This morning it occurred to me that I’m almost due for some news.  I am like a reverse vacuum cleaner of worldly events, filling up on nothing.  But even the darkest void will demand emptying on occasion, so I may turn on the television or pick up a paper.  Has the world missed me?  How is it getting on?

I always had this idea that worrying about the news was an exercise in deceit.  That at the core of every disaster and horror story lied the one single important question - well yea, sure, but what about me?

I am drinking re-warmed coffee this morning, left over from yesterday afternoon.  That is my breaking news.  It might be labeled a sad, pathetic story about the poor, or perhaps read with an upbeat, ecologically sound, save the whales sort of tempo.

I should talk about writing, and the difference between loving your mother and loving fried chicken, and why people who write will say things all the time that they aren’t actually thinking.

Sip.  Not bad.  Like a three day vacation to Nebraska.  Could be better, but I’m happy with anything I can get.

Hey, the guys are here, ready to work, and here I was, thinking that I’d continue on with the Influence story about fathers and sons.  Nope, not now.  But my living room is piled high with boxed toys, and that, my friends, is this morning’s foreshadowing.

Sip.  Did I say Nebraska?  I meant southeastern South Dakota, near Revillo, where I once met a girl who ran so fast she disappeared.  My coffee doesn’t taste quite like the girl, but more like the letters she’d write.  Did she sign the letters with love?  I can’t honestly remember.  Just like if I waited long enough, I wouldn’t remember if this coffee was ever actually fresh, which of course, by then, wouldn’t matter.

I’m sure that girl loved me just like fresh coffee, which I know, doesn’t make much sense.  We were kids, nothing more.  We hated coffee.  I’m not even sure we’d heard of it yet.

Look!  It’s my 50-something song playlist to take me through to a late lunch.  List compiled by ecto.  Ears provided by me.  Need for accurate accounting provided by my good friends down at IRS.  Have you thanked an IRS agent lately?  Try it, it’s fun.  Feels kind of like knowing how to speak Chinese!  Wow!

Something to Talk About from the album “About a Boy (Soundtrack from the Motion Picture)” by Badly Drawn Boy
Moonlight Kiss from the album “‘Serendipity’ - Original Motion Picture Soundtrack” by Bap Kennedy
Call and Answer from the album “Stunt” by Bare Naked Ladies
Never is Enough from the album “Stunt” by Bare Naked Ladies
Piggies from the album “Anthology 3” by Beatles
While My Guitar Gently Weeps from the album “Anthology 3” by Beatles
Everybody’s Gotta Learn Sometimes from the album “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” by Beck
Loser from the album “Mellow Gold” by Beck
Good from the album “Good (Single)” by Better Than Ezra
Change, album unknown, by Blind Melon
Adam’s Song from the album “Enema of the State” by Blink 182
Everything Is Broken by Bob Dylan
Peace Train from the album “Cat Stevens (Teaser And The Firecat)(1971)” by Cat Stevens
One Hand Loose from the album “Get With It: Essential Recordings (1954-1969)” by Charlie Feathers
Baby Did A Bad Bad Thing from the album “Forever Blue” by Chris Isaak
Superman’s Song from the album “Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm (Single)” by Crash Test Dummies
Fortunate Son from the album “Chronicle” by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Sugar Baby from the album “Dock Boggs” by Dock Boggs
My Beloved Monster from the album “Shrek” by Eels
Alison from the album “My Aim Is True” by Elvis Costello
Sneaky Feelings from the album “My Aim Is True” by Elvis Costello
Without Me by Eminem
In The Mood from the album “The 40’s” by Glenn Miller
Little Brown Jug from the album “The 40’s” by Glenn Miller
Clint Eastwood from the album “Clint Eastwood” by Gorillaz
Touch Of Grey by Grateful Dead
Truckin’ from the album “Skeletons from the Closet” by Grateful Dead
Lightning Crashes from the album “Throwing Copper” by Live
The Beautiful People by Marilyn Manson
South Side by Moby f/Gwen Stefani
Switchboard Susan from the album “The Doings - Disc 1” by Nick Lowe
Creep from the album “Pablo Honey” by Radiohead
A Killer in Me, album unknown, by Smashing Pumpkins
I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrow (Radio Station Version) from the album “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” by Soggy Bottom Boys
Tempted from the album “New Title (25)” by Squeeze
Put A Lid On It by Squirrel Nut Zippers
Superstition (Single Version) from the album “Stevie Wonder: The Definitive Collection” by Stevie Wonder
Last Nite by The Strokes
Rock Me Right from the album “Just Won’t Burn” by Susan Tedeschi
And She Was from the album “Sand In The Vaseline” by Talking Heads
The Road from the album “Tenacious D” by Tenacious D
Friends and Family from the album “Trik Turner” by Trik Turner
One In Ten from the album “The Very Best Of 1980-2000” by UB40
Into the Mystic from the album “Moondance” by Van Morrison
One Headlight from the album “Bringing Down the Horse” by The Wallflowers
6th Avenue Heartache from the album “Bringing Down the Horse” by The Wallflowers
Three Marlenas from the album “Bringing Down the Horse” by The Wallflowers
Hello Operator from the album “De Stijl” by The White Stripes
I Want To Be The Boy from the album “Elephant” by The White Stripes
I’m Finding it Harder to be a Gentleman from the album “White Blood Cells” by The White Stripes
Willie Nelson-Blue Skies from the album “Stardust” by Willie Nelson
Ooh La La from the album “Rushmore” by Faces

Somewhere along the way I’ve picked up a hinge, and now energy and lethargy spin around it like clock hands.  I’ve become internalized.  A navel-gazer.  A two-hand man.  I am either one thing or the other, never both, although I think I remember a time when I was more then I am now.  A time when I was two things at once, maybe more, if you can believe that.

Jeff tells me I must be kidding.  No man turns on a hinge, he became fond of saying, once I’d told him about myself.  You must be drunk. Jeff lives down the street and is, in fact, often drunk himself.  His answer to the same problem, I guess.  I don’t know.

I feel like a story, I once told him, trapped somewhere inside a sheet of paper.  Like I can feel the two sides of the paper, holding me in.  That’s when I told my neighbor that I’d give anything to live on the surface.  Anything at all.

Would you give me a beer, he asked.

I would if I could, my friend.  I would if I could.

After only one bite the hamburger flipped out of his hands and onto the carpet, ketchup side down, and from that point on, [main character name inserted here] knew life was going to be one bumpy ride.

You know, I would have given that sentence to the man at the coffee shop last night for free.  It’s not a particularly good sentence, I’m aware of that, but the man needed help, sitting there at his table with a small stack of his self-published books there in front of him, waiting for people with interest and $18.95 in their pocket to spare.

I shouldn’t talk.  I’ve never published a book.  I have no room to talk; I haven’t earned the right.  I can think of a hundred reasons not to say anything about the man’s opening paragraph, which, incidentally, was as far as I could read before I felt the coffee beginning to reheat in my stomach.

“It’s the first of a trilogy,” the man said.

Maybe I should have read further.  Maybe the opening paragraph just hit too close to home.  The man in the paragraph, walking out of the lottery office with the 30 million dollar check in his pocket, thinking of the possibilities, only to have the “smile quickly left his face as he remembered his wife, [wife’s name here], his companion of thirty years, now gone.  Torn from him…

I believe there was a bit of geography thrown into the paragraph as well.  The setting was complete.  The reader on his way!

“It’s a science fiction story, loosely based on modern, scientific discoveries,” the man said.  His wife, sitting across the table from him, nodded in agreement and handed me a bookmark and flier.

I love writers.  Filled with words, overflowing with hope, smiling out through the window of the short bus as the world passes by.

I stared a bit more at the book, pretending I was reading, turning it around in my hands a little.  I perused the back cover, reading the author’s biography.  Longtime Northwest Oregon resident, married, a mathematician.  I’d forgotten that mathematicians sometimes write fiction.  I wished him and his wife luck, made a mental note not to be photographed in a fedora (should I ever be published), and left the coffee shop. 

As luck would have it, the short bus was there at the curb, waiting for me.  The driver even knew my name!

I’m on hold with the IRS, waiting to make some payment arrangements.  Halfway through 2005, yet last year sticks to me like the burrs in a dog’s tail.  There’s no wagging them out.

I enjoy the friendly computer voice, which gives me tips on a variety of tax related issues, then tells me to ask my “assister” for additional information.

It sounds an awful lot like they’re telling me to ask “my sister” for additional information.

I suppose I could give it a try.  The hold time might be shorter.

Minimalist Jones stared at the mirror,
nude, in all his glory.
How and why, where and when?
And could he stomach such a story?

My drunk neighbor Jeff showed up this morning sometime before six.  I know this because I’m an early riser.  My mom told me once that when I was little, something like four or five, it didn’t matter how early she climbed out of bed, I would have already beaten her to the punch.  I’d be sitting in the dark living room, staring at nothing, or maybe have the television on, staring at the test pattern.  I’m not sure kids get up early these days, and they certainly don’t know anything about test patterns.  Some might say that I’m one of the last of a dying breed.  Kids are restless these days, sure, I’ll agree to that, but it seems to be in a different way.  Restlessness has adapted somehow, changing with the times.

Anyway, I was trying to tell you that Jeff showed up, drunk as usual, but not so much that he didn’t turn away when he saw me, standing out in my back yard in my underwear, peeing into the early morning light.

I’m mostly a civilized man, but by God, I have a weakness for peeing outside.  I’ll admit it.  No aiming, no flushing, no paying attention, really nothing much to do at all except pee and maybe pay attention to whether or not you have any drunk neighbors making their way down your road, through your gate, and into your back yard, which apparently this morning, I had forgotten to do.

“Mornin’,” came a voice behind me.  Jeff.

I suppose if I lived in town I’d be more jumpy.  I might be more nervous if I was standing outside in my underwear peeing into the sunrise when a voice said ‘morning’ behind me.  Hell, if I lived in town I might not even go outside in my underwear and pee into the sunrise, which is probably true because I don’t remember doing it during the last couple of years in the apartment, except for that once, and that was just for old time’s sake which doesn’t really count.

You kind of lose your jumpiness, living in the country.  Especially if you live down the road from a friendly drunk.  You get used to things.  Dare I say, you start to expect things?  I looked over my shoulder at Jeff, who as I said, had his head turned, looking the other way.

“Morning, Jeff.”

“Thought I’d come by for some coffee.”

“I’ll start some,” I said.  “Let me grab a shirt.”

“Yea, right,” he said, and followed me into the house.

Minimalist Jones kept a list of friends
Beneath a magnet on his fridge,
And once a year, but never more,
He’d invite them to play bridge.

I dressed while Jeff made coffee.  Cupboard doors slammed and I could hear the muffled sound of the grinder starting up. Three failed marriages, I thought, and now a drunk in the kitchen, making my coffee.  Life is full of surprises.  I pulled on a t-shirt and hurried down the hall before Jeff could grab my favorite mug.  Life may be full of surprises, but every man has his limits.

Jeff had set out the mugs, and as I poured the coffee I could see him through the kitchen window, staring into the sun just like I’d been doing.  Except for the peeing part, that is.  Jeff’s a drunk, but as far as I can tell, a well-mannered drunk.  A well-mannered drunk who just happens to make good coffee.

I carried out the coffee, ready for the story of how Jeff’s wife was going to kill him.  He tells the story like he doesn’t have a care in the world.  The same way, it occurred to me, that I pee into the sunrise, watching the steam drift off into the sky.

Steve of Onepotmeal fame is trying to coin a phrase.

He writes:

I’ve been trying to coin a phrase to describe the buoyant swell of expectation as my laptop detects a network in a place where I’d not expected to find one, and the sinking disappointment that follows when that network turns out to be secure.

WhyMeFi? WiFried? WherePort? Wirelassitude? Wirelessless? WiCry?

Wireloss is my favorite so far, but I’m sure someone else can do better than I have.

I’ve suggested WiLess and WoFi, although it occurred to me this morning that I don’t have a clue what “Fi” is.  Fi?  All I know is fe, fi, fo, fum, which makes me think WoFo**, which is then just a hop, skip, and a jump from MoFo.  MoFo!  Reborn as the cry of connectivity disappointment.

Fi?  Someone help me out here.  Step up.  Be my Google.

**And blood of an Englishman, of course.

Every time I redesign this site I always end up falling back to white on white.  The comfort zone, I guess, of the boy who became a man with his head stuck between the white pages of a thousand books.  The result maybe of growing up heartland America, that seep of white on white farmers with their square corn fields and carefully graveled roads.  Wives in dirty pickup trucks, emerging through the dust of a freshly baled hay field at noon, fresh and clean, delivering lunch.  Games of Kick The Can and tag, smiles of laughing children revealing oversized, white teeth, shirts peeled off to reveal even whiter stomachs and chests.  Lightning bugs.  The pull of a full white moon.  Sheets at the end of the day, stiff and clean, glowing white in the dark, keeping me safe through the night.

Imagine for a minute that you’re on a ship, a sailing vessel filled with so much gold that the cabins and holds are literally cluttered with the stuff there is so much of it.  The place is a real mess.  You can barely get to the maps because of all the gold, and you lost your compass weeks ago when the monkey slipped it from your pocket and then dropped it somewhere in one of the piles as you chased him around the cabin.  You can’t even find the monkey there is so much gold. 

You call in the crew and start handing out the orders.  The ship is to be tidied up, this instant.  You run a tight ship, you tell the crew.  This is completely unacceptable, you say, pointing around the room.  A disgrace, a shame to sailing men everywhere, and certainly no way to live.  Gold be damned, you say, we will set this mess to order and any man who thinks differently can take it up with the bottom of the sea. 

The men stare back at you, slouched around here and there on piles of the gold.  They would normally stand at attention, but there is no room because of all the gold.  Things have really gotten out of hand.

And keep an eye out for my compass, you say, telling them that you stole it from your father when you were but a wee lad and it means a great deal to you, which is an outright lie but makes for a more interesting story then telling them that some West Indies peddler swindled you back in your early days and that now the monkey has gone and made the truth worse by stealing the damned overpriced compass right out of your pocket.  No, there’s no harm in a captain telling a good lie now and again, especially if he’s recently been bested by a fool cabin monkey. 

Damn it all, you think, you don’t have to tell this ragtag bunch of sailors anything.  You’re the captain of this ship, you remind yourself, not them.

Aye, aye, Captain, they say, and get to it.  As crews go, they’re a decent lot, following your orders most of the time.  Some captains would demand more of their crew, but for you it’s enough.  The sailing is all it’s ever been about, not the control or the ordering around of men.  For you it’s the open air and that feeling in the pit of your stomach that you’re somewhere, but never anywhere in particular.  For you it’s the swell of the ocean under your feet, rather then the uneasy solidness of some stale port city.  It isn’t even about the gold you think as you watch the men shuffling around with it by the armload, moving it from one part of the ship to another, trying to straighten up.  No, they’re good men, most of the time.  It’s the gold that’s the problem.  Always in the way of everything.

And shout out if you see the monkey, you tell them, your hand resting on the empty pocket.  That fool creature and I have a bit of unfinished business, you tell them.  That we do.

We’ll get back to the Captain and his shipload of gold in a bit.  I’m sure the search for the missing compass and that foul, sticky-fingered monkey can go on without us for a few hours while I lament endlessly upon my personal condition.  Everything in good time, I like to say, which is exactly the reason I gave the woman on the phone a few minutes ago for why the truck payment is late.  Besides, according to my calendar, July just happened, making me wonder how she could possibly be stressed about it so much after only four or five days?  Good Lord, if she could see the condition of the truck, with all it’s nicks and dents and permanently ground in filth, I think it would do her a world of good.  Calm her right down, I’d think.

Good stories and truck payments take time, I should have said, instead of whatever sob story I happened to end up telling.  For a man who knows next to nothing about economics, I spin a mean down and out tale, telling several entertaining children’s versions as well as the less popular collection’s version.  The woman sounded nice so I went with the children’s version.  I like the part where Papa Bear looks in his wallet, discovers it empty, and growls, “Hey, someone’s taken me to the cleaners!”

Or something like that.  It’s different every time.

Maybe instead of the story I should have kept it simple and told her something like: They call it folding money because like a story plot, money unfolds slowly before our checking account’s eyes.  Have you heard the economics fable called Gold Behind Locks and the Three Bears?  I’d love to tell it to you if you have the time.

Or even simpler: August?  You’ve got to be kidding me?  Already?

I don’t think I’ll ever figure out how the world works.  I don’t understand faith or acceptance or trust.  Why soldiers will allow themselves to be ordered into situations of certain death, then fight like hell to get out.  Why nurses do the dirty work and doctors make the money.  Why more kids don’t watch the news, then slit their parents’ throats during the night.  You’d think that the homeless would organize and demand free access to Goodwill, or that cats would realize they could drive humans from the planet with the smell of their excrement.

I washed the dishes, countertops, and stove this morning.  The boy has been practicing his cooking skills, which means that slices of cheese somehow end up dropping onto hot burners when I’m not looking, sizzling into hard, black spots that stink up the place.  Oops, he says.

Maybe I should have just said that to the woman on the phone.  Oops. 

I’ll check back in an hour or two, to see how the captain is coming along with his gold.  In the meantime, I suppose I’ll drive into town and give the bank some of my own hard-earned money.  If I can find it, that is.  The bank, not the money.  No wait, I take that back.  Both.  I lost my own compass long ago and can’t find a thing.  I think it was stolen by the very same monkey that now pesters the poor captain.  Imagine that.

The morning has almost slipped away, but don’t worry, the captain and his men are still hard at work, organizing the ship.  And we’ll get back to them, I promise you, because you don’t just go and leave a yarn like that hanging in the breeze.  You don’t shoot down something like that without a second thought and live to tell about it.  No sir.  There are stories that die before they’re born, stories that barely take their first step before being run down by some editor in his car, not watching where he’s going and reaching for the lighter all at the same time, and then there are stories that must be told.  Oh wait, there are also stories that beg for death, and by all rights, should be put down, but for some reason, no one does it.  Come to think of it, most stories probably fall into that last category, but that’s neither here nor there.  I don’t have time this morning to turn into some sort of story slayer.  And I’m no editor, and I don’t smoke, so I won’t be running over any poor stories that are standing around in the road with their thumb up their ass, trying to hitch a ride but getting nowhere.

Anyway, soon.  The captain, I hear, is getting hungry and may be on his way to the galley, where I’m told, the monkey has stowed away and is cooking up the captain’s compass in a rather large frying pan, all the while using the ship’s satellite internet service so he can keep up with some of his favorite blogs.  The monkey may be on the lamb, but he’s not out of touch.  There are even rumors now floating around the ship that the monkey is following along with both Bunni and Bakerina as they write steadily for 24 straight hours without sleep to raise money for the charities of their choice.  The monkey, who is surrounded by an entire ship of gold, cares nothing about raising money, but is excited about Bunni’s bad horror film theme.  He is also attempting to follow along with Bakerina’s recipe for a lovely focaccia, which explains why the compass is rattling around in the frying pan.  Monkeys are seldom handy in the kitchen (or galley, for that matter), although there have been several exceptions throughout history, none of which I happen to recall at the moment.

But this story is not about monkey chefs, just like it’s not about bad horror films, although there might be some who would argue that combining those two elements would itself make for an excellent bad horror film.

So if what I hear is correct (and it very well may not be, considering the unpredictable nature of life on the sea) the captain’s own animal hunger will drive him into a confrontation with the mischievous monkey, a confrontation, I’m afraid, neither one is quite prepared for.

In the meantime, visit Bunni and leave monkey-like remarks that show you have no knowledge whatsoever of bad horror films.  That’s what I’m doing.  Or you can retreat to your kitchen and attempt to follow along with Bakerina as she prepares the focaccia (which is what the monkey is doing).

Me?  I’m going to get out my quadrant and attempt to plot the course of all that gold that seems to be in everyone’s way.  Piracy, after all, is nothing more then someone else’s sail, puffed full of the wind from your hope.

I once defined love the same way and ended up serving a two year stint for the county.  The time wasn’t bad but the food was terrible.  Monkeys in the kitchen, I suspect.

What in the world?  Free wi-fi coming to an end?

Man Prosecuted For Piggybacking (Okay, that’s my title, not the BBC’s.

Okay, okay, let’s calm down here.  The men are straightening up the ship and that compass will show up and things will be back on course in no time at all.  No need to panic, no, certainly not.  No man was ever outsmarted by a goddamn monkey, you remind yourself.  It’s a fucking monkey, for crying out loud.  How much trouble can one damn monkey cause?  It’s not like they sit around planning trouble.  Stupid thing’s probably hiding somewhere right now, scared half to death, playing with himself.  Sure would have been easier if he’d left the compass alone, though.  You can’t be captain and missing your compass at the same time.  It just doesn’t work.

Besides, you think, you don’t have time for this crap.  You’re hungry.  Running a tight ship makes a man hungry, leaving little time for chasing around a monkey with a compass.  You step around the gold and lean out the door, calling out for the First Mate.  Man you’re hungry.

“First Mate,” you say, “I’m off to the galley for a bit of lunch.”

“Aye aye, sir,” he says.

“You’ll let me know right away if the compass turns up?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And the monkey?”

“I believe the monkey has been spotted in the galley, sir.”

“WHAT!  I thought I made it clear that I was to be told the minute the monkey was spotted.”

“I believe it’s a new development, sir.”

“Well, what’s he up to?”

“Who, sir?”

“The monkey, dammit!  Do I need to explain everything?”

“No, sir.”

“I should hope not.”

“Yes, sir.”

You should have guessed right off that the monkey would hide out in the galley.  Come to think of it, the cook’s shoulder seemed to maybe be his favorite perch, which might explain the chowder.  You’d have to have a talk with the cook about that.

“Well, what is it?” you say.

“What is what, sir?”

“The monkey, for God’s sake!  What is the monkey up to?”

“The Second Mate reports that he appears to be baking a loaf of focaccia bread, or something.  The cook was too drunk to give a second opinion.”

“Good Lord, have you gone crazy?  Monkeys don’t bake!  You’ve lost your mind man!  Stand aside!”

“Yes sir!”

Baking focaccia, you say to yourself.  The whole ship’s gone mad, and it’s all on account of the gold, which you suddenly notice, appears have been cleaned up.  Thank God!  For once something is going right.

The monkey snapped closed the lid of the laptop.  The Blogathon was over, Bunni and Bakerina no doubt off to bed to catch up on some much needed sleep.  He could use a little himself, he thought, as he gave the compass in the frying pan a good shake.  Cooking was more tiring then he’d ever imagined, or at least would be tiring, if he were actually cooking something.  The monkey was no fool.  He knew it was a compass in the frying pan, not a focaccia.  He was only going through the motions to entertain the Second Mate, who he’d spotted peering in through the galley door window an hour or so ago.

He gave the pan another big shake then looked over at the door.  “Almost ready,” he said.  “Can you smell it?”

“Yes, I think I can,” the Second Mate said, his face pressed up against the glass.  “It smells good.”

And they called him the stupid monkey, the monkey thought.  You don’t fry focaccia.  Everyone knows that.  He grabbed the compass from the frying pan and slipped it into his pants pocket, then headed to the cooler for something cold.  Obviously, cooking was also thirsty work, which would explain the cook always being drunk.

“I’m parched,” the monkey said as he looked through the cooler for a beer, pausing only long enough to unzip his pants and pee into the leftover pot of chowder, the second time he’d done so in as many days.  The cook had taught him how, or at least, the cook thought that he’d taught him how, but of course, monkeys have been peeing into things since the beginning of time.  It’d actually been the monkey’s idea all along.  But the drunk cook had come up with the idea of calling it The Secret Ingredient, even though most of the time he’d just say, “Spice it up, monkey,” which worked for the monkey as well. 

“There better be some beer left,” the monkey said, pushing things around the cooler.  You don’t mess around with a parched monkey, even the drunk cook knew that.

The Second Mate was pounding on the door, trying to get the monkey’s attention.

“Is the focaccia ready?” the Second Mate was yelling.  “I’m starving.”

“Almost,” the monkey replied.  “Good focaccia takes time.  Would you care for some chowder while you wait?”

“Oh, alright, I guess.  I hope it’s better then last night’s chowder.”

“It is.  I spiced it up a bit.” The monkey shifted around on his feet, concentrating, seeing if he could pee again so soon.  “I think maybe I could crank it up a notch if you’d like.”

“Sure, sounds good.”

The monkey almost felt sorry for the Second Mate, standing there at the door like an idiot, breathing against the glass.  He could remember his second mate - young, wiry, a good grappler but with a short tail and too many fleas.  High maintenance.  He’d peed in her food, too.  Second mates never have it easy, he thought.

“Coming right up,” the monkey said, unzipping his pants.  Over his shoulder, he could see the small window of the door, steaming up, and from down the alley, voices that seemed to be approaching.  His hand touched the outside of his pocket, checking on the compass.  Maybe it was about time to get it out and navigate himself a way out of there.  The Second Mate would have to wait for his snack.

“Hey, monkey, where’s my—Captain!” The silhouette of the Second Mate’s head disappeared from the steamed up window, and the monkey could hear him scrambling to get to his feet.  Too late!  The Captain was already here!

“Monkey, I know you’re in there.  Now come out with my compass, NOW!”

“You sound hungry, Captain.  Chowder?”

A slow Sunday, with the boy out of town and the music cranking.  A good day for cleaning.  Right now, the Haunted album by Poe, which I’ve posted for everyone’s listening pleasure.  I must study the intricacies of office furniture arrangement.  A spare dresser must be incorporated into the scheme.  Once again, sparseness somehow threatens to overrun me.  So much trouble to organize so little.  Always busy, busy, busy, wasting so much time.  My nondescript American novel will no doubt end up being about some nondescript unfinished paperwork scattered across an equally nondescript carpeted office floor.  Oops, that’s way too descriptive.  My novel will be much plainer.

A phone call.  The brother-in-law, wondering if he can send a Kirby carpet cleaner representative over to my house.  “They aren’t trying to sell you anything,” he says, “and they’ll shampoo your carpet for free.” I try hard to teach my own son that nothing is free, no matter what they say on television.  My brother-in-law is much too old to teach anything, so I don’t bother.  “Does your carpet need cleaning?”

Of course my carpet needs cleaning.  I have a nine year old son who loves to plop himself down in front of the television to eat food that I might as well have served on a spinning merry-go-round the way it flies off of the edges of the plate.  There is one particular round stain that reappears like an unexplainable alien crop circle no matter how hard I scrub at it.  The boy himself may be an alien.  There’s no real way of telling.  Or maybe I’m the alien and just see the stain because of my alien ultra-sensitive eyes.  This might also explain my rough skin and my one ugly toenail.  I may look into this possibility later.  I may have a space cruiser or something hidden out in the barn that I’ve completely forgotten about.  Yes, I definitely need to look into the possibility that I’m an alien.  It would certainly explain my—no, maybe I better not say any more at the moment.

Oh!  I’m on the phone!

“No, I don’t want them here,” I say and hang up.  I try hard to use the telephone manners my grandfather taught me.  The telephone was invented during his lifetime, so of course he knew the proper way to talk on the phone.  Say your piece then hang up.  Quickly.  Don’t waste time.  Saying goodbye is senseless.  Neither person on the phone is actually going anywhere.  You’re already there.  Hang up and get on with it.

I better find the bullets for the gun, I think, just in case he gives the Kirby rep the wrong message.  Anything is possible with that man.

I, of course, don’t have any real bullets.  Only a box of those powderless .22 shells that I tried to shoot the wild raccoon with, without success you’ll remember.  But I do think about shooting the Kirby rep, just for a minute or two.  It’d be kind of fun to watch the look in his eyes when I pull the trigger and the bullet bounces off the top of his head. 

You just know there’s a law against bouncing blanks off a salesman’s well-coiffed head, just like you know there’s not a law against door-to-door Kirby salesmen.  The world is a lopsided place, and I still don’t understand bullets that bounce off.  Who came up with that idea, and for what possible reason?

I have lots to do!  A hundred boxes of toys to move around.  Maybe not that many, but they are the gold in this house.  Under every step, stacked in every corner.  But first, to the office!  Move the printer and the bookcase.  Oops!  Some landscape plans slip behind the big bookcase as I try to fish a cable into place.  Lost forever.  Unimportant, most likely.  Everything delegated to the top shelf is of low importance.  Just like the broken toys in the movie Toy Story 2.  It’s true.  Look at your own shelves.  Almost everything on the top can be thrown away, unless, of course, it’s up there to keep it away from the curious monkey hands in your house.  When I was a tiny boy I climbed to the top of a big shelf and discovered my dad’s silver dollar proof collection.  Everything in tight, shiny wrappers, fresh from the mint.  I was five.  I opened it all up to do him a favor.  He would be so happy!  I touched all the untouched coins.  I was five.  When you’re five you touch everything.  Maybe I put them in my mouth, but I doubt it.  Why would I do that?  I’m sure I stole one or two.  That was my style back then.

What?  Another phone call?

Hey!  Things are looking up!  It’s the brother!  We’re going golfing!

Poor cleaning.  Always life’s last kid picked.

The house is buzzing!

We’ve gone shopping for food and the boy is pulled from the brink of starvation at very nearly his last second.  Fading and lurching around the room, clutching his stomach.  He may have stumbled.  The high drama of hungry children!  Before I can put away a single thing the microwave was dinging, door nearly ripped from it’s hinges, the kitchen filling with the greasy smell of hot dog air.  Squirt!  Squirt!  Ketchup coats everything. 

And there’s another boy in the house, this one the son of the man who was the boyfriend of the wife.  You don’t get to say that sentence often in life.  Don’t ask me how because I don’t know.  Some things in life just happen without explanation and we learn to accept, or suffer the consequences.  I barely know how to say who the boy is, and am having the damnedest time trying to figure out how to work him into the story.  It is beyond the scope of my storytelling ability!  We’ll leave it at that and call it good.

Did I mention the giant arrow stuck in my head?  Several years ago God stopped by and asked me if he could stick a giant arrow in my head.  He and a few of his friends were going to play Twister, and would I mind if the stuck the arrow in the top of my head, he asked, so that they could walk around and discuss the fate of the world while they played.  If the spinner was attached to a pair of legs, mine in this case, it could just follow them around while they talked.  I’m not sure whose idea it actually was.  Buddha’s, I think, but I’m not sure.  Certainly not mine.

“It won’t kill you, my son,” God said.  “It won’t even hurt.”

“I won’t fall for that one again,” Jesus said.  Everyone laughed, except me, of course.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to walk around being a Twister spinner.  Who’d want to play Twister with Buddha anyway, I thought, but kept it to myself.

That was a long time ago, but I still have the pointer thing stuck in my head.  I think with all the heated discussion going on about the fate of the world they just forgot about me.  Leave it to God and his buddies not to put away they’re toys.  It’s not so bad, I guess, except that I can’t wear tee shirts anymore.  I do miss that.

Now I’ve forgotten what I was trying to say.  It happens all the time.  Maybe it’s the arrow, I don’t know.

Maybe I was trying to figure out how I ended up grocery shopping with the son of this man who was such a big part of my marriage falling to pieces.

“You can each pick out a candy bar or something for tonight,” I told the boys while we were checking out.  I’m taking the two of them to the drive-in tonight.  An action-packed evening of The Fantastic Four and Stealth.  Plenty of punching and guided missiles on the loose. 

So what does this boy turn up with at the check-out stand?  Not a candy bar, but beef jerky.  A good choice, sure, but an expensive one.  Ah, what the hell, I think, and throw it on the pile.

I tried to estimate once what this boy’s dad had cost me by showing up in my life (or more specifically, my wife’s), factoring in such things as moving out of the house and into an apartment for a couple of years, all the lost work due to depression, the refinancing of the house from 15 years to 30, double house payments, eventual child support, etc., and then gave up when I knew it would be probably be impossible to figure, and even if I did, way, way, way too depressing.  I think I gave up as the number approached the $200,000 dollar mark.  (There’s a good joke there, but I’ll pass.  Someone’s reading over my shoulder, which is a different story in itself.)

So add four bucks onto the bill.  I like jerky, and the kid seems decent enough.  I bet he’ll share.

I remember fishing when I was a boy, my hands dangling the pole over the side of the boat, my eyes fixed on the small, round, red and white bobber that floated not more then ten feet away.  My eyes would follow the line leading down from the tip of the pole, then stare hard to see the top of the the tiny, brass hook that hung onto the line.  The red half of the bobber above the water, shining in the sun, the white half just under the surface, still visible in the clear, cold water of Bay Lake.  So peaceful, the bobber’s existence seemed, riding up and down on the ripples, so quiet and perfect as it floated there waiting to announce the death of a fish.

But those days are long gone.  The faintest of memories.

Mornings have become my bobbers now, and I find myself staring at them for the longest time, wishing they could float in front of me forever.  Now I sit in the day the same way I once sat in that small, wooden rowboat with it’s faded, green paint. My body leans forward, my head hanging slightly over the edge while I gently rock back and forth, watching the ripples fan out. 

I’ve always liked bobbers more then fishing, the same way I like mornings more then the day.  That one perfect moment before the water breaks and the fight begins.

You are welcome to ask me any question, but please, don’t expect an answer.  Feel free to give me a task, but for God’s sake, not one that demands results.  Or maybe you could point me in a direction and plot me a course, but what ever you do, don’t wait around on the other end thinking I will show up.

Good Lord, if I tell you I found some more of Mr. Cooper’s missing bones this morning, I have this feeling you’re never going to believe another word I say.  The way I make it sound, his bones are turning up all the time, and you’re probably beginning to wonder just how many bones the man could possibly have had.  Not to mention that it’s a far-fetched story to begin with—me, becoming obsessed with the missing bones of Mr. Cooper, taking them away from my dog whenever he drags them up to the house, and then hiding them in a cardboard box out in the barn so the government won’t find them and take them away from me.  I suppose this makes me, in some way, the government’s dog, because sure as hell the moment they catch me with my hands on the box, staring down at my collection, they’re going to snatch them out from under my nose without so much as a thank you.  I wouldn’t even doubt if they tried slapping me in jail, which would be a shame, really, for everyone involved.  Especially my dog.  No one suffers more when a man goes to jail then the man’s dog.  Man’s best friend, sure, but does anyone give a second thought to man’s best lonely friend?  Go ahead, ask any dog who’s lost an owner, they’ll tell you.  You know, come to think of it, I don’t even think dogs have visiting rights in this state.  I live just down the road from one of the prisons here in Salem (for a small city, we’ve got ourselves an impressive collection of jails and prisons), and I don’t recall even once seeing any dog hurrying along all crooked-like down the gravel shoulder, worrying it might miss visiting hours.  But then, I haven’t been looking, but you can bet I will be now.

Maybe I should tell you about the mountain they’re building right across the road from me, built out of nothing but giant hay bales.  The thing is starting to tower its way into the sky, and even though they’ve only been working on it for a couple of weeks now, the sun has begun to set almost an hour earlier each night as it sinks down behind my new hay mountain.  I call it my hay mountain because I think I have the best sight of it of any house along my road.  The hay dust is flying, and if you can stop sneezing long enough to notice, the sunsets are sensational!

Or I could head off for a bit of work this afternoon.  A woman named Patricia has a sprinkler valve that needs replacing, a woman named Ernestine has a leaky pond, I could check in on the ongoing war I’m waging against some beetles outside the local Red Lobster, and a woman named Barbara called and is “at a complete loss what to do.”

“Does two this afternoon work for you?” I asked.  A complete loss!  Loss, lost.  Lost bones!  I’m all over this job.  “Yes, I know the street,” I tell her.  “I’ll see you at two.”

In a bizarre twist of fate… no that’s not right.

Good news, everyone.... no, that’s not right, either.

Oh, I know…

The previously missing bones of Mr. Cooper were discovered today in a desk drawer of Statesman Journal reporter Angela Yeager, leading to the…

No, that’s not true at all.  How about the truth for once?  Just for fun.

One of Word Shadows’ first members, Brian Hines, was recently interviewed by the Statesman Journal, Salem’s local newspaper, to give his take on the the world of blogging, and today when I picked up the paper, I was surprised to see his smiling face gracing not only the front page, but dominating the entire Local section.  The curious can go here to see what Brian had to say.

Brian, naturally, gave my name to Ms. Yeager, and I will admit that I wondered if she would call or email, wanting to set up a time to interview me.  What would I tell her?  Would I be receptive?  Brian, in his email, had said that he told Ms. Yeager that I was a “literary” example of blogging.  Could I possibly live up to such a claim?  What would I wear?  Should I move the ketchup bottle from the living room table?  The questions nearly overwhelmed me Thursday afternoon, as I contemplated the possibilities.  Was Ms. Yeager the same reporter who’d interviewed me several years ago for that gardening article?  Would she notice I’d put on weight?

But today I picked up the paper and noticed Brian’s smiling face right away, sitting there on his back deck with his laptop open, apparently ready to do some blogging.  It’s funny, the things you notice in a picture when you actually know the person.  Is that Brian’s real smile, or his best attempt to look natural in an unnatural situation?  And who planted those trees in the background and installed the pond?  Notice the change in the boards near his feet.  How could anyone possibly guess that an old, aging hot tub once sat there, and that we removed it and did our best to match up the existing decks?

Ms. Yeager certainly doesn’t know because she never bothered to interview me.  Oh well.  I imagine I would be a difficult interview, best saved for a television appearance sometime in the future.  I wonder if David Letterman will still be alive when I become famous?  He and I both have gap teeth, and I’ve always thought he would enjoy having me on his show.  I wrote him a letter once about Mr. Potatohead, but I’ll tell you, nothing ever came of it.

But I don’t have much time tonight to sit around worrying about the things that didn’t happen.  I’ve been invited over for dinner by another Word Shadows’ member, Jill, and her significant other, who also happens to be a Keith.  That’s right!  Another Keith, but not to be confused with Other Keith, who is a different Keith altogether around these pages.  (That’s important to note, Ms. Yeagar, in case you’re feeling guilty for leaving me out of the interview and now find yourself reading along.) Keiths are truly around every corner, waiting to serve mankind.  We’re your brothers and your teachers, your bankers and your blue collar laborers!  And, rumor has it, we may be eating tofu enchiladas!  I’ll let you know how that goes!

And to set the record straight, I harbor no hard feelings about being left out of today’s newspaper article.  Let’s get real for a minute, if we can.  For all I know, Ms. Yeager dropped in on Word Shadows to do a little background work and line up her questions for my interview, only to find me talking about God sticking an arrow in my head to turn me into a Twister spinner, so that he and Buddha and the rest of his buddies could walk around discussing the fate of the world.

I think I’ve said enough.

To the tofu!

56 degrees makes for a nice morning.  A couple of hours before I pick up the boy, which is more then enough time to throw out my back dragging the heavy lounge chair into the closest strip of shade I can find.  When are they going to make laptop screens you can see in the sunlight?  Does anyone know?

Birds chirping, Powerbook in lap, my coffee resting on an overturned Costco dishwasher detergent bucket, which serves double-duty every couple of weeks or so when it’s car washing time.  Life on the farm.

Molly, the indoor cat, is missing!  She decided a few weeks ago that it’d be a good idea to spend the nights running wild outside, hanging out with the farm’s oldest animal, Barncat.  Normally, around 4:00 a.m., she’d start mewing outside my bedroom window, letting me know that the party was over, get up, and open the door.  Surprisingly, at age 44, I still train rather easily, so the cat was having no trouble with the arrangement.

But this morning - missing!  Molly No-Show.  And now it’s way past time for me to release the hounds.  Ah, the foolish conflicts we humans put ourselves through in order to coexist with animals.

Just so you know, the four cows are in plain sight across the field.  Even from this distance I can see the movement of their big square jaws, forever chewing.  As you can imagine, cows are much harder to misplace then cats, although it has happened.  Back in my youth, our family had a small herd of twenty or so cows that would occasionally push through one of the farms old, broken down fences and go hide out in the neighbor’s corn field, eating everything in site.  It was my job back then to find them and bring them home.

I won’t be doing that with Molly.  Seriously, even if we were back in Iowa and she’d escaped into the neighbor’s field, how much corn can a cat eat?  No, she’s probably out in the barn having a roll in the hay with Barncat, which doesn’t sound half bad.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean with Barncat, but just in general. 

And the other farm news, you wonder.  What of it?  How are the animals?

The new chickens have started laying eggs!  The first eggs are tiny little things, barely bigger then an eyeball, unless of course you’re thinking of Marty Feldman or maybe Steve Buscemi eyes, then just about that big.  We gather them up and put them in the refrigerator, but you can bet no one’s going to want to eat such a tiny egg, which reminds me to find out if the movie Freaks has been released on DVD.  I’m also waiting around for Eraserhead to make it to DVD.

Do you see now why no one will eat those little eggs?  They just look like film stars of something gone wrong.

Oh, and we may be getting a monkey.  Imaginary Keith received a letter from one of his uncles who’s the captain of some ship, and the letter said that as soon as he could catch the monkey he would be shipping him to us for safe keeping, which makes it sound like the arrangement will be temporary, don’t you think?  I’m not sure about having a monkey around the house, but I suppose it could be trained to keep an eye on Molly when she goes out at night.  A monkey chaperoning two cats out on a date.  I can see that.

The boy is up in arms, concerned about the missing cat!

“I don’t even like her that much!” he says, masking his concern.  “I don’t care if she’s missing.  She doesn’t even let me pet her.  She just does what she wants!”

“That’s how cats are,” I say.

“I’ll go find a picture to put on the missing poster!” He stomps off, his emotions bristling.

“Let’s go check the barn!” he yells from the back of the house.  “Come on, Dad!”

Where’s the chaperone monkey when you need him, keeping an eye on things?

“Dad!  Are you coming?!”

I glance over at the rabbit hutch as we head to the barn, making sure everything looks okay.  One animal emergency per weekend.  That’s my limit.  It’s hard to tell from across the yard.  I’ve never noticed before how much sleeping rabbits look just like dead rabbits.

“Hurry up, Dad!”

Yes, hurry up.  Hurry up, Molly, and return home so I can get on with my Saturday.  I’m thinking about pressure washing the house.  The outside, of course.

“Dad!”

“Coming.” The rabbits are just fine, sleeping or dead.  We hurry off to the barn on high alert.

The boy has a sleepover!

Unfortunately, I can’t give you many details because the whole night is still too fresh in my memory, and while the boys are now still asleep, any discussion of last night’s events may lead me to smother them in their beds.  I’ve never been a proponent of physical discipline of any sort.  You can’t whip a child into shape, just like you can’t whip an adult into shape.  But last night has me thinking… would a shock collar fall under physical or mental abuse?  And could I slip them around the boys’ necks without waking them up?

No, seriously, all I really want to know is this: how many hours can two children follow a person at such a close distance that every time you stop walking they bump into you.  I’m serious.  If the sun hadn’t gone down yesterday and I hadn’t gone to bed, I think they’d still be bumping into me even now.  I finally understand the reasoning behind space exploration.  Space!  We need space!

Molly the overly sensitive house cat has returned!  Oh the emotional drama and stress!  I wish there was some way to draw a cartoon about a boy who accidently overturns his worm farm, and we see the worms zipping down a bunch of worm holes, and the boy is all distraught, and the father is saying something like, “They’ll be fine, worms no how to take care of themselves,” but the boy keeps pacing and ripping at his hair, yelling something like, “I bet they’re dead!  I bet they’re all dead!  You don’t know they’re not dead, Dad!  You don’t know!!”

Anyway, Molly’s back from her traumatic daytime adventure, and spent all of last night walking around on top of me, poking me in the face while I tried to sleep.  Obviously continuing where the boys left off.

Collars for everyone, I say.  Collars for everyone.

Monday begins with Barbara, the woman who was “at a complete loss what to do.” And no wonder!  Between the hard, clay soil that makes up so much of Salem and her husband’s now fading strength ("he once did everything, but anymore he’s just to weak and frail..."), Barbara needed help. 

“I miss our little truck,” she said.  “But it was time for it to go.  It’s hard now, without it....” Her voice trails off in sadness.

I haven’t even mentioned the woman’s petunias inability to stay petunia-y, or the two ugly, gravelly, five foot strips on either side of the back yard patio that won’t go away, no matter how much complete-loss dreaming poor Barbara does.  And of course, there is her husband’s fading strength which, by agreement, we can do nothing about.  You see, long before I was ever born a group of men gathered together and discussed the economic fate of all Americans.  They divvied up the money and the jobs and basically made sure what was what and who was who.  It was important work, so they often wore jackets with shiny brass buttons, shoes with decorative buckles, and large, powdered wigs.

“Let’s give them all hope,” someone suggested.

“Yes, very nice,” someone else replied.  “We’ll remind them of their independence.” There was great support for this idea.

“Indeed!”

“Oh yes, very good.”

“Excellent suggestion!”

“Hear, hear.  Good show!” (Which sounded a bit too King Georgie, and was amended in the meeting’s minutes to read: “I agree.  Nice idea.")

Then someone else chimed in.  “What about the landscapers?”

The men all looked at each other.  Surely he wasn’t referring to those broken-backed men who stacked the stone walls between proper men’s properties and along roadways.  A murmur went around the room.  Had someone let in a reporter?

“They’ll remain slaves, of course.” A vote was called for and a show of hands made it unanimous.

“Slaves it is, then.” Someone scribbled the vote results into the minutes.

“But we’ll still remind them of their independence,” someone said.  “And give them hope.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And maybe a small pittance would be okay,” offered another.  If there was a reporter in the room, this would throw him off-track.

“Yes, yes.  A small pittance.  We wouldn’t want to break their backs.” Everyone chuckled as they moved onto the next order of business - doctors and attorneys.

“How about they divide up whatever is left,” someone suggested.

“Yes, but plus 20%.  That’s important.”

Everyone was in agreement.

“Dear Lord!” someone suddenly burst out.  “What about us?  The politicians!  Is there anything left?” His face had gone pale, or it may not have.  He’d been to the doctor the night before for a leech treatment.

“Dear Sir, have no fear.  We’ll be discussing the concept of deficit spending after lunch.  It’s quite new and promising.  And, I do believe if I’m not mistaken that it’s time for lunch right now.  Gentlemen, let’s say we get back to this America idea at three this afternoon.  Four hours enough of a lunch break for everyone?”

So today we are off to Barbara’s house to restore order and health (although not her husband’s).  We will replace and amend the earth.  We will construct raised beds and trellises for masses of flowering vines, such as evergreen clematis, so that Barbara and her husband can hide from their neighbors.  We will dig and dig and dig, and all the while give thanks to those men who gathered together so many long years ago, who with their incredible foresight, knew to fill us with hope.  Yes, hope is a wonderful thing.  I don’t think a day goes by that our poor, landscaping hearts don’t overflow with the hope that we won’t cut through underground utilities.

Plus, Barbara is also aware of our forefather’s wisdom, and had agreed to pay us a small pittance.

Look!  The guys are here for work!

“To the pansies!” I yell out the window as their truck passes.  Despite my madness, Fernando is smiling.  In a few minutes he’ll be in the back, whistling and loading shovels.

Without so much as a goodbye, Imaginary Keith was out the door and on his way this morning, blasting into the day.  Is that enthusiasm I spotted through the window, his head bobbing up and down as he walked down the driveway?  Look at him go!

Big news here in Oregon, I guess.  I turned on the television last night just in time to see the governor announce that the war on meth was going to get cranked up a notch.  Oregon, leading the way with more legislation to make life even more unbearable!  the idea - stop meth production.  The solution - make currently over-the-counter cold medicines available only by prescription.  I can’t help but think that the forefathers’ plan I mentioned only yesterday is falling into place rather nicely, don’t you think?  Now, not only will the majority of people not be able to afford health insurance, but they won’t be able to afford the cold medicines that they at least hoped were helping them, even if they weren’t.

So from the state that tries its best to champion the right to die, to choose your own death and end all your suffering, now comes even simpler legislation - the right to suffer! 

I have a feeling that this war on meth hasn’t been properly thought through.  Are they aware the murder rate is going to skyrocket, once all those unbearable sinus headaches start kicking in and the only relief people will still be able to get there hands on without a doctor’s prescription will be a small handgun, still available, I imagine, on just about any street corner in town.

Yes, the doctors have got to be loving this one.  Antihistamines by prescription only.  It was a day they’d only dreamed of.  But watch the drug companies scream when sales start dropping.  You thought a meth addict was bad?  Have you ever seen a gang of drug lobbyists out looking for a little revenge?  Dead-bolts, everyone.  Invest in dead-bolts.  It’s going to get ugly out there.

In more personal, work-related news:

Digging continues at the home of one Barbara S., currently satisfied customer.  Today’s adventure is entitled, The Beauty of New Dirt,or, Entwined in the Tendrils of Sweet Pea Love.  You should have seen Fernando’s shovel flashing yesterday in the hot afternoon sun!  The clay at his feet trembled in fear.

I could live out my life in complete secrecy, really.  My father was secret, and his father too, so you might say I have secrecy coursing through my veins.  I’m quite contend to say just about nothing about everything, and if it weren’t for Imaginary Keith pestering me all the time, I’m sure that’s exactly what I would do.  It’s peaceful, saying nothing about everything.  I know there are some who literally start falling apart at the seams when they get a secret inside of them, but not me.  I’m full of secrets, and as far as I can tell, not one loose seam.  My belly bulges a bit, but I think that might be something else.

But Imaginary Keith insists I keep everyone up to date.  “Tell them something,” he says.  “Anything.”

Fair enough.  He didn’t say it had to be a secret.  So here goes.  I’ll describe my day in ten sentences or less.  That’s how men with secrecy coursing through their veins talk about their day, in case you didn’t know.  And that’s the gabby ones.  The quiet ones will usually say nothing, or if you ask them how their day went, they’ll say something like, “Fine.”

Anyway, here goes.  My ten sentence day.

1.  I went to a parenting class this morning, mandated by the state of Oregon for everyone with children who are filing for divorce.

2.  By the end of the four hours, I would begin to realize that I had never imagined there were so many messed up people, or stories that involved drugs and alcohol, or people trying to get custody of babies they had never seen, or even so many people with restraining orders against them, for that matter.

3.  I met with a customer and talked about pink dogwoods and arborvitae and evergreen clematis (which, incidentally, grow faster then a Manute Bol clone but still cost nearly $50 a pop for a nice 5 gallon plant, which to me is outrageous and makes about as much sense as going to the doctor to have them give you a case of poison oak); she is happy.

4.  I poked around a nursery and bought some plants for a job (happy woman), joked around with the help (plant jokes, like holding up the Burning Bush I was buying and telling the guy to listen to me while staring at the shrub and imagine it was God talking to him), then went home for a late lunch.

5.  Listened to an update about my son’s doctor’s appointment, then finished some cleaning work on the fish tank, which I’ll tell you, is one of my least favorite jobs in the world, and, I’ll also tell you, seems to have done something to the filter pump, which is now so loud that it reminds me a little of the time I’d hear the fighter jets, warming up for take-off about a half a mile away from my barracks.

6.  Worked on some bids at the computer.

7.  Nearly wrapped up the work I was doing on a new website design for someone else (see secrecy statement above).

8.  Found the cat standing in the hallway next to a frog, who had somehow gotten into the house and managed to get it’s legs and body tangled up in what appeared to be every single bit of string and lint in the house, including, and I swear, a piece of tinsel (wherever that came from).

9.  Thanked the cat for her help in locating the frog (she looked guilty… the cat, not the frog… I wouldn’t have a clue how to tell if a frog is looking guilty), then spent a full ten minutes trying to untangle the wiggling frog from its entanglement.

10.  Washed my hands, brushed my teeth (nothing to do with the frog), then went to bed.

And that, believe it or not, made for a full, ten sentence day.

Eyes open.  Blankets pulled up tight against the chill.  The sound of fans, balanced in windows throughout the house, pulling in cold air.  My the time he gets up, the house will be 58 degrees.  He’ll make coffee in his underwear, muscles tensed for warmth, then close all the windows to keep in the cold, then head to the shower.  There’s no washing away what must be done today, the man knows that, but a shower will help.  Maybe.  He hopes.  But this thing has been a long time coming, clinging, weighing him down now for such a long time.  Yes, maybe a shower, he thinks, watching the water stream out behind the glass, waiting for the steam to show above the shower door.  Clean skin has a way of tricking us, making us feel that everything is better.  The man steps into the shower, closing the glass door behind him.  His eyes close and the water wraps around him, and for the briefest of moments, there is nothing else.

It’s true, I’m going belly up and today’s the day for the paperwork.  It’s interesting that even failure requires a certain amount of paperwork these days.  No just throwing up of the hands and calling it quits.  No white flag waving frantically, sticking out from the bunker your feet have dug as you worried away the years.  Failure must be itemized, broken down into easy to understand line items.  Talk about value of life until you’re blue in the face if you want, but when it’s time to file papers, there better be a dollar sign in front of your every answer.  Value.  Debt.  Oh the sweet fragrant debt of the American dream. 

The weekend fell into place like it always does, then passed without looking back.  But there were moments of perfect timing, I’ll give it that.  My son and I turned on the television, scanning through the program guide.  My eyes immediately fell upon a show about feral children.  It couldn’t have been better.  Only an hour before the boy had been informing me how mean I was.  I think he may have even hated me as we walked through the movie rental store.  I can’t quite remember what set the whole thing off.  Something about slashing cheerleaders to pieces, maybe?  I can’t remember.  There are so many movies.

“No, not that one,” I said, bringing on the hate.  I’m not saying that cheerleaders shouldn’t be hacked to pieces, god knows they got in my way as I was trying to watch the basketball game from my permanent home on the end of the bench.  Who’d ever imagine that skinny little girls could be so irritating just by jumping around in front of you?  But that was a long time ago, and besides, that’s my problem, not his.

“No, find another one,” I said.

“You’re so mean!  I hate you!” You can’t stress out when you hear things like this from your nine year old boy.  The next thing out of his mouth will probably be something very kind and loving.  Something like, “I’m hungry.”

I found myself perusing the movies with the boy, giving him a kids-running-wild lecture.  An over-exaggeration of every detail.  What could happen if I just stopped caring and turned him loose.

“How about this one?” he wants to know.  A movie called Rats.  Rat eyes glowing red on the cover.  It’s good to know that my son is paying such close attention to me. 

But then later, like I said, the weekend fell perfectly into place.  Home again, television on, and suddenly there it was, the show about feral children, backing up everything I’d said less then an hour before.  Television to my rescue, how’s that for irony?

So we sat back for an hour and watched stories about children who had been abandoned by their parents and left in horrific situations at young ages.  The girl who had been turned out with the dogs by her alcoholic parents at the age of three and unbelievably left in the kennel for five years.  Even now, as an old teen, we watch as she often reverts back into dog behavior, running around the yard on her hands and knees, barking.  Another boy who survived from the age of four to six by running around the city with a pack of wild dogs, eating whatever scraps they could find.  And the girl, this one right here in America, chained to a chair each day until she was thirteen, never taught to speak or even walk.  Given no attention.  Spoken to by no one.  The boy watched with one hand over his eyes.  The barking children who thought they were dogs was too much for him.  It almost seemed funny right up until the point that you realized it was real.  Quite a place we live in, this big world of ours.

But now I’m sidetracked.  What was I talking about?  Oh, I remember, going belly up, which come to think of it, also seems funny right up until the point that you realize that it’s real.  I need to finish up with all this paperwork and then get on the phone with an attorney.  You know, sometimes it’s all I can do not to just start barking like a dog myself.  I look out the window and wonder if maybe that thing we think of as The American Dream wasn’t turned out a long time ago, and now we only catch glimpses of it as it darts between the buildings, lean and hungry for attention.

Have you ever woken up next to someone you didn’t really know?  Watched through guarded eyes as that strange, unfamiliar body rolled out of the bed and made it’s way gingerly around the room?  Maybe you offered the stranger a cup of coffee or a shower to freshen up, all the time trying desperately to remember what attracted this person to you in the first place?  Something they said?  A story they’d related?  Certainly couldn’t have been the body.  Good Lord!

What?  You think I had sex?  A one night stand?  Are you crazy?  Have you lost your mind entirely?  I’m talking about me.  Who else could it be?  I’m the one who rolls out of bed a stranger these days.  I have an eye on myself as I move around the house.  What was it about me?, I keep asking.  Surely there was something.

I’ve seen some things, that’s for sure.  Things I’m not sure I like.  And I’ll tell you about them in time, but not now, not while this stranger’s still in the house.  Let me send them on their way, then we’ll sit down and talk, the two of us.  Just the two of us.  Doesn’t that sound nice?  I’ve never been much for groups, I know that.  It’s hard enough listening to one person.

So what do I do as I watch myself, creeping around the house like a stranger?  What do I do as I embrace the idea of yet another failure and pin it like a note next to that ticking clock of my life?  What am I?  44?  I can barely see the hands of the clock there are so many notes.  Halfway and already so cluttered?  Well, I guess we’ll talk about that as well one of these days, but not now.

So, what do I do?  Well, the same thing that any self-respecting virtual man does to keep himself from going insane in times like these - redesign his website.  Cheaper then a walking tour of English cottage gardens, and certainly less tiring then any alcoholic alternative.  Yes, I am reinventing the wheel once again, and this time, I am pushing the limits.  Something new.  Something I can wake up with in the morning and think, yes, I know you. Not that a website is like a person, or that web design is anything like sex, but in times like these, I swear, it’s close enough.

Change is good, but requires patients.  No, that’s not right.  Patience.  Yes, that’s what you need.  Plenty of it.

Lots of dead ends and broken links.  Bear with me while I shuffle things around and prepare for the future.  Did you know that all of the computers are going to crash on January 1, 2000?  Oh wait, that’s old news, and as we all know now, another false doomsday prophecy. 

I wish I was a doomsday prophet.  I think that might be fun.

Okay, let me finish with things around here and then I’ll see if I can’t come up with some doomsday prophecy for your entertainment.  I think I may just have some natural ability.

During the process of creation, it’s easy to lose sight of the goal.  Where are you going?  Are you still heading in the right direction?  Why?  The biggest question of all maybe.  Why create at all?

Today - print out the monthly billing.  Money would be good.  And sweep through the house, quickly.  A guest is arriving.  It would be ridiculous for anyone to show up and be able to know that I had a chef salad three days ago, and that I sat in the massage chair, and that I didn’t quite finish my glass of juice.  Those sorts of things should remain mysteries, not sit around in the form of dirty dishes.

To the kitchen!

Imaginary Keith goes about the business of existence, moving from room to room while I follow and watch.  I’m a child myself, remember, so it goes without saying that I don’t lift a finger to help.  It’s the business of adults to straighten, the business of children to mess.  The symbiotic relationship of family, although when I brought this up once, all Imaginary Keith did was mumble the word antibiosis under his breath.  He’s such a kidder.

Dishes, clothes, outside to tend the one lone rabbit.  Grandpa Slim, the giant lopped-ear died not two days ago, and now needs next to no tending, buried with the rest of the dead animals under the maple by the garden.  Goodbye, Grandpa Slim, we all said, then shoveled on the dirt, the boy asking if he could do the first scoop.  A solemn moment.  I secretly hoped that Imaginary Keith had dug the hole deep enough, given the curious noses of the dogs.

Then to the chickens, gather eggs and feed, fill the cow trough, maybe water the grass in the chicken area.  I follow him everywhere, watching.

How can Imaginary Keith keep it all straight - all these symbiotic relationships that attempt to coexist inside his head?  It’s pleasurable, walking out to tend a dozen chickens at ten in the morning with a fresh cup of coffee in one hand, and yet, the act itself suggests that there is not enough work.  He dumps the bucket of food scraps, and I see him wonder how much money his actions actual end up saving.  He eyes the chicken feeder.  How much does it cost each time a hen pecks at the pellets?  A penny?  More, less?  There is one friendly hen who likes to be picked up.  Imaginary Keith pats her on the back and she crouches down to his touch.  It’s the same stance a hen takes when a rooster shows a bit of interest; the same stance they take when they freeze in fear, after the gate has accidentally swung open and the dogs mistake them for a play toy.  A chicken will actual lie perfectly still while a dog plucks it to death.  It’s the same reaction my friend has been trying to recover from the last few years.  Life has plucked him right down to his bones.

“Don’t forget about the billing,” I say.  There’s really no need for a grown man, no matter how imaginary he might be, to stand around staring at chickens all day.

“If we don’t start selling eggs soon we’re going to have to eat eggs for every meal,” he says.  It’s true.  The eggs are really piling up.

I’ve never decided if practicality is a good thing or not.  It seems like a decent direction to go with your life, but then, maybe it’s only a survival technique.  A necessity, forced on us against our will.  I’ve never decided.

“We could pretend we’re Cool Hand Luke,” I say.  “That might be fun.”

“Okay.  I’ll be Luke.”

“And I’ll say, ‘What we got here is a failure to communicate.’ “

“And I’ll try to escape over and over.”

“And I’ll capture you and force you to do billing.”

We head back to the house, imaginary man with boy in tow.  I think of what messes I can make next.  I look over at the fresh grave, still undisturbed.  I wonder how many times I’ve walked up and down this same gravel driveway, between the barn and house.  The sun is warm but the air is already beginning to change.  Autumn is pushing at our heels.  I try to remember living in a place where summer lasted more then two or three weeks.  Everything seems so long ago.

The day will begin with me talking my way out of a visit to the state fair.  The boy will beg and I will resist, and let’s hope, everyone leaves it at that.  Not that I have better things to do, but certainly other things.  The billing that I didn’t get to yesterday, for instance. 

The new site design is almost complete, with the exception of the About page, a page for new visitors that tries to explain the concept behind this site as well as give them a few clues as to the dangling story lines that will popup from time to time.  There are details to work out about design services and hosting options that I will begin to offer soon.  Looking to escape Typepad?  Hang on, I will have your answer soon enough.  And lastly, a new page I’m working on (currently titled Fiction in the navigation bar but likely to change to Projects) that will display stories that are currently in progress.  My idea is for the stories to appear alongside my notes.  Seems like it might be interesting, for people who are interested in that sort of thing, to be able to watch the development and have a glimpse of what I’m thinking at the time.  Maybe it’ll work, maybe it won’t.  I don’t know.  Might be more trouble then it’s worth.

My working boys are pulling out, the fans are in the windows for the final cool down of the house, the boy is still asleep, and I’m thinking about taking a picture of a chicken’s ear.  There is much to be done today.

Do you feel the tension?  The sense of something about to happen?

All day I’ve felt like something was about to spring out of me.  The tingle of creation before it happens.  A mystery comes together, an electrical charge, a spark that ignites.  It’s in my head and in my gut.  It’s in the music.  My eyes can’t see the world but they can see this thing, feel it, sense it sitting there at the edge.

Trust comes hard, but I trust this.  Perfectly still I wait to be consumed.

Nothing can stop me, not even this silly song.  Who’s writing songs about Natalie Portman?  You have to love it.  Embrace stupidity!  The hope of humanity!

Play Natalie Portman!!

It all revolves around the explanation.  Even as kids, caught with a hand in the proverbial cookie jar, the explanations come quick.  “I can explain...,” we say, even before we know ourselves what words will come out of our mouths.  Guilt or innocence has nothing to do with it, as far as I’m concerned.  I think we’re in it for the explanation, nothing more.  I think we live for the explanation.  Deep down, we want to be caught.  We’re constantly looking around for someone to catch us, seeing if anyone is near.  The desire to explain is strong, the necessity of the act almost overwhelming.  We grab at passing opportunities to explain ourselves the way a drowning man grabs for the sky, and when opportunities don’t exist, we create them.

Wherever the explaining began, it apparently will end with weblogs.  Which isn’t saying that it will end at all, only that it will grow bigger.  Explanations are, after all, more like lies than we care to admit, growing somehow with each telling.  Our own life is apparently not enough for us, so we create even a bigger one with our constant explaining.  Like I said - weblogs. 

I imagine someday (and maybe we’re already there), people will gather at weblogs to worship someone’s explanation the way people gather at churches now to worship God.  Clearly the explanations of some make more sense than the explanations of others, so it would seem to make sense to want to congregate around those people with the best explanations, and yet, how can that make any sense at all?  It’s the event that’s real, not the explanation, yet there we are, constantly, demanding that something be fabricated to explain something that no longer exists. 

Do you see what I’m getting at?  Of course you do, you’re no slugs.  No one needs to beat you over the head with a stick to get your attention.  It’s perfectly clear what I’m getting at - I need to explain something.  I need to explain the changes to this site.

Personally, I love when things take on lives of their own.  It’s why I write fiction and why I create things in my head.  I love a good explanation.  I certainly love the ludicrousness of attempting to explain a weblog on a weblog.  I imagine what I’m about to say (which I have no idea) will make no sense.  You may find yourself with that feeling you get when you listen to the President on television, explaining war.  Or maybe for you it’ll be one of those mixed-sense reactions, like when you sympathize for the homeless guy who’s cornered you in the coffee shop and is telling you that story that makes absolutely no sense, but at the same time, you find yourself revolted by his presence because of the unbearable stench of his urine-soaked pants.  Or maybe you’re just too busy with your own explanations to even begin to feel anything about mine.

Either way.  It doesn’t matter, because like I said before, we’ve reached the end of the line.  Weblogs.  Last stop on the explanation express.  This is where we all get off, whether we’re ready or not.

I’ll try to make this quick and painless.

One thing I’ve never liked about weblogs is their (notice how I speak about them like they are living, breathing creatures?) constant pushing of us into the present.  It’s bad enough that my children push me towards my grave by growing older a year at a time, but a weblog!  Each day it gives you a shove.  It’s like you’re on trial, the courtroom is crowded, the docket is busting at the seams and the judge is impatient to move on.  And then into the room walks your weblog looking like some spineless public defender, thrust on you at the last minute, attempting to explain everything about you to this impatient judge without once opening your file.  It’s all about the present.  Your public defender - your weblog - offers the the top page of your entire life to the judge as an explanation of your actions.

“Guilty.  Next case.”

Okay, maybe weblogs aren’t the end of the line.  Maybe there’s something more.

I decided a long time ago that not everything needed to be right out there on the front page for everyone’s easy perusal.  I’d just never done anything about it.  Newspapers, after all, contain more than one page.&nb