Every now and then, I come across brief descriptions of upcoming movies issued by film studios. Here's the favorite so far, submitted by 20th Century Fox for Aliens vs. Predator opening Dec. 25:
“In this follow-up to the worldwide hit Alien vs. Predator, the iconic monsters from two of the scariest film franchises ever, wage their most brutal battle yet in an unsuspecting Colorado town.”
See, it's the unsuspecting towns that always leave themselves open to tragedy. In fact, we can envision this conversation between two members of the police department of the unsuspecting Colorado Town.
”Something terrible happened here, so much death and destruction. I suspect drug dealers.”
”Yup, may be. Though I suspect this is due to the actions of a a covert domestic militia, maybe even a government experiment gone wrong. Hell, it could be anything. Terrorists.”
“I agree, but you know what I don't suspect? Predators. Nope, doesn't look like Predators.”
“Right. Or Aliens. I'd be real surprised if it were Aliens or Predators. Can you imagine Aliens and Predators in this small unsuspecting town?"
"No way. Can't even believe we're talking about it."

So I was listening to Chicago’s “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is” and realized the guy who wrote it was being such a dick.

As he’s walking down the street one day, a man comes up to him and asks him what the time was that was on his watch (not that anyone would phrase the question like that, but OK, dramatic license).

So the man with the watch, instead of saying, you know, “It’s 2:15” or whatever, launches into this lecture about does anybody really know what time it is, or does anyone really care?

In answer to that first question, yes, tons of people really know what time it is. Even when this song was written about 15 BC (Before Cellphone), you could get the right time by calling a certain number, or checking the bank sign, or asking a guy on the street who wasn’t being a dick.

In answer to the second question, again, it’s tons of people. If no one really cared about time, what good would plane schedules be, or a three-minute egg, or the half-hour your girlfriend tells you she’ll be ready by (which is more a gross mis-estimation of time than not caring about time).

And if the guy with the watch doesn’t care about time, why the fuck is he wearing a watch?

So instead of getting an answer, the guy asking about time instead has to listen to some existential bullshit about we all have time enough to die, when all he really wanted to know was if he had enough time to get to a meeting or catch his favorite show or meet his buddy for a couple of beers.

But he doesn’t find out the time because he happened to ask a guy who’s a complete dick.

Junior high is tough, tougher if you fall into the 57^th percentile (or lower) in growth development.

Junior high is that time when bullies establish themselves and, worse, refine their techniques. The shove in the hallway is no longer enough, not when you’re in seventh and eighth grades (bullies occupying them simultaneously, taking eighth grade classes while trolling the seventh grade for fresh victims).

In junior high, bullies begin to network, passing along valuable tips (“The boys bathroom outside the media room is the best for swirlies – water level is an inch or two higher and flush goes on for several more seconds, resulting in a great dunking every time”). They open themselves up to methods that were impossible to perfect in elementary school for two reasons: first, kids stay in the same room all day, eliminating those four minutes between classes (bullies call that “primetime”) and secondly, elementary school teachers often develop an affection for smaller kids (“prey”) and thus watch out for them.

I became an unqualified expert in bullying in junior high. As a popular victim, I was able to see and experience what each bully in school had to offer. On my first day in seventh grade, for example, I apparently stepped on the Eighth Grade Lawn, a small patch of turf just outside the A wing (though I would discover later that the Eighth Grade Lawn was any bit of grass trod upon, or coming as close as a foot or less, by any smallish seventh grader).

It was then I met Robbie, who a year later would rely on my ability to lower my shoulder and write my answers in large easy-to-spot-from-space lettering to finally pass eighth grade. (We never became friends, but my assistance was frequently rewarded with less-severe noogies and titty-twisters).

“Hey, you,” Robbie said before the bell for first period rang. “Stop right there.”

I was 4-10 and 82 pounds, and thus very aware of my stature as victim. I immediately stopped even though there were probably 17 kids within 10 feet of me. I turned and saw a blond-headed kid about the size of a dumptruck with a face to match.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked.

At this point, I would love to remember me saying, “Well, based on your size I’d say college, but based on your intellect I’d say first grade” and then assuming a king-fu stance. But I really don’t remember saying anything. Having your fate sealed does that to a guy.

“You’re on the Eighth Grade Lawn, and I know you’re not in eighth grade,” he said. “Come here.”

You know how in the movies that time can freeze for all but one person, and that person starts walking around with this dazed look in his face because, though he has no idea what’s going on, it can’t be good.

I moved toward him, the world around me frozen. One step. Another. Soon I was within a few feet on him. The world unfroze and there was a small crowd around us. Just at bullies can sense victims (seriously, it is like sharks smelling blood from miles away; bullies pick up the scent of fear anywhere on a playground), bystanders can sense a confrontation worth watching. Suddenly they find themselves in a semicircle, their hive consciousness telling them something bad and really cool is about to unfurl.

“Since this is the first day of school,” Robbie said, “I’ll give you a break. Normally I would have to pound you, smack (the derogatory term of the day, don’t ask me why). But this time I’m just going to trash you.”

Suddenly I am free, soaring above the crowd, a miracle of flight. Until I realize I’m not flapping since my arms are pinned to my side, and supporting my horizontal nature is Robbie’s shoulder. And just as I realize what is happening, I fall back to earth. No, not fall. Thrust. And not just to earth. Into a trashcan. I can tell because it is very dark and even smellier. And yes, I am upside down. Definitely upside down.

I would later learn just how wondrous Robbie’s trashing technique was. First, he knew the perfect trash barrel, one filled about a quarter-full of leavings, preferably foodstuffs which offered a bad smell as well as a nice cushion. If the can were too full, it would topple shortly after landing, depriving the crowd of the anticipated spectacle of the kid scissoring his legs and screaming as he attempted to escape his predicament. If the can wasn’t full enough, the hollow thud of skull on metal often doubled or tripled the odds of someone in the crowd finding his/her conscious and telling a teacher. Robbie also had perfected the trajectory, his victim sailing into the precise center of the can with plenty of clearance on all sides.

It truly was a thing of beauty.

Other bullies would make rookie mistakes, not so surprising since this was junior high, kind of the spring training for social predators. They would pick the wrong trashcans or toss their victim awkwardly, lucky to hit a 65 or higher on the humiliation scale (Robbie often topped out in the 90s, greatly increasing his chances of scarring his victims for life).

Some even committed the greatest sin in all of bullydom – their victims would escape before their humiliation was complete. This was unforgivable. If it happened too many times (and one was too many), the bully lost all his status. He would no longer be able to sense fear and, far worse, instill it. Soon he would find himself in a semicircle with bystanders, a fate that could eventually turn him into a B student and, finally, a productive member of society.

And it would happen. Taylor (never sure if that was his first or last name) once lost his grip on a seventh grader as he was taking him to the ground for a pink belly. Taylor had failed to properly pin his prey’s arms, allowing the kid to wriggle out of his shirt to freedom. Not a week later, in the midst of pantsing one of the fattest kids in school (biting off way more than he could chew), Taylor had neglected to keep an eye out. His deed was witnessed by a teacher (the only time I knew this to happen before or after at good old Pine Hollow), and thus was force to take the March of “I Can’t Believe I Was Caught, Don’t Look at Me” to the principal’s office. Last time I saw, Taylor was pointing threateningly at sixth graders visiting to see what their new school would look like.

Robbie had them all beat. It was almost and honor to be bullied by the best. And I would like to think that one time in particular might still be remembered by those fortunate enough to witness it.

Pine Hollow was comprised of four wings, long halls lined with roughly 10 classrooms per side. The furthest distance between halls was no more than 200 feet, a distance that could be traversed on foot in no more than a few minutes. There were eight periods in the day, not including lunch. Time between periods was seven minutes (six minutes to the warning bell, another minute to start of class). Given that it took no more than three minutes to completely cross campus, that left four minutes for prime bully time. Four minutes is an eon to those who have perfected the random victimization of others.

And so it was on this day, roughly halfway through the year, enough time for Robbie to establish his position as Alpha Bully and for me to well known at Easy Pickings. And I had no idea I was about to walk into the perfect storm (as I pieced together later).

Robbie was leaving geometry in which he just received his latest test: a D, expected given his permanent spot in the gradebook’s subterranean layer. Apparently, however, Robbie was extremely upset since the smack he usually copied (a position I would one day hold) was either sick that day or had been moved to a desk out of Robbie’s view. I was never able to confirm, not that it mattered. Because Robbie was angry, and there was only one way to salve that particular wound.

Somebody had to feel worse than he did.

I was coming out of, well, I really don’t remember. Things don’t really kick in at this point. I was probably just looking forward to lunch like I usually did, where I could hang in the comfort of other smacks who felt absolutely no compunction to toss me in a trash can or give me an Indian burn. It was a pretty decent existence.

What I do remember is I was leaving the A wing and, from what I was to understand later, I stepped into Robbie’s peripheral vision.

“Hey, you,” he shouted. Remember that whole “world frozen, crowd gathers” thing? Yeah, exactly. Only now it was in the A Wing instead of one of the several Eighth Grade Lawns.

“You know what would look good?” he asked. “Because I have an idea. A really great idea.”

Oh, Jesus. It’s one thing to be summarily swept up and tossed in a trashcan. But when a bully engages in patter, that, people, is a bona fide “Oh shit” moment.

A simple trashcanning wasn’t going to do. This was going to be special.

Here’s another thing I would learn later – the trophy case in A Wing was normally locked. Not that it needed to since it was empty due to the fact Pine Hollow’s athletes did not excel like its bullies did. There wasn’t even a “Good sportsmanship” plaque, given to the league’s most inept teams as consolation. And thus all that gathered in this case notched into the wall was dust.

Today, the case was not locked. One of the A/V kids (read “victim,” occupying a level even below smack) was cleaning it and neglected to replace the lock that kept prevented its sliding doors from moving.

Robbie stepped over to the case and hurled one of the doors aside. The crowd actually parted before he made his move over to the case, so tuned into him they were starting to anticipate his moves.

“You need to be on display,” he said. “You deserve it.”

Robbie grabbed me in the usual fashion, in a bearhug, and lifted. The way between us and the display case remained clear of students.

I began to analyze the situation. The display case was roughly six feet wide, thus each sliding glass door was slightly more than three feet wide, allowing for overlap. Once scrunched, there would be plenty of clearance for my body.

The case looked to be about nine inches deep, a measure difficult to attain due to its mirrored back. Maybe six inches. This could be a problem. Though my frame could easily fit lengthwise, I’m not so sure that is depth would be adequate. Now if I were to shift so that my shoulders were –

Wow, I did fit. Robbie, not one for math, relied instead on mechanics and brute force, applying enough pressure and torque until I was within the display case. He slid the door shut. And left. It was like the baseball player who launched a ball into the stratosphere. Rather than standing at home plate and admiring the view, the true professional merely flicks his bat aside and begins to trot, his eyes never leaving the basepath.

That’s what Robbie’s exit was like. Perfect.

I wasn’t there for long, easily sliding the glass out of my way and flopping out. It was then I noticed the true artistry of Robbie’s performance. There, right across the hall, was the school office. There, not far from the front counter, were two secretaries who had either missed the whole thing or, more likely, chose not to get involved.

But that wasn’t the best part. The best part was that the vice principal’s office faced the front counter, and he had a direct line of sight to the display case. One of his jobs was to make sure no students were harmed at any point during their education, and yet there he sat, busy with paperwork. It was like stealing the patrol car after an officer pulled you over for a ticket. Audacious and brilliant.

Sure, I was stuffed into a display case. That didn’t stop me from appreciating the boldness of such a spontaneous and cruel move.

Well, it did back then. Of course. But I have since come to terms with the fact Robbie was a poor, pathetic boy who could relate to others only through aggression as a means of dealing with his extremely low self-esteem.

My hunch is that today Robbie is serving 10-to-15 for aggravated assault. Or he’s a CEO.

Any questions I had about how my dad would accept new technology were answered shortly after I plugged in his new computer (his first) about five years ago.

Though he had decided months earlier he wanted to be part of the Internet, staying abreast of the weather reports without having to wait 10 minutes for the next radio report, he waited until I visited so someone of some knowledge could help him with the purchase and setup.

Midway through the lesson, I introduced him to the mouse, telling him how it controlled the curson. Peering over his shoulder at the screen, I told him to move the mouse and note how it corresponded to the cursor. Only the cursor wasn’t moving. I told him to move the mouse. “I am,” he said. I looked to my right and saw him waving it in the air like a wand.

OK, this was going to take a while.

So as my son loved the idea of packing our Nintendo Wii for the annual trip to see his grandparents, I wasn’t so sure how well it would go over. My mom wants nothing to do with technology, clinging to her corded phone (no answering machine), her pen and notecards, her VCR (trusting its operation to my dad).

My dad is a little more open, as noted by his ability to tape various TV programs. But his last encounter with video games was the Atari 2600 we played in my teen years. One joystick, one button, a stick figure or two on the screen – as far as he knew, videogames hadn’t changed much over the years. Putting an Xbox 360 controller in his hand would have been akin to putting him behind the wheel of a 747 and pointing toward the runway.

But with the Wii’s simple remote, hell, he just might find something to like.

Not long after our arrival, my son plugged the Wii into their 14-year-old RCA 27-inch TV and its cutting-edge (at the time) video input. (In fact, the TV was almost 14 years old on the nose, as my mom had not only retained the receipt, but filed it in such a way as to be able to retrieve it in just a few minutes, proof that life in analog still works).

We fired up the tennis game and invited my parents to watch. Their innate sense of politeness overcame their complete disinterest in video games. As my son and I swatted the ball back and forth, dad showed his first sign that maybe, just maybe, he was ready to join the 21^st century.

“So you just swing the paddle?” he asked. “And the game can see you? How does that work?”

I had no idea the inner workings of the Wii, beyond the sensor bar placed on the TV. So in accordance with family tradition, I winged it.

“That bar on top of the TV sends out these nano pulses, kind of like radar but way more sophisticated,” I said. “The beams bounce off of us and the game ‘reads’ us, and all our movements are transferred to the screen in a fraction of a second.”

“Just because I still have dialup doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” said dad, in the fine family tradition of knowing bullshit when he hears it.

“I have no idea how it works. Only that it does.”

After a few games, I offer him the remote. “Want to try?”

“Yes.” I was a little surprised how eager this 80-year-old man, who grew up in a time when interactive entertainment was turning the knob on the Philco radio, was ready to try something completely different.

One small step for a dad, one giant leap for geriatric kind.

I should have known. After all, his first instinct with the mouse was to wave it in the air. The Wii’s remote almost came naturally to him.

But not naturally enough. After whiffing at the tennis ball four straight times, thus losing the set in record time, he wasn’t quite fast enough to keep up with the Wii’s nano pulses (or whatever they are).

Time to slow it down.

“You want to try bowling?” I said.

“Yes.”

It seemed to be a much better fit. Bowling required the same motion was in real-world bowling, only with a 6-ounce remote instead of a 16-pound ball. Hell, someone should open a Wii bowling center near retirement homes everywhere. And serve beer. Call it Wii Bowl and Drink. Call me for licensing.

As dad prepared to launch his first ball, the he encountered the first barrier: buttons. The game required twice as many buttons at the Atari, a leap in the learning curve.

Dad is waving the remote like a pendulum, but his character remains motionless.

“How come nothing is happening?” he said. “Your little game broke.”

“No, here, to start you have to press the A button,” I said. “This big one top.”

“What one?”

“Here, let go and I’ll show you. This one. The big one with an A on it.”

“Ah, I just press that and I’m set?”

“That’s it.”

“Great, let’s go,” he said, taking the remote.

His bowler now stood ready to go. Dad swung his remote. His bowler stayed still.

“Jesus, now what?”

“You, uh, have to press the B button.”

“Another button? I didn’t have to press all these buttons when I played tennis. You didn’t tell me about all the buttons.”

“It’s easy, see, the B button is on the back, see, it’s like a trigger. Press it and hold it, then swing your arm like you’re bowling. All there is too it.”

Dad assumed the bowling stance and pressed B, sending his bowler into motion. He swing his arm down and back up, and the Wii responded with a blip and a message, the bowler frozen in place.

“Dad, to let go of the ball you have to release the B button,” I said.

“Criminy, what’s with all the button stuff? There are no buttons in bowling.”

“No, there are very heavy balls so this is a lot easier. You just have to time it. Press the B button, swing your arm and then release B at the point you want to let go of the ball. It just takes some adjustment but once you get used to it, it’s real easy.”

Once again he assumed the stance and pressed B. His bowler swung his arm back and released the ball, sending it into the virtual crowd behind him, who react with a startled “Oh!”

“That was real good, you just released it too early,” I said, remembering how patient dad was with me when I was learning how to drive, a potentially lethal activity given my lack of skill. So I could do this. “You just want to let go of B just as your bowler swings forward.”

He tried again and again. More often than not, he hurled the ball with a high arc, the kind that would have dented the lane and resulted in his expulsion had this been a real alley.

But by the seventh frame he had caught on, scoring his first spare.

“OK,” he said. “Now we’re cooking.”

Not quite. He failed to break 100 but, refusing to quit after humiliation, dad challenged his grandson to another game.

And in the great family tradition of grossly overestimating new skills, he added, “This time I’m going to kick your little butt.”

And he did just that, scoring a 134-126 victory. He eventually played golf and baseball several times during our weeklong visit, and I silently thanked Nintendo for giving my dad a small taste of this century. No, it didn’t spur him to ditch his dialup Internet connection for broadband (“I don’t need to get the weather any faster than I do now”), but it’s a welcome step.

And you have to love a device that not only offers an equal playing field for an 80-year-old grandfather and his 12-year-old grandson, but lets the grandson see his granddad in a different light.

“He was really getting into it,” my son said later. “That was cool. Maybe we should get him a Wii for Christmas or something.”

Sure, but dad would wait six months for us to visit and hook it up. Some things never change.

The good physicians of the AMA don’t know this, but they let me off the hook and made me a better parent with just one vote. They decided that videogame addiction is not a verifiable affliction. Good thing, No, I’m not addicted (not that I need a verifiable affliction to take mood-altering drugs when “because I want to” will suffice should I ever decide to start munching pills). However, my son is walking the line between “I play to fill the time, and there’s an awful lot of time to fill” and “If you turn off the 360, I will be turning you off.”

OK, it’s not that bad. Yet. But he is rather preoccupied right now with a little game called Crackdown. In it, he plays an enforcer of the law who gets more powerful as he enforces more laws (and by “enforces” I mean “kills” and by “laws” I mean “bad guys”). It’s rated M for Mature, and he is fairly mature for his age. Good enough.

You may judge me if you wish, but let the person without tweens on long too-hot-to-go-out summer days cast the first stone. But after watching my son play Crackdown for many hours, I can see some wonderful things happening. Many years ago there was a naïve, perhaps mentally challenged author who wrote “Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten” (Which is total bullshit, so of course it sold billions of copies.)

With that crap in mind, I present “Everything I Needed to Know I Learned from Playing Crackdown,” as I envision my son writing 30 years from now:

It is not your accuracy, it is the size of your weapon that counts.

Life is not worth living if you can’t roundhouse-kick a car off an embankment.

Most problems are best solved with a rocket launcher.

The most important decision you make each day is what weapon to carry.

Ammunition: Never leave home without it.

Why abuse steroids when you can enhance yourself naturally through the senseless killing of others.

There are two kinds of people in the world: those with 4-star agility who can jump 30 feet in the air, and cannon fodder.

You can kill way more people with a nondescript sedan than with the most tricked-out automatic weapon so seriously, do not piss me off when I am driving.

Nothing clears a traffic jam like a well-placed grenade.

It is a good thing the Vatican announced 10 Commandments for Motorists because until then, people were probably pretty confused about how the original “Thou shalt not kill” commandment pertained to the roadway. (It’s pretty clear now as the Vatican’s First Commandment for drivers also happens to address the wrongness of killing, ending any hopes for escaping sin with the “But it was an accident” excuse).

In general, the car commandments are intended to make us more virtuous in the vehicle. It even suggests praying behind the wheel, but if you are the closed-eyes-and-bowed head type, please refrain from talking to God while in motion. And no, “Please God, just let me make this light” does not count as prayer.

That’s all well and good when it comes to sin-avoidance on the highway. But does “Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin” or “Feel responsible for others” really help anyone’s commute?

That is why we devised these 10 Commandments for People Driving in the Real World:

10. Thou shalt not drive the speed limit in the fast lane unless thou art seeking to provoke road rage.

9. Thou shalt not provoke road rage.

8. During off-peak hours, thou shalt treat the carpool lane like the fast lane.

7. During peak, thou shalt have the moral standards to stay out of the carpool lane if thou are alone, less ye risk eternal damnation (which is far more likely than being pulled over by a patrol officer).

6. Thou shalt not bypass traffic on the right only to cut into a crowded left-turn lane at the last second, for even the meek will want to kick your ass.

5. Thou shalt back off to allow others in front of you, unless thou sees no turn signal, then thou art free to narrow the gap, for thou shalt remain without sin when cutting off dickheads.

4. Thou shalt not drive the speed limit in the fast lane. How many times do we have to tell you people?

3. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s space in front of you, lest thou can find your away around him without being a jerk.

2. Thou shalt not have stickers, magnets or other attachments boasting of ordinary accomplishments or feelings, and yes, we are specifically talking about stick families, honor-student bumper stickers and support-our-troop magnets. Assholes.

1. Thou shalt get the fuck out of our way. Seriously.

It is a quiet Friday morning, a day off, my son still sleeping in his room just down the hall. I am at the kitchen table sipping coffee and sifting through the newspaper spread before me.

The glass door to the back yard is open, a fruitless attempt to capture a rare whiff of cool air available only this early in the morning. In another 20 minutes, the door will be shut again as the mercury steadily climbs into the 80s, 90s, beyond.

The three dogs wander in and out, knowing this freedom is short-lived. It is quiet, not an ambience I prefer. Usually I’d have the stereo on, but this is my son’s first day of summer vacation and I don’t want to wake him.

I take a sip from the half-filled ceramic cup, a blue and beige mug purchased from a tiny gift store in Bodega Bay more than 20 years ago, a Christmas gift from my parents given to me when I rarely, if ever, drank any sort of hot beverage. Now I drink – no, I need – coffee each morning.

As I drink, my eyes drift to the living room. There is a, well, small mound of something on the area rug. Sandy, an Australian kelpie (smallish dog, soft chocolate brown coat, lighter at the haunches, darker along the spine) stands over it, licking it at first, then taking a small nibble.

Great, I will let her nibble at it, since it appears to be a small pile of grass. I can make out shreds poking from the center of the mound, though I can make out little else with the scene just a silhouette with the light filling the back door.

Sandy has always been a stealth puker. Everything is fine one moment, suddenly there’s a moist stain on the carpet. I will clean it up when she’s done dining on the remains, trying to make it as easy on myself as possible.

I go back to the paper, keeping an eye on her to see when she finishes. Less than a minute later she turns and walks out the door. Damn, now it’s my turn.

I push out the chair, mindful of the scraping noise it makes across the tile. I walk toward the carpet to get a measure of the mess and see what I will need in the way of cleaning supplies.

Only it’s not grass. It’s something else. There are piles of tiny white balls, smaller than BBs. They are swirled about small scoops of brown pudding, and there’s a short, thin twig, bent in the middle and frayed on one end.

Not, not a stick. A bone. With a little claw. And there, inches away, poking from under the mound, white-tipped gray feathers overlapping one another in a straight line. A wing.

Wonderful.

Sandy wanders in again, heading for her prize. Her head dips over the largest pile.

“Sandy, no!” She cowers, taking a step back, but she recovers quickly and is back over her kill. She nips it at the center, lifting it with her front teeth. I don’t stop her because the majority of the remains have lifted cleanly from the carpet. The rest will be fairly easy to clean up.

“OK, go, go on, outside,” I say, pointing to the back door. She slips out and I follow her across the patio to the grass, where she drops it.

“No touch, no, no!” Again she backs away. I will clean that up later. With the lawn mower, the perfect vacuum cleaner for such a mess.

I order her back inside and shut the door behind us. We walk past what is left of the bird, and Sandy stops. Her had dips again, but I can’t tell what she has this time.

“Drop it!”

She looks at me. Her jaws close slowly, gently.

Crunch.

“I said drop it. Now!”

Crunch.

“Sandy, no! Drop it!”

Crunch.

Oh well.

I retrieve the vacuum cleaner from the entryway closet, sucking up most of what’s left without having to get too close. Then with a paper towel, I pluck the leg and wing and toss them into the trashcan.

My son sleeps through the entire episode.

I pour a fresh cup of coffee and go back to the newspaper. Sandy pads over and slips under the kitchen table. I feel her breath on my knees. I scratch under her chin but pull away when she tries to lick me.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Bird eater.”

It sure seems like a wonderful decision filled with a combination of grace and forgiveness that only the self-righteous would find pious, but Pope Benedict XV-something has declared that non-baptized children now are eligible for heaven.

Before that magnanimous act, infants unfortunate enough to be born to Catholic parents, their fate compounded by a very early death, were ordered to full time residency in limbo, truly the Third World of the afterlife. Yes, it was better than Catholic Hell with its eternal suffering (making it the Republican Party of the afterlife), but it’s not a place you’d like to stay for more than a few centuries.

But thanks to the most recent pope, limbo babies have been granted permanent resident status in heaven. And that can prove to be quite a problem.

For years limbo babies illegally entering heaven have been doing the menial tasks not fit for heaven’s legal spirits. Mowing immaculate lawns. Trimming hedges to reflect God’s glory. Cleaning up after Mama Cass. On the socio-angelic scale, only Muslims mistakenly given last rights by a Catholic priest ranked lower (largely due to their constant whining about a serious lack of Catholic heaven virgins, as no such thing has ever existed).

Though limbo babies were illegal aliens, most everyone turned a blind eye, especially when there were dishes to be washed after the annual Next to Last Supper, commemorating a meal that was truly a party (as opposed to the downer that was the Last Supper).

One can only imagine the line of limbo babies outside the Pearly Gates now awaiting entrance. The Pope could have considered a more orderly option, such as granting temporary legal status to limbo babies currently in heaven. Those limbo babies, who have been illegally serving God’s will for uncountable years, would have to return to limbo and apply for legal status (a mere formality involving some paperwork and mandatory century-long wait).

Limbo babies actually in limbo would first have to apply for temporary residency, which would be granted based on such Catholic factors as how guilty they feel for not being baptized and, well, that would be the only factor. Limbo babies would be ranked accordingly, and would placed ahead of heaven’s undocumented limbo babies who didn’t feel at all guilty for illegally crossing heaven’s porous border.

All decisions would be made by Saint Peter as the newly installed head of the Catholic Division of LICE (Limbo Immigration Control and Enlightenment).

Only in this way can officials process in an orderly fashion the flood of limbo babies into heaven. How this will effect the heavenly economy – which quite frankly has nothing but spirits who expect their every need fulfilled without lifting a finger because this is after all heaven damn it – is uncertain.

Of course, Catholics never thought about that when they created limbo. Other religions don’t face such problems due to a rather lenient view toward those who just lost their lives, which can be a traumatic event. Protestants, for example, chose not to create a gated community in the afterlife, allowing in just about anything, even dogs. And without a limbo-baby-based workforce, they’ve somehow managed to survive.

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.”