A Schedule to Keep

In 1997, flying to Europe, I came across what I thought was another one of those "time-waster" stories in an otherwise-forgettable inflight magazine. At first glance, it seemed light and fluff-filled, but when I finished, I found myself carefully tearing out the pages, bringing them home several weeks later and placing the pages in a folder I maintain of writings that move me; writings that remind me why I love the impact of the written word.

Maybe it's because we've moved into the Holidays, with everyone focusing on the importance of family, friends, and what brings value to their lives, that I again found myself rereading "A Schedule to Keep." Author Frederick Waterman went on to write 16 additional short stories based upon the premise of "two strangers on a plane" which were compiled into a book, "Row 22, Seats A & B." It's still available via Amazon here.

With friends and acquaintances all seemingly building their own "Bucket Lists," "A Schedule to Keep" still strikes a particular cord with me about priorities and the source of true happiness and accomplishment. I know that it still helps frame my life.

So check it out. It's worth a 5-minute read.

A Schedule to Keep
By Frederick Waterman

ROW 22, SEATS A&B
The flight from London to New York was 160 miles from Heathrow when it leveled off at its cruising altitude of 35,000 feet.

In row 22, seat B, a tanned young man in his early 20s, wearing blue jeans and a clean but wrinkled white button down shirt, leaned forward and from the knapsack at his feet withdrew a thin, leather bound book. Straightening up, he opened the book to the middle, spread it wide, and shook it slightly, causing a slender pen to slip out of the spine, followed by a photo that had been tucked between the pages. He picked up the photo and regarded it for several minutes, then pulled down the tray in front of him and carefully placed the picture along the right side. Reopening the book, he flipped through its pages until he reached the back where, on the first blank page, he wrote the day's date and, beneath it, "Somewhere Over the Atlantic." On the next line, he began writing in the small, firm script that had already filled the journal's first 200 pages.

In row 22, seat A, Brian Allbeck sighed and closed the paperback book he'd bought from the newsagent at the airport. In the first 34 pages, the suspense thriller had offered one detailed sex scene, two gruesome murders, and absolute proof that its plot was stolen from another book. Only Shakespeare could get away with doing that, Allbeck thought, depositing the paperback into the seat pocket before him.

Six foot two, lean and fit, Allbeck had turned 60 the week before, an occasion that his wife insisted upon celebrating with "a small soirée," as she termed it, which meant 200 people at a catered cocktail party he could not avoid. Possessed of the talent but not the taste for society, Allbeck was handsome in a weathered, craggy way that implied he knew a rougher side of life, an impression that contributed to his dominating presence and, he knew, helped immeasurably in business. His full head of white hair, combed straight back, added to his leonine looks and contrasted sharply with the well tailored, blue pinstripe suit.

Allbeck was aware that he looked rather grand for coach class, but this morning's "quick meeting" with his team of solicitors had turned into a three hour strategy session after the firm's latest takeover target, a family controlled French textile business, announced its plan to fight him in the courts. By the time Allbeck arrived at Heathrow, his scheduled flight had departed. The only available seat on the next New York bound airliner was 22A and he was glad to have it.

As Allbeck glanced out the oval window next to him, his right hand spun the wedding band on his left ring finger. The stunning vista of white clouds and blue sky held no appeal because in the past 10 days he'd done enough high altitude sightseeing on flights to Munich, Milan, and Barcelona. Resigning himself to a sooner than expected start on the files in his briefcase, he turned to his seatmate to gain access to the overhead storage bin when the photo on the tray caught his eye.

The picture showed an extraordinarily beautiful woman looking over her shoulder at the camera. She had reddish brown hair and large brown eyes that possessed both an uncomplicated friendliness and a welcoming sexuality. Trying not to be obvious, Allbeck craned his neck slightly to get a better angle.

Without looking directly at the young man, Allbeck noted the clean-shaven face, and combed, sun-bleached hair. An upper class American, he was sure, and judging from the speed and intensity of the writing, one of the high energy, highly organized, very ambitious types - a description, Allbeck realized, that would have fit himself perfectly at the same age. Bored enough to be uncharacteristically intrusive, he cleared his throat and said, "She is a very pretty woman.”

The young man looked up with the quick, easy smile that is so distinctively American. Then he followed the older man's eyes to the photo. "She is beautiful, isn't she? And she's even better looking than that. I'm a lousy photographer."

"If you don't mind my asking, how old is she?"

"Twenty one."

"A model?"

"No," the young man grinned, "and she won't be unless the fashion world moves from Paris and New York to the Yorkshire Dales. She's a Yorkshire girl who's never been to London and hasn't any interest in going there either."

"You're joking," Allbeck replied.

"It's absolutely true. Two men who've known her all her live vouched for it."

"I take it that you just met her."

"Right, eight days ago."

"And I hope that you spent every day since then with her."

"No, actually, I didn't. I had a schedule to keep."

"A schedule! What are you, mad?" he said in mock dismay. "What in blazes were you doing that was so important?"

"Bicycling from London to Edinburgh It's something I've always wanted to do. It's on my list."

"Your list?" Allbeck repeated, the humor draining from his voice.

The young man flipped to the front of the journal. Inside the cover, below the name Thomas Landers, was a neatly typed list. He handed the journal to the older man.

Allbeck read the 11 lines to himself:
“1. Win Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford. 2. Graduate in top three from law school. 3. Clerk for a Supreme Court Justice. 4. Own a new Mercedes Benz. 5. Run own law firm by the age of 37. 6. Take the Trans Siberian Express across Russia. 7. Be a judge by the age of 50. 8. Bicycle through England and Scotland. 9. Understand Einstein's Theory of Relativity. 10. Learn to fly a plane. 11. Own a Picasso."

He read through it twice in silence, his face revealing nothing, then handed the journal back. Thomas Landers' attempt at restraint gave way to curiosity. "What do you think?"

Allbeck sidestepped the query. "The red check marks, are they what I assume?"

"Yep. Three down, eight to go. I won the Rhodes Scholarship two years ago and learned Einstein's Theory of Relativity last year. This spring, I got my degree from Oxford in Politics, Philosophy, and Economics, and two weeks later started the bicycle trip." Landers' confidence was losing some of its bounce. The absence of the expected admiration was unsettling.

"How old were you when you drew up the list?" Allbeck's voice was subdued.

"Eighteen. You've got to set goals and these are mine." Landers tapped a finger against the list. "This is my future."

Allbeck nodded thoughtfully. "Tell me about the girl. What's her name?"

"Cinda." The conversation's abrupt change caught Landers by surprise.

"And how did you meet her?"

"Well, you know it's been a cold, rainy summer in England and that slowed me down a lot, especially going through the Cotswolds. Bicycling in the rain is just plain stupid, you understand," Landers said, wondering why he felt a need to explain. "You never get far, you always, get sick, and cars can't see you. Anyway, I finally reached Yorkshire just as another downpour began. I stayed dry under an oak tree, but the rain never let up. For the next five hours the wind kept getting colder and colder.

"At about 6 o'clock, the rain finally stopped, but I didn't even make another mile before it started again. I was passing through this village, and there was a small pub, so I put my bike behind it and ducked inside. It was like I'd stepped into another century. Inside that pub it could have been the 1890s or the 1790s. The ceiling was low with thick beams and the walls were all made of wood that wasn't cut by any modern machinery. Most of the light came from the fire in this great, stone fireplace.”

"About 20 men were there, and most of them looked like farmers. When I walked in, they all turned and looked at me as if I'd just barged into their house, not their pub. It felt like a scene out of a Western where the stranger comes into town and everyone just watches him. Anyway, I sat down next to the fire to get warm, and this beautiful woman appeared. She asked what I wanted to drink, but when she saw I was shivering, she brought me a hot buttered rum. 'We don't make a lot of these in the summer, but I think I still remember how,' she said, then pulled up a chair in front of me and made sure that I drank it all.

"When I got warm enough to put together coherent sentences, we started talking. She said that her name was Cinda and that her father owned the pub, just like his father, his grandfather, and his great grandfather, but he was off that night. She asked me what an American was doing in Yorkshire in the rain, and I explained that I was on my way from London to Edinburgh. That's when she said she'd never been to either city or even gone more than 100 miles from Yorkshire. Despite that, as she spoke, you could tell she was smart. And when we talked about the English country¬side, she was the one who could quote Tennyson, Wordsworth, and Keats.

“While we were talking, I didn't have to look around to know that the men at the bar were keeping their eyes on us, as if they were all Cinda’s uncles. It felt like I was on a date with 20 chaperons.

"Cinda got up occasionally to serve the men, but we weren't interrupted too often because, as she put it, 'They're here for the talking more than the drinking.' The evening passed and, well, you never know what people see in you, but at about 10 o'clock one of the men brought a pint of beer over to me and, eventually, all of us were sitting in front of the fire. When they left, each of them shook my hand and the last one, the biggest one, said in a real low voice, 'Good night, young fella. You be careful with our Cinda.' And there was no doubt that he meant it.

"When she began cleaning up, I helped because I didn't know if I was expected to leave too though I didn't want to. Afterward, Cinda put two thick logs on the fire and poured a full glass of brandy for me. Do you know those conversations you can have with only a very few people? Those times when every word's understood just the way you meant it, and you never have to explain any¬thing? That's what this was like. I told her about places I'd been, and she told me about the people in her town, and we told each other what we wanted in our lives.”

"We talked all night, and the funny thing is that I never got tired. Somehow, talking with her was restoring, almost restful. When it started to get light out¬side, she asked me what was the best dawn I'd ever seen. When I started to tell her about one, she just shook her head. 'The best dawn you've ever seen is the one you're about to see,' she said.

"The rain had stopped during the night, the clouds had cleared out, and there was a perfectly blue sky. She took my hand, and we walked up a hill that seemed to go straight up until, from the top, you could see the whole valley, which was wet-green, perfectly still and quiet. Below us were the farmers' fields, cottages and barns, and the roads winding around. The sun seemed to rise slowly; then suddenly it lit up all the mists in the valley and made them glow until they were iridescent.

After a while, Cinda looked at me and asked, 'Why would I want to go anywhere? I might miss one of these.' Then she let go of my hand, and I followed her down the hill. At the pub, she cooked me breakfast and I left an hour later."

“And that’s the whole story?” Allbeck asked.

"Yes. That night and that dawn will always be a great memory."

Allbeck considered the young man’s words, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. From a compartment behind the pound notes and dollar bills, he produced a yellowed, fragile piece of paper, pressed thin by its time in the wallet. Allbeck opened it carefully along the worn creases and handed it to the young man.

Landers' eyes opened wide as he saw the first line. He kept reading, at times out loud: "Graduate with honors from Cambridge ... Be a multimillionaire by 30 ... Own a Bentley ... Buy a suit at Gieves and Hawkes, I Savile Row ... Meet the Queen ... See the Great Wall of China." He looked at Allbeck, open¬mouthed. "My God."

"My life," Allbeck said. "Planned and charted when I was 15 years old."

"And the black Xs mean you did them? And the dates and places are the when and the where?"

Allbeck nodded.

Landers frowned. "You missed one," he said. "Number nine."

"I know," Allbeck said softly. "That's why I'm giving you the list. I want you to do it for me."

Landers looked at the older man.

"I got too busy with all the others, Allbeck explained. "I let it slide, and then I began to think it didn't matter. Will you do it for me?"

Landers twice began to speak, then answered with an uncertain nod.

Allbeck pulled an already opened envelope from a pocket, removed the letter, and pointed at the envelope's address. "That's where I live." He took the fragile paper from Landers, slipped it inside, and handed the envelope to the young man.

Allbeck turned away and looked out the window at the clouds.

Eleven months later, Brian Allbeck was sitting in his library sorting the day's mail, when his hands stopped. He picked up the envelope that he'd seen before, and, holding it at the corners, spun it once, twice, then a third time, considering what might be inside. He slipped the letter opener under the flap, carefully ripped through the adhesive tape, then, with two fingers, withdrew the yellowed piece of paper.

Allbeck took a deep breath and opened the page. His eyes swept down the column of black Xs and, for a moment, dread overcame him, then he saw the firm red check mark and "June 29, 1997, Yorkshire, England" on the ninth line, the line he hadn't been able to cross off himself, the line that read "Marry for Love."

No, Viriginia, There Isn't a Santa Clause. Really. No Matter What the Man Says. Word.

In keeping with the time-honored tradition of mainstream media re-running that whack "Letter about Santa Clause" every year by some obviously hallucinating young girl (yeah, right) named Virginia, I thought I would continue my own tradition, started in 1991, of running my own holiday missive. After 17 years, I believe it still speaks truth. So check back next year, I will probably do it again!

And Virginia -- if that is your real name -- get real.

Chocolate and champagne, romance with a zing, black lace and Nyquil, a whip with a sting, old movies and kitties and gold nipple rings, these are a few of my favorite things."

"God, I just love the old-time Christmas carols," I thought as I hummed my way into the unholy specter of holiday shopping. The scene? Christmas Eve. I had an hour left until the stores closed. I was armed with an ATM card, $3,000 in cash, a Black Centurion Amex and absolutely no idea of what to buy for anyone. But I had a song in my heart and a thermos of cognac-laced espresso on the front seat. The velvet-clad valet parking attendant beckoned. "What the hell," I said, grabbing my Santa hat and candy cane. "It’s all for a good Claus."

Ferreting out the truth
I bounded to the elevator below Neiman Marcus and hit the "up" button. The air filled with music. "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire ..." Ah, sweet thoughts of the Christmas Eve tree torching-to-come filled my mind.

Abruptly, the elevator opened and I was face to Shar-Pei wrinkle with a 140-year-old woman grappling with what appeared to be a large, beady-eyed ferret, or was it, oh no, a weasel, that was wrapped tightly around her neck. Thinking quickly, I grabbed the rodent and flung it to the ground. "Stand back!" I yelled. "It could be rabid!" Burying the heel of my Christmas Prada loafers in its skull, I felt the satisfying crunch of splintering bone. I held the poor woman close, out of harm’s way, as a pair of garish glass eyes rolled between our feet toward the cosmetic counter and the svelte pelt quivered She began to scream. "My wrap! My wrap!" "It’s all right, ma’am," I said. "Gift wrapping in on the upper level. Have a Merry Christmas!"

As I turned to make my way out of the store and into the holiday throng, it dawned on me that there were bunches of women wrapped in dead animal hides lurking all around me. Why, the entire store was filled with ’em! This wasn’t some Orwellian nightmare animal rebellion; these people were actually wearing fur. I was surrounded by hordes of dirty, rotten, stinking fur-skimos.

Ack! Ack! Phooey! Phooey! I glanced around furtively. Damn! There’s never a vial of fresh blood around when you really need it.

I could be Moses if I only had a larger staff
Christmas in the tropics is one thing, but Christmas at our house is another reality altogether. We face a clash of cultures, as Susan prefers the traditional, born-and-raised-in-the-Midwest approach. She puts on a happy stack of music, perhaps sweet dulcimer mixed in with a bit of Bing Crosby and soft piano, while preparing spiced cider and hot chocolate for our guests. She prefers to gather with close friends and family and decorate the tree with the handmade and heirloom ornaments we have collected, pausing with each ornament to reflect on its origin and reminisce on the fellowship and caring that the holiday season brings out in most of us.

Later, after the tree is finished and the piles of presents carefully arranged, after the train set has begun its never-ending circle cycle, champagne is solemnly sipped by all as plans for helping the less fortunate are discussed.

I, on the other hand, take a slightly less formal approach. First, I gut the garage and set-up a huge stage containing a completely robotic "Away in the Manger’’ diorama. The set includes a dozen anatomically correct farm animals, a 2,000-watt Star O’ David™ halogen spotlight, three full-size camels and a crib stuffed to overflowing with fire-retardant fiberglass straw.

My family and friends won’t be following the lights to just any old mangy manger. I proudly feature the ‘‘Baby Jesus of Nazareth’’ model, straight from the Franklin Mint’s Great Religions Signature series, equipped with a Holographic Halo-Head™ 3-D Son-O-God halo projection system, a Sign-of-the-Cross™ voice-box and a He-Heals-the-Sick™ holy hand gesture option.

After the wise men, and women, arrive, we gather together and all do multiple shots of chilled Grey Goose vodka, followed by my special homemade garlic, fresh tomato and artichoke pizza, washed-down with magnums of 1998 La Grande Dame champagne.

I’ve found that 50 Cent, the White Stripes, Was (Not Was) and the Black Crowes cranked until your ears bleed is perfect background music for the traditional glass ornament toss, where we all try to see how far away from the tree we can stand and still get the ornaments to stick in the branches without shattering on the wood floor when we throw them at the tree.

After all the ornaments are hanging or broken, we gather all the trimmings, tinsel and leftover wrapping paper in a pile, drench the tree with Grand Marnier and torch the whole thing in a towering inferno of brightly colored flames. Like I said ... Chestnuts roasting on an open fire ... I think it’s very important to set an example for the children, don’t you agree?

You say it’s your birthday
And I don’t think the fun should stop with the tree. On Christ’s birthday, as the sun rises, I traditionally get the ice cream birthday cake out of the freezer to let it thaw a bit while we all have a mimosa.

You know, I never realized it, but no matter how many multitudes we have over for birthday cake, there is always enough to go around. Sound fishy? Go figure. Then we gather for the ceremonial lighting of the candle. Now here’s where the arguments usually begin. You know, the "Is it one candle in the cake because it’s baby Jesus’ first year, or no candles because he’s just been born and won’t be a year old for a year yet," argument. Personally, I belong to the one- candle school. I mean really, what’s a birthday cake without a candle?

’Twas da night before Christmas
’Twas da night before Christmas, and all through the crib, we were both playing dress-up: I was wearing a bib.
Susan’s stockings had runs, but we just didn’t care,
Some like legs in nylon, I like my legs bare.
And while Kleo and our kitties purred sweet dreams of ham,
We toasted with champagne and cranked-up classic Pearl Jam.
When out on the lawn there arose such a racket,
I let go of her garters and put down the straitjacket.
Away to the window I blew in a flash.
I pulled out my Sig Sauer and stashed all my cash.
When what to my mascaraed eyes should appear, but a sled sheathed in leather and red Latex reindeer.
He was satin and lacy from his head to his foot;
he blew us both kisses, now how did that look?
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work, pulled out French lace and spiked heels, then turned with a jerk.
And laying a finger underneath his white-powdered red nose, said: "I’m old and I’m chubby and I wear women’s clothes."

Happy Holidays. And a moment of silence of those whom we have lost, either in mind, body or spirit in the past year.

Peace on Earth, Goodwill toward men. (Except Cheney and Rumsfeld, of course).

Bow Down and Worship T. M. Shine

For a number of years, I had the unique privilege to work with T. M. Shine, one of the most amazing and talented writers I ever dealt with in 16 years in the publishing business.

I just re-read, for the umpteenth time, his first book, "Fathers Aren't Supposed to Die: Five Brothers Reunite To Say Good-bye," originally published in 2000 and still available here at Amazon.

It is a tour de force that will leave you in awe. I'm not his only fan; Bill Moyers wrote the intro, and our former colleague John Hughes said it best..."If Elizabeth Kubler-Ross met Carl Hiaasen, T.M. Shine would be their bastard child. This book is laugh out loud funny, except when it's ripping your guts out."

Terry also has published several books based on his award-winning weekly column, Timeline, which first appeared in XS/City Link Magazine in South Florida; I ran across one of his columns that appeared after our former art director left to rub oil on swimsuit models for more money. It's totally worth repeating, with apologies to W Kelley:

Nothing to get excited over
T.M. Shine may have lost everything. That makes it hard to be
enthusiastic, even about the Monkeemobile.

Wang Dang Sweet Poontang
- Ted Nugent

8:10 a.m.: Looking for a certain phone number. I am afraid if I lose it, I will have lost everything.
8:15 a.m.: Shit.
8:28 a.m.: Shit.
8:47 a.m.: Shit!
9:04 a.m.: I have lost everything.
10:12 a.m.: Marketing guy is standing outside our office building, smoking a dainty, brown cigarette and looking as if he is the most pissed-off person in a world full of very pissed-off people.
10:13 a.m.: He eyes me and says, "If the question of the hour is, 'Deal or no deal?' my answer is, " 'No deal.' "
10:14 a.m.: Fuckin' A, I say.
10:14:12 a.m.: "Fuckin' A."
11:04 a.m.: Art guy announces he's taking a new job with a swimwear catalog. Everyone wishes him well, and then, he comes over to my desk and says, "All I have to do is set up photo shoots of swimsuit models in front of palm trees, but they never use the same palm tree twice, so I'll have to fly all over the world to exotic locales." Sounds interesting, I say. "Tierra del Fuego. That's where I report on my first day of work. It's already set up. The models are meeting me at the Tierra del Fuego Starbucks, and then, we'll go find a palm tree from there."
11:05 a.m.: "It's as if I spun the big wheel of life, and it landed on Utopia - or Fruitopia, even. You're jealous, huh?" he asks. Sounds nice. I wish you well, I say. "These aren't $150-a-day models," he goes on. "These are $3,500-a-day models. And they'll be undressing in front of me, because models do that. They just undress in front of whoever's there, and I'll be right there. And I'll be telling them how to pose and bend over to pick up seashells and stuff. If someone asks a month from now what I'm doing, it would not be a stretch to say, 'He's an international-swimsuit-model choreographer.' "
11:05:40 a.m.: I'll try to remember that if anyone asks, I say.
11:06 a.m.: I always thought you'd make a good choreographer, I add. "What do you mean by that?" he asks, not waiting for an answer before continuing, "Oh, and they have accessories like purses and shoes and stuff that have to be photographed too, but it's not like they use ugly people who just happento grow gorgeous feet and hands. They don't play that game. Even the elbow models look like Heidi Klum. I'm telling you: This year, I'm going to be decorating my Christmas tree with swimsuit models. Can you believe it?"
11:07 a.m.: Pretty unbelievable.
11:07:13 a.m.: "You," he mutters. Me. What?
11:07:20 a.m.: "You could at least try to act like you're impressed," he complains. What do you mean? I said it was a very envious position. "It's the way you said it," he explains. How did I say ...
11:07:38 a.m.: "Never mind," he says, walking away.
11:08 a.m.: I don't know what he wants from me.
11:23 a.m.: Maybe that number is around here somewhere. I start searching my desk.
11:27 a.m.: Shit!
12:12 p.m.: Go to lunch and eat alone.
12:17 p.m.: Get text message from art guy: forgot to tell ya. know how on law shows the judge will be in his chambers and reach down into a drawer and pull out a decanter of whiskey and two glasses? at the new job every desk comes with a decanter of whiskey.
12:19 p.m.: Get second text message: With 4 glasses!
12:44 p.m.: I dated a model once. She undressed in front of me, but she threw stuff at me, too.
12:45 p.m.: Heavy, bulky stuff. Without warning.
1:28 p.m.: As soon as I return to the office, art guy comes rushing over.
"The job comes with a fat paycheck," he says, holding his hands apart, about two Big Gulps high. "And they don't have direct deposit 'cause the boss thinks it takes all the fun out of getting paid. So they just have this girl Cindy come around and hand you neatly wrapped stacks of cash." That's unique, I say.
1:29 p.m.: "And mixed in with the money are tickets to major sports events and concerts. The owner buys them in bulk for charity and then just gives them out because he believes sports and music should be shared equally with your neighbor." That's a good corporate attitude, I say. "Oh, and the string they use to wrap your money is edible. Kind of licorice-y."
1:30 p.m.: Mmmmmmm.
1:30:28 p.m.: "Did you hear what I just said? I'll be getting paid in fat bricks of money ribbon-wrapped in licorice? I'll be making so much moola I could buy and sell your whole family."
1:30:34 p.m.: To who? I ask.
1:31 p.m.: "Oh, and they give you a company car, and mine is the yellow 1971 hemi 'Cuda that Don Johnson drove on Nash Bridges," he says. "Yeah, the president of the company is a car nut, and the whole fleet is show cars from TV series and movies. He drives K.I.T.T. The VP tools around in the Munster Koach. You ought to see that thing loaded up with swimsuit models."
1:32 p.m.: "When I went for my job interview, they took me to lunch in the Monkeemobile."
1:32:21 p.m.: Where'd you eat? I inquire. "Where'd I eat? Forget you!"
1:33 p.m.: Most people have, I say.
2:11 p.m.: Marketing guy comes over and says, "I'm still counting on the jerk factor." His girlfriend broke up with him a month ago, and he figured she'd realize how many jerks were out there and come crawling back.
2:12 p.m.: "It's all jerks out there. We know that. Wall-to-wall jerks. I
wasn't wrong, was I?" he asks me. "I mean, it's been a month. She must have met 800 jerks by now."
2:13 p.m.: "I once met 910 jerks in one month," Tiara says.
3:10 p.m.: Art guy is back. "I'm going to have a huge office. Humongous," he says, getting in my face. Sounds spacious, I reply. "It's a bungalow, really - a bungalow on top of a skyscraper overlooking the city." I'm happy for you. "With a soda fountain and soda jerk named Victoria who will make me milk shakes whenever I wish." It sounds ideal. "And a shower with 44 heads and sleeping quarters with a racecar bed - and not one of those kiddie Rooms To Go racecar beds. A king-size racecar bed."
3:11 p.m.: That's neat. I didn't know they made them that big. "They don't. It's custom."
3:11:09 p.m.: Well, I hope the transition goes well. "Do you hear what I'm saying?" he yells. "My office is a bungalow on top of a skyscraper with a soda jerk named Victoria, a 44-headed shower and a king-size racecar bed - with working headlights. The headlights work."
3:12 p.m.: That's a nice option, I say.
3:12:18 p.m.: He glares at me. What? I ask. I don't know what you want from me.
3:13 p.m.: "Fuck you!" he says, storming off to a new life in Fruitopia where paydays are fat, Flaming Lips tickets are slipped in with the cash, decanters of whiskey are always at the ready, no two palm trees are alike, midday naps can be taken with the brights on, swimsuit models change outfits while hanging from Christmas trees and everybody rides to lunch in the Monkeemobile.
3:14 p.m.: Fuck you, too!
3:14:04 p.m.: You lucky bastard.

Diamonds are Forever ... More from Papa Smurf

Who needs fancy platitudes?

Here's the next in an on-going series of life observations by my whack friend Rusty Diamond, or, as we who faced raging Class VI whitewater together, and survived, know him as - Papa Smurf.

"The only pressure today is peer pressure."

Solid.

In a Perfect World: What the Web Version of the Front Page of the NY Times COULD look like

Thanks to dear friend Lori Gold for turning me on to this "perfect World" NY Times dream front page. Incredibly detailed and reproduced down to the last detail with working links and click-through stories...This is totally righteous! And thanks to Lori's cousin, Emily, who teaches architecture at Parsons and participated in the project. See the full-size version here.

Shrinking Economy Strains Food Banks - NYTimes.com

There are days when the news seems so bleak that you question the value of your commitment to the cause... Another real world example of the "people impact" of tax cuts, trickle down economic policies, and eight years of a brain-dead idiot lining the pockets of the Halliburton's and Exxon's of the world, while innocent working folk disappear into poverty and despair.

Anyone want to buy an apple? Or a pencil?

Obey This: Get the Poster

To those of you who picked up on the iconic Obama portrait that Shepard Fairey (of Obey Giant fame) created for the campaign, it's time to dig into your pockets again and celebrate the election outcome with your very own copy of his new "Victory" poster.

Those warm and fuzzy politico's at MoveOn.org can hook you up for a mere $20.00 donation, but don't delay - who knows when the dollar will become completely worthless and you'll have to swing it in Euros. Follow me.

End Childhood Hunger

13 million children go to bed hungry every night in the United States.

NO MORE!

Visit Share Our Strength or join us at End Childhood Hunger

We can make the elimination of hunger in the United States a reality. We can see to it that today's children will grow up as part of the first US generation not to experience the pain that hunger brings.

Join us.

Back From The Edge

It's been a long, painful couple of years on many levels. "Muzzled" by fate is an understatement.

That ended semi-officially on Wednesday, November 5, 2008 at 1:22 p.m. More on that later.