Oh, and thanks to Salon blogs for all the fun times over the past four years. Sorry for all the loud music, the spilled wine, the lewd behavior and the smelly gas, but, hey, that's blogging.
These are the instructions for removal of the anti-theft tag from the bridge of my new reading glasses (actual size). Uhm, bit of a problem here.I need to wear the glasses in order to read the instructions.
Today I tangled with the biggest damn cobweb ever. I didn't see it coming; you never do. This web was the thickness of a hangman's rope, but still somehow invisible to me. I managed to walk right into it as I took my morning stroll through the neighborhood. I'm guessing that what hit me was an abandoned spider's web originally tethered between a signpost on the curb and a holly bush that I passed between. One thing is certain: my encounter with the web made for a powerful slap to the head. Forget about the soft delicate silk you normally think of spun out of a spider's rump. This stuff was as dense as ironwood and barbed on the outer surface. It caught on the stubble of my beard and yanked my head to the side, creating an instant, painful whiplash.I fell to the ground and cracked my head on the sidewalk. A large section of the web fell with me and quietly settled down onto my body. I could feel the full weight of it. I had to work my hands under one strand that was constricting my neck and making it difficult to breathe. I wrestled with this cobweb for what seemed like minutes. I don't mean to over-dramatize this story. Really, I don't. It's just that in the end my injuries were pretty substantial: a nasty bump on the head; clothes torn to shreds; head-to-toe micro-slices to my skin; a dislocated shoulder; neck pain. With great difficulty, I got up off the ground and dusted myself off. Just then, a young woman turned the corner, running. I considered warning her about the killer cobweb ahead. But she was plugged-in to her iPod. I could hear her music, which meant that the volume was turned up too high for her to hear me. Her arms were pumping. Her stride was smooth and rhythmic. What caught my eye next nearly stopped my heart. Hanging from her ears were two white wires that danced crazily in the air like live electrical cables downed by an ice storm. They were heading straight for me!With the last bit of energy I could muster, I stepped aside and let this woman pass. She whisked on by, the high voltage iPod wires missing me by inches. I started walking again, toward home. Didn't look back. I have to assume she made it through.
<This story has two endings: one is fact and one is fiction. The truth is the stranger of the two.>
A few weeks ago I gathered up all the loose change from the small dish on top of my dresser. I also scooped up the spillage alongside the dish (which had been overflowing for months), the change in my pant pockets, in my car’s cup holder, in the junk drawer in the kitchen, every last cent that I could find. I put the whole kit and caboodle into a plastic Zip-lock bag and took it to the Coinstar machine at the grocery store.
I did this not because I needed the money, but because I needed a jumpstart in my life. It was a symbolic gesture. I was frustrated that I wasn’t writing. It was the usual writer’s block for me.I had succumbed to a revolving door of excuses: I didn’t have time; didn’t have fresh ideas; didn’t have energy. I was in a rut and all those coins were to blame, so they had to go. It’s probably worth mentioning here that symbolism isn’t always the straightest branch in the logic tree. The bottom line is I needed a scapegoat and that weighty Zip-lock bag of change was, in my mind, the physical manifestation of all my problems.
I must admit that I find it very satisfying to dump a large bag of change into a Coinstar machine. If you’ve ever used one, you know what I mean. I trade in my coins pretty regularly, even when I’m not trying to lick writer’s block with a symbolic gesture. I love the ring of the coins filling the hopper; the rapid fire ka-ching as the metal disks are mechanically separated and counted; the digital readout spiraling upward with the dollar amount I’m being credited. Coinstar’s cut for this transaction is 8.9 cents per dollar, a bit steep I think. But by the time I’m standing in front of one of these machines, change is my enemy and I’ll pay what it takes to be rid of it.
At the end of my Coinstar transaction the device spit out a receipt for $27.89 along with instructions to take it to a cashier to redeem. Yes, that is exactly what I was after on this day: redemption. I would buy back my creative spark by ridding myself of all this burdensome coinage.
Since I was at the grocery store, I figured I might as well apply the money on the chit to some food items that I needed. So I walked the aisles and picked up some milk and bread, pasta and marinara sauce, meats and cheeses, some salad makings, a bottle of wine, a tube of toothpaste, and so on. When I was satisfied that I had what I needed, I headed to the checkout lanes.
The store wasn’t very crowded, but there weren’t enough cashiers, so the checkout line was long. It took a few minutes before I was able to move my basket into the lane. Once there, I placed my items on the conveyer belt and put a spacer bar down behind my stuff. The woman next in line starting unloading her groceries.I couldn’t resist taking a look at what she was buying. I always do this. I suspect that everybody does. What a strange little voyeuristic experience: the casual association of strangers and the things they buy. “Whoa. Look at that. A tube of Preparation-H. Somebody’s got a little itchy-scratchy problem down below.”
As the cashier scanned my items, I fingered the Coinstar receipt in my shirt pocket making sure it was at the ready. Nothing worse than getting this far only to forget to turn in the receipt, which is only good for one day. Think of the psychological damage that would cause:
He never wrote a word after that day. For years he just wandered the streets begging change from strangers, and dropping the coins into public fountains wishing for God knows what…
The cashier finished with my order and read the total off the register. I didn’t hear the amount, focused as I was on my own little internal banter.
“Oh, here,” I said, “I need to cash this in.”
Ending #1
The cashier took the receipt from me, looked it over to verify that it was legal tender, then scanned the bar code. Next thing I know, he had his hand stretched out toward me. He was trying to give me something.
“Eighty-three cents is your change,” he said.
This caught me by surprise. I hadn’t considered change. Dollar bills, maybe, but coins to replace the coins I just turned in?
“No, you don’t understand,” I explained. “I traded in all my coins at the Coinstar machine so that I could have a fresh start. This is more than a Coinstar redemption. This is a personal redemption. A catharsis, of sorts.”
The cashier looked at me in disbelief. “Well,” he said after a moment, “your catharsis has change coming back.”
“You can keep it,” I offered.
“I’m not allowed to do that,” he countered.
“Well, don’t you have one of those little charity boxes that you can drop the coins in for me. You know, something that Jerry Lewis is heading up. That would be perfect.”
“Sorry. Not at the moment.”
“Look, I can’t take this change.”
“Well, you have to.”
“O.K., then I’ll buy something else. What can I get for 83 cents?” I reached for a candy bar from the rack behind me. “How much is this?”
The cashier scanned the jumbo-sized Snicker’s bar. “Eighty-two cents.”
“Hmm, is there anything that costs a penny more?”
Sensing the futility of this situation, the cashier leaned back and folded his arms, waiting for me to decide.
“All right,” I said,“I’ll take the candy bar.”
Visibly relieved, the cashier put the change he was holding back into the register and pulled out a single penny.
I considered refusing the coin, but the look on the Preparation-H lady behind me told me that she was either becoming agitated by all this or was in need of the aforementioned product. It dawned on me that my new jumpstart on life could be dampened if it started by pissing off people in line at the grocery store. What good is Yin if you don’t have Yang?
So I put out my hand and took the penny from the cashier along with a receipt for my groceries and a coupon for a pasta sauce I don’t particularly like. I grumbled “thank you” and started pushing my cart away, not really pleased with this outcome.
As I turned the corner, my cart bumped into something and…
…the penny I was holding in my hand suddenly came loose and dropped to the floor.
I’m sure you are thinking that I dropped it on purpose. I admit that I had repositioned the penny between two fingers so that I was barely holding on, like some sort of dried fleck from my nose that I wanted to get rid of.But it was the bump of the cart that ultimately dislodged the coin from my hand, and that part wasn’t planned.
The penny rolled forward ahead of me a few feet, then veered to the left into the next checkout aisle where it settled somewhere out of view. I don’t think anybody else saw the penny fall, but I never looked back. Nor down. Instead, I continued moving forward, pushing my cart through the automatic doors and out into the parking lot, thus starting the clock on this new phase in my life, which, not surprisingly, already includes a fair amount of loose change on my dresser.
Ending #2
The cashier took the receipt from me, looked it over to verify that it was legal tender, then scanned the bar code as I loaded my groceries into the cart. I pulled out my credit card to pay off the balance of what I owed, even though I had plenty of paper money in my wallet. This was a Coinstar redemption. A catharsis of sorts. The last thing I needed was change coming back. But before I could swipe my card into the reader, the cashier spoke to me.
“This is strange,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
The cashier smiled and handed me the receipt. “Your bill is exactly the same as the Coinstar receipt.”
I looked at the blurry computer receipt and noted the zero on the “balance owed” line near the bottom. “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said laughing out loud. But I couldn’t spend too much time gloating, as the line behind me had grown longer and the lady with the hemorrhoid cream really looked as though she needed to get home and take care of business.
As I started walking toward the exit of the store, I was thrilled by the strange twist of fate that had just befallen me. This was a most excellent beginning to my fresh start on life.Looking over the groceries in my basket, I suddenly had a strange feeling that something wasn’t right. All these groceries had to have cost more than the Coinstar credit of $27.89. The bottle of wine alone was $10. The toothpaste was nearly $5. There were four full bags of groceries here. I stopped and read the receipt more closely. I was right; something was amiss. The cashier had accidentally scanned the Coinstar receipt twice. I was credited for $55.78.
So, in fact, my grocery bill wasn’t the exact amount of my Coinstar chit but exactly twice that amount. I owed $27.89, which was another strange twist of fate. What to do? Part of me was thinking, “well, it was the store’s mistake; your gain.” But another part of me was thinking, “this is bad karma…you’re going to walk outside and get hit by a bus.”
I must have stood there for five minutes contemplating my options. In the end, I decided this fresh start of mine would be tainted if I kept the ill-begotten money. I needed to do the right thing. And that’s what I did. The store manager thanked me for my honesty as I swiped my credit card and paid the money that I owed.
I left the store without a penny in my pocket, and yet I felt as rich as Bill Gates. Then I went home and started writing this story.
Hey, nice digs. Love the couch. I believe I am familiar with its pedigree. Mind if I sit? No, I can’t stay long. The shoes come off; the shoes go right back on. Just ask the argyles. I’m chilling now, but I can get busy in a hurry. I got the know how. I got the degree. I just got no place to be. This moment is a blank page in my day planner. Next moment could be different. The cell phone rings – just like that, maybe I’m moving on. Meantime, I would gladly partake of the contents in that snack bowl. Have you a beverage at the ready? Refrigeration is not absolutely necessary. It is, however, an appropriate luxury for first-world men such as ourselves. Hey, is that what I think it is? I haven't seen one of these since the 1980s. What are we talking here? Atari 2600? Sega Genesis? Of course, I am kidding. Your Playstation 3 is the pinnacle of gaming superiority. And it still has that new console smell. Sorry, though, I must pass the joystick. The wanton killing of intergalactic androids only serves to aggravate my carpel tunnel syndrome. Indeed, sir, it is as you declare: getting old bites. What say instead we sit back, click on the TV and see what's playing on the Discovery channel. I do believe those Mythbuster guys are sleuthing up some cool, scientifically verifiable entertainment. That would be channel 278 on satellite, 46 on cable. I see from the way your dog is pacing by the door that he wants to go outside. Isn't there someone else available to take him on his daily rounds? Someone less busy than ourselves? Someone who might also use the opportunity to drop by the pizza shop on the corner and bring us home a large pie with three topping that I know we could agree upon by compromise? I would certainly be willing to contribute this $2 off coupon that I have been carrying in my wallet for just such an occasion. Sounds like your neighbors upstairs really dig the Allman Brothers band. I too find them quite enjoyable. Shame about brother Duane dying in that motorcycle accident back in 1971, thus precluding a strictly-defined ‘reunion’ tour that we might attend by winning tickets through a radio station listener call-in promotional campaign. Ahh, these are the moments worthy of eschewing gainful employment, wouldn’t you agree? I could quite easily kick back in this plush, multi-positional La-Z-Boy reclining couch of yours, close my eyes and lull myself to sleep listening to the classic southern rock tunes pulsing through the walls of your apartment. Wake me when the pizza gets here.
Last night I played a game of frenetic tag with my 11 year old son, Conor, in the kitchen. Frenetic tag is like the basic version of the game, except that both players are never more than an arm's length away and the "tag, you're it" exchanges happen, oh, say, every two seconds. He tags you with his right hand, you swing around and tag him with your left. He comes at you low, you respond by going high. He pretends the game is over and swats you like a fly while walking away. You slip a leg out and tag him on the butt with your foot just before he is out of reach. This re-energizes him and he comes back for more. It goes on and on. Last night, though, in the midst of our frenetic tag match (while I was it), I stopped and closed my eyes. Slowly, I turned my head skyward. My muscles tightened. I started to quiver. I was in a trance-like state. Almost religiously, I threw my hands up to the heavens and roared like some mythical beast. Finally, after an extended spell, I came back to reality. I opened my eyes. Conor, was looking at me, baffled. I reached over slowly and tagged him gently by poking my finger into his chest. "What was that all about?" he asked. I looked at him and told him that I had retreated deep within myself and, miraculously, I had come away with “the tag of all tags.” This tag had lain dormant inside of me since I was born and had been passed on to me – on this night – from my father who had gotten it from his father before him. "This tag," I told my son, "was good for 100 years…game over.” Conor thought about this story and declined to believe it. He swatted me in the shoulder and waited.I shook my head. “One hundred years,” I repeated. “Oh, come on,” he replied. I refused to relent. “O.K.,” he said, smiling, a bit too deviously. Conor walked around me. And around me again. Then, without warning, he reached into the back of my pants, grabbed the elastic waistband of my boxer briefs and yanked them. Hard! “Atomic wedgie!” he yelled, pulling higher and higher. While he had me in, well, a tight spot, my son explained that the “atomic wedgie” was much stronger than my lame “tag of tags” and that nobody knew how long its effects lasted – “certainly longer than 100 years.”I have to say, twenty-four hours later, sitting tenderly on this soft chair, he might be right.
Talk to the hand because the feet aren’t listening
We're cold! my feet are telling me. My feet don’t believe in global warming. No sign of warming down here, they point out. Well, I say…(I can’t believe I’m talking to my feet now)…global warming doesn’t mean every place will be warmer. Strange as it sounds, on a globally warming earth, some places may actually be cooler. The warming trend we hear about reflects a comparison of annual averages calculated from thousands of temperature readings around the planet – in cities, out in the country, on top of mountains, over the oceans. Regional and local temperature is controlled by the input of solar radiation, complex ocean/atmosphere circulation patterns and heat trapped by greenhouse gases. In fact, it says here in the newspaper today that the concentration of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere is at a record high and is expected to go much higher still. What does that mean? my feet ask. It means, more trapped heat – even warmer temperatures. Good, my feet say, wiggling in delight. We’re in favor of more trapped heat, especially inside of these thin socks. No, you don’t understand, I correct them. It’s not good; it’s not good at all. Higher temperatures may sound appealing, but there are very serious consequences: ice sheets and glaciers are melting at an alarming rate, sea level is on the rise, and drought threatens the fresh water supply of more and more people every day. We don’t like ice sheets, one of my toes says, speaking for the others. Ice is our enemy. The other toes grumble in agreement: brrrr…we hate ice…bad ice! Ah, hell, I say. This is what I get trying to reason with a bunch of dumb fat toes. What do you guys know, anyway? All we know, my feet fire back, is that we are always cold and this floor could use a good sweeping.
The ants march in, the ants march out. Across my kitchen countertop. In the morning with squinting eyes I can barely see them tiptoeing around the coffee pot. Little black ones. Tiny, really. Nevertheless...the ants march in, the ants march out. Hundreds of them. I go to the hardware store and purchase Raid brand Ant Baits. Raid, you know, kills bugs dead. Says so right on the packaging. Ant baits are tidy little houses of poison that fit snugly in corners where the ants march in, the ants march out. The ants carry the poison to where they breed. Soon, I am promised, they will be gone. The Raid company has put its best chemical engineers on the job. They guarantee success. They wear lab coats. Thank heaven for Raid brand Ant Baits.
In Guatemala there is a jungle house where the ants also march in, the ants also march out. Of course they do. The jungle house has an earthen floor. The Raid chemical engineers just shrug their shoulders: What can we do? The owner of the jungle house is not so bothered by the ants. His jungle house has a thatched roof. Living in the thatched roof are critters. The mice scurry in, the mice scurry out. Rats. Lizards. In. Out. They keep the family awake at night. Sometimes there is a snake up there, too. In the thatched roof. The snake slithers in, the snake slithers out. It eats the mice. It eats the rats, the lizards. Kills them dead. At times, when the snake has been on the job, it is quiet at night. In the jungle house. Thank heaven for that snake.
AB: Hey, did you just hyperlink on me? That’s very rude.
Me: Sorry. Look, I know you only exist inside my head, Angry Blogger, but I’ve always admired you as a character, and I could really use your advice.
AB: Is there something in this for me?
Me: Just my heartfelt thanks.
AB: You couldn’t even spring for a prepaid Starbucks card? Cheap bastard!
Me: Let me get right to the point. The thing is, how can I say this, I’m a bit tired of blogging.
AB: Good. Beat it. Hit the road, Jack. One less wannabe in the tread of my tires.
Me: No, you got it wrong. I’m not quitting. I’m just worn out, you know? I’ve been writing here for almost three years. Lately, I’ve been kind of busy at work. And in the evenings, I’m more likely to have a couple glasses of good wine and watch TV than start a blog post.
AB: I’m sorry, were you still talking? Didn’t you notice my eyes glazing over? That’s the international symbol for ‘I’m bored and want to go check my email.’
Me: Over the years, I’ve tried to pace myself. I don’t need to publish every day. It’s the quality of the story that matters to me. I write fiction, mostly. I’m at the mercy of my muse.
AB: Your muse isn’t fit to wipe the nose of my beagle.
Me: Okay, now that’s what I’m getting at. I really dig your conceit, Angry Blogger. How do you manage it? What fuels your unrelenting self-confidence and pique?
AB: Wifi, baby. The ability to write anywhere at any time. Blogging outside a seedy café while looking up the skirt of an attractive Midwestern babe caught unaware by a strong updraft off the Ohio river in March.
Me: Wow!
AB: Pretty good, huh?
Me: Yeah. I wish I could come up with a bon mot like that.
AB: See, this is part of your problem, Monsieur Proust. Using words like ‘bon mot’ in your writing instead of ‘an attractive Midwestern babe.’
Me: I suppose so. Say, you wouldn’t consider guest blogging for me would you? Just until I get back on my creative feet again.
AB: Get real, constipated boy.
Me: Well what do you suggest I do to jumpstart my desire to write?
AB: You really want to know?
Me: Of course I do.
AB: This is basic stuff. I can’t believe I have to explain it to you. Ready?
Me: Yeah.
AB: Close your eyes.
Me: Okay.
AB: Jump up and down in a circle five times.
Me: Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh.
AB: Now, quickly, reach behind your back, grab your balls and yell ‘gotcha!’
Me: Ouch! That just hurt. What the hell was the point?
AB: You wrenched your back grabbing your balls from behind on the advice of a fictitious character you call the Angry Blogger. Sit down and write, bucko. Enough excuses.
