Corny Lines: Number One Cause of Spousal Eye-Rolling for Over 10 Years

Over the years I have managed to come up with a few choice lines that I can use in social situations to mask my social phobia(s); In this case, my fear of talking to/with strangers.

Unfortunately, my wife has heard them all; Over and over again. So it occurred to me that I could list these out so others can annoy their own spouses with them as well!

Surely I've missed a few of my suave "des phrases intelligentes" but the ones below will certainly be sufficient for you to begin your stroll down the same dark path I've trampled for you.

I've provided some context for these since it occurred to me while I was writing down the ones I could remember that they may be a bit too ripe for the double entendre treatment without context. So if you like, please look them over again with one eye closed and throw in a couple of that's-what-she-said's for a different reading.

One final important note here too is that I in no way mean to imply anything disparaging about my wife. She is wonderful to put up with me for as long as she has and the behaviors listed below only scratch the surface of the torments I put her through. Eye-rolling is better than I'd expect from anyone else and certainly better than I deserve!

Out to Eat (for the most part - some of these work elsewhere, too)

1. When asked by the server, "Would you care for anything else?" I pause for a couple of beats and look straight in their eyes then say, "No, nothing else. Is that ok?" The usual response is something like, "Of course! But let me know if you change your mind."
2. Upon arrival a few moments later of the check, I don't allow it. "Excuse me, but, I think we agreed just a few seconds ago that I didn't want anything else." This is where the wife usually swats me on the arm and takes over the conversation with, "Thank you!" followed by the eye-roll.

1. Ok, this one is actually really cool. But it really wears a bit thin on people who have to endure it from me time and time again at every damn restaurant I go to! But so what?! It's really cool! To do this, you need to make sure that your server actually has a few minutes to spend at your table. Also, you need to have a cloth napkin or a paper napkin that is rolled diagonally to make the longest paper tube you can make with that napkin. In other words, if you don't have something to measure about a foot and a half or so (under half a meter), don't try this.
2. Place your soda glass in the center of the table. Then ask your server to estimate which distance is greater, once around the circumference of the glass or the distance from the edge of the glass to the table. It doesn't matter what they say at this point. You can even suggest that they might be about the same. Whatever the answer, grab the salt shaker and put it under the glass. You may need to hold the glass there to keep it from spilling. Ask the same question again. Of course now the distance from the lip of the glass to the table looks to be WAY more than the circumference of the glass. This is where the napkin comes in handy as a measuring tool. Have the server do the measuring. Specifically, have them find the circumference with the napkin and then use that length to see if it is greater than the distance from the table to the rim of the glass (i.e., including the distance added by the salt shaker). Unless it is an unusually small drink glass and/or an unusually tall salt shaker, the circumference is going to be greater than the distance of the glass and salt-shaker! Isn't that awesome?! Try it out and see for yourself! Too cool! You'll have your friends rolling their eyes in no time with this one alone!

General Shopping (grocery store, Wal-Mart, etc.)

1. When I am at the register to pay, the cashier will usually quote a price like, "That will be $17.12 please?" Note that this only works if paying with cash.
2. As I count out my money, I will hand over the $17 and then say, "Is that close enough? Or do you really need the rest of it?" Ha ha ha! We share a moment until my wife's giant sigh followed by her opening her pocketbook to add her 12 cents worth of eye rolling.
   Actually, you can't blame my wife's eye-rolling here since people don't really like to joke about money - for example, I've opened myself up to the same line if I hand over a dollar to cover the $0.12 and expect change back - the cashier can say, "Well, that's close enough isn't it? You don't need any change back, right?" Where's the humor there?!

1. My wife really hates this one. Practically every single time I get to the checkout the cashier will automatically ask, "How are you today?" Although I could go with, "How am I what?" (see below) I prefer to go another route that has gotten smiles every time I've used it (except from my wife and anyone else who has heard me do this multiple times before).
2. After a really big sigh, I will answer, "Well, I'm old, fat, out of shape, balding, I have bad knees, my teeth are crooked, my hearing is going and I will never get rid of these glasses." Plus whatever else occurs to me. Then I ask it back at them. Usually they say they are fine. To which I say, "Yeah, oh yeah, that's what I meant to say, I'm fine too." Cue the spousal eye-rolling! 

Note: If the person you are planning to inflict the preceding line upon seems like they are either in a bad mood or maybe having a bad day but are forced to be in public-relations mode, I recommend switching to a less abrasive response like, "I seem to be getting older faster than I am getting wiser."

1. Usually this works best at a restaurant when the manager comes around to the tables (e.g., "How was everything?"), but I find that cashiers at Wal-Mart and such ask something similar. They will greet you and then say something along the lines of, "Did you find everything ok?"
2. Wow, talk about a great setup line! Take them literally. "My gosh, it would have taken us forever if we were looking for everything!" Or, "Yikes! We only had the fish! We couldn't possibly have eaten everything!" Smile and look at your spouse to see the eyes start their obligatory rolling!

Anywhere Else (can include the above places)

1. Upon noticing that a person is left-handed.
2. "Excuse me. Perhaps you can answer an important question I have?" They say "Yes?" and then I ask very earnestly and innocently, "Is it true that left-handed people are more intelligent than right-handed people?" Commence eye-rolling. Note too that I happen to be left-handed. When that fact comes out, I simply state that I am trying to get unbiased data from people who would be in the best position to know the answer: Other left-handers. (More eye-rolling.)

1. This one is used any time that a salesperson (or whatever) is dealing with us and has to leave. So this would be for a server at a restaurant or a salesperson at Lowes, your aunt who leaves you in the living room to go to the bathroom, etc. You'll get the idea.
2. With a slightly worried or confused look on my face I ask, "So, do you want us to wait here?" This actually causes people to stumble a bit sometimes. You can see them working it out in their heads why I would think otherwise.
   The more obvious the situation, the more fun it is to say. Imagine getting pulled over by the police. They'll come up and ask for registration and license then want to go back to their cruiser. Try to catch them before they leave your window, "So, do you want me to wait here?" Or when you visit the doctor's office and the nurse gets you into the paper half-robe in that little examination room with the butcher-paper on the cold leather couch. "The doctor will be with you shortly." This is ripe for, "So, do you want me to wait here, then?" I think you get the idea.

1. These last two are usually inflicted on my students. My wife has long ago burned these set-ups from her linguistic repertoire. A few times each semester I will get a student to wave me over and make the mistake of saying, "Can I ask you a question?"
2. My now automatic response is, "You just did!" This is followed about 80 percent of the time with, "Can I ask you another question?" Which gets the same awesome answer! After a few moments of rusty gears turning in their noggin's they will finally get to, "Can I ask you two more questions?" This is often delivered with a bit of a smug, "gotcha now" grin. At this point I will tell them that I have a three-question limit and then I walk away. Surely they find this particularly endearing (especially when exam-time is upon them).

1. As noted above, this last one is often triggered by a student on Mondays. They will ask something like, "How was your weekend?" or more generally, "How are you?"
2. My response is to fall into an Asperger's-like semi-fugue-state and ask back, "How was my weekend what?" or, "How am I what?" They will come back with something they think is more specific, like, "How are you doing?" (etc.), hence, "How am I doing what?".

1. Oops, I just remembered another eye-roller (but this one isn't ever from my wife as I never have the chance to use it on her). Mainly this is for my students or the occasional cashier, etc. and can be used for best effect only on Monday or Tuesday.
2. As I or they leave, I will say, "Have a nice weekend!" Which gets me about a 90 percent hit with, "You too!" Followed moments later by them stopping in their tracks and saying, "Wait, it's only Monday…" Or, "Does that mean we don't have class the rest of the week?" I explain that it's never too early to wish someone a nice weekend; and yes, classes will be meeting.

Alright, that's what I can recall for now. Maybe if I remember some more I will add them in. But truthfully, probably not since I seem to be pretty lazy about this whole blog thing. On the other hand, maybe you know of a few more that you, a spouse, a significant other, a friend, a parent, etc. has used and you can send them to me?! I'd be happy to add them to my list!

The Airplane Lottery Hospital Crash

This month is just a short rant.

I love probability statistics - not that I'm great at calculating them, but because of the paradoxes that they seem to support.

Example: Air travel is safer than driving.

Is this true? Well... yes, but also no.

It is "safer" than driving if you calculate number of deaths per passenger-mile traveled.

Hm? What's this? What's "passenger mile?"

If a car has two people in it and travels 100 miles, you get two statistics. (1) Vehicle miles (1 vehicle x 100 miles = 100 vMiles). Then there's (2) Passenger miles (2 passengers x 100 miles = 200 pMiles). So compare the car trip to the airplane that travels 1,000 miles and has 100 passengers.

(1) Vehicle miles: 1 vehicle x 1,000 miles = 1,000 vehicle miles.

(2) Passenger miles: 100 passengers x 1,000 miles = 100,000 passenger miles.

BUT, imagine the car tops a hill (at its 100 mile mark) just as the plane flies over (at its 1,000 mile mark) and they collide in a spectacular display of light, color, and noise (i.e., all dead)!

Probability of Death
CAR	PLANE
2.0%/vMile	10.0%/vMile
1.0%/pMile	0.1%/pMile

Yeah, ok, you don't like math. So instead of figuring out what I did in the table, look at it this way: If "safety" is determined by looking at number of deaths per something (miles, accident, whatever), then you can twist the numbers to suit your needs.

Where's the most dangerous place to be in the world? A hospital! Look at how many people die there! I wonder what the statistics are? Hm, calculating the number of deaths per type of building will surely reveal that hospitals are the most deadly. Probably worse than bathrooms, kitchens, and that married person's bedroom when their spouse comes home all combined!

So you might say something like, "Yeah, sure, if you look at it THAT way, then it seems bad, but people who are sick or are more likely to die usually go to a hospital. So it isn't fair to say that it is the most dangerous place to be."

Good, got that out of your system. But you've missed my point. The point is that NO comparison of apples to oranges is "fair" to make.

People don't treat airplane travel the same way as car travel. How much do you feel threatened by an engine failure if you are driving a car? Is it scary enough that you do a complete check of the engine before every trip? What about engine failure on your plane? Don't you think there is a little more attention given to equipment in one scenario compared with the other?

Also, most fatal accidents are due to human error. Where is human error more common? Wherever there are more humans. How many humans are flying planes at any given moment? Compare that to the number of humans driving cars.

So in terms of the above two cases, would you rather be in a car or a plane if there is complete engine failure? (I'm going to go ahead and assume you picked CAR.) I'd bet that there are WAY more fatalities due to engine (equipment) failure in aircraft than in cars.

Then we switch to human error. If you fall asleep driving a car, you don't get to sleep long before you crash. But in most aircraft, there are backup and safety features to decrease the chances that a brief nap will result in death. (Frankly, though, I doubt that the car or plane option seems too good when human error is involved.)

Up to here then, I hope you can see that these sort of things depend on how you look at them, right? So next time someone throws out some little statistical factoid, you should ask, "Compared to what, exactly?"

Which brings me to the smug idiotards who spout off about how the lottery is a "tax on stupid people." Yikes! Are they WAY behind on their lottery tickets, then!

Their "argument" is based on the premise that all a person get's from their $1 (or whatever) outlay is a virtually sure loss of that money. Not much different from rolling down your car window and throwing your cash into the street. In other words, if I may extrapolate the view: Nothing is of value unless it is tangible.

Wow, that seems more materialistic than the people who can't wait to spend the money they hope to win playing the lottery.

Must all transactions result in a tangible exchange? Are these people demanding to take home fragments of the movie screen when they visit the cinema? Should all roller coasters and Ferris wheels be dismantled because they don't provide tangible gains? When these people go on a date, do they insist on taking souvenirs? (Ok, that one sounds good to me, somehow…) Should every sex act result in a baby?! (Please, nooooooooooooooooooo!)

The idea that people who play the lottery are getting absolutely nothing for their $1 seems farfetched to me. They get something similar to what people get when they go to a movie or to an amusement park.

So would it be fair to say that amusement parks are playgrounds designed for stupid people? Or that movies are ways to keep stupid people in one spot for about two hours?

Ok, I've seen the quality of most of the movies lately, so maybe the argument breaks down here...

A Love Story

In my naïveté, I had deluded myself into believing that to survive the great tragedies in my life it would only take the endurance to last the painfully slow process of an "emotional healing." Certainly, there would be the scars... always there to remind me of my pains... and, if I ever became careless enough, always there to be opened slightly. A renewal or rather, a reminder of the original pain.

This isn't true at all.

I find that great tragedy; loss; do not rip open gaping ragged edged wounds that slowly heal back up. No. Nothing at all like that. Instead I find that there is no "healing process" whatsoever. No such thing as "emotional scars." The wound persists. I think that all that will ever happen is that I will learn to avoid that particular spot in my soul. Find ways around the pain.

Often I find myself suddenly at the edge. Looming over the abyss trying not to fall inside again. Sometimes I can pull myself away. Sometimes not. There is some perverse pleasure, I admit, to sometimes falling in and succumbing to the pain, but for the most part it seems more of a relief to put distance between me and her.

It was a day in the later part of a New England summer when we first met. She was the boisterous orange/yellow pup in a tiny cage of the animal shelter's. Her reaction to us (although in retrospect, probably to all who passed her) was that of a joyous reunion between close friends tragically separated years before, never truly expecting to meet again. We could not resist. The drive home was an adventure. She squirmed and fidgeted all through the car. From under the gas peddle to the back seat, to Cindy's lap to the back seat again and then to my lap! We laughed, sometimes nervously, as we contemplated the potential of this four-legged dynamo.

The puppy was supposed to be for my father. My mother, though, simply stated that either the dog goes or she does. To my father's credit, the ultimate decision involved my taking her (the dog, not my mother) to college with me. There, Elizabeth Freedom (as she was eventually named) squirmed her way into my heart as well as numerous garbage pails and other troublesome spots.

Very briefly, Elizabeth began her dog's life with me and my undergraduate years at Plymouth State College (now university). She would ride with me in my navy blue 1975 Ford Maverick (no seatbelts) from Plaistow New Hampshire to visit my someday-to-be wife in Portsmouth. With each trip Elizabeth made it about two miles further before vomiting. Finally, she was able to hold her biscuits for entire car trips and going "bye-bye" became one of the phrases most certain to wag her tail and excite her sparkling eyes.

When home in Plaistow, we would walk in the trails behind my parents' house. With Elizabeth along it sometimes became a surrealistic experience. She would race ahead of us along the pathway until we'd lose sight of her. After a brief while she would shoot across the path in front of us left-to-right. Moments later she'd be passing us on the trail again to race ahead, while in a very short interval after that, she'd pass us again and race ahead as if she'd just lapped us on a race track or was an identical pup chasing her twin up the trail. We never could tell from which direction she'd appear!

After a while, I graduated from college, worked for a year and then married and moved to Kansas for graduate study. Of course Elizabeth came with us. She shared the passenger seat (built only for one I might add) of a Ryder truck one-way rental. The trip was memorable for us all.

I was six years at Kansas. We lived in three different apartments while there. Elizabeth tolerated each move with the easy-going good natured fatalism of a true companion. Wherever her "mom" and "dad" were (or maybe just her food bowl) was home to Elizabeth. And that was ok.

The University of Kansas campus included quite a large park filled with green grass and hills for rolling, trees, water, and most importantly, squirrels. As soon as the door of the car was opened the golden streak flamed into the woods. Elizabeth was like a locomotive charging from tree to tree with the unwavering determination of a guided missile. Many a squirrel no doubt traded red for grey coats because of Elizabeth. When she tired of the chase (that is, when all the squirrels were safely back in their trees), Elizabeth would nose-dive into a plush pile of green grass and squirm onto her back and kick her legs skyward. A sort of "Snoopy-dance" we called it. Her best trick was to find a slight hill and surf down it like an upside-down wiggling dog-torpedo.

Elizabeth was not fond of water. I've wondered why that might be from the day it first became obvious. Did someone try to drown her as an unwanted pup? The best we could get was a little wading until water touched her belly. Then it would be a few licks and maybe, if it was a warm day, a brief rest on the mud perhaps a tail's length from the shoreline into the water.

The six years ended and we moved a half-day closer to New England, Elizabeth's birthplace. This meant we had made it as far East from Kansas as St. Louis. I spent a mere four years there as a post-doc at Washington University. St. Louis was not as dog-friendly as Lawrence, Kansas. The closest running grounds never really compared with the University of Kansas campus nor were the squirrels as friendly or abundant. Our apartment was on the second floor of a converted house which meant quite a number of stairs to climb. This became more and more problematic for Elizabeth given her attraction to food and food-like things as well as her advancing years (she was nearly 13 years old when we finished up in St. Louis).

For the most part, Elizabeth had retired her serious squirrel chasing legs for a more stealthy approach to squirrel hunting. And, truth be known, squirrel hunting wasn't nearly as rewarding anymore as gum or tid-bit hunting. We did manage a few trips to a distant park where we would occasionally mosey along a trail. But it was clear that Elizabeth would never again amaze us with her limitless racing energy.

I finally took a "real" job in Mississippi and moved there June of 1996. For the first time in our lives we lived in a house by ourselves. No more apartments, and best of all for Elizabeth, only four steps to get inside! We stayed in this house for just over one year. This would be Elizabeth's last move. Her last home.

We traveled north during the Winter months of 1997. Cindy's father was quite ill and it seemed that he was declining fast. Elizabeth weathered this trip as any other. With calm interest and a keen eye for snacks. Once in New Hampshire, she stayed with my parents who naturally adored her. My father would kick me out of his chair, but if Elizabeth were in it, he'd hook a fanny-cheek on the edge of the cushion and share rather than disturb her highness. After a great deal of sadness, our reasons for coming to New Hampshire were laid to rest. We drove back to Mississippi and Elizabeth would never be close to her place of birth again.

She lasted until August of 1997. We made a number of tearful trips to the veterinarian's office and were given an assortment of pills. It was clear now that Elizabeth was not in very good shape. Congestive heart failure imminent, she still wagged her tail and seemed to smile pleasantly at us whenever we'd walk into the room. Her looks were always expectant, "Are we going 'bye-bye'?" or "Is it time to eat/play/cuddle?" I honestly don't think that in her heart she understood that she was old and failing. Maybe she lived each day with the expectation that whatever her ills, they would eventually pass and she'd once again run like a rabbit through the woods behind our house.

We've since bought two houses. Elizabeth would truly have loved our first house. Not even a single step to get inside. Plenty of cool spots to lie down. Sun spots to warm her belly in every room. And, a fireplace. She never knew a fireplace. I sometimes look wistfully at the flames and imagine how well she would have looked stretched in front of its warmth. I miss her. I always will.

My good girl has been gone now for as long as she'd lived. While it pains me even to write these few words, I hope that maybe when Elizabeth died beneath my caresses fourteen years ago today, somehow all that she was and knew of us passed back to that fidgety pup in that small cage so few years ago. Perhaps that was why she was so happy to see us. Perhaps she knew us already. Maybe we were the long lost friends she longed to see again. Her happiness was that she could do it all again.

SPAM Baiting

This month's entry is pretty lame. It is just an experiment to see if I can get as much spam as possible in my "comments" section for this month. I fairly regularly get crap "comments" sent to a couple of earlier posts which are obviously spambot created based on some combination of words I'd used. I have always filtered them out. BUT THIS TIME my plan is to allow them in for this posting to see what I can collect. So the next few paragraphs are going to use sets of words that I believe might lure spambots into spamming me. These will of course be written innocently (and will probably read like boring drivel) so as to better demonstrate the lack of context needed to attract this sort of attention. Maybe this will fail, but I am curious to see what will happen.

So I was thinking about stuff in my past, you know, sort of dating myself in my mind, but it wasn't so much the date that I was focusing on, as what girls and boys of that day might look like today as men and women. How these groups might look today… In this regard, and regardless of their sex, I wondered if they exercise their imaginations. If they also think back to their past, feeling the weight of the years pressing down on them. Did they make the right decisions, did they experience loss and gain in equal amounts. Did they follow the recipe of their life in ways that allowed each ingredient to play its part? So much food for thought, I suppose. It was too much for my brain to eat in a single sitting, though. So I switched topics.

I wanted to invest some time to speculate on futures. By that I mean, of course, spend some energy on what tomorrow would bring. But to do that, I would have to buy into the whole "today predicts tomorrow" way of thinking that doesn't really hold the same currency with young people today. Young people today seem to me to save their free time mostly for digital media rather than interacting with actual people.

That line of thought depressed me a bit because it seems like nowadays, people my age can't relate as well to the blossoming generation. I would practically need to be psychic to have half a chance to figure out what kids today are feeling. And frankly, it just isn't in the stars for me to be a psychic - nor would I consult an astrologer for that matter… surely they possess no viable alternative to understanding the digital generation. Besides, our cultures barely overlap enough to share that common ground needed for communication. Just the differences in health situations insures a communication gap that no medicine can cure. I don't need a graduate degree to figure that out. Life is education enough, my friend!

Speaking of education, I cannot help but be reminded of my job before I decided to go to college. I worked at a company that built the Patriot Missile, if that rings a bell? Spending so many days of my life at that job made me realize the importance of variety. Day in and day out, the same work, the same faces. The days slipped by - and I wasn't even drinking alcohol! Although if I were still there, I'd no doubt have a beer gut by now. Seems like that is one of the paths to the "American Way" I've heard about. With the other extreme becoming president, like Obama. Seriously, though, I doubt that path was as possible as the beer gut path. Besides, I'm more of a video game kind of guy.

Games that I enjoy tend to be the first person shooters. They suck you in like movies. I even own an old Vectrex game (look it up) that needs some repair. But it was awesome! You'd think with my interest I'd have considered a career in programming. Nope. Too lazy and not quite a good enough thinker or problem solver to do well in that field. Dammit! There's money to be had there, though!

Oh, but I got off the track of health up above. Which reminds me that if I plan to do some traveling next month, I might want to get checked out. Maybe get a shot to protect me from an exotic virus. Hm. Just thinking about health care today makes me wonder about people of the past, like the Trojans who battled across the lands. They never worried about shots. But on the other hand, they probably didn't live as long… Ok, I won't talk myself out of the shot. I will have to download the list of local clinics where my insurance will pay for at least a tetanus booster. Better to be illness free on any trips I take. Don't want to lose my stamina on those long treks through the ruins of Greece or up the steep trails along the Grand Canyon.

Whatever. Maybe I should just be satisfied that I am healthy enough to consider travel, rather than whine about the past. Let's just see where things take us?

I will give this some time and actually ALLOW whatever "anonymous" posts I get to be listed. Any bets as to how many?

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Ok, so I gave it 8 months and I was able to attract 27 spam-bot posts. That's more than 3 per month (although I haven't gotten any for the past two-three months). Compare that to the maybe 1 I get per post otherwise. So clearly I was able to catch some spam-fish! Whoop-de-doo!

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This Is Why I Hate Winter!

The wind that day was gray. Dark swirling maniac gusts that tugged and pushed with clearly evil intent. I tried to pull my coat tighter around my body, hands deep in leaky pockets. My flannel pajama bottoms snapped and rippled as I tried to keep from slipping on invisible ice. As I passed beneath the tree in the back yard clumps of snow broke from the branches and disintegrated into tiny cold pellet-bombs. Plops of snow tapped my head warning me too late that kamikaze ice was about to drop between the back of my jacket and neck. Every step I took, icy wads of heel-squashed snow flipped out of my slippers as the backs of my feet emerged like swimmers gasping for air between strokes. Fresh downy snow puffs cascaded into my inadequate footwear with each step, machine-like, preparing a new pancake of ice to eject on the next step. My legs cranked and my feet punched ahead into deeper and deeper drifts of cold white powder.

Each numbing step I took away from the warmth of my house became more resentful. Stomp… Stomp! STOMP!

My back was cold and yet also oddly sweaty. I snorted an irritated puff of air at this ridiculous thought. Steam rose to my eyes then split and drifted to either side of my head. The inner edges of my glasses clouded slowly from my nose and I knew it wouldn't be long before they'd be entirely fogged. "What the hell am I doing?"

I stopped to look back at the house, which was now hidden behind the gray wind. The turn dislodged a dribble of half-melted snow from the back of my neck and down my back to wedge into the elastic waistband of my pajamas. "Christ, that's cold!" I actually yelled this while I did a quick twisty-dance to dislodge snow from flannel.

Carefully I turned back to consider the tree line I had been walking toward. Again, "What the hell am I doing? This is stupid." Yet my feet resumed their mechanical trudge despite my growing doubts.

After about twenty more ice-cake wads were processed through my assembly-line march, I finally arrived at the trees bordering the back of my yard. I couldn't see much. The spindly tree branches formed a black haphazard spider web against the impenetrable milky soup. Behind this shifting gray backdrop I could see nothing but imagination.

It had taken a great deal of nerve to push me out into the yard this distance. Now that I was here, my nerves were reversing polarity. I had left the back door unlocked. Maybe what I thought I had seen through the window had circled around and was now waiting in my warm house? I was beginning to feel safer in this cold cocoon of dense gray. Well, I couldn't stay here, so I peered as bravely as I could into the wooded fog. I hoped that who- or what- ever was there would see the warrior in me instead of the shivering sweaty overweight boob I was feeling like.

With as a cruel a sneer as I could manage, I turned to head back toward my house. I hadn't taken four steps when the skin and hair on my neck began to prickle with anticipation of an attack from behind. Although I knew that the footsteps I heard were my own, my imagination overrode my intellect and I ran as fast as I could toward that back door. My first step in this sprint toward safety exposed my entire right foot to the raw elements, leaving behind a wet leather slipper. The other slipper was never more than half on my foot all the way back to my house.

I felt foolish as I fumbled the door open and slammed it shut behind me. My fat chest heaved with joy and exertion at the successful finish to my race with whatever imaginary fiend had been chasing me. Truly my smile at this point was one of mild embarrassment. Shaking my head I turned around and twisted the bolt to lock the door. As an afterthought, I pushed the blinds up a bit to see if I could see the tree line. Instead, through the glass I saw the red eyes and yellowed fangs of what looked like a giant man-wolf staring back at me just inches from my face.

If I hadn't lost one slipper outside, I might have pissed myself. I could feel my bladder twinge a bit as if to say it was ready to give it a try.

The truth of the matter, though, is that a man cannot pee if his feet are uneven or if one big-toe is cold and the other warm. The whatever part of my brain responsible for laying down the man-laws issued a military "NO" to my bladder's tentative twinge. That was enough to lock my plumbing. It also had the side effect of clenching my sphincter. I hadn't even been aware of how close I was to shitting myself. I guess it's just another type of man-law: "Focus on one, two will follow."

All of this happened in a matter of milliseconds. My brain had yet to process even a little of it, really. Instead, the moment was dominated by the high-pitched and very girlish sounding scream that I gave as I threw my whole body back from the door. While flying away from the door, a small part of me was only beginning to process the realization that the face I thought I had seen outside the window had really been a reflection of what was behind me.

The Future Me Is AWESOME!

Sitting next to my diet coke and headless chocolate reindeer, I marvel at how heavy I've become. Guilt seasons each mouthful and I assure myself that things will change. They must!

Yes, tomorrow, I will collect my willpower and resolve.

Tomorrow I will eat only healthy foods and avoid all the garbage that has stuck to my ribs (well actually, more than just the ribs… let's go with all 206 of the bones - yeah, I have chocolate reindeer and other junk foods stuck to ALL of my skeletal system; plus maybe also stuck on some tendons, blood vessel walls, surely; brain, liver… ok let's say I have gobs of fat stuck everywhere and leave it at that).

To feel better now, I tell myself about what I will do tomorrow. In addition to a better diet, I will of course also be heading back to the fitness center! Despite not having the knees to run… or apparently to walk now, too… I can start swimming! I love to swim! The downside of smelling like chlorine every day for the rest of my life is a small price to pay for health!

As soon as I am done fitnessing, I will do some health-eating. Then I will NOT turn to my game computer and visit the vast wastelands of Fallout 3 (or other exotic and exciting locales waiting for me to double-click on their welcoming icons). And while that's on the chopping block, it would probably be for the best if I just canceled the satellite service too. No need to be wasting time watching Fringe and The Mentalist. Instead, I will use that time to get all the chores around the house done. There's lots of stuff in need of being sorted and thrown out or donated! Not to mention the painting, sanding, and minor repairs that need to be done here and there. Oh yeah, the cellar could REALLY use a makeover! So that's what I will do starting tomorrow!

Well, at least some of that tomorrow. I can't do everything in one day.

So, then... probably this weekend I will get that other stuff done. That really makes the most sense. The weekend is better for big jobs like cellars. Then in the afternoon, when I finish those bigger jobs, I can settle in and work on getting lectures tweaked. New material worked into the PowerPoints. Look over alternate texts for future classes. Get my next research project panned out. You know... Whatever else needs attention.

It is a great relief to me to know that Tomorrow-Me and Weekend-Me have everything under control. So for now, I can sit back, finish my reindeer and 0-calorie carbonated beverage and hope that Today-Me doesn't get in the way of any of the Awesome-Me's of the future!

I really can't wait to meet them! They are soooo cooler than me. Unlike Yesterday-Me who ruined my chances of being Tomorrow-Me, today…

Haunted By...

When I was a lot younger, I recall a conversation I had with my mother. I don't actually remember much of the conversation; how it started; what it was mostly about. But what I do remember was what she said regarding people of strong faith. She said how much she envied that part of some people who were able to believe so strongly in something without proof (such as God - but that's not at all my point here).

I think that she craved something of that blind certainty. To have an unshakable belief that withstands the onslaughts of others' beliefs, conflicting evidence, and oftentimes even logic or reason.

At the time, I was able to understand that craving. But it wasn't quite the same. My craving derived from a desire to know. For the most part, I didn't know a lot, and knew that I didn't know a lot. The idea of truly knowing an answer to some BIG question really appealed to me. That was what I thought she meant.

In hindsight, though, I think she envied the concept of faith in an "ignorance is bliss" sort of way. I'd like to think, though, that if she had the choice to slip into a state of faith based on ignorance, she would not.

For myself at the time, I naïvely expected a direct positive relationship between education and a strong sense of knowing. Yet, after 30 or so years, I still find myself wistful for that strong sense of knowing. In fact, my sense is that the more I know, the more I doubt.

Looking around me, I see people who have strong beliefs, nonetheless. It makes me feel as though I am doing something wrong. So I examine these people's beliefs more closely - hoping to see whatever it is that they see that makes them so certain. They may point to the "evidence" for their strong beliefs, but all I see are fractures, weak or missing supports, misunderstanding, ignorance, irrelevance, or loud smoke.

What I mean by "loud smoke" comes from the way my father would occasionally argue his points. He would simply raise his voice and wave his arms around while smoking a cigarette. So he would literally become a loud puff of smoke that just kept repeating his viewpoint without any obvious justification. So to me, "loud smoke" is just a belief that is yelled really loudly and is about as solid as smoke.

Going to school and learning about psychology has shorn away many of the supports I would otherwise imagine myself relying upon to justify beliefs. On the one hand, it is depressing for me because I feel less and less confident that I will ever hold a strong belief, but on the other hand I find it really fascinating how people's minds work that allows them to hold strong beliefs. In other words, it is amazing all the tools we have, use, and develop to sustain our beliefs! So at least I am able to replace my loss with the gain of learning about some pretty cool stuff!

So anyway, here is a PARTIAL list of reasons why I don't believe anything too strongly:

• False Memory: There are all sorts of memory problems revealed in psychology (reconstruction effects, implantation effects, degradation effects, etc.). My first experience with the fallibility of memory came when I was walking around the streets of Haverhill with my cousins and their friends. I must have been in sixth or seventh grade at the time. We came upon another group of kids across the street. For some reason, one of the guys in our group thought that someone on the other side deserved to have a rock thrown at them. He picked up a stone and hurled it across the street and nailed one of the guys over there. We all took off running. (No, it was not me throwing rocks - trust me; I couldn't hit the ground if I aimed at it.)
  
  Later (months) I was in school and some kid came up to me and started yelling that I had thrown a rock at him and he was going to get me back! At first I had no idea what the hell he was yelling about, but after a bit, I realized he was the boy that had been hit by the rock a while back. I tried to explain that it wasn't me that had thrown the rock, but he was adamant that it WAS me because he never forgets a face and he would certainly never forget such a mean thing that was done to him nor who had done it.
  
  At the time, I shared with him the same naïve view of memory. We both apparently believed that memory was a biological recorder of events. What people stored in memory was perfectly accurate, although it could have holes (like when we forget something - it's just missing information). Therefore, I assumed this kid was lying about what happened because he had no idea who the real rock-thrower person was, and never would. BUT, he remembered seeing ME there and was therefore only going to be able to exact revenge on the next best person; someone who had been part of the enemy group of rock-throwers; me!
  
  Nowadays, I know he wasn't deliberately lying. He probably truly believed I was the rock-thrower. His memory was inaccurate, but he believed his memory was flawless. He held a strong belief based on corrupted data. But unlike a computer that can potentially analyze a memory drive and determine that it is bad, with human memory, we have no way of knowing what memories are good and which are bad. It ALL feels like GOOD memory! DOUBT.
  
  
• Sensory Events: Having learned a pretty good amount about how the senses work, and especially how perception occurs, I know that even direct experiences with the world can be misleading. Just off the top of my head, here are some things that contribute to my doubts about what I see, hear, taste, touch, or smell about the world around me:
  
  (1) Expectancy effects. (2) Constancy effects. (3) Phantosmia (and I'd include parosmia here too). (4 & 5) Hypnagogia and hypnopompia (accompanied by sleep paralysis). (6) Exploding head syndrome. (7+) Tactile hallucinations (e.g., feeling of bugs crawling on our skin, called formication; inability to locate an itchy spot; also what I call the voodoo effect - when you suddenly feel as though you are being poked by a needle for no apparent reason [a nociceptive illusion]; etc.). (8) Migraine aura (fortification illusion, photopsia, and scintillating scotoma). (9) Sleep paralysis. (10) Peduncular hallucinosis (I have a friend who experiences this - he is visited by Death, you know, cloaked and hooded skeleton carrying a scythe). (11) Synesthesia. (12) Tinnitus (hearing a [usually] high-pitched sound even though no sound is present). (13) Apophenia (and of course, pareidolia). (14) Autokinetic effect (perception of movement when there is no anchoring/orienting information, e.g., a small dot of light in an otherwise dark environment will appear to bounce and float around - it's really just our eyes moving, but we can't tell that because there is not enough visual information available to lock our eyes onto.) (15) Ideomotor effect (unconscious physical movements that affect objects in our vicinity that we then attribute to outside or paranormal sources - instead of to ourselves). (16) Pupil response (can make us think we see shadows). (17) Entoptic Phenomena (e.g., scratches on our corneas or junk in our eyes (the vitreous), can be seen under the right conditions and confused for objects and events in the world around us [cf. blue field entopic phenomenon]). (18+) Not to mention all of the ways our sensory world gets messed up when we drink, are over-tired, experiment with drugs, etc.
  
  Of course, I'm not even listing here the possible (1) chronoceptive (losing track of time; feeling as though time is going slower or faster than usual; stopped; etc.), (2) equilibrioceptive (shifts in sense of balance that can not only make one feel dizzy, but also that they were pushed, or that gravity has shifted, etc.), (3) proprioceptive (Oliver Sack's writes about this in A Leg to Stand On - e.g., when our body parts feel foreign; like they do not belong to us), and (4) thermoceptive (temperature based) illusions people can experience (we don't really sense temperature, but shifts in thermal conductivity - when heat is drawn from our skin, we sense cold; when heat enters our tissue, we sense warmth. It's all relative.).
  
  
• Psychological Illusions: We fool ourselves all the time with our little cognitive tricks. Sometimes we do so to protect our ego (see Social Psychology texts for more of these); sometimes to protect a belief; sometimes just to make it easier to process our complex world; and sometimes without even realizing it - out of habit.
  
  (1) Confirmation bias (e.g., focus on "hits" and ignore "misses"). (2) Hindsight bias. (3) Availability heuristic. (4) Representativeness heuristic. (5) Assuming causation from correlation. (6) Need for certainty. (7) Change blindness & Inattention blindness. (8) Repetition blindness. (9) Dissociation (in this case we see people apparently doing this whilst "channeling" or exhibiting "demonic possession" [epilepsy?]). (10) And so on.
  
  
• Less Common Psychological Issues: Although these are much less common than the above (since the above can occur to everyone, whereas these are specific to only a subset), they are still possibilities that come to mind when I hear people I don't know talk about their strong beliefs or the strong beliefs of folks they know. That is, I cannot rule out these issues as contributing to others' beliefs.
  
  (1) Schizophrenia (the biggest one in this list, as well as any other psychotic disorders that can contribute to paracusia, etc.). (2) Delirium tremens. (3) Lewy body dementia (via Parkinson's disease). (4) Alzheimer's disease. (5) Epilepsy. (6) Narcolepsy. (7) Fever induced hallucinations. (8) ETC.!
  

So many mundane possibilities to account for the many strange beliefs we may form... and this is only a partial list! It's enough to make one's head spin! (Call an exorcist!) I haven't even listed the effects of deliberate lies people tell, hoaxes perpetrated, misunderstandings generated by poor language choices, and so on.

With so many possible competing sources of why we might believe something, you may wonder why we should believe anything! But we do. Our daily survival depends on believing potentially faulty information. Our confidence is increased whenever multiple sources of information converge on a single possibility (or a limited number of them). The more likely our survival depends on forming a good (accurate/true) belief, the more careful we are in considering the sources (usually).

On the other hand, when safety and survival are not directly affected by our particular choice of beliefs, THEN we seem to chigger into any old belief regardless of the evidence.

Ultimately, I think that people simply are unaware of how many ways we can be misled into trusting information used to support a particular belief (especially paranormal beliefs). In a way, then, I suspect that many people are enjoying the bliss of ignorance as they sustain their strong beliefs.

These are the cases that interest me from a psychological standpoint. These are the cases of strong belief that part of me yearns after, but a much larger part of me cannot accept; simply because I am haunted by all of these doubts.

Aren't you?

Can't Stand Idiots

Because this is clearly a last-minute entry, I will be making this brief - just to "jump through the hoop" of getting a blog written this month. Makes me wonder if I should continue to do this. Obviously I'm not making the most of this whole blog thingy. Probably I am just suffering from endofthesemesteritis. Having a whole week off just before the end of the semester isn't doing anyone's motivation levels much good. Recently bought a few t-shirts from JCP that I like. One has the ghost-buster's logo on it which is nice because it is helping me to think about the group I am hoping to help put together with the Pittsburgh CFI. The aim will be to provide a rational counterpoint to the CRAP that gets into the newspapers from so-called "paranormal investigators" in the area. So if anyone is interested, let me know. ALSO, if you can think of a good name for the group, THAT would be helpful, too. I was thinking along the lines of SIPP (Scientific Investigations of Paranormal Phenomena) but I don't know if I really want the word "paranormal" in there. Anyway, let me know. Please. The second shirt has an image of the cat-in-the hat character and says something like, "Trust me, I'm a doctor." The last one has big initials: CSI. Then beneath these it states, "Can't Stand Idiots." So that's my brief topic for this month's entry. What I really cannot stand is when I am an idiot. In fact, the whole idea for this entry was "given" to me when I overheard a student mention her own seeming proclivity for self-idiocy. It reminded me of an early memory of being an idiot. This would be first grade. R. L. Wood School (Haverhill Massachusetts) was where I was introduced to my potential for idiocy. It only contained grade one through four (if memory serves); and it is now closed for good I've heard. Anyway… Every day we broke for lunch as soon as the hot-lunch delivery was completed. We filed out of the classroom door in the back of the room and walked past a table stacked with Styrofoam containers of steaming yet ultimately lukewarm foods covered with condensation. We were given a tray and a container then toward the end of the table, napkins, plastic-ware, paper straw, and a small carton of milk. Then we continued back through a doorway at the front of the classroom to sit at our desks and eat like adults. Let me stop here and tell you how awesome those desks were! They were the chair-attached kind that had a slightly angled top that lifted to reveal a chamber underneath. Here we stored our small pot of paste (yum), box of over-sized crayons, a wooden ruler, a giant red eraser, some pencils, as well as graded papers (the ones that didn't earn the right to go home to the parents - yes, I mean the F's), and books about Dick and Jane. At the front edge of the desk was an old ink-well hole (mostly useless except that it was a good place to chuck bits of trash and what-nots during the day). Ok, so I was an exceptionally shy child who tried not to move, talk, or otherwise become noticed. I had zero friends - unless you count the kid who chased me when I got off the bus every morning. He loved doing this in the winter because he'd catch up to me by grabbing my hood and yanking it backward and then use it to whip me around to the ground. I also remember that there was a girl who really liked me and one day she walked over to me, grabbed me and gave me a big kiss on the cheek. I probably looked at her with a mixture of shock (that never happened to me before - or since, actually) mixed with horror (can you say COOTIES?!). I quickly wiped away the wet remains of her affections with my hand which made her burst into tears and run away crying, "He wiped off my kiss!" Turns out that signaled the beginning of quite the dry spell for me… lasted at least a decade before I got any other girl to kiss me. BEING that I was shy, that didn't mean I was immune to the attentions of the teacher (Mrs. Hansbury). She was always very generous with her foil stars and praise whenever a student did something amazingly wonderful… like pick up the chalk that had fallen from the tray, or let her know there was someone at the door, or raise a hand to answer a question. It was during lunch one afternoon that I suddenly had a craving for some attention. I had eaten my meal and was sipping milk through my straw reflecting on how nice it would be to get a gold star on my forehead. The milk carton was resting on my desk next to my elbow which was supporting the hand I was using to balance my idiot head. Sipping through this soggy paper straw, I scanned the floor for errant chunks of chalk, or maybe an eraser to pick up. Nothing there. Then I remembered that noticing a visitor at the door was worth points, but nobody was outside the front door (most likely spot for visitors). But then again, maybe the person was outside the BACK door?! Nobody would even SEE that door window because we all were facing forwards! Maybe there's somebody there RIGHT NOW! I twisted my head and body to the right so I could check. Now, turning one's head means that one's face goes too. Turning the face means eyes, nose, and mouth turn. Since the mouth was turning, that meant that the soggy straw was going for a ride, too. Because the straw was going, that meant the milk was going to try and tag along as well. Just FYI, you should never invite milk cartons on short trips because of all the members of the traveling party mentioned above, they are the WORST at keeping up. The milk carton just tipped over and started to chortle its contents onto my pants. I didn't want to make a big scene, so I just watched as the milk emptied out. It was supposed to be less than a pint of milk, but somehow I think the dairy had overfilled it because it was about a gallon or two that eventually made its way onto my clothes. This may not seem like a big deal to anyone - but you have to remember that a little boy with a wet crotch in first grade doesn't exactly radiate maturity or mental wherewithal to either the teacher, or the little boy's merciless classmates. And no, there was nobody at the door. For some reason lunch was a bad time for me in first grade at Wood School. I remember one day we had corn in our lunch cartons. I was innocently eating when I noticed the guy next to me placing a single kernel on his spoon, then bending the spoon back and then releasing it at another kid a few seats over. I watched as it seemed to rocket across the room like it was shot from a gun. That was amazing! Never in my experience had I ever come across anything like this. The lad was a genius to invent such a device! I watched him do it again and decided it was time to see if I could recreate this agricultural weaponry on my own. I held my spoon just so… Looking over at my neighbor to see if I'd set it up correctly. Then I plopped a chunk of corn into the bowl of the spoon. Yes, mine seemed to look about like his. Now let's see, you simply push down the edge of the spoon? As I did so, I looked over to see if it was really that simple… Yes, it… WHOOPS! The weapon fired before I was ready! I hadn't had a chance to aim it anywhere. Actually, to be honest, I don't think I'd even planned on firing the weapon… I just wanted to see if I could set it up! I'd been holding the spoon-weapon so that it was facing the front of the room. Watching in horror, the little yellow projectile sailed beautifully upward toward the front of the classroom following a mathematically perfect arc! Glancing ahead at its likely target, I saw the lunch monitor. She was standing up front, arms folded in a military stance while scanning the desks for unruly behavior. She never saw it coming. The corn kernel bounced exactly off the tip of her nose perfectly. If I'd been aiming for it, I'd have missed her completely. It was a very light morsel of food, so the resulting head bounce she gave had to be pure reflex. She had merely been startled - not physically wounded in ANY way. Nonetheless, despite the benign nature of the event, she stomped to the middle of the classroom demanding to know, "Who did that?!" As you know, children, especially first graders, are a socially cohesive bunch. They stick together in solidarity. So as a unit, every single child in the classroom (and I think even some who happened to be passing by in the hall) pointed their finger at me and yelled, "HE DID IT!" The monitor was clearly shocked and made me feel even worse by saying, "Little Stevie Paul?! I never would have thought you capable of such behavior!" No punishment. It was just that sentence of disbelief and disappointment. It was that very day that I vowed never again to partake of any culinary warfare. I hung up my plastic spoons for good. So be warned. If ever we find ourselves together in a cafeteria and a food skirmish breaks out. My role will never exceed that of conscientious objector.

Tums, or Rolaids, or Whatever...

My first full time job (40-hour week) was at a company called Raytheon (the very plant pictured above). I was hired as a clerk. It was the beginning of the year as I had recently failed out of college after a miserable first semester in the pre-med program at my state university. My highest grade was, I think, a "C" in my psychology course - calculus, physiology, chemistry, and physics didn't fare so well. (My misguided plan was to eventually become a psychiatrist.) Orientation and registration at the university had been a whirlwind and I was "advised" to take all these classes merely because they fit into a weekly schedule (two additional slots were needed for chemistry and physiology labs). Anyway, that experience was, as they say, an epic fail.

Despite the "epic fail," I admit to having been pretty relieved. I hated college. My only motivation for even attending college in the first place was that everyone had expected me to go. To make things worse, near the end of the semester my girlfriend had dumped me (pre-email days = letter). Well actually, to be accurate, she'd dumped me LONG before then, it was just that she didn't let me know until about this time. Anyway, just after the holidays, an official letter arrived inviting me not return to school. Once the family shock and disappointment in me waned, I was able to settle into a pretty happy contentment. The future and all its untapped opportunities lay before me!

My dad already worked at Raytheon, so that probably helped to get me that clerk position. Maybe, maybe not. But I recall the human resources lady doing my entry interview and finishing up with, "Be sure that you do a good job, Stephen." To which I sincerely and honestly replied, "I'll do my best." Apparently that wasn't a satisfactory response as she got a little huffy and said, "I expect that you will do better than that!"

Being young and accustomed to submitting to authority (i.e., anyone older than me), I didn't "talk back" or anything, but I did leave with an uncomfortable feeling that I'd screwed something up, AND that the woman I'd just spoken to was a blazing idiot. How can I do better than my best? Was I supposed to have LIED and said I'd give 110% or something? Cripes, it's impossible to do either! Although I didn't recognize it at the time, this was the first little hairline crack in my perfect post-college eggshell bubble I was trying to settle into.

Other fractures to my world were soon to follow (all of which finally got me the proper motivation to go to college again). Basically, my mind was too active for the job I was placed into. Exceptional pay and benefits are not enough to compensate for sitting nine hours a day (one for lunch) doing a stupid, inane, job. My job was to keep files on the parts that were stored in a cage next to my open-floor office and submit reorder requests when appropriate. That's it. It was a position that would be easily replaced by a computer program if anyone wanted to spend four hours to write it.

All the records were on stiff manila cards filed in rows of cabinets. Reaching into these day after day gave me endless paper cuts and bright red and bloody cuticles. I could finish my work in less than six hours. So I had to learn to take my time or I'd be bored silly looking for stuff to do.

Anyway, two embarrassing things happened to me on this job. I will tell you about the lesser of the two. The other one I still haven't fully recovered from yet.

The office area that I worked in contained about six or so desks. My desk was next to an old World War II vet's desk. He was in a wheelchair and had been a paratrooper during the war. Then there was the desk my boss (Sal) used. Then behind me were desks for the three ladies to work at (no idea what their jobs were). I only remember two of their names, Mona and Vickie. Let's call the other one, Sheila. Anyway, I flirted madly with Sheila and Vickie who were both married, but flirted and teased with me as good as I gave. Anyway, one day Sheila wasn't feeling well. She complained that her stomach was bothering her. Well, I told her to go to the nurse's office. You have to understand that this Raytheon was (is) HUGE. People got around on little carts that looked like motorized skateboards as well as golf carts. There was an actual little hospital area in there that had a nurse 24-7 and probably a doctor for some set times.

Ok, so I told her simply to go see the nurse and get some Tums or Rolaids or something. Amazingly, she said, "No way!" You see, she was afraid of hospitals and any of the related trappings thereof. I'd never met someone with such a strange thing to be afraid of, so naturally, I teased the crap out of her about it. That didn't last long because it isn't really much fun to tease people who are sick. They just don't give very good reactions, nor do they play back very well (or very nicely). She wouldn't smile whatsoever. So I gave up and went -slowly- back to my work.

After a while of listening to her little sighs and uncomfortable chair shuffle noises, I started feeling a little guilty which then turned to a little bit of sympathy. Maybe I could do something to cheer her up? So, I asked if she'd be willing to got to the nurse's office if I went with her?

No.

That turned into me suggesting that we could go and she would brief me on her symptoms and I would pretend it was MY tummy ache? She wouldn't have to say anything, and I would just sneak her the Tums or Rolaids or whatever when I got them.

No.

It wasn't much of a stretch to finally just say that I would go myself and get her something and bring it back.

Yes!

Fine. I had plenty of free time anyway. We briefed Sal about the plan so I could get permission to leave. He gave us a crooked look, but said fine-whatever. Off I went on my 15 minute walk to the nurse's station. My position was too lowly to allow the use of a motorized sled. I had to hike the full distance despite my tummy ache. It was actually a good thing to walk because I needed to get into character. How should I walk in? Holding my stomach while barely dragging myself in? No, don't over-act, Steve. What should I say? Should I try to cry? No, again, I had to remind myself not to over play the role.

I finally got there and the place was deserted. It looked like a chunk of a hospital plunked into the middle of a factory. After a bit, the nurse showed up and was very professional looking (white dress and hat and everything). This intimidated me a bit. I almost chickened out because I thought for sure she would know I was fibbing about my tummy pains. So I had to be sure to sell it. Holding my belly and bending a bit at the waist, I explained the terrible pain and how I knew everything would be ok if I could just have some Tums or Rolaids or something.

She escorted me to a small examination room and checked me out (blood pressure, etc.) and asked how long it had been hurting. Only this morning. Really, I think I just had a bad bit of breakfast. Tums… Rolaids, whatever you have, then I'll go. Please, I really have to get back to work, I barely have enough time to finish it all.

The nurse left me in the little examination room for a bit. Just enough time for me to start to feel a little guilty - maybe she knew I was fibbing. She'd gotten all my information, name, what department I worked in, the name of my boss. Gulp. Maybe she was talking on the phone reporting me right now! I was on the verge of sneaking out, but she already knew who I was and exactly where I worked, so I couldn't really get away.

When I had originally volunteered for this mission, I'd felt like a hero: A secret agent off to scam the "enemy" out of needed medical supplies. But now! Right now I was feeling like a naughty little boy who was waiting outside of the principal's office for my parents to show up so we could all talk about what a perfect criminal I was going to turn out to be.

Eventually she returned with a little paper cup in her hand! Yay! Success! The tablets must be in that little cup! My spirits soared a bit because I wasn't in trouble! I could get back into my spy fantasy!

Then the other hand came up with a very medicinal-looking bottle. Umm…?!

She poured from this bottle a murky watery greenish swampy juice. It plopped and dribbled from the mouth of this ominous brown bottle to fill the cup about a third of the way up. I literally had stopped breathing for the moment in order to let the consequences of my lies finally catch up with me.

So… umm, what is that?

It's called Tincture of Belladonna.

I was a college flunky, but I knew that Belladonna was the less scary term for Deadly Nightshade, a very toxic (extremely poisonous, hence the name) plant. As absurd as it may have been, I thought that I had actually been caught out in my lies and the company was going to kill me; make an example of me. I could keep my spy fantasy because I was like a spy about to be defeated unexpectedly by a beautiful woman (anyone get the joke there?).

Seeing my trepidation, the nurse assured me that it was a TINCTURE of belladonna. Not strong enough to poison me. Just enough to numb the tummy. Give me some relief to the obvious discomfort I was in. So, go ahead and drink it up! You'll feel better in no time!

Actually, I just wanted some Tums… or Rolaids… or something like that.

This is something like that, only better. Go ahead, drink.

Umm….

DRINK.

ok…. Gulp. Choke. Gag. Thanks… Gotta go back to work… feel better already… thanks… cough… see ya…

I staggered back to my work station. I have no memory of the walk back. Just a memory of leaving the nurse's station then next arriving back at my work area. I felt really sick. The partially strained swamp juice I'd allowed to drop into my stomach was having the exact opposite effect than described. Of course, I never had a tummy ache to begin with.

I went straight to my desk and Sheila asked where the Tums or Rolaids or whatever was. I explained that the nurse had made me drink the whatever. That was the only thing that made her smile that day. Actually, I don't remember that she actually smiled. It was more like she was laughing hysterically the rest of the day along with everyone else in the area she could tell it to. I had inadvertently made her feel better even in my failure to secure Tums or Rolaids, or whatever.

For the rest of my employ, there would be occasional mysterious deliveries of Tums or Rolaids to my desk when I wasn't looking. Nice.

Life and Living

http://www.nzimpressions.com/
An Alternative To Suicide

Of mossy green
and shining treats
With golden yellow
grimy teeth

I could blankly
sit and stare
Then slip my shoes
from off my feet

Into this
I'd slowly sink
From wading in
much too deep

Then I'd splash
my face and drink
From this stagnant pool
of boiling stink

The Long Shot

NPR has (had?) a segment called, "What I Believe" that would air every so often. I haven't listened for at least a year, so nobody try to guilt me into donating to NPR. Anyway, the few essays I listened to were interesting and got me to wondering what I'd say. So for lack of another topic for this month (I have a mere 1 hour and 40 minutes to get something in), here's a brief and probably poorly written ramble of something that I think I believe.

Growing up, I was pretty quiet and allowed others to pick on me without fighting back. I hated it, but never wanted to make things worse (which is what I assumed would be the result). So I think that as a result of that, I have a soft-spot for the underdog.

By "underdog" I mean a person or group (or animal, etc.) that seems to be the minority or hold the weaker stance in any conflict. So I am probably a sucker for the long-shot bet.

Another consequence of this bias is that I seem to have an automatic problem with authority figures. I can get over that problem as long as I can see the justification of that authority. If I think a person in charge is an idiot, I look for ways to avoid that person or thwart them in any way I can (without risking conflict that would result in escalation - because I am a wimp, after all).

I have enough experience to know that often the majority is right, and that the weaker position is weak for good reason. But it isn't always this way. So when I believe that a weaker person or group (etc.) is on the receiving end of abuse, it fires me up.

The word "belief" tends to conjure religious associations. For good reason, as religion is just belief adorned with bizarre ceremonies, costumes, trinkets of wood, plaster, paint, glass, gold, and too often, blood.

I am tired of religion. I am tired of hearing that all the good is thanks to God, while all the bad is our own fault. I cringe when I hear people say they will pray for this and that - like a cure for cancer. If (or when) such a cure arrives, its arrival will be credited to God by many. Not so much the people who lived and died working toward that cure. Losing sleep, some losing loved ones to the very cancers they were working to cure. This actually pisses me off because we (humans) are the underdogs.

Before anyone's nose gets out of joint, don't think that my point here is an atheistic one. I think it is a psychological one.

If this world was made for us, then we should be able to do with it as we will (which is what we've been doing). Surely God will step in before we ruin things too much, right? If someone were to calculate the man-hours spent praying in a given year, imagine how much time that would be?! What a waste of time! If you were on a slowly sinking boat, would it be a good idea to sit and pray, or bail water?

Here is what I believe. Until people can come to put their faith entirely in people, and just people, we will be a doomed race. Humans must come to believe in themselves. Children grow up and become self-sufficient - that doesn't mean they never had parents. So if you must continue to believe in a God, then fine - but you should believe more in people. There's more evidence that there are people on this planet than there is evidence of any particular god.

We seem to be a race of middle-aged children who have yet to leave our parents' basement bedroom! It's as though we expect that some guiding force will protect us from ourselves.

Why do we have to rely on that? Why can't we believe in ourselves?

So again, I find myself rooting for the underdog. In this case, us. Belief in a god seems to be an obstacle to our growth as a race. God is the abusive domineering partner in our relationship. But, like is too often the case in such relationships, we make excuses for the abuse, we come back to the abuser time-and-time again. We refuse the restraining order, we won't press charges. We think the abuse is our own fault (mostly true) and if we just behave better, we'll be taken care of (never true).

We call ourselves "civilized" but, as Inigo Montoya once said, "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

ACME: Chapter Four

Wake-up Call

Senator Card stood patiently behind the technician. He was staring in suppressed amazement at the display in front of them both. There, as if it were yesterday, stood the house in which his best friend and partner had lived over 30 years ago. The assistant was twiddling with the computer controls and the view began to corkscrew drunkenly closer to the dirty yellow two-story house. The constantly shifting view made the senator feel a bit queasy.

After almost losing his balance for the third time, he relented and reached to his side a bit to press a palm against the metal wall beside the console. Eventually the view on the display had completed its gyrating path toward the kitchen window. The screen darkened for a moment as the view passed through the wall just beside the window. The technician glanced nervously over his shoulder toward the senator and mumbled, "Sorry, I was aiming for the window." He was new at this, after all. Hell, he was also the most experienced at "this."

The view steadied and Card could see the old Formica table with the burns and scratches. There was a nearly empty pot of coffee and three dirty cups and assorted dishes scattered elsewhere on the table. The sink across the floor near the refrigerator was stacked half full with pots, pans, and a broken pot of soil. The senator smiled as the sudden memory returned. The plant should be in the pot on the stove, if he remembered everything correctly.

The technician tightened a few knobs and snapped a few toggle switches to fix the image. With a squeaky turn of his chair, he informed the senator that the computer was locked onto the appropriate coordinates. This was received with a grunt from the senator who stepped through the doorway out of the control booth toward the over-sized plywood shack sitting in the middle of the warehouse floor.

From a first glance, it appeared to be an absurdly gigantic warehouse. But it was necessarily so as it rested on top of more than sixty stories of densely packed technology. The shack was the only part of ACME that didn't need so much space.

As he walked toward the wooden crate that temporarily served as a step up to the only door on the ludicrously rustic looking shanty, he could feel his knees getting weaker. He found that he had to consciously herd his thoughts away from what he was doing. Or, more precisely, what he was about to do.

As a consequence of blocking out these thoughts, the senator felt as though he were walking in a dream. The simple and normal act of walking toward a doorway had suddenly taken on a strange surrealistic quality. Perspiration had begun to form at the top of his brow. Annoyingly, sweat beads were clinging to the front edge of his toupee. Each step brought about a tiny wiggle from the moisture-dots. Each tiny wiggle of sweat became an insect trying to squirm under his hairpiece. This helped him to not think about what was happening… what was about to happen.

Within this haphazardly built wooden box existed the face of the ACME. It contained the ACME emitter. Or, to be more precise and less poetic: sixteen orange-peel slices of curved metal that, when put together, formed a gigantic metal sphere. The outer shell of the metal sphere was actually only about a half foot thick. It was completely studded with what appeared to be giant bolts of metal and neon piping. Beneath the sphere, and leaking around various supports, was an ominous red glow. Most of the base of the metal sphere was actually the top of the ACME pad. The sixty stories of technology beneath the pad extended nearly eighteen stories beneath ground level.

The emitter of the ACME projected all the way up from the seventh sub level like a spinal cord accessing and projecting to floors of crystalline computer circuits and dense slabs of virtually infinite storage. This spine of ACME projected here at the 39th floor to form the floor, walls and ceiling of this relatively tiny metal orb. In fact, significant portions of the metal sphere were actually the beta and beta-prime data encoders. The actual emitter was a wire mesh spheroid inside the center of this technological disco-ball Senator Card was about to enter.

Layered, and fully integrated within the spherical emitter were seven crystalline shells, each capable of presenting data in almost any format and in any of over two million shades of color. Everywhere things were spherical except for the giant crate built around the ACME ball. He'd forgotten to ask why they decided to put a round peg in a square hole. Stupid scientists.

As the senator stepped up to the wooden crate, his foot caught the edge causing it to squeak on the floor like a metallic fart. The fart-echo resonated and reverberated much longer than it should have for such a dignified moment. Hand on doorknob, the senator glanced back at the control booth. There, the technician was leaning in the doorframe watching pensively.

With a deep breath, a sharp twist and pull of the doorknob, the senator swung the door open and launched himself inside the outermost portion of the orb. From here he could see the glowing red and metallic sheen of the primary ACME sphere. Someone had left behind a small yellow toolbox just beside the secondary entrance to the sphere. "Sloppy," he thought. There was no door to open into the ball; the entry was a gaping black portal barely big enough to step through. He could see nothing but swirling black.

"Are you sure this thing is on?" He yelled back through the doorway of the shed.

The small intercom next to his head crackled, startling Card enough that he almost fainted. "Yeah, you won't see anything until you step through the entry field. Just push through it; and whatever you do, don't touch the metal on your way through!" The technician smirked, feeling safe in his control room. There was no reason why the Senator should avoid touching the metal, but he knew it would be a bit of a squeeze for the portly old man.

Senator Card stood for a moment sizing up the portal. Slowly and carefully he poked his right leg slowly through the black swirling entryway. His toe bumped something solid on the other side, but his foot did find a surface to stand on. Still moving slowly, he added weight to the right leg and surfer-like squatted and pushed his right hand forward into the darkness as though pushing a curtain aside. Ducking a bit, he leaned into the portal and without thinking, held his breath and plunged through the hole.

Card was totally unprepared for the extent of the detail suddenly revealed. In response, his legs began to melt beneath him. Almost windmill-like, Card grabbed at the nearest kitchen chair and yanked it under him. The slack-jawed senator fell ballistically into the chair with a jolt that caused his jaw to close with a snap. Like a balloon popping, he exhaled and stared. It was all truly unbelievable.

The Senator fumbled a barely functioning hand forward to the table to grab at something - he got the saltshaker. He hefted its weight. He shook some salt into his hand, which then moved to his mouth. It tasted like salt! A smile began to spread across the senator's darkening face.

Years ago, on the advice of his closest but now deceased friend, the senator had stopped smiling; certainly never in public, anyway. By all outward appearances, the senator appeared at worst as a harmless but serious looking old man. When he smiled, though, a subliminal evil essence oozed from every nook, dent, and clogged pore in the man's face. The lines around his eyes and mouth sharpened to dagger points with smiles that had trapped children in their beds. Fearful of this waking nightmare, children would fear to sleep lest a smiling Card visit them in their nightmares.

Senator Card lifted a dinner plate and felt the chipped edge with his thumb. There were dried splotches of ketchup and baked beans here and there. Jesus it felt so real! He tapped the plate with a fingernail and heard the slight chime of the china. On impulse, he dropped it suddenly. With satisfaction, it bounced off of the table to smash onto the floor.

The crash was answered by a male voice from a room down the hall, much further away than the diameter of the sphere he was in could allow for. "Norm? Is that you, you rotten bastard? You shitin' up my kitchen again?" After a moment, his thirty-years-dead partner and closest friend stepped into the kitchen and immediately paled at the sight of the decrepit old man sitting at the table. From his partner's point of view, Card had become a bloated senior-citizen overnight.

"Christ! Who the hell… Norm…? Are you…? Is that you? What the hell happened to your face? Jesus, Norm!"

Senator Card had mentally rehearsed this meeting, hell, fantasized about this meeting thousands of times over the past seventeen years. What he'd say, how he'd be standing when he said it, and even what aftershave he'd have on. Hell, he'd even practiced in front of the mirror a few times. Now that he was actually here, the first and only word that croaked from between his two sweaty lips to this long-dead old friend was, "Incredible!"

* * *

That morning… I was reading the newspaper in my "library" when Norm helped himself to my kitchen. The crash nearly made me spill my coffee. I yelled to him while I tidied up my "office" with a flush. He tended to ruin the things he touched and Mary was plenty mad enough at me already because of Norm.

I remember shuffling down the hall to the kitchen. What I saw really shocked hell out of me. "Jesus Christ Norm, what the hell are you doing?" He looked sheepishly at me. And did his 'asshole' smirk at me. He looked like hell. Real hell. I even told him so.

"Norman, you really look like hell. I mean, more than usual."

Norm crunched across the plate-fragments on the floor and luckily fell, or sat, in the chair in front of me. He had the smirk going full blast. I knew this was bad, but it was spooky bad. He held my saltshaker in his hands and kept toying with the damn thing. "Incredible" was the last thing I thought he was going to start with, but oddly enough, it was the word on my mind when he said it. I just couldn't believe his face. He was ugly enough last night, but now… It was like he had someone stretch all the flesh on his face out and it just hadn't snapped back into place right. I figured he knew how he looked, so I stopped kicking him while he was down.

He had something on his mind; I could wait. There was a lot occupying my mind just then anyway. The newspaper headlines occupied my professional thoughts. The Fence was making news again. Not front page every day, but he was there today. The bastard. I was sure he had something to do with the body we found last week. It was disgusting. Nobody had ever seen such a thing. It was as if the guy had instantly turned into a sponge. Blood and guts, or whatever it was, had leaked out and hardened into a kind of shell around the body. The coroner upchucked on that one and I'd never seen that happen before. I figured that somehow Fence got hold of some kind of acid or maybe it was radiation? I dunno. I needed to check out a few sources downtown. Most of my thoughts, though, were tied up replaying the fight I had with Mary last night. My mind started working on that problem while my vulture eyes feasted on Norm's carcass of a face. It was truly an incredible sight.

Norm turned back to the table. He unscrewed the salt, spilling little irritating sprinkles on my jelly donut. "What's up Norm? You look like you were caught with the chief's wife or something." The look he gave me made the hair on my neck stand up, but I kept it to myself. I hate it when I hit close to home without trying. My partner put the salt shaker down precisely. He stared at his hand and blew out a breath I didn't realize he was holding.

"I never would have thought this could be so hard." He said to someone other than me it seemed. My hairy-neck began to prickle a little more. He lifted the back of his hand to his mouth and absently licked off the few grains of salt. He seemed about to say something but stopped to look at his hand. "My god. It really tastes like salt!" I was beginning to feel like I was in a Twilight Zone episode.

"Eddie," he began. "Look, I gotta get something off my chest." I waited. This must have been tough on him. He really looked shitty. In fact, as I looked at him, besides the face-wreck, it seemed like he hadn't slept in a week. He seemed bulky or bloated. I was getting that crawly sick feeling in my gut like he was gonna tell me he was going to die, or that he's been screwing my wife, or that he's been working for Fence and now he's got to kill me. I always try to get together a quick list of worst-case scenarios before I hear what sounds like bad news. It's never as bad as the real thing. I find it to be a helpful coping strategy.

"I can't tell you until I make something else clear to you first. This is probably going to sound crazy to you, Eddie, but, the truth is, you aren't really who you think you are." All that I could think of to say was "Mmmm?" I hadn't considered the possibility that an insane guy named Norm would be in my kitchen. I made a note to add this to my list next time.

He sighed impatiently and tried again. This time he had paperwork or something. He had removed a shiny blue business card out of his pocket. It read, "Atomic Chrono-Momentum Extrapolation (ACME), New Pasadena, California, Access code: International Operator, 40014001" I looked at Norm dead-on in the eyes. He was straight with this. "I'd always wondered where Coyote got his stuff."

"Ok, ok. Here then, look." Norm fished out his wallet. Things were feeling real weird, but weird got weirder when Ab-Norm (as I was thinking of him just then) pulled out a few hundred-dollar bills and without breaking eye-contact with me, placed one at random into my hand.

"Look at the bill, Eddie, is it real?"

I was always ready for Norm's little pop-quizzes. I checked it. It seemed ok to me. I was really having to concentrate, though. Norm was acting as if this were really important. I must be missing something. After a bit I gave it back.

"Yeah, it look's real to me," was the best I could do.

I held the bill out to him so he could show me what was wrong. Show me what I was missing. Norm didn't take the bill. Very slowly and deliberately, like he was ready to spring a surprise party, or a trap, he said, "Look at the date, Ed. What's up with that?"

I took the bill and stared at it again, this time with particular emphasis on the date. It had been printed in 2002. "I give up Norm, what's wrong with 2002? Did the government not print any in 2002?" Clearly I was failing this quiz. Norm's reaction wasn't what I'd expected though.

"What? 2002?" He snatched the bill back and looked at. "Christ!" He fumbled at his cabbage wad again and pulled a few out. "Here, check these..."

The hair at the base of my neck was starting to prickle. Where the hell did Norm get all these hundred dollar bills? Were the rumors true? Was he on the take? I never would have given that a second thought if it hadn't been for the money. So much, too much, of it for Norm to have so casually in his wallet.

* * *

The senator could see that his old friend was merely humoring him. It was infuriating. He'd worried so much about how his friend would react to the wonders of science, and there was simply no easy way to get through to him.

"Wait a second. Step back a bit to the hallway. Now watch." Card stood, turned, and stepped carefully to the front of the kitchen where he'd first come in. Sweeping his arm to reach just above and below his head, the senator inched forward feeling for the now invisible edge of the sphere's entrance. As he neared the far end of the sphere he began to crouch over so as to keep from hitting his head. Finally he could feel the smooth inner shell and the rim of the sphere entrance just above his forehead. He turned back to look at Eddie, leaned awkwardly back to wedge the top of his head against the otherwise invisible entry-portal. The senator folded his arms across his chest and grinned awfully at Eddie.

To Eddie, this performance looked like a bad mime act. Norm was really looking like a decrepit. No; he was looking like a senile old man. Although, he had to admit, the angle Norm was leaning at made it appear as though he was about a foot or so away from the front door. He really looked like he was leaning on thin air!

"OK Norm, nice trick. Now stop before you pop a hernia or something."

"Damn it, Eddie! This is not a fucking trick!" The senator's eyes blazed like they do before someone gets hurt. It had been a very long time since anyone had failed to take him seriously. There was also some strained frustration. He seemed unable to communicate his ideas to his old partner. It was essential that Eddie understand what was going on. He had to see the reaction or he would never buy into the ACME effect.

Besides, this little test meant that he was putting off dealing with some critical topics. Very critical topics. Topics that were getting more expensive as this program kept running and the ACME kept draining power resources.

"Come over here and feel this. It's the wall of the projection room we're in."

Eddie paused to consider this bizarre request. He wasn't really in the mood for this stupid-ass game playing. But things were not normal. Maybe Norman was "sick" and should be humored? He frowned and walked over to his partner.

"Here, put your hand right here, you'll feel it!"

Eddie looked blankly at Norman for a moment, then swung his hand up to the point in space indicated. There was nothing there, of course. His palm smacked nothing but thin air. But he patted at the air a bit without much enthusiasm. Humoring him, Eddie said, "Yeah, I feel that, kinda hard but soft, right?"

"Shit. You're part of the damn program, you can't feel it. Hang on let me think. Of course! The tools! Now we can get somewhere, Edster!" Eddie hated being called "Edster." He didn't actually like "Eddie" too much either. He sometimes felt that it made him sound too soft, or too friendly.

Card practically danced as he circled his large frame back toward the entry portal. He dragged the chair over to support his weight on one arm. Then he crouched a bit and with the other with the other arm, started patting at the air again.

Eddie was becoming less concerned about his friend and also less patient. He watched again as the world's worst mime started act two. But suddenly he saw Norman's hands disappear into nothing.

"Norm! What the hell… how did you do that?" Eddie whispered fiercely.

Card looked back over his shoulder with a strained grin then ducked forward and suddenly his head disappeared, followed by his arms up to his shoulders and then his waist.

"Norm! Jesus Christ, what are you doing?"

Eddie bent down and grabbed Norman by the belt and pulled. Both flew back toward the sink in a heap. Something dark flew from Norman's hands. Instinctively Eddie grabbed at it but wasn't able to hold it for long. Its weight and metallic bulk slipped from his fingers just before it clattered loudly against the kitchen sink and then slid along the floor to Card's feet, spilling things along the way. It was a small toolbox now opened with a few tools marking its path haphazardly like discarded children's toys. Looking at his friend with some amazement, Eddie could see that Norman's face had purpled and was sweating from the minimal exertion.

"How did you do that Norm? It was a great trick! Better than that mime shit!"

The senator began to reply as he plucked the tools from the floor and arranged them back into the box, but stopped suddenly. He frowned a bit at the army-green toolbox and its contents. "Funny," he thought, "I coulda sworn this had been a yellow toolbox." Then the senator's arm began that familiar aching. "Shit! Not now. Not now for Christ sake." he thought.

"Eddie, just sit tight for a while, ok? I need to go take care of something." The pain was beginning to numb his shoulder and spread hotly to his wrist and fingers. "I'll be back, partner. I need to think this through a little better. I'll try again real soon, promise!"

Card felt old, out of shape, and very foolish. This was mixed together with a frustrated impatience with himself that he hadn't endured since his rookie days. But, he had realized that this wasn't really a live performance. All he had to do was reset the program and try it again. His old partner would have no memory. This entire conversation would be erased the moment the ACME was powered down. He could have a do-over.

The throbbing in his arm had begun to dissipate and the tingle in his fingers signaled the false alarm. Nitro pills in his briefcase back in the control room were no longer important. All the Senator cared about now was getting the hell out of the machine. Forget about the sincerely concerned looks his ex-partner had given him. This needs to be done better. And it will be.

Senator Card turned his back on Eddie and ducked down toward where he thought the opening or exit should be. He had completely forgotten about not touching the sides of the doorway. Pressing his hands along the inner surface of the sphere he waved around feebly until he saw his hands disappear in front of him. He'd located the exit. He spread his hands out to find either side of the round portal so he could center himself and step through. He paused briefly to consider turning around and saying goodbye to his dead partner. But what the hell did it matter? As soon as they turned the machine off this would all be gone. His partner would be dead again anyway. Besides, fatigue was taking root. He had seen what he needed so now the automatic parts of his mind were taking over and gearing up for a nap. His muscles were getting numb and as excited as all this was, he had to admit that he was too much an old fart to do any more. He still had to get back to his office and organize his thoughts.

With a sigh, Card reached between his feet and grabbed the toolbox. With his free hand, he pulled himself through the hole. Instantly it felt as though there were firecrackers going off in his mouth, throat, chest, and belly. Dropping the toolbox, he yelled clutching and slapping at his chest and stomach. Card's initial and panicked thoughts were that he was having that heart attack anyway. That was quickly changed to a paranoid certainty that he had been betrayed and some malfunction in the ACME was causing his death. He'd had heart attacks before and they never felt like this.

* * *

After he watched his friend disappear into thin air carrying the toolbox, a sick dread moved through Eddie's gut. "What was it he said?" Glancing at the table he saw the saltshaker. "Right, he said, 'It really tastes like salt!'" Eddie shook a bit of the salt onto the back of his hand. With only slight hesitation he stuck his tongue into the little white patch of crystals. It tasted like salt.

He gave a deep sigh and stared at the floor to think about his partner. What was this going to do to their ability to work together as detectives? What was he going to tell Mary? Should he just forget this ever happened? What happened to Norm's body? His face? Then he finally noticed what his eyes had been fixed on while he'd been spacing out. It was a small screwdriver; one of the tools that had skittered out of the toolbox and under the table earlier. He bent a knee and reached through the legs of the chair and grabbed the tool. It was the only thing he had to prove to himself that it hadn't all been just a hallucination. But what proof? A screwdriver? What does that prove?

Pressing the tip of the screwdriver into his chin he tried to identify the spot where his friend had vanished. On a sudden whim, and feeling foolish the moment he did it, Eddie tossed the screwdriver at the space Card had disappeared into. It vanished before ever hitting the floor.

Eyes wide, and blood pounding through his ears, Eddie felt like a ghost had just walked across his grave. And then that ghost cried faintly into the wind. It almost sounded like Norm crying out, but it had to be Eddie's mental expression of the concern he felt for his clearly troubled partner. Not to mention the growing concern he suddenly felt for his own, apparently failing, sanity.

Slowly, Eddie walked closer to the spot where the screwdriver had ceased to exist. Tentatively he felt the air with some concern that he might lose a finger or worse. Much worse.

* * *

The technician happened to be watching the monitor when Eddie was swatting around looking for Card's exit hole. He had been about ready to initiate the shutdown sequence when, at the sound of the senator's cry, he leaped from the control booth and ran to the wooden shanty doorway where Card lay half out of the small building breathing heavily. Assorted tools were scattered all around his body. The senator had bruised his shoulder falling out onto the wooden crate that had farted at him earlier. As if foreshadowed, Card could not contain the sudden pressure in his bowels and let loose with an explosive release. At the sound, the operator skidded to a stop a few feet before the heaving senator's supine body.

Card looked up at the technician and snarled, "What the hell did you do to me?" He'd forgotten the tech's name, which was probably a good thing at the moment.

Icy-cold terror seized the technician's own bowls at the menacing tone of the senator's voice. "What do you mean? I didn't do anything! What happened?"

"It felt like my chest and stomach was exploding! God damn it! You had to have done something!" The senator's chest, stomach, and bowels were feeling better now and so he started to roll himself around to a sitting position. It would not do to be in such an undignified position when he screamed at this little puke asshole.

Had the senator been looking at the technician's face, he'd have seen the light go on, but he was instead looking at the scratch on his watch crystal. "You must have eaten something in there. Did you?"

"Eh? What? Eat anything? No, of course not, there wasn't any food in there at all! Just dirty damn dishes everywhere. As usual!"

"Well, it could have been anything, like water or even a bug. Did a bug fly into your mouth?"

"What the fuck are you talking about? A bug! A bug? Jesus, I'm gonna fly a bug up your ass in a minute! Make some sense you snot!"

"Senator, the ACME sphere's operational parameters require a fair balance between energy and matter going in and energy and matter going out. If you went in with less than when you came out the extra mass is automatically reclaimed at the portal. You must have put something in a pocket or more likely ingested something that put you 'off balance' during exit."

Slowly the senator's light went on… the damn salt. "Oh Christ, the salt. I tasted the salt. Will I get fried if I go take a piss?"

After a moment of scrotal introspection, the humming of the ACME brought Card back to the moment. To the silent and fearfully immobile technician he tilted his head a bit and purred, "Is this thing still running? Am I spending a million dollars a second of the tax payers' money for no fucking reason? Should we be keeping track so that we can take it out of your pay?"

"No sir, I mean, yes sir, the ACME is still operational, but I'll go shut it down right now. No, you shouldn't have any problem taking a… I mean, going to the… well… there shouldn't be any more side effects, sir." Shane scampered away to slam the emergency shutdown.

Senator Norman Card could feel the system shutting down around him. In fact, it was difficult to not notice the sparking between power conduits as energy expenditures were being rebalanced. Eventually the subliminal vibrations of the machine faded making them noticeable only by their sudden absence. One of the tools on the floor in front of him was a mini flashlight. Curiosity tickled him and he bent down to grab the light. Turning, he re-entered the small ACME sphere, now dark. He shined the flashlight around at the very reflective curved walls. Turning, he glanced down and froze. At his feet was that damned saltshaker from Eddie's kitchen table.