I have stared at the broken details of my life for more then two years now.  Two years and sixteen minutes if you include this morning’s telephone conversation.  A brief but pointed exchange of blunt questions and equally blunt answers.  It was a conversation a long time in the making.

It is time for me to plan a divorce.  One can stare at the details of their emotions for only so long before the time finally arrives when they must take action.  And our phone conversation, if nothing else, was about action.  It is time to rework budgets and see if I will have any chance of surviving financially.  Decisions must be made about what is fair and acceptable.  We will attempt to agree on loan repayments and alimony and child support.  We will try to envision the future and its possibilities and prepare for them as best we can.  We will try to buy a second house for this separate life that has once again emerged after all of these years, so that everyone will be as settled and as comfortable as possible.  If it is possible, we will make lists of everything, so that when we sit down to divide up what remains of this brokenness, it will be fair and balanced.  We will attempt to do this, if we can, without the aid and interference of attorneys; and we will attempt to do this, and more, by measuring each and every decision against some obscure value of our son’s well-being.

It has been a tremendous load to carry these past two years, and quite honestly, I am just too tired to carry this load by myself any further.  I have carried it too long and too far already, and the time has come to set it down.

It is almost hard to imagine life without this crushing weight on my shoulders.

I am continually torn between the things in this life that are and the things in this life that could be.  For me, the separation between the two is so fine a line that to not think of these two things existing as one seems almost a crime.  I have a hard time accepting that the majority of people seem to live lives that appear so self-centered and self-serving.  I wonder how they can possibly live with themselves and their selfishness, and then find myself constantly jerked back to the reality that I am not much different. 

And yet, at the same time, everything tells me that if these two aspects of life - the things that are and the things that could be - were to be drawn together somehow, life as we know it would change in ways previously unimagined.  That everything would be different.  I sense this, and my mind literally wears itself out looking for ways to connect these seemingly simple ideas so that they make sense.  My mind heads off in a hundred different directions, all at once, searching for an answer.  And my mind, whether I like it or not, seems relentless in its search.

But while the mind may be relentless, the body is not.  I am tired.  I have grown older.  I move slower then I once did.  I am quicker to injure and slower to heal, and find that I ache in so many ways that even my mind, once so intent on its own business, is being forced to take notice.  Even now, as I write this, I can feel my mind calling itself back in, moving tighter and closer to home, heeding this body’s silent plea for help.

I imagine I will be posting sporadically for a time, although this may prove otherwise.  If I have something to say, I will certainly say it.  But mostly I need to draw in close and gather strength.  I need to push through this business of ending that is so tiring and consuming.  I need for it to be over.  It has worn me down so thoroughly that I am afraid I will run out of thoughts.  I have never been so tired in my entire life.

We all like to imagine that the world depends on us in some small way, and that without us, it might have trouble moving forward.  We all like to imagine that we are needed and special.  And we are special, but not always in the ways that we like to think.  But for us to assume that the world depends on us is senseless.  The world will always move on, with or without us, no matter how special we are.  We forget that it is us that needs the world, and not the other way around.  It moves at its own pace, which like it or not, has never been the same pace as our own.  We are the ones trying to keep up.

So I think it will hurt nothing if the world is forced to live without me and my words for a short time.  I am tired of trying to keep up.  The world will continue to spin while one man stops to catch his breath.

Life is full of surprises.  Who knows, I may even find myself in a dating situation sometime in the future.  So with that in mind, I’ve found myself asking myself one of life’s hardest questions, Keith, Are You Popular?

So we here at Word Shadows hope you will pop yourself a big bowl of corn, sit back, and enjoy the show.  Are You Popular?, the first in what we hope will become a meaningful mini-film festival for everyone.

Caution: 18 mb file.  I’ll work harder on sizing down the rest of the series.

A man and a boy slide into their Sunday as smoothly as they know how.  The man sips coffee and the boy waits on one slice of french toast.  The boy is very specific about this, listing one relative after another who he knows eats one slice of french toast, not two.  The man, sipping his coffee, simply listens.

The slide into Sunday goes off with almost a hitch.  But the moment the plate is set down in front of the boy, fully cut and syrup carefully poured, it is clear there is a problem.

Strawberry syrup?, the boys says.  I said regular syrup.  Everyone eats french toast with regular syrup.

So the man, still sipping his coffee, returns to the stove.  He is so certain that what he heard the boy say was, Strawberry Syrup.  But maybe he was wrong.  Maybe the boy said something else altogether.  Maybe Strawberry Syrup was really Send me to Europe, and asking for regular syrup was just the boy having second thoughts.

Maybe he should send the boy to Europe, the man thought as he watched the toast sizzling in the pan.  Maybe someone over there could teach the boy the incredible power of the polite lie.

Like so many of our days, this one takes on a life of its own.  Out of seemingly nowhere, a hamster cage appears in our life.  Looking at it, my eyebrows must have lifted slightly, because my son instantly went on the defensive.

“Dad!  These are like $100 or more in the store!  Mom got it at a garage sale for only two dollars!  Two dollars!”

“I didn’t even know you were getting a hamster.  I thought you were getting a puppy in, what was it, 26 days?”

“I’m getting a hamster and a puppy.”

“Oh.” Or maybe I said nothing and just hoisted my eyebrows again.

“We’ll clean it when we get back to the apartment, dad.  We’ll wash it with bleach.” We, of course, means me.

I guess I should be thankful that they didn’t return home with a used snake pit, or maybe an old, 1950’s oxygen tent.  You can pick up just about anything at a garage sale these days.  I should be thankful that, come Monday, I’ll only be shopping for a small rodent, and not a boa or a little, unhealthy bubble boy.

It’s a hectic morning and my fuse is burning short.  I overslept.  I wrote less then one sentence before my son appeared, wide awake with a mouth that hasn’t stopped moving once in the last four hours.  We had to hurry across town to pick up a mattress for a friend.  There was barely enough time to make the trip before the accountant showed up at the house.  I threw a tarp behind the seats, hoping to protect the mattresses from the dirty truck bed, not knowing until I opened the truck windows and the wind whipped through that it had been marked by every stray tomcat in a twenty mile radius.  Maybe it was because I had it draped over the power tools - the table saw, the drills, the radial arm saw and the air compressor.  Maybe all those tomcats want the other cats to think they’re the only cats around Salem who own tools.

The gas light was on.  We’re almost late, but we stop for gas anyway, picking the only station in town with pumps waiting on the mechanic to show up.  The gas trickles out so slowly that when my son yells out, “This will take forever!” I am almost inclined to agree with his frequent exaggeration.  We cut the pump short, jump in the truck, and race the forty feet into the intersection, where we sit at one of the longest red lights in history, all the while listening to some high school kids yell and scream at the top of their lungs, pumping car wash signs up and down in front of our windshield.  They are irritating the hell out of me.  Do they honestly think I will pull into their car wash, after listening to them scream, with a mattress in the back of my truck.

I am tempted to pull up onto the sidewalk and run the three of them down.  What’s the use of having a big 4-wheel drive truck if I never use it?  I could just hop the curb and squish them all into the grill of my truck, then pull into their free car wash and see if the other kids would like to scrub all of those irritations out of my grill.

But I’m back, on time, waiting for the accountant.  The mattress still sits in the back of the truck, waiting for me, just like that nasty tarp still sits behind the seats.  My son’s mouth has even stopped moving for a minute, but that might have something to do with the food I crammed into it.  Maybe he’s still talking and it only looks like chewing.

It’s not just the days that are filled with unexpected twists.  It seems that the nights are full of surprises as well.  It seems that Imaginary Keith is more complicated under the hood then I originally imagined, but more on that in a minute.

First up, the daily report.  And like any good news program, we kick it right off with a taste of bad news.  In the business world, it seems that there has been a great seed mix-up, unleashing a whole string of events.  One of our customer’s lawns, newly installed by us this summer, has come up spotty and ugly, infiltrated by some broad-leafed grass blade that is just bold enough to cause me both grief and economic set-back.  So seed has been shipped off for purity tests and Imaginary Keith will be rerouted this afternoon to console a worried customer and make an assessment of the situation.

Warranty work looms on our horizon - the bane of any small business’ existence.  But it’s always something, and you eventually become callous enough to take the constant hammering.

And in an unusual turn of events, my accountant has decided that she will make a guest appearance right here in my home / office tomorrow morning at 11:00, so that she can personally see to it that everything is shipshape on my computer.  This was decided just moments ago through a flurry of emails.

The whole thing has caught me a tiny bit off guard.  First off, I don’t ever recall my accountant ever volunteering to make house calls in the past.  I agree our copies of the software may be slightly different versions and that a disk can’t simply be burned and passed along, but in the past, I have always just been handed a list of line items to enter into the accounting myself.  To say the very least, this house call business has me a tiny bit suspicious.  What is she up to?  I can’t help but wonder just which of my bottom lines I’m paying top dollar to have watched.

But that’s not the biggest surprise.  The big surprise came last night, when I checked in on Imaginary Keith, still fast asleep in bed.  I’ll tell you what, if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes I wouldn’t have believed it myself.  I thought he was incapable of such an act.  I sat there for a moment, watching him in astonishment.  I thought he’d given that up years ago.

Can you believe it?  Imaginary Keith, the man we have all come to know and love, was lying there in bed . . . are you ready for this . . . . lying in his dreams.  Lying!  And not little tiny white lies, but big bold-faced whoppers.  One right after another.

From what I could gather, he was having some sort of dream about owning an old convertible Cadillac, which he never has, and that some people had snuck up while he was away and were stripping the car off all its valuable parts.  And in the dream, Imaginary Keith has caught the people in the act.  I walked in and saw the dream just as Imaginary Keith lets the air out of the thieves truck tires, so they can’t escape, and has gone to fetch a park ranger to help with the arrest.

I know, a park ranger makes no sense at all.  I couldn’t figure that one out either.

But then somehow the park ranger is going to arrest these people, and the scene moves somehow from the side of the Cadillac and into this large, underground house along a coast somewhere, and there are no longer just two or three people to arrest, but a whole household of young couples, all in their mid-twenties.  And there are children running all over the place, and everyone is discussing who will go to what jail and how they will get there and who will look after the children when they are away.  Someone gives Imaginary Keith a tour of the house and he becomes so caught up in the architecture that, for a moment or two, he forgets all about the arrests and the fact that everyone is about to be shipped off.

And then suddenly Imaginary Keith is sitting down in this soft, comfortable chair, talking with the young couples, and I see him begin to lie.  He starts telling them about a trip he’d just recently made to Seattle, and how the car broke down on the way and they had so much trouble.  And he tells them some stories about when he was twenty, and about some of the trouble he got into.  And he laughs about how the Cadillac isn’t really a Cadillac at all, but one of those fiberglass kits that you build and put over the top of an old Volkswagon.  And he just keeps talking and talking until everyone in the room is smiling and not thinking at all about going off to jail.

As I stood there in the room, watching Imaginary Keith dream, I knew that these were all lies.  I knew that none of it was true, but that didn’t bother me much because, after all, Imaginary Keith was dreaming.  No one has any control over things when they’re dreaming, I thought.

But that’s when I caught something familiar in the corner of my friend’s eye.  Something that I’d seen before, but just never in a dream.  That’s when I saw the thing that surprised me so much.  Imaginary Keith was lying, but he knew he was lying.  Even as he dreamed, telling all of those stories about cars breaking down and trips to Seattle, he knew that not a single bit of it was true, and yet he just went on talking and smiling like it was all the truth.  He didn’t even flinch, telling all those untrue stories.  As a matter of fact, he seemed to grow braver and braver the more he lied, as if the lies themselves released in him some sort of hidden strength.  I watched as the twenty year olds in the dream bought into everything my friend said, accepting everything without question.  I watched them laugh and become friends, forgetting all about their earlier troubles.  I watched the little children come up, one after another, and stand in front of Imaginary Keith, waiting for a turn to sit in his lap and listen to the lies.

But finally I had to turn and leave the room, because like it or not, I couldn’t take it any more.  As much as I hate a liar, especially someone who seems to have perfected the art of lying in his own dreams, I found myself being drawn in.  I couldn’t help it.  I found myself leaning over, looking past the lies and into those laughing faces.  I found myself becoming lost in something not true, and knew that if I didn’t leave the room quick, I too would somehow end up forgetting everything.

Tonight, Imaginary Keith realized that he could predict the future.  It came as quite a surprise.

“Hey!  Look!  I just realized that I’ll most likely live until the ripe old age of 86!” he blurted out.

“86 huh?  How do you know?”

“Well, the way I figure it - half my life making mistakes and half my life living with them.  I’m 43, so that works out to 86.  I’ll die when I’m 86.”

There are always so many flaws in my friend’s reasoning that I’d have to live well past 86 myself, just to keep up with them.  And since I’m only eight, why, that’d put him at . . . . oh, you do the math.

“But have you considered this?  What if you haven’t made a mistake since you were 42?  Then you’ll only live until 84.  Or what if you mess up when you’re in your seventies?  What then?  Suppose you’re 75 and you walk into the DMV to renew your driver’s license, but you’re so old, blind, and senile that you forget to take a number and sit there all day, and when someone finally does notice you you’re taking a nap and everyone is smiling at you because you’re such an old fool?  What about then?  I think that might be considered a mistake.  And if you do that at 75, are you going to tell me that you’re only halfway done and now need to live to 150?”

“So what if I did?  What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I guess.  But 150 seems kind of old.”

“That’s nothing.  Longevity runs in my family.  By the way, can you still drive when you’re 150?”

“Oh sure.  But anytime after 100, I think the only thing you’re allowed to drive is a hearse.  I think it’s a law.”

“A hearse?  I’ve never heard of that.”

“Sure.  All the old people know about it.  I think the law is called the Backseat Driver’s Law.”

“You mean you drive from the back?”

“Yea.  Something like that.”

Did anyone miss me?  Did anyone panic?  An attempt to upgrade my software and upload everything onto the server all by myself failed miserably.  I over-thought everything.  I reasoned my way into impossible corners, reading and re-reading the instructions so many times that I became positive that additional steps were required.  I added files that didn’t need adding and deleted files that didn’t need deleting.

But look!  We’re back in business thanks to those hardworking Expression Engine support people.  Who are these people anyway?  Do you think they wear capes as they type?  Do they ever sleep?

I must love the frustration of the do-it-yourself lifestyle.  Why else would I put myself through such torture.

Tomorrow morning I’m thinking of giving myself a checkup.  I mean, if I can stumble through this computer stuff, I’m almost positive I can do most of my own doctoring.  I picked up a Do-It-Yourself Colonoscopy Kit off of Ebay the other day.  Really cheap!  I couldn’t believe it.  I may just have to give it a whirl.

I am feeling quick on my feet this morning.  Foolishly giddy.  Have you ever watched any of the Alien movies?  I’m thinking of the second one, I think, where they all return to the planet and the soldiers are all pumped up and banging heads and rocking to get out and kill a few puny bugs.  That would be the military version of foolishly giddy.  I’m like that this morning, except the writer version of it, if there is such a thing.  I’m all pumped up to pop open the lid of this PowerBook and kick the living hell of out of my limited vocabulary.

To properly prepare for the fight I pulled alongside a local coffee booth and ordered the largest Nutty Irish latte that the place was legally able to serve a man in his forties - 44 oz.  The cup took two hands to hold.  I felt my arms shake under the sheer weight of the thing.  Enough caffeine in that one cup to flutter the eyelids of the dead.  If I were Nosferatu, this one cup alone might get me through a month of bloodless nights.  I rushed it home, where getting out of the car, I manage to hear one sentence from a conversation being held between a young man and woman.  They are probably nineteen, maybe twenty, and all I hear the young man say is:

“Your father thinks we should get a priest.”

They could be talking about so many things, but they are out of earshot before the girl has a chance to answer.  I will never know for certain.  But watching them walk down the street, I can’t help but notice the young woman’s thin white, cotton pants that are anything but mysterious.  Could she have possibly chosen a more uncomfortable pair of underwear to stroll across town in?  I suddenly imagine that the priest is needed for an immediate underwear exorcism.  Those thin white pants are nothing more then her soul, crying out for help.  I run into the apartment before the girl’s head has a chance to swivel completely around on her neck.  The last thing I need is for some demon-possessed girl getting her eyes locked onto my prized coffee.

Foolishly giddy, I told you.

Of course, we all know what happens to the foolishly giddy.  They are the soldiers sucked up into the darkness by the alien.  They are campers who venture out into the darkness to see what made the sound.  They are the woman who trips and falls every single time a monster like Godzilla is walking down the street.

But why worry about that?  That’s the future.  What will be, will be.  Let’s talk about the past.  The past is much easier to predict.  Like last night’s adventure.  I could predict exactly what happened last night.

Did I tell you that I was invited to play an exciting game of Tyrannical Father last night?  Well, no, of course I didn’t, but I really should.

Tyrannical Father® is a game that has been on a select test market for centuries now.  You and your family may have played it yourself and not even known you were playing, although I suspect that at the moment, you may have thought something like, this doesn’t seem real . . . this can’t be happening.  If you’ve ever felt like that, you may very well have been playing.

The game usually starts very slow.  Many times you don’t even know you are playing until it is too late and you are so far into the game that it’s easier just to go ahead and finish rather then try to quit and put everything away.  As a matter of fact, I don’t know if that’s even possible.  I’ve never tried.

It seems we’ve been playing Tyrannical Father® ever since my son decided that he would get a puppy.  There was much discussion and much excitement, and we began the search for the perfect pup.  Books were read and different dogs scoped out.  Prices were an area of concern.  Yipping and poop on the carpet were considered.  Everything will be fine, the adults were assured.

But what an inconvenient time to even think about playing Tyrannical Father®.  I could name a hundred better times to play.  With divorce around the corner and a second house that must be bought, a puppy underfoot seems like perhaps the last thing in the world that needs to be thrown into the equation.  But my very next roll of the dice presented me with a Conscience card.  Great, now what?

A child’s gait is random and playful like a puppy’s.

The game is creepy like that, I’m telling you.  On one hand, it is bad timing.  On the other hand, the boy is eight and never more ready for a puppy.  So more talk ensued.  More puppies scoped out and compared.  What kind of dog do we want to spend the next 15 years with?  It’s much easier for the adults to anguish over this type of question then the child.  All he can see is this cute little dog, licking his face cuddled up next to him in bed.

Somewhere during the course of the game my son decided that one particular Pomeranian pup was the one and only.  But we were unsure.  Pomeranian?  My mind raced, searching for a tape of every intelligible thing ever said to me by a pomeranian.  There is was.  I played the tape.

yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip

The book assured me that they can be trained to yip slightly less.

The game apparently went on like this for a couple of days.  Constant begging by some players, constant consideration by others.  More Conscience cards were drawn:

Don’t drag everyone through your shit.  It’s your shit, not theirs.

Cryptic at best.  Was this about divorce and house hunting and emotional balance, or simply about watching out for piles of puppy poop hidden about the house?  You can see why the game has been on the test market for so many centuries.

But perhaps the game reached its peak of excitement when some unheard conversation occurred between my son and his mother just moments before he was to be dropped off at my apartment.  Something (about the puppy, of course) wasn’t going right for the boy.  Apparently nothing about the puppy is going right for the boy.  And in a fit of anger that I witnessed but did not hear, he turned and pounded his mom on the back with a good one-two combination.  I could see the pain on her face.

Sometimes I think that fatherhood is nothing more then a socially acceptable form of dictatorship.  It was my turn to move.  I rolled the dice - a 7.  The most common roll.  I should have known.  I reached out for the action card, knowing that whatever it said wasn’t going to go over well with the other game’s participants.

You are the most despised father on earth!  Punishment is your weapon!  Take Angry Face out of box, put on, and storm into action.  If you’ve rolled a 7 two times in row, also put on eye-patch and fake scar.

Damn.  I pulled on the eye-patch and fake scar and headed out the door.  My turn would not be over until I was the most despised father on earth.  The card had made it perfectly clear.

I wonder if the angry emotions of young boys have always poured out into the world with blindly swinging fists?  Is it a natural reaction to punch out, or something we must learn?  Are we naturally programmed as children to see ourselves at such odds with the world around us, especially our parents?  I don’t have the answers to any of these questions, but what I do know is that hitting is not allowed in this family.  No one gets hit.  Especially mothers by enraged little boys with powerful punches.

Well, I won’t go on and on about this.  Let’s just say that the game of Tyrannical Father® ended about two hours after I decided that there would be no puppy for a minimum of 30 days.  Hitting would not be tolerated.  And any further hits would result in another 30 days being added to the sentence for each and every punch.  There was much wailing and crying in this small apartment last night.  I could see my pure evil reflected in the eyes of the young.  I was despised and I was hated.  I was yelled at.  I was ignored.  And when the tears dried up I was begged.  But I held my position.  Rules are rules, after all.  I was only playing the game, and the card was clear.  Can I help it I rolled a 7?

But the funny thing is, once all of that boiled over emotion calmed down, things weren’t all that bad.  As a matter of fact, the two of us had one of our best nights in a long time.  He was calm and happy and chatty as ever.  He wanted to talk about everything.  Everything, that is, except the puppy.  Every once in awhile he would meekly ask the puppy question and I would gently tell him the exact same punishment answer that he already knew.  And with each asking and each answer, he was assured that my answer was firm and would not change, and I could see him accept this with more and more willingness. 

I have to believe that inside of us all, and especially with children, is the desire for stability.  We want to know where we stand.  We want to know our place in the world, even if it ends up being only the small world of just our own home.  And as we grow older, this desire forces us to reach out further and further, as we hope to increase this base of stability.  We incorporate it into our families, our jobs, and our religions.  Without being aware of what we are doing, we incorporate this constant search for constants into everything that we do.

Luckily, our game of Tyrannical Father® ended on a good note last night, but I suppose that won’t necessarily always be the case.  Fathers and sons have always had their differences, and some things, no matter how many times you play the game, will never change.

I am moving along faster then I have in weeks, maybe months.  I have delegated duties to my smiling employees that include repairs around the house.  Not the apartment, but the house.  The real house where I soon hope to return.  Talk is in the air about the second house that must be bought in order for this giant, lumbering plan to creep slowly into the future.  Life inches along at a glacial pace.

Tools will be organized.  Tractors will be serviced.  Trash will be removed and irrigation parts reorganized and placed in their proper bins.  Even the barn will be cleaned, although this doesn’t mean mucked out.  Cows have been banished from the barn during the summer, told to go fertilize somewhere else. 

Yes, I am a gentlemen farmer.  I am a little Thomas Jefferson without the nobility or the powdered wig.  I survey my estate from the step of my van, voicing desires and directions in a soft voice.  I imagine the potential of the land.  I envision the possibilities.  I remember all of the plans that have passed through my head, from the large pond to the small stone writer’s cabin, with it’s welcoming front porch and large fireplace and windows looking out on nothing but meadow and a narrow, gravel path, leading back to reality.

“Well, we’re off to a good start this morning, don’t you think?  Showered and dressed, hair combed like a grown adult.  I even scrubbed that one toilet, the one that smelled like an outhouse at the state fair.”

“I know, I watched you,” Imaginary Keith said.  “You did an excellent job.”

“Is that what was blocking all the good light?  Just you standing around watching me scrub a toilet?”

“Sure, who’d you think it was?”

“I don’t know.  I was thinking it might be life, just waiting for me to finish so he could pee all over the seat.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And I’ve been meaning to ask you, why does your son have to urinate like he’s on some sort of strafing mission?”

“Are you going to try and blame it all on him?  He’s not even here.  You just need to clean more often.  Pee happens.”

“Pee happens?  That’s just stupid.  It’s not even a saying.”

“You can’t just go around talking about economic recovery like you know what you’re talking about.  You can’t go around talking about economic recovery at all.  You don’t even have any money.  Do you?”

“Money has nothing to do with it,” Imaginary Keith said.  “Potential.  That’s what it’s all about.  Economic Recovery is all about potential.”

“And you’re going to try and convince me that you have potential?”

“I’m not going to try and convince you of anything.  You’re the one doing all the talking.  I’m just sitting here, trying to mind my own business.  If I thought I could convince you of anything, I’d tell you to shut the fuck up for one minute and listen to me.”

“What the . . . “

“You see what I mean?  Instead of learning anything, you’d rather try to punch your way back into the conversation with some over-elevated moral indignation.”

“But you told me to shut up.  As a matter of fact, you told me to shut the . . . “

“See, you’re not listening to a word I say.  I never told you to shut up.  What I said was that if I thought I could convince you to shut up, then I’d tell you to shut up.”

“So you want me to shut up?”

“I have no idea why people even insist on talking with one another.  It’s like pounding good ideas into a loaf of fresh, warm bread.”

“You’re so full of shit.  You want another one?”

“Sure, why not.”

What a funny Sunday.  Half the day is spent rolling around the floor, avoiding almost everything, playing an occasional board game with my son, little Mr. Perpetual Energy.

It’s raining today, off and on, the first in a long time.  A perfect coffee drinking morning, but I am without.  Hot chocolate doesn’t quite cut it, although I am assured it does by the very same Mr. Energy mentioned above.  But I am all out of hot chocolate practice.  I make it too hot and a frown begins to grow on Perpetual’s face.  He must wait.  Perpetual Energy hates being patience.  It isn’t natural.  It causes friction.  His underwear bunch and he breaks out in little boy B.O.

“Taste it now,” he says.  “Tell me if it’s too hot.”

I obey his order and inadvertently slurp off all of his marshmallows.  His frown grows in leaps and bounds, causing my own B.O. to kick in.  It’s much too early for small boy wrath.

And all because we ran out of coffee.

But we survive the morning and head down to the video store to rent a movie.  Besides, it’s conveniently located next door to a caffeine outlet.  I order a large cup and Perpetual gets a cookie.

“This tastes like coffee!” he says after one bite.  He rushes into the bathroom, where I see him, before the door can swing fully shut, bending over the sink, rinsing his mouth out with water.  The whole cafe rises to their feet, moved by his performance.  Or maybe it’s just the cuteness of his freckles.  Whatever it is, the applause is deafening.

We retreat to the video store.  He shops, I follow and drink.  I am at peace, he is on the hunt.

“Let’s get Survivor on tape,” he says.  He asks me every single time, knowing what my answer will be.

“Are you trying to kill me?  If I ever watched Survivor it would kill me.  Dead.  On the spot.” I can survive his endless hours of Full House much easier then I could ever stomach even holding the Survivor VCR tape.  It almost touches my hand and I feel ill.

“Put it back.  Quick.  Before I throw up.” We both laugh. 

But in the end he arrives at the counter with A New York Minute.  Another frolicking good time with the Olsen twins.  Maybe I should rephrase that.  Oh, what the hell.  Bring on the Googlers.  I love being a dead end.  A link serving no purpose.  A useless item.  Coming here with a nude Olsen obsession will be as fulfilling as owning only one cuff link.  Besides, my grandmother’s maiden name was Olsen.  I might just decide to take offense with this particular little google. 

“Go away,” I say out loud.

“Sorry?” the girl behind the counter asks.  I’m sure she thinks she must have misheard me.

“Did I say something?” I say.  Head down, she finishes her job and sees me and Perpetual out the door.

“Dad, I’m starving.”

Of course you are.  We’ve been out on the road for nearly twenty, maybe thirty minutes.  Of course you’re starving.

Perpetual Energy, for all his bouncing, is actually a very poor decision maker.  He can never make up his mind, weighing every decision, no matter how small, as if the existence of the world depended on it.  All I want to know is what he wants to eat.  So what I do is drive down the road, pointing out his next possible answer.  Eating fast food is, let’s face it, living life like it’s a multiple choice test.

“Barbecue?”
“No.”

“Subway?”
“No.”

“McDonald’s?”
“No.”

“Burger Ki . . .”
“No.”

“You’re almost out of choices.  Pizza Hut?”
“No.”

“Alright, last choice.  Wendy’s?  After this we head home.”
“No.”

I almost drive by when he pipes up once again.
“Okay.  Wendy’s is okay.”

I like ordering from this particular Wendy’s.  It’s the same restaurant that a friend of ours son ate at and came down with a nice case of E. coli.  He survived, spent a week or so in the hospital, fully recovered, and earned himself a nice, fat settlement check in the process.  Why don’t I ever fall into sweet deals like that?

“Maybe this time,” I say out loud.  “Maybe this time.”

“This time what, dad?”

“Oh nothing.”

--------------------------------------------------

I can’t believe I almost forgot to mention this.  This is the best part of the whole trip out.

While we were in the video store, I happened to look up across the store once and found myself standing directly across from an old man, two or three aisles away, who resembled my dead grandpa enough for me to take a second, and then a third look.

The first look didn’t really register with my brain.  The second look made me think, yes, that does look a lot like him.  But it was the third look that took me the most by surprise.  It was that third look that reminded me that I’ll never see him walking around like that ever again.  So I just stood there, staring at this old man who looked so much like my dead grandpa, with tears welling up in my eyes.

But I didn’t break out in big sobs or anything.  Come on, what are you thinking?  My son was about to rent an Olsen twin movie and the old man was poking around in the comedy section.  Crying just seemed all out of perspective at the moment.  Not wrong, but just not right.

Like renting Survivor, or wishing for a case of E. coli.

--------------------------------------------------

Back home, Perpetual Energy ate his burger and watched television.  Full House, of course.  I retreated from the room to think about the afternoon.  My life has become like a beauty queen’s face needing constant reflection.

“Dad, dad!  Come quick!” Oh great, I thought.  Another spill. 

But it wasn’t a spill at all, but a commercial for Space Bags.  Apparently you put things in these bags and suck all of the air right out of them using nothing more then your own vacuum cleaner.  Everything is preserved for the future, remaining fresh, fluffy, and odor free.

Hmmm.  It didn’t actually sound too bad.  I could have used a Space Bag a couple of years ago, when life when bonkers.  I could have just climbed into one, had someone vacuum out my air, and just slide me into the closet or under the bed.  I mean, the commercial makes it sound so nice.

Airtight and waterproof.  Everything comes back to life as fresh and clean as the day you put it in.

Sounds great to me.

--------------------------------------------------

Oh, let’s go ahead and throw the googlers a bone.  How about a peek at some Perpetual Motion Machine notes, compliments of Frode Olsen.  Hey, at least he’s an Olsen.  I couldn’t say one way or another whether he has a twin, although I’m almost positive he’s nude from time to time.

I’ve just received a very convincing letter from one of my uncles why Kerry should not be elected president.  It’s a copy of a forwarded letter from an Air Force Pilot who once flew Senator Kerry into Phnom Penh for some POW / MIA talks.

I could show you the whole letter, but it is much easier to sum it up with one sentence.

It seems that the good Senator Kerry stole a pizza meant for the crew.

Here’s my favorite line of the letter, when the supposed pilot sums up his political feelings:

You want a mega-millionaire ego-maniac, it’s-all-about-me, crew-eating-pizza-ite like Kerry or maybe a Green Party candidate like Ralph Nader?

Crew-eating-pizza-ite?  Did Kerry eat the crew and the pizza?  Why isn’t the media all over this thing?  And Ralph Nader?  What does he have to do with this?  The letter made no mention of Ralph Nader being in Phnom Penh.  Am I now to believe that he was there as well, eating stolen pizza?  Or worse yet, helping Kerry gulp down hard-working, Air Force crew members?  This has Khmer Rouge written all over it.

Vote carefully, my friends, because history, it seems, dies ever so slowly.  This is not just a vote for conservative or liberal.  It seems there are now pizza-ites moving among us, infiltrating all levels of society.

But then, any hungry college student could have told you that.

With my son in the market for a puppy, I’ve begun making phone calls, talking to various people about different dogs and the availability of their pups.  I’d forgotten just how chatty people are about their dogs.  The phone calls almost always go on and on, as long as I am willing to stay on the line, listening.

Up for consideration this week is a Chihuahua, but not one of those hairless, Taco Bell kind.  My son has stipulated that it must be long-haired, soft, and friendly.  It must want to sit in his lap for hours on end and be petted.  It must lick his hand when presented.  It must be energetic, but not too energetic.  It must be small.  It must be smart and alert.  Oh yea, it must be a female, because I guess he wants to be the only one in the house lifting his leg and missing the toilet.

I talked to one woman who has raised Chihuahuas “for just about forever”.  Those were her words, not mine.  “Way before there was ever a Taco Bell chihuahua,” she said, and at 78 years old, I believed her.  Hell, I’m pretty sure that’s way before there was ever a Taco Bell, period.

Another woman proceeded to school me about weight issues and breeding of the smaller, more delicately sized Chihuahua.  “One woman wanted to buy one of my small bitches for breeding, but I knew she wouldn’t be more then three pounds.  I wouldn’t sell it to her.  ‘You’re putting the bitch and the pups at risk,’ I told her.  I didn’t sell her a dog, although she said she’d be back.  If she does I’m just going to have to argue with her again.”

I wonder what it’s like to weigh only three or four pounds?  Would you live in constant fear that a gust of wind might sweep you away?  And I don’t care how comfortable you are saying it, I just have a hard time having a casual conversation with the word bitch in it.

I never know exactly what to say to these talkative dog people.  You see, I’ve always owned large, half-breed dogs.  Outdoor dogs that only listen when they want to.  Dogs that, if they’re too dumb to get out of the way, you don’t mind giving a little bump with the car’s front bumper.  What am I suppose to say to these people with their perfect, pedigreed animals?

“Oh, you should have seen what my dog did this morning.  It was so cute.  Sometime during the night she drug home this half-rotten skunk and left it on the back step.  She was so proud I thought her half-breed tail would never stop wagging.”

I learned just this morning, from over at Mark Maynard’s site, that, according to this news story, Costco is now in the casket business.  Ever so slowly, it seems as if the business of death changes.  Years ago people buried their own people.  You cleared off the table in the parlor or some such business, cleaned and dressed them up nice, let friends and family pay their respects, and then put them into the ground, often right there on your own land.  Family plots were still common.

Somehow over the years, the business of burying the dead slipped out of the hands of family and into the hands of mortuaries.  I suppose this wasn’t such a bad thing back when communities were smaller or neighborhoods more closely tied, and the mortician knew the people he was dealing with.  Today, this idea of close, personal service is nothing more then a marketing tool, as mortuaries promise us “the highest level of personal service” in both radio and television advertisements.  It leaves a person wondering.  The very idea that personal service will be delivered to us by complete strangers seems, at best, ludicrous.  Just when did we come to believe and accept such an arrangement?  Have we removed ourselves so far from the idea of dying that we are that gullible?

The time is ripe.  The stage set.  Enter Costco, offering us not just a reasonably priced coffin, but quick and speedy delivery in our time of need.  Now that’s personal service, we think.  Fast, on time, and, most importantly, saving us money.  Ahhh, the money.  It’s always about the money, isn’t it?  Or at least it is now.  Maybe if we followed the historical path of dying backwards we could find a place where money wasn’t an issue, or at least such a big issue?  I wonder if such a historical time exists?

Of course, being a smart-ass, the first thing that popped into my mind (and this will resonate best with those familiar with Costco’s marketing strategy) was whether or not the coffins came shrink wrapped in two-packs.

I did a quick search of the Costco website, but couldn’t come up with a coffin.  But like the article said, it’s only being tried around Chicago.  I wonder if I have any serious readers from the Chicago area?  Someone who might be willing to buy a Costco coffin so we can have a look at it.  That would be nice, wouldn’t it?  Almost like personal service.

Oh, don’t worry about the money.  Costco has an excellent return policy.  It’s not like I’m going to make you use it or anything.

First it was her television.  I told you about that one, sort of.  Young, fresh, full of life, the thing decided that it would give up the ghost the other day, adding to my grief and headache, not to mention backache.  When I went to move it, I’d forgotten just how heavy that thing was.

But then the telephone went bad the very next day, along with her computer.  It seemed unbelievable, and yet, it is just the sort of thing I have come to expect.  It plays right into my “of course it broke” theory, which basically hinges on the idea that money must be spent each and every day or else modern day America will shrivel up like a broken arm, healing too long in a cast.

Broken television.  Broken telephones.  Broken computer.  On the surface it looks kind of bad, but here’s the thing - I think this may have just been the “break” I was looking for.  Today I’m going to head over to the house and inspect all of the electronics.  I’m going to give them a very careful look, seeing if I can tell if they’re about to die as well.  I’ll make myself a nice chart maybe, write everything down in careful columns with room for notes and comments and little facts like - was this particular electronic item a gift.

It’s no mystery here that my marriage is broken.  I’ve written about that on occasion.  But now that so many electronics are also breaking, it may just be the proof I need to prove once and for all that things like computers and dvd players and other similar electronics do, in fact, make perfect, romantic gifts.  If love dies, then naturally, it only makes sense that the electronics associated with that love would die right along with it.  I should have seen this all along.  I should have seen it coming.

Men all over the world have been hoping for a breakthrough just like this for years.  I’ve suspected all along that men have known for years (well, maybe it was more of a sensing at some deep, hidden, inner level, or possibly even only a slight buzzing feeling that they mistook for arousal), that there is a direct connection between buying new electronic devices and love.  I’ve just never had the proof, until maybe now.

So if you’ve ever raised your eyebrows or felt your stomach drop because your grinning-like-the-fool-he-is husband thought you’d want a new computer for your birthday, or if you’ve ever unwrapped a small, jewelry shaped box at Christmas, expecting a stunning diamond necklace or something similar, and instead found yourself holding a PDA or a new calculator, and your husband snatched it out of your hand and said something like, “Isn’t it great?  Here, let me show you how it works,” then I need to hear from you.  Because as everyone knows, truly great research requires a large data base of facts and information.  Incontrovertible discoveries are seldom made by one man, working alone.

Changing the way the world thinks is never the work of one.

I sometimes think about what it would have been like before electronics.  What did men do then for holidays and birthdays?  How did they rise to meet such challenging times?

There is one particular story that floats around my family about the time one of my grandfathers bought only a broom for my grandmother for Christmas.  Apparently he thought he was being very creative when he somehow snaked it up inside the Christmas tree where no one could see it.  For weeks my grandmother looked under the tree, wondering just what surprise her husband would get her, never once spying the broom, hidden only inches away.  I suppose her hopes rose higher and higher as Christmas approached, maybe imagining that the gift was simply too large to put under the tree, and would be given to her on Christmas morning.

The story is a bit sketchy without many details, but goes on to reveal that everyone opened their gifts, even the kids, without anyone spotting the hidden broom.  My grandfather apparently thought this was quite funny, and was laughing more and more with each opened gift.  But this isn’t surprising, coming from the man who also came up with the idea of serving glasses of water to his children for breakfast, telling them to stare at an empty orange juice can perched in the window sill while they drank.  Imagination has apparently always been a motivator in my family.

Anyway, after all the gifts were opened, and my grandmother still had nothing, my grandfather finally tells everyone that the last gift has been under their noses the whole time.  Laughing harder and harder, he tells his wife to reach into the tree, which she does, pulling out an ordinary, everyday, straw broom.

I wish I had a picture of the bleakness of that room at that very moment.  I wish there was an image that captured my grandmother’s shock and disappointment and my grandfather’s completely unaware amusement.  And somehow I wish that the picture would show all of the children, sitting around the tree in their pajamas, trying hard not to stare at anything at all.

But there is no picture of that morning, and the only detail that actually survives is that my grandmother stood there next to the tree, holding her new straw broom, crying.

How did I ever become such an irrational thinker?  The question certainly crossed my mind last night as I imagined some of my possible futures.  The newest detail to consider is the failing of a television set.  Hers, actually.  The one my son watches when he is with her.

It was all so clear until a moment ago.  Divorce may be tricky, but at least there was a clear understanding about the televisions.  Now even that thinking has gone all to hell and must be reconsidered.  I carefully weigh the possibilities in my mind.  I list them all.  I hold no punches or possibilities, placing on the list (but at the mental bottom, mind you) the idea of returning to the house.

What kind of list contains returning to a marriage in order to save the cost of one 36” color television?  Can you answer me that?  My lists, you can see, are thorough and all-encompassing.  No detail is left unexplored, no matter how unreasonable or impossible.

I should mention that my thinking was interrupted last night by a knock on the front door.  A knock?, I thought.  The doorbell works fine.  Why not the doorbell?  Even unimportant events sometimes require a list in my life.

It was the door to door tattoo artist who occasionally passes through our neighborhood, wondering if maybe we were in the market.  I saw her backpack, sitting on the step beside her, containing everything she would need.  She’d broken out everything the last time she’d knocked on the door, explaining to us in great detail how everything worked.

Lover’s names, snakes, dragons, religious symbols, she could do it all, she claimed.  Maybe an anchor or a growling dog, she suggested.  I could feel her lean her way into the room, half in, half out, forcing us to notice the walking billboard of flesh that peeked out from behind her own clothing.  Swirls of color, names of rock bands or boyfriends (I wasn’t sure), a beautifully detailed red rose near her throat, its thorny stem disappearing into her chest and shirt. 

It’s funny how a person’s mind sometimes wanders and you end up having conversations with things that have no way of talking back to you.  Like that broken television.  All the while I’m staring at this rose stem disappearing into some girl’s cleavage, I’m thinking, fucking television, why’d you have to up and quit on me now?  You couldn’t have waited a few months?  A year maybe?

But then I realize I’m staring down this girl’s shirt and talking to a television that’s clear across town, and I sort of drift back to my senses.  I begin to remember that the door to door tattoo artist has come calling, and that she’s standing right here in front of me, still talking.  As a matter of fact, her scrawny little hand is digging into my arm and I swear her fingers are going to pierce me clear to the bone.  I have no idea what has happened.

We’ll fix you up with a piece of barbed wire.  Wrap it right around this thing.  You’ll love it.

But I can’t really stay focused, even with her fingers digging into my skin.  Maybe the pain isn’t enough.  Or maybe I’m just not interested.  My eyes follow the thorny stem back down her chest and I find myself thinking that cleavage is wasted on young girls.  There’s just no reason for it.  It makes no sense.  Nothing makes sense.  It’s just stupid for this girl to have so much cleavage, standing here in my doorway, selling tattoos.

I think I may have been rude, because I can’t remember closing the door, or saying good bye and thank you.  I know I didn’t buy a tattoo, because this morning I looked and didn’t find a thing.  And I’m not even sure if that television is really broken, because how could that be?  That wouldn’t make any sense.  And I sure as hell know that I didn’t make a list that included me moving back into the house to save the cost of a television.  That would be about as stupid as a door to door tattoo girl, with or without cleavage.

“What are you reading over there?” I asked Imaginary Keith earlier this morning.  He had been quiet for hours, hunched over a book, apparently reading every word carefully.

“Nothing.”

“Oh come on, you’ve been at it for hours.  What is it?”

“Okay.  It’s a book I picked up last weekend.  I special ordered it.  I’m just looking it over.”

“What’s it called?”

“Promise you won’t laugh?” Imaginary Keith asked.  I promised, knowing perfectly well that I probably would.

“It’s called Measuring Time In The Face of Love : A Practical Guide.  It’s really good.  You should read it sometime.”

“A practical guide to love.  That I’d have to see to believe.”

“No, no, no.  It’s not about love, but about the time that surrounds love.  That’s something completely different.”

“But you’re not in love, are you?  Why are you reading it if you’re not in love?”

“Because it ends up that falling in love and falling out of love are very similar when it comes to time.  You should read this.  The author not only makes a very strong case, but also gives the reader some very useful guides to live by.”

“I see.”

“This book may very well change my life.”

“Hmmm.”

“Listen to this,

Measuring time during times of high emotion has never been simple.  The tools most often turned to, such as a wristwatch or calendar, become nothing more then mere decorations, and are useless.  A person would have more luck gaging time with a rubberband around their wrist then a watch.  At least a rubberband can be given a snap, startling a bit of sense into the life of a person.

When it comes to measuring the time that surrounds love, it matters very little whether we are talking about falling “in love” or falling “out of love.” In regards to time, they are one in the same.

“Good stuff, isn’t it?”

“I’d have to hear more.  I hate to think about going through life wearing a rubberband on my wrist.”

“I think the author intends for it to be a temporary solution.”

“Well, you’ve read more then me.  You’d know.”

“And look.  Here’s some of the practical solutions I mentioned.  You know, useful guides to live by.”

“Yes, I wouldn’t mind hearing some of those.”

“Okay, let me see . . . yes, here it is.  Listen . . .

Some of the most obvious ways are through physical changes in the body, which this guide, for various reasons, will not explore.  Hair growth, both in men and women, would be an excellent example of a physical change method.  The sudden appearance of a beard in a man (or woman, but rarely) would suggest . . .

“No, no, that’s not it.  Wait . . . okay, here it is, I think.  No, this is about weight.  But you should hear this.”

Some studies are quick to lump a change in size as a physical means in determining the passage of time, but this author finds size to be an extremely unreliable tool of measurement.  Great weight losses and gains, sometimes in excess of twenty or thirty pounds, can appear overnight, contrary to popular belief.  Seasonal fluctuations are common.  And while the appearance of certain items in grocery stores might be used to judge time, such as chocolate covered cherries (appearing on endcaps), Peeps, Cadbury eggs, and eggnog, the weight gain associated with their appearance cannot.  The variables are just too great, and any measurement becomes unreliable.  Examples of this might include: one day of Cadbury eggs translating into a weight gain perception of 14 to 16 days, or one week of chocolate covered cherries translating into 2.5 months of weight gain perception.  Variances this great fall . . .

“You can see now why I’ve been reading so seriously.  This is good stuff.”

“I don’t know.  What about the practical guides?  I still want to hear about them.”

“Okay.  Right here, I think.  Yes, here it is.  Alternate Ways of Measuring Time.  These are actually fairly exciting.”

The Plastic Spatula Method
Go into the kitchen and remove the spatula from its drawer.  As the title of this helpful hint suggests, the spatula must be constructed of plastic and not metal in order to work.  Remove the spatula and carefully inspect its working edge.  What you are looking for are signs of wear.  If a thin bead of the plastic can be easily removed by scraping your fingernail along it, then you can rest assured that time has passed.  The larger the loose bead of plastic, the more time.  This method is relatively foolproof.

I should mention that if, upon your inspection of the spatula, you happen to notice a residue that resembles dried or baked on egg or cheese, you may conclude one of two things.  First, food has been prepared with the spatula sometime in the past, naturally suggesting the passage of time.  Secondly, failure to notice the dried food in the first place is a strong indicator that your powers of observation have changed.  This type of change in a person rarely happens overnight, and definitely suggests the passage of time.  The issues of personal awareness and cleanliness are, however, too large of issues to deal with at this time, and will be dealt with separately in their own chapters.

“Good stuff, isn’t it?”

“How much was that book?”

“That’s not important.  Listen to this.  Here’s the good part.”

“Yes, I was wondering when you’d get to the good part.”

“Each of the methods in the book comes with a list of required actions that the reader should take in order to set time back in proper motion.”

“I see.  And what, dare I ask, do we do after inspecting our spatula?”

“Let’s see . . . hmmm.  Okay, here it is.”

Plastic Spatula Method, Actions Required
1) File for divorce, and 2) Buy a new spatula.

“I should have seen that one coming.”

“Well, be fair to yourself.  You haven’t read the book.”

“Are there any more you’d care to share before I get back to work.”

“You might be interested in hearing The Favorite T-Shirt Method.”

“Yes.  Enlighten me.”

The Favorite T-Shirt Method
Carefully inspect your favorite t-shirt.  Similar to the spatula method, what you are looking for are signs of wear along critical edges, such as the collar, sleeves, or waist.  Obvious tears can be ignored, but small holes may very well indicate the passage of time.  Care must be taken, however, when using the Favorite T-Shirt Method of time measurement.  Holes might only be a sign of poor laundry skills, indicating a heavy hand with detergents and bleach, and this rule is only recommended for those comfortable around a washing machine.

A worn t-shirt, however, is almost always a sure sign that time has passed you by without your notice.

“I think I’ll just let you read the book.  You can fill me in later.”

“Alright.  But I think you’re missing out.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“Oh look!  Here’s something about toenails.  Should I . . . “

“I think you might absorb more if you read to yourself.  Don’t you think?”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“By the way, you never mentioned the book’s author.  I’d be curious to know just who this expert on time is.”

“That’s the funny part.  It doesn’t say.  Maybe it’s a collection of wisdom, compiled from the work of several different experts.  I don’t know.”

“Yes, maybe that’s it.  Laundry, spatula, and toenail experts, all working together as one.  Sounds very scientific.”

“Well, actually it was listed as self-help.”

“Yes.  I suppose it was.”

He sometimes tried to imagine living without the link, picturing in his mind a time when people’s heads were free of all electronics.  It seemed impossible to imagine such a thing.  What could it have been like, living your life with so many secrets trapped inside?  He would always envision people going mad with the pressure - committing unimaginable crimes against themselves or each other, holding unspoken grudges, always ready to lie and deceive one unsuspecting person after another.  How could they have trusted each other, knowing that so many things were locked away?  How could they have coexisted?

But the one question that was forever foremost on Moze’s mind was how he would have handled such a time.  What if he had been born 2500 years earlier?  Could he have lived alone with his thoughts?  The idea would not leave him alone.

Some doctors claim that my generation will be one of the last to experience baldness.  Wouldn’t that be something?  A world with no more bald and thin-haired men.  Evolution will have come full circle, and we’ll all be hairy, unruly cavemen once again.  I’m not sure what to think.  I don’t know whether to believe them or not, or even if it’s a good thing.  And should I start training my son for his possible future as a bald man, or do I embrace the science and invest in the hair gel industry? 

My son already resists haircuts, so I think maybe he already knows something that I don’t.  Like a bird flying south, or a rat seeking higher ground, something inside tells him to run.

But I don’t have time to sit around and wait on doctors.  Whether I was part of the last generation of balding men will be proven one way or the other soon enough.  If I live long enough, I too will become part scientist, staring at my son’s temples like they’re a couple of petrie dishes, watching for the results.  Who knows, maybe I’ll make one of those accidental discoveries, like penicillin.  Maybe my son will grow horns, and because I was watching so close, I’ll see how it happened and market the secret and be rich beyond my wildest dreams because, like it or not, horns will be all the rage and everyone will want to grow a pair.

I can tell you one thing for sure.  I am part of the last generation of uncomfortable answering machine callers.  So are you.  We’re a dying breed and don’t even know it.  Our children certainly don’t know it.  They were born with the answering machine.  They don’t know the world any other way.

But you and I know.  If we think about it, we remember how awkward it was to leave a message when we first started encountering answering machines.  We remember hanging up so that we could plan our message.  We remember years of hanging up without actually leaving a message, comfortable with the old ways of silence.

I think I sometimes miss those days of silence.  When calling someone who was gone gave you nothing in return.  We should feel lonely when we can’t reach someone.  Somehow, that just feels more natural.  Being able to just blurt out the first thing that comes into our heads hasn’t helped us at all.  It seems there might have been a time when not being able to reach someone left us concerned and worried.  We thought about the person.  We wondered what was happening.  Now, if we happen to dial a number that just rings and rings, we just wonder if the person’s answering machine is broken.  Spontaneity is great, but it shouldn’t be the answer to everything.

If Google ever holds conventions, I wonder if all of the pornographers attend, wearing one of those big foam hands with the pointing index finger, chanting, “We’re Number One!  We’re Number One!”

And if they do, I think that’s some pornographic action I’d like to see.  Not that I’d be aroused or anything.  I’m not saying that.  I think I just like watching people when they think they’re the best at something and then work themselves into a frenzy.  I imagine the porn industry people would be really good at that sort of thing.

To understand Imaginary Keith’s occupation, it sometimes helps to imagine a merry-go-round, spinning around so fast that it is more blur then merry-go-round.  And somewhere, riding the merry-go-round, clinging on for dear life, is our friend, Imaginary Keith.  And then further imagine a whole bunch of different jobs, sitting all around the merry-go-round, out in the grass.  There is no real order to the jobs.  They are just sort of scattered, flung here and there with no real reason.

So this is what you do.  You just watch the merry-go-round for a minute or two, because it is spinning so fast there is no way in the world our friend can hang on.  Round and round and round and . . . . whoa!  Here he comes!  My, my, look at him tumble.  He’s such a good sport.

Today the phone rang and Imaginary Keith came flying off of the merry-go-round just in time to catch it on the last ring.  It was someone crying, barely able to talk.  Someone not wanting to go on.  Yes, counseling seems to be one of the jobs lying around in the grass.  But it is over there, on the left, with all of the other non-paying jobs.

When he hung up the phone, Imaginary Keith just turned and jumped right back onto the merry-go-round.  He’s funny that way.  I think he could just as easily walk over to the next job and pick it up that way, but he never does.  I guess he likes the ride.

And then later today, after the phone call, Imaginary Keith came flying off of the merry-go-round yet again, and landed smack dab on Wedding Photographer.  The camera hit him just above the right eye, leaving a small cut.  I saw him pick up the camera and kind of heft it in his hand, and I knew he was thinking about throwing it.  But what I couldn’t tell was if he was angry about the cut or the fact that photographing a wedding seemed like an ironic twist to the fact that his own was so close to ending.  I couldn’t tell if he was thinking of the counseling job he’d worked, earlier in the day.  I couldn’t even tell if he was giving his brother his full attention, as they talked over details on the phone.  For all I know, Imaginary Keith will sabotage the whole affair and Photoshop his brother’s new wife into all of the old pictures.  It wouldn’t matter, really.  Imaginary Keith has yet to photograph a single wedding that ends with a successful marriage.  Oh well, he thinks, this time I’ll shoot it with digital.  Maybe that’ll make all the difference in the world.

After he got off the phone, he dabbed at his cut temple, and then leaped right back onto the merry-go-round, disappearing into the blur.  It’s really something to see.

I asked him once about the bars.  What about those those things you hold onto?, I asked.  Aren’t they spinning awful fast?  Don’t they come around and catch you off guard?  That would really hurt.

Oh yeah, he said.  Those bars knock the hell out of me every time.  I’ve been broke and cut, bruised, battered, slapped, and saddened just about every which way you can imagine.  Those bars will be the death of me one of these days.  But then, that’s just life, isn’t it?

A one night getaway is always better then a no night getaway.  I’m feeling fairly refreshed and chipper this morning.

Can you imagine seeing the world through eight year old eyes again?  Sitting around the pool this past weekend, I would shake my head in amazement each time I would overhear my son talking to some new stranger, as he told them in great detail how he and his dad were on vacation.  As an adult, a one night stay in a motel only twenty or thirty minutes from home is hardly ever referred to as a vacation, but through a child’s eyes it is completely different.  It matters very little how far you travel, where you go, or how you get there.  Passports are not necessary.  For a child, vacation begins the moment you make a change in surroundings.

And I can’t help but think that kids, as far as vacations are concerned, might be on to something.  Packing is easy.  Planning is virtually nonexistent.  When it’s time to go home, you are there in a matter of minutes, not hours or even days.  The only downside that I can see, is that if you spend too much time in a game arcade, and you agree to play laser tag, you will not only be the oldest contestant most likely, but you will sweat like a pig (wait, that’s not right, pigs don’t sweat), well, you’ll sweat enough for everyone in the room, maybe the entire building.  And the worst part is, you’ll lose your sunglasses somewhere in the darkness and won’t even know it until later and it is too late. 

But it’ll be worth it.  There is a certain satisfaction in being old when it comes to laser tag.  You know how to listen as the instructions are given, so you end up understanding the point system.  And as the small children and teenagers scramble around with no direction, blasting away at everything that moves, you know what it takes to walk away victorious.  You pick your targets carefully.  Your aim is true, and you light up the chests and backs of every kid in the place, ignoring the insignificant shoulder shots.  So when the lights go up and the game is over, it is no surprise to you which team won and who is the high scorer.  It’s the old man, everyone says, as if they are surprised.  Of course it’s the old man.  Who else would it be?

It wasn’t until later, as we were driving home and the sun was burning out the retinas of my baby blues, that I started thinking that maybe I shouldn’t have fought quite so hard in the laser tag room.  What was the point of winning a mock war against a room of kids?  Where’s the sense in that?  And as I drove, I could still see their smiling faces, which at the time seemed almost foolish.  What could they all be smiling about?  You just lost the battle, you crazy kids.  What are you all so happy about? 

But now, blinded by the sun, it was as clear as day.  I realized now that they were all taking turns stepping on my glasses, mashing them into bits.  Take that, old man. That’s what their smiles were all saying.  They weren’t crazy or naive or foolish.  They were happy.  We’re all on one day vacations and on top of the world!

Whatever it is I am trying to say, my dreams repeatedly warn me to be careful.  I either find myself running around, one step ahead of some misunderstanding people, or else find myself trying hard to explain words that have become nearly unrecognizable, twisted well beyond whatever truth they might have held.  At times I must fight, but it is rare.  More times then not it, the dream will boil down to a series of complicated manipulations that must be completed in order for me to be understood.

On the surface, my days would appear much easier.  But if you believe that, you might as well start chasing me around right now because you don’t understand a thing.  The days are complicated, maybe even more then the nights.  Take, for instance, yesterday’s lunch at Bullwinkle’s.  Seating was limited.  The entire stage area was occupied by loud children’s birthday parties.  And while there were at least six or seven televisions hanging from the ceiling, all playing Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoons, I couldn’t for the life of me hear any of the excellent dialog.  I forced my son to switch tables, twice, so that we might have a chance of catching the delicate twists of Boris’ intricate scheme.  Ready . . . now! I’d yell, and we’d jump one table closer, splashing drinks and cardboard pizza flying everywhere.

We made it close enough to hear.  No one will ever fault me for lacking persistence.  But it was too late.  Whatever sort of ray gun Boris was shooting at everyone, changing them into babbling idiots, will remain a mystery.  Of course, it had no effect on Bullwinkle, whose natural stupidity not only protected him, but ended up being the weak link in Boris’ plan.  That much was clear, even in pantomine.  But like I said, we were too late, and forced to finish our lunch with an episode of Dudley Do-Right.

Watch this one, I told my son.  This is a good one.

Two hours of pool side sunshine.  I’m freshly reddened and relaxed.  I watched a young Hispanic girl save her mother from drowning while the younger brother danced around on the side, arms above his head, shaking his bony hips to some hidden beat inside his head.

A group of half-drunks ousted us from our shady seats the first time we moved.  They didn’t even offer me a beer.  What gives?

I lost a breath-holding contest to the same girl who saved her mother, but came in a respectable second.  I surfaced like a hippo, knowing that in certain circles, I would look ferocious.  If only my stomach could hold air, those kids would still be counting off their Mississippis.

We met a friendly pug, helping my son with his puppy research.  He even brought his dog book to the hotel so that we could study the pictures and dog facts for hours and hours tonight.  We do it every night.  We have for months.  There should be some sort of fairy to help parents out with this sort of thing.  Like a tooth fairy, but more sensibly dressed, willing to flutter into the room and discuss puppies for two or three hours without taking a breath.

7:00!  Dinner time!

What a whirlwind vacation!

Our room has a recliner that is so big and soft that I’m tempted to sneak off with it, pretending that it’s only one, little measly bath towel.  But what kind of impression would that leave on my son, his mind still so soft and impressionable?  His own father, stuck in the doorway with a seizing back and a recliner pinning him to the floor.

“Dad, should I get the manager?”
“What?!  And see your poor, dear dad get shipped off to the federal pen?  I should think not!”

No, logic dictates that all of life’s lessons on this trip should focus around relaxation and enjoyment.  Like the freshly baked cookies in the lobby.  We can enjoy them without earning a prison term.  And my son, even though he is only eight, seemed to enjoy the mob of little girls that came bustling into the lobby, giggling and laughing, fresh from the pool and dripping wet in tiny little bikinis.  It seems hundreds of ten year old soccer girls are staying here, and they are everywhere.  Or maybe it’s ten or twelve soccer girls, and it only seems like a hundred.  Anyway, their presence had my son grinning like a fool.

“What are you grinning about?” I asked him, already knowing better then him what it was.
“I don’t know.”

Of course he doesn’t know.  He’s eight.  What does he know about it.  But it already begins to bubble away inside, doesn’t it?  Good god.

“We’re here for the cookies, son.  Nothing more.” (Smile, smile.  Giggle, giggle)

Well, I didn’t actually say that last part.  I couldn’t have gotten his attention if I’d wanted to.  Besides, I didn’t want to waste time talking when there were fresh cookies to be eaten.

Last night, in a few brief moments of weakness, I found out that I am capable of becoming quite the gossipy parent.  While watching my son swimming in the creek with the other kids, I let slip little bits of gypsy girl information to the mothers sitting around, watching their own children.  Remember McKenzie, the gypsy who appears at our doorstep unannounced, peeking through the mail slot, hooting for attention?  I tell the mothers of McKenzie’s apparent recklessness, a reflection apparently, of her own mother’s recklessness.  How else can you explain allowing a seven year old to run loose, unwatched for hour after hour after hour?

This morning, my son and I decide to run away for a day and a night.  We travel north, towards Portland, where we’ll stay in some grand hotel and play games at Bullwinkles (apparently a super-sized, two story tall version of Chuck E. Cheese).  Maybe we’ll walk to the local bowling alley or go see a movie.  Twenty minutes further north OMSI brags of a bubble show each hour, on the hour.  From our room we can see the pool.  Rumor has it there is a hot tub and exercise room (yea, right).  Free breakfast in the morning, fresh cookies served around 4 p.m., and even soup and bread in the early evening.  For months my son has begged for a hotel trip.  He likes the adventure, the credit card style keys, and the little soaps.  He likes packing his suitcase.  He likes hiking up and down the staircases and glowing under the paid smiles of the smiling staff.  He likes the idea of continental breakfasts just waiting for us.  I guess what it boils down to is that he likes feeling like a little man.

Personally, I could do without the expense of a hotel room, but what the heck, it’s only money.  Earn it, spend it.  A simple concept.  Besides, I get a little satisfaction from a night away.  I enjoy watching him adapt to new surroundings.  And once he’s asleep and I am alone with my thoughts in the strange room, it is kind of nice.  It seems that sometimes it takes very little to change a person’s perspective.  Plus, free dsl.  Such a deal.  We won’t miss a lick.

As far as the little soaps are concerned, they do nothing for me except make me feel like a giant.  I suppose this has both its pros and its cons, mostly depending on just where you’re scrubbing.

Every morning when I wake up, the first thing I do is open all of the windows and doors, letting as much of the cold morning air in as I can.  In Oregon, it seems the mornings are always cool, no matter what time of year.  It may very well be one of my favorite things about the place.

It’s a simple routine.  One man, wandering around the place in his underwear, sliding open windows and propping open doors.  Making coffee.  Having a bowl of cereal.  Checking his email, looking for comments, thinking about his day.  It is almost always a quiet start.

But not every morning.  Some mornings are different.  Some mornings the other Imagined Keiths are standing there, just outside the front door, waiting for me to wake up.  Not the one, Imaginary Keith, who lives with me.  He is usually still asleep when it happens, which is good, because the sight of the others is too much for my friend.  He loses his nerve and never knows what to say.  No, the others are not him.  They are the other Imagined Keiths, the ones who never quite made it.  The ones who seldom have a voice, or don’t exist at all.  The ones who maybe lived but a day and then disappeared, or lived only as expectations of someone else’s imagination.

And no matter how many times I open the door and find them standing there, I am always startled.  Their presence catches me off guard.  Nobody expects to find so many others standing at their front door when they open it in the morning, especially dressed only in underwear.

But the routine is simple.  Just like me wandering the house, making coffee, and opening windows, the Imagined Keiths have their own morning routine.  Each, in turn, will stand at the door and ask one question, and then wait for me to ask him a question in return.  Once the two questions are asked, the Imagined Keith will turn and walk away, disappearing quickly down the street, and the next in line will step up and take his place, repeating the whole routine.  It took me years to figure out that they never expected an answer, and even longer to figure out that they would never answer my own questions.  In the beginning, when they first started showing up, I would sometimes follow one of them down the sidewalk as he walked away, especially if I’d asked what I thought was a particularly important question.  I just knew he knew the answer, and I would beg and plead for an answer, but of course, never get one.

It was always the same.  First their question, then my own.  Turn and walk away.  The only thing that changed was the number of Imagined Keiths who would show up.  Sometimes it’d be only a few and the exchanges would last only a minute or two.  Other days there might be hundreds, and the questions would go on for hours.  I hated these mornings.  They were exhausting, not to mention depressing.  Some of their questions, after all, could be quite pointed.

This morning wasn’t too bad.  A couple of dozen, maybe more, I’d given up counting them years ago.  I’d even given up trying to keep track of them, which at one point in my life had seemed important.  I’d started a list, writing down each and everyone of them, jotting down who they were and what they had become.  I’d thought somehow it would all make sense, if I could somehow see all of them at once, on paper at least.  Then, I thought, I might make some sense of my own life.  If I could just understand all of the possible Keiths, I thought, maybe I might begin to understand the real Keith.

I gave up the idea after only a week, after all of the others begin to be too hard to tell apart.  To me they all looked identical, and it was only after they’d asked their question that I would begin to think I knew who was who.  But then it occurred to me that maybe they changed their own questions, and I really had no way of telling.  Or that maybe there were an infinite number of Imagined Keiths, and that each day it was someone new.  Maybe the same Imagined Keith never came back, in which case, the list would be useless.  If that were the case, there would be no recognizable patterns, no repetition, and no answers to discern from the endless stream of questions.

The first asked his question as soon as I opened the door.  Apparently an imagined version of myself that didn’t believe in wasting time.

“Do you think the maple will die in the back yard?” he asked. 
“Do you think it matters?” I asked.  He turned and walked away.  Obviously others of me were concerned gardeners, and close enough to myself to know of the tree.

“How many children starve to death each day?”
“What’s for lunch?” After so many years of their questions, it sometimes came down to nothing more then a game of associated thinking, with me simply blurting out the first thing that came into my head.

“Should we pursue the matter?”
“Does it matter?”

“Should I take the new position or remain in Houston?”
“Houston?”

“If I ask her, what will she say?”
“Aren’t you wasting your time?”

“Should I prep the potatoes?”
“Sidetracked or side-tracked?”

“Should we assume the logarithm is correct?”
“What ever became of her?”

Some mornings the questions were quick and painless.  They were simple questions, asked by versions of myself that I could recognize.  Keiths that had remained in the kitchen.  Keiths that remained close to children or stayed on as one version of laborer or another.  Keiths that had followed one line of study in college, rather then bouncing from one thing to the next.  Their questions seemed clearer and easier to follow.  They were questions about easy decisions and things that mattered very little. 

But not all mornings were the same.  Some were not so simple.  Mixed in among the easily recognizable might be another Keith whose question came from somewhere unknown.  A question whose root was not so easily traced.

“Do I dare tell him the truth?”
“What can it hurt?”

“Will we make it on time?”
“When has it mattered?”

“Did you leave behind any fingerprints?”
“What are you talking about?”

“What can you do for twenty bucks?”
“Did you hear the last Keith’s question?”

“Is Wednesday afternoon work for you?”
“Do you guys ever talk to each other?”

“Will you ever forget?”
“Is it even possible?”

“Are you sure he’s dead?”
“Who’s dead?”

If I leave to go get coffee, they wait.  If I have to stop and answer the phone, or go use the bathroom, it is not a problem.  They seem patient to ask their questions, except of course, for the first Imagined Keith in line.  But maybe they’re just anxious to get started, and once they do, they calm down.  It’s really hard to say.  I realized once that I had no real idea just how long they stood there outside my door before I would open it.  Maybe it’s all night, or maybe it’s only a few seconds.  Maybe they materialize out of thin air the moment the door swings open.  Or maybe they are there all of the time, just waiting.  Maybe their entire life is spent waiting to ask their one question, and then it is complete.  Maybe this is all life really is, a chance to ask one question.  Maybe we all live an endless amount of lifetimes, asking an endless amount of unanswered questions.

One time I imagined that there was another place, and another me, and that this other version of me would open his door in the morning and face his own line of Imagined Keiths.  Only in this version, these others would walk up, one by one, just like they do with me, only instead of asking questions, they would give answers.  And this other version of me, completely unaware of me and my endless amount of questions, would simply answer each answer with his own answer.

I tried to imagine what it would be like, to be this other version of me, and have all of the answers, rather then all of the questions.  I wondered if it would be any different.  I wondered if I would still think of the questions, now that I knew all of the answers.  What would it be like, I thought, having answers with no questions?

“Do you think it’s even possible?” the last Imagined Keith asked me this morning.  It seemed like he had been reading my thoughts all along, as he stood there in line, waiting his turn.  Was it possible that imagined versions of myself, Keiths that might have been, somehow kept track of their own possibilities?  Just who was real, and who was imagined?

“I think it might be,” I answered.  He stood there, unmoving, waiting for a question, not an answer.

“Can I make it through this?” I asked.  It seemed to be the question most on my mind.  Without an answer, he turned and made his way down the sidewalk, his steps quick and determined.  I wish I could be so determined, I thought, after asking my own questions.  I wish I knew just what direction to turn and walk.  I thought about chasing him down, maybe grabbing him and shaking an answer out of him.  But I knew he would never answer.  It wasn’t in him.  I knew it.  He had no answers, only a direction.  I watched him disappear into the park, moving in and out of the trees until finally he was gone altogether.

One day I will follow them, I thought.  I will follow them all.  I will turn and walk out the door myself, moving in and out of the trees, one step behind all of my questions, until I too disappear.  And then maybe I will know if there is a place with only answers.  Maybe then I will stop asking questions, or know if I can make it through, or even if it matters.

But that will not be today.  When the last of them are gone, I close the door, go into the kitchen, and pour myself a cup of coffee.  They’ll be back.  Maybe tomorrow, maybe not.  There is no way to know.

Maybe my son and I will leave town this weekend, and find a place where there are no questions.  Maybe we will just do nothing and laugh and listen to waves hitting the sand.  Maybe for a day or two I will clear my head and stop wondering where the others go.  Maybe somewhere in the time I will spot my own direction, and I will have the energy to turn and follow it.

As soon as I find my energy, I’ll write a cheap western about two brothers engaged in a battle of wills.  The brothers, a couple of promiscuous cowboys, will race each other, trying their best to impregnate every woman in their small cowpoke town.  The entire story will hinge on the final showdown, where the brothers finally call each other out and all of the pregnant women gather at their windows and along the hitching rails, and one brother says to the other, “There’s not womb enough in this town for the two of us.”

I am tired, but hanging tough.  My hands seem shaky lately.  I’m wondering if this should worry me.  At the moment I’m not worried, writing it off as a side effect of everything else that is bothering me.  Besides, if I begin to think too much about health, I will eventually begin thinking of health care in general, insurance, etc.  I will think of money.  I will think of the endless amount of scare tactics used by my insurance agent.  I will think of my young doctor (a foolish pup, really) who relies on a computer for his diagnosis even more then I rely on a dictionary to be an accurate speller.

I think about all of the phone calls I have not returned.  I fell into a slump at least a week ago, maybe even longer, and people are still waiting to hear from me.  Or maybe they’re not.  The point is: it doesn’t seem to matter to me.  Their business isn’t urgent, even though they may think so, and so they wait.  It is a dangerous direction for a small business to take, but lately I have been having a hard time defining my life as “small business.” I have not had the energy it takes to run a business.  I sometimes think of my energy as the core that everything else depends upon for its own orbit.  I hold it in.  Lately, things have begun to lose their orbits.  Everything is at risk of falling apart.

I know I am tired because the time is very near to proceed with divorce.  The time is here to take that final stand.  A list of demands must be made.  I am forced to decide what it is I need when I walk away.  Everything must be worked out, one way or another.  The thought of it is simply exhausting.

And I do think about walking away.  I think of it all the time.  I think about leaving behind so many of the things that I have struggled so hard to build over the last fifteen years of life.  But I’m not talking about the stuff.  I don’t care one bit about the things that can be re-bought and replaced.  As a matter of fact, when I moved out two years ago, I was happy to be putting much of those things behind me.  It was nice to be rid of them and not look at them every day.  I think most people’s lives are too cluttered.  We gloss over what is important, protecting and primping and cleaning and collecting so much of what is not.  But I do think about walking away from the time and energy that was spent.  It is not replaceable.  It is lost forever.

And yet the idea of walking away and starting over is both depressing and uplifting, all at the same time.  I’ve always enjoyed fresh starts.  I moved a lot as a child, maybe this has something to do with it.  The moves never bothered me much.  I was always happy, no matter where I ended up.  I saw life pretty much the same no matter where you lived it.  People, whether you like it or not, only come in so many varieties.  Leave one group behind and there is another just like it in the next town.  This, of course, if you don’t mind having people in your life that simply help you gloss over your own time.  Real friends, I found out long ago, are not so easy to replace.  They are like time and energy.  It is hard to walk away from them, and the time spent in their company, once it has passed, is gone forever.

I sometimes wonder if I will be in another relationship in this lifetime.  But if I think this is possible, then logically I have to think that, once again, I am starting over.  And at age 43, I am beginning to wonder just how many times a person can actually start over.  When do we run out of energy?  Apparently I am still finding out.

Thanks Jo Spanglemonkey for the words.  And a trackback as well.  My, my.  Keep up that kind of thoughtfulness and I’ll be forced to move your name over to the time and energy list.

I think I’ll go sing.  My off-key voice will jar me back to reality.  Usually doesn’t even take one full song.

Sometimes the light’s all shinin’ on me;
Other times I can barely see.
Lately it occurs to me
What a long, strange trip it’s been.

Come on, join in.  We’ll make the dogs howl and the neighbors close their windows.