle of the freeway. But we had seen what happened. We were part of this. Or so it seemed at the time, until the guy with the badge told us we were doing nothing but getting in the way.

He said help was on the way, that everyone dialing 911 should hang up. He probably said, “The situation is under control” because that is what people with badges say in the movies as they shoo everyone away.

The guy with the badge said,” Does anyone have any blankets?” I had a coat in my car. I was planning on wearing it during the jeep tour in Sedona. I’d need that coat. A coat was not a blanket. But should I offer it anyway? It seemed so important at the time. But I never said, “I have a coat.”

The guy with the badge was talking to someone. The conversation was loud, but that’s all I remember. It seemed the guy without the badge was angry about not being allowed to help. The guy with the badge was pretty adamant about everyone staying away. I don’t recall the guy with the badge ever talking with the woman laying outside the upside-down car. I wanted to tell her that help was on its way, that everyone was dialing 911, that she won’t be alone. But the guy with the badge had her sealed off pretty well. Maybe that was the thing to do. She may have had terrible internal injuries or broken bones, and if she tried to move or talk, it would only make it worse. Only she was still screaming “Oh my God.” I could still hear her as I walked back to my car.

Bryson asked me what was going on. I told him about the woman, that she was hurt but that she was going to be OK, and the guy with the badge keeping everyone away. And it struck me – why are we staying here?

I needed the approval from the guy with the badge. It seemed right. I went back and even though he was still talking loudly with the guy without a badge, I asked him if it was OK to be on our way. Or something like that.

I’m not sure what he said, but it was something to the effect of staying in our cars and keeping away from “the area,” which I assumed was anywhere near him. So I decided we were going to leave.

I walked back to my car and told Bryson to get back in and buckle up. I spoke to a few of the people waiting by their cars. “There’s a cop (any guy who shows a badge at an accident is a cop, I’d decided) who says he wants us out of here.” I noticed some cars were already starting to move, using the shoulder to pass on the right. I got into my car, started the engine, released the emergency brake, reversed a few feet to get around the car in front of me, and turned to the left, intending to ease into the median and go around the upside-down car. As I did, a woman in a Lincoln (old woman, new Lincoln) trying to do the same. I had nosed in front of her, and she gave me a look as if there had never been a woman lying next to an upside-down car in the middle of the freeway.

Some things never change.

It was odd enough at this Phoenix bar that when you stand there in the bathroom with tool in hand you are looking out at the many patrons and they, if they care to, are looking at you, thanks to a window that probably seemed cutting edge socially in 1993 but now was just a design flaw (“If you see me, forgive me if I don’t wave”).

But it wasn’t the “Look who’s peeing” feature that bugged me the most. There, in the corner between the last sink and the first stall, was a man selling cologne, cigarettes and condoms. He also had a tall stack of paper towels balancing carefully on the counter. For some reason this bar with $5 beers and everyone dressed as if they belonged in an Old Navy commercial decided it needed a restroom attendant. I can see this happening in Scottsdale’s pretentious bars (which is all of them save for the one Applebee’s that got in before the city council passed various zoning ordinances prohibiting establishments that allowed everybody in). But here in downtown Phoenix, where a Suns jersey is an essential part of a refined wardrobe, it just didn’t make sense.

And as soon as I walked in, I knew I was hosed. Normally I don’t check my wallet before entering the men’s room. It’s just not a place you worry about cash on hand unless you’re one of those losers who actually need those breath drops that sell for about 50 cents per drop (and if you have ever put money in one of those machines, no, it wasn’t your imagination, everyone was watching you thinking, “What a loser”). But now I was mentally going through the contents of my wallet because those paper towels were hardly going to be free. According to the Universal Guide to Acceptable Tipping, anyone handing out paper towels gets a buck. Which is right up there with the porter at the airport who gets a buck for lugging one of your overstuffed bags to a conveyor belt. No problem, that guy earns it. But a buck for a paper towel?

I did the math very quickly. If six guys take a whiz every hour, this guy is making more than management at Wal-Mart (that makes sense because the attendant is obviously smarter than anyone who chooses to work at Wal-Mart). If 12 guys need to use the restroom per hour, he’s up with secretaries and junior accountants. But this bar had more than 20 beers on tap. The attendant had to raking in at least $60 an hour. For paper towels. And if anyone used that stall right next to the dude, he’s probably paying $5 as an apology. Then there was the profit from the cigs, cologne and condoms. Not that I would trust condoms purchased from a guy who spends eight hours in a men’s room, but that’s me.

When I stepped to the urinal, the only other guy in the restroom left, handing the attendant a buck after the attendant handed out a paper towel. For a guy working about as hard as someone writing dialogue for Robin Williams (“OK, right here you just adlib again”), he was making pretty decent coin.

I went through the options. I could zip up and head out, bypassing the sinks and the towel guy altogether. That, however, would violate the most important Man Bathroom Commandment: Thou shalt feel free not to wash your hands only if you are alone, or if the only other men are in stalls and cannot see you; otherwise, lather up.

I could linger at the urinal enjoying the view and hope someone else will come in. Then I could follow them to the sink and as they head over for the towel-dollar exchange, I can duck out, wiping my hands on my pants (yeah, I could live with that). This was a viable option until, about three minutes later, no one had yet come in and my stream was long gone. The attendant probably was thinking, “That boy either has major prostate problems or suffers from performance anxiety, so maybe if I look away he can finish his business and I can get his dollar.”

OK, I was out of options. It’s not like you have a lot of choices in this kind of situation. I zipped up, headed to the sink and longed for a bathroom where paper dispensers were not human. Come on, am I alone here? Aren’t we a society accustomed to getting out own paper towels? Over the years I’ve figured out even the most intricate of dispensing systems, even the ones that malfunction and you have to reach up very carefully, fingers disappearing inside as they search for a bit of paper to extract. I’ve even overcome situations in which there was no paper to be had at all, grabbing a few paper seat covers (surprisingly absorbent but they disintegrate when wet, so make sure you grab a lot of you need them).

Bottom line: I can figure out a way to dry off my hands without paying a buck, thank you very much. As I washed my hands, I glanced at the attendant who had by now taken a towel off the top of the stack and was holding it on his lap, his body language saying, “If you want a towel you’re going to have to get it from me, and it will cost you a buck because it is only right and it beats working at Wal-Mart.”

I turn off the faucet, turn to the attendant and hold out my hand. He gives me the paper towel. I thank him, turn, dry off my hands, toss the towel and walk away without looking back. For a guy who just handed me a paper towel, Mr. Attendant can go ahead and bore a hole in my back with his stare.

Besides, what kind of businessman is he anyway? If he really wants to make a killing, he should go into the toilet paper business.

OK, so Rev. Ted Haggard, head honcho of a very large group of people who agree there really isn’t much to do on Sunday mornings so why not go to church, admits he bought methamphetamine but didn’t use it.

At this point the only folks who are going to believe that are the same who are convinced that one unearthly being can see everything they are doing and yet not be totally freaked out. However, I can see where Haggard is coming from. I can’t count the number of times I have returned from the grocery store to find a large box of Cookie Crisp in my bag. What the hell is this sugary kids’ cereal doing here? If I may make an outdated reference to a regrettable film series, that’s not mine, baby, I swear it. So I put it in the pantry should those who prefer that sort of thing drop by. And usually within a week or so, that box of Cookie Crisp is gone.

Bill Clinton started this whole “That’s not mine, baby” excuse when he said he didn’t inhale. Not quite grasping the concept, I can see Clinton putting the joint to his mouth and blowing out each time the doobie came to him. It puts him in the same intelligence class as those who kill themselves while cleaning their own guns, but it didn’t stop him from being president.

That’s proof that the Austin Powers defense (which I just coined) can be successful. Others might want to think about using it.

President Bush: “I did send troops to Iraq, but it was to sell cookie dough for our annual Armor for Hummers fundraiser.”

John Kerry: “I did say stupid kids wind up in Iraq, but only because admission standards at Baghdad U are slightly less stringent than at Arizona State.”

Wal-Mart: “We don’t pay our employees a living wage, but, uh … hey look, lower prices on plasma TVs!”

For now, I’m giving the benefit of the doubt to Rev. Haggard, who apparently bought and ignored meth monthly. The world would be a better place if that kind of common sense reached every woman who has shopped at The Gap recently.

“Leggings? What the f-? Why did I buy these damn things?”

I just saw the story where research scientists, who no doubt have spent years gathering various esteemed degrees in school, spent several months gorging lab rats on wine and the mouse equivalent of deliciously fattening food. They found mice that were interminably drunk wre much better off, as if that's something new.

This does not bring up the questionable use of research time by scientists (well, it does, but I don’t feel like addressing it at this point). But it certainly makes one think about lab mice and the luck of the draw.

Imagine the conversations that take place on any day inside the mice-only break room at Science Inc.:

“Whoa, what are all those tubes sticking out of your head?”

“I’ve got conscious neurotransmitter probes today.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s not the worst part. They’re probing my pain centers.”

“Oh, ouch. Chet, what are you working on?”

“Cancer. Lungs, pancreas, liver. Dissection is scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Sorry, man. Hey, you mind if get that get-well card back? Bobby has something that may be curable.”

“No problem.”

“Hey Chuck, you doing anything?”

“Huh, wha’? Me? Oh, you bet. Eating and drinking and eating and drinking. I am so sloshed right now there are, like, five of you. It totally sucks, dude.”

“You’ve got to be joking. Most of us are terminal and you’re whining about gluttony?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I was this close to the test of how much sex will kill you.”

The following occurred at about 5 p.m. Oct. 24 at the Radisson Poco Diablo Resort in Sedona. Some of the names were changed because, honestly, I don’t remember their names.

Scene: Quiet lobby, three women behind the check-in desk; a somewhat heavyset younger woman working on one of the computers; a very short older woman with those cat’s-eye glasses on a thin metal chain (a look that could have qualified her as a substitute teacher), and some other youngish woman that just doesn’t make an impression. On the other side of the desk is a distinguished looking man (a Richard Gere type, only shorter with more wrinkles and about nine-tenths less handsome, a person herein described as “me”) and a woman who really doesn’t figure much into this particular story, which says more about the circumstances than her personality, because sometimes it just happens that way.

The cat’s-eyeglasses woman, whose head, neck and top part of her shoulders peek over the desk, stares at the two people who have just entered the quiet lobby but says nothing as they stand there in an otherwise empty lobby. They look confused, but how could they be? Once the front door opens, they are facing what could only be the check-in desk, an area familiar to any traveler. And yet the visitors hesitate, look, and slowly approach. Twenty feet away, 15, 10, and they stop again. Cat’s-eyeglasses still stares, but now looks as confused as they are. She remains silent. They take another step, and another. OK, just one more and …

“Welcome to the Poco Diablo Radisson, how can I be of assistance to you today?” Cat’s-eyeglasses says, the greeting well practiced, or merely rehearsed.

“Uh, checking in.” That’s the previously mentioned “me,” if you are confused.

“Wonderful. Your name please?”

“Well, I have this express check-in printout, I did it online. And it said to bring it to the express counter and I, there’s no-“

“Name, please?”

“Yeah, guess this doesn’t do much good, what’s the sense, we’re the only ones here, right, so that pretty much means this was kind of a-“

“Name?”

“Right, name.” I give her my name.

“Yes, here you are, one night, correct?”

“That’ll do it.”

“Wonderful, this will only take a second and we’ll have you on your way. I see you’ve prepaid so if I can just see some ID we’ll have you on your way.”

“No problem.” I hand her my ID, which is brand new because I lost my driver’s license not too long ago and went to the DMV for a new one, but then I found my old one but it was still worth the $4 fee because now my ID does not have a photo of me with a mustache, which I could have mentioned to the clerk but she wanted to have us on our way, so I kept all that to myself.

As she is tapping at the computer, I notice her name tag.

“OK, looks like we’re finished here,” she says. “Here are your keys, and you will see I have written your room number on the sleeve here because it is our policy not to say room numbers out loud for the privacy of our guests.”

“I can see why. She certainly seems suspicious,” I say, gesturing to the heavyset woman behind the counter. “Good policy. You can never be sure.”

“Yes, we certainly think it is.” Her sarcasm detector is set on “Off.”

“Never be too careful, that’s what I always say. So we’re in …?’

“Right there, sir, I’ve written it down.” She places a map of the property on the counter. “Your room is just around the corner here. Now where did you park?”

“In the parking lot.”

“Right, of course. So if you go out those doors there to the left, head down the short flight of stairs and follow the sidewalk, then, let’s see, you take a right, or no because, hmmm.” She says something no one can quite here.”

“OK, so it’s right out there and I go where again?”

“Those doors, you’ll see stairs, go down there and turn right. But first follow the sidewalk, then turn right. But you know what’s really nice? There are signs pointing the way to all the room numbers, it’s so easy.”

“Perfect, thanks so much. Oh, one more thing, where is the fitness room?”

“My goodness, I should know that. Let me take a look here and I am sure I’ll have you on your way in a second.”

Her finger follows the paths on the map, stopping and turning every now and then as if trying to find a way out of a maze. “You know, you’d think I’d know that by now, but this is my first week and-“

“It’s right here,” the younger heavyset woman says, her finger plopping next to a box saying “Fitness center.” “See, it’s right next to the pool.”

“Oh, so it’s right across from the room.” Damn! Now she knows the approximate location of our room.

The cat’s-eyeglasses woman apologizes. “I’m still trying to get everything straight around here.”

“You’re new, I understand. So how long do you have to work here before you graduate to a nametag that has your real name instead of Trainee?”

Yes, the good folks at Radisson had issued their new employee a label, so much more convenient than an actual name. Saves money on nametags as well. The fine plastic sported by Trainee could be used over and over again by many other Trainees, saving Radisson as much as up to a few bucks a year (negated, of course, should a few nefarious visitors leave with the tiny containers of shampoo and conditioner).

“My goodness, I don’t know, I’ve never asked about that,” Trainee says. “But my real name is Jan.”

“So it is a job description, right? You’re not Jan Trainee?”

“No, just Jan.”

“I hope that someday your fine efforts on behalf of this company will earn you your name back.”

“I hope so too.”

“It’ll take a few months, I think,” said the heavyset woman, who has a nametag with her alleged name rather than her position, since her position (Woman Who Looks Too Busy to Help, Speak to or Acknowledge Customers) is too long to fit on a nametag.

“And I hope to be here a few months from now,” Jan Trainee says. “I’m sure I will be.”

“Too bad you don’t earn a credit toward your name with every guest you help. Then I could come back a few times and help you toward your goal.”

And perhaps even attend the ceremony where Trainee ascends to her true and proper name, though that may be a secret Radisson ceremony that involves the death of some small animal wearing a nametag that says “Sacrifice.”

THAT TIME AT THE AIRPORT

“We’re close, you might want to have your ID ready.”

Wait, ID? Before leaving for the airport I had thinned my wallet to the essentials (credit card, debit card, Starbucks card, my “If lost, please return wallet to…” because I still believe in the inherent good of pickpockets) but did not recall seeing my 12-year-old picture ID in which I sported a mustache now considered fashionable only in former Soviet countries.

“Oh crap, I don’t think I have it.”

“What? How could you not have it?”

How indeed, as our country faced its greatest terrorist threat – sports drinks. Just two days prior, Britain had broken an al Qaeda plot involving the use of explosive sports drinks, or coffee, or toothpaste, or contact lens cleaning solution, or any type of gel or liquid that was not baby formula since their explosives technology apparently did not extend to infant products. As a result, passengers were asked to pack solids only into their carry-ons. As a result, we were in line to check a small carry-on bag as it contained shampoo, conditioner and other potentially lethal trial-sized products.

I reached into my back pocket, extracted an unusually thin wallet and went through each of the cards again. I was well-prepared for future visits to Starbucks, but I was in a shitload of trouble when it came to boarding an airplane. No ID bearing my photo. Why didn’t Starbucks require a small picture of myself? More Americans carry Starbucks cards than photo ID because they’re far more useful. “Did you know how fast your were going?” the cop would say. “Let me see your insurance, registration and Starbucks card, please.” Trust me, we’d all drive a lot more safely if traffic fines included the loss of future caramel macchiatos.

“No, it’s not here. But I know exactly where it is.” Turned out I was wrong about that.

I weighed the possibilities. I could run out the curb and jump on a bus back to the parking lot, endure 21 subsequent stops, search for my car, get in the exit line, explain to the parking clerk that I swore I’d put the ticket in the glove box and had only been there about 30 minutes, and wave as my fight passed overhead.

Or I could book a later flight, go home, get my ID, return, get in the security line and forget all about that tube of hair gel I carry on me for emergencies, resulting in a lengthy interview and invasion of personal space by minimum-wage TSA agents who enjoy the job for its various perks.

Or I could call my good friend and neighbor Mo, whom I nod at almost every time I see him when not averting my eyes pretending I am way too busy to talk. Or nod. Yeah, he’ll help me. I’ll just call him, have him use the key he and his wife have to Paula’s house (she has developed a relationship with Mon in that she nods and waves, and at times even exchanges pleasantries should the situation warrant, like meeting at the community mailbox, forming a bond like no other in the neighborhood), finding and taking the remote control to my garage door (she has it for reasons I no longer remember), enter my home through the garage, chant in a loud voice the phrase “Down, down, down” to the two dogs who will meet him at the door, maneuver his way to the kitchen where, in a pile of rather unnecessary cards, he will find my photo ID. He would then take said ID and drive about 30 minutes to the airport, where I will be waiting anxiously on the curb with hundreds of other photo-ID-capable travelers who are waiting for loved ones to pick them up rather than a guy across the street to drop off an ID.

Yeah, calling Mo will work.

“Hand me your phone,” I said.

“Where’s yours?”

“Packed.”

“Why?”

“Because if I had it on me, I would just be one more thing I’d have to dig out of my pocket at security. I mean, I’ve already gotta take off my watch and kick off my shoes. Getting my phone out is just too much of a hassle.”

True laziness is an art, and I am Monet.

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” I said. “What if they determined my phone could detonate my shaving cream? To hell with missing the flight to San Diego. I’d be locked up in TSA jail with other people accused of attempting to blow up their personal-hygiene items.”

“But you’re shaving cream would be in the checked luggage, remember? They’re not letting us carry on potentially lethal gels and liquids.”

“Trust me, if I wanted to explode my shaving cream with my cell, I would find a way to do it, whether my luggage was in the overhead bin or in the hold. Either way it’s a local call and BOOM, it’s all over. So I’m not going to take my cellphone on the plane. And these people taking on laptops? Potential super-terrorists. So let me use your phone.”

“All right, here. Mo’s number is in the directory.”

“Wait, how do I get there? Why don’t you just dial it for me? Hand it to me when it’s ringing.”

I am a Rembrandt of task avoidance.

Paula punched in the number and handed me the phone.

“Is it ringing?” I said.

“It should be, just give it a sec.”

“Can you talk to him? Tell him-“

“No! You’re the idiot who doesn’t have his license.”

The phone rang once, twice, again. Again. Answering machine. I hung up and looked at my watch. It was shortly before 7 a.m. I assumed it also was 7 a.m. in a household that assumed sunrise happened since it was never awake to actually witness it.

“No answer.”

“Try it again. But you know you’re waking them up.”

“No kidding. So what do I-“

“Just hit the green button. Forget it, I’ll do it. There.”

Ringing. Again. Again.

“Hel … lo?”

It was Mo. Well, at least the 10 percent of him awake.

“Mo.”

“Yuh.”

“It’s Scott.”

“-“

“You know, from across the street.”

Another pause. I could almost hear a quick nod in my direction.”

“Mo, I need a favor.” Yeah, a favor. Only not like a “Can you take the newspaper off my driveway” favor, but a “Can you help me frame this room I’m adding to my house” favor.

“Yeah, no problem, what’s up?” said Mo, happy to go get the newspaper off my driveway.

“I’m at the airport and I forgot my ID.”

I waited.

“So what do you need?”

Son of a bitch, he didn’t hang up. If I’d heard a neighbor say over the phone “airport” and “ID” in the same sentence, I’d slam down the phone (at least press the End button really hard) and unplug the phone.

“I need you to get the key to Paula’s house and get the remote for my garage,” I said, outlining the favor in detail. He said something about being late for work. I could live with that.

“So is that OK, can you get it to me?” I said, knowing this may just be the end of the friendly nods.

“Sure, OK, it’ll take me a bit.”

“Great, I really appreciate this, Mo. I owe you. Call me when you’re leaving. Oh, and that really strange looking thing low in the sky? That’s the sun.”

OK, I didn’t really say that thing about dawn, not to a guy doing me a helping-me-reroof-the-house type of favor.

“Well?” Paula said.

“He’s doing it and will call back when he’s on his way,” I said, handing her back her phone.

“You owe him bigtime.”

“Tell me about it. I just hope he’s not moving soon, because this is one of those things that locks me into helping him get his refrigerator into the truck.”

“And his entertainment center. And his bed. Hell, this one signs you up for the whole day, including following him to the new house.”

Once at the front of the line, we were directed to the next available ATM-like machine, a kiosk designed to reduce the face-to-face time between the customer and the customer service representative. Paula punched in the appropriate code, told the machine she had one bag, and wanted to request a seat in the non-liquid-bomb section. The joke, of course, was that there was no non-liquid-bomb section because we were flying Southwest. If we wanted to sit in the non-liquid-bomb section, we better fight for it just like everyone else.

At that point, as I glanced at the customer service representative saying “Next in line please” while making actual eye contact, it occurred to me. Maybe there was another answer to my dilemma. And just maybe I should ask someone. Like that customer service representative not afraid to look at customers.

“Excuse me,” I said, opening my hands so she could tell I was not carrying any gels or liquids. “Seems I forgot my photo ID and if I go back to my house to get it, I’m going to miss my flight. Is there a way I can still get on the plane.”

I bowed my head ready for the “What, are you crazy, fly without an ID? Well, you might as well walk right up to the gate with a juice box in one hand and a cellphone in the other, you creepy little terrorist.”

Instead she said, “Sure, no problem. Just inform them at security. You’ll get a little extra attention from agents, but you can still get on.”

Attempt to carry a Yoplait Smoothie onboard and it’s on the no-fly list for you. But fly with no ID and you can be any middle-aged balding white guy from the suburbs and fly with no questions asked. What is this world coming to?

I rejoined Paula, now being handed a luggage claim tag from the customer service representative responsible for handing out luggage claim tags.

“I just found out I can fly without an ID,” I said.

“What? You’re kidding. So you can give these people just any old name and fly?”

“Yeah, just like back in the 70s. Dark times. So anyway, I gotta call Mo and tell him never mind.”

Not sure who was more relieved, me or Mo. He was out of a crappy favor, and I didn’t have to donate sperm if he wanted another kid (you see, he had a vasectomy and, well, you never know with favors).

We rode the escalator to the third floor and walked to Gate C. A half-dozen people were in the line feeding to one of three metal detectors. Paula showed her boarding pass and ID to the agent, who nodded and directed her to the right.

I handed over my boarding pass to the uniform-clad man and wore by best sheepish expression.

“ID please,” she said without looking up, a waste of preemptive sheepish expression.

“I don’t have it,” I said.

Now he looked at me. “Ah, no ID, huh?”

“No. I left it at home. I know exactly where it is, though.”

“Doesn’t do much good at this point, does it”

“No, guess not.” I wasn’t sure if I should offer a personal apology for making him go beyond the call of duty, which was looking at IDs and nodding.

“Do you have any ID with a picture on it? Employee ID? Military ID? Library card?”

Library card? We are banning makeup, lipstick, nail files and anything that at some point could be used to hurt someone or, in the very least, make us presentable in public. But you can board a plane with a library card. This is going to rev up the terrorsts’ fake-ID industry, even though profit margins won’t be there like they used to be.

“You want a fake passport, that will be $2,000. U.S. driver’s license? That’s $1,000, $200 if it’s OK you be from Arkansas. State ID? Only $500.”

“No, I just want a library card. I have a photo of myself here. Just glue it on.”

“Oh, stupid TSA rules. OK, library card. That’ll be $10.”

I looked at the agent.

“I don’t even have a library card,” I said. “I mean I do have a library card, of course. Just not on me.”

“Anything with you picture?”

“No, all I’ve got are credit cards, cash …”

“Cash is always good, just not here,” he said, as if I’d offered him a bribe. Which I didn’t. Not that anyone could prove.

“I have nothing,” I said.

He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a red Sharpie. He put my boarding pass on the dais, smoothed it out and started to write. Once finished, he capped his pen and handed me the pass, which now included this phrase in large red letters – “No photo ID, check.” I now bore the shame of a scarlet phrase.

“Just show this to the agent as you walk through the metal detector,” he said. “Hold it up in front of you so he can see.”

I took the boarding pass and moved to the station to the left, as ordered. I took out my wallet, kicked off my shoes and slid off my watch, placing them into a bin. When it was my turn, I slid the bin onto the conveyor belt, held my pass in front of me and walked very slowly through the metal detector. The woman waiting for me on the other side looked at the pass.

“Male check needed on four,” she said loudly, keeping her eyes on me. “Sir, if you’ll just step over here.”

She pointed to an area surrounded on three sides by nylon straps stretched between metal stanchions, the same sort used by banks and amusement parks to keep customers in line. It was, of course, impenetrable. We all are trained not to cross such ropes. We could erect them the entire length of the border and stop the immigration problem in its tracks.

“Oh look, someone has put up ropes,” an immigrant would say. “We really shouldn’t go any further. It’s not allowed.”

I stepped into the proscribed area as other ID-carrying travelers passed. I ignored their looks that said, “If we start racial profiling, it’s just those kinds of guys that we’ll miss. Stupid terrorist, now you are trapped by ropes and will be dealt with.”

A man half my age approached. “Sir, if you’ll just follow me we’ll get you on your way.” To TSA jail!! Hahahahaha.

He released one of the straps so I could pass, taking care to re-secure it behind me, and walked me to a black mat with two widely spaced yellow footprints.

“If you’ll just place your feet on the spaces indicated,” he said. At this point there was no mention of the removal of any clothes, so I ruled out a body-cavity search. For now.

I put my feet on the outlines (they were so much bigger than me, could someone design a mat that did not make one feel so inferior?) as the agent stood about a foot away.

“Great, now if you’ll just raise your arms straight out to the sides,” he said. “I’m just going to pat you down. Do you have any sensitive areas I should know about?”

“No.” I do have sensitive areas, but not any he should know about.

He cupped his hands on my upper right left arms, felt along my legs and patted my sides and chest. He was either looking for a knife, gun or breath spray, I wasn’t sure.

“OK, if you’ll just step over here to identify your belongings,” he said, walking to the X-ray machine. He held up the bin with all my stuff. “Is this all you have?”

“That’s it.”

“OK, that’s good,” he said, though he might just as well have said, “OK, this will be easy.”

He took my Nikes and placed them on a table. A few feet away was a machine about the size of a copier, only different because it apparently worked. With a pair of tongs, he grabbed what looked like a small moist towelette and swabbed the tops of both my shoes. He placed the towelette into a plastic mount, snapped it shut and inserted into the machine. Within seconds a blue LCD screen lit up with a series of numbers.

“OK, sir, you’re free to go,” he said, the numbers apparently below levels that would suggest a shutdown of the airport to be a good thing.

I walked back to Paula, who was waiting. And laughing.

“I really wanted to take a picture of you, but I thought they’d take that pretty seriously,” she said.

“If you had, you and I would definitely be in TSA jail right now, next to someone explaining that their lubricant was for personal, rather than terrorist, use,” I said. “The airline industry has really lost its sense of humor over terrorism jokes, you know?”

On the return trip I received much the same treatment, only the San Diego agents placed my belongings into a bright red bin that screamed “Suspect.” I was released following a pat-down and shoe swabbing.

My ID? Still have no idea where it might be. So tomorrow, I’m applying for a library card.

Technorati Profile

I am still unsure how Bryson trapped himself with a plastic bag from Borders, but he was indeed securely handcuffed in such a way as to meet CIA standards for transport to Gitmo (as in “Can it Gitmo ridiculous than a boy locked in a bag?”)

We had just purchased a few books at the Borders Express in Sunvalley Mall, the usual sprawling complex of hot pretzels and overpriced fashions, this one in Concord, California, where we were visiting his grandmom and granddad. Once the purchase was made (two books, one a hardcover), I handed Bryson the bag, as he had carried such bags in the past without injury or incident. In fact, his track record for carrying bags was nearly flawless save for that time he dropped his cherry snow cone in among his new clothes because he wanted to save it for later. But that was when he was 5. Now he was 11, his bag-carrying skills at an all-time high.

So firm was my belief in his abilities, I took my eyes off of him for several minutes, so firm was my belief that when I again turned to him, both he and the bag would not only be there, but in a decent, non-threatening condition.

Such haughty actions were quickly punished.

“Dad, I’m stuck.”

Hmm, that voice came from very near, and it sounded like my son. But how could it possibly be him? Stuck? No, because we are outside of Hot Topic, where there is absolutely nothing that could trap a young boy other than the fashion display that whispers, “Hey, little man, come inside for the dose of coolness you’ll never get hanging around your dad.”

“You’re what?” I turned to him. Everything seemed just fine. Bryson, check. No trenchcoat-wearing strangers, check. Bag with books, check.

Plastic wrapped tightly around wrists with fingers turning blood-red, that admittedly seemed to be a problem.

Each of the bag’s handles dug into the flesh of Bryson’s wrists, his arms pinned together at the point of the restraints. Was this a sign we had all become handcuffed by our own wants in a society that emphasizes things over our own humanity? Or was this a kid who had somehow tied himself up with a book bag?

Let’s go with the latter.

“Bryson, what …? How …? I don’t even …”

He struggled against the plastic, wriggling his hands. The bag refused to give.

“I don’t know, I was just doing stuff and now I can’t get out,” he said.

“But what exactly were you doing?” I said. “Because this really took some effort.”

At this point it was difficult to take seriously. My son has been trapped by plastic, outwitted by a book bag. Inanimate object 1, straight-A student 0.

He struggled some more, trying to pull his arms apart. The plastic showed no sign of weakness.

A few shoppers slowed as they passed, gazing at the boy ensnared by a common mall container. Several looked at me with a “Aren’t you going to help him?” look, quickly judging by parental skills. A few merely smiled.

But others looked at me rather wistfully, as if dreaming of the day they too would be able to restrain their children with such a simple device.

I inspected his predicament a little closer. The plastic clearly was embedded into the area where small bones made up the wrist area. No way was he going to slip these bonds. We had to devise a more clever escape, something very Houdini-like in its nature to confound the bag and render useless its evil plan.

“Just twist your wrists and pull them apart,” I said. “It’s just plastic.”

Plastic, indeed. This was some sort of demon-infused plastic that refused to surrender to the writhing of small wrists. Not a millimeter did it give.

“I’ve been trying that and I can’t move,” Bryson said. “It’s starting to hurt.”

The beet-red glow moved from fingers to the lower part of the hands. Drastic measures must be taken. My fatherly instincts took over.

I pulled out my camera.

“Don’t even try!” Bryson said. “I can’t even believe you!”

He darted away, walking as fast as a boy attempting to hide he was handcuffed by a bag in a mall could. I caught up to him less than a minute later as he leaned against a gleaming marble wall of the Macy’s.

I snapped the photo, looked at the LCD screen. Dang, no flash. I called up the menu, switched on the flash and shot again. Perfect.

“Fine, are you happy now?” Bryson said. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Hey, remember that time Ryan got his finger stuck in the bowling ball?” I said. True story. Ryan, 7 at the time, actually got his finger stuck in a bowling ball. How does that happen? A manager used soap from the men’s room to extract it. “Remember how funny we all thought it was? Well, except for Ryan, who couldn’t stop … OK, look, let’s get this thing off of you.”

I bent down and he turned toward the wall.

“Just leave me alone,” he said. “I’ll do it myself.”

“If you could do it yourself, you would have already done it. Just let me look.”

It was like those Chinese fingercuffs. I searched for a clue, a part of the bag that might release its grip allowing me to unravel the rest. But it looked impenetrable.

“Just how did this happen?” I said. “Because then we can reverse what you did and get you out.”

“I don’t remember. I was just twisting it and stuff and flipped it up. Now I can’t move it.”

“So you were flipping it? Which way?”

“I think I sort of flipped it like this.” He swung his arms outward.

“So if we flip the bag backward we should be able to get this off you.”

I pushed the bag toward the narrow slot between Bryson’s arms. He pulled away.

“That hurts,” he said. “It won’t go that way.”

I looked inside the Macy’s. The woman at the cosmetic counter looked back. I balanced the possible solutions.

One, continue to struggle hoping we would find the plastic’s weakest point and bring it to its knees.

Two, ask the cosmetics lady for scissors, resulting in sympathy I neither wanted nor needed from a woman in a white smock.

Three, pretend everything is fine because a plastic bag can’t cause irreversible harm. Can it?

I went with four: Tear the damn bag. I ripped it open at the seams, the bag giving up its contents with one quick pull. Suddenly it wasn’t so tough.

Without the weight of the books, Bryson quickly untied himself. Normal color soon returned to his hands.

But now I was stuck carrying the books without a bag, walking around the mall looking like a shoplifter. Perhaps the bag won after all.

The new computer was still in boxes because dad, a dial-up guy in a broadband world, wasn’t about to try to connect the green plug to the green jack, or figure out what the hell a USB was, never mind where it goes.

The first thing to be done was to clean the hard drive of his old computer, something I would eventually do with a screwdriver and a hammer (with no apologies to the charity destined to get this relic, purchased in an age when Compaq wasn’t Latin for “piece of crap”).

As I looked at the screen, I was amazed at the number of icons that obscured the Compaq logo. Nearly every pixel was occupied by a launch button for various programs, most of which likely had never been clicked.

“Wow, this is a mess,” I said to dad. “The first thing we’re going to have to do is clear off this desktop.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I can get a little messy.”

He reached for a small pile of bills lying next to the keyboard. “I’ll take these and if you hand me those papers over there, we’ll have this cleaned up in no time.”

This is why my father waited two months for me to visit before opening his new computer. Wise decision.

I got a tattoo for the same reason most guys my (advanced) age get a tattoo – a Porsche is way too expensive, wearing clothes from Abercrombie & Fitch would be trying too hard, and Botox only lasts a few months.

So I got a tattoo. OK, I made the appointment when I was drunk, plunking down $20 as a promise to return the next day at 3 p.m. I would find out later, while waiting for the tattoo artist and watching several sober people drop by to make appointments, that the deposit seems only to apply to those in an inebriated state as a tattoo always seems like a good idea after the fifth beer. If not for various health laws designed to keep drunks from making bad decisions (like driving), you would probably see tattoo booths in almost every bar. If I etched skin, I would want to set up shop on weekend evenings at TGIFriday’s, the center of the universe for those 40 and older who can’t hold their liquor. I could retire after a few months and hundreds of ill-advised tattoos later. My motto – “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

The pierced, tattooed Goth girl at the front desk (who knew tattoo parlors had front desks?) seemed surprised when my friend and I showed up the next day in an alcohol-free state. I was surprised too. Not that we were in a tattoo parlor. That we were in a tattoo parlor in an alcohol-free state.

She chose a tiny shamrock on her upper back. Must be an older woman thing. While there, another older woman was getting a shamrock on her ankle. Perhaps a latent attraction toward the Lucky Charms leprechaun. I went for a Kanji symbol, Kanji being Chinese characters used by the Japanese in certain writings (information I looked up later, thinking if something is going to be a part of me the rest of my life, I should know a little something about it, though I am still perfectly content not knowing exactly how my gastrointestinal tract works). I examined the chart of Kanji characters. You could assume there would be a symbol for diarrhea, but not that it would offered as a tattoo. My first, drunken choice was “father,” because if there came a time my son thought I was neglecting him, I could point to the tattoo and prove that I was still a father. But seeing the chart in a sober state, the character was a bit sparse, a box with a couple of accent marks. I chose instead “laugh, humor,” a symbol that applied to my personality and also one I considered cool, a fact tempered with the knowledge I considered my Toyota Camry cool.

The symbol happened to stored on the tattoo parlor’s computer (who knew tattoo parlors had computers?) and was printed on special paper that allowed the tattoo artist to transfer it to my skin. Yeah, the “artist” was no more than a guy really good at coloring within the lines. Since he had a series of very sharp needles at his disposal, I did not question his talent.

I picked a spot high on my right arm, easily covered by short-sleeve shirts. The only thing cooler than having a tattoo is having a tattoo no one can see, allowing you to be smug about your coolness. Hmm, seeing that in print, it seems rather silly. Too late now.

My friend shouted from the counter, her microscopic shamrock already in place.

“Twenty bucks if you make him scream like a little girl.”

The tattoo-coloring guy said, “No problem.”

What most people say when seeing your tattoo, after, “Why?” is “Did it hurt?” The best answer is, “Just enough to let me know what parts of me I don’t want tattooed.”

There is a stinging sensation at first, not surprising since a bobbing needle is piercing skin about 10 times a second. It s followed by a burning sensation is if a lighter is about an inch from your flesh. And then it begins to tingle, which is somewhat pleasurable (though not pleasurable enough to convince me to tattoo certain parts of my body). It’s as if your skin says, “Oh, is this all? No problem.” Every now and then there is a brief spike of pain, but nothing to make you scream like a little girl. Unless you are a little girl. And if you are, you are prohibited from getting tattooed, which I learned after signing a form swearing I was 18 or older (as if we had a problem there), that I knew tattoos could only be removed surgically (as I learned during the Angelina Jolie-Billy Bob Thornton tabloid adventures), and that I wouldn’t sue if my skin was allergic to the ink and my flesh started to slough off. Yeah, sure, whatever, just give me my cool Kanji.

About 20 minutes later it was done. The tattoo color-iner taped some Saran Wrap to it and told me to keep this “bandage” on for the next three hours. The Goth girl handed me care instructions, stuff about antiseptic cream and lotion and soap. Whatever, OK, you bet. Can I be hip now?

One last hurdle. When I mentioned a few months ago to Bryson, my 11-year-old son, that I was thinking about a tattoo, he gave me a look reserved for smokers (who receive the disdainful, reproachful look of a know-it-all kid every time he passes one, and I don’t have a problem with that).

“You can’t get a tattoo,” he said. “For one, you’re too old. Old people don’t get tattoos. You’re, like, 20 years too late. And only bad guys get tattoos. Whenever you see a guy with a tattoo in the movies, you know he’s the bad guy.”

Yeah, well, maybe bad guys just want to be cool, no matter how old they are.

“Bryson, can I tell you something without you freaking out?”

“I guess. What’s going on.”

“I did something.” When your father says, “I did something,” you probably expect to hear, “And we have to move so get packing.”

He just stared at me. I rolled up my sleeve.

“Is that real? That’s not real. Is it real? No way it’s real.”

“It’s real.”

“No it isn’t. Nice try.”

“It’s real. Trust me on this. I have photos.” I did have photos. Hey, you don’t break your tattoo cherry without getting photos, especially when you’re old.

He looked at it very closely.

“Touch it.” He rubbed it with his forefinger.

“It’s real! What did you do! I can’t believe you did that to yourself.”

The boy was giving me lessons on how to act when he turns 18. Wish I had photos of this.

“Hey, I’m old enough to do this,” I said, defending myself to a kid. “It took a lot of thought.” And a lot of beer. I didn’t mention that last one.

“You are way too old. Old people don’t get tattoos. Young people get tattoos.”

“Don’t you even want to know what it means?”

“I already know what it means. It means you’re crazy!”

Apparently we were going to have to agree to disagree. Later he still didn’t understand the tattoo, but he did accept it. I also acceded him the right to get his own tattoo. When he’s 40.

“No way, I’m getting one way before that so I’m not a crazy old person.”

Pandora, meet box. Box, meet Pandora.

Sometimes it’s tough to be cool.