Gee, it seems like only twelve months since we were wishing each other Happy Holidays. Boy, time sure drags when you’re broke. Anyway, at the risk of not offending anyone (I really don’t give a [place your own expletive here]): HAPPY DECEMBER!

Down to business. The Monterey Symphony has donated a pair of tickets to be given away for the December performance at the Carmel Mission Basilica (info on page 5). Check out the Crossword page for details on how to win. You can also win a pair of tickets by attending our free Comedy Reading at Café 316 on December 11 (details on page 7).

Here’s wishing everyone a Happy Make Cut-Out Snowflakes Day (December 27), which is my favorite!

Don’t Forget The Advertisers!

It seems we left off the ending to one of our stories last month (see Editorial Corrections, below). Thanks to all who were kind enough to bring it to our attention, as we don’t read the paper. We’ve included the ending in this issue, and if you want to read the whole thing, as you surely will, because it is a Foolish Times Classic, go to www.foolishtimes.net. Speaking of classics, you might also consider attending our Comedy Reading at Café 316 on Friday, December 11, at 7:00 p.m. You’ll have the chance to win tickets to the Monterey Symphony and perhaps other prizes as well. Finally, we’re looking for a volunteer editorial assistant. Might you be that wonderful person? Drop me a line at editor@foolishtimes.net if you’re interested. And have a great December!

December birthdays: You already know this month is full of Christmas festivities. But did you know it also contains National Bouillabaisse Day, which comes from the Provençal Occitan words “bolhir,” meaning “to boil fish,” and “abaissar,” meaning “on your birthday”? So instead of cake, pick up some conger eel, mullet, and scorpion fish.

ARIES (3/21-4/19): When everything is going too smoothly, you tend to seek new challenges, and this month is no exception. Waiting until December 25th to start your Christmas shopping will lead to interesting and surprising stocking stuffers like beef jerky, cigarettes, pork rinds, and anything else 7-Eleven sells.

TAURUS (4/20-5/20): Taurus, you aren’t exactly an open book. But you can’t stay hidden in a Santa suit for the whole month. After all, you have to go to the bathroom sometime.

GEMINI (5/21-6/21): Your ruler, Mercury, was the messenger of the gods who darted back and forth across the heavens delivering news. This month, you are like the little elf on the shelf, appearing each day in a different place after discovering who has been naughty and nice. Funny, though, how YOU keep showing up in all the naughty places.

CANCER (6/22-7/22): You are ruled by the moon, and like the moon you will experience many changing phases of emotions this month. Before you open each bright, shiny package, you will feel elated; after opening the second re-gifted present you gave to family members last year, you’ll wish you weren’t related.

LEO (7/23-8/22): Like the three wise men, Leos experience three levels of soul evolution. The highest is the Sphinx, which represents wisdom. The second is the Lion, representing ego and protection. The third is the Lion Cub, representing immaturity and—oh, just give me the presents already!

VIRGO (8/23-9/22): Virgo, when you shine, no other sign can match your inner light. But, when you decorate your home for the Christmas season, no other neighborhood can stand your outer light.

LIBRA (9/23-10/22): December will find you living in some exotic, desirable locale, sipping eggnog, and finding life to be the joyful paradise you always envisioned. It will also find you shelling out more dough for rent than Santa does toys.

SCORPIO (10/23-11/21): You have the wisdom of all three wise men put together. Perhaps that’s why people flock to you this month in search of ways to achieve their ultimate desires. Either that, or it’s because you’re sitting in a mall surrounded by elves.

SAGITTARIUS (11/22-12/21): Being exuberant, you love the month of December, a time when everyone is friendly, kind, and generous in heart as well as pocket. It’s all of the other months that the ill-mannered, self-centered, cheap morons make you want to spend at the North Pole.

CAPRICORN (12/22-1/19): As a Capricorn, you understand that the longest journey begins with a single step. You also know that the longest checkout line while Christmas shopping begins with a single jerk who has 25 returns 12 days before Christmas.

AQUARIUS (1/20-2/18): As a thinker, you tend to reflect upon the year’s successes and failures. But please note that, per the fine print, the Foolish Times cannot be held legally liable for previous Fool-o-Scope predictions: “The predictions of this Fool-o-Scope are fictitious and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.”

PISCES (2/19-3/20): Your symbol of one fish heading upward and another pulling downward depicts how you are frequently torn between two pathways in life. I mean, you want to express holiday cheer by stringing up lights, but on the other hand, you want to express your holiday cheer by just lying around on the couch.

There are a lot of things I don’t understand. Like physics, how the Internet really works, and anything to do with women.

Seriously, anything. Sure, it would be nice to know exactly why two objects of different weight fall at the same rate, but it’s not necessary to my survival. Understanding my wife is.

Unfortunately, I don’t. I don’t understand what she eats, what she watches on TV, why she spends so much time in the bathroom, and anything that comes out of her mouth.

Sure, all of our conversations are in English, but they’re in girl-English. I speak boy-English, which mainly consists of highly in-depth discussions about beer, bodily functions, and cheerleaders. But, frankly, she gets a little upset when I bring up cheerleaders, so that cuts down the conversation topics quite a bit. Girl-English is full of words I have to look up.

“I don’t get it,” I said one day as we talked while walking the jogging track, cooled by the breeze of joggers zooming by.

“Don’t get what?” she asked.

“What we were talking about,” I said. It was something like the family budget, or her feelings, or cheese, or the fact that we should be jogging, or something like that. I wasn’t sure.

“What isn’t there to understand?” she said. “I always tell you what I’m thinking. I always tell you how I feel. Understanding me should be easy.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what I don’t get.”

Ladies, as a representative of my gender, I have to stress that the male brain works more like a fart joke and less like an episode of “Gilmore Girls.” Our thoughts come in short bursts and we make a face at the end. The male brain doesn’t comprehend feelings or anything that’s not between two slices of bread—and that includes beer, bodily functions and cheerleaders.

My wife just shook her head and kept walking.

What did I learn from this exchange? Absolutely nothing. Did this teach me anything about women? No. But after enough years of this, I might be able to fake my way through anything.

Jason’s Rules to Understanding Women

1. You can’t. Stop trying.

2. Agree with everything she says. Guys, if your significant other is upset enough to complain and then ask your opinion, she doesn’t want your opinion. She wants you to tell her she’s right, everyone else is a jerk, and the world should just die. Do it.

3. If a woman ever asks about your feelings, lie and say you have them on the off chance she’ll drop the conversation. She probably won’t. In that case, talk about sports, then she’ll drop the conversation.

4. If she asks what you’re thinking, always say, “I was thinking about that time we (insert fond memory here),” instead of what you’re actually thinking, which is about girls in bikinis. Are the girls cheerleaders? Probably, but it’s their day off.

5. Women love/hate their hair. Every two to three days, say to your woman, “Have you done something new to your hair?” Chances are she has. If she hasn’t, “Well, it looks nice,” is an appropriate response. “Did you wash it?” is not.

6. Women want attention at all times, which works against a guy’s basic desire to be left the heck alone. Planting a few “you look pretty” landmines into your day usually buys enough time to eat a sandwich while she’s looking in the mirror to see what you’re talking about.

7. Women cry. We don’t know why they do this because we haven’t cried since, a) you fell and skinned your knee that time in preschool, b) the T-101 was lowered into molten lead at the end of Terminator II: Judgment Day, or c) uh, um. Well, there wasn’t a third time. But women will cry during a movie, after they read a good book, when they remember something, or for a reason they don’t even know. It’s during these times they need someone strong and compassionate to hold them. And that’s too bad because once the waterworks start, you’re in the garage pretending to fix the car.

Does any of this make sense? No. But as a husband, it’s my job to make eye contact with my wife and nod a lot. It seems to work.

* * *

You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

Death Valley Days

Rex and I were on our way home from our annual camping trip to Death Valley. This year he got to chase wild burrows through the sage, and I think he fell in love with a teacup poodle at the Furnace Creek General Store. He woofed at the pup fish in Salt Creek, and he peed seventy or eighty times as we explored the ghost town ruins at Chloride Cliffs. I swear, he has to have the healthiest renal glands this side of the Pecos.

The highlight of the trip, though, was our walk up the hill in back of Death Valley Scotty’s Castle to pay tribute at the graves of Scotty and his favorite dog, Windy. Rex held off on hosing down the grave stones, which I thought was very admirable on his part.

On the way out of the Valley, we stopped at the restaurant at Stove Pipe Wells for a bite to eat and to savor the last of our time in Death Valley.

Figuring the county health department made very rare appearances at the restaurant at Stove Pipe Wells, I tucked Rexie under my arm and walked into the eatery.

I knew when I saw the chalkboard menu specials I was in for a culinary challenge: the Catch of the Day was Fish Sticks.

The waitress waddled over to the table. To say she was heavy would be an understatement—she had more chins than a Chinese phonebook. As she sauntered over to the table, scuffling her Muk Luks over the 1950s linoleum floor, she noticed a dog sitting in the booth with her new customer.

She growled, “Ain’t no dogs allowed in here.”

“And good day to you, too.” I leaned over to whisper to her, “This is not a dog, this is my nephew Rex from Indiana . . . don’t stare at him; he was a thalidomide baby.”

Humor evidently was not her strong suit. She took out her order pad and licked the tip of her pencil, stoically poised to take my order.

The Catch of the Day worried me, so I asked her, “What do you suggest?”

“Eat at Denny’s,” was her curt reply.

Like a fool, I went for the humor route again. “Ah, those fish sticks. Are they wild or farm-raised?”

“Don’t know. We buy them from Monsanto.” Her grumpiness didn’t become her.

“Indeed. And do you have stomach pumps on request?” Tough audience. That reminded me never to try stand-up comedy.

She glared at me. “Cute. Don’t ever try stand-up. No we don’t have stomach pumps, but the table setup includes mustard, ketchup, and Pepto-Bismol.”

“That’s comforting. Say, do you suppose I could get a hamburger or something along that line?”

“Yeah. We have two to choose from. The one with green lettuce and brown hamburger is five bucks. The one with brown lettuce and green hamburger is two-fifty.”

“Hhhhmmmmm. Let me think that over. Oh, by the way, is the lettuce wild or farm-raised?”

“I’ll be honest with you. It ain’t real lettuce. It’s pieces of brown butcher paper. If someone wants the fancy five-dollar burger, we spray paint it green.”

“What an ingenious approach to what I’m sure is a masterful presentation. I’m sure that would make a stunning centerfold in ‘Sunset Magazine.’”

“Don’t know about that, but we did make the centerfold of ‘Ptomaine Digest.’ Got a few copies left if you want to buy one,” she huffed.

“Are they wild or farm-raised?”

“Listen, smart-mouth. I’m going to backhand you if you don’t stop with the ‘wild or farm-raised’ bit. It’s not funny, never was funny, and never will be funny. Now what to you want to eat?”

Rex wagged his tail furiously upon hearing her admonishment of me. I could deal with him later.

“Oh, I’ll splurge and get the five-dollar burger. And one for Rex as well. No lettuce. No bun.”

Without comment, she shuffled back into the kitchen and returned in a short while with a burger on a paper plate and slammed it down in front of me. She turned to leave and said, “Rex’s will be ready in a minute or two,” and set sail for the kitchen again.

In a moment she came back and regally placed a chopped-up filet mignon on a silver platter in front of Rex. Rex put his paws up on the table and dove into his steak. She left for the kitchen again without saying a word. I tentatively lifted up the top of the bun to survey the contents of my burger. Looked okay, so I munched away as Rexie lapped up the last of his filet.

I finished and took Rex to the counter to pay. She wandered out of the kitchen and wrote up a bill for five dollars. Curiously, I asked, “Only five bucks? What about the steak for my dog?”

“Dog? Ain’t no dogs allowed in here.”

I gave her a five and she held it up to the light, as if inspecting it. She gave me a suspicious look and asked, “This five-dollar bill. Is it wild or farm-raised?” Then she burst out laughing and handed the money back to me. “The meals are on me. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun! Bye, Rex. You two come back, ya’ hear?”

* * *

Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.

Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I plan never to purchase a vehicle from General Motors with OnStar.

Touted as a system to protect drivers by means of its many security features, OnStar seems more like A Big Snoop, than A Big Helper.

Oh, sure, the company will tell you that they can’t/don’t listen in on conversations taking place in the car, that the driver has to press a red or blue button in order to communicate with the OnStar representative, but, in the same breath, they acknowledge that if OnStar is faced with a subpoena, well, then, my friend, you can pretty much kiss all your privacy rights good-bye.

OnStar can order your car to stop running. The Visalia, California police were alerted to this handy feature when a car thief made the mistake of hijacking a Chevrolet Tahoe. The police were worried that they would be drawn into the sort of car chase that inevitably ends up on “Cops,” but thanks to OnStar, an electronic command was sent to disable the gas pedal, and the thief was caught, literally out of gas.

What could be so wrong with that? Well, for one thing, just think what might happen if your disgruntled ex-spouse worked for OnStar and had the means to track your every movement and to listen in on your every private conversation. If that doesn’t chill your biscuits, then you should have someone check your pulse for flat-lining.

What if a burglar-turned-computer-hacker disabled your car on a lonely road, robbed you, or worse yet, murdered you? No one would be the wiser.

Now that I think of it, OnStar is the perfect tool for a lazy hit-man. No more having to tail you in rush-hour traffic while praying that you stop soon on some deserted street. He can just sit back, relax, monitor your movements on the GPS, and then when he has you where he wants you, push the disabling button on your car. I’ll bet Lee Child is working right now to incorporate this ploy into his next best-selling Jack Reacher thriller.

Although I don’t approve of this intrusive technology, I figure that as long as it exists, I might as well get my very own OnStar device, one that would let the air out of the gasbags of whichever political party I find offensive. Just let me point the device at the TV, press the button and whoosh! Down they go!

While we’re at it, how about adapting it into a device I could have used yesterday to disable the car of a nasty woman driver who flipped me the bird right after I honked at her for wandering into my lane? I could have turned off her engine, sped around her car, and flipped her right back before she knew what was going down.

I could also have stopped a rambunctious teenager (aka, soon-to-be-organ-donor) on a motorcycle who insisted upon weaving in and out of traffic on I-80. Let that be a lesson to you, son.

Point and disable. I’m beginning to like this more and more. I could point it at the IRS building. Don’t even think about auditing one “R. Sorenson.” I could point it at my mortgage banker. Give me a 2% mortgage or I’ll vaporize you. I could point it at the neighbor whose dog terrorizes me every day. Sorry about your master, Fido.

Perhaps it is, after all, time to wish upon Onstar.

* * *

Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

Have you ever been mugged? Have you ever had your purse snatched?

And that was just this morning. The rest of the day doesn’t look all that good either.

(Actually, I’m only kidding around. Fortunately, this didn’t really happen to me…thus far, anyway.)

While this didn’t actually happen to me, it could have. And chances are it may have happened to several people across the country during the time it took me to type that first paragraph. This kind of thing happens every day in crowded parking lots in broad, open daylight. And that’s the gospel truth, according to the news media.

Criminals are everywhere. They’re part of earth’s renewable natural resources like water, oxygen, dirt, morons, and politicians. The world will never suffer a shortage of morons and criminals. Mainly because they are constantly being recycled through Congress. And while there’s no way we can prevent the government from snatching our purses and robbing us, there are several ways we can protect ourselves from the petty, purse-snatching criminals that roam our neighborhood shopping centers and supermarket parking lots.

According to the experts who teach self-defense, the first lesson we should learn is how to prevent a would-be attacker from marking us as a target.

Remember the TV show “Miami Vice”? Remember how Crockett and Tubbs would crouch down with guns drawn, how they craned their necks around corners, slid along the sides of buildings, and turned around in circles aiming at everything that moved?

Well, that’s not the way to do it. For one thing we would look totally stupid, and for another…well, we’re probably not vice cops. And fortunately for most of us, we’re not in Miami.

Many of us today are walking around without a clue as to where we are or what we’re doing. Our minds are on other things like our jobs or the lack of one, our finances, did we leave the water running in the bathroom when we left home this morning, and where did Little Timmy learn that ugly word?!

We breeze through our routine like an automaton, unaware of any pending danger other than the possibility of fainting from hunger because we didn’t have time to eat all day and it’s after four o’clock. We’re distracted, we’re unaware of someone watching us, and this makes us a perfect candidate for the criminal to attack, rob, kidnap, assault, murder, or even worse…force us to listen to Bluegrass music for several hours.

The experts tell us the number one rule of self-defense is to always be alert and aware of our surroundings. We should walk with our heads held high, observing the actions of other people, looking at faces, and checking out the parked cars.

An attacker is looking for a target that can be caught off guard. The element of surprise is their favorite weapon. Not allowing ourselves to be surprised can be our best defense. Unless, of course, it’s a surprise party, but muggers don’t usually care enough to throw us a party.

How many times do we leave a store and walk to our cars with our heads down, rummaging in our purse for our keys or stuffing a receipt into our pockets? We get into the car without looking around and sit there for several minutes doing everything except locking our doors and starting the engine. Occasionally we may discover that it isn’t even our car we’re sitting in.

Here’s a thought. Maybe we should develop a habit of locking our car doors and starting the engine the moment we get into our cars. Then we can always answer that text message or put on our lipstick while we’re driving.

By staying alert and practicing these few safety measures, we can be assured that we will get out of the parking lot safely and without incident every time. That is, unless we’re shot by some rival gang in a drive-by. But that will be covered in another chapter, titled “Random Acts of Stupidity And How to Avoid Them.”

Kyle Farnsworth is a relief pitcher for the famed New York Yankees major league baseball team. That is, until he was traded to the Tigers in a late-season move to improve their chances of making the playoffs.

At this point, anything less than another World Series championship for the Yanks would be considered a failure. So they decided it was time to make a move. Sadly, Mr. Farnsworth took the news rather hard.

I happen to have a loose personal connection to this particular ballplayer. I went to high school with his older brother. And as luck would have it, he also attended my alma mater (I never graduated college) with my younger brother and cousins. They say he was a bit of a jerk back then. He was apparently very conceited about his athletic ability, especially after getting drafted into the Bigs.

So it was interesting to see how fate had turned the tables on him, serving up a great big piece of humble pie.

Tuning in to the baseball highlights on ESPN (a normal occurrence around my house even though the Braves are having a rough season), I saw this grown man crying on national television. The idea of leaving seems to have hit him pretty hard. I’m not quite sure why, though. Being raised in the south myself, I could understand crying if I got traded TO the Yankees. But not if I found out I was LEAVING New York.

News like that would be cause for a celebration. “Fire up the grill honey,” I’d say. “All my rowdy friends are coming over tonight. Let’s make sure there’s plenty of barbecue and Budweiser for everyone.”

For the life of me I just couldn’t figure out why a home-grown Southern boy would be so upset that he’d be moved to tears over leaving the Bronx. It just doesn’t make sense. They don’t have sweet tea anywhere. And have you ever tried to stir sugar into an ice-cold glass of un-sweet tea? You end up with a swirl of what looks like sand art circling the bottom of your glass. Stir some more, more swirling. Nothing dissolves. It just doesn’t work.

I also bet you can’t find a Waffle House up there to save your life. How anybody can survive without scattered, smothered, and covered hash browns is beyond me.

Or maybe Mr. Farnsworth just never got the memo about crying in baseball. Last time I checked it wasn’t a co-ed sport. He might be more comfortable playing softball instead.

On second thought, those young gals are pretty tough too. Quitting baseball altogether and taking up a hobby may be the best thing for this tortured soul. Perhaps he can find inner peace and happiness with a crochet needle in his hand. I hear it’s making a comeback.

Poor thing. I hope his buddies have the good sense to revoke his man card temporarily until he gets his head together.

Truth be told, Kyle is actually a very tough guy. He is always getting into fights on the diamond and, as a result, is the last guy I’d have ever thought would be crying on television. Punching someone, yes. Crying, no. But it is nice to see that he’s human after all.

And although I’m giving him some ribbing here, there’s no doubt in my mind he is a macho kind of dude. In all seriousness, he is just as entitled to an emotional moment as the rest of us. His just happened to be broadcast for the world to see.

All of this nonsense got me thinking. As men we are taught we aren’t supposed to cry. At least that’s what my father taught me. “You gotta be tough to make it in this world,” he’d say. And to some extent he was right. However, there are a few occasions I have found when it’s perfectly acceptable for a grown man to cry. To avoid any further confusion (and potential embarrassment), I have listed them below as a quick reference guide the next time you guys get the urge to tear up.

Death of a loved one—this can also include animals, but is limited to pets you have owned for more than a year. Also, rodents being held captive against their will (hamsters, gerbils, etc.) do not count.

Spiritual experiences—to be clear, a trip to Disney or the state fair is not considered spiritual. Eating the best barbecue sandwich you’ve ever had, however, will earn you the right to a sniffle or two.

Sustaining a broken bone—a much different cry than the others, any extreme pain can result in tears streaming down a man’s face. These are not emotionally driven, however, and a strict time limit is in place to preserve his dignity.

Birth of a child—a new baby coming into the world is an emotional experience. When this happens in your family there is little doubt a tear or two will come to your eye. This is perfectly acceptable and does nothing to diminish your manhood in the slightest. But this does not mean you can sit around watching the birthing channel all day with a box of Kleenex. In that case I would recommend you seek therapy immediately.

Getting kicked in the gonads—this one goes without saying. Receiving a swift shot to this region of the body will bring anyone to their knees. In fact, it’s actually how the expression, “That’s enough to make a grown man cry,” originated. Some poor guy got kicked in the pants and voilà, a new expression was born.

So you see, grown men do cry. Sometimes. It just isn’t in our nature to turn on the faucet at the drop of the hat. Well, not all of us anyway. I guess some guys are just more in touch with their feminine side than others. But that doesn’t make them bad people. It just makes them sissies. And that’s perfectly fine by me. Let’s just keep it out of baseball from now on, shall we?

* * *

“Got a Minute?”

An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.

Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

My amiga Yahaira wanted to show me her homeland, the Dominican Republic, where 62,000 of her relatives live. We met them all at the airport, a metric ton of strangers hugging me as their own.

The DR comes in two parts: There is Santo Domingo, which rivals the finest capitals in terms of lodging, culture, and streets so clean you could eat off them; then there is the rest of the country, which is like that minus the lodging, the culture, and the streets.

There was no time to sightsee, though, because I was having a near-death experience called Driving in the DR. I’m just saying that the country could benefit greatly from painting lines on the road.

Half the people drive mopeds, which makes gridlock smell like one big lawnmower accident. If you don’t have a moped, you are forced to—enter Psycho music—take the bus.

For me, buses have always been a novelty, a place you end up after Jaeger Bombs. In the DR, buses are big business. The drivers, who own the buses, don’t see space the way we do—one rump per seat—but as possibility-per-cubic-inch. Children are placed on laps, parents’ and otherwise, and when they run out of seats, you get a folding chair.

To maximize the volume of trips, buses go 100 mph even around corners. Drivers don’t stop at intersections but do honk as a professional courtesy. I clawed the stuffing out of my seat trying to keep the bus upright. Honk! Honk!

At Tia’s house, a boy hugged my leg and said, “Yayson, how you like ride?”

I unclawed my bags and said, “I don’t.”

Tia dabbed the mosquito bites on my forehead. I could still hear the clerk at the fishing store: “This here repellant is 28% deet, and no creepy-crawly can stand that kinda deet.”

PSA: Island mosquitoes are hip to the whole deet thing. One landed ON MY CAN OF REPELLENT.

Something else I learned in the DR: Just because it’s 200 degrees outside doesn’t mean it can’t rain. The tropical sun visits everyone individually, sitting on their laps at times, but does nothing about the drizzle. Dominicans have learned to live with the humidity, but now and then you’ll catch one screaming at the sky just for a minute.

Tia invited us to sleep in her room. “Bueno,” she said, opening the door to gale-force winds. Tia’s ceiling fan was set on Tornado and could not be turned off. It had been raging like this for months. The base had, in fact, come apart from the ceiling and stayed in place by faith alone. It’s not easy falling asleep in a Cuisinart.

At seven a.m. we awoke to a breakfast bonfire. Once that smoke hit the squall in our bedroom, it was like being gassed out by SWAT. We would have woken up anyway on account of the merengue music.

Tia was dance-cooking in her slippers, smiling for no reason at all. Her daughter danced on a chair. Tia caught me staring and asked me to join. I thanked her but no. She seemed okay with that as she grabbed my waist and waltzed me into the living room, where the family took turns teaching the gringo to lighten up.

Next day, Tia sent us by bus—gulp—to Gracia’s house in el campo, where mangos grow like crazy, through cracks in the street if you’re not careful. Children eat them without leaving the trees. Their mothers yell at the kids to come down but don’t really mean it. (Have you ever cleaned mango from a child’s ear?)

In the jungle, electricity comes and goes. One moment you’re dancing full-blast to Fulanito; next moment you’re feeling your way back to the candles. Our warmest moments came, in fact, in the dark when we shucked beans with flickering faces.

Water was also hit and miss. I had always taken water for granted, like fresh air or reruns of The Simpsons. In the DR you learn that water is precious, especially when you go to flush the toilet. So it goes.

Some days we bathed in a river replete with shampoo, conditioner, and real-not-rubber duckies. Gracia waded by after the soap.

“You live here often?” I asked.

Gracia put her arm around me and smiled, the most she said all day. Gracia is madrina, or godmother, to 50 children, three of whom live in her home. Her house doubles as a church, where people come to pray without knocking.

On the riverbank, Gracia emptied her hamper: rice and beans, chicken from the coop, creamed corn for dessert. And just when life couldn’t get better, she handed me a juice with umbrella on top. Take that, Club Med.

In the DR, you are not allowed to meet people without eating. It’s part of the handshake: grip with one hand, munch with the other. Dominicans don’t like to hear that you’re not hungry. In fact, don’t even show up thin.

We gained numbers on the walk home, as Gracia introduced us to everyone she knew, dogs included. Cousin Maria opened her door and said, “Siantese,” which means “sit,” or more specifically, “sit and eat.” And out came the chicken feet, a delicacy in the DR. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my travels, it’s to stay away from the “delicacies.”

It had never occurred to me to eat the knuckles of a bird. Maybe I had never been hungry enough. Children gathered to watch my face, smiling, snapping photos. I’d say that it tasted like chicken, but it was more like gristle or latex or Denny’s.

Once we met everyone that Gracia knew, we visited the graveyard to meet everyone she used to know. The tombs looked like dusty chests of drawers, one slot per relative. La Vieja kissed the top drawer and sighed.

I haven’t mentioned La Vieja? That’s Yahaira’s grandma, the cause of all these people. When you meet “The Old One,” you bow as you might to Don Corleone and say, “‘Cion, Grandmother.” Then she gives you benediciones, or blessings.

When I met La Vieja, she grabbed my neck with both hands, scrunched her face into a leathery smile, and recited the Bible from Genesis. Then we sat on the porch and told stories over rice and beans. “Siantese, siantese.”

Whatever Dominicans lack in fancy cars and iPods, they more than make up for in time. Returning by bus to the airport, I saw men playing dominoes, women laughing by the mailbox, children growing mangos from their ears.

These people had taken me in as their own, no questions asked, and if we had stayed any longer, they would have squeezed me into their chest of drawers.

Which was very much on my mind as I steered the bus with my seat cushion. HONK! HONK!

* * *

Jason Love is an award-winning humor columnist, stand-up comedian, and author of “Snapshots: The Big Picture,” available at Amazon.com. Check out more of his work at www.jasonlove.com.

Having never kept an actual journal, Mollen writes these columns in retrospect. For each column, he chooses a different day in his lifetime, and writes about it as though it were today. A particular entry may be about a day last week, or Halloween 1980, or the day he was born. Some of you may be asking, “But how would he have been able to write a journal entry on the day he was born?” To you, Mollen says: “Lighten up. It’s a humor column.”

Field Trip to the Sewage Treatment Plant

Journal entry: March 11, 1982 (age 12)

As a typical seventh-grader, I have been instructed on many occasions to “get my mind out of the gutter.” The confusing onset of hormones and my growing understanding of human biology have made this difficult. But it had never been as difficult as it was today.

Today, our well-meaning science teacher made the grave error of taking me and 30 of my seventh-grade classmates on a field trip to the Binghamton-Johnson City Joint Sewage Treatment Plant.

Our teacher apparently thought our burgeoning interest in the natural sciences would win out over our innate desire to make jokes about anything having to do with the bathroom. She was wrong. I would wager that none of us had ever ridden a bike down Riverside Drive on a hot summer day, sniffed the foul stench in the air, and thought to ourselves, “Gee, I’d like to go to the source of that smell, and see how it’s made.”

But that was the lesson we were given today. We toured several buildings, each of which had its own olfactory horrors to visit upon us. Each building had its own purpose in the treatment of sewage. We guessed that a promotion at the plant would mean a transfer to a building with a slightly less offensive odor. I observed that none of the buildings appeared to have break rooms. Presumably, employee breaks and meals took place in sealed bunkers deep within the Earth’s crust.

The highlight of the field trip was the question-and-answer session at the close of the tour. This unleashed the creativity of our 12-year-old minds, as we struggled to craft questions that would amuse our classmates while avoiding the scorn of our teacher and chaperones.

“What would happen if everyone in Binghamton flushed at the same time?” one girl asked.

“Does Binghamton produce more solid waste per capita than Johnson City, and if so, why?” asked another.

Then the boys started to chime in. One wanted to know, “Why is Building Number One used for number two?”

Another asked, “Have you seen my goldfish?”

The questions and answers being muttered among ourselves were, to use the industry parlance, somewhat less refined. One of the comments I heard broke at least three of the existing Commandments, and seemed to require the codification of several new ones.

Our guide was a nice man who is an engineer at the plant. He answered the questions as best he could, and he didn’t hide his laughter at several points. But even he had had enough when, for the third time, a student raised his hand to ask, “What’s that smell?”

Our tour concluded, we returned by bus to St. Patrick’s Middle School with enough material for several weeks of lunchroom jokes, classroom notes, and detention writing topics. Our teacher rode the bus in silence, with a resigned expression that seemed to say, “I hope they got it out of their system.” And isn’t that what today was all about?

* * *

Tim Mollen is a syndicated humor columnist. He is also fond of jam. You can contact him or read more of his work at www.timmollen.com.

Since nobody uses it, why do we have the word “ouch,” the sound you make when you hurt yourself?

Where did this word come from? There is no doubt, back in the mists of time, when small men with giant reproductive organs walked the earth looking for women and wearing animal skins, they made up the first words by making similar sounds to the thought they wanted to express, or the danger they wanted to communicate.

It was mostly about danger back then. There was little incentive to go to all the trouble to make up a word to say, “Pass me the saber-tooth.”

Thus, if you were a caveman and saw a dangerous snake, you told your partner “Hiss!” In other words, look out, there’s a freakin’ snake. Then, if you wanted your partner to hit the freakin’ snake over the head with a rock, you said, “Hiss, smash!”

But if your partner missed, and hit your toe with the rock instead, you said “OW!” Not ouch. That came later, when more sophisticated words were added.

Why OW? Why not “GERSH!” Or “REEP!” Or “FLINKO?”

Why did the caveman say “OW” instead of the above? Do we all have to be slaves to the sudden impulse of one caveman? I for one, resent having to use a word first thought up by a filthy, smelly Cro-Magnon with caked, dried excrement staining his backside, and chunks of un-wiped sleep in his eyes and with breath smelling of last week’s pterodactyl soufflé.

Nobody much uses either word, OW, or ouch, today anyway. When was the last time you heard someone say “ouch”? Interestingly, the word ouch has become a designer word for clever modern people who, when you suffer embarrassment, tease you by saying to you, “Ouch!”

Now, instead of OW, when you smash your toe, you say a bad word with the letter “S” (meaning a bowel movement). Or the “F” word. Hurt has been upgraded to a more vicious connotation, proving that modern man has a lower threshold of pain. He is no longer content to just say OW! Use of the F word seems to indicate a sexual link with pain, which is a fascinating topic all its own and which I will touch on later in a separate piece.

There is little doubt that back in the real old days when they used to, as we currently put it, “slay guys,” there was much more pain in daily life than today.

In the Middle Ages, your teeth were rotting out of your head and they pulled them with rusty horse-shoeing pliers. You screamed OW! You had a gangrenous leg so they hacked it off with a dull axe, plus your other arms and legs for safety, and cauterized the wounds with the fire of a branding iron, leaving you a legless, armless, bobbing torso. OW! If you had an ear plugged with wax, they thought it was the devil and tied a chain to your ear and the other end to a horse and had the horse bolt and rip your ear off, without anesthetic. OW!

There was no Tylenol. Life was very painful back when things were rotten.

Because of that caveman who smashed his toe, sound words are more interesting than word words. But if people had not assigned more complex wording, we would have to rely today on strictly sound-based communication.

For example, the caveman wants to tell his wife, “You did not cook the musk-ox the way I like it, singed with the hair intact for crunchiness. Go over to that festering pool of excrement and stand on your head in it until further notice.”

He wouldn’t say it that way. No. Instead, he would say, “Yuk, sizzle, pee-yoo, who-whee, gurgle-gurgle!”

Thus, if we were on strictly sound-based wording today, we might be able to get rid of insurance salesmen and politicians. Scientifically then, language is a timeless conflict between what we mean to say, and what we say to mean.

Copyright 2009 SammonSays.com

“…and on every street coroner you’ll hear…Silver bells, sil?” Coroner?? What the…? Sure, we’ve all seen coroners at crime scenes wearing antler hats and whistling “Santa Baby.” But, bells?? That’s absurd.

Anyway, are you still shopping for a special someone in your life? You know who I mean, that “alpha dog” in-law or the self-absorbed friend whom you claim to “love dearly, but…”

O gentle reader, this is your ducky lay!! I mean, yucky…er, lucky…never mind. A recent consumer poll voted my unique gift assortment as the most…classy? No. Breathtaking? Get real. What was that word everyone used…?

Weird.

My popular S&M line of gift baskets will?hey! Clean up your dirty mind, buster! By S&M I mean the “normal” everyday self-sabotage my shrink won’t let me do. Take the Dieters S&M basket?we stuff it with sweat bands, calorie counter, and a double batch of fudge! And to boost motivation, we’ll toss in a pair of size “0” jeans! Not to worry if your honeybunch never squeezes into them. They’re so damn tight, even Barbie can’t zip ’em.

Or, for the perfectionist in your life, give a so-called 5,000-piece puzzle. For a dash of passive-aggressive holiday sparkle I guarantee a maximum of (heh-heh) 4,999 pieces! Truly, the gift of frustration is timeless.

Perfectionists are often clean freaks, so consider the “Oops!” gift basket, packed with homemade beet soup and spaghetti sauce in antique porcelain containers…that leak! Add a set of pristine placemats made from the hides of endangered albino silkworms and watch the fun!

Many family trees grow a dysfunctional branch—mine is chock full of fruits and nuts. We love the “Take Just One” basket, designed to tickle all the addicts with a complete array of booze, sweets, smokes, lottery tickets, and calling cards for 1-800-OOHBABE.

Another perennial favorite is the Resentment Preservation Pack. At last, a way to prolong the life and vibrancy of your anger! Protect those bitter, hateful relationships you’ve nurtured through the years. Pack includes jeweled boxes to store precious grudges, and a workbook for rewriting past fights as YOU see them! Has time faded the luster from your initial outrage? Try our “Scab Off” organic solution to restore old emotional hurts to searing clarity. Order now, and we’ll include a box of “Kick Me” transdermal patches for a steady, controlled dose of martyrdom that can’t be beat.

NEW ITEM! The Inspirational Daytimer for Busy Sociopaths. Your boss or co-worker can track appointments while mapping a stellar career in politics or investment banking. Weekly quotes of convicted felons and successful CEOs speak to the joy of a conscience-free life!

Stressed by out-of-town visitors who refuse to leave your spouse or parent? The Demonic Possession Hospitality Basket can help you both survive the antics of unwelcome guests. Possession often makes for cramped quarters, so we thoughtfully provide cheesecake and chocolate to help enlarge the host’s body. Basket includes an extra toothbrush and jammies, plus a discount coupon for an exorcism and pedicure.

If you’re shopping for bookworms, I suggest a membership in my Inspirational Book of the Month Club. Readers will enjoy such works as: (1) “Procrastination Today” and its companion “Sloth for Working Parents”; (2) “Sustainable Self-Condemnation: A Practical Handbook for Increased Self-Loathing”; and (3) “The Myth of Self-Improvement.” Alternate selections include “Keeping Envy Sacred,” “The Bondage of Sanity,” and “Healthy Boundaries: Why I Wear a Shock Collar.”

Finally, treat yourself to the “Lo! I exist!” lifesize mannequin, custom designed to recreate how you THINK you looked at age 25! The first hundred orders will also receive the popular CD: “It’s All About Me!” filled with mantras to overcome pesky bouts of altruism and soothe the inner child who still whines that Santa never delivered on that pony.

Remember, in this season of giving, the truth will set us free! Ergo, I’m not buying you diddly-squat. The freedom, oh, what freedom!!

Copyright © 2009 by Mary Tompsett

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Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.

I’ve been a successful businesswoman over the years and so far have lived most parts of my life rather conservatively and used my head most of the time. I don’t take big chances on Wall Street or need the adrenaline rush of bungee jumping or high-risk living. Regarding my love life though, some would beg to differ.

Some (ok, most) of my choices in partners haven’t turned out to be in my own best interest. But looking back, I survived with a few scars and most of my skin intact (with a few more worry lines), and I learned a whole lot about myself in the process. If I hadn’t had the courage to dust myself off again and again, I wouldn’t have the material to write a column now, would I?

I have been told that I can see the core of a person where most of us are inherently good little beings. In my own defense and with my typical self-deprecating self-disclosure, I would have to agree. That warm, gooey center is what I seem to fall in love with most of the time. With the fervor and tenacity of an archeologist obsessed a dog looking for his bone, I’ll dig until I find it and I want to find it fast. (I could never make it to the middle of a Tootsie-Roll Pop without biting through the candy coating.)

A very wise woman I know once told me that we can’t have a relationship in parts (those parts we really like in a partner). This is the same person who pointed out that I fell in love with cores. If he is adorable and has a great sense of humor, but is being indicted for income tax evasion or sleeps with other women, we have to take it all. He isn’t a Mr. Potato Head with removable eyes, nose, and good qualities, but wouldn’t it be great if he was?

Core excavation is tough work. Sometimes we get worn out trying to find that nugget. We get our hands dirty and our bodies muddy. Underneath the superficiality of laughs and handsome faces, we might uncover the absolute worst part of someone and then have to ask ourselves if we can live with that until we get to the essence we are looking for because we keep telling ourselves that it just has to be there.

One of my archaeology projects was a great cook and incredible lover, a dedicated and successful businessman, could fix or build anything, loved to dance and travel, and had a hysterical sense of humor. Post ex-cavation, he was a womanizer and an alcoholic. He had a warm, sensitive, cuddly center and when he died (and no, I didn’t kill him), he packed the house with all of the other women who were looking for the good stuff too.

Another was stable, attractive, soft-spoken, and dressed well, but after the dig, he was a big meanie and an angry little misogynistic monkey, and I was covered with blood (my own). His hurt-little-boy core was one that a woman might want to nurture and protect, but he should have been spanked more by his Mama.

And one was handsome and passionate, intelligent, and had a fabulous body. Post ex-cavation, he was still obsessed with his ex and had five kids (which could have been ok if he didn’t live two houses down from them all). But he got himself into therapy, self-realized, and now has a new girlfriend. Go figure. Maybe I should have stuck around for that one.

At this age, maybe we might want to say “Namaste” (the Hindu greeting that salutes the divinity and yummy center in another human being) and keep on walking. With some people, it might be safer to love them from afar and from a safe distance. But the question is, what is that safe distance? Is it a block, a mile, a city, a state, or another planet?

My new rule is this. If it hurts, it’s too close. If you need a hard hat to be around the guy, walk away.

(That little voice: Men are not Mr. Potato Heads, nor are they Tootsie-Roll Pops. If you are burning too much daylight trying to find the good stuff, move, levitate while chanting Namaste, put your hands up, and step away from the sucker. Be core-ageous and get along without him, little doggie. And remember, no matter how sweet it might be in the beginning, you can crack your teeth on hard candy.)

* * *

Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is experienced, but by no means an expert, on the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of living, dating, and just getting through the day. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Please feel free to contact her directly at: robynjusto@aol.com.

Does anyone still dream of a “White Christmas”?

I certainly do not. Like most seasonal classics that are regurgitated ad desperatum, “White Christmas” makes the hearer sentimental over sentiments. It leads the hit parade of warm, fuzzy favorites that tease the mind with the most delectable nonsense. Like sleigh bells and sugar plums and mistletoe and roasting chestnuts (Who eats chestnuts???) and presents up the ying-yang.

But hark, all you cherishers of cherishable things, cherish this: Someone has to pay for this stuff.

Even now, herds of yuletide zealots are working overtime, battling traffic, elbowing their way to the checkout, racing about decking halls, breaking balls, and rum-pum-pumming themselves into a nervous breakdown. Before we realize it, Christmas has exited our system, like the eggnog we barely tasted, leaving behind a heap of crumpled gift wrap, stale leftovers, and broken toys.

The only “white” many of us will likely see is the blizzard of debt that follows us into the New Year.

As such, Christmas is almost all preparation and no payoff. Hype without substance. What’s missing is the personal experience—that kernel of seasonal bliss people crave but rarely capture.

Well, friends, I’ve invented a program that’s going to change all that.

Introducing “Virtual Holiday” (VH): THE ultimate high-tech solution for every celebrant who has longed to bury his famished fangs into the pure meat of Noel. Imagine: two thousand years of Christmas history and tradition—900 teraquads of sensory input, distilled from music, art, literature, folklore, and religion; every artifact, every cookbook, every gift catalogue, every freaking toy ever produced—painstakingly reprocessed, digitally enhanced, and compressed into one four-minute episode. Whew!

VH involved years of grueling research, working with the most brilliant scholars and computer wizards I could find, to design a working prototype of the world’s first “Extreme-Dream Machine.” On paper, it looked perfect. All we needed now were four human guinea pigs to help us test it. And where better to recruit our subjects than the local mall, two days before Christmas?

The four individuals we harvested from the slush pile of shopaholic, sensory-deprived humanity fit the basic profiles of a typical family: a Mom, 37; a Dad, 41; a daughter, 16 (“Sis”); and a son, 13 (“Li’l Bro”). Our test chamber was arranged like a living room: soft lights, plush carpet, and four comfortable armchairs arranged in a semicircle. Hidden mikes and cameras enabled our staff to monitor our subjects’ reactions from behind a two-way mirror.

“Please relax while we hook you to the system,” I told our guests. “The electrodes we’re attaching to your temples won’t harm you. They’re connected to the machine’s neuro-cortical interface module. Don’t fiddle with them. Breath deeply, stay in tune with your feelings. Feel free to share your impressions with one another.”

The moment of truth had arrived. I gave the nod. Hank, my chief engineer, threw the switch, and the Christmas juice started to flow. Our subjects tensed, bolted forward, then fell back into their chairs.

MOM: Hark! Do you hear what I hear?

DAD: I hear…

LI’L BRO: …angels on high…

MOM: …sweetly singing…

SIS: Glo-o-o-o-ri-aaaa!

DAD: …sleigh bells jing-ling..

MOM: …ting-ting-tingl-ing…

SIS: Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ri-AAAHHH!!!

DAD: I see three ships.

MOM: I see three shepherds…a host of angels.

DAD: I see a manger.

SIS: I see Grandma’s house!

LI’L BRO: I see Figgy pudding!

MOM: Watch your mouth!

DAD: There’s Santa’s Workshop!

MOM: I’m…walking in a winter wonderland.

SIS: I’m dashing through the snow.

LI’L BRO: I’m Prancer! I’m Dancer!

SIS: I’m stopping by the woods on a snowy evening…

Verbal communication gave way to a polyphony of “oohs” and “ahhs” and giggles and gasps. Everyone’s breathing increased. Body language, Sis’s in particular, became freer, more expressive.

“I’m glad that girl’s wearing pants today!” my secretary remarked.

I called to Hank. “Crank up the power!

Our subjects lurched again, then swayed in unison, first to one side, then to the other. They bounced. They shrieked. They gripped their seats. They shivered and whistled like the wind. Cheeks turned rosy. Arms flailed like flurries. Feet trampled the ground like so many reindeer paws.

“They’re sleigh riding!” said one of my assistants.

Someone corrected him: “They ARE the sleigh.”

Dad worked his right arm as though he were cracking a whip. With the other, he laid a finger by the side of his nose and broke into a thunderous “Ho-ho-ho!”

“Observe,” I remarked, “the way his fat gut heaves up and down like a canister of fruit preserves!”

My secretary leaned over and whispered, “I think the phrase is ‘bowl full of jelly.’”

Suddenly, Hank leapt from his console. “Something’s the matter with the girl!”

Sis was hyperventilating. Sweat rolled down her face. She began to convulse, screaming “Fa-la-la-la-la-la!” over and over again. An argument broke out among the staff.

“She’s speaking in tongues!”

“You fools, she’s going into a seizure. Cut the power!”

“Leave it alone, Hank!” I said.

“She thinks she’s bird.”

“A bell ringer.”

“A church choir.”

“Dammit, somebody cut the power!”

“Touch that switch, Hank,” I said, “and you’ll never work for me again!”

In her passion, Sis had dug her nails into the armrests, punctured the upholstery, and grabbed two fistfuls of stuffing.

“Look, it’s snow!”

“It’s angel dust!”

“It’s sheep dung! She’s back in Bethlehem with the shepherds.”

Thirty seconds remained. Passions soared to new extremes. Sis’s blather, now punctuated with obscenities, became shriller, more frantic.

Her brother went from popping like an air rifle, to belting out “O Tannenbaum, wie treu sind deine blatter!”

Mom stood on her chair hair, arms raised, to impersonate a Scottish pine. Or was it a spruce?

“She’s a spirit.”

“She’s an ornament! See how her eyes flicker…”

“…like a snowflake.”

“…like a star.”

“…like some ditzy chick at the annual Christmas party who’s had too much rum!”

Ten more seconds to go. One final power surge. A climactic burst of Yuletide ecstasy. Sis screamed “Oh God!” and passed out on the floor. Li’l Bro wet his pants. Mom rent the $7.99 blouse she’d bought at the JC Penney “After Christmas Closeout Sale” last Winter. And Dad cracked a fart and nearly burst his jelly laughing.

“Test’s over!” I announced.

Three of our subjects went limp, like puppets whose strings had been severed. A fourth remained unconscious.

“Somebody, get the girl some smelling salts,” I said.

Mom, sensing a draft, ran her hand over the shredded remains of the ugly pastel top she’d been wearing.

“Cover that woman,” I told my secretary. “And find the boy a change of clothes before he stinks up the place.”

We gave our subjects time to pull their wits together before asking them to describe their experience.

Dad was first. “It was definitely…an out-of-gut experience! Belly Christmas!”

Li’l Bro gave it two thumbs up. “Totally awesome! I gotta get me one of those machines!”

Li’l Sis sobbed and rubbed her arms. He face was flushed. “It was…incredible! Like everything, all at once! I’ve never felt like that before, I swear.” She punched her brother’s arm. “Breathe a word of this to Brad and you’re stuffing!”

Finally, it was Mom’s turn. We expected a string of superlatives we could use to headline our new company brochure. She hemmed for a moment. “It was okay, I guess.”

“Just ‘okay’? What part of the experience didn’t you like?”

“The turkey was too dry.”

“Dammit, Hank,” I said, “this is unacceptable. What went wrong?”

“Must be a coflagellant phase inversion in one of the primordial subroutines.”

“Try purging the memory buffers and rebooting the system.”

“Can’t do that. I gotta reload the entire program.”

“That’ll take a month!”

Groans from the staff. Another hullabaloo erupted.

Mom cleared her throat impatiently. “Uh, excuse me…”

I looked up. “I’m sorry, was there something you wanted add?”

“Yeah. If you’re done with us, we’d like to return to the mall.”

* * *

Ted Gargiulo’s stories and essays have appeared in The San Jose Mercury News, The Monterey County Herald, Wilde Times, The Gamut, and The Fringe. Born in New York City, the former stage actor and prize-winning author now lives with his wife in Seaside, California. Ted is currently working on a collection of short stories. He In Me, available from PublishAmerica, is his first published novel.