By Deborah J. Rebolloso

From departure drop-off to arrival survival, airports provide stiff competition to big-ticket flicks for eye-opening, ear-splitting, heart-pounding drama. For the pittance price of admission, you’re guaranteed a thrill-packed, “Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy night,” run for your money.

Gone are those carefree days when one merely showed up, flashed a ticket, and boarded the plane. Those were gentler times, when revolvers and other villainous weaponry wasn’t confiscated, much less ChapStick or bitty nail nippers.

The first stop on your adventure is the interminable line at the Baggage Check area, Basic Training for the non-stop queuing to follow. Here you’ll encounter an astonishing array of frozen faces and glazed-over eyes, rivaling the relaxation quotient of root canal patients.

As you snake back and forth between the ropes, take a good look at your fellow snakes. You’ll be spending the better part of the day (or night) packed in the same can. If troubled by any aspect of their appearance, deportment, or aroma at this early juncture, why not abandon your plans and add yourself to another line featuring more tolerable traveling companions?

Once your luggage has been dispatched (hopefully matching your destination), join your fellow detainees at the security lineup, where you’re analyzed for hidden dangers. If the scanner remains mute, personnel can rest assured that no Uzis lurk in your socks.

Go figure! Gel shoe inserts have been added to the list of on-board Prohibited Items. Yet, gel-laden bras pass security with nary a glitch. Apparently, squishy underwear poses no threat, whereas squishy shoes bode ill.

After earning a passing grade, proceed to your assigned gate (invariably farthest from security), attempt to locate a seat, and patiently await “boarding instructions” (euphemism for yet another lineup). Here you’re allowed to purchase a beverage, at this point lacking access to labs for nefarious arms-building purposes.

Comfortably ensconced in your chosen seat (a preview of coming attractions), relax and read, eat, sleep, or watch the scene changes, while simultaneously keeping your eyes glued to your stuff, ever on the alert for attempted kilo drops.

A recent gate wait featured a captivating floor show, distracting us from the pandemonium of milling throngs and static-laden announcements.

1. A chic chick toted her possessions in a trendy (soiled, no less) pillowcase.

2. Two dudes pranced about in miniskirts. If they weren’t flitting off to Scotland via Albuquerque for a Highland Fling, they had some serious explaining to do.

3. An amazing assortment of wiggling, shrieking toddlers appeared to be primed with Pop-Tarts, ‘cause they were poppin’ long before takeoff.

Happily wrapped in a Dramamine-induced semi-coma, I remained insulated against the worst of the lunacy.

After boarding, locating a cushy center seat, and obediently storing all carry-on baggage in the overhead compartment, I shot furtive glances at the scraggly line of passengers still searching for a place to store their backsides. As feared, all potential seatmates were doused in scent, generating obnoxious nose and throat noises, or sporting major body overhang.

When the stampede dust finally settled, all hopes for a joyride faded as I found myself cozily surrounded by seat kickers, sleep droolers, bronchial coughers, and high-decibel yakkers.

Rivaling Maria Callas, an infant hit High C during takeoff and held the note for the duration. Another charming tot gazed out the window and squealed, “Mommy, I see a real plane!” So, what, pray tell, are we strapped into (”pray” being the operative word)?

Safely (s)trapped in a pint-sized compartment boasting a scenic seat-back view, one can’t help noticing that the plane is fitted with all the comforts of home, albeit in miniature.

For your reading pleasure, a touch of a button bathes you in a laser beam of light.

To compensate for being forced to breathe stuffy air until cruising at 10,000 feet, a nozzle blasts exhalations from fellow passengers onto the top of your head.

Peewee pillows provide cushioned comfort for the 6″ x 3″ rectangle between your ears, as you recline at a modest 45-degree angle so as not to land on the tray table behind you.

Far be it from me to yammer about my generous 15″ seat width, but my right arm proved to be securely wedged against Luv’s left, leaving little maneuverability. I proposed what seemed a reasonable solution. “Would you kindly store your arm in the overhead compartment?”

He would have none of it, selfishly claiming that all bins were full. “Okay,” I hissed, “how about spilling into the aisle a tad? I’m writing a column about the travails of travel, and if you refuse to cooperate, instead of Chicago, you’ll find yourself landing in deep doo.”

Speaking of doo, here’s a clever strategy for avoiding lengthy loo lines. Devour scads of complimentary salt-laden snacks. The resulting body bloat negates need for frequent wees.

While we’re on the subject of the complimentary gourmet snacks, a degree in Breaking and Entering would come in handy for breaching the package seals, what with having been forced to abandon all hatchets at security.

If you’re unfortunate enough to require a trip to one of the casket-sized cans, prepare for extended wait time while those ahead of you bathe in the Lilliputian sink, brush and floss, execute total make-overs, and evacuate all food and drink consumed in the preceding 48 hours.

Lavatory-bound and in need of assistance? A help button features an attendant grasping a beverage. One can only hope at this point that the airline’s rescue beverage of choice is a snifter of scotch.

As we neared the end of our thrill-packed ride, a perky flight attendant cavorted down the aisle dragging a fully-loaded hefty bag. “Trash?” she queried. “No, but thanks for offering. I have sufficient,” I beamed.

Suddenly, the pilot’s voice alerted us that our destination was in sight. “Touching” down with a series of hair-raising plonks and thunks, he exceeded our “bumpy night” expectations.

What a relief to be rescued from a daymare featuring me bobbing in the ocean clutching my seat bottom (pulling double-duty as a flotation device), alive but salty-snack bloated beyond recognition.

* * *

Deborah J. Rebolloso writes monthly humor columns for http://healyourselftalk.com/magazine (Humour) and http://alongstoryshort.homestead.com (Humor Me!). Her website is www.DebRebollosohumorme.com. You can reach Deborah at debreb@cox.net.

By Tracy Farr

Recently, while I was waiting for a Blue Coconut Cream Slush at my local Sonic Drive-In, I pulled a $1 bill out of my wallet and actually took a good long look at it. And do you know what I noticed? I noticed that George Washington could have been a great trumpet player.

It was his lips that gave it away. They’re on the thin side. He could have played the French horn or the oboe, but I think if it had been up to George, he would have chosen the trumpet.

Trumpet players are outgoing, they are natural-born leaders, unafraid of the limelight, able to play “Charge!” at the drop of a hat-anybody’s hat. And that’s why I believe the trumpet would have been the perfect instrument for good ol’ George.

“But what about the other presidents?” I hear you asking me. “Is it possible they, too, could have had wonderful careers as musicians?”

Well, of course. Just take a look at Abraham Lincoln on the $5 bill. Our tall, lanky, sixteenth president would have been a great clarinet player. And how do I know this? Because he actually looks like a clarinet. Don’t tell me the thought never crossed your mind. Of course it has.

Let’s move on to the $10 bill and Alexander Hamilton. Now, dear cousin Al never was a president (he served as Secretary of the Treasury from 1789-1795), but if you take one look at his brow, the way he holds his head, and his fancy attire, you’ll see that he could easily pass as a drummer. Well, maybe not one of today’s drummers, but it’s not hard to imagine him back in the day walking around with a pair of sticks, the girls following him everywhere, and him thinking, “I am drummer, hear me roll.”

Now, if you so happen to have a $20 bill in your wallet, pull it out right now, take a good look at Andrew Jackson, our seventh president, and see if you can figure out what instrument he could have played. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

(Being able to guess what instrument a person might be good at playing is great for helping beginning band students, but lousy for picking up dates at a bar. As soon as you say, “Excuse me, has anybody ever told you that your lips are perfect for playing the tuba?” the chase is over and you didn’t win.)

Okay, back to Jackson. Did you notice the long face, the messy hair, and the full lips? Sure signs that Andy could have been a monster trombone player. If the image of him holding a slush-pumper didn’t jump out at you, then don’t worry. With practice, it will. Oh, and by the way, don’t you owe me $20? No? Well, I thought I’d ask.

Moving right along, have you ever noticed that Ulysses S. Grant, our eighteenth president, looks like he just got home from playing the tuba at Oktoberfest? You’ve never noticed? Well then, grab a fifty and see for yourself. I’ve known a lot of tuba players and every last one of them could pass for Grant-except for Sheila Knudsen (there’s always an exception for every rule). Oh, and by the way, Ulysses would never go by his first name. He’d want to be called Grant. All you tuba players out there would agree with me 100 percent.

Finally, did you know that Benjamin Franklin is on the $100 bill? I see so few of them myself that I wouldn’t have bet on it, but he is. And without a shadow of doubt, I know he would have been a great banjo player. Don’t believe me? Then pull out a Bennie and see for yourself. He looks like he’s just about to tell a joke. And with that bald head, long hair, and hint of a grin, he wouldn’t have been taken seriously for anything BUT a banjo player.

So, let’s see what we’ve got. George on trumpet, Abe on clarinet, Andy on trombone, Grant on tuba, Al on drums, and Bennie on banjo. I could be wrong, but that sounds like one heckuva Dixieland Band to me. They’d call themselves “The Founding Fathers” and play every Friday night at Willie’s Tavern.

And to think, all this came about because I was thirsty for a Blue Coconut Cream Slush.

* * *

To read more stories by Tracy Farr, go to his website at www.stinkycreektexas.com.

By Cristy Shauck

Thanks for bein’ there-
just hangin’ around
keepin’ my fibula from fallin’
on the ground.

Seven little screws
driven into that bone
keepin’ the plate attached
so I could walk alone.

The bones knitted nicely-
thank you very much-
but the two-inch screws
got to be oh, such
a royal pain
I had them all removed
by surgery again.

Now I keep them in my office
hermetically sealed
and show them off to guests
so all will be revealed.
* * *
Cristy Shauck, a freelance writer (co-author of The Healthy Lunchbox, published by the American Diabetes Association), editor, and poet, recently moved to Salinas from Golden Colorado (home of the nation’s [possibly the world's] largest single-site brewery-Coors!). She’s putting the finishing touches on her first novel, a mystery set in Golden. She seeks connection with fellow writers of any genre in quiet venues or wherever they hang out around here.

By David Elder

This is a story of neighbors who were dear friends of my family when I was growing up.

The Steeds wore their name as an unfortunate reminder of the unmistakable resemblance they bore to members of the horse family. Mr. Steed, having brought nothing to the table in terms of genetic dominance, was the only “normal” looking individual in the bunch. With his moon-shaped face and his gentle smile, he was like the proud father swan surrounded by his ugly ducklings.

Mrs. Steed, as well as her daughter and son, were stamped from the same mold, having very large elongated heads with harsh features and big teeth. This did little to detract from their amiable likeability or their friendliness. One couldn’t help but wonder, however, if Mr. Steed has chosen his wife with the unconscious desire to wed identity with form.

Providence and traditionally accepted standards of appearance were the happy consequence of their son, Jim Steed. Having strong features and an outsized head are acceptable and even desirable attributes for a man, as evidenced in the casting of some dynamic actors. Regrettably, the only actor that Jim closely resembled was Mr. Ed.

Women with harsh features are less likely to be accepted, largely due to the glamorization of feminine beauty in the media, and for Jinny, that usually meant rejection rather than approval.

Jinny seemed unaware of her lamentable looks, though, virtually oblivious to her misfortune until she entered school. Jim was kept busy during those latter days by defending his younger sister because of the taunting of boys on the bus or playground, who cruelly changed her name from Jinny to the more descriptive “Whinny.” Luckily, Jim’s muscles were proportionate with his head, and he soon made those bullies regret their invention.

We secretly empathized with the Steeds through their difficult times and wished that others could appreciate the qualities that we saw in them.
There was one occasion that stands out in my mind, of a trip that threatened to destroy the close relationship enjoyed by our families.

We had been invited by the Steeds to accompany them on a weeklong stay at their cabin in the mountains. The setting was magical, like something out of every boy’s dream, complete with a private lake and gigantic frogs, ripe for the catching. Their cabin was located high on a ridge that overlooked the valley and lake below. I can still remember the feel of the sun on my bare back as my brother and I excitedly checked out every log and chased rabbits through the brown grass of the hillside.

We were all very close in age, with my brother and Jim twelve, and myself only two years their junior. My brother was a pitcher for a Little League team back home and was always trying to show off his arm by initiating rock-throwing contests. He had a unique way of whipping his arm right before he released the stone that ensured his throw would be the longest. Even though my brother was much smaller than Jim, his tosses reigned supreme.

We were all so intent on the contest that we hadn’t noticed Jim’s mother calling us for lunch. Frustrated at having to repeat herself, she unwisely stepped in front of us to get our attention, just as my brother was releasing his most Herculean hurl thus far. With a resounding THWACK the stone hit her squarely in the head.

From the sound of the impact, it was obvious that any person with a normal-sized head should have died right on the spot. Mrs. Steed, with her enormous horse head, simply absorbed the blow without even losing her footing. For what seemed like an eternity everyone stood in silence, expecting her to topple like some ancient redwood, felled by the woodsman (played by my brother), who gave no respect to her majesty. Indeed, the sheer weight of her massive noggin should have ensured her swift decent to the ground.

When it became apparent that she was going to survive, Jim decided that my brother needed to pay for trying to murder his mother. Picking up a watermelon from the picnic table, Jim began chasing him, screaming for blood with the melon raised high above his head.

By this time Mrs. Steed had recovered, and with the help of the other adults, was able to control Jim long enough to save my brother from Death by Watermelon. Needless to say, my parents felt that our departure was advisable, so we packed up the car and drove home.

I can’t really say the relationship between our families was ever quite the same after that, and I always thought that Jim was just biding his time, secretly growing a gigantic hybrid melon to exact his revenge upon my brother. As for Mrs. Steed, other than a quickly fading black eye, there was no evidence of her nearly fatal mishap.

Time passed, and eventually Jim left home and became a success in business. I suppose his achievements were due in part to his appearance, which communicated confidence to those around him.

To everyone’s delight, Jinny found a man who was able to look beyond what others saw, to the charming and striking woman below the surface. Not long after their union, Jinny and her husband blessed the world with more of the same equine-featured offspring who, as they grew from Shetland to Clydesdale, gained the knowledge that a far more precious and unbridled beauty resides in the soul.

* * *

David Elder is a lifelong resident of the Monterey Peninsula and in recent years has begun pursuing his passion for writing. His main interest is in writing fictional short stories, although he also writes factual articles for publication and is presently working on his first novel. He is the site steward for short stories at Helium.com, and has his own blog as well as being editor of several other websites. He offers monthly short story contests online, which have no monetary reward other than free exposure for anyone who participates. Winning short stories from the contest are featured on the contest site for one month. For more information on entering his short story contest, please visit www.helium.com/zone/986-tantalizing-tales-. To read more of David Elder’s work, please visit www.helium.com/users/303553.

By Martin Dodd

“Never argue with a fool, people passing by may not know who is who.”

My father-in-law told me that. I wish I had always followed it.

My father had a similar piece of advice: “Son, when God molded people out of the clay of earth, he stacked them against the wall and went to the refrigerator to get their brains. While he was gone, some of the people walked off. Don’t waste your time with the ‘walk-offs’.”

Again, good advice that I wish I had followed.

I often shared these little proverbs with my wife and children. They usually just stared at me, or ignored my passing down wisdom of the ages.

Also, from a good friend, I had learned another pearl that I did have the opportunity to use in open debate.

Almost every organization has a fool or a walk-off. My homeowners association is no different.

Some years ago, I was president of the association. A matter of moment had energized our community, bringing out ninety percent of the owners to a meeting.

One particular irascible owner, Fred, who had the self-appointed role of gadfly and nitpicker, became highly agitated over angel pinhead-dancing. He and I engaged in a lengthy verbal duel over the finer points of homeowner rules and restrictions.

At a peak moment, my friend’s adage came to mind. I paused (for effect), then delivered my debate stopper: “Fred, this is getting us nowhere. A friend once told me that you cannot reason a person out of a position that he did not reason himself into.” It ended the argument, and I felt somewhat smug.

Later that night, I asked my wife, “What do you think of the way I handled Fred?”

She gave me a third-grade-teacher smile and replied, “Dear, our fathers were right, it was a waste of time, and I couldn’t tell the fool from the walk-off.”

* * *

Martin lives in Steinbeck Country: Salinas, California. Following his retirement from community service, he began creative writing in 2002 at age 67. His work has appeared in Cadillac Cicatrix, Hobart Journal (web issue), several issues of Homestead Review, Holy Cuspidor, Foolish Times, and Chicken Soup for the Recovering Soul (poem). He has won, or received recognition in, various contests: St. Louis Short Story Contest, Writer’s Digest, By Line Magazine, Glimmer Train, Inkwell Journal, Writers Weekly, Central Coast Writers (California), East of Eden Writers Conference, and NorthernPros.

By Heather Baxter-Ewing

At some point fairly recently I went from being attractive to looking good for my age.

Some people might still think it’s a compliment to “look good” for their age. Those people probably are desperate for any compliment. It’s as if one is saying, “Wow! You’re old…but you could look older considering that advanced life stage you’re in.”

I’m thirty-eight years old and I take a birth control pill that has estrogen in it. My body doesn’t produce enough of it anymore, along with tolerance. I was taking a different pill and my body was rebelling against it. Apparently, it was a “young” woman’s pill. I was having a cosmopolitan when I should’ve ordered the extra dry martini (which I would send back because I am a crotchety old woman). I clearly require a pill that not only prevents pregnancy, should I actually still be fertile (which is unlikely), but I also have to have one that reduces night sweats and sleeplessness. I’m not sure if it helps Alzheimer’s, but I certainly hope so.

I have several paradoxes settling in. My face wash prevents acne and wrinkles. Which wouldn’t be so bad if it was effective. Last week, I noticed a pimple forming in one of my wrinkles. It was the one on my forehead with which I impress people at parties. It is more of a crevasse (don’t confuse that with the smaller crevice) and I’m able to store spare change in it, including the fifty cent piece.

I decided the pimple and wrinkle were conspiring against me and I was planning my revenge when I was told by my cashier that I “looked good” for someone in my age group. “Age group” made it sound like I was member of AARP. She knew my age because I ridiculed her while she rapidly hit the override button after scanning my wine. I reminded her that the sign over customer service clearly states, “We card everyone under 35.” Granted, I’m thirty-eight, but I feel I’m close enough to thirty-five to warrant a good hard look or maybe a passing glance. I told her so, and she looked up, fiddling nervously with her nametag that claimed she likes cheerleading, and flippantly replied, “You look pretty good for thirty-eight.”

My retort was brewing in my mind as I clutched my environmentally safe canvas bags. I bagged my own groceries and she said I look “pretty good” for my age. First, when did I start needing to know that Sydni (with an “i”) is a cheerleader? I could’ve come up with that without the footnote on her name tag.

Secondly, the customer is always right and I think you should card everyone who looks under forty.

Lastly, if I’m doing something nice for the environment and I bag my own groceries, the least you can do is give my pimple a second look and think…maybe it would make this wrinkly old lady with acne feel good if I carded her.

* * *

Heather Baxter-Ewing is an English and Creative Writing teacher in St. Petersburg, Florida. She has a B.A. in Psychology and an M.A. in English Education.

By Dan Woods

Although it’s easy to view Congress as nothing more than a gang of self-serving, dishonest, “say-anything-to-get-elected” semi-hoodlums, the truth of the matter is that most of our elected officials really want to do the right thing and make America a better place.

Oh, sure, every once in a while we read a newspaper story about the occasional Congressman who is caught with $100,000 in cash in his freezer. But how many of us can honestly say that we’ve never taken a pencil home from work that didn’t belong to us? When your “work” owns the Federal Mint, you end up using $100 bills as Post-It Notes. And sometimes an extra stack or two of C-notes is just going to wind up in your briefcase. It’s inevitable.

The real issue with Congress is that all the important stuff has already been done.

Congress’s job is to make laws and establish budgets. But the early Congresses already did the really essential work. Heck, the Bill of Rights was written during the very first Congress. After the Freedoms of the Press, Religion, and Pursuit of Happiness, it’s all downhill. That’s why recent Congresses have been reduced to debating the merits of a national law requiring digital cameras to go “click” and whether our national flower should be the Mountain Laurel instead of, say, the dandelion.

As far as budgets go, earlier Congresses got to debate spending for things like roads, national defense, and the Louisiana Purchase. These are serious things that everyone agrees that the country needs-especially during Mardi Gras.

Lately Congress has really had to stretch themselves to find things on which to spend money. That explains how they spent several million dollars in 2007 on “The Center for Instrumented Critical Infrastructure”-which a member of Congress admitted may or may not actually exist. And when they run out of imaginary institutes to fund, Congress has even been known to vote themselves a pay raise out of sheer desperation.

That’s why Congress loves new aircraft carriers and fighter planes. As soon as a new one is developed, Congress rushes out and orders a couple of gross-plus a complete set of spare parts, owner’s manuals, and the optional undercarriage rust-proofing. Then they slap themselves on their backs and high-five each other in the corridors of the Capital Building. Now there’s some spending you can sink your teeth into!

Although it may seem tremendously appealing to dissolve Congress and send everyone back home to get real jobs, that’s not the answer. We might actually need Congress in the future to make a law about something we haven’t anticipated yet-like whether it should be illegal to beam “Carrot Top: The Comeback Tour” into your home on holographic TV during primetime.

In this regard, Congress is a little bit like your volunteer fire department. You hope you never need them, but it’s nice to know they’re there if you do. Both organizations are full of eager, capable men and women who are just itching to go out and help the community. And, of course, play with their nifty equipment. For firemen, that means things like two-way radios, the jaws-of-life, and high-pressure hoses. The problem is that in Congress’s case, their “equipment” includes things like the Federal Reserve interest rate and the Tax Code.

Everyone likes their local fire department and Congress could take a valuable lesson from them: Fire departments routinely set small, controlled fires and practice putting them out. This is how they keep their firemen ready for action without endangering the community.

Therefore, I propose that we set up a fake government. This will give Congress something to practice on so they leave our real government alone. Congress could tinker to their heart’s content on the ersatz government’s Interstate Commerce Laws, run up a zillion-dollar deficit, and invest all the money in the Social Security Fund on Beanie Baby collectables without actually mucking about with the real world in which the rest of us live.

It’s the perfect answer to keep Congress poised for action without actually letting them do anything. I’d even be willing to give everybody in Congress a couple of stacks of ersatz dollars to keep in their freezers.

* * *

Dan H. Woods has recently moved to France with his wife, two sons, three cats, and a Golden Retriever. His hobbies include woodworking and running marathons. At one time, Dan was also a Certified Beer Judge from the American Homebrewers Association. (It’s good work if you can find it.) Dan has lived at various times in Connecticut, Vermont, New York, Minnesota, Florida, and France. Dan is quick to point out that Minnesota is by far the coldest. Dan writes a weekly humor column called Tomfoolery & Codswallop. You can visit Dan’s website at www.tomfooleryandcodswallop.com where he welcomes your comments and suggestions for future columns.

By Carol Murphy

My son was born with a head of hair that took over his whole face. He was also squishy looking because of the effort he had to put in to arrive. In fact, my mother’s first act when she saw him was to turn away in tears because she thought there was something awfully wrong with her first grandchild. In her day, women were put to sleep and when they woke up, there was a cute little bundle of joy, not the hairy pruneface she saw when she looked in the nursery window at Ryan.

Anyway, he had a grand head of hair. As he grew, his hair was a constant source of comments from friends, family, and sometimes even strangers. People I didn’t know would see him in his stroller and make comments like, “Boy, when you get that cut, I hope I’m there.” Or, they would sing a bar or two from the play, Hair!, or ask, “Is this a boy or a girl?”

One person in the family liked his hair. My father’s mother had hair she could sit on and she would make a big deal out of braiding it and then winding it around her head like a crown. She always maintained that Ryan took after her, although she would often forget his name. She’d inevitably ask, “How’s his hair?” using the pronoun “his” instead of his name. “Ryan,” I would counter. “His name is Ryan, Nana.”

“Sure it is, honey. How’s his hair?”

“Just the same. I’ll let you know when I cut it.”

The rest of the family had formed a consensus that I should cut it, because, well, after all, he had so much. Of course, that was the issue-when were we going to cut Ryan’s hair? I knew it was their opinion because at family gatherings there were comments like, “Boy, it’s getting long!” or “You should see the cute little boy’s haircut I saw on a kid about Ryan’s age.” It was really annoying.

Even though I loved his hair, the day did come when even I knew it had to be cut. My husband decided that I should go to a barber shop in a nearby town, owned by a barber he had once played golf with, since in his opinion a golf game was the ultimate test of everyone’s character and ability. So, I put Ryan in the car seat and took myself a good book and off we went.

It was an old-fashioned barber shop with the striped light out front and several chairs inside all filled with men getting haircuts or shaves. I looked at Ryan’s hair one last time, letting the beauty of it sink into my mother’s memory bank, and put him in the chair.

“How do you want it cut?” the barber asked.

“My husband said to tell you a regular boy’s haircut.” I wished I had brought a camera. His hair was a beautiful chestnut brown, wavy and thick. I got a little teary, but I was resolute. He needed to look like a growing boy. But, to avoid watching it being cut, I did have the book to read. That was my mistake.

After several minutes the barber asked, “Well, what do you think?” I looked up to see a miniature soldier sitting there in that big chair. He had no hair! His tiny toddler head had been shaved! All of his wonderful hair was on the floor! I was horrified.

“What did you do? You cut off all his hair! There’s nothing left! He’s bald!” And I jumped out of my chair, threw money on the counter, grabbed Ryan, and ran sobbing from the shop with several pairs of bewildered eyes staring at me.

Ryan fell asleep in the car riding home, looking like a miniature Telly Savalas. (If you don’t know who he was, just think of a wrestler with a hairless head.) However, his hair, or the lack of it, did not bother him in the slightest, although, now that I look back, perhaps he was in as much shock as I was and had passed out from the stress. I would have thought he might be cold or get some virus with no hair to cover his poor little head.

In any event, it was amazing I even made it home in one piece because I cried all the way. Ryan was still asleep in the car when my husband Bill came home and asked right away, “How’s he look?”

But, he saw my tear-streaked face and said much more grimly, “Where is he?”

“In the car,” I sniffled.

He determinedly walked out of the kitchen and through the connecting garage door, but immediately stomped back. “I’m going to see that barber.”

The part I have to tell next is hearsay because it came from my husband. But, as he tells it, he walked into that barber shop with the car parked for a quick getaway. “Who the hell cut my son’s hair?” he demanded. All the patrons looked up. One barber with a straight razor in his hand said, “I did.”

“I want my money back!” my husband demanded. “I haven’t seen anything like that since I saw a new recruit leaving Fort Ord!”

“No way!” retorted the owner, who had to stand his ground with all his patrons looking.

As Bill tells it, he just happened to be standing next to a bookcase where someone had displayed sale pottery. He looked at an ashtray nearest to him, picked it up, and threw it to the floor, where it broke into bits, saying something like, “Well, that’s the haircut!”

But no one moved. I guess they were all in some kind of daze.

So he picked up another ashtray and yelled, “And that’s the tip!”, running out the door to make that fast getaway.

I later pictured the scene almost like a Keystone Cops movie in which the barber and all the men ran chasing after him as he ran down the street to his car, the car tearing out and rushing to the freeway. I have a vivid imagination.

Just as my mother was driving up to come over to see the haircut, Bill was getting home, screeching into the driveway. It would take years for them to begin to appreciate their shared characteristics, and this day was way before that happened. So, my mother just frowned at my husband as they both walked up the steps. “Well, I took care of that!” Bill announced as he flew in.

My mother could be diplomatic when necessary, so all she said was, “I came to see Ryan’s new haircut.” Funny thing was, she liked it. “He looks like a little soldier,” she babbled sweetly at Ryan when he toddled in.

“That’s what I said to the barber,” I replied quietly. I knew better than to dwell on this too long with Bill still fuming and my mother still cooing.

But that’s not the end of the story.

Several months later, Bill and I with Ryan in tow, were shopping in Sears when way over in the large appliance section Bill spotted a man he knew and waved. “Hey, I know that guy,” he said, all smiles. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” Bill thinks he knows everyone from golfing with them, seeing them at the golf course, or hitting golf balls. This time that was only half true.

When we got close, Bill said in a much lower tone, “Hey, I know you!” Guess he realized a little too late that the man wasn’t a fellow golf buddy-at least, not anymore.

All the guy said was, “How’s his haircut now?” It was THE barber! And he was laughing.

I started pulling Bill away as the barber’s laugh seemed to echo throughout Sears. We weren’t even close to the getaway car.

But that’s not the end of the story either.

Several years later when Ryan was in college, I was eating lunch in the teacher’s room of one of my schools when the subject of haircuts came up. “Boy, have I got a story for you!” I said and I proceeded to tell the story. All the male custodians and teachers listened in rapt attention until the very end when one of them said, matter of factly, “So that was YOUR husband?”

“You were THERE?” I stuttered.

“We wondered about him. We talked about him for years! So, how’s Ryan’s hair now?”

The world is small even when it comes to haircuts.

* * *

Carol Murphy is a Speech-Language Pathologist who currently is supervising graduate students in Monterey County. She lives in Santa Cruz County with her husband and an English bulldog and two horses.

By Aaron S. Birk

The sun is out a little more, the puppies are frolicking, and the rockets bursting in air in some portions of our city shed their warm and sulfurous glow, oh the smells of July! You have to wonder if the founding fathers foresaw the party that Independence Day would become. The entire month of July will undoubtedly be full of fast bikes, bursting rockets, and harmless debauchery. What better way to hail our independence? Now to the questions…

Cortni Knox
Super-Mom
Seaside, CA

Q: What do you think about the sale of fireworks?

A: I think they should just be in a show, I hate having to listen to them at home. It’s like having a booth to sell beer and hating all the beer cans lying around afterwards.

Q: Do you think the founding fathers intended for the 4th of July to become such a wild party?

A: Well, they did make it a national holiday, and they were Americans, so what did they expect? They made holidays thinking we could have an excuse to party on just those days and then we made up some of our own birthdays, 4:20… sick days.

Q: Why do some women have to have so many pillows on the bed?

A: So when your spouse is pissing you off you can make a border.

Michele Annereau
Bicycle Queen
Monterey, CA

Q: What do you think about fireworks?

A: I think if we don’t have them that it’s unpatriotic.

Q: What will you be doing on the 4th of July?

A: Making my own fireworks… like the Nubmaker 3!

Q: Did you know “The Star-Spangled Banner” was written to the melody of a drinking song?

A: That makes sense, I mean, come on! If anyone thinks of our history, it was about little pubs, what song didn’t start that way?

Steinbeck
Cannery Row

Q: What do you think about fireworks?

A: Love them as a representation of life. All noise and flash and then POP it’s over.

Q: Did the founding fathers think it would be such a party?

A: I sure hope they did. Ben Franklin was a party animal, you know, loved to get dogs drunk.

Q: How will you be celebrating your Independence Day?

A: Man, look at me! I’m a statue with no legs. I’ll just stand here like this waiting for Doc.

By Mark Krahling

I have to admit that I really kind of like doing the laundry. I mean, I’m not crazy about it, but there is something about doing the laundry that resonates with me, or maybe serves me, would be a better way of putting it.

Before I go on, though, we need to have an agreement. This isn’t just about laundry. In order to explain my relationship with laundry, I’ll need to reveal some secrets about my inner workings that are a little sensitive and embarrassing. I need to know that you have an open mind and that you won’t judge me too harshly, and that you will appreciate what I go through to produce that pile (actually those FOUR piles, but we’ll get to that later) of whiter whites and brighter brights.

Do we have an agreement here?

Another thing that you need to know is that I am far from being the primary laundry/house maintenance person in our family. My wife, Heidi, can survey the disaster that our house has become by Saturday morning, and then list and prioritize what needs to be done in a nanosecond because she was born with this instinct, and assign tasks to various family members who then struggle for the rest of the day to complete them. Or, if she so chooses, she can do it all herself in an hour. While talking on the phone.

But this story is about someone who is wired a bit differently.

The truth of the matter is that I have a touch, just a mild case, of Attention Deficit Disorder. I know that probably sounds to you like someone saying that they have a “touch” or a “mild case” of pregnancy, but don’t judge me until you hear me out.

This is what my ADD is like: Let’s say I’m watching the TV news and the weather report comes on. Let’s say that I really want to know if it’s going to rain tomorrow because I need to know if my son can ride his bike to school. So I’m watching the weather report with a purpose-my purpose is to find out if it’s going to rain tomorrow right here in my hometown.

I start watching the weather report and pretty soon I become distracted by the clownish bow tie that the weatherman is wearing and his breezy off-the-cuff remarks. I start to wonder why they always put the goofy guy on the weather report-do they think that it’s so boring that we have to be entertained by his antics? Now he’s doing the thing with the weather map. Let me see if I understand this. He is actually standing in front of a blank, green wall and looking at a monitor. He’s pointing at specific things but he can’t see them unless he looks at the monitor. How does he know where to point, at the same time that he’s making incredibly corny comments and lame jokes? Like for instance, he just pointed at San Francisco and there were some clouds over the sun and he said … Damn-I just missed the part about San Rafael. Is he moving north or south on the screen? Did he already talk about Marin? Damn again-I just missed the five-day forecast! Oh well, at least sports is next.

So that’s what I like about it.

By the way, I just realized that I pulled a “Widget.” Widget was a college friend of mine who had an annoying habit of completing a sentence that he had started a half-hour before. He would suddenly start talking about something-often beginning with a pronoun so that you had no idea what he was referring to-until you racked your brain to think of which first half of a sentence matched up with this second half of a sentence during the day’s conversation. So when I say, That’s what I like about IT, then IT, of course, refers to … laundry!

It’s because the laundry helps me focus a bit. You see, my house is a lot like that weather map. There are these swirls throughout the house which represent the different projects that I have started, things that I should do, time-wasting opportunities, the refrigerator, the computer, and so on. I start in one of the swirls-let’s say working on this story-and pretty soon I realize that I need a cup of coffee. I head for the kitchen and warm up the coffee in the microwave. While it’s warming up, I have 25 seconds to kill, so I’ll take a look at the newspaper. The sports section catches me in its swirl for a little while and the coffee sits cooling in the microwave. Done with the paper, I’ll put it in recycling. That reminds me of the clutter in the house-got to avoid the swirl of the garage. How can I do that? Head for the coffee. I’ll just pour a cup and put it in the microwave to warm up. Oh, my God, there’s already a cup there! I know-I’ll warm up both cups and then I’ll really get some writing done!

Wait. Let’s try it again with laundry. Okay, let’s bring the laundry down to the laundry room and start a load of colored clothes. All right. Now, I’ve got that working so I can try to get some writing done. A little writing, a little swirl-surfing. I hear that the wash is done, so I’ll put it in the dryer. Start a load of whites. It’s so efficient-the two machines are working together now, even when I’m not-I’ve delegated some of my duties to the two of them! Visit the weather map of my house, hear the beep of the dryer and come back.

Now here’s the important part. Open the ironing board and get ready to start the four piles! No ironing needed, the clothes come straight from the dryer. The ironing board is just for piling. My daughter is the youngest, so her pile is on the left, then my son’s pile, my wife’s pile, and mine. Take a piece of clothing out of the dryer, shake it a bit, fold it, and put it in its pile. I’m getting something done! Just like a normal person! This is so cool!

But it gets even better. You see, there is a system here-sort of like an assembly line. All I have to do is start another load. The washed stuff moves to the dryer. The dryer stuff moves to the ironing board, one piece at a time. And then, one pile at a time, the clothes are delivered to their respective closets.

It’s like Ford’s Model T factory. It can’t be stopped! No matter how caught up I get in the swirls waiting to gobble me up, the factory keeps running. I’m getting something done and if I also happen to pay a few bills, write a sentence or two, or make a bed, that’s like getting a bonus check at the factory!

Maybe I can even figure out a way to pay more attention to that too-sorry, I pulled another Widget there. Maybe I can even figure out a way to pay more attention to the weather report. Let’s see, I’ll cut out the weather report from the paper and paste it to the wall behind the ironing board. I just need some scissors. They’re here in this drawer. It’s a little messy-maybe I should straighten it out. I’ll need a cup of coffee for that. I’ll just microwave it for 25 seconds or so…

* * *

Mark Krahling’s stories have been published on the literary websites Redroom and Bust Out as well as on the travel blog Notes from Spain. His book, Still Blinking, is a collection of short stories dedicated to the notion of slowing down and noticing what’s extraordinary, humorous, and meaningful in the everyday. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit his website at www.pauseforpurpose.com.

By Andrew Grossman

The cranberry juice sloshed invitingly into the glass. The bartender dropped in two ice cubes, too few to sufficiently chill the juice, but just enough to splash me good. I could tell he was sick of me coming in every night with my usual sob story.

“Look,” he said, “it’s not like you woke up one day and suddenly the entire country was back in the middle ages.”

“Oh, really, well dig this” (those last three words were lifted directly from the lyrics of “Everybody Sings the Blues”), I said directly into his mug (yes, he was holding a mug in front of his face). Then I proceeded to tell him my story:

I knew a man named Bart. He was a nice guy. Unprepossessing, as it were. He had a lovely wife named Cindy. Bart had a blue Honda motorcycle that he liked to ride from downtown into the open countryside on weekends. Cindy liked to ride behind him with her hands around his midsection. They both worked in the financial field. What I’m getting at here is that they were quintessentially normal people.

One day over dinner Bart announced to me that from now on he wanted to be known as Bart de Kalamazoo.

“Come again?” I said.

“You heard me,” he said, “and I mean beginning right now.”

Why lose a friendship over a small detail like this? The next thing out of my mouth was a convoluted sentence that ultimately took the form of an address to “Bart de Kalamazoo.”

“And my wife’s name is Lady Cynthia,” he demanded.

Yes, yes, of course, of course, I agreed.

“And we don’t live at 109 Waverly Drive, NW. We live in Kalamazoo Castle. The backyard is actually a jousting arena and the picket fence is a forty-foot-high stone wall.”

No, I wouldn’t agree to that. If his fence was a castle wall, then that meant my wife and I were serfs, since we lived two doors down. One may build one’s self up, but not if it means knocking your neighbors down.

And so I found myself in his backyard on a large horse draped in armor. I mean the horse was draped in armor. I refused to put the stuff on because I was claustrophobic, but noted that Bart did not suffer such problems. I was holding about a ten-foot-long pole that tapered out from my handhold and then tapered down until it reached a point somewhere on the horizon. Did people say “it’s go time” in medieval Europe?

When Lady Cynthia dropped her lace handkerchief, Bart shouted “For King Richard!” and started his charge.

Despite his menacing look, I remained more frightened of my own horse. I felt like I was standing on the ledge of a four-story-high building and the building was tipsy. Retreat, however, was not an option … because that would require staying on the horse.

In front of me was Bart bearing down (becoming medieval had seemed to give him more focus), to either side of me was a George Foreman Grill (on the left) and bags full of little knickknacks (to the right), because you have more space for stuff when you move into a castle. Behind me was the horse’s tail, which felt to be armored when it hit me in the face.

“What happened next?” the bartender pleaded.

Suffice it to say that I am now known as the Squire de Bart de Kalamazoo.

By Jamie Baker

Has there ever been a more sinking feeling than to be away from the house and reach into your pocket, expecting to grab the keys, only to find a dilapidated cough drop wrapper and some lint?

Alas, it happened to me. Again. I am, by my own admission, one of the most absentminded people on the planet, but I was POSITIVE I had put those keys in my pocket.

The first thing that gets you is that nauseating knot in your gut. You know the one-the same one you feel when you hear the door click shut and notice the keys on the seat, safely locked inside the car. Yeah, that feeling.

The series of thoughts that go through your mind are amazing. “Uh, oh,” followed by “How am I going to get home?”, followed by “Crap, my wife has Tae Kwon Do class and she’s going to kick me in the brain,” followed by “So HOW am I gonna get HOME?”

Then the panic sets in and brings on the forcible self-frisking. A bank-robbing, crack-selling, terrorist doesn’t get patted down that violently. I still have bruises on my hips. To an onlooker, unaware of the situation, it must look like the most fouled-up version of the Macarena ever performed.

After you realize the denim cupboards are bare comes the immediate look-at-the-ground reflex. I’m not really sure what this is supposed to accomplish, but if the keys weren’t in your pocket I’m pretty sure that a thieving key pixie didn’t develop a conscience and drop them in front of you before scampering off.

Then the second wave of thoughts hit, but much less organized than before. “Crap, Tae Kwon Do, dead brain, no keys, where, how, tow truck, bad Monday, am I losing my mind? AND HOW am I getting HOME?!?”

Finally comes the frenzied retracing of the steps, elevated blood pressure, and genuine anger. I suspect that if I had one of those old mercury blood pressure meters on my arm, it’d look like a mercury version of the fountains at the Bellagio in Las Vegas.

It just so happens that this one occurred at work, but even if that were not the case, the places you find yourself looking are, in retrospect, odd to say the least. Especially once the obvious places have netted you diddly-squat. Like under the floor mat, for example.

That’s what makes the questions people ask even more amazing, though not very amusing in the moment. I presume they ask them because of some past experience of their own. Or maybe it’s just ignorance. Anyway, here are some of my favorites:

Q: Lose something?

A: Nope, I always walk around at 90 mph, looking under floor mats, mumbling to myself about Tae Kwon Do.

Q: Did you check your pockets?

A: Pockets? OH… you mean those cloth sacks stitched to the inside of my pants? Yes, I checked them. In fact, I took my pants off in the parking lot and gave them a vigorous, upside-down shake. No dice or keys to be found in them at all.

Q: Did you look in the ignition?

A: Yes, as soon as I got my pants back on.

Q: Did you look in your billfold?

A: What the-?? Why didn’t I think of that? I know I often get distracted by vending machines in the middle of parking lots calling me to satisfy my need for a soda or a candy bar. Maybe I put the key in there when I went looking for a buck.

Q: Did you look in the restroom?

A: I wouldn’t normally have thought to look there… but today, given that I brought the car in the stall with me while I was taking care of business, I sure did.

Q: Did you look in your shoe?

A: Now, I know that I’m no princess and there’s no way I’d feel a pea under my mattress, but given the fact that a 1/16 inch pebble in my shoe made me sit down in the parking lot to empty it out, I don’t suspect I’ll find a 2-inch steel key in there. Still, I can’t rule out a chance encounter with David Blaine, so it’s worth a shot.

Q: Did you look in the fridge?

A: Yep, over between the O.J. and Thousand Island dressing, where I usually keep them.

I know they meant well and I truly appreciated the concern, but I just wanted them to go look instead of playing Dick Tracy. I also know that, in their shoes, I’d probably find myself doing the same thing.

And for the record, yes I got the keys back. A kind gentleman found them in the parking lot and returned them to me when he came to investigate the crowd watching the Macarena exhibition.

***

Jamie Baker is a professional chemist posing as a humor blogger. Or maybe vice versa. Jamie would be most happy to get reader feedback. The blog URL is http://lunatron.blogspot.com.

By Gillian Bottrell

Some people file. Others pile.

Piling systems are quite complex, really. A reliable system can work well for years-mine has. Skilled pilers tend to be visual, tactile, and have an incredible memory. Or they remember having one, anyway. Well organized by their own standards, their piles have an order that most would never understand. The important piles don’t even need searching through; its items are memorized. Well, for the most part, anyway.

My system, although it lacks, well, any sort of obvious order, works quite well. It allows a pile to sit in plain view until it is about two, or no more than three, inches high.

First there is a quick run-through to retrieve important pieces. Maybe there is a form to fill out, a nameless phone number, an envelope with a return address from some charity. This pile can be kept in its own pile.

Then I sift through again to get rid of the true junk-things addressed to a former resident, for instance, Don’t worry, I got rid of that pile ages ago.

The rest goes into the kitchen piling cabinet. Others go into the hall piling cabinet-at this stage in the system, the piles are nonspecific. Well, maybe they are at all stages.

All piles start in pieces. They come in the mail, home from school, on the doorknob, from who knows where. Take the dinner table. Clearing this usable surface would require reheating the meal. Whatever has collected since the evening before makes a new pile at the extra place setting. At least it’s neatly stacked now.

In a couple of days, before it hits three inches, it goes into the random cabinet. That’s the cabinet with a lot of three-dimensional piles. Tupperware lids and ugly coffee cups from a vacation resort you’ve never been to.

Before they get into the piling cabinets, however, they stay put for about a month or two, giving me time to get out the real stuff. Well, not really, just to be rearranged. What comes back out goes onto the pile on the piano.

When the time comes, things that still seem important to keep on hand, such as the entire pile, eventually go into a box. I guess I’ll need these things some day, although I don’t really know what for. Usually those boxes go into the closet, undisturbed.

Some small parts of a pile stay around for some reason. Bills due. Bills past due. Bills that are too old to pay, but too interesting to throw away. Others are tall-magazines that are being kept for a reason, then just being kept longer because they were kept at all. Managable piles, or nice-looking ones like magazines, just meander throughout the house.

I can go to the little drawer in the occasional table for those things I need occasionally, like the electric bill, proof of insurance, little pads of blank paper. That antique dresser in the living room? Well, that’s where booklets printed on glossy paper, standard-sized single pages refolded into thirds, and strange or scary-looking unopened envelopes go. That new little piling cabinet above the hall closet? That one migrated from the kitchen and still hasn’t had the second sift-through.

A rough draft, recent homework assignments, an operator’s manual or two, receipts, birthday cards, party invitations, recipes, unopened bank statements, local voting flyers, unused envelopes with scary-looking glue, a date next to some bizarre thing like g.t. bbd 3 times. I just like that one. I like that the paper is getting fragile and turning a cool color. I’ve kept it piled for years. Each pile just contains two or six of each. That pile stays where I put it until I move it again. It merges with other piles and so on and so forth.

After feeling like I have organized them a few more times, they go into a box. If I need something out of it, I just go and get it.

The misunderstood phenomena of being able to go to the right box is why I think the system really works. A warranty for instance. Getting to the right box, to the correct place in the pile, is easy. The warranty and other things that seem interesting will go into another pile while I’m working my way through the box. More likely than not, this pile migrates back into the piling cabinet after the warranty has expired. This is where it gets weird. Piles of good intentions make the rounds until they make it back into the big box.

Some boxes do contain all of one thing. Let me get one. It’s on the top shelf of one of the hallway cabinets. This box is full, literally, of gardening magazines. I only pseudo garden. I was keeping them to make a collage. Oh well, back into the cabinet it goes. There’s a flat box full of school art projects. Don’t worry, they aren’t mine, those are in the garage.

I do have an actual filing cabinet. It’s in the bathroom. It’s full of really organized piles. They were when I made them, anyway. That’s where I keep the first 47 (edited) pages of that teen novel I never have the time to finish. It also has books the kids have written, some more non-wall worthy art projects which haven’t gone into their box just yet. There are piles of official stuff like mortgage papers that should never be boxed. There are school portraits that I buy to put in there. It has old journals and bad poetry. I like to keep that poetry because it is so bad that it is hilarious and I like to read it sometimes.

Don’t get me started on the boxes in the garage. There’s a whole other system at work there. But the boxes are piled in the best way possible. To go through them would add too many elements to the system. I could just recycle them all, but how could I without going through them first?

* * *

Gillian Bottrell is mother of three, wife of one, and owner of Truman the Dog. She works with Special Ed and lives in Watsonville. You can reach her at gillian@charter.net

By Ted Gargiulo

How can I describe my problem? There’s a lack of focus, a disconnected-ness when it comes to mental activities. It’s like perceiving the world through slits that broaden on better days and become narrower on not-so-better days.

Processing what I read, unscrambling words, constructing sense out of what I’m looking at, has become such a slow, tedious pain in the butt that it hardly seems worth the trouble anymore.

Plowing through an entire book is almost a thing of the past. It takes me several minutes just to read the jacket.

Skills that normally improve with practice seem to unravel the more I practice them. Hard for me to believe I once performed on a stage. Plugged away at it with a passion for 14 years…until the gears upstairs began slowing down. No way could I tackle anything that challenging today. Set foot on a stage? Heck, I wouldn’t even know where left field was.

I’ve had cracks in my woodwork all my life. Except, they appear to gave gotten worse with age. Emphasis on “appear.” It’s the old riddle of “Is my nose getting larger, or is my face shrinking?”

My doctors have all identified Attention Deficit Disorder-or ADD. If you’re at all familiar with this topic, then you know that ADD has become a very popular handle these days. Personally, I hate being pigeonholed. Whenever I read about a so-called “ADD community,” I become suspicious.

Seems everyone belongs to a “community.” You’ve got political activists, white supremacists, heavy metalists, pro- and anti-abortionists-a virtual smorgasbord of “ists” and “isms” to which people profess allegiance. I’m not one to jump on a bandwagon. I avoid pastures where too many cattle have trodden, and I keep my “flops” to myself.

My only reason for identifying with a known disorder is that there are known treatments for it. And yet, pharmacology, for all its benefits, is hardly a cure-all. My neurological mis-configurations are too deeply gouged into my foundation to be wiped clean by an attention enhancer. Even on Ritalin, I still become confused in parking lots, and am just as likely to mistake my death warrant for a library card.

On the surface, I display the standard symptoms of ADD: inattentiveness, difficulty finishing projects, lack of organization, restlessness. But the profile doesn’t account for those other less obvious glitches in my circuitry that have bugged me long before space-age analysts invented trendy names for them.

Although ADD afflicts people of all ages, most of what you see or hear about it in the news revolves around children. I’m sick of it. Everything today is kids-this and kids-that. Where was all this information when I was growing up?

Thankfully, I’m not a kid anymore, haven’t any small ones of my own, nor am I concerned about anyone else’s kids…just as long as they don’t run me down with their skateboards or mug me while I’m at an ATM machine. (No, “ATM” is not a disorder.)

Members of the ADD community like to flatter themselves by pointing to some of the greatest minds in history, who, they theorize, may have been afflicted with a similar disorder. Now, isn’t that a neat conceit! If a man’s affairs are in disarray, if he can’t balance a checkbook, remember to bathe, or change his underwear, it’s because his mind is operating on a higher, loftier plane. Another Beethoven! Another Van Gogh! It’s the old Decartian proverb: “I think, therefore I stink.”

It’s hard to separate the facts from the froth. I suspect there’s more to being a genius than choosing the wrong socks or dropping pizza sauce on your pants. (What a shame. I cooda been a contenda!) Considering all the things that can go amuck within a person’s brain, my situation is hardly interesting, not destined to take its place among the celebrated cases of clinical neurology. I’m not brilliant enough to change the world, nor sufficiently demented to be excused from dealing with it.

One major advantage to being loopy, off-balance, and/or inattentive is that the rest of the world appears straight. Crooked pictures don’t offend me the way they offend my more discerning Better Half. Neither do crooked situations. Flaw cancels flaw, error cancels error. Bumpy roads, filtered through a bumpy mechanism, seem smooth. Noise doesn’t sound noisy to me because my head’s already filled with it.

Truth is, I may already have the best possible deal in life. Suppose I’d been in full possession of my faculties during my formative years. Suppose I had remained focused on my schoolwork, finished college, pursued a promising vocation. What if I hadn’t succumbed to the lure of undemanding, blue-collar monotony and regular paychecks, but had braved the challenges of the stage and made a career in show business?

Chances are that on April 20, 1979, I’d have been under contract with some rinky-dink dinner theater in Two Shoes, Nebraska, doing No Sex, Please, We’re British…instead of at a Trailways station in Detroit, Michigan, which is where I met my future wife. That bus carrying Jann would have left without me. Without ME!

Here, then, is the moral of this strange, serio-comic tale off Dr. Garjekyll and Teddy Hyde. If, in fact, I’m “cursed” because I have a flaw in my mainframe that forces me to compromise my goals, expectations, standards of excellence-and if, for all my compromising, I’ve found such contentment in a woman who’s utterly devoted to my happiness and well-being, who loves me in spite of my glitches and hitches and crotchets and quirks-then I say that all men should be so “cursed.”

* * *
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.

By Harold E. Grice

Once, long ago, in time gone by, several boatloads ago at least, there appeared in Castroville a bunch of Italians. Of the men, there was Arturo (the oldest and responsible for them all), Carlo, Luigi, Giuseppi, Ralph, etc., and they brought some women too.

They were not fitting in well or having too good a time because, well, it wasn’t the old country and here people spoke funny, in two languages.

Arturo, as the oldest, felt responsible for this and said to himself, “I feel so bad, I think I will kill myself. These thistles all over the place nobody will eat, they must be bad, and if I eat them, they will kill me.” So he swallowed down a bunch of the thistles. The thistles got all stuck up and he choked, gagged, and sure enough, died.

When they examined him, Carlo saw Arturo’s insides looked like there had been a cat fight because his throat and stomach were badly mauled. This was not an honorable way for an Italian man to die, which made Carlo feel so bad he wanted to die too.

Carlo decided to kill himself the same way, but Carlo was not one for pain, and since eating the whole prickly thistle would hurt too much, he would just eat the soft-looking part. Better yet, he would boil it to make it a soft death. He wouldn’t have to suffer through all that pain.

So that is what he did. Carlo was surprised, as, to his amazement, he found, “These are really good! What a way to die!”

Well, Carlo not only didn’t die, he discovered the cooked thistles were really good, especially with a little olive oil and garlic on them. So Carlo fixed up a bunch and took them to his friends. “Here,” he said, “these are good, try them.”

His friends knew about Arturo dying, so they said, “We’re not going to eat those. You’re crazy, why don’t you go kill yourself.”

Since his friends would not eat what he had fixed, Carlo decided to sell them if he could.

He did sell them. He practiced how to cook them and the thistles became popular. Carlo wanted to name them something besides “thistle” so, in honor of his friend, he named them “Arturo-he-choked.”

But this name is long forgotten.

Selling these thistles became a thriving business and, by and by, Castroville became synonymous with Art-he-choke.

Interestingly enough, a lot of people still retain the old belief that artichokes will kill you because we often hear, while the French-fried artichokes are frying, the following lament: “God, if I eat one more of these I’ll die!”

Oh, well!

***

Harold E. Grice is a sixth-generation Californian and has spent most of his life within the Central California Region. While his background is in professional engineering, he has also been active in the arts. As a founding Board Member and later Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Alisal Center for the Fine Arts, he was instrumental in bringing the arts experience to an underprivileged high school. Harold wrote two plays while studying at the Western Stage in Salinas, California. More recently, he participated in the Thunderbird Writers Group at the Thunderbird Bookstore in Carmel, California. This group published two anthologies, which included a half dozen of his stories and poems.

by David Filmore

Many geniuses are “driven,” but I know of only one who is “driving.”

He lives right here in Monterey. His name is Kirby Wheeler, and from a young age, he knew exactly what his mission in life was. To drive a car.

“Oh, he came out of the womb driving,” says his father, “Mr.” Wheeler. “One day he reached out his hands, as though for a steering wheel. My wife and I looked at each other and said, ‘My God.’”

“I’ve never known anybody so in control of his hands,” says driving instructor Sally Pickles. “When he drives, you cannot deny that his hands are on the steering wheel at ten-to-two. Sometimes at six-thirty, but only if he orders his hands to do so.”

A friend, Felton Lyle, recalls a drive they took to the Gilroy Garlic Festival. “I was in awe the whole time. He was clearly at the peak of his powers. It was a heartbreaking drive of staggering genius.”

Little Kirby understood the driving theories of Raoul Stupide at age 7, and by age 10 had finished the French driving philosopher Jean-Paul Moronique’s massive “Driving and Nothingness,” in which he theorized that if one were not driving, neither the car nor the driver could truly be said to exist.

Kirby’s first car was a 1975 Maverick. It was in this Maverick, as a teenager driving to a basketball game, that he invented “breaking the speed limit.” “You have to think outside the box in life,” he says.

“We were going to send him to driving school, but it was clear that there was simply nothing left to teach him,” his mother said.

“Nobody could teach me anything,” he admits.

It was during his “lost years” (he has never learned to read a map) that he formulated his Special and General Theories of Driving. The latter included the now-famous postulate that it was permissible to run a red light if no police were around. “Each trip to the grocery store represents its own set of time and space coordinates,” he wrote. Years later, he is still being proven correct.

Today, as we drive down Lighthouse Avenue, I study his forearms and fingertips. He has long fingers, almost evolutionarily adapted to the demands of clutching a steering wheel. It’s uncanny-almost as though he were born ahead of his time, into a world where nearly every household owned a car.

The muscles in his forearms flex as he adjusts a contraption he calls “the rearview mirror.” “This lets me see what’s going on behind me,” he says. He predicts that one day every car will have one.

Among his accomplishments: changing lanes without signaling, braking at the last possible second, and accelerating through crosswalks, which he theorizes makes the entire community work more efficiently. “Simple math,” he says. “A car can go faster than people can walk.”

His ideas about driving reality continue to evolve. “Car insurance,” he scoffs.

“Completely rooted in superstition. The earliest drivers had this primitive need to pay money to some third party to protect them. It’s a step away from sacrificing a goat to the gods.”

So wrapped up in theorizing is he that he cannot find time to get patents on some of his other driving inventions: parking across spaces instead of within them. Chatting on his cell phone while driving. “You know eating while driving? I invented that. Now you see it everywhere, but what are you going to do?”

How does he respond to critics who say his ideas are making the roads of America less safe? “The concept of ‘avoiding an accident’ is not one that has ever really set well with me,” he says. “Some of my greatest insights have happened after a wreck.”

It was after a wreck on Alvarado that he understood the meaninglessness and stupidity of his own existence. It was after a wreck on Del Monte that the concept of insurance began to make sense. “You can’t live in a world impractically,” he famously intoned to the arresting officer. (”These handcuffs hurt” remains one of his most staggering insights.)

He teaches Driving Theory at MPC and sometimes is even understood. “He has a definite passion for his subject,” student Tara Keith says. “When he drones on and on and on about Nothingness, you start to really understand the concept.”

Asked where he gets his best ideas, he says, of course, “while driving.” “Sometimes I drive with my knees while writing theories and postulates,” he says. Asked why he doesn’t just use a tape recorder to record his thoughts instead, he stares blankly.

What does the future hold for him? He wants to petition for a nationwide change of green lights to red and red lights to green. “Red is fiery, it obviously means to go. Green is peaceful, it obviously means to stop.”

He also wants to do some consulting work for the Highway Commission. “It isn’t hard to enforce the speed limit,” he avers. “Install surprise speed bumps on freeways. Move them around like golf groundskeepers move holes on greens. Invent a car that explodes at 56. I mean, it’s not hard, people.”

At a residential intersection he comes to a complete stop, even though nobody is coming-another undeniable stroke of genius.

“Sometimes,” he says, “I feel I am not part of this world.”

©2009 David Filmore

Furthermore, I like having cats AND a dog because: a) inter-species dynamics are fascinating; b) animal love nourishes our souls; and c) when a cat pukes, the dog will always clean it up.

More later on the dog. But, speaking of mealtime adventures, a local restaurant recently went bust and reopened as Le Trough Magnifique. Wow, French cuisine!!?! A friend and I gave it a whirl, and I’ll try my hand now at the genre and parlance of a restaurant review. Genre? Parlance?? Golly, us writers speak good.

Here we go.

Ambience: A display board of Are Special’s greeted us. The looping script in primary colors included such culinary delights as Sun-Ripened Liver and Free-Range Meatloaf. At last, a class act in town.

The hostess seated us near a digital sign flashing the servers’ names as orders came up-another hallmark of fine dining.

And, while many other “fancy” establishments set out naked utensils at each place
setting, our tableware lay swaddled in napkins. Real cloth. And sealed with paper strips. Clean ones.

The restroom harbored the usual confluence of organic aromas. But management had cared enough to scrawl on a paper towel: Wash youre hand’s!!!!! Misguided punctuation aside, I applaud the attention to hygiene.

Food: Salads possessed a subtle tone-on-tone quality. One sliver of pink tomato peeked from a wedge of iceberg lettuce laced at the edges with a hint of rust. I took the pale, monothematic presentation as a bold statement of confidence that diners would indeed look elsewhere for daily quotas of Vitamin A and bioflavonoids.

In contrast, the Cream of Reuben soup offered a robust, polychromatic demeanor not unlike a hearty butterscotch pudding flecked with something corned beefish. A nest of rye croutons and sauerkraut rode on a gossamer skin of surface tension. Finally, a gaggle of individually shrink-wrapped dinner rolls loitered in the bottom of a wicker basket.

My Alaskan Pike reclined on a bed of shredded lettuce-again the iceberg and rust. To this trained reviewer’s eye, the pike’s “light breading” was not unlike potato chips in a street brawl.

Juxtaposed inside this mayhem lay a fish of such ethereal translucence that a less sophisticated diner might call it raw. I, however, quietly noted the yin-yang essence of this Sushi-like preparation, and dug into the baked potato. My friend commented on my new braces. Ha-ha, what a silly goose! ‘Twas only charred aluminum foil stuck to my teeth.

The pike also interfaced with a softball-sized lump of white rice, smothered in a dark brown sauce. Oh, what a surprise!! Seeing my astonishment, the waitress assured me that no fish were harmed in making this gravy. Nevertheless, my dining companion scraped the same ubiquitous gel off her Sausage Loins du Jour.

Boneless breast of corn-on-the-cob lent color to our plates. Although I still have my teeth-most of them-I quickly ascertained that said corn had been boiled with such loving fervor that it required no chewing! A novel tactile slide.

According to the menu, all meals included “desert.” What an unusual and healthy alternative to “ssweets”! We declined, however, for fear of getting sand in our pantyhose.

Instead, we lingered over coffee and exchanged perspectives on the exotic nature of French cuisine. Our coffee was strong, with a pinch of grounds floating in each cup to prolong the hearty flavor.

Service: Our soup, salad, rolls AND dinners came all at once. Lordy, was that cook smokin’! No, not cigarettes. I mean the poor chap was on fire. Literally. He left in an ambulance. I’m told he’s okay, which is good, but you wanna hear the REALLY great news?? A wicked cute paramedic asked me out!!

Despite substandard results, I’ll award the place an A for effort. Same as I rated the haircut that an energetic albeit unsupervised preschooler recently gave my dog.

Think crop circles on a clueless beagle.

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.