I know a fellow that drives a fast, red, zillion dollar sports car and he – in his words – “don’t drive it real fast.” In the last three weeks, while not driving very fast, he collected a close call, a speeding ticket, and, amazingly enough, another speeding ticket. “Yeah I was speeding but…” and then the obligatory tale of circumstantial victimization unfolds.

Seems my friend found a speed trap one morning. When he got to work, he was mad at the world, but that laughing mad; know that mad? The kind of mad that makes you chuckle with everyone else at your misfortune, but in the middle of it all you give your, “but…” speech. In this case, the speech went about like this:

“It was backed up pretty good, but I could see traffic moving around the curve, so I thought I’d just wait it out. Then this truck carrying a bunch of cows or cattle gets in front of me, and guess what? Them cows start peeing. All twelve thousand of them, I swear and it’s going all over my car! First chance I had to get over, I got over, and the exit was right there, so I took it. I’m haulin’ tail to find a car wash and that’s when Barney tagged me.”

Then he clinches it with a logical conclusion.

“If those cows don’t pee on my car, I stay on the expressway, and I don’t get the ticket.”

As he says this, the crowd gathered around erupts with laughter. A week later one of us will have the stage with a tale of equal passion and human suffering. I don’t know whether it is our lifelong search for perfection or the human desire to be right as much as possible that drives this type of thinking. We all do it, though. 

Sometimes – I mean once or twice in my life - I’ve done it on a much smaller scale.

Like when I justify a midnight raid on the refrigerator to the Food Police. 

“I know….I know,” I tell her the next morning as she takes careful inventory of every datgum crumb, “but if I don’t eat it, you will, and you’ll feel bad. I’m trying to help you and see how I get thanked.” She used to laugh.

I’m not sure it this is all right or wrong or just how it is. I think the simple answer is a two-parter. If you’re listening to a story of redirected responsibility, you end up laughing and laughing harder as the teller tries to justify it. If you’re the teller, you give just the facts, ma’am, and just like everyone else slip that, “but…” in at some point. You might even try explaining it again, and ask someone if they feel like you do about it. And they’ll laugh even harder. I guess we’ll always do it, though. 

How else could we cope?

Have you ever been to one of those Middle Ages dinner theatre places? If you are unaware, here’s a great thing to explain the entrepreneurial spirit. And the ever lasting power of a good marriage.

There are a couple different ones; the place on 35 in Dallas is kind of the big daddy of them all, in my opinion.

Set in an arena, there is a dirt floor/stage and real horses with knights who joust for the chance to woo the king’s daughter-in-law. Waitresses order you up off a standard menu…couple of soup/salad choices and that’s it.  Knights ride …fight with audio-enhanced swords…you cheer for your knight’s color (crowd is divided in a few sections or colors) and at the end, one knight hustles up to claim the hand of said maiden.

Actually started in Spain in the late 70’s as an outdoor deal, it’s moved to indoor arenas since and they have a few around the US. That’s the background. You may like it or not and I’m not expressing an opinion as to how good a job they do. I’m looking at it from another angle.

See, this was a new business once.  I cheer for new businesses; love to see folks making a go of it. Some people look at a menu or coupon and say, “Ew…you think the food is any good?” or “Man, that looks weird.” When I look at them, I see OPPORTUNITY!  Why?  Well, this is a great example to bring up and here’s why.

When it comes to this dinner theatre place, at some point a guy sat in his living room, put down his beer, turned to his wife and said, *burp* “Say, I was thinking we start this business.  What we’ll do is have people dress as knights, ride around on horses, pretend joust and they can win…oh…the hand of the Princess.”

His wife’s response? Nada.

That’s right…dead silence.  She was watching TV. He could have said, “Honey, I’ve blown up St. Bartholomew’s and I’m going back to firebomb the rest of the block,” and she wouldn’t have said a word.  Hubby continued.

“We’ll serve food and, oh!  Let’s not give them any silverware…they have to eat with their fingers.  Yeah!  Awesome!  And…AND…being medieval and all…we’ll call the servers ‘wenches’ and the guests will have to call them that too! Haha!  Bingo!  ‘Hey, wench!  Bring me my mead!”

By this time the wife was probably actually listening; the word wench would be my bet as the trigger on that deal.

“You’ll call them what?”

“Wench! Have them in those long skirts and the billowing beige blouses.  Mmm-hmm.”

Now, I ask you; what are most woman/wives doing at this point?  Well thank goodness that guy’s wife was open-minded enough.  Or hard of hearing. Either way, it is a testament to the pioneer spirit, courage, and intestinal fortitude of one man.  Here it is years later and the place(s) are wildly successful, but all because that wife believed in her…because she…hold on, I need a moment to compose myself…

What’s that?  Am I setting myself up here for something?  No, no.  Not at all. No. 

Did you get your packet of direct mail coupons the other day? Ever seen the one with this woman in the picture?

She pitches some hand cream that eliminates spots, and I’m sure she’s a lovely woman in real life, but this thing gives me the shivers. Know how clowns freak some people out?  This picture does it for me. Go ahead stare at her for a minute…gives you the willies too, doesn’t it?

Here’s what I want to know: who in the h-e double toothpicks looked at the final proof on this ad and said, “Dude, let’s run with it. It is awesome!” Wow! If this picture was around when my kids were little…(time travel music) 

“Big Sis, go do your homework!”

“Naw, I don’t want to.”

(I hold up the picture)

“Father, sir…no, please! I’ll do my homework. And Brother’s too. Ahhhhh! My eyes! My eyes!”

Not that I would have done that. More than a couple times. 

Maybe as the picture was taken, did someone stick a gun in her back?  That’s how I look when someone jacks me; not only are my hands spot free, but the rest of me is pigment, blood and breath free too.  It’s not really a smile, by the way, but a moment of frozen time right before the terror bubbles over. 

Or maybe it has to do with my dogs.

We have a doggy door on our house that goes out into the backyard. I accidently left it shut the other morning; discovered the mistake when I snuck home for lunch. Means for five hours the dogs sat locked in the house, and they are outside dogs. Unhappy outside dogs that day. I bet they put a hit out on me, and the first person they contacted was this woman. Why do I say that?  Just look at her, guy!

“Ha ha!” she’s saying to me. “You, sir, are smoked!”

So if these blogs suddenly stop, please check your mail carefully.  If you open next month’s coupons and she has an even bigger, more lunatic look…call the policía

• Does anyone there smile? Or does Eddie from Pearl Jam forbid it?
• Blazingly simple and beautiful architecture. The missus took some nice pictures – she always does – but as looked at them on the computer at the airport, we were stunned. If I knew what I was talking about, I would say the concrete and steel lines all flow into the landscape and the people.
• With one disclaimer, we were not real impressed with the food. If I’m dropping a Benjamin on supper (something I do every twelve hundred years or so) , it better be all I can do to keep from standing up and chest bumping someone.
• Disclaimer: extremely stupid on our part to not seek out more local, small, restaurants where simple love of cooking is the driving force behind every dish.
• Blown away by the quality of Washington state wine. I don’t drink Merlot, yet two of the wines we tasted were in fact Merlot and they were awesome.
• On the people side of things, you’ll be the one to start the conversation; everywhere, every time. Folks will speak to you, but won’t kick it off.
• Nearly impaled/crushed/killed dead by a huge curtain rod that fell off the wall in our hotel room. Postmortem reveals only one screw and anchor in the wall, though there were three holes. Tricky!
• We all need to do some research and learn about one of the deepest music wells in the entire world; Seattle and surrounding area. I’ll bet you have no idea how much talent – music industry-altering talent – has come from this area or had an initial impact here that changed music time and time again.
• More geniuses per square mile in any number of disciplines than anywhere else? There are some brilliant folks who’ve settled here or are from here.
• Surprised by the amount of and aggressive nature of the panhandlers, addicts, etc.
• “San Francisco Lite” a woman who’s lived in both places called it. Perfect description.
• Don’t know official statistics or anything, and maybe the four days we visited were exceptional, but that may be the cleanest air I’ve ever breathed. 
• Keep your Space Needle; I’ll do Smith Tower anytime.
• Stay downtown, walk everywhere (with eyes open, see above), plenty to do.
• Pike’s Place Market – the great stuff is truly fabulous, the rest lacks personality.
• Standing in the lobby of the first Starbucks, feeling a fair amount of awe.
• It’s not nearly an exaggeration when I say you could spit on another Starbucks from the front door of the one you’re in, whichever one you’re standing in.
• And what goes with all that caffeine? Tons of nicotine. 
• 52 degrees, shorts and a t-shirts on everyone…other than us tourists.
• The Gum Wall (or Wall of Gum)…pretty cool. Just the back wall along an alley of buildings that folks have hurled gum against for nearly 20 years. 
• A functional, safe, and useful downtown rail system that gets you to and from the places most folks want to go. *Sigh* It’s not real hard to do. Wouldn’t it be cool if Flo Mo, Grapevine and Lewisville had one?
• All told, most certainly a place to visit again.

"Researchers have found with a single genetic altercation they can turn up a natural metbolic furnace in mice so the animals brun more fat.  Experts said people might be able to control their weight by doing the same thing, or by explotinging related processes." So said an AP article. 

That genetic stuff fascinates us, doesn't it? The article continues,

"But even more impressive, the genetically altered mice can eat a high fat diet without ill effects."

Yes, buddy. Here's my Nobel winner right 'cher. This is science for the good of all people. Let's get these Ph.D.'s to work on even more useful lifestyle stuff. Can't you see it now. . . .

"Scientists have identified the gene that makes laboratory mice use their turn signals on their little laboratory cars. Researchers found that with a single genetic alteration, the mice - the so-called 'skinny mice’ - will put down their double Big Mac's and actually flip the blinker on one hundred feet before making a turn. The team now begins work on finding the elusive gene that makes them turn the thing off sometime within two mouse miles."

Or how about his?

"The University of Whosits announced today they have isolated the gene that forces doctors to store their examination equipment at Absolute Zero. Skinny mice, after finally making a right turn into the doctor's office four driveways after slowing down while their blinkers remained on, were surprised to find all utensils in the exam room were no colder than room temperature. The university says its next project involves trying to isolate the gene that would help the patient mice understand their health insurance."

Maybe this. . .

"Endocrinologists at the Greater Midwest Hospital today announced tremendous progress in identifying a memory gene in laboratory mice. Skinny mice -- those French fry gulping, can't make a left turn unless traffic is clear for half a mile, HMO wizards -- were found to have their memory increased by 324% after a single electronic stimulus to certain points in their DNA chains. Even more astounding was the increase -- ranging up to 584% -- that male mice showed.

In closely supervised testing, the males remembered mouse garbage day was the next day and took the garbage out the night before, they recalled PTA meetings were on Tuesdays, and showed great skill at remembering even that time a female skinny mouse told them about. . . .this thing . . . or whatever. Something.

Dr. Mark Johnson, head of research, said the gene alteration was a. . ."simple matter of . . . of . . . it’s somewhere here in my notes. Under all the real tiny chicken fried steak to-go containers."

Can't you just see it, these and other possibilities? So, contribute to your local college, and let's get these people fully funded. And, oh, pass me that electrode, please. Over there, right next to the chocolate cake.

Phrases that ought to be illegal and burned: 

“Dad…I have something to tell you.”

“I forgot to move the money into checking.”

“Sorry, but the hard drive is fried.”

I’d like to toss two more on the pyre, add some wood and flame, give it a nudge onto the water. First we have: “Hi, thank you for calling the XYZ Corporation, please listen carefully, as our menu has recently changed.”

Liar. LIAR!

Stop playing with our minds. It’s the same menu since 1998.  Just say, “For billing press one, for sales press two….”  We press zero anyway, so what’s the difference? 

The second is really a series of phrases. Once you do finally get a real person on the line and solve your problem, try to get off the phone. Under the umbrella of better customer service, you get:

“Thank you for calling XYZ company, Mister Phillips, is there else anything I can do for you?”

“No, no, all set.”

“Alright, then have I taken care of the item you called about today?”

“Yep; all good.  Ready to rock and roll.”

“Have I done it in a pleasant and enjoyable way?”

“Um, yeah, sure.  Absolutely.”

“Well, Mister Phillips, again, I just want to say it’s been a pleasure today serving you.  Are you sure there’s nothing…” (‘Do You Feel Like I Do’ by Peter Frampton begins to play on my radio. The live version.)

(Twenty minutes later) “…And please don’t hesitate to call us here for all your needs; my direct extension is 3451. Are you absolutely, one hundred percent, positive I can’t do a thing for you?”

I repeatedly bash my head with a hammer. (“Do you, you... feel like I do?”)

(Four hours later) “…We hope you’ve been satisfied with your experience with the XYZ Corporation, dedicated to all your customer service needs, both now and…”

Climbing up on my rooftop, I can see all the way to 2499.  Hoping for at least 90 degrees today, I begin to slather tar and feathers over my body. (“ba-dab-ba-dab-waa” that’s the guitar talk box is what that is)

(2025, as I open my first Social Security check) “…Mr. Phillips, I’ve started a ticket thingy-do on your behalf; if you call on this matter again, please refer to contact number…”

Prowling the backyard, leader of my dog pack, I eat lizards, chase bees, and sing, “Oh, the wonderful thing about Tiggers…is I’m the only one.” (“Bob Mayo, keyboards…Bob Mayo.”)

(The year 2458, celebrating the 500th b-day of Oprah’s preserved head) “If you’re sure there’s not a darn thing I can ever do for you and your family…then thank you for calling XYZ Corporation.”

My great-great-great-great grandson lifts the phone off the pile of dust that used to be me. (In the background of the IHouse, the IRadio DJ says, “That was five-hundred and eight year old Peter Frampton, who will tour the SE IUnited States this summer…”)

“Have a pleasant day, sir.”

 http://www.lisajenningsinteriors.com/images/LJI_feature_offices4sm.jpg

Standing in front of the mirror, you survey the damage. Not too bad today. Hair looks good, smile looks genuine, nice piece of parsley in between . . .oh. Good thing you came in here.

"Yessss!" you hiss out loud. Nice echo in here. Awesome bathroom, big bucks.

If you don't need to wear a suit, you try to wear some dark colored slacks; the slimming effect and all, correct? For some reason you decided to wear a nice pair of gray slacks. Light gray slacks. They look pretty good, though. Whirl this way, that way; suck in your stomach, wondering just what a thirty-two waist feels like.

"Bay-buh, bay-buh, bay-BUH." Real nice echo in here.  Do you do the fat Elvis/skinny Elvis thing too?  You turn the water on to wash your hands, and the water dribbles out. You give the cold faucet a good twist, and whoosh!

It seems, for a moment, that the main water line from Lewisville Lake has been tapped. News helicopters are probably hovering around there now, beaming pictures of a stark, barren wasteland to startled Newsbreak Now watchers. It's a big blast of water.

When a laser beam of water such as that hits the bottom of a sink, it makes a forty-five degree turn in only one direction, and that direction is in the area of the pants generally known as The Lap. There you stand, shaking your head affirmatively.

Knew this would happen some day. Thought it might be at a wedding, a funeral, or before a big speech, and if the pants were black it would be easier to hide, but you knew it would happen. It's good to get something like that over in one's life, but it's not over yet.

You grab some paper towel but only succeed in spreading the water across more of your lap. Luckily, there's one of those worthless hot air dryers that, at this moment, is the greatest device ever invented. Positioning the nozzle around the lap area, you belly up to the machine and start the drying process. You move your pelvis up and down, following the line of water on your lap.  Looks like it’s starting to dry; that was quick. Golly, you think, hope no one walks in.

Not only does Mr. CEO walk in, but the Human Resource fella does too.

"Hee-he. Yeah. Ha-ha." Your wit in this situation is scintillating.

"How are you?" Mr. CEO says, clearing his throat.

"Hee-he. Yeah."

"Is there," the HR guy asks," a problem?"

A thousand quick, very witty responses enter your mind, jockey for position, count off by two's, conduct a little contest - the one's win - have a run off to award the gold, silver and bronze responses, give the medals and flowers, and then the champion steps up to your mouth.

"Huh. Hee-he."

It's a wonderful five minutes, isn't it?  What's that? Never happened to you? Uh . . . me neither.

On vacation in Tennessee. . . . .

I am gently nudged awake by coziness to the 6^th, power. Maybe even the 7^th power. Lifting well-rested eyes ever so slightly, a peek out the back window reveals a delicious breakfast of mundane details frosted by the realization my job for the next few days is simply to listen, watch, and feel.

The morning rain – desperately trying to fashion a tough guy scowl - gives up and sheepishly calms to a drizzle, while the sun is doing its best to burn off the wet before it can actually do any good. As humid as it's been this week, it'll take all day if it even does happen.

The back porch thermometer, forty years older than the digital bank thermometer in town that everyone uses for a landmark, is yawning its way past eighty. Probably settle in around eighty-eight or so; worth complaining about, anyway. A cool breeze blows down from the hills, unsullied and able to keep the sweat off your neck as long as you're not foolish enough to stomp around in the garden.

Later in the morning we drive off to town. Off to Piggly Wiggly for some burger buns, some milk, and whatever the youngest nieces and nephews can connive their Grandma into.

As we ease the truck into a choice, front of the store spot, we see "The Club."  Six fellows, sitting on or around the two benches outside the front door.  They watch the coming and going, unfazed and amused by pretty much none of it.  Unfiltered Pall Malls lay about in various stages of ground up defeat or smoldering defiance, marking both the time spent and, unfortunately, the time left.  

Youngest man is this fellow about seventy, maybe seventy-five, and he's running his jaw about nothin’ to no one in particular. The rest of the group are eighty plus, and the old black man. . . eighty something on his last birthday . . .sits high on a pile of feed bags.

I take the whole picture in and it appeals to me. I wonder when I'll be old enough, wise enough, settled enough, resigned enough, to just set awhile?

The sheriff walks up, says hey to everyone, and they all nod back in turn. He buys a raffle ticket from a young boy tugging at his sleeve and hands it to one of the men. Then the lawman ambles over to the soda machine, drips a quarter in, pauses to remember and announce a particular detail that will gel some obscure fact with another, and with a purse of his lips and nod of affirmation, slides the other quarter in. He gets two ten ounce bottles of the cold drink, hands one to the black man, toasts him, and tells everyone he's got to get back to work.

They protest with that fine Southern protest - "What's your hurry, stay awhile?”-   but with a cock of his head and the palms-up surrender, he slowly, purposefully, strolls around the corner and back to the jail.

It's the order of things, I guess. But there is no order to it. It's the etiquette of things maybe, but the black man is revered and most kids weren't raised that way seventy years ago.

It's like a creek, bubbling as it zigzags through a field, patiently getting to where it has to get to, having a good old time along the way. It's not this superhighway I'm on with a speed limit that no one bothers with. It's the slow, scratch on the forehead of the man with the Co-op Feed cap as he listens to his friend lie about the deer he just missed bagging last season. It's not me as I race against the clock to get one more priority thing done.

It looks so wonderful and peaceful to me, but even if I had the time to sit and chew on it one afternoon with the fellows, it would be like interest on a million bucks.  Something I haven’t earned yet.

Well, we go into the store, get our things, plus a few extras. The kid's carefully crafted plan yields much, and they walk out with quite a treasure. We get a few sodas ourselves.

"See that fella over there in the Farm Bureau hat," my father-in-law points out. "He was my high school teacher. Mr. So and So."

"In high school!?" I say, in mock disbelief. "Was there books back then?"

He chuckles and silently watches the man for a moment.

"Lousiest teacher we ever had," he says, and we all laugh.

As we pull away, I hear a great laugh rise up from the Club, and it's a beautiful sound.  Great, deep, well-earned belly laughs that – when used loudly and often – create the character on a man’s face.  Three or four of men lean back and tug on their caps as one of them starts his story to top that one.

The truck engine roars to life and we rumble back on the road.  One right turn, one left and then we inch up to the only traffic light in town. It turns green, we roll into singing silly songs and head back to Cedar Creek. I catch a glimpse of the bank sign and the digital thermometer. The now, for some reason, broken digital thermometer.

How fitting. Who needs to know how hot it is anyway?

I opened the front door this morning, intent on stumbling out to get the paper.  The motion light flickered on, revealing yet another chapter in the book that make up the mysterious side of my life – there on the front porch lay a stack of phone books.

“Why?” I asked the Heavens.  “Why do you keep sending me phone books?  What, Lord, does it mean?”

When is the last time you used a phone book?  Now, I did use one the other day as we hunted out a sprinkler guy to come work on the system at our fix-it-upper, but that’s only because I hadn’t found a neighbor’s wireless signal strong enough to borrow yet.  (Oh, hush. Y’all have borrowed mine before I had the fifteen-year-old make it all secure).  Other than that, why do they exist?

They’re like dentist appointments.  You forget about your scheduled time until one day you get that call from Betsy who says, “Hi Kevin, yes it’s 4:43 AM, but I wanted to confirm your appointment for next Monday.  We’ll see you at two, or I’ll have you and your family killed.  Have a nice day.” 

Like her calls, the phone books show up every so often and though you know they keep coming, they are still unexpected.

I’m sure the neighbors have a pool going as to how long ours sit on the front stoop.  Not sure why, but we just leave them there, looking trashy, probably until just seconds before the HOA SWAT team swoops down and blows up our house.  I am ashamed to admit I’ve tripped over the stack of three and not picked them up.  I think subconsciously I must believe it’s bad ju-ju or something for me to pick them up the week they arrive.  Yeah, that’s what we’ll say.

I’m not an Internet junkie or anything, but there’s really nothing in terms of directions, phone numbers or addresses you can’t look up online.  I know, not everyone has Internet access or computers, but what’s the latest stats?  What percentage of us do?

And what about the advertising in it?  Might a person who sells yellow pages advertising be the greatest sales person on the planet? 

“Yes, kind sir, for only 500 bucks, you can place a 1 x 2 inch ad that at least fourteen people might see when they trip over the phone book and it opens to the page and section listing your bottle washing service.” 

“Gee, Daaav-ey, I’ll take two ads then.”

So if you can tell me what purpose they serve on the 2008 information highway…other than speed bumps for me…I’ll listen but I may have a hard time believing phone books are still useful.  Unless we build an outhouse in the backyard.

(Just kidding, HOA police.)