My connection is belly up, forcing me to man the dingy.  The oars of the Windows machine now seem foreign in my hands.  Blisters are already forming, just from this small bit of typing.  The sound of the giant, plastic keyboard plays havoc with my nerves.  I am anchored to the wall by a short cable.  It is nearly unbearable.

I have fired a shot across the bow of a friend’s ship, hoping that he will come to the rescue.  Help, Other Keith!  Help!  Pirate in need!

Why won’t my Airport work?  Why is my PowerBook dead in the water?  If this goes on for more then a day, I will dig through my son’s toy closet and find an old ball of some sort.  Something I can scratch a face on and call a friend.

Adrift at sea.  Arg.

It’s no real secret, but I would make a lousy cowboy.  I would be best friends with Lyle Lovett, and the two of us would just spend our days walking around Texas, pissing people off and singing Skinny Legs, over and over.

Even Lyle would get angry, sometimes, because I was such a lousy cowboy, but that would usually only happen if we’d been drinking whiskey.

“Why can’t we sing something else once in awhile?” he’d ask.  “I wrote a lot of other good songs, ya know.” I’d just stare at him like he was fucking nuts and start in again singing Skinny Legs with my off-key, crackly voice until Lyle, seeing that there was no stopping me, would be forced to join in.

The two of us would never wrangle anything.  We wouldn’t wear cowboy boots, ever do any ropin’, or have a single shirt with a yoke.  As a matter of fact, you’d be hard pressed to find two worse cowboys, either east or west of the Mississippi.

And because Texans would hate such a pair of lousy cowboys like us, they would beat the living crap out of us just about every day.  Truckloads of cowboys would skid up in the dust, day after day, trying to stop our singing, it would be that irritating.

“You skinny, lowdown, good for nothing sons of bitches,” they’d say as they punched and kicked.  And we’d just keep on singing, or at least do our best, and I’d usually be thinking something like, It’s been a long time since anyone called me skinny.

Lyle and I would stay in Texas for about two years, maybe three, or at least until everyone had a chance to kick the crap out of us.  And then one day, after everyone had had just about enough, Lyle would drape that long, skinny arm of his over my shoulder and say something like, “What do ya say we head over to Mississippi.  Sing us some blues.”

And in no time at all, Lyle and I would be wandering up and down the Delta, singing Skinny Legs at the top of our lungs and getting the crap kicked out of us by people who know how to appreciate a sad sight when they see one.

Imaginary Keith draws information and confessions out of people with no apparent effort.  I sometimes call him the giant confusion magnet.  It’s sort of like being a babe magnet, only with confusion sticking all over you, rather then women. 

He’s always been a confusion magnet, even when he was young.  Once in grade school, his best friend returned a trinket to him that Imaginary Keith had thought he had given to a girl only the night before.  His friend’s confusion blurted out, sticking to Imaginary Keith’s young chest.  Apparently the friend had snuck out during the night and stolen Imaginary Keith’s girl.  But being friends, it only seemed right to return the trinket.  And since Imaginary Keith was the neighborhood confusion magnet, it only seemed right to tell the whole uneasy truth to him.

In college, Imaginary Keith’s mother would write a long, detailed letter whenever anything went wrong back at home.  The problems would be listed, along with facts about the weather and how the chickens were laying.  Imaginary Keith would read the letters and wonder what to do with them.  He would always shake the envelope upside down, hoping that some money would fall out, maybe a twenty, or even a ten, but it never happened.

Imaginary Keith would grow used to his role as the confusion magnet.  If he dated, it would be with someone who had something to offer.  They would go to a movie, or maybe dinner, and the girl would start talking until there was nothing more to say and every little possibly confusing thing was out in the open.  Then they would drive to her home and he would drop her off.  Maybe he would meet her parents, or maybe he wouldn’t, but it didn’t really matter.  Either way, he would be polite and friendly.  Maybe they would kiss, or maybe they wouldn’t, but that too, didn’t really matter.  He would get in the car and drive, thinking about how quiet it was, imagining the moment when he would finally get home and take off his shirt, dropping it to the floor, where for the first time that night he would get a good look at everything that had stuck to him all night long.

“It’s easy, being a confusion magnet,” Imaginary Keith once told me.  “There are more of us around then you’d think.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  Sometimes two confusion magnets will even get married.  And then the confusion just jumps back and forth, over and over.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Well, not at first.  But it usually ends up hurting quite a bit.  But you don’t know that when it’s happening.  You just think of it as sparks flying.”

“Like love,” I say.

“You’re what?  Five, six years old?”

“I’m nearly eight.”

“Really?  Okay then.  Yes.  It’s just like love.”

“Oh.” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

Just yesterday, the philosophy professor from next door came over, knocking lightly.  “Is Imaginary Keith here?”

“Yes, just a moment.” He stepped outside with her for a few minutes, where I could see her talking fast and handing him papers to look over.  She was smiling, then frowning, then smiling again.  Imaginary Keith was studying the papers and making eye contact with her, all at once, a trait, I’ve discovered, that seems to come naturally to confusion magnets.  In the end, he handed her back her papers and came inside.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“She needed to know how to respond to her colleagues.  There seems to be some confusion among them about how to proceed with their book, and she needed to know how to handle questions with the guest writer for their book.”

“But you’re a gardener, not an editor, or philosopher, or whatever it is she thinks you are.”

“I know it,” he said, “but the problem is, no one else does.”

Last month, the Blockbuster girl stopped my friend at the counter on his way in to find a movie.

“Look at my prom pictures,” she said.  “This is me and my makeshift date.”

Before he could even look at them, the pictures flew off the counter and stuck to Imaginary Keith’s shirt, where they remained stuck the whole time we were in the store.  From a distance it almost looked fashionable.  But up close, it just wasn’t right.

Am I letting him down?  Not teaching him the necessary stuff?

When the other kid wants to play “Guns” and runs off behind a building shooting imaginary bullets, my son just stares at me.

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, he says.

When the other kid wants to play Star Wars and brings out the light sabers, my son just stares at me.  He knows how to hold it and swing it around, but I don’t think he grasps the concept of slicing one another to shreds.

I’ve never seen Star Wars, he tells the other kid.

It seems I’ve given my son very little weapon training the first eight years of his life.  It just didn’t seem necessary.

But the boy isn’t powerless.  I’m not a neglectful father.  He lobs practical jokes like hand grenades, and can clear a room of calm, reserved people in a matter of seconds.  His precision and persistence are second to none.

And he wields sarcasm like a highly trained ninja.  I myself have been sliced many times.

But something tells me that the other boy, struck down with sarcasm, won’t know he needs to lie down and count to fifty.

It’s obvious to me that the two boys, new friends, have a lot to work out if they ever want to have a successful fight.

In the future, innocence will always be exposed as false.  Classic television will serve as valuable training films for what went wrong, and thousands of family photo albums will be on display around the country, documenting and carefully explaining the relationship and history that existed between crime and false innocence.

Classic photographs, such as these (circa 2004), will be used to explain everything from tardiness at work to road rage.

Any good son knows that sacrifices must be made when it comes to dear old mom.  A good son has two clear choices - you either make an attempt to understand her, or you simply get the tattoo.  If there’s a middle ground, I’ve never heard anything about it.

This makes my decision very simple.  I am not a tattoo kind of guy.  Being poked was ruined for me that day I jumped off a small wall and landed on a large framing nail that was sticking through a small piece of two by four.  I’d been crucified to the littlest unfinished cross in the state of Minnesota.  I hopped and screamed and stared at the board now nailed to my foot, not believing that something like this could happen.

Although this all happened long ago, and the board and nail were eventually pried from my foot, I still have no real desire for anything sharp, needles or nails, to attach anything to my body.  And that, of course, includes tattoos.

So, like I said, my decision is simple.  I am left with the only other option available - understanding.

Yesterday, while browsing for fruit in some out of the way fruit stand in the middle of nowhere, I came across two reference manuals that should prove themselves invaluable with my task.  There, tucked between flats of fresh raspberries and blueberries, was a small stack of old books and magazines, priced right - two for a buck.  I thumbed through them, as surprised as you would have been to make such a discovery.  I couldn’t believe it.  I would soon be understanding my mother like never before.  For only one dollar, I now held in my hand the secret of what made her tick, long ago, back in the year 1965, when I was just a young lad, open to suggestion, and every move she made had some direct bearing on the type of man I would become.

This morning I began my quest for understanding, diving headfirst into the world of 1965 housewives, reading the firsthand account of what makes women work, written by the one woman who surely knew women more then anyone ever has - Heloise!

I am learning that women were very busy indeed.  There was so much to do.  Who could have known?  The book is rich with information, from how to properly care for a limp petticoat to the fine art and importance of boiling clothespins.  The list goes on and on, and I am only beginning to realize that the mother I know goes so much deeper then I ever imagined.  She is but a tip of the iceberg of properness and hard work.

Did you know that Heloise considered it a waste of time to iron the dish towels?  I didn’t, but I bet my mom did! 

Did you know that a pile of clean laundry, gently displayed on a clean sheet, spread out in front of the family television on a Saturday night would fill a family with a sense of pride?  I didn’t, but I bet my mom did!

Did you know that once in awhile a housewife will splurge and buy herself a good drip-dry dress, but that after it has been worn it becomes soiled and one must face the dilemma - ”Shall we take the chance and wash it?  Or shall we splurge again and send it to the cleaners to keep it looking nice? I wouldn’t know what to do.  But I bet my mom did!

Things are becoming much clearer.  Much.

My son has discovered a new friend, another eight year old boy who has just now rung the doorbell and wandered into our life.  I am relieved of Lego duty, replaced by someone more my son’s size.

“We can use these Mighty Beans for the people,” the new boy says.

“This one will be a girl,” my son replies.

“How can that be a girl.  It has no hair.  Girls always have hair.”

“Not all of them.  Some girls have no hair.” My son will always challenge everything.

“My aunt had no hair.  She had hair cancer.  All I know is that she had no hair.”

Legos and trains and Mighty Bean people fill the living room.  Cooperation is the key, and has been going strong for fifteen straight minutes.  I hate to interrupt, but keep an ear open, anxious for more information on hair cancer.

In the future, special little children will attend highly sought out schools that sit in the center of every city.

The teachers will speak only in binary code, and only special little children who understand the code will be invited to attend.  The schools will all be white, with no apparent doors and only one window, where children not keeping pace will be made to sit before they are incinerated the following day.

The prestige surrounding the schools will be so great that parents will breed like rabbits, their only thought one of hope - that their special little child is never seen sitting in the only window, silently mouthing binary code, patiently waiting for tomorrow.

”Writers aren’t exactly people...they’re a whole lot of people trying to be one person.” F. Scott Fitzgerald

Every once in awhile Imaginary Keith will get on the computer and make his way to one of the dating service sites, where about a year ago he set up a profile of himself, complete with picture and several important facts.  I’m not quite sure what he’s up to, because he hasn’t once met anyone from the service.  But like I said, every once in awhile he’ll head to the site and hit the button that not only lines up a series of female mug shots for him to look at, but also rates each and every one of them with a percentage.

This never fails to amuse my friend.

“Keith, come over here and see this,” he said this morning.  I was hoping it would be something interesting.  Maybe a heart-wrenching story of a journalist at the hands of American homeland security, or something like that.  Something that would stir me up and make me roar.  But no, it was another jaunt down the rabbit hole of dating.

“Look at this.  It says I am 87% compatible with this woman.  87%!  Ha!  Read this,” he said, his finger poking away at the screen.

Allow me to make this really simple. I am a professional christian business woman.

“Do you see why I don’t date?  Hell, where’s the 13% woman?  Where’s she at?  She’s the one who wouldn’t scare me half to death!”

“Why do you get yourself so worked up over this?  Don’t you have better things to do?” I ask.

“I’m relaxing.”

“Relaxing?  Wait a second, didn’t Headless Lawn Man fax over a list of things for you to do this morning?  I’m pretty sure this was not on it.”

“Really, it’s fine.  I called him back and we had a discussion about public image.  We weren’t sure the country was ready for a non-married president.  I told him I could fix him right up.”

“From what I’ve been reading, he now has about four firm votes.  Let’s not marry him away quite yet.  Besides, if Headless Lawn Man wants to get married he’ll find his own wife.  You’re not the king of matchmaking, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I’m . . .”

“Now shut that thing down before I email the 87% woman and tell her you’re interested.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Try me.”

“How can you treat an imaginary friend like this and live with yourself?  Huh?  Tell me that?”

“Get over it, we have work to do.  Presidential work.  Today we double our votes.  We do that every day and we’ll be in the White House in no time.  Do the math.  It’ll work.”

“Why does becoming president suddenly sound a lot like an Amway get rich quick sales pitch?  Are we sure about this thing?”

“Sure?  Are you kidding?  Does a professional christian business woman shit in the woods?”

“No.”

“Exactly.  Now get to work.”

In the future, buying a weapon will be as easy as spotting an old hippie in today’s world.  But instead of looking for an old Volkswagen bus and the head of big hair, now gray and receding, you’ll simply have to keep your eyes open for a Pontiac Aztec.

In the future, the Pontiac Aztec will come of age.  Gun runners from all walks of life will embrace the Aztec.  They will appreciate it’s conservative fuel usage and it’s large, rear storage compartment.  But most of all, they will embrace the Aztec for its easily attached tent and awning, which not only does an excellent job of keeping rain and sun off of the rifles, handguns, grenades, and plastic explosives, but is quickly tucked away for a fast getaway.  A definite must in the future’s fast-paced world of black market weaponry.

I awoke this morning to the phone ringing.  It was 5:00 a.m. sharp and I was still tired.

“Let’s get a move on!” the voice on the other end of the line barked.  The voice was unmistakable - Headless Lawn Man.

“Did you know it was only five?” I asked.

“Of course I know it’s five.  Why do you think I called?  Now up and at ‘em.  We have work to do!  You don’t take the White House lazing around all day long!”

“Well, I . . . “

“Put Imaginary Keith on.  I have some things I need to run by him.”

I look around for Imaginary Keith, thinking that I would like to fall back asleep.  I’m not sure I’m quite ready for all this shaking up that’s promised ahead.  I have enough to do already, bossing Imaginary Keith around and all that business.

“You should see this,” Headless Lawn Man yells into the phone.  I can hear the wind whistling past, and I imagine his headless body, dangling around the side of the train car, his stiff arm hanging onto the rail for dear life.

“You should see this.  The country is beautiful but the people lack spirit.  Hardly anyone is up at five.  Did you know that?  But I told the engineer to go heavy on the horn.  Let them know we’re coming!”

“That’s good.  That’s real good.  Okay, here he is.” I hand Imaginary Keith the phone and let my head fall back into the pillow, where I will dream about the months ahead, chasing a headless man around the country as he pumps hands and wins hearts.

In a surprise move early this morning, the Imaginary Party jumped straight into the race for the White House, announcing it’s overwhelming support for Imaginary Party frontrunner - Headless Lawn Man.

Headless Lawn Man, joking and laughing with his excited supporters, threw a ceremonial hat into the race, then waved to the cheering crowd as he boarded a train to begin an old-fashioned whistlestop tour.

“We’ll stop in more states then old George even knows the names of,” promised Headless Lawn Man as the train pulled away.  “As a matter of fact, we’re going to pull into Texas so hard that the wind alone will suck the Bush supporters’ heads right out of their asses.”

“They’re good people down there,” he added.  “Good and trusting.  The problem is they just went and trusted in the wrong man.  We all did.  So now it’s time to set things right.  For you, for your kids, for everyone.  This country’s been driven into the ground long enough, and if you’re anything like me, you’ve had more then enough.”

The trains route, as of this morning, had not been disclosed, but is rumored to include more then five hundred stops in the next thirty days.

Dreaming of winning a lottery is more tiring then you might imagine.  You toss and turn all night, thinking of a thousand ways to give away so much money.  In the morning, when you finally wake up, not only are you very tired, but you’re still broke.

And then it hits you.  If you ever do win the lottery, you will invent a game called Tired and Broke, which you will pass out to everyone all over the world when they have a baby, like some people do now with cigars.  You will have so much money that you will buy the Gideon Bible Company, so that every tiny little free Bible in the world can be replaced with your new game.  Travelers, alone and feeling forgotten, will be drawn together, as they shuffle around on the concrete walkways of their cheap motel, looking out over the parking lot for someone who wants to play.

Sorry, but there seems to be no conspiracy in progress.  This morning, a brief comment appeared from BillyDoom, the obvious source of power behind Doomocracy.  Corrections have been made.  Word Shadows name has been cleared.

The real surprise was that the correction was in Word Shadows favor.  It was Word Shadows all along that Doomocracy wanted to have coffee with, not Opinions You Should Have.  Even the politically serious like sharing piping hot caffeine with imaginary friends once in awhile.

I wonder how this could work to shake up the two party system?

The Imaginary Party.  Vote, vote, vote.

What should our motto be?  The Imaginary Party :: Pretend Your Vote Counts!!

As far as my previous statement about the apartment stinking like crime, first thing on a Monday morning, well, if it’s okay with you, let’s just forget I ever said that.  I had no way of knowing I would be starting up a whole new political party the very next day.  I had no way of knowing that I shouldn’t joke around about stinking like crime.

I don’t stink like crime at all.  And come to think of it, neither does my apartment.  No, it smells more like crime fighter in here!

The Imaginary Party :: Crime Fighters With Family Values!!

Sometimes, mostly at night, when he thinks I am not looking, I will catch Imaginary Keith with a faraway look in his eyes that tells me he is thinking of them.  Maybe the days are too busy, or there’s something about them that I don’t know, but it is almost always at night when I see his thoughts begin to drift.  I know very little about them, really, except that they wore little or no clothes and kept mostly to themselves, somewhere deep in a forest that apparently no one seems to know about.  I know that when Imaginary Keith says anything, he says both “he” and “she”, so I know there were both men and women.  I also know that there were exactly 23 children, because once in a rare moment of confession, he told me.  “There are 23 children,” he said, “and I can see everyone of their faces, right now, like they were standing here in front of me.” His eyes were closed, his face soft and relaxed as he said the words, and I knew right away that it was true.

I asked him once what they all did, all day, running around like that in the forest with no clothes on, and he just smiled and told me that it was no different then anywhere else.  “We just went about the business of living,” he said.  The business of living? What business could that be?  What business do naked people have, flopping around the forest together?  Sometimes I would ask more questions, but the answer was always the same.

I’d almost stopped thinking about Imaginary Keith’s time with them, until one day, out of nowhere, he turned to me and said, “You know what we did?”

I didn’t know what he was talking about.  Not at first.  But then I saw his face go slack and smooth, sort of quiet and peaceful, and I knew it was about them.  About his time with them.  I waited, silently, hoping there was more.

“Every morning we would gather together and predict the future.  We would give each other dates and then listen to what everyone had to say.  Some of us would have a year, some maybe a month.  Some only a week or a day, maybe even an hour.  Everyone would be given a time in the future, then a moment to think, and then the time to tell everyone their prediction.  That’s what we did every morning.  That was our business.”

“You mean to tell me you ran around naked, predicting the future?  You could do that?”

“Of course we could.”

“That’s incredible.  Really.  That’s really incredible.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

“And that’s why you look so faraway, isn’t it?  You miss the predicting.  You miss knowing the future.”

“No.  That’s not it at all.  I miss the evenings.  I miss the evenings when we would all gather back together.  That’s what I miss.”

“The evenings?  What happened then?”

“Why, that’s when we would all gather together and laugh.  That’s when we would all laugh so hard that it felt like it would never end.  That’s what I miss.  The laughter.”

“It sounds fun.  What were you laughing at?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“It makes me smile, even now, just thinking about it.”

“Come on, tell me.  What were you all laughing about?”

“Ourselves, of course.  Only a bunch of fools would gather together each morning to predict the future.  You can’t do that.”

Father’s Day was a partial success, an endless stream of board games chosen one after another by my son.  I rolled impossible combinations in Easy Money and made millions, crushing the smiling eight year old into the carpet like an ant on welfare.  He claimed he was letting me win, considering it was my day, but I think it was my hot, dice-rolling hand.  If I’d been in Vegas, security would have tightened all around me, considering my string of luck.

We went out and ate.  Burgers and ribs and stomach aches all around.  I tipped the waitress too much because she danced around and sang to herself when she thought no one was looking.  There are times that I miss that in my life.  That spontaneous happiness that bursts out of the people around you.  I’m not sure how tipping big has anything to do with it.  Maybe it’s all part of the “you get what you pay for” mentality.  In some way she made me happy, so I paid.  Seems weird the next day, but that’s what it boils down to, I guess.  Or maybe she made me sad in some way, longing for something that I no longer have.  Maybe she should have paid me.

Today I feel tired and slow.  The apartment never did get straightened out, which is really no surprise.  Nothing productive ever gets done when my son is here.  Play, play, play.  You’d think that’s the only thing little boys ever thought about.  Where’s their sense of order?  Aren’t they concerned that every third step taken to cross the room could result in a serious, toy-related injury?  Wait until he hits 200 plus pounds and stepping on a Lego results in a wound so deep that the little nubs are imprinted in the bones of his feet.

I haven’t written anything of interest today, and it doesn’t look like I will.

The phone is relatively quiet.  A good thing.  At three this afternoon I need to go give some irrigation advice to a pair of homeowners with a parched lawn.  The great mystery of plumbing and low-voltage wiring.  I wonder if they’d notice if I conducted the meeting while napping.  I’d wear my sunglasses, so they’d never see my eyes.

Maybe I’ll just send Headless Lawn Man over to take care of things.  He’s been around as long as I have, and come to think of it, doesn’t work hard enough.  He needs to start pulling his weight around here.  Or pulling my weight.  Whichever one gives me more time off.

Every once in awhile I’ll take a quick peek at the Technorati list for my site, just to see who’s around.  The list is small and moves up and down slowly, like a sleeping man’s chest.  I peek at it, just to see if I’m still alive.

This morning, a mystery appeared.  Or at least I like to think of it as a mystery.  It could just be a mistake.  The newest site appearing on the list, Doomocracy, had apparently decided they enjoyed the hijinx here at Word Shadows and linked us.  Naturally, I clicked over.  It’s good to know who has their hand in your pocket.  Or sings your praises.  Or whatever.

And then the mystery began.  Nowhere on the Doomocracy page was the name Word Shadows listed.  Hmmm?  This is curious.  Had the two of us been duped by Technorati?  What was going on here?  So back to Technorati I went, where a moment later, my hovering pointer discovered that the link to my site was listed not as Word Shadows, but as Opinions You Should Have.  Hmmm.

Now, Opinions You Should Have, I soon found out, is something completely different.  It’s not Word Shadows at all, and I’m beginning to think that a mistake has been made.  Opinions You Should Have, you see, looks like the kind of friend Doomocracy would hang out with.  I can see the two sites sitting together at a table outside of a Starbucks, pounding down venti something or others with quadruple shots, talking politics until the cows come home.  Or at least until closing time.

My only other theory is the set-up, stolen identity theft theory.  This theory basically assumes that Word Shadows is being set-up for some sort of political fall.  That Word Shadows will soon be accused of stealing the hard work of Opinions You Should Have.  Why else would someone click on a link, thinking they are on their way to some good wholesome political humor and random musings, compliments of Tom Burka, only to be tossed directly into the Word Shadows tar pit?

I know it’s not true, and even I have a hard time believing it.

Monday morning.  Not even 8:00, and it already stinks like crime in here.

Homage

Hom"age, n. [OF. homage, homenage, F. hommage, LL. hominaticum, homenaticum, from L. homo a man, LL. also, a client, servant, vassal; akin to L. humus earth, Gr.? on the ground, and E. groom in bridegroom. Cf. Bridegroom, Human.] 1. (Feud. Law) A symbolical acknowledgment made by a feudal tenant to, and in the presence of, his lord, on receiving investiture of fee, or coming to it by succession, that he was his man, or vassal; profession of fealty to a sovereign.

2. Respect or reverential regard; deference; especially, respect paid by external action; obeisance.

All things in heaven and earth do her [Law] homage. --Hooker.

The givers of gifts unsought deserve homage like no other. --Ecklund

3. Reverence directed to the Supreme Being; reverential worship; devout affection. --Chaucer.

Syn: Fealty; submission; reverence; honor; respect.

Usage: Homage, Fealty. Homage was originally the act of a feudal tenant by which he declared himself, on his knees, to be the hommage or bondman of the lord; hence the term is used to denote reverential submission or respect. Fealty was originally the fidelity of such a tenant to his lord, and hence the term denotes a faithful and solemn adherence to the obligations we owe to superior power or authority. We pay our homage to men of pre["e]minent usefulness and virtue, and profess our fealty to the principles by which they have been guided.

Go, go with homage yon proud victors meet! Go, lie like dogs beneath your masters’ feet! --Dryden.

On one knee, with great respect and thankfulness, Imaginary Keith thanks Lady E of Purple Pen for her kind and generous invitation to Gmail.  When he offered up a prayer to the great and powerful Technical god, he had no way of imagining that it would instead be answered by a caring and friendly mortal.

The world is indeed a strange and wonderful place.  Gifts from strangers.  Email for imaginary people.

Today is suppose to be the day that I fire up the clown car and drive around the street in a small, one-man parade.  Someone will bring me my slippers and microwave yesterday morning’s coffee for me so that no noise is made and wakes up the reason for the day.  Crowds will gather along the curb, waving and smiling and all shouting in unison, “Happy Father’s Day, Imaginary Keith!” I will wave and smile back, then throw out handfuls of good fatherly advice that I keep in a grocery bag tucked between my legs, the edges carefully folded over so as to avoid paper cuts.  This in itself is good fatherly advice, so I occasionally hold up the bag for all to see.

My own father holds his own parade, somewhere in the heart of Costa Rica.  I imagine his new children gather around his feet and pile up papaya or mango or whatever it is that falls off of the trees down there.  But I can also imagine that the little half-brothers know nothing about Father’s Day, and that they just run around screaming the same as every other day.  It is quite possible that their knowledge of Father’s Day is as limited as my knowledge of Costa Rican produce.  Or Costa Rican children for that matter, even the one’s that have fallen from the same tree as me.

When the parade is over, my son has boldly proclaimed that he will take me first to brunch, then later a movie, then even later, dinner.  Eating and a movie.  I can’t complain.  Gifts that even I would buy for myself - how can I go wrong?

Yesterday, us two boys bought a couch and loveseat at a garage sale, so today will also be spent with all of the cleaning and rearranging that is necessary when you drag two giant things into an apartment.  The two couches are like us - one big and one small, oddly colored and shaped, unlike anything we’ve ever seen, and begging to be loved.  Last night we each took our respective places and grinned at each other like we’d somehow snuck aboard a space shuttle ride with enough candy bars and juice boxes to keep us comfortable all the way to the moon and back.

When the little man wakes up, which should be very soon, we will again assume our positions, begin grinning, and see where the day takes us.  The first stop will of course be breakfast, where my belly will surely swell with french toast and fatherly pride.

Dear Technical God,

What’s all the excitement about gmail accounts?  I keep reading about other people’s excitement but seem to know nothing about them.  Why is everyone so excited?  Should I be too?  All I know is that it’s some sort of google thing, which causes a real dilemma.  How can I ask google to tell me the answer when it’s something of theirs.  Wouldn’t that be like asking the dentist if you have a cavity?  Of course he’d say yes.

So, you see, without google, my faith in you is once again restored. 

So if you care even one tiny bit about a technological sinner like me, you’ll give me some sort of sign.  Something to help me see my way.  Something that will make everything clear about gmail.  Maybe something slick like flash animation, only way faster and easy to understand.  Maybe something that would look good even with a slow, dial-up service.  Could you do that for me?

Whatever you do, don’t think you need to test this renewed faith of mine by crashing my computers.  That would be just plain mean.

Faithfully yours until something better and faster comes along,

Imaginary Keith

Although I knew it was coming, the arrival of the invitation caught me off guard.  The work ethic masquerade!  I hadn’t been invited for years, and honestly thought I would be overlooked for the third year in a row.

But there it was!  The beautifully hand-written invitation, black on white, memo style, with Keith scratched in on the recipient line and get to work the only three words on the subject line.

Simple and direct with no room for confusion.  As any invitation should be.

What came first - the speeding ticket or the sweat in my eyes?

The only number bigger then the one on the thermometer was the one on the pink slip of paper handed to me by my friendly law enforcement officer.

I asked him why he and his three buddies weren’t a mile back on the road, where it’s actually twisty and dangerous, stopping speeders there, instead of on the wide open, downhill straight stretch where everyone naturally speeds up.  I asked him if it perhaps had something to do with the convenient hiding place where three or four police cars could squeeze in and it felt more like break time then actual work.  Patrol where the wrecks actually are, I said.  Not where the radar gun has the longest range.

I’m sure it was the sweat in my eyes doing most of the talking.

My vacation has filled me with hope and energy.  Or maybe it’s the $100,000 loan.  It’s really hard to tell.  But either way, I have been working hard with a serious face in place.  I look a lot like the younger, business-oriented version of myself today, with of course, less hair and more permanent tan lines.

The phone rings.  I answer it.  Someone talks and I talk back.  I drive to their house.  They talk some more and I talk back some more.  I tell them how much money to give me and they agree.  I drive home and look at my schedule.

It takes hope and energy to do anything over and over again.

And the loan?  Well, I spend it like an old man fishing coins out of one of those rubber, football-shaped coin purses.  I give it a squeeze and stir my finger around in the money, looking for something just right.

When working on my biography, I like to keep in mind certain little things that others might tend to overlook.  Things like, if they turn my life into an idiot’s guide, where on the shelf will I be squeezed?

I like to think that the idiot’s guide of my life will be filled with verifiable facts and very down to earth.  I like to think that my idiot’s guide, when it talks about my faith, will compare me more to a beagle then a religion.  That when I stood there, talking to you with such a serious look, I was just as likely to lean over and lick your face as I was to try and save your soul.

My trips back into time are costly.

On one trip, Ted Williams died, and I sat in the airport and watched news reports about his relatives debating the finer points of freeze drying one of baseball’s greats.

On another trip, on the one year anniversary of 9-11, I decided to tempt fate and fly again.  This time, Johnny Unitas gave up the ghost.  My friends and I began to joke that the fate of sports legends was somehow linked to my sporadic travel agenda.  This would have been one of life’s greatest ironies, if it were true, considering my rather mediocre performance in the sports world.

And I should have known better then to schedule an eleven day trip.  Eleven days is just too long.  The toll on the world just too much.  Regan never stood a chance of making it through my first week.  He was just too old and weak.

But what surprised even me was the news of Ray Charles’ death.  I don’t know how you feel about it, but I would have gladly cut the trip short to keep him around a few more years.

All I had to do was skip one Monday to make today seem impossibly far away.  And yet, here it is.  A regular Monday.  A back to work Monday.  I like skipped Mondays a whole lot better.

I’m still trying to adjust to the pace and demands of life at home.  My mind seems hesitant to return, lingering somewhere in the past, leaving my body to fend for itself.  Yesterday I ate too much, out of boredom, I’m sure, as I sat around tired.  I’ve been very tired ever since I returned.  Exhausted almost.  The balance of the days and the nights has yet to level out.

But it’s back to work.  People are waiting.  But not an impossible amount, so there is hope.  The phone was relatively quiet while I was away - a good thing.  I’d feared there would be so much catch-up to do when I got back that the trip would end up feeling like a foolish decision.

It’s hard to get a grasp on how many things have happened in the last two weeks.  Randy and I both visited our grandfather’s graves - a first for both of us.  I saw my sister and her family after more then five years apart.  I watched familiar territory move past my eyes, thinking that time cannot erase everything.  I listened over the phone to problems happening back at home.  Divorce inched its way closer and closer.  A loan was approved for $100,000, that today I will deposit and spend in such a way that financial burden falls squarely on my shoulders and someone else walks free.  I will be 43 years old and $300,000 in debt.  I have no doubt which number makes everyone’s eyebrows shoot up to the sky and I think it is sad.  We measure everything with money, including each other.  I don’t like it.  I don’t agree.

It’s the first number, the 43, that has me concerned.  Numbers with dollar signs in front of them move both ways.  $300,000 will return to zero eventually.  But my 43 can only go in one direction.  Returning to zero with age means something completely different, and I think we are all fools for not measuring life on this scale.  Myself included.

I think that is where my mind lingers, back with my friends, talking and laughing, stuck in a place where nothing is measured with money.  Maybe my mind floats slowly through a familiar town, or stops along a lake, or moves down that abandoned, Minnesota county road over and over in an endless loop, at peace for all eternity.

1. A plugged toilet is a patient thing.  It will wait for you to return, even if it is eleven days.  At that point it will lose it’s patience and become very demanding.  No matter how tired you are, you will be forced into submission.

2. If you are walking two miles from the airport to your apartment at 1:00 a.m., with a suitcase slung over your shoulder and a laptop backpack strapped to your back, the only open drive-through will not serve you food, no matter how loudly your stomach is growling.  The sign next to the sliding window clearly states that I am more dangerous as a walking man then a driving man.  I tend to disagree.

3. The best place in the world seems to be one’s own bed.  Trips serve as gentle reminders.

4. Work can always wait, but shares certain traits with a plugged toilet.

5. It’s good to be home.

Just down the slope from my grandpa lies a woman named Elfva.  Her home now, a small plot of earth marked by a piece of stone, is just like my grandpa’s, and overlooks Diamond Lake in such a quiet and calming way that you almost find yourself wishing you yourself were an old dead Swede.  You almost wish that the rest of your days could be spent gazing out across the water, listening to the shadows as they pull themselves loose of the trees and stretch out from the shore in search of that first, haunting call of a loon. 

A bright, red canoe, far enough away that I cannot distinguish the faces of it’s three occupants, slips along the edge of the shore.  It slices through the water as silently as shadows move across the lake’s surface, drawing a line where night and day will meet, moving so smoothly that it will pass through the sound of the loon as easily as Elfva and my grandpa do each night, tucked into their graves.  I feel surrounded by things that are seen but not heard.  Surrounded by things that are there but too far away to touch.

I try to see everything at once, and watch as the line between night and day grows longer across the water.  I watch the red canoe turn into a memory and become nothing more then a thousand ripples, carrying the darkness in two directions at once.

Memory pours in through the cracks.

Four days that feel like one.

Blurred together like the slow drive down the abandoned highway running along the north shore of Bay Lake.  The same road that my brother and I would walk more then thirty years ago.  A four mile round trip for cheap souvenirs and cold soda in bottles.