Sunday school

I first sensed that life wouldn't be fair when my mother started sending us to Sunday School. It wasn't so bad before I started attending regular school, but once I started getting up early every day to educate my mind, I wasn't too thrilled to be forced to get out of bed on a Sunday morning to educate my soul.

A Christian Science church doesn't have much to occupy a kid. They are pretty plain. There isn't much decoration except for Bible quotes on the walls. They aren't like a Catholic church where you can at least get caught up in the spectacle of it all. They don't even have preachers or priests. They have readers . So you sit there while a couple of people read out of the Bible and the Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy.

It was a little bit better when we would break off into groups based on our ages. We'd go off to separate rooms and talk about what the reader's had read during the service. The only thing worse than listening to the readers at church was talking about it.

My other problem with Sunday School was when I started applying the cognitive reasoning I was learning in regular school, I was having a real hard time buying the bill of goods they were trying to make me believe based on faith alone. I began asking the Sunday School teachers questions like, "If god created everything and everything he created was good, where did evil come from?" I don't even remember the answer, but I know it never satisfied me.

Christian Scientists don't really believe in a devil per se. When you were sick or tempted to do something wrong, it was an "Error in thinking." When I would tell my mother I wasn't feeling well, she would tell me that that was "error" speaking. For years I thought she was saying "air." And I formed this image of the devil being made out of dark smoke or air.

I finally stopped going to Sunday School when I was 16 years old. I had a girlfriend by then and she was concerned that, being a Christian Scientist, I wouldn't go to a doctor if something was seriously wrong with me. It was just the excuse I needed to finally tell my mother I didn't want to go to Sunday School anymore. She was very disappointed. My brother's had given it up long before me. I had been her last hope of having a good Christian Scientist son.

I think being a Christian Scientist did help me learn how powerful our minds are when it comes to dealing with illness. But I honestly never missed being part of an organized religion. And to this day I sleep in on Sunday's and enjoy every minute of it.

And as I wrap up this post and try to post it, it keeps giving me error messages.

Or they could be air messages. It makes me wonder.

Monsters

I don't really like mixing my work world with my blog world. But a local telvision program ran a story about an ad campaign I worked on and interviewed me. So if you are curious as to what my day job is, watch this video.

Daily Exorcise

"To work it out I let them in
All the good guys and the bad guys that I've been
All the devils that disturbed me and the angels that defeated them somehow
Come together in me now"
--Paul Williams; Phantom of the Paradise, "Phantom's Theme"

I was in high school when Linda Blair was freaking the world out in The Exorcist. I saw the movie at a drive in with some friends. Not being a Catholic I didn't get what all the fuss was over. Okay, the scene where Linda Blair abuses herself with a crucifix was kind of disturbing, but I didn't go into convulsions like the press was reporting that many movie goers were after viewing the film.

Watching The Exorcist was the first time I'd ever heard about exorcism though. Since then, I've seen tons of movies and read many books in which people are possessed by demons and have had to go through an exorcism to expel the demon ( or demons depending how popular the possessed person is) from their bodies.

I don't literally believe in demonic possession. But in a metophorical sense, I believe we could all use a little daily exorcism to get rid of our demons. Or maybe we need a ritual that helps us embrace our demons. Or accept them. Or just recognize them for what they are. Because I think I have met my demons and they are me.

Now before you suggest I get fitted for a straightjacket (44 regular if you must), I'm just pointing out that instead of looking for a demon to blame all of your faults, woes, misfortunes and bad behaviour on, perhaps you can just look in a mirror and acknowledge that maybe, just maybe there is no outside source to blame. There is no devil, it's not your mother's fault, the government isn't conspiring against you and you weren't cursed for ripping those tags off the bottom of your mattress years ago.

It kind of points back to my discussion about Yin and Yang last month. What makes us "us" is that delicate balance between angels and devils. We are all good and bad. Even saints sometimes leave the toilet seat up. And I bet even devils sometimes help old ladies cross the street.

So maybe instead of a daily exorcism of our demons, we should exercise both our demons and our angels. It's the only way they can learn to play nice together.

Fog

Fog

THE fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
--Carl Sandburg

I always thought Carl Sandburg's poem was the best description I'd ever read of fog. When I first read it as a child, I thought it described fog perfectly. Though growing up in Idaho, we didn't have harbors (or much of a city for that matter). Our fog came creeping out of the Boise River and settled primarily over the airport each winter.

Still, I loved fog. It was mystery. It was intrigue. It cloaked everyday objects in a misty coat of shifting shadows. I was always very disappointed when the cat moved on.

Seattle has its share of fog. It can slink into the city for days. I remember my first year at college in Seattle. I was heading home to Boise for Christmas and sure enough Sea-Tac Airport was socked in by fog. I waited for hours and finally my airplane popped through a window of fog and winged me to Boise only to discover the fog had beaten me there. The Idaho Statesman ran a photo of my father at the airport staring out the window at the fog while he waited for my plane. The plane landed in Idaho Falls a hundred miles away and I had to take a bus into Boise.

The fog hung around Boise through the holiday and I had to take a Grayhound back to Seattle. When I arrived at the bus station and stepped into a cab at 2 a.m. to go back to my dorm, the cab driver pointed out that someone had stolen the Space Needle. Sure enough when I looked up, the Space Needle had been decapitated by a fog bank.

You have to admire the fog's persistence.

Fog is often used as a metaphor for clouded thought. But to me it is clarity. Fog smooths the lines of reality and softens our point of view. My dreams are often filled with fog.

I think when my time comes, and others are stepping into the light, I will walk into the fog instead.

Debate

Tuesday night is a vast wasteland on television. I found myself watching a a political debate between three candidates for a state of Washington Senate seat. It reminded me that I loath politics and politicians.

The debate was predictable. The Republican spouted right wing
Republican rhetoric. The Democrat spouted liberal Democrat rhetoric and the Libertarian spouted gibberish.

The journalists asking the questions asked predictable questions about the war, the economy and the environment. The responses were artfully vague and lacking in any real course of action on any of the issues.

If I were there, I would have at least asked interesting questions of the candidates that they couldn't have been prepped for:

Do you think Berber carpet is preferable to shag?

How much wood could a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?

Have you ever wondered where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent?

Who framed Roger Rabbit?

It would have been fun to watch them flip through their crib sheets looking for answers to those questions. I think the Libertarian would have nailed them.

Self-portraits of the blogger as a young man

Before digital cameras and Photoshop, there was film, dark rooms and water colors. I dabbled. It wasn't as flexible as Photoshop. You didn't have the luxury of instantly knowing what you were getting. You took the photo, processed it, and printed photos and hoped for the best.

Even then, I messed around with self-portraits. The model fees were cheap and giving direction was much simpler. I could only print in black and white in my dark room. So I played around with hand coloring prints. The contact sheet above is a sample of one of my experiments.

I never really knew what I was doing or why. Sometimes I pretended I was being an artist. At the very least, I was capturing a piece of my own past in a colorful way.

Now we have almost completely become a digital society. Photoshop is much simpler than the darkroom. And I still like experimenting. The beauty is that I can still work in self-portraits, past and present. Digital painting opens up whole new worlds.

Un-Enlightened

It is sometimes nice to be in the dark. Enlightenment requires a heck of a lot of batteries. Sitting in the dark can be pretty peaceful.

I haven't always felt this way. When I was little, I was afraid of the dark. When the lights went out at bedtime, I pulled the covers over my head. Eventually, I allowed my nose to stick out. I eventually accepted that some demon wasn't going to rip off my face and pulled the cover down to my neck and exposed my whole head. I did get my mosquitoe bites on my eyelids, but that's another story.

Bottomline, I learned to accept the dark. Sometimes I even prefer it. Or I prefer dimly lit environments. There is nothing like soft light and shadows to soften reality.

It dawned on me (no pun intended) that some of you may be thinking I am referring to light and dark in a metaphorical sense here. You are thinking that light represents reality and darkness a delusional veil of fantasy that dulls it.

Not so.

Hey, don't use that denial crap on me. This is my life and my blog. I know when I'm being metaphorical or not.

I just like the dark.

I do.

Half full or half empty

I've always been a bit annoyed at the over optimistic twits who debate the burning question of whether a glass is half empty or half full. It is a relative question. If you are at a conference dinner for 1100 people, you can look at the glass as half empty and not a snowball's chance in hell of ever being refilled by the hundreds of servers scurrying around taking your salad before you are done so that they can serve the entry quickly and sneak off for a cigarette break.


I don't think it is wrong to see a glass as half empty. It's how you react at that point that counts. Some sit there and wait for it to be filled. Others don't care because the water tasted funny anyway. Some start screaming for someone to fill it up. And finally, some simply go find the water jug and fill the glass up themselves. I think I'd hire the latter type of person.

I personally consider it optimistic to look at a glass that is filled half way and be grateful it doesn't have a hair or cigarette butt in it. But then again, I have always believed the easiest way to clear a hurdle is by lowering the bar so you can step over it. You are less likely to trip and it is much easier on the knees. This is not to say I lack ambition. I am just practical and tire easily. I'm getting to old for high-impact activities.

So the next time someone asks you whether you think the glass is half empty or half full, pick it up and throw the contents into their face and say, "I'd definitely say it's empty, now."

Social graces

I have discovered something about myself on this business trip. I am not a social creature.

Most people go to conferences to network. I am still of the mind that a network programs your television or, is something IT people maintain. This is why I am an anomaly in the marketing world. I really don't like to schmooze.

Other than the reception I slunk my way through last night, I've avoided hospitality suites left and right at this conference. I really don't want to buy anything from anyone and I am not selling. I am not looking for a job or trying to find someone for one. So I don't have the energy to "go fish" with my business cards in a hotel suite just to get a free drink and a stress ball with some bus company's name on it.

I haven't even sought out collegues to go to dinner with. I am perfectly fine with dining alone or calling room service. So obviously I will never be a leader in my profession or a person who will seek public office. I am not a good old boy nor am I that kind of guy everybody knows and likes. I can walk into a room and go completely unnoticed even though I've worked in this industry for almost a quarter of a century.

The cheese stands alone.But I do like crackers.

A star is born

I do know the way to San Jose. I am here at a conference. I attended an award ceremony today and won a major award for an ad campaign. It is like the Academy Awards for public transit advertising except no one televises it and no one judges what we wear on the red carpet (thank god).

This is my sixth such award in ten years. One would think I'd be used to the spotlight by now.

I'm not. I like the trophy. But I have never liked people staring at me. It makes me want to shout, "I see dead people" and running. But I went up on stage and accepted my trophy, let them take my photo and left.

Tonight I went to a consultant reception at an adjacent hotel. Unlike the show Entourage, I had no crew to go with me to the reception. I had to suck down drinks, eat prime rib sandwiches and shrimp all alone. But I was fine. I moved around the food station effortlessly because I am a star. I have a trophy.

No one talked to me. I think they were intimidated. Being a star will do that.

The Pooka Polka

"The Púca (also Pooka, Phooka, Phouka, Púka) is an adroit shape changer, capable of assuming a variety of terrifying forms. It may appear as an eagle or as a large black goat (its name is a cognate of the early Irish 'poc', 'a male goat' and it lends its name to Puck, the goat-footed satyr made famous in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream), but it most commonly takes the form of a sleek black or white horse with a flowing mane and glowing yellow eyes. "
--Wikipedia

polka n 1: music performed for dancing the polka 2: a Bohemian dance with 3 steps and a hop in fast time
--Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary (1913)

"Well, I've wrestled with reality for 35 years, Doctor, and I'm happy to state I finally won out over it."
--Elwood P. Dowd, Harvey

I didn't really know much about Pookas before I started writing this post. I first heard about the Pooka when I watched the movie Harvey years ago. It starred James Stewart as Elwood P. Dowd. Elwood P. Dowd's best friend was a Pooka. This Pooka, however, took the form of a six foot three giant rabbit named Harvey. Harvey hung out in bars, drank and basically was harmless.

The Pookas from Celtic mythology apparently weren't quite as benign. Wikipedia goes on to describe the Pooka as "...the most terrifying of all faery creatures. One reason for this is its appearance, but its powers are also feared. It is said to waylay travellers and others about at night, and if it is able to toss them onto its back, it will, at very least, provide them with the ride of their lives, from which they will return forever changed. "

I think it would be fun to take a ride on a Pooka and return forever changed. But those supernatural kinds of adventures never really happen to me. The closest thing I get is to ride the train every day to and from work. It beats riding a bus, but I don't feel forever changed.

I do have a couple of Puka shell chokers from the 70s. I can also honestly say I have never danced a Polka. But I digress.

The thing I liked about Elwood P. Dowd's Pooka Harvey was that he was a jovial kind of creature that one would really like to hang around bars with. I imagine the author of the screenplay made Harvey a giant rabbit instead of the traditional Pooka was that having a white horse with blazing yellow eyes hanging out with you in a bars would seem kind of weird. Plus there is the issue of the massive amount of manure horses produce. A giant rabbit is much more manageable.

Watching the movie or the play, one never quite knew whether Harvey was a hallucination brought on by Elwood's drinking or a real spirit only he could see. I pretty much think this is the case with most mystical creatures. You never really see them, but you can't quite bring yourself to dismiss them altogether. Because you never really know. Just because you can't see something, doesn't mean it isn't there.

Look at air.

You can't (except in parts of Southern California). I rest my case.

Half baked fears

Our television is full of demonic icons conjured up by ad executives to prey upon our fears in order to sell products. Pop N' Fresh, the Pillsbury Dough Boy for instance. What is he other than a terrorist with a chef's hat. There he is with his pasty face, blackhole eyes and bloated body, leering at you while you try and open an explosive pipebomb of biscuit dough. What's not to be afraid of?

Or take the "Jolly" Green Giant and his little imp "Sprout." Isn't he just the flesh eating ogre from the Jack and the Beanstock story? And Mr. Clean is a defrocked genie who dresses like an orderly in a mental hospital, spraying disinfectant on everything. Perhaps he is in league with the Coo-Coo for Cocoa Puffs bird.

The list goes on. There's the sinister leprechaun taunting you from a cereal box, "Orange moons, yellow stars, they're all after me luck charms..." Can we say, "WITCHCRAFT!" I'm sure he hangs around with his buddies Snap, Crackle and Pop or the Keebler elves casting spells.

The Geico Gecko slithers around talking in a Cockney accent like a slimy Artful Dodger from Dickens. He might as well be tempting us with an apple. Can we say, "THE DEVIL!"

I'm here to say, "RESIST!" Get TIVO. Fast forward through the spew that is speaking in tongues through your plasma screen before it's too late.

Do it before midnight tonight...my god what am I saying...argggggggggggggg....

School of thought

Only dead fish go with the flow.
--Anonymous

Never wrestle with a pig: You both get all dirty and the pig likes
it.
--Even more Anonymous

Wise men make proverbs, but fools repeat them.
--The most Anonymous

Anonymous is my favorite philosopher. I believe he was Greek. I think he is also responsible for the phrase, "That's Greek to me."

Regardless, I am amazed that some people can open up a fortune cookie, read the fortune and then quote it for the rest of day like Einstein had just explained relativity to them. But then again, People Magazine is one of the most widely read magazines in the country. So that says a lot about the thinking processes of much of our population.

It does make me wonder about what makes people believe in one thing over another. We have so many polarized views in the world over politics, religion and just basic reality. What makes people jump on one bandwagon and not another?

I look at lots of research as part of my job. Statistically, people are generally fixed on one side of an issue or the other. And once they are there, you can do very little to change their minds. It's the undecided people marketing and public relations people target with persuasive arguments trying to get them to jump to one side of fence or the other.

I think initially children absorb the belief systems of their parents. The weak minded ones never break free of those belief systems. I think really good teachers teach you how to think and not to accept. That's where the smarter people break free from what they are told and develop opinions of their own.

It still amazes me when someone latches onto a really stupid idea and clutches it with a death grip, even in the face of daunting evidence that it is bull shit. Perhaps that is why I like Penn and Teller's Showtime show, Bull Shit. It rattles the cage of scared cows and makes them moo. Unfortunately, as with most great things, it is like preaching to the choir because only people receptive to it watch it. The idiots that need it are too busy watching Survivor.

But then again, all of this is just my opinion.

Making a point

I violated my own "don't write a long post" rule when I wrote about my dog Shep. But the rule was more tongue in cheek than pronouncement. I think the number of words should match the occasion. Shep deserved a few more paragraphs than my usual drivel. Though I seriously doubt that, unless he was your dog, it was a riveting piece of prose and captured too many people's attention.

Which is the point about blogging versus writing. If you make your living writing, you don't have the luxury of self-indulgence (unless, of course, you are someone like Stephen King...then you have enough money to indulge yourself to your heart's content). Blogging, on the other hand, is by and large always about self-indulgence. You write what you want when you want.

This is what makes blogging addictive and cathartic. It is also what makes it an iffy proposition if you are looking to be entertained on a regular basis. Let's face it, day to day life just isn't that interesting. Me writing about cleaning my desk and finding a ten-year old doughnut in a tape dispenser (don't ask) is fascinating to me, but not to a lot of other people.

I think this is why blogging hasn't caught on to a mainstream audience. They are too busy watching reality TV shows about the Dallas cheerleaders to waste time reading random thoughts from millions of strangers. And it is why any of the delusional bloggers out there thinking they are going to be discovered and made famous blogging are in for a very long wait (as in snowball's chance in hell).

Oh well, I'd better get back to cleaning up my desk. I need to find some coffee to go with that doughnut.

A boy and his dog

Old Shep

"When I was a lad
And old Shep was a pup
Over hills and meadows we’d stray
Just a boy and his dog
We were both full of fun
We grew up together that way

Old Shep he has gone
Where the good doggies go
And no more with old Shep will I roam
But if dogs have a heaven
There’s one thing I know
Old Shep has a wonderful home"
--Elvis Presley (words & music by foley - westpar)

When I was a baby, our family had a dog named Lucky. Lucky wasn't. He had a tendency to bite people so my mother sent him away to live on the perverbial farm when I was a toddler.

The first dog I really remember when I was growing up was Shep. That's me in the photo above, towering over him when he was a puppy. It was nice to have someone in the family shorter than I was.

Shep was a Beagle-Dachshund mix. Our neighbor had been hunting and found Shep and his brother abandoned in field. And being your typical five-year old boy, my radar discovered the puppies the minute the neighbor brought them home. I would run over there the minute I got home from school and roll around letting the puppies swarm over me trying to lick my face. The puppies were identical except one had a a small tuft of white hair at the end of his tail. That made him special to me.

I should have known then I'd have a career in marketing. It didn't take me more than two days to convince my parents we needed one of the puppies. I remember bringing the "special" puppy home, adament that I carry him despite the fact that he was almost as big as me.

I named the new puppy Shep. I'd never heard the Elvis song, "Old Shep." At the time, I don't think I knew who Elvis was. Shep was short for "shepard," because it was around Christmas and I liked the phrase "the shepards stood watch in the fields at night." Give me a break, I was five years old.

Shep would be waiting patiently for me when I came home from school and respond untiringly when I threw a ball or stick. My father built him a doghouse. I drew pictures of dog family portraits and glued them on the inside walls of the doghouse. Shep seemed to like the drawings. At least he never complained about them to me.

Shep soon became part of the family. He would go everywhere with us. He loved riding in the car. He would ride in the back seat with my brothers and I'd ride in the front seat with my parents. I used to get car sick so both he and I would have our heads out the car window at the same time. Shep was much more sympathetic than my father was when I'd toss my cookies out the window onto the side of the car on a particularily windy road.

Shep was chronically flatulent (something he and my oldest brother Ted had in common). So I always appreciated that, with Shep's head out the car window, his butt was in my brother's face for hours during most trips. Shep would also get very excited when he was going on a trip. The more excited he got, the more flatulent he became and the more my brothers suffered.

I remember on trip in particular. My brothers started hollering for my father to stop because they were sure Shep needed to relieve himself (apparently the farting was reaching a new level). It was a mountain road and places to pull over were few and far between. My father responded to the emergency in his usual fashion. He yelled at my brothers to shut up. My mother responded in her usual fashion. She started giggling uncontrollably and rummaging in her purse for a tissue. I forgot about being carsick momentarily as my brothers began calling out, "It's coming out." My mother found the tissue in the nick of time and I relished the fact that my brothers were forced to catch Shep's crap in a Kleenex. Shep meanwhile continued to enjoy the scenary. Dogs are pretty nonchalant about such things.

Shep loved to go camping with us. He loved the outdoors. He was one of the few ones in the family (other than my oldest brother Ted) who actually liked to accompany my father fishing. He'd trot along for hours with his Beagle body and Dachsund legs without complaint as my father worked the Middle Fork of the Boise River for trout.

On one trip Shep actually saved Ted from drowning. Ted had waded out into a particularly deep portion of the river and lost his balance in the swift current. Shep, happened to be paddling around nearby and Ted grabbed his tail. Shep pulled him to shallow water (though I think he may been more interested in saving himself than Ted).

Shep lived to a ripe old age of about 12 years. To the end he loved the ladies (unlike the polictically correct society of today, we never had Shep "fixed"). Any chance he could, he'd be over the fence looking for a date. It's what eventually did him in. One night he never came home. My father went out looking for him and came back in about an hour crying and carrying Shep's limp body. He'd been hit by a car. It was one of the few times I'd ever seen my dad cry. I helped him bury Shep in the backyard under a tree. And we both wept together at the loss.

To this day, when I visit my mom in Boise and walk out into the backyard of the house I grew in, I think of Shep. I pay my respects at his grave and, though I'm not a religious man, I know his spirit is somewhere chasing the wind and laughing the way dogs do when they are happy.

And if this post seems maudlin to you, than so be it. Shep and I were children together and were best friends as only a boy and his dog (or a girl and her dog) can be. He was a good soul. I think he deserves a tribute.

You want the Tutu-ruth?

"So chances are that the truth could come waltzing up to most people wearing a pink tutu and a feather duster in its bum and no one would recognize it anyway."
--Tim Id, Lost and Profound

I've always wanted to quote myself. So here is the pink tutu. You'll have to use your imagination when it comes to the feather duster. Some things are just private. And I can't really waltz.

The truth is that I am just an ordinary person with extraordinary aspirations. But then, aren't we all?

Take geniuses for example. Someone is considered a genius if they have an IQ of 140 or more. Wouldn't it be a bitch to have an IQ of 139? Wouldn't that just suck? No one wants to be known as almost a genius. "Hey, there is my son. He's not quite a genius, but he is close."

The truth is, I'm not a genius, but I want to be. I want to win the race, not just finish it. I want to be Miss America (not literally), not be the first runner up. I want to be on the red carpet, not standing behind the rope. I want to be in First Class, not sitting one row behind the curtain eating peanuts. I want to be somebody, not just somebody's brother.

The truth is that it is important whether you win or lose, not how you play the game. Coffee is for closers. Winner's do get the spoils. The meek won't inherit the world. Nice guys do finish last. No one will respect you in the morning. Government doesn't work for your good and no, there is no check in the mail.

The truth is that the truth is not pretty. Just look at my picture.

Dark wings

I'm feeling a bit lugubrious (yes, there is that word again) about my blogging of late. My flights of fancy seem to all be taking a dark turn. Maybe it is the time of year. Fall always has me flirting with melancholy.

It's not even that I feel like I'm in a rut when it comes topics for my posts. Making something out of nothing is my speciality. I'm just wondering if nothing is enough.

I'm beginning to feel like my friend Gunter. But at least he has his lack of command of the English language to blame his incomprehensibility on. I'm beginning to think all I can blame mine on is being obtuse.

My essay on how Leon Spinks is not really the legendary Sphinx of Thebes fell flatter than the Sphinx did when it threw itself off the wall when Oedipus answered its riddle. Shoot, I even have michael suggesting I have Lights rewrite my Dr. Zeus poetry and Kristy correcting my grammar. How can you get much lower than that?

I suppose I should just call it quits. I should board up Dizgraceland and fire all of the servants. I should slink off into the electronic ether of the Internet and fade away like the rest of the shadows. It would be just as though I'd written everything here in the sand. If I walked away the waves would come and within minutes there would be no sign that I'd ever been here.

But that's life.

I told you I was feeling lugubrious.

Incessant chatter

Blather is blather whether you talk it or write it. I try not to engage in it. I prefer these Blizkrieg-like posts where I get you in and send you packing in under two minutes. If a post requires most people to scroll past one screen, I've pretty much lost them.

Unfortunately that is the way I am when I read things on the Web. Put it on a printed page and I can read Moby Dick (but not necessarily like or understand it). Put it on a computer screen and my attention span becomes gnatlike and I become a good candidate for ritalin.

Putting images in your online text helps. Make them animated and I will stare at them like my beloved lava lamp and ooh and ahhh like I'm watching Fourth of July fireworks. But make me scroll and read long blocks of text that aren't even broken into bite sized paragraphs and I'll soon be tapdancing like a chicken on a hotplate.

It's not that I don't appreciate well-written prose or profound insights into life. I'm just like the millions of other attention deficit time-impaired people who need to multi-task while they skateboard down that information highway. Most of the time I'm also watching television or reading something else while I'm surfing the Web. Give me a fast lane, not a detour with speed bumps. Say what you want to say, don't get too poetical and keep it within one or two screen scrolls.

It's a new medium we are creating out here. Call it junk journalism or minute essays, but if you want to get your message across, do it quickly and concisely. Make it interesting. Make it shocking. But don't make it drone on forever.

None of us are getting any younger.

Riddle of the Sphinxes

What goes on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three legs in the evening?
--Riddle of the Sphinx
I know a lot of people think I'm dumb. Well, at least I ain't no educated fool.
--Riddle of Leon Spinks
A sphincter says, what?
--Stupid riddle

In Greek mythology, a Sphinx (a winged creature with a lion's body and a women's torso) sat outside of Thebes and asked a riddle of anyone stupid enough to pass by and stop. If the person failed to solve the riddle, then the Sphinx killed and ate them. But if the traveler answered the riddle correctly, then the Sphinx, a bit of a prima donna, would destroy herself. Until the Sphinx met Oedipus, this wasn't a problem.

If you aren't familiar with Greek myths or psychological syndromes, Oedipus was the son of the King of Thebes. The king was told by an oracle (the ancient Greek version of Psychic Hot line) that he would be killed by his own son who would then marry his mother. The king was obviously kind of bummed by this revelation and ordered a servant to pierce his son's ankles and leave him to die on a lonely mountain.

A shepherd found the boy and took him to the King of Corinth. The queen didn't have any children of her own and believed the gods had sent this one. She named the boy Oedipus (which is Greek for swollen foot...I'm not making this up). They never told Oedipus that he was adopted or that his name meant, "swollen foot."

As fate would have it, another oracle told Oedipus that he would kill his own father and marry his mother. Oedipus loved his parents (but not in that way). So he left Corinth rather than risk having the prediction come true. On the road he ran into his real father, the king of Thebes. The king was rude to Oedipus and the two ended up fighting. Oedipus killed him. Personally, I think the guy had it coming.

Oedipus proceeds to Thebes, runs into the Sphinx who asks him her riddle: What goes on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon and on three legs in the evening? Oedipus thinks and says, "Uh...a man?" The Sphinx replies, "No...er...well, yes." Then she falls off the wall and dies. Most of the people in Thebes were relieved. The Sphinx was kind of putting a damper on the tourist trade.

Oedipus was treated as a hero and taken to the palace where he meets the widow of the Thebian king (his mother). She hasn't seen her husband in a year and seduces Oedipus. They marry. Eventually they find out that the oracle's prediction has come true. Oedipus' mother hangs herself and Oedipus plucks his eyes out (personally I think he should have plucked something else off, if you catch my drift).

The lesson here, other than not killing your father and marrying your mother is not to mess with karma and solve any Sphinx's riddle. If you do, you could end up like Oedipus or Leon Spinks.


Okay, and just for the record, Leon Spinks technically has nothing to do with the Sphinx of Thebes. Some people may think so since his last name sounds like "Sphinx," but is spelled, "Spinks." Spinks was the Heavyweight Champion of the World back in the late 70s. He beat Muhammad Ali in a historic fight in Las Vegas in 1978 to gain the crown. Muhammad Ali was kind of old at this point and a boxing legend, so it was kind of like symbolically killing your father. But he made up for it by fighting Ali again in September of that year and losing the title.

After getting the crap beat out of him for several years, Spinks went on to make his at major autograph signing shows throughout the United States. Ironically it is said that if you approach him on the street, he will sign an autograph for free.

There is a lesson somewhere here, but I just can't put my finger on it. But if someone ever does say to you, "A sphincter says, what?" Don't respond, "What?"

Dr. Zeus

Sometimes I wish I was the god Zeus,
Don't laugh and point, I'm not a silly Geus.
I just think it would be fun to live on Mount Olympus,
I'd be big, and strong and not a human Wympus.

Being king of the gods would really be a feat,
I'd be loved, I'd be worshipped, I'd be one of the eleat.
I could throw bolts of lightening and start lots of fires,
While woodnymphs and fair maidens serenaded me with their lires.

But sadly, Zeus was just a god of the Greeks,
If you believe in him now, people will say you're a geek.
Still, now and then, being Zeus would be fun,
Being a god really rules, when all's said and dun.

Third eye wide shut or salute to the pineal gland

"Man, I'll try just about anything, but I'd never in hell touch a pineal gland. "
--Dr. Gonzo, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

I've never really given my pineal gland much thought before I started writing this post. It is a small gland (about the size of a pea) located in the center of the brain. Being a gland, I always assumed that it secreted things. And I don't associate pleasant images with the word "secreted." It is right up there with "ooze." It conjures up images of slugs and poisonous toads "secreting" vile liquids.

The pineal gland's job, however, is to produce melatonin. The production of melatonin is inhibited by light and stimulated by darkness. Thus melatonin is apparently known as the "hormone of darkness." This would make the pineal gland the "Gland of Darkness" which would be a bitching name for a comic book anti-hero.

But I digress.

Near as scientists can figure, melatonin plays some role in our sleep patterns. You can take melatonin tablets to help control jet lag or other sleep deprivation problems. Anyway, the pineal gland works the night shift producing melatonin. It goes to work when the retina sends a signal that it is dark out.

It was only recently that scientists figured out what the pineal gland actually did. Brain surgeons apparently kept poking it with a needle and asking each other, "Hey, what does this thing do" for a long time before they figured out the melatonin angle. Before that, people like Rene Descartes thought the pineal gland was the "seat of the soul" (which would have ment our souls are the size of a pea). And to this day, some mideastern philosophies associate the penial gland with the elusive "sixth chakra" or "third eye."

Growing up, I would have associated having a third eye with being a Martian like one of my Aunt Gladys' kids. But on a more spiritual level, the third eye is how we focus on the spiritual world (i.e. elightenment and psychic visions). It has been speculated that, in addition to melatonin, the pineal gland may also cook up another substance known as dimethyltryptamine or DMT. DMT may be responsible for our dreams. Ingested in larger doses, it can cause hallucinations. I think the pineal gland makes and takes DMT to stay awake at night while it is making melatonin. This is just my theory.

Anyway, all of this makes me respect my pineal gland. It is a highly underrated gland that definitely doesn't get the press it deserves. I would suggest that before you go to sleep tonight, you stop and thank your pineal gland for regulating your sleep patterns with melatonin and urge it to knock itself out with the DMT production. Because such stuff are dreams made of.

A black and white point of view

Yin is a Chinese term that literally means "shady." Yang is a Chinese term that means "sunny." It's pretty basic. Yin is feminine and Yang is masculine. The Yin/Yang represents opposite yet complementary parts. They are most often represented in the western culture by the Yin/Yang symbol. The dark half represents Yin and the light half represents Yang. So in essence, it reduces the world to black and white.


To me the Yin/Yang symbol has always looked like two sperm chasing each other's tails. It also reminds me of my Astrological symbol, Pisces, which is symbolized by two fish chasing their tails. I could go down all kinds of philosophical Taoist roads in talking about Yin and Yang, but I think it just boils down to two opposites chasing each other's tails.

Oh we could use more eloquent terms like duality or dichotomy when we talk about Yin/Yang. But I truly do think it is the delicate dance between opposite natures that is the building block for our world(s). I don't think anything is actually all Yin or all Yang. To me the goal is to balance the two as they chase each other's tails within you. But then again, I have a tendency to oversimplify things.

It isn't always easy to see opposites as complementary. We are taught to view good and evil, happy and sad, hardworking and lazy, and so on. And some religions even go so far as to justify all of the evil in the world by blaming it on free will. They say polar opposites are neccesary in order to provide us with a choice. The concept of Yin/Yang short circuits that concept by mergering all of those opposites into balanced parts of a whole. You don't have to choose Yin or Yang. You just have to accept both. It kind of kicks the concept of sin in the butt.

Again, I have a tendency to oversimplify.

Cousins

My mother had 12 brothers and sisters. Most of them were as prolific as my grandparents at producing progeny. So, I swear you can't swing a dead cat without hitting someone who is very likely one of my cousins. The sad thing is, I can't even tell you how many cousins I have without looking it up on my family tree software program. What's even sadder is that I honestly don't really know a single one of them.

Although my 81-year old mother has difficulty remembering what state she lives in, she can still pretty much tell you the names of each of my cousins, their spouses and their offspring. She can also tell you which one robbed a bank, which one is a cross dresser and which one thinks they are the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Most of my interaction with my cousins was when I was a kid. The photo above is of me (center in case you couldn't recognize my smile) with my cousin Mike and his sister Mary Lou. They were my Aunt Irma's oldest kids. Mike was a year older than me. Mary Lou was my age. Aunt Irma had another six kids before divorcing her husband. His name was Coombs. That was reason enough to get a divorce.

Aunt Irma was a twin. Her brother, my Uncle Ira was special. When he wasn't in that place in Idaho where they keep special people, he was living with my grandmother sequestered in his bedroom convinced the communist Chinese were tunneling under the house to get him. Apparently he felt he had something the communist Chinese wanted.

My Aunt Irma always reminded of Jimmy Dean, the country singer who went on to lend his name to pure pork sausage. She kind of looked like him, but she really sounded like him when she talked. I could never understand why my mother's side of the family all talked like they had just stepped out of the Grand Ole Opry. Perhaps it is just the way country people talk.

Odd as she was, Aunt Irma at least had a sense of humor. My Aunt Gladys didn't. She was just odd. We used to call her Aunt Happy Butt behind her back (Glad Ass...Happy Butt...get it). Aunt Gladys married a man named Otis. It was his second marriage and he came with a passle of kids from his first marriage. From the looks of them, Otis could have very well been married to a first cousin when he produced them. My brothers and I nicknamed them "the Martians."

I could go on and on. Aunt Dolly had eight kids. Uncle Jimmy had five. Uncle Dewey had three. Uncle Marion had five. Aunt Alma had four. Uncle Tommy had three.

Don't even get me started on second and third cousins. It's a wonder Tess and I weren't related before we got married.

I guess that could be another post.

Swing low, sweet chariot

Sometimes I'm up and sometimes I'm down
Coming for to carry me home
But still my soul feels heavenly bound
Coming for to carry me home
--Wallis Willis, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

I find it ironic that I took this photo years ago in Las Vegas outside of Caesar's Palace. I was struck by the juxtaposition of the chariot with the giant eye staring down from the ad for Cirque De Soleil -- the Sun Circus. I think it is a pretty cool photo even if I do say so myself. Anyway it obviously reminded me of the song, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.

Former slave Wallis Willis' inspiration for the spiritual, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot was the Red River. It reminded him of the River Jordan and the Prophet Elijah being taken to heaven via a chariot. Incidently, according to the Old Testiment, Elijah wasn't actually taken to heaven. He was just being transferred to another of god's assignment to condemn the wicked King Jehoram of Judah in another part of the country. But I'm not going to quibble here over biblical facts here. Suffice it to say, Elijah was carried off in a chariot pulled by horses of fire. That in itself is pretty impressive.

Maybe it is because I work promoting public transit, but I am struck that throughout the history of man, gods have employed high-occupancy vehicles to transport souls around. In Greek mythology Charon, the ferryman of the dead, transferred souls across the River Styx (not the rock group, but I think that is where they got their name) to the underworld or Hades via a barge. As with modern day transit operators, I believe he required exact change. Passes weren't valid since you theoretically only made the trip once.

And let's not forget Soul Train. Wait, that was that Don Cornelius R&B television show from the 70s. It was a hell of a show though.

Trains would be a pretty convenient way to transfer people into heaven or hell. I'm actually convinced that tunnel people describe in the near death experiences is a subway. And the light you are supposed to walk into has a turnstile at the end of it where you had damn well better have a token ready to get through.

I don't think the gods ever use buses to transfer souls. Nobody would ride them then either.

And what about SUVs? Well they all have four-wheel drive so the owners don't have any trouble going to hell.

Da blog, da blog

They say no man is an island, but I disagree. Dizgraceland is my island. I created it. I spread the sand and pumped in the saltwater. I built the beach bungalows and I stacked up the lounge chairs next to the lagoon like pool (complete with water slide and bar service). I am also the ghost of poor Herve Villechaize running along the dock screaming, "Da Plane, Da Plane," when a seaplane (I created) lands bringing visitors.

And I am Ricardo Montalban sitting on my chair (covered with Corinthian leather) waiting to greet the guests as they arrive and ushering them off to bungalows to await whatever plot the scriptwriter (also me) has devised for them. It is nice having an island.

The only thing I can't control here on my island is the visitors. I don't pick them. I don't coerce them into coming and I don't force them to stay. Some other force picks them. Or they pick themselves. So Dizgraceland is not a totally self-contained island.

It is actually not a new idea for a fiction writer to fantasize that their story lines are alive. I think there was a Twilight Zone episode in which characters kept starting down a storyline only to have it abruptly end and start over with a slightly different twist. In the end they were all just type on pieces of paper a writer was wadding up and tossing into the trash to start over.

Now that paper is replaced by a delete key on your laptop. Or in the blogger.com world, your storylines aren't so much deleted as lost due to a programming error.

I just thought of something terrible. If my blog is like Fantasy Island, and I created it, that would make me Aaron Spelling. That would mean I will be creating other crap like Charlie's Angels, Dallas, Dynasty, Melrose Place and 90210.

I must be stopped.

A lot of bull

"John Wayne - Autopsy revealed that John Wayne's colon weighed 82 pounds. 77 pounds were composed of dried fecal matter. The remaining 5 pounds was living tissue."
http://www.wholistic.net/nutrition/whitaker/colon_health.htm

Do a Google search on "John Wayne's colon" and you'll find various "facts" stating that John Wayne's colon weighed between 40 and 82-pounds when he died due to everything from eating beef to consuming Herve Villechaize (the little person who played tattoo on Fantasy Island...okay I made that part up). What a load of crap. There was no autopsy performed on John Wayne. And it is physically impossible to have 40 pounds of anything in your colon even if it is impacted.

Thus is the danger of the Web and Web searches. Any idiot, including myself, can spout something as fact on the Web. Then someone else does a random search, finds the information, posts it on their blog and you have a documented "fact." It's the same way Urban Myths are hatched.

Believe it or not, I'm here as a voice of reason urging you to verify anything you find on the Web with several sources before you spout it as fact on your own Web sites. And if something is your opinion or heresay, label it that way. Writing isn't just recreation. It carries with it responsibility.

I realize this is odd coming from me, but I've spent months believing the Duke walked that way because he was carrying 80 pounds of beef around in his colon. I even suggested to a server at the local Claim Jumper that they name one their mega meat entrees the "John Wayne's Colon Plate."

Now I know why she looked at me funny.

Looking at clouds from both sides now

Why is the natural impulse to look up when we are thinking about a higher power? Why do Christians believe heaven is in the clouds? Hasn't space exploration debunked that theory?

Still, I like to look into the sky. I like clouds. I've never been really good at seeing things in them like bunnies and Bob Hope or anything like that. I don't see rows and flows of angel hair, or ice cream castles in the air. I don't even see feather canyons everywhere. I just see clouds. I find this odd, because I'm not a very literal person. I should see things in the clouds.

When I was a kid, I would lie on my bed staring at the texture stuff on the ceiling and see faces and alien creatures. The tiles in our bathroom looked like lions. In my old house, I could see whales and walruses in the knotty pine paneling of my bedroom. But I can't see shit in clouds but clouds.

But I think clouds are beautiful just being clouds. I like to look at them from both sides. I like laying on the ground, and watch them roll over me. And I like sitting in an airplane and watch them roll under me. I wish you could really walk on clouds or lie on them the way they do in cartoons.

I like the way clouds show emotions. They can be friendly, fluffy and white. Or they can be angry, dark and ominous. They are unpredictable drifters who can crash a party or ruin a picnic. They can frame beautiful scenery or drop the curtain on it.

But even though I've looked at clouds from both sides now, from up and down, still...somehow... I really don't know clouds at all.

Lost and Profound

I'd like to say that I once was lost but now I'm profound, but I'm not feeling very profound. Not that me being profound is important. To date my most popular post has been a link to a Pimp Name Generator. I think it even beat out my link to David Hasslehoff's video of "Hooked on a Feeling."

But I think most people are just looking for diversions on the Web, not epiphanies. Actually I think most people on the Web are looking for porn, but I have to draw the line at just calling myself Fine Ass Tim Sweetness.

I actually think I've gotten over this belief that I should be seeking some deeper meaning in life. I'm not saying that there isn't some deeper meaning, I'm just not going out of my way anymore to find it. Because something tells me that I'd be having that major ephipany just as someone was pulling the plug on my resperator and my last words would be "oh shit."

So if you are looking for deep and profound things, you have come to the wrong place. Besides, if you meet the Buddha on the Information Highway, you should kill him or her in the same way you should kill him or her if you meet him or her on the road (not literally kill...it's a figure of speech). Your bullshit meter should be red lining anytime someone blogs about knowing "the Truth."

Also truth is a relative thing. Anyone who has ever served on a jury can attest to that. And there are also many more than two sides to any story. So chances are that the truth could come waltzing up to most people wearing a pink tutu and a feather duster in its bum and no one would recognize it anyway.

So stop worrying about the truth. Go click on my link to the Pimp Name Generator and see how many different player names resonate with your inner player. It's not profound, but it's entertaining. And if you do find the meaning to life while you are doing it, well...your path their started here. But I'm not promising anything.

So don't be hating...start appreciating.

Sheik Tim Flash

At the suggestion of my nephew R. and the prompting of Shandi, I am trying out a new look for me that helps remedy my issues with wearing hats. In the process of finding my new look, I discovered a site -- www.playerappreciate.com -- where you can "Pimpify" your name and come up with your very own player nickname.

Here are some of the possibilities the generator came up for me:

Dopetastic T. Large
Silicon Slick T. Ice
Fine Ass Tim Sweetness
Pimp Daddy Tim Gates
Sticky Fingers T. Flow
Papa Tim Shmoove


I'm kind of partial to Fine Ass Tim Sweetness, but I'm open to other opinions about which name you think suits me best.

Oh, and "Don't Player Hate, Player Appreciate." Here's where you can pimpify your own name:
Get your pimp name.

Wake me if I have an epiphany

I'd kind of like to think of my life as one extended epiphany. But I suppose that would contradict the true definition of the word as a "sudden realization" of the meaning of something profound.

Back in college I had an epiphany about what made bread rise and toast crunchy. I was quite proud of the insight for the 30 seconds I was able to retain it. Then I returned to staring at my lava lamp.

I've always thought that Epiphany would be a great name for a baby girl. "Hey everybody, we just had an Epiphany!" But then, as a father, later in her life I would never want to here anyone else saying they had had an Epiphany.

I tend to believe that epiphanies are kind of like computer programs running in the background of our brains processing data we've been feeding it over time. When the program reaches a conclusion, the answer pops into our consciousness and boom, we have an epiphany.

In Zen, the moment of comphrehension or awakening is known as kensho. It is often induced through meditation and focusing on koans -- Zen riddles such as "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" The intent is to have a kensho moment that is presumably a bit more profound than what makes bread rise and toast crunchy. But the mind rush is very similar and you hopefully retain the knowledge longer than the epiphany I had in my college dorm room.

My problem with the Zen approach to kensho is that I think ephiphanies should just sneak up on you. You can't throw your own suprise party if you catch my drift.

I think I just had an epiphany!

It felt good, but for some reason I feel like smoking a cigarette.

Wearing many hats

I don't literally wear many hats. I actually have a hard time finding hats that fit. My head is embarrassingly big. It's a wonder I could find a mortarboard that would stay on my head when I graduated from high school and college. Although I joke about it, I don't think my head is big because of my tremendous brain capacity. I inherited my large head from my father. I think I ended up with his ears, too. Those don't make wearing many hats any easier.

Since I don't wear a hat well, it is fortunate that I have a full head of hair. But ironically, if I was bald, hats would likely fit my head better. I will forgo shaving my head to test that theory.

Although I have a hard time finding hats that fit and thus I look very stupid in hats, I seem to own a tremendous number of baseball style caps. Everytime I travel, I end up with a hat that has the name of the place I've been (or some bar in the place I've travelled). I rarely wear these hats.

I have tried to wear cowboy hats. But for some reason the hats always make me look like the Flying Nun. Plus there is not alot of places in the Pacific Northwest where you can wear a cowboy hat. Seattle is more of a fishing cap place. I don't fish.

I was a drum major in high school. We were the Boise Braves. Instead of a drum major's high, furry hat, I wore a full headdress. It fit and looked kind of cool to me, but it wasn't a very practical hat and you couldn't really wear it in the rain without looking a bit like one of those poor birds that has been caught in an oil spill.

When I had long hair, I experimented with bandanas. This did help keeping my hair out of my eyes, but I was overcome with this overwhelming desire to talk like a pirate or ride a Harley. I also got tired of being mistaken for a gypsy.

Football helmets hurt my head. Sweatbands give me headaches. Visors are just wrong. A fez makes me look like I have a pointed head. Tophats have the same effect. I can't keep a sombrero on. Stocking caps mess up my hair and I refuse to wear a foam hat shaped like cheese.

When it comes down to it, I've tried on many hats, but I can wear very few. But my hat is off to those who can carry it off.

The suburban jungle

I mowed my lawn on Sunday, trying not to reflect on the sad fact that I have been sucked into the suburban vortex of competitive yardwork, trying to shame my neighbors into keeping up with me. It is not difficult in our neighborhood. We live in a brand new house in a small housing development, yet no one around us seems to care that their lawns are so overgrown with weeds that small children could easily get lost in them.

I shouldn't be critical of their unkept yards. Before we moved into this house, I was one of them. Water, weeding and mowing were signs of weakness to me. I would not be slave to peer pressure and the perculiar American obsession with domesticating weeds in the form of a lawn. But there is something about moving into a house with a nice yard that sucks you in.

Both Tess and I are infected. I catch her sometimes muttering at the beauty bark and snatching at the mere hint of a weed peeking out. And I've discovered her staring out the windows on some evenings with her head cocked to one side as if she is listening to something.

"Do you hear something," I'll ask.

"Can't you hear it," she'll reply.

"What?"

"The weeds, I can hear them growing out there."

Yes, suburban jungle fever grips us both.

I catch myself mowing symetrical crop circles in my lawn while listening to Rob Zombie on my iPod. I imagine low flying aircraft will be able to read the messages I'm creating or at very least marvel at the symbols carved in my well coiffed turf. My electric mower purrs and mulches as I walk back and forth, cutting swathes of order out of the chaos of uneven blades of grass. Joseph Conrad would have called his book Lord Tim if he knew how I tamed my own jungle.

But as I cut the motor, and silence Rob Zombie, I can swear I hear a distant, yet steady drumbeat and I am filled with primative fear. Or perhaps it is the faint sound of a pan flute coming from my stone statue of Pan watching me from under the pine tree in my backyard that is taunting me.

In the back of my mind I know, that although the lawn has been tamed, the minute I put the lawnmower away and scuttle back into my house, the grass - and the weeds - will grow again. And the fever will return.

Being Dr. Lao

Dr. Lao: My specialty is wisdom. Do you know what wisdom is?
Mike: No sir.
Dr. Lao: Wise answer.
-7 faces of Dr. Lao

Dr. Lao: Mike, the whole world is a circus if you look at it the right way. Every time you pick up a handful of dust, and see not the dust, but a mystery, a marvel, there in your hand, every time you stop and think, "I'm alive, and being alive is fantastic!" Every time such a thing happens, Mike, you are part of the Circus of Dr. Lao.
-7 faces of Dr. Lao

When I was sixteen years old and still young enough to want to believe in magic, but old enough to publicly deny it, I saw the movie, 7 faces of Dr. Lao. It was a 1964 adaption of a 1935 fantasy novel written by Charles Finney about the effects of a magical circus on a small southwest town. The movie starred Tony Randall and Barbara Eden.

I loved that movie. I wrote about it in the journal I'd started keeping in junior high. It struck a chord in my angst ridden teen mind that was hanging on for dear life to that bucking bronco of puberty I'd just started riding. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy were in their dying throes in my life. The movie told me that it would always be okay for me to believe in magic.

In the movie, the seven faces of Dr. Lao are: Dr. Lao, Pan, Apollonius of Tyana (a Greek philosopher and teacher), Merlin, Medusa, the Abominal Snowman, and a goldfish that turns into a sea serpent. The make-up artist for the film won a honorary Academy Award for his work on the film. Tony Randall was pretty impressive playing the characters as well.



The movie is full of great quotes. When asked if he is an acrobat, Dr. Lao replies, "Only philosophically." Merlin, the magician, protests, "Tricks? Gadzooks, Madam, these are not tricks! I do magic. I — I create, I transpose, I transubstantiate, I break up, I recombine — but I never trick!" And Apollonius, the circus fortune teller provides his own disclaimer, "I only read futures, I don't evaluate them."


The most startling dialogue, especially for a movie filmed in 1964 also came from Apollonius when he was doing a reading for an airheaded woman from the town:

Apollonius: Tomorrow will be like today, and the day after tomorrow will be like the day before yesterday. I see your remaining days as a tedious collection of hours full of useless vanities. You will think no new thoughts. You will forget what little you have known. Older you will become, but not wiser. Stiffer, but not more dignified. Childless you are, and childless you will remain. Of that suppleness you once commanded in your youth, of that strange simplicity which once attracted men to you, neither endures, nor shall you recapture them.

Mrs. Cassin: You're a mean, ugly man!

Apollonius: Mirrors are often ugly and mean. When you die, you will be buried and forgotten, and that is all. And for all the good or evil, creation or destruction, your living might have accomplished, you might just as well never have lived at all.

My god -- Mirrors are often ugly and mean. This came from a 1964 movie starring Tony Randall! Years later, when I wrote a short story call "Reunion" I think I inadvertentally patterned the lead character (also a fortune teller) after Apollonius. That's how powerful an affect the movie had on me.

So what is my often elusive point? Whether it is real or not, it is okay...no, it is crucial, that you believe in some kind of magic. And above all, never miss an opportunity to run away to join a circus.

Wonders of the world

"For Pete's Sake
I've been everywhere, man
I've been everywhere, man
Crossed the deserts bare, man
I've breatherd the mountain air, man
Of travel I've had my share, man
I've been everywhere"
-Johnny Cash, I've been everywhere

Out of the seven wonders of the ancient world, the only one remaining is the Great Pyramid of Giza in Egypt. If you are wondering what happened to the other wonders, they were destroyed by fire and earthquakes. Wonderful.

I have never been to the Great Pyramid of Giza, but I plan to before I die. I have been to Stonehenge on the Salisbury Plains of England, but it isn't on the list. I liked it anyway (even though you couldn't actually walk up and touch the stones or scratch your name into them...the British are picky about things like that...and you have to walk through a gift shop get to it...I bought a t-shirt).

I have been to the top of the Empire State Building in New York City. It is considered one of the modern wonders of the world (and I did spend a long time in line wondering how long it would take me to get to the top). I have also seen and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. It is also considered one of the modern wonders of the world.

I have seen the Reno Arch...the new one and the old one. I have also walked by the Reno World Bowling Convention Center. It is shaped like a bowling ball. I've been to Philadephia and seen the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall and the house Betsy Ross lived in (she didn't really sew the first United States flag). I've also seen the steps Rocky Balboa runs up in the Rocky movies. And just for the record, Philly Steak Sandwiches are made with Cheese Whiz and fat.

I've been to Boston and visited the bar that inspired Cheers. Oh, I also saw the Old North Church and Paul Revere's grave. I've been to the Anchor Bar in Buffalo, New York. It is where Buffalo Wings were created.

I've driven past a gas station shaped like a tea pot off of Highway 82 in Zillah, Washington. It was built in 1922 in protest of the "Teapot Dome Scandal." The real Teapot Dome is a rock formation in Wyoming.

I held Poppy, a baby alligator at Everglades World outside of Miami. I didn't buy a t-shirt commemorating that event, however (they wanted $25). I've been to the MAUNA LOA MACADAMIA VISITOR CENTER in Hilo, Hawaii (you have to grab your samples quick before the senior buses arrive...old people can be pretty pushy). Hilo is also proud home to a Walmart our tour guide pointed out.

I have never seen the Great Wall of China, the Grand Canyon, the Taj Mahal, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Eifel Tower, the Panama Canal, the Great Barrier Reef, Mount Everest, Mount Rushmore, Rio de Janeiro, Macchu Picchu, Niagra Falls, the Galapagos or Graceland.

So unlike Johnny Cash, I haven't been everywhere. But I have been to Disneyland, Disney World and Las Vegas, so that makes up for a lot.