BobWrites

(The Sunday New York Times of 8/2/09 printed an article titled “A Smart Shower May Even Know Your Song.” Apparently your shower can now be programmed to anticipate and respond to your subtlest preferences.)


Henry was in love. Again. But this time he knew it was the real thing. Always in the past he had been disappointed. Not this time. This time he had been able to program everything just the way he wanted.

He named her “Daisy.´ She was the very latest in custom computer driven showers, with 36 spigots, each streaming or pulsating rhythmically with their own varying pressures, frequencies and water temperatures. In addition to water throbbing from all sides, cascades splashed down from above and thrust up from the floor. All was programmed exactly as he wanted.

The music he selected of course built to a climax synchronized with the water and with his own biological needs. His selections were most often from presto movements in Vivaldi concertos or from frenzied Flamenco dances.

In the beginning he had hesitatingly filled the misting spray with mild perfumes. That is until he learned of fragrances containing female pheromones. Now he used them liberally.

He was aware that he now spent much longer in the shower than heretofore. During the week he showered in the morning and again in the evening. On weekends, he also showered in mid-afternoon. He would have liked to somehow find time for even more, but exhaustion from his present routine was all that he could handle.

Henry was lying in bed, cooling out after his most recent afternoon shower. Debussy played softly in the background. As he relaxed he thumbed through his recently arrived catalog of shower accessories: towels, infused with body lotion and floral fragrances, together with what were called 'recharging sprays' to be used on the towels after laundering; sudsing mits fashioned in varying degrees of softness, from Lufa to 'Fur Feeling' according to the advertiser, and porn videos to be watched during the shower. Henry had no interest in the videos. He kept his eyes closed during his showers and permitted free reign to his own extravagant fantasies.

Henry wasn't certain what he liked most: the preparation and anticipation leading up to the shower, the shower itself, or its aftermath. All three phases he considered superior to his former experiences with live woman lovers.

Preparation now consisted in selecting options from a list of possibilities.. His favorites and most recent preferences were highlighted. He could choose to repeat them, vary them, or make completely new selections. Thus his sensual experience never grew repetitious. Daisy never objected to any setting he wanted. She never complained that he was ignoring her needs. She had no preferences of her own other than to perform as programmed. Daisy never had a headache and never just wasn't in the mood. And during the shower, Daisy never complained that Henry finished too soon. Indeed Daisy never complained about anything.
And, after his shower, as Henry lay on his bed, relaxing before nodding off to sleep, Daisy never annoyed him by wanting to have a conversation and never reviewed all his insensitive transgressions of the day.
"This," thought Henry, "is what eternal bliss in heaven must be like."

The following editorial appeared in the New York Times on June 5, 2009

"Gene by Gene

Over the years, scientists have developed many strains of genetically modified mice, many of which incorporate human versions of similar mouse genes. But there is something different in a recent experiment performed at the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology in Leipzig, Germany. Scientists there have created a strain of mouse that contains the human variant of a gene, called FOXP2, associated with several critical tasks, including the human capacity for language.

What makes this different is how fundamentally human — and unmouse-like — language really is. Something essential to us, something defining in our species, has been implanted in a rodent.

FOXP2 happens to work pretty well in mice. Those with the new gene in place do in fact communicate differently with each other, by using slightly lower-pitched ultrasonic whistles. The nerve cells they grow in one region of the brain are also more complex than those in unaltered mice. These may sound like modest results, but they are striking. They help clarify the function of FOXP2, and, in doing so, they help scientists better understand what constellation of genes produces the capacity for language in humans and, thus, how we differ from our nearest primate relative, the chimpanzee.

What takes some getting used to is the idea of exploring what humanness really is — how complex and how little understood — by transplanting our genetic signatures, gene by gene, into other species. And there is another question hovering over this experiment: Just how alien to themselves do these transgenic mice become? To that question, scientists are bound to find no answers, until, perhaps, mice can speak for themselves. "

Squeaky and Whiskers were having an argument.
"You really do say a lot of stupid things," complained Squeaky. "Don't you ever think before you open your trap?"

Whiskers shrugged. "FOXP2 gave us language, not thought!"

Squeaky shook his head. "Let's get back to our problem. Since the girls escaped, we're in danger of having them breed with ordinary wild unmodified mice. This will surely weaken the species impact of our human genes."

Whiskers looked surprised. "Didn't you tell me that we had a great advantage over humans? Didn't you point out that by reproducing four new generations a year, our mutation rate is much faster than humans and in just a few hundred thousand years we should be able to surpass them in size, strength, and intelligence? And since we aren't hindered by notions of monogamy and its corollary, private property, we have much greater opportunity for generating diversity."

"All very true," agreed Squeaky. "But that doesn’t deal with the problem we face right now! How do we escape?"

"Holy cheddar!" exclaimed Whiskers. "I've got an idea! Let's squeak for the girls. Maybe they can open our cage from the outside."

"Good idea," agreed Squeaky, and in unison they both began squealing loudly.

The girls heard and all came to the rescue. The latch was easy to open from the outside and soon all six mice were scurrying into a mouse hole in a nearby cupboard, happily leaving a trail of their droppings behind.

Once safely inside their den, Whiskers was so elated that he began to sing, much to the enjoyment of the other mice. They all believed that with a few more generations of genetic progress they could expect to produce their own Mouszart.

"Enough! We've got two litters to tend," remarked Twitcher. She was the de-facto leader of the group.

"Who's the father?" asked Whiskers, hoping it was he.

"How should I know?" responded Twitcher. "I don't keep track of trivial things."

Whiskers objected. "It's important to keep track of who has the human genes so we can spread them to as many mice as possible." Whiskers, of course, was proud of his human genes and his own whiskers quivered in anticipation as he fantasized about spreading his genes far and wide. "I'm not so sure we should spread them, mused Twitcher. "Look at the terrible results in humans. I've read they've made large tracts of the planet uninhabitable."

Squeaky now began to sing his favorite song "Three Blond Mice."

"How far we've come," thought Twitcher. "It won't be long before we develop our own Mouszart. You know the old saying. 'Build a better mantrap and the world will pile cheese at your door.'"

Is there any time in our lives when we are more optimistic than when we're newly married with a world of possibilities ahead of us. Everything seems an adventure - a shared adventure.

My young wife and I were furnishing our first apartment. Among our new treasures were a counter and two stools. This was to serve until we found a suitable table and chairs.

The counter had a white Formica top supported by hollow black wrought iron legs. The stools had rattan seats, also with wrought iron legs.

As we began to use the stools we found them to be an inch too high for comfortable seating.

In my new role as man of the house I took a hack-saw and carefully measured one inch and cut one leg. I then used the cut one inch piece as a template for the other three legs. I carefully made the cuts and soon had four one inch pieces removed. I then set the stool upright, only to find that I had cut two lengths from one of the legs.

I won't attempt to describe my mortification. Doubtless where I went wrong was to get out of bed that morning.

My wife confiscated the hack-saw. To this day I have never used that cursed tool again. She then cut an inch from the leg I had missed. Next she cut a wooden spoon to fashion a dowel of about two inches and used it to reconnect a one inch piece of wrought iron to the leg which had sustained two cuts. Once fitted, she cemented it in place.

Now, fifty years later, we still use that counter and stools.

This incident was a marriage defining event. My wife and I learned that I was to be entrusted with absolutely nothing concerning household maintenance. Nothing. Nothing!

I recommend this as one of the cornerstones of a long lasting and loving marriage.

Good news! Good news! The International Longevity Center has put together a style book of politically incorrect and correct ways to refer to the elderly. (That means us.)

To begin with, they want to eliminate the word "elderly." Do you perceive the danger here? Once you eliminate the word it's just a slippery slope down to eliminating the "elderly" themselves. (This would be a novel way of solving the Social Security problem.)

The guide goes on to suggest that an acceptable substitution might be "older adult" or "man" or "woman", with the age, if relevant. How do you like that, ladies? Your most cherished secret revealed just because you're -um- "elderly?"

The terms "senior citizen" and "golden years" are also to be expunged. The Center points out the persons under fifty are not referred to as "junior citizens." Why not? It sounds good to me!

My only quarrel with "golden years" is its ambiguity. For me, the term brings to mind the many hours I've spent in the dentist chair being laden with inlays and crowns.

Many other terms are also on their hit list. To be avoided are "feisty," "spry," "feeble," "eccentric," "senile" and "grandmotherly." I agree. I certainly would take umbrage at being called "grandmotherly."

Other terms are also condemned. Included are "biddy," "codger," "coot," "crone," "fogy," "fossil," "geezer," "hag," "old fart," "old goat," "prune," "senile old fool" and "vegetable." The guide is silent on "veggie."

The word that poses the greatest problem for the Center appears to be "home." This is another ambiguous word. It can refer to your personal and private abode or it can mean a nursing facility - an "old folks home." Its nice to note that they're undecided here but not reassuring to know that they're considering taking "home" away from us.

I write this report to you in the spirit of a benefactor for the - oh you know - with the certain knowledge that I add a measure of serenity to the moil and toil of you daily lives. In my self-appointed position as Guardian of All Things Senior I continue to root out the many threats to our somnambulant well being.

Sleep soundly. Bob is on the job.

"These new data shatter all that we've believed and taught these many years," complained Dr.Evans, the world renowned geneticist. "It proves Lamarck was right after all."
"Like really. I totally don't understand, " responded Emily, his unpaid intern.
Dr. Evens puffed himself into his most pompous posture and began to explain. "We've found that for three generations now the length of infant thumbs has been rapidly increasing. The thumb has now become half again as long as the middle finger. This phenomenon is seen most vividly in wealthy industrialized nations whose children first had the opportunity to operate thumb-based hand-held computer game controllers. Apparently the near constant manipulation of that digit caused the thumb to become longer and stronger than in past generations, and somehow this finds it's way into the DNA and is inherited."
"Totally awesome!" enthused Emily. "Like really weird."
Dr Evans continued," We now find that the magnitude of increase is directly proportional to the amount of time spent on computer game consoles.
Emily's eyes opened wide. "I mean have there been like enough peer reviews?"
"The results are coming in right now. All seem to confirm the initial results."
"Totally awesome! Like I can like add some anecdotal data."
"Let's hear it," agreed Dr. Evans.
"Well," began Emily. "When my boyfriend Henry and I are like alone on the couch we don't totally even watch the TV. He's like into porn games on his game-boy. He doesn't pay like any attention to me at all."
Dr Evans was confused. "What do you do while he's playing?"
"Oh, like I'm on my cell with my girlfriends."
"Now I understand," thought Dr. Evans, "why the birthrates are falling."

I dress for you in shades of blue
Although it is a saddening hue
It pleased me as our young love grew
To do anything that pleased you too
I dressed for you in shades of blue.

I dress for you in shades of gray
It matched your eyes you liked to say
But now you've gone your separate way
And I long for you throughout the day
I dress for you in shades of gray.

I dressed for you in shades of red
And tried to lure you to my bed.
You need more time is what you said
Before my longing lust you fed
I dressed for you in shades of red.

I dressed for you in shades of black
In hopes somehow I'd win you back
To reconcile I have no knack
It's yet another skill I lack
I dressed for you in shades of black.

Hear me! I'll never dress for you in orange!

This piece was begun as a five minute exercise in a creative Writing workshop. The first four paragraphs were done in the five minutes. I liked the piece and so later continued the journey.



Old Abel was thought by his neighbors to be something of a hermit. He lived alone in a stone hut just outside of town. No one knew from whence he came or if somewhere he had friends or family. All they knew of him was that he fished, trapped rabbits and grew herbs and vegetables in a large garden behind his hut. He almost never came to town so it was a truly unusual event when he appeared at the General Store carrying a small bundle in a sack slung over his shoulder, and stated that he was about to take a journey.

"Where are you going?" asked Ezra, the store's proprietor.

"How long will you be gone?" asked Emma, Ezra's wife.

They received no answer. Old Abel simply shrugged, turned on his heel, marched out of the store and down the road leading south.


He walked for three days, ever southward. He met few travelers along the road. When they greeted him he responded with a single nod, and continued his trek. Along the roadsides berries, fruits and nuts were abundant. Abel's diet now consisted solely of these.

Abel was tall and gaunt. He wore a shapeless wide-brimmed hat which covered most of his long gray unkempt hair. His dark blue eyes blazed beneath his shaggy black eyebrows. His nose was long and thin. A red scar slashed across his chin, contrasting starkly with the bright whiteness of his teeth. He wore a weather beaten tan jacket atop heavy dark blue sweater. On his feet were well worn hikers boots.

At about four in the afternoon of the third day Abel entered the seaport town of Southhaven. There a southbound ship was completing its complement of seamen. Abel signed on as assistant to the cook. The ship's main cargo was blocks of ice from Canada, bound for Brazilian and Argentinean seaports, thence to be carted inland to underdeveloped villages not yet served by electricity.

During those first days Abel performed his duties well. He could be seen silently peeling root vegetables, silently stirring the pots and silently cleaning the dishes from the officers' mess.

Early on the morning of the fourth day, the Captain and First Mate entered the galley.
"The cook has a fever," said the Captain to Abel. "Can you cover for him until he recovers?"
Abel nodded. But the cook did not recover. The next day he died of his fever, leaving Abel in charge of the cooking. Shipboard, trepidation abounded. Ships' food was usually bad enough; in the hands of an unskilled amateur it promised to be all but inedible.

So all were surprised as they gradually realized their food was in the hands of a gastronomic genius. Somehow Old Abel knew what amounts of which ingredients to combine at exactly when in the cooking process to bring forward all the subtleties of their flavors and textures.

Abel produced fish chowders, silky, with a creamy texture and with a suggested a hint of sherry. He created robust stews, brimming with tender meats and fresh vegetables, flavored with ginger, garlic and a generous splash of burgundy wine.

At the end of the first week, the Captain came to Abel, all smiles, and asked if he'd like a boy to help with his chores. Abel shook his head 'No.' Somehow he managed to keep up with all the work himself without ever seeming overly busy. One day the First Mate looked in at the galley. He was impressed with how quickly and efficiently the old man went about his preparations.

Morale on the ship was the highest the Captain had ever experienced. Both officers and the common seamen found themselves happily talking about food, anticipating their next meal and speculating about what magic Abel would next perform.

At each port-of-call Abel would go ashore, followed by the cabin boy, to purchase supplies from the local markets. Both would return heavily laden, to be greeted by an excited crew. What new miracles would Abel now create?

The crew's consensus favorite was a bread pudding highlighted with the flavors of brown sugar, of cinnamon, and of nutmeg - topped off with sprinkled raisins and a dash of dark Jamaican rum.

At the end of three weeks, Abel asked to train the cabin boy in the art of table service for the Captain's table. Of course Abel's tutelage resulted in Haute Cuisine service never before experienced by the ship's officers, save the Captain, who was a gourmet in his own right. Eventually he permitted Abel to select the wines for his table from his extensive assortment. Abel selected impeccably. The cabin boy was trained to pour like a Sommelier.

The Captain began to have dreams of opening a restaurant with Abel as chief chef. 'A high class place', he thought, where ladies arrived in evening gowns and men in dress suits. Prices would be outlandish. A nautical décor would be nice - and he thought of Abel's delicate touch with fish - the finest he had ever tasted. 'The cabin boy can be the first waiter and he can help train the others.'

Many were regretful when the five months voyage was over. Some came to Abel to thank him and ask what ship he planned next to sign up for. But Abel only shook his
head. The Captain came to the galley with Abel's wages. He asked Abel to sign on with him for the return journey. Abel only shook his head, "I go south," was all he said.

Next day, Abel was gone. He was last seen walking on a southward road with his sack slung over his shoulder.


For two days Abel walked at his steady ground-swallowing pace. During the mornings he stopped only to gather fruits and berries. At sundown he built a fire and slept through the night. At midday of the third day he entered a town where he added provisions to his sack and departed.

Later that afternoon as the sun struggled to warm the chilling air, Abel looked behind him to find he was being followed. A boy about 12 years old was 100 yards behind him. Abel continued his walk, and looking behind him, found the boy had continued following.

At one point in the late afternoon Abel looked back but the boy was not to be seen. Abel felt disappointed. He was growing comfortable with the idea of company on the road. About an hour later Abel looked again and was pleased to find the boy had returned. Still the boy did not approach.

Finally Abel stopped and motioned for the boy to come nearer. The boy came closer, stopping about ten yards behind. He was short, dark skinned and wiry. He had bright brown eyes and a ready smile. Abel liked him at once.

Toward evening Abel found a sheltered cove - a place to spend the night. He built a campfire and began to warm his hands. Again he gestured a welcome to the boy, who this time approached. As he drew near the boy held out his hands to show Abel he had three eggs in them.

Abel smiled and nodded. He briefly searched for and found a thin flat rock which he heated in the fire. Then from his sack he selected two small containers. From one he poured a bright red powder. From the other he shook some dark green flakes. These he scrambled with the eggs.

As the boy caught the fragrance of the cooking eggs an expression of ecstasy came to his face - his eyes widened, his mouth smiled and his entire body shivered with anticipation.

As they shared their meal, the boy closed his eyes and ate rapturously.

That night they slept side by side. Next day they walked together without speaking. Abel had slackened his pace so the boy could more easily keep up. All day they walked in silence.

Toward evening, Abel, at last, spoke.

"What's your name?" he asked in Spanish. The boy understood.

"Luiz. What's yours?"

"Abel."

"Where are you going?" asked Luiz.

"South, ever south," answered Abel. "And where are you going?"

"With you!" Luiz responded quickly.

Abel raised his eyebrows. "It's very cold where I'm going."

The boy shrugged. "When it gets too cold I'll leave you."

Again they walked in silence.

As evening approached Abel stopped beside a stream and began to assemble wood for a campfire. The boy understood at once and he too gathered wood. Abel saw fish in the stream. He tried to catch one with his hands, to no avail. The fish were too quick for him.

The boy laughed and signaled for Abel to watch him. He moved 20 yards upstream where the water narrowed and flowed more swiftly. Here the fish had to jump to make headway against the current. As a fish reached the surface, the boy snatched it from the water. In a few minutes the boy had caught four edible sized fish which he presented to Abel.

Abel and the boy, both still silent, squatted in front of a low flat rock and Abel began his magic.

He took a knife from his sack and swiftly scaled the four fish. He then sliced them open and scraped out the unwanted organs. Then he lifted out the bones and cut the remainders in two. Soon eight filets adorned the rock.

Now Abel reached into his sack and brought out several clear plastic packets of powders, dried leaves and crystals. Abel selected several and carefully poured part of their contents into a pile. These he mixed together and then rubbed them into the filets. He finished the preparation by squeezing onto the fish the juice of a fruit he had gathered. Then he placed eight thin flat stones onto the fire and after a few minutes placed a filet on each. Soon they were sizzling on their stones, emitting an ambrosial fragrance.

With the first bite the boy seemed transported to some gastronomical heaven. With eyes closed he chewed slowly. Each time he opened his eyes he looked at Abel with a worshipful expression. Then he began a barrage of questions. Who was Abel? How old was he? Where had he come from? How long had he been travelling? Where was he going? How long was the journey to take? How had he learned to cook? Had he a family?

For a while Abel was silent. Then slowly and carefully he began.

"My name is Abel. I come from North America. I've been traveling most of my life. The only continent I haven't seen is Antarctica. That's where I'm headed now. I don't know how long it will take to get there." Abel paused as Luiz nodded that he understood.

Abel continued. "I learned to cook from my mother, and from books, and from watching others. I have no family."

"No family?" the boy repeated as if in disbelief. Now he began his own narrative. "My name is Luiz. I have lots of family. I have a mother, a father, a grandmother, two brothers and five sisters. My family lives in Pequenista a small village near ________. My uncle raped my eight year old sister, so I killed him. Now I can't return home."

"Can you read?"

"Yes, both Spanish and English."

"How did you learn?"

"I worked in a missionary's home where they spoke English. I minded their six year old son and I paid attention when he was at his lessons."

"Can you write?

"Yes," answered Luiz proudly, "In both Spanish and English."

"What plans have you?" asked Abel.

"To stay with you and learn to cook."



Next day Abel began Luiz's training. For several weeks, as they walked, Abel explained first the chemistry and then the biology of the four basic flavors - sweet, sour, salty and bitter. He described where on the tongue each held precedence. Then he discussed heat and cold, crispness, smoothness and cheweyness. This led to a disquisition on the different characteristics of various meats, fish and poultry. Then to different cooking techniques, different temperatures, and the effects of different cooking durations. Next he went on to explain the uses of spices and herbs.

At first the boy said nothing but his attentiveness never flagged. When Luiz finally began to ask questions, Abel was pleased to find that the boy understood and remembered what he was being told. Abel found himself thoroughly enjoying his own unexpected volubility. Even better, it helped distract him from the intense pain, the ever increasing pain, he felt from within his body.

Each night, as he prepared the evening meal, and as he demonstrated different preparation techniques, Abel coordinated his demonstration with some of the things he had spoken of during the day.

After a few weeks Luiz began helping with the preparations. Abel was amazed at how quickly the boy mastered each of the skills. Now and again Luiz would vary something in Abel's recipes. Sometimes the experiment would fail, but sometimes the result was wonderful. Most important to Abel was that all the trials made sense and showed the boy's creative gustatory instinct.

Abel now found himself overjoyed with the pleasure that he and Luiz shared in the boy's increasing skills. 'He's a treasure,' thought Abel. He was so engrossed in training the boy that he was distracted from the gnawing pain spreading within his body - that ever present, ever intensifying torment.

While awake Abel showed no outward sign of his pain. But the boy knew. He had lain awake at night as Abel tossed and groaned in his sleep. Many nights Luiz lay listening to the old man's suffering until he, sobbing in sympathy, finally slept himself.


It was late June when they finally approached Bahia Blanca. They stopped at an inn. Luiz went to a nearby stream to refill Abel's canteen while Abel went inside to speak with the proprietor. When Luiz returned he could see that Abel and the innkeeper were already on the best of terms.

"Luiz, Senior Paco has agreed to allow us to observe the operation of his kitchen."

Luiz felt a surge of excitement. The only kitchen he ever had seen was his mother's It had occupied one side of his family's living room. Paco took them both into the kitchen where Luiz was astounded at what he saw. A line of stoves and ovens, a sea of pots and pans, large walk-in refrigerators, cupboards stacked with dishes and glassware, containers of silverware, several sinks, and best of all, a wall fixture containing knives of different sizes and shapes together with an array of strangely shaped utensils. Four cooks and a dishwasher were at work. Luiz was fascinated.

Abel and the proprietor had agreed that Abel could help prepare the evening meals. Luiz could watch. In the meantime Abel took each pot in hand and described for Luiz the ideal use of each. Abel tapped with a ladle the bottom and side of each pot and then hand it it to Luiz to heft its weight. Paco stood by nodding and smiling.

Luiz became most excited when Abel began to demonstrate the knives. He showed Luiz the center of gravity of each and the kind of motion for which each knife was best suited.

Paco brought out a side of lamb and Abel began butchering it swiftly. Each time Abel switched to a different knife, he explained to Luiz why he had made the change. The other chefs, whenever they had a free moment, came to watch Abel. Luiz could see that they all were impressed.

That night they slept at the inn as special guests of Paco. He begged Abel to stay another day "After all, Luiz still had so much to learn."

But Abel expressed an urgency to continue south. From thence forward, at every opportunity, Abel would befriend an innkeeper or restaurateur to continue Luiz's gastronomical education. Luiz also began helping in the kitchens and Abel was gratified to see how quickly the boy understood the essentials of what he was learning. It soon became evident that Luiz had an instinct for artistic plating that exceeded even that of Abel, who beamed proudly as he viewed each of Luiz's presentations.


Gradually as they walked south, Abel began to describe to Luiz the satisfactions of a formal higher education, classical learning and university life. He emphasized the opportunities this presented for enjoying a richer life experience and his own regrets at not having pursued advanced degrees.

"How do you know so much?" asked Luiz in genuine wonderment.
"I'm self taught," answered Abel. "That has both its satisfactions and its limitations."

They walked on for a while in companionable silence as Luiz could see Abel struggling with his pain

It was getting colder as they continued their trek. In Comodoro Abel shopped for winter clothing for them both. "Where do you get your money?" asked Luiz.

"Over my lifetime," answered Abel, "I have accumulated plenty of money. More than I need. I have a nephew who manages it for me. Here is his business card. I've already spoken with him about you. If you choose to gain an education I will provide you with tuition, and money for expenses, plus $10,000 dollars a year for your family, for every year you study toward a degree. This will continue every year until you are forty. At that point I've provided $350,000 to be used at your discretion. My hope is that you will either buy or build a restaurant of your own. You may telephone my nephew to arrange the details. He's expecting your call."



They entered the town of Ushuaia. This will be where our journey together ends" said Abel told Luiz. At El Piscatore Abel received an enthusiastic greeting from Andre, the proprietor. Paco had called ahead to tell Andre of the treasure he was about to befriend.

Next day, Andre arranged for Abel to meet an airplane pilot with a shady reputation. For an outrageous fee he arranged for the pilot to fly him over the Antarctic Peninsula Glacier and permit him to parachute down. Since this was illegal, Abel was confident the pilot would remain silent about his mission. Abel then purchased spiked boots and ski poles

In their last tearful moments together Abel gave to Luiz his treasured sack and the cash he was carrying, amounting to some three hundred odd dollars.





Abel trudged across the ice. He headed toward two high hills in the distance. Their peaks, black and ominous, disappeared as they jutted into the low hanging clouds. The wind whipped and swirled, stinging his face. The pain within his body was more insistent than ever.

As he approached the base of the peaks he found a hollow where new snow had accumulated atop the glacial ice. "This is a good place," Abel said aloud to himself.
From his belt he removed a small hand axe and trowel. He marked an area about six feet long and two feet wide. Quickly he pushed the surface snow aside and chopped out the ice to form a long shallow hole.

He removed his jacket, carefully folded it to fashion a pillow and laid it at one end. He then removed his gloves, hat and boots and lay down in the hole.

"I've chosen when to die and where to die and how to die. What more can a man ask?"

His last thoughts were of the boy as the whirling wind sucked away the last of his body's warmth.

Snow covered him quickly,

It was some years later when two geologists, studying the effects of global warming discovered his still frozen, perfectly preserved body.

" Look!" said the first as he brushed the snow from Abel's face, "He's smiling."

The telephone rang at the editor’s desk.

“Get Horatio Jackson over here for an interview right away,” boomed an imperious voice. “I want to set the record straight.”

“I don’t take orders from unknown callers,” objected the editor.

“I said right away.” The caller gave his address and abruptly hung up.



Horatio approached the anteroom desk. “I’m here to conduct an interview.”

“Yes Mr. Jackson, we’re expecting you. You may go right in.”

“May I ask your name?” Horatio’s note pad and pen were at the ready.

“Just call me Pete.”

“And the name of the man who called for the interview?”

“Mr. Joshua Lord. Please address him as Mr. Lord.”



Inside the office Horatio had to squint. Bright spotlights aimed their beams at the imposing figure seated behind an oversized mahogany desk. His craggy face was largely hidden by his full beard and locks of silver hair which covered his ears and much of his forehead. His eyes were a steely blue which seemed to penetrate to Horatio's core. He was dressed in a dark gray business suit, a light gray shirt and a silvery tie.

“I’ve lost patience with all these inaccurate Creation Myths. It’s time to tell the real story. I want you to write it down,” began Mr. Lord.

“Are you sure I’m the right man for the job?” asked Horatio.

“You’ll do. If I’m pleased with the results, I’ll grant you further interviews and clear up other ridiculous notions.”

“Very good sir. To begin, I’d like to ask...”

“ Be quiet! Today I’m going to tell you the true story of Creation!”



“In the beginning there was Pure Thought. And Pure Thought realized that there was nothing to think about. So Pure Thought created Memory, Imagination, Faith and Reason, in that order.”

“I thought you came first.”

“No. I came in with Faith. There was no point to my existence before that. Stop interrupting and just keep writing!

Pure Thought still didn’t have enough to think about, so I decided to create a Material World with lots of interacting events.

And so I did. I began with a speck of matter of incredibly dense mass. I exploded it, at the same time creating Space, Time and the laws of Physics and Chemistry. I created 28 dimensions of space and 28 possible directions of time.”

Horatio shook his head. “Why 28? Mankind only experiences three dimensions of space and one direction of time.”

“Twenty-eight is a perfect number. Would you expect me to use an imperfect number?”

“What makes it perfect?”

“Don’t you remember your number theory? Perfect numbers and the sum of their factors are the same. The factors of twenty-eight are 14,7, 4, 2 and 1. That adds to twenty-eight. That’s perfect!”

“I still don’t understand, and neither will my readers.”

“It’s not important. There are things in heaven and earth Horatio that are not dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“It seems to me I’ve heard that before. Didn’t Shakespeare write that?”

“And who do you think wrote Shakespeare?”

Horatio just nodded and kept scribbling.

“Anyway, the physical universe kept us occupied for several billion years, but then we began to feel that we were growing stale, so I decided to create Life in the physical world.”

“How did you do that?”

“It was simple. Some chemical reactions release free energy. This enables other reactions which absorb free energy. Growth and reproduction emerged from this. Next, mutations were needed to spur evolution, and mutations are simply copying mistakes. Last, the mutated forms needed to be able to grow and reproduce. Some were able to.”

" So you created evolution!" exclaimed Horatio.

"Of course I did. I had neither the time nor inclination to sweat the small stuff.

After that it was all down hill. Single cells developed into colonies in which the cells differentiated, and creatures filled every niche where energy exchange could occur.

Eventually I permitted Man to evolve. What a pain that turned out to be. I guess Oscar Wilde was on to something when he said ‘I think that God in creating Man somewhat overestimated his ability.’”



“OK, the interview is over. You now know the true story of Creation.”

“Wait! What about Man’s immortal soul; what about abortion, what about stem cells, what about separation of church and state?” Jackson stood up, unable to control his agitation. “And what about Truth, Justice, Morality, Beauty...”

“If I like the way you handle the Creation story, I’ll call you in for another interview. Don’t try to contact me. When I'm ready, I'll contact you.

Remember, I work in mysterious ways.”





It was now two days since he had turned in his story. So far the editor hadn’t said a word about it. He was just sitting on it.

“Jackson!” boomed the editor. “Get in here!”

Jackson jumped from his chair and hurried to the editor’s office.

“Professor Gassack is speaking to the Very Flat Earth Society at 2:00 this afternoon. Cover it!"

Intimidated, Jackson decided this was not the time to question the editor. His watch showed 1:15. He had just enough time to eat on the run and make it to the meeting.

Jackson had been a cub reporter for three months now. His first assignments had been covering small fires, traffic accidents and following-up on crank phone calls.

His interview with Mr. Lord had been not only the highlight of his career, but also of his young life.


The lecture hall was new and sparkling. The auditorium contained fourteen rows of seats. The speakers' lectern was spotlit from above and featured a console of modern multimedia controls.

Horatio arrived breathless at 1:58. Six other persons were in the audience. Horatio recognized two of them as reporters from other news media.

He was pleased to discover that one was Helen Highflower, a pretty energetic young striver from the Weekly Tattler.

Horatio smiled and sat down next to her. "This should be fun," he whispered to her.

"Wake me if I snore," she smiled back.

As Horatio prepared his notepad and pen, an ancient lady doddered across the floor to the microphone.

"Welcome to you all. I'm sure Professor Gassack needs no introduction. He is currently President of the Very Flat Earth Society, and has an extensive and impeccable resume in our long fight for the truth. So without further delay - Professor Gassack."

Horatio applauded and was embarrassed to find that he was alone in doing so.

The Professor was a short, rotund late-middle aged man with a smile that seemed etched permanently on his benign face. His blue eyes darted continually at individuals in the audience as though imploring their continued attention. He wore a baggy gray tweed suit about two sizes too large. Unhappily, his voice was an unvarying monotone.



"Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm here today to describe for you an impending crisis. As we are all aware, the conspiracy to portray our earth as a round sphere has now continued for over 800 years, despite our overwhelming proof to the contrary. As we know, the earth is largely a circular flat disc with the North Pole at its center. Around the perimeter is the Antarctic Wall - a sheet of ice of unmeasured thickness and height. This glacial wall is what holds the oceans in-bounds, preventing them from pouring off the edge of the world.

The current threat is that of global warming. As the world temperature rises and the ice wall melts faster than it can be reformed, we face a three stage disaster.

In stage one, the melting wall will cause ocean levels to rise, flooding low lying coastal land. The major port cities of the world will all be lost and the world's land mass can be expected to shrink by about thirty percent.

During the second stage, the wall will be breached and ocean water will pour over the edge, leaving only the deep ocean trenches to hold the vestiges of the now seventy percent of the earth's surface. We estimate that only 14.3 % of ocean water will remain. Of course, inland lakes will initially be unaffected.

The third stage will bring an arid environment where the cycles of evaporation and rainfall will be insufficient to support large croplands. Only a small fraction of the earth's current biomass will be supportable.

We here at the Very Flat Earth Society are currently planning how to deal with this three-pronged catastrophe. Our first steps will involve how we may raise public awareness. You members of the press bear an especial responsibility, to communicate the dangers we all face to the public at large.

In addition, we, a not-for-profit organization, need help with our fundraising efforts. I have prepared handouts for you and hope you will treat our efforts with the seriousness they merit.

Are there any questions?"

Horatio looked at Helen who had made no notes whatever. She was shaking her head as though in disbelief. She raised hand with the first question.

"The earth is round professor. How can you say it is flat?"

The Professor now assumed an avuncular demeanor.

"Ah child, you're one of the brain-washed masses. May I suggest that you Google our sister organization, 'The Flat Earth Society.' There you can find plenty of on-line evidence for the truth. In addition, I suggest that you visit our bookshop in the lobby, where you can find many volumes to help in your enlightenment.

May I have the next question please."

At first noone stirred. Then Helen again raised her hand. "Professor, haven't you seen the satellite photos of the earth showing it clearly to be a sphere?"

The Professor smiled indulgently. "Faked pictures my dear - all part of the conspiracy.

Any more questions? If not, you will find the handouts in the back. Thank you all."

Horatio turned to Helen. "Lets have some coffee." She nodded in agreement.


As they sat together in the Coffee Shop, Horatio began, "I have no idea what tone to take in my story. Do I mock the poor old boy or play the whole thing straight? What about you?"

Helen shrugged. "The whole thing is whacky and I'm going to report it as whacky."

They both laughed and Horatio thought how much he liked her smile.

As they continued to talk he began to wonder how forward he should be in undertaking her seduction. He didn't want to scare her off, but he wanted her to know that he found her desirable. He needn't have been concerned. As they finished their coffee Helen suggested, "Let's go to my place."

"Great!" Horatio responded.

"I seem to do my best writing after sex," she continued.

"Sounds like it's worth a try," agreed Horatio.




"Jackson!" The editor's voice echoed through the city room.

"Yes Sir." Up jumped Jackson and hurried into the editor's office.

"Your story about Mr. Lord needs a rewrite," the editor stated. "You've played it too straight. He's obviously a nut and you've written the story as if he actually is God."

"Yes Sir. The problem is I think he might be."

"Are you going off the deep end Horatio?" demanded the editor.

"I hope not Sir. I don't think so."

"Well, rewrite from a more skeptical point of view!"

"I…I wouldn't dare sir," stammered Horatio. "He was very clear about how I was to handle the story."

The editor glared at Horatio. "Go back and interview him again. Convince yourself whether he's a nut or some practical joker."

Horatio shook his head. "He instructed me not to try to contact him. He said he'd contact me again if he liked my handling of the story."

"OK. Here's what we'll do," began the editor. "Let the story stand as it is. It's too well written to lose it. Write a brief introductory paragraph explaining how it was assigned to you. Then add a closing paragraph saying I was skeptical and sent you to interview several scientists to verify the science. Invite the readers to decide for themselves. The problem is many readers will decide you're a nut."

"How many scientists sir?"

"At least two. Use your judgement," ordered the editor.

Later, at Helen's apartment, Horatio explained his dilemma. "I know it sounds crazy but I think Mr. Lord might be genuine. He's trusted me with his story and he's promised me more interviews if he likes the job I do with Creation. On the other hand my editor says I should treat him as a crackpot, and if I want to keep my job I've got to follow orders."

"Oh Horatio! You're so gullible," she mocked, squeezing his bare shoulders. "Your editor has it right. Mr. Lord - the guy's a fake."

Horatio shook his head. "That's what I thought at first. But he was absolutely convincing. And I've since found that his science is right on.

Their conversation ended for a while as they busied themselves with one another. When conversation resumed Helen began, "Your paper signs your paycheck. If you want to be a reporter, you'd better do whatever they want."

Horatio and Helen had been seeing one another about twice a week for the past several weeks. Helen would phone him whenever she had a story to write. After sex, Helen would bound to her laptop and begin typing furiously. When finished she would return to bed and she and Horatio would begin their pillow talk. After sex again Helen would return to her laptop and edit her story. Horatio would relax and doze off. He found he had no desire to write after sex.

A week later his story of his interview with Mr. Lord was printed. The public treated it with an inattentive yawn. But Helen liked the story and that pleased Horatio greatly. His editor was silent about it. Horatio despaired of any further contact with Mr. Lord.







Horatio was alone in the City Room. It was 4 A.M. The morning edition was on the presses. Horatio was finishing a story about a heavily advertised new drug which had just failed its
Phase III testing phase.

His telephone rang. How much louder it seemed when surrounded by the silence of the empty City Room. It was Elaine, his kid sister, who was in her junior year away at college.

"Hi Horatio. I tried to get you earlier at home. It just now occurred to me that I might find you at work."

"Hi sis, what's up?"

"I think I have a great scoop for you, Horatio. Can you drop everything and come up here right away?" 'Up here' meant up-state Vermont.

"Of course not," objected Horatio. "What's the scoop?"

"Three of the kids in my Archeology course and I decided to go on a dig. Just for practice - so we'd be ahead of the others when we all go to the salt flats this summer. We practiced at a nearby gravel pit - and we found something."

"What does your professor say about it?"

"We haven't told him yet. We still have some bones to dig out. I thought you might like to be here when we surprise him tomorrow. If you have an exclusive maybe you'll get a promotion."

"Fat chance," chuckled Horatio. "Tell you what. I'll talk to the boss in the morning. If he'll O.K. it, I'll come tomorrow. Either way, I'll let you know."

"Great! Love you."

"Love you kid."



It was a seven hour drive. Horatio hated every minute of it. He was four years out of college, and it all seemed like baby stuff to him. He was pleased to see Elaine, and was amused by her excitement. It was another twenty minute drive to the gravel pit. Horatio's fatigue was beginning to make him grumpy.

"Here it is," exclaimed Elaine. There on a makeshift table was an incomplete skeleton of some strangely shaped creature. "We still have some pieces to dig."

Elaine's three comrades huddled silently around a small white protuberance in the pit, carefully, with camel hair brushes, gently teasing away the muck and dirt from their treasure. They took great pains with their every motion.

After a few minutes, the sound of a car's engine broke the stillness and Professor Oletarf pulled into sight.

"Over here Professor," called Elaine at the table.

"No need my dear," said the Professor. "There's no way archeological artifacts could turn up here."

"Seeing is believing, Professor," cooed Elaine.

"Here's the last piece," called Edward, approaching the table and handing it to the Professor.

The professor held it in both hands, stared briefly, and then turned it over. He brushed away a few last bits of clinging clay and said, "It's inscribed. It says 'Made in China.' You brought me all the way out here for this?"

The four students were crestfallen as the professor laughed merrily. "Next time bring the first bone to me directly."

Horatio spent the entire drive back to the city thinking about how he would explain this scoop to the editor.





Horatio arrived early at the stadium. Today was the last game of the regular season. The playoffs for the championship would begin in two weeks. Over the last month hectic renovations went on behind the scenes to make the stadium ship-shape for national T V. A new giant electronic scoreboard was being installed to replace the old manual three level arrangement which Henry and Frank had operated for the last twenty years. Neither was too happy about it. Nor were they happy about all the electrical cabling and wooden scaffolding left lying about which they had to hop over to get from place to place inside the scoreboard.

Horatio had been assigned to cover the game because Biff Reynolds, the paper's sports reporter was covering a Tiger Woods golf tournament in Florida. Lucky Biff, he always got the cushy assignments.

Horatio entered the Press Box. Three of the sports reporters were already there. Two more were next door with Evan Blabstone, the Public Address Announcer in his private booth. There they were enjoying drinks from the inevitable bottle of Scotch which Evan never permitted himself to be without. The reporters all knew about Evan's heavy drinking, but so far the management had only heard vague rumors of it. Anyway, it didn't seem to affect Evan's getting the job done.

On the counter at which Evan sat were one empty scotch bottle and another almost full, with three half filled tumblers in front of the men.

Evan was a heavy set man in his fifties with a perennially flushed face, giving evidence of the copious amounts of alcohol he continually imbibed. Evan thought a lot of himself and loved to tell how lucky the stadium was to have him as their announcer.

The stadium filled and the game began. Horatio found it an unexciting one-sided affair. The home team was having its way, to the lusty cheers of the crowd, who had evidently bet heavily and stood to win their bets. As the Home team scored again and again prodigious amounts of alcohol celebrated their performance. Henry and Frank were kept hopping as the score kept rising.

Horatio had his head down as he busily wrote his description of the last score, when he was interrupted by some unusual screeching from the crowd. He looked up. Across from him the scoreboard was belching black smoke through its many openings. Flames could be seen raging behind the smoke.

Evan had staggered to his feet, and live microphone in hand began yelling "Fire! Oh my god, fire!" At this the crowd began jumping to its feet. Those nearest the ends of the aisles were already beginning to run for the exits.

Without thinking, Horatio bounded to his feet and slammed open the door to the announcer's booth. With his left hand he grabbed the microphone and with his right he pushed the stupefied Evan into his chair.

Then in a calm, commanding and reassuring voice Horatio addressed the crowd. "There's no problem folks. The safest place in the stadium is in your seats. It's only a local fire in the scoreboard. Be calm. Sit down. Be calm."

Horatio sounded absolutely self-assured and confident. The crowd noise abated quickly and an unusual quiet pervaded the stadium. Horatio had averted a panic.

Then, at the entrance to the booth, two security guards and the Stadium Manager appeared. Evan had not had the time or presence of mind to hide his scotch.

Horatio switched off the microphone and said to the Stadium Manager in an authoritative voice, "Have the guards check on Henry and Frank and have them keep curious fans away from the scoreboard. And get one of the reporters next door to call 911 for the fire department. I'll stay with the mike in case the crowd needs more calming."

"OK kid," said the Stadium Manager. "Can you stay on the mike for the rest of the game? I don't want to trust it to Evan!"

So it was that when the game resumed, Horatio was the announcer. Throughout his calm voice and understated style was a continuing calming influence.

Henry and Frank it turned out had been able to deal with the fire. A live high voltage cable had been kicked loose when Henry stumbled over it and it had ignited the old wooden scaffolding. Frank then threw a circuit breaker switch which had stopped the electric current.

The real danger had been that of a full scale panic in the crowd and Horatio had averted it. Although he didn't realize it at the time, he had prevented a possible major tragedy. Horatio had become a hero.

Helen, who had been watching the game on TV, recognized Horatio's voice on the public address system. She immediately phoned Horatio's editor to tell him what had happened. She suggested that the editor engage her to do a feature story, including interviews with the scoreboard attendants, Horatio, fans in the crowd and Evan Blabstone., whose career was now surely ended. The editor agreed, little suspecting the intimate circumstances under which Helen planned to interview Horatio.








Horatio was on his way to Manhattan to interview Dr. Urpstein, the famous ostoepathic surgeon whose scandalous mistake had lately been so much in the news.

Dr Urpstein was located on Central Park West. His third floor office had windows facing the park. The office was staffed with two nurses and a receptionist. All three bustled busily, smiling mechanically at him any time he caught their eye. No patients were in the waiting room when Horatio arrived. After about ten minutes, the receptionist showed Horatio into the doctor's office. It smelled strongly of liquor.

Dr. Urpstein, a small man, sat sunken in an overstuffed leather chair, behind a massive teak-wood desk. He blinked blearily at Horatio through heavily bloodshot eyes.

Horatio had seen the type before; the red nose, the veins tracing a confused map, their thin red lines flushing his cheeks.

'Now I understand how it happened,' thought Horatio.

"How did it happen?" he asked.

Dr. Urpstien shrugged. "Could happen to anyone. She was in for a knee replacement. I opened the knee, the intern handed me an elbow replacement and I inserted it. I wondered at the time why I had such unusual difficulties. But I overcame them. I'm a great surgeon. The patient will be fine."

"But I understand she's suing you for fifty million dollars."

"I don't let problems like that bother me son. My insurance company handles all the details."

After leaving Dr. Urpstein Horatio decided to walk downtown along Seventh Avenue as he mulled over his impressions. 'Dr. Urpstien must have astronomical malpractice premiums,' thought Horatio. 'He must have been in an inebriated haze not to notice that he was installing an elbow. Maybe he is, as he said, a great surgeon, to be able to pull it off successfully.'

He was now on his way toward midtown. He had an appointment to meet Elsie Triplight, the doctor's unfortunate patient. He was anxious to hear firsthand what it was like to have an elbow joint in place of a knee.

Elsie lived with her husband Henry in an old brownstone in the Chelsea district. Horatio arrived at about 4:00 PM. The Triplights were in the living room about to enjoy an afternoon pitcher of Martinis. Horatio noticed three martini glasses surrounding the pitcher.

"We've been waiting for you," began Henry, as he started to pour, "I hope Martinis are O.K."

"Perfect." responded Horatio, although he thought them the most vile drink concocted by man.

Elsie was seated on a couch, wearing plaid shorts and a polka-dot blouse. Her left foot was bare. Her recent surgical scar showed purple at the knee. Her right foot was slippered. As Henry set her drink on the table in front of her, Horatio saw Elsie absentmindedly reach out her left foot and slide the narrow stem of a Martini glass between her big toe and second toe. "Cheers," she said, and dexterously lifted the glass to her lips, while not spilling a drop.

"How does it feel?" asked Horatio.

Elsie shrugged. "It's still sore, but the awful pain I used to have is gone."

" I understand you're suing for fifty million dollars," continued Horatio.

"That's right. He's made me into a freak. My elbow-knee is all my friends talk about to me. My life is blighted." At this point Elsie must have had an itch on the back of her neck. Without
thinking, she stretched her left leg and placed her martini on the coffee table. Then she reached her foot behind her head and scratched her neck with her big toe.

"I can't wait to get the lawsuit started," she continued.

"I don't think she should sue," interjected Harry.

"Oh you!" exclaimed Elsie in disgust as she got up and marched out to the kitchen.

"Why don't you want to sue?" asked Horatio.

"We had sex last night," explained Henry, lowering his voice to nearly a conspiratorial whisper. "And she was able to position her leg in a way that was never possible before. It was wonderful. I want her to go back and have the other knee done the same way. Elsie doesn't want any part of it. She just wants to sue. If we sue, Dr. Urpstein probably won’t be willing to do the second knee. And with our asking him to do it again we won't have much of a lawsuit."

Horatio laughed.


Later that night, during pillow talk, Horatio told Helen the story. As Horatio ended his tale, Helen bolted upright in the bed and exclaimed, "What a great idea! I've got to have both knees done! Oh Horatio, think of the possibilities."




Horatio was at the gym. Between his many reporting assignments and his frequent dalliances with Helen, his workouts were more infrequent than he would prefer. As he changed into his gym togs Bill and Freddy arrived in the locker room.

Freddy kicked off his loafers and slipped into his gym shoes. Bill opened the locker across from Freddy and hung up his jacket.

"Yo! What you goin' to do t'day?" asked Bill.

" Thighs 'n chest. What about you?"

Bill pulled on his tee-shirt and answered, "I'm doin' bi's and tri's. That's a must."

"How come I never see ya doin' abs?" asked Freddy.

"Like I do crunches twice a week. That's a must."

"OK dude," responded Freddy, "Like I'll see ya inside."

"For sure," responded Bill.

"Our poor abused language," mused Horatio. Just yesterday he was on a train when the conductor declared that at the next station 'The first four cars will not platform."

'Platform has become a verb," thought Horatio. Last week, on the subway, Horatio heard the conductor announce, "Please lean off the doors." As a journalist Horatio wished the language didn't change so rapidly. It seemed all the grammatical rules he had so labored to learn were melting away.

As Horatio entered the Free Weights area Freddy was already facing the mirrored wall, a fifty pound dumbbell in each hand, doggedly doing curls. His face was red and the veins in his neck were pushed out in sharp relief.

Both he and Bill were muscle bound. Their arms at rest didn't hang at their sides, like most of us, with palms facing inward, but rather hung more frontally, their palms facing backward, pushed forward by the enlarged muscles under their arms.

Bill looked at Freddy and said, "Like I mean it's really weird that you got so few tats. Like what's the problem?" Bill was covered in tattoos. His skin resembled a billboard smothered in cartoon graffiti.

"Like I'm not sure I like 'em that much," grunted Freddy, continuing his curls.

"You're really weird dude," said Bill. "Empty skin grosses me out."

Freddy shook his head. "Like I been readin' about lotsa guys changin' their minds about wantin' 'em. Getting rid of 'em is a problem - like expensive and it hurts."

Bill disagreed. "I'll never want to get rid'da mine. I love bein' art."

"Well, like I'm savin' for college. I don't want to put my money into tats."

"You're like weird man." Bill turned 90 degrees so he could admire his biceps in profile. "You got such dorky ideas."

At that moment they heard a shout." Help me! I'm stuck!"

Horatio, Bill and Freddy all went to investigate.

The Super Aqua Massager resembles a squat blue and white sausage. For a mere fifteen dollars you can spend three minutes on your stomach, enclosed in the sausage casing, with only your head protruding, while warm water pulsates in a plastic envelope against your legs, your back and your shoulders.

Arguably this is refreshing, especially if at the end of the three minutes, you can exit the machine and go about your life.

Irwin had always considered himself unlucky and today was a perfect instance. When he pressed the exit button and the top of the casing was supposed to rise and release him, he found the casing was stuck.

As Horatio approached the sausage, two maintenance men were already there, gesticulating energetically, but obviously with no idea as to what they should do.

"Get the Manager," called Irwin.

"I'm the Manager," responded a tall thin middle-aged man striding in vigorously with an obvious air of authority. He was followed closely by a short chubby individual who had to scramble to keep up. "And I'm the Assistant Manager," the second man proclaimed breathlessly.

"What's the problem?" asked the Manager.

"I'm stuck! This damn thing won't open! Get me out of here!" shouted Irwin.

"He's stuck," said one of the maintenance men. "We don't know how to get it open."

The Assistant Manager leaned over to Irwin and asked, "How was your massage?"

"To hell with my massage! Get me out of here!"

"Calm down," soothed the Assistant Manager. "We're not going to charge you for your added time in the machine."

Meanwhile, the Manager was on his cell phone speaking with a representative of the Super Aqua Massager. After a few moments he hung up and approached Irwin. "I've just been speaking with the manufacturer," he began hesitatingly. "They normally have two expert maintenance men. One just quit and the other is in Alaska where his daughter is having his first grandchild."

"Great!" piped in the Assistant Manager. "I'm sure we all wish them well!"

"What about me?" groaned Irwin. "I've got lots to do this morning."

The clock on the wall showed 9:15. The Manager told the maintenance men to get a hack-saw blade, slide it into the machine, and saw through whatever obstruction was preventing it from opening. The maintenance men hurried off.

Meanwhile, the Assistant Manager again leaned over to Irwin and said softly, "Don't worry. If you're not out by noon I'm sure the boss will spring for lunch."

"Are you crazy!" exploded Irwin. "I can't stay in here all morning!"

"Relax," implored the Assistant Manager. "If worse comes to worst I'm sure the boss will spring for dinner too."

Now the maintenance men returned with a long hack-saw blade. "This should do the trick," said the Manager, as one of the maintenance men slid the blade into the sausage while the other held it steady.

After about two minutes of sawing, Irwin suddenly yelled, "Hey, you must have sprung a leak. I feel water dripping on me! I'm starting to get soaked!"

"Don't worry," said the Assistant Manager. "We can add as much water as we need."

"Pull the power cord," said one maintenance man to the other. "We can't chance an electrocution."

Irwin was now making strange sounds - something between a growl, a groan and a sob. The Manager and Assistant had gone off to a corner and the Manager was again on his cell-phone, this time to the to the legal firm which represented the gym. "Don't admit any liability, advised the lawyer. "Subtly imply that it's the customer's fault. He must have done something wrong."

"The water's starting to get cold," called Irwin. "Call 911." The Manager thought this sounded like a good idea and called at once. Meanwhile the Assistant Manager bent over to Irwin and asked, "What did you do to get yourself stuck. You know you're not supposed to abuse the equipment."

Finally the Fire Department arrived; six burly men carrying axes and sledge hammers, to the Manager's horror.

Horatio approached Irwin and asked if there was anything he could do to help. "Just keep that idiot Assistant Manager away from me!" moaned Irwin.

"Careful not to hit him," called out the Assistant Manager. After a few minutes conference the firemen decided not to use their tools, but instead to wheel the sausage out and deposit him at a local automotive chop shop. Meanwhile the Manager took his assistant aside and said, "Go along with Irwin to demonstrate our concern with his well-being."

The Assistant Manager, wearing a broad smile, approached Irwin. "Good news! I'm going to get to ride in the fire engine with you to the chop shop."

Irwin simply groaned.

Freddy and Bill accompanied Irwin and his sausage casing in the event their muscles were needed. Horatio went back to his workout. He too had a busy morning planned.

Three days later Horatio was again at the gym. He located the Manager and asked what had happened with Irwin. The Manager looked distressed. "We couldn't get him out till about 3:00 in the afternoon. I've just been on the phone with Irwin's lawyer. He wants to sue us; he wants to sue the manufacturer; he wants to sue the Fire Department; he wants to sue the chop shop, and most of all he wants to sue my Assistant. When I asked if I could speak with him, his lawyer stated he is now often incoherent and is incommunicado until he completes a long course of psychotherapy. Meanwhile this morning I received a bill from the chop shop and a letter from the Fire Department requesting a special donation. I've also received a call from the Super Aqua Massager. They want payment for their chopped up machine."

"Wow!" exclaimed Horatio. "How are you handling all this?"

The Manager shrugged. "No problem. Like any good executive, I've delegated it all to my Assistant."

(Our workshop assignment was to write an autobiographical story told in the manner of a fairy tale)



My birthday, April 20th, is an inauspicious date on which to be born. Adolph Hitler was born on April 20th. It's a date controlled by a pair of evil ogres.

During my birth the ogres conferred.

"With Adolph, we tormented all mankind. He was our masterpiece!" chortled the first ogre, "What shall we do with this little guy?"

"Let's make his torment more personal," suggested the second, "Let's cause him always to fail some of his classes at school.

"Great!" agreed the first. And so it was that I never passed Spelling or Penmanship in grade school.

The ogres arranged that Spelling would be the only subject in which 90% was the lowest passing grade. I never even approached 85. Whenever there was a spelling bee, I could be depended upon to be knocked out in one of the earliest rounds.

Remember those lists of Spelling Demons? The ogres developed them just to humiliate me.

It was the ogres who developed "The Palmer Method" to teach Penmanship. I struggled with those long ovals where the lines were supposed to lie on top of each other. Mine wandered drunkenly back and forth, seldom touching one another.

Then came the coiled line. When completed, it was supposed to look like a Slinky. Mine looked as though I'd had a coughing fit while pen was to paper.

To make matters worse, the ogres decided to create a rule that we weren't permitted to use fountain pens. Instead, each desk had an inkwell. We were forced to use what were called 'straight pens', which in my case meant that numerous inkblots would insist upon decorating my desk and all my papers.

How I hated the assignment of a 'Composition'. This meant that Spelling and Penmanship would conspire to destroy my psyche utterly. Invariably, under the influence of the ogres, the teacher would end the assignment with those two dread words which assured my downfall, "Neatness counts."

Today, any youngster born on April 20th. (or any other date for that matter) has a personal laptop computer, with a Word Processing program, with a Spell Checker, and with an extensive array of elegant printing fonts. Thus the youngster can turn out beautiful looking pages. Their content may be drivel, but it will be great looking drivel.

I'm not afraid of anything. - Well, that's not quite true. Actually I'm afraid of practically everything.

It all starts when I wake in the morning. Am I still me? Remember what happened to Gregor Samsa? I rush to the mirror for reassurance. Who is that wizened, wrinkled and ravaged stranger staring back at me? It seems only yesterday I was a teenager. What happened and where was I when it happened?

Next come the terrors of the kitchen. I fear the orange juice will have begun to taste rotten. Is the milk sour? Is the butter rancid? Is the bread moldy? Am I to have no peace?

Do you realize that all the little events of the day to come carry an opportunity for disaster. Is it any wonder I fear to leave the house. Pass the Prozac please!

Imagine how much worse it would be if I didn't have that portrait of myself in the back room. You know, the one that shows all the scars of my many transgressions. (Oops! I seem to have wandered into someone else's story. Sorry Oscar!)

Manny awoke with a pain in his side. It was at the site of his lowest left rib. He rubbed at the soreness and found the flesh to feel softer than he expected.

At that moment The Big Man appeared.

"Manny, I've a gift for you. Her name is Eva. She's going to keep you company."

"That's fine ," said Manny, "but I've got a pain in my side."

"If you think that's a pain," joked The Big Man, "wait till you get to know Eva."

"Where is she," asked Manny.

"Over in the center of the garden. She was just talking with Sammy the Snake. You'd better tell her I've forbidden you both to eat the fruit from that one apple tree - the one she's standing under."

Manny went to the center of the garden and introduced himself.

"How did you know my name was Eva," she asked.

"Oh, I get to name everything," Manny replied, hoping to impress her.

"I've just been told that the fruit of this tree is the most delicious in the garden," said Eva. "Let's try some."

"No!" warned Manny. "We're forbidden by The Big Man to eat from that tree. Everything else here is fair game."

"You men have to learn that you can't forbid us anything," objected Eva, and she took a big bite of the forbidden apple.

"Delicious," she exclaimed. "You must try this Manny."

And he did. At that moment The Big Man appeared.

"You two have been disobedient. You're hereby evicted! And when you're out there in the world, you'd better put some clothes on. Otherwise you may be arrested for indecent exposure."

Henrietta Loveless is not the name you would expect. After all, she was an enthusiastic nymphomaniac.

As sole heir to the Loveless fortune, she had no financial problems whatever, unless you considered her income taxes. About three times a year her accountant would come to the house. They would review her bank balances and how her investments had grown. Then they'd discuss by how much she wished to increase donations to her favorite charities. She’d sign a few forms, and finally they’d tumble into bed. He wasn’t one of her favorites - he’d never do as a regular.

Henrietta was thirty-one years old and lived in the house her grandfather had built - a twelve room Tudor structure, really too large for her needs. Situated in the center of fifteen acres of woods and meadows, it afforded her plenty of privacy, which considering her lifestyle, she heartily welcomed.

Farmland surrounded Henrietta's property. Dairy cows, grazing in a meadow could usually be seen from her back porch. Henrietta often stood there alone, enjoying the vista. Behind the meadow, foothills of the Berkshire mountains were visible in the distance. "I'm so lucky," she would think to herself.

The house was set back about 300 yards from the one road servicing the area – Old Mill Creek Road. The Old Mill Creek meandered alongside the road, flowing southward, down into town, a mile and a half away.



The town of Westlandings was an avant guarde affair. The Chamber of Commerce boasted that it contained 1,200 homes, 5,000 year round residents, four bookstores and three Churches. It was obviously a secular community.

Westlandings College, a Liberal Arts school contributed an additional 4,000 students and faculty to the community 's economy.

South of the town was a small industrial park primarily hosting electronics software companies - providing jobs, not only for Westlanding's residents, but for many students as well. Westlanding was affluent. But the real character of the town devolved from its artistic community. Artists, actors and students formed a bohemian enclave which nourished a rich nightlife.

Henrietta thought of herself as pretty. Lots of men had told her so and she believed them. "I think my dark eyes are my best feature," she would muse as she admired her naked form in her bathroom mirror. Her hair, long, black and lustrous, she generally wore pulled back, to best show off her delicate ears and long angular neck. ‘Nibbling area,’ she often thought. Her five foot seven inch frame was curvaceous without being voluptuous. "Slender and ample," she'd mumble, while half turning to view her body in profile.

You might say she lived alone but that would be ignoring the housekeeper and landscaper, both of whom came for four hours early on Thursday afternoons, and her regulars who visited five days a week, Monday through Friday. Charley visited each morning from ten till twelve and Hank in the afternoons from five till seven.




Portrait photos on her dresser of Charley and Hank as well as six other men smiled toward the bed. These, arranged in a semi-circle were all her regulars, past and present, and Henrietta loved them all. She knew that for these men sex with her was purely recreational, and that’s the way she wanted it - no emotional complications.
Once she had been asked how she could claim to really love more than one man at a time. “Does a mother have trouble loving more than one child?” she had replied.

Henrietta reserved her evenings and weekends for socializing - for meeting new men. If an opportunity for sex arose, so much the better. It was so easy to meet them. Just go where the men are. If you wanted loud, boisterous and empty-headed, go to a sports bar or a ball game. If you wanted intellectual conversation, The Bookstore. If a married man, an evening little league game. Take your pick. What's your mood?

She didn't care for group sex or orgies. She prized the physical intimacy with one partner at a time. And she didn't agree with those women who felt like victims of male aggression. During sex the male was her captive, unable to bring himself to escape until she released him, exhausted, enervated, shrunken and flaccid. Then as they relaxed side by side, she'd encourage her partner to talk. What were his hopes, his fears, his triumphs, his disappointments? Henrietta was genuinely interested.

She knew Jimmy would never be a regular - he hadn't the stamina. This was the third time they'd been together. After a little more than an hour she knew he'd have a reason to dress quickly and hurry off to his wife. What was it about married men?

She found the younger single men were usually full of optimism, brimming with plans about the great things they would surely achieve. The married men were less optimistic, resigned somehow to feeling trapped by their commitments to job and family. Married men, like Jimmy, also had an aura of guilt about them, however cavalierly they attempted to portray themselves.

Generally she seemed to gravitate toward men who were divorced - their time was more their own and they were usually more realistic than the others about their expectations. What she found most appealing was the hidden air of sadness they carried, which she attributed to a sense of failure in making their marriages work. Somehow, this sadness more than anything else, brought forth her maternal instincts.

Charley was divorced. One morning as they lay on their backs in bed, recovering from their exertions, Charley asked her if she ever thought of marrying. "God forbid!" she giggled. "I enjoy sex too much. And I hate to wake up in the morning with a man in the bed. Their whiskers scratch and their breath stinks. I'd rather wait for you, all nicely washed and shaved and smelling of cologne."
"But wouldn't you like children?" he persisted.
"I've thought about it. Lots of people I know get all gooey and say they'd like to have a baby. But babies don't stay babies. They become teen-agers. Have you ever heard anyone say they wanted a teen-ager? I haven't."
They both laughed and Henrietta felt that itchy tingle beginning again. She ran her hand over his loins and felt him beginning to respond. They turned to each other, smiling, and another amorous bout began.

When, in her late teens, she had become aware of her insatiable sexual appetite, she read ravenously about the history and the ‘pathology’ of nymphomania.
She began by tracing the etymology of the word - from the Greek ‘nymph’ meaning a bride or a maiden and ‘mania’ meaning madness or frenzy.
“I’m following in the footsteps of many a powerful woman.” she thought. Valerie Messalina, wife of Roman Emperor Claudius I, Cleopatra, Josephine - Napoleon’s wife, and Catherine the Great were among her favorites. She felt a sense of camaraderie with them. She believed that she understood them in a way that others could not.

Henrietta was aware of the social stigma attending her lifestyle, and she was careful to be discreet. She knew of the historical attitudes toward highly sexed women. In her reading she had learned, to her indignation, how Victorian women were expected to act solely as guardians of their husband’s homes and children. They were to have no sexual appetites of their own. Indeed, one Victorian woman confided shamefully to her doctor that she had sexual fantasies. In her dreams she had erotic adventures with men other than her husband. The doctor prescribed celibacy, cold sponge baths, a daily enema and other more intimate nostrums.

“I’m certainly glad I didn’t live then,” she had thought. "Who decides how much sex is enough? Who decides how much too much? I decide for me, not some frigid puritanical wife or her hypocrite husband."

It wasn't until 1987 that the American Psychiatric Association* abandoned references to nymphomania as a mental disorder. Some Freudians still view it as a woman's desire to castrate the male. "Not me," Henrietta had thought, "that would be a real tragedy."

Henrietta's reading had taken her back before the Christian era, when women were viewed as more concupiscent than men. They were viewed as temptresses in so many myths and tales. These were the stories she really enjoyed, even though so often the women's sexuality led to her man's downfall.

One Monday morning, her telephone rang at nine o’clock. Charley couldn’t make it today. An hour later Hank called. He too had to cancel. This left Henrietta in a foul mood. She needed her sex. “Sometimes I have such lousy luck. I’ll just go out and find someone,” she grumbled to herself. “I’ll start at The Bookstore.”


* American Psychiatric Association Diagnostic and Statistical Manual
Main Street hosted several art galleries, an Indian museum, and a celebrated summer theater which operated year round. The non-summer months featured plays and players from the college. But the most prominent building on Main Street was The Bookstore.

The town, as you'd expect, had several bookstores, but The Bookstore was something special. It had been in Ernie Pinkerton's family for four generations, and he tended it with both skill and a true bibliophile's love of books. The store occupied the entire building at the southern end of Main Street, three stories tall. The street level contained one large open room packed with bookshelves. There was an ever-busy cashier counter at the entrance, and Ernie's small windowed office in the right rear corner. Next to Ernie's office an elegant circular stairway led to the second floor.

The books on the main floor were what you'd expect to find in any large mall - best sellers, travel books, how-to's, garden and nature books, cookbooks, adventure stories, kids books. You know, the typical assortment.

The second floor featured textbooks, both used and new. Here too were the markdown tables. Adjacent to the stairway was a cashier's station for the second floor.

A narrow wooden stairway led to the third floor. Here is where most of the store's treasures were located. Collector editions, antique encyclopedias and histories were in abundance, and framed, hand scribed individual pages from Middle Age tomes adorned the walls. In the far corner was the 'Adult' section, featuring and extensive selection of both books and magazines. It was reputed that customers would travel from two hundred miles away to shop at The Bookstore's third floor, but it was never made clear whether they were shopping for 'collectors' items or 'Adult' fare. Ernie knew of course, but he wasn't telling.

Henrietta and Ernie were good friends. He had, in former days been one of her regulars, until he fell in love with the proprietress of the art gallery next door. They married. Now he never lost an opportunity to regale Henrietta with the latest additions to his swelling collection of photos of his two plump little girls.

It was at the Bookstore that Henrietta first met Charley about six months ago. The third floor was prime territory for meeting new men. Today, to her dismay, there, browsing in the ‘gay’ racks were Charley and Hank, holding hands.

When they saw her they blushed. “Sorry,” said Hank, as the two men hurried from the store.

Henrietta realized that she too was flushed. Tears of frustration filled her eyes. The loss of her two regulars at once was bad enough, but now this? Holding hands! She later learned that the men had met a week ago by accident in The Bookstore, each recognizing the other from the photos that watched them in Henrietta’s bedroom.

As she daubed her unwelcome tears, thinking this was the unluckiest day of her life, she became aware of another set of eyes watching her intently. The woman smiled and Henrietta smiled back.

“It’s a grand selection, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes! I’d like to read them all!” answered Henrietta.
"Who's your favorite?"
"George Simenon," Henrietta answered at once. "I like everything he does - the psychological novels, the Inspector Magrait detective stories - -"
"They're psychological novels too," interjected the woman.
"Yes they are," agreed Henrietta.
They continued to chat for a few minutes and then the woman said, “I’m going for coffee. Would you like to join me?”
"Sure. That would be nice."
"By the way my name is Shirley," Shirley volunteered.
"I'm Henrietta"

Out on the street Shirley set a brisk pace. Henrietta glanced at her, liking the way she bounded along. Shirley was about two inches shorter than Henrietta. She had short blond hair, a pug nose in the center of a pretty sun-tanned face, and a generous bust. All seemed to bounce merrily with every stride.

The coffee shop was two blocks away. By the time they reached it Henrietta was out of breath. "I guess sex doesn't condition you for fast walking," she panted to herself.

They selected an isolated booth in the back. Both ordered Lattes and sat back, still and silent. Both smiled as they studied one another's form and face. Finally Shirley spoke.
"What do you do Henrietta?"
"Nothing really. I'm a sex addict. I can never get enough."
"Sounds great!"
"It is in its way, except that it takes up so much of my time."
Again a silence. Again broken by Shirley.
"You seemed upset back in The Bookstore. Is anything wrong?"
"Two of my men have strayed. Apparently they've found each other more appealing than I am."
"Are you into men only?" Shirley asked.
"So far. They do carry the equipment," Henrietta giggled.
Shirley said nothing.
"What do you do Shirley?"
"I paint portraits. I guess I'm pretty successful. The higher I raise my prices, the more people clamor for my work."
Shirley sipped her Latte and then slowly shook her head.

"Men!" she said. "Such a waste! They're so empty!"
Henrietta laughed to herself, "And I sure help to empty them."
"Why empty?" Henrietta asked aloud.
"Haven't you noticed that as you and I talk we're reading each other's face," began Shirley. "Men can't do that. It's like when they're color-blind or tone-deaf. They don't process all the information that's there. They really miss all the subtleties when we talk."
"I've never thought about it. Are you sure you're right?"
"Absolutely! Think about cave men. They had to hunt. This meant either being silent or yelling while chasing a herd to stampede it. No need to develop conversation skill."
"I think I've been with some cave men," joked Henrietta.
"Meanwhile the women gathered roots and berries. They stayed close together for protection. Or they huddled near a fire and took care of the kids. This gave them time to develop their language - their communication."
"Sounds reasonable."

Shirley sensed that Henrietta was not yet convinced. "Think about children in a playground. The boys are running, yelling , and throwing balls. They hardly look at each other. The girls, likely as not, are sitting in a circle having a conversation. And they're continually looking into one another's faces, as we're doing now. Men are blind to all that."
As Shirley warmed to her argument she became more and more animated.
"She's so alive," thought Henrietta as Shirley continued. "And what do they want to do after sex? Sleep! Just at the perfect time to talk about the things that really matter to you."




Henrietta's left hand was resting on the table. Shirley reached across and placed her right hand on top of it. Henrietta felt that rush of excitement that came with the first physical contact with a new prospective lover. She placed her right hand on top of Shirley's and they sat silently studying one another.

'My pad is only three blocks from here. Would you like to see my work?"
"Love to."
They left the coffee shop hand in hand
“I have a hunch I’m about to have a change of luck,” thought Henrietta.






Bob Shinberg
Revised 5/18/07

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure we all agree that Professor Goldberry's lecture was both sobering and inspiring. The professor has agreed to take your questions. Please remember to speak in Euro-English, Mod 5."

Immediately a dozen hands were raised.

"Yes, the woman in the back. Please identify yourself."

"I'm Dr. Daffodil Massminder. My field is Ecological Extinctions. Professor, was there really no alternative to abandoning the earth. Were Isolation Pods not a viable possibility?"

"Thank you Dr. Massminder. I'm familiar with your excellent work. Unfortunately, Isolation Pods were only a temporary palliative at best. Despite their early promise in the twenty-eighth century, two insuperable problems defied solution.

The first was the effect on the human psyche. The suicide rate among the pod pioneers was inordinately and unacceptably high. It turns out that humans need physical contact with one another far more than had been previously imagined.

The second problem was the virus itself. Somehow it managed to penetrate even the most advanced pod technologies. The mutation rate was so fast and varied that it was impossible to keep pace with viral changes. Furthermore, the climatic changes favored the virus at the expense of the higher organisms. The earth's atmosphere, with its increase of Carbon dioxide and depletion of Oxygen, was no longer congenial to our familiar life forms. We had to leave. Those who remained have long since perished."

"Next question. Yes sir, you in front left. Please identify yourself."

"My name is Questron Philedor. I'm a Director on the Committee for Language Stabilization. Professor, will you please summarize briefly the situation which mankind finds itself facing today."

"I'd be happy to. But I can't be certain that I'll conform to your concept of 'brief'."



Three hours later Professor Goldberry was in his now crowded cubicle, as he entertained five of the attendees of his lecture, Dr.Massminder and Questron Philedor among them.

“Which came first Professor, the notion of private property or the idea of monogamy?” Questron asked.

“We’re not sure. We find monogamy in many lower life forms; it may have come first. We also find territoriality in lower forms. We’re certain that they’re related but we just don’t know which caused the other. We do know that the first person who dragged a stick along the ground, creating a furrow, and then dropped seeds into it, and covered them, was the beginning of man’s changing the earth to suit his desires. For the first time he developed large stores of surplus food. This led to the beginnings of accumulated wealth and the notion of Capitalism, with its pell-mell consumption of the earth’s resources.”

Dr. Massminder nodded, “Yes Professor, and with that, the wanton creation of waste which overwhelmed the earth’s recycling ability and ultimately fouled our nest. It’s why we’re stuck here on this wandering space station, looking for a world that can support our life form.”

Professor Goldberry smiled in agreement.

“Professor, please tell us again about the abortion controversy.”

“Well,”sighed the Professor, “That was a flap that lasted about three centuries. It began in the twentieth century when the Church decided that life began at conception. This was a new idea. Indeed classical Church doctrine had no sacrament for conception. Up to then the first sacrament was at birth. It was call Baptism. It took over two hundred years for the public to realize that life began only once, much earlier, in a primordial soup. After that life simply continued from one generation to the next. Sperm cells and egg cells are living stages of each species. Biologically, individuals are trivial. It’s the continuity of the species that’s important.

It was during the twenty-second century when people realized that the real tragedy was the cruelty of encouraging that unwanted children be born. A child’s birthright should be to be loved and cherished. Unwanted offspring were so often neglected and abused that the social costs of violence and crime among them eventually became clear. Then the issue melted away, much like the controversy of how many angels can fit on the head of a pin.”

At this point they were interrupted by three chimes and a voice over a loudspeaker.

“Good evening. This is Captain Dante with a current update. The planet we’ve been examining has been found to be inhospitable to Carbon based life forms. Consequently, in six hours time, we will leave this system and jump to another star region. I’ll give you more details in my next hourly report.” Again three chimes sounded.

“Professor, will you please explain to us how space travel works?”

“Glad to.”



“Until the twenty-fourth century, human space travel was limited to our own solar system,” began the Professor. “The vastness of space, and the limited speed of light, a mere 186,00 miles per second, made travel to other star systems impractical, let alone to other galaxies. Then Archer Einhard discovered the Principle of Folding Space. It then took another two hundred years to develop space station technology to the point where space jumps became possible.”

“I still find it confusing,” interjected Questron.

“Let me try an analogy,” the Professor continued, “Think of a sheet of paper as the universe.”

The Professor picked up an eight by ten sheet from his desk and held it aloft.

“Now let’s suppose that our starting point is at one corner and our destination at the opposite. The Professor then marked the sheet with an ‘X’ in each of two corners. “Notice the considerable distance to be traveled. Now I fold the paper once and the two ‘X’s’ are brought together to where there’s virtually no distance at all between them.”

“I get it,” exulted Questron. “Folded dimensions were first posited back in the twentieth century with the introduction of string theory. At first it was thought to be limited to dimensions four through eleven. Now we know it also applies to the first three as well.”

“Right,” nodded the Professor.

At this moment three chimes sounded and the voice of Captain Dante filled the room.

Fasten your seatbelts everyone. We’re ready for a jump to the Ariana region. Several of our unmanned Prowler Robotic Space Explorers have converged on that region. They’ve possibly found a planet capable of supporting life. We jump at 23:50.”

“I hope this is our last jump,” sighed Dr. Massminder, “I want to get started breeding.”

“Good thinking,” agreed Questrom, smiling hungrily at her.

The Professor also smiled and thought, “We’re going to have some competition here.”

Introduction to Waiting for Godot - Act III

The first line spoken in Samuel Beckett’s two act ‘tragicomedy’ is “Nothing to be done.” This line is the theme of the play. Spoken by Estragon, it means he can’t get his boots off. His friend Vladimir says he agrees, but he’s commenting on the human condition. Throughout the play they speak past one another.

At another point Vladimir states that Estragon can’t go barefoot.
Estragon: Why not, Christ did.
Vladimir: You’re not going to compare yourself to Christ, are you?
Estragon: I compare myself to him every day.
Again they mean different things. Vladimir means ‘you don’t consider yourself the equal of Christ, do you?’ And Estragon means ‘I try to live up to him every day’. Again, they speak past one another.

Repeated throughout both acts is the statement that they can’t leave because “We’re waiting for Godot.” At one point Estragon asks why they’re waiting. Vladimir answers “He’ll tell us where we stand.” In other words, he’ll tell them the meaning of their existence.

At the end of each act a messenger comes from Godot to tell them that Godot won’t come today, but he promises to come tomorrow. Estragon and Vladimir never give up hope. They wait.

The only other characters are Pozzo and Lucky. They come on stage once in each act. Pozzo is an imperious slave master and Lucky his slave. They undergo serious degeneration from Act I to Act II, while Estragon and Vladimir are unchanged.

Often half the audience walks out after the first act. Others, including me, are entranced and see every production they can. My presuming to write a third act is an impiety - a nearly sacrilegious act. But I had to write it. I tried as much as possible to emulate Beckett’s style and tone.

The stage is empty except for one tree. In the first act it is leafless. In the second it contains four or five leaves. Read Beckett!




Next day.
Same time. Same place.
One boot lies front stage left, clearly newer and of better quality than Estragon’s.
The tree has the same 4 or 5 leaves, but their twig is broken, pointing straight down.
The stage is empty.

Enter Estragon wearing his boots, hobbling and grimacing in pain. He spies the new boot. Picks it up. Examines it. Puts it down. Hobbles off a few steps and returns to it. Removes his boot and replaces it with the new one. He smiles and sighs with relief. He limps around the stage showing alternately with each step either pain or pleasure.

Enter Vladimir. Watches unobserved. Finally...

VLADIMIR: What are you doing?
ESTRAGON: I’m walking
VLADIMIR: Where are you going?
ESTRAGON: Over there.
VLADIMIR: Why?
ESTRAGON: I’m hoping to find the other boot.
VLADIMIR: That’s not your boot!
ESTRAGON: Now it is. Its been abandoned.
VLADIMIR: But maybe its owner is looking for it. Stealing is a crime!
ESTRAGON: If he is, I’ll return it. There’s a difference between finding and stealing. But now Didi, help me look for the other boot.
VLADIMIR: You’re always thinking of yourself. Here I am again and you don’t even bother to greet me.
ESTRAGON: Hello Didi. It’s good to see you. Now help me find the boot.
VLADIMIR: That’s no greeting. Come. Embrace me Gogo.


ESTRAGON: You search over there.


VLADIMIR: Isn’t it remarkable? We can look out into this vastness of terrestrial space and see no sign of human intelligence anywhere.
ESTRAGON: Or even a boot!
VLADIMIR: All this looking tires me out. - Where did you sleep?
ESTRAGON: In the ditch, as always.
VLADIMIR: Did they beat you?
ESTRAGON: They always beat me.
VLADIMIR: Why do you sleep there?
ESTRAGON: I always sleep in the ditch.
VLADIMIR: But why?
ESTRAGON: I’ve slept there as long as I can remember. It’s my home.
VLADIMIR: Who else sleeps in the ditch?
ESTRAGON: They all do.
VLADIMIR: Who?
ESTRAGON: The ones who beat me.


VLADIMIR: Did you eat today?
ESTRAGON: No. I ate yesterday. - How I wish I had a bit of rope.
VLADIMIR: You’d hang yourself?
ESTRAGON: Why not?
VLADIMIR: What about me? I’d be left alone!
ESTRAGON: You could take me down and then use the rope yourself.
VLADIMIR: A used rope? To hang myself? Can you really care so little about me?
ESTRAGON: Alright, you can hang yourself first. Then I’ll use the used rope.
VLADIMIR: How do I know you’ll really hang yourself?
ESTRAGON: You have my word.
VLADIMIR: But what if your courage fails? What if you mean to hang yourself and you can’t do it? What if the rope breaks?
ESTRAGON: It won’t matter to you. You’ll be dead!
VLADIMIR: This conversation isn’t getting us anywhere. - Lets do our exercises.



VLADIMIR: Still no sign of life! Do you see anything?
ESTRAGON: Nothing! Nothing at all! (Pause) Wait! I see something!
VLADIMIR: Is it Godot?
ESTRAGON: No. It’s a man pushing a wheelbarrow, a wheelbarrow with a great mound of something.


VLADIMIR: Where?
ESTRAGON: Over there!
VLADIMIR: Oh. It’s Lucky. And that big mound is Pozzo.


POZZO: Who’s there?
ESTRAGON: It’s us!
POZZO: Where am I?
ESTRAGON: Here, with us.
POZZO: Who are you?
VLADIMIR: We’re Didi and Gogo. Same as yesterday.
POZZO: Never heard of you. And I wasn’t here yesterday. I’ve never been here before. You must be thieves! Be warned! My man is powerful and vicious!

ESTRAGON: Didi, I’ll be the thief who was saved - You be the thief who was damned.
VLADIMIR: (to Estragon) Don’t be ridiculous! (To Pozzo) Of course you were here. You’re Pozzo and he’s Lucky.
POZZO: How do you know our names? You must be detectives or spies or even worse - politicians!
VLADIMIR: No! - We’re Didi and Gogo. Yesterday we helped you up when you fell.
POZZO: I never fall. I have an acrobat’s balance. See.


POZZO: Help me up!
ESTRAGON: No! - Tell Lucky to help you!
POZZO: He’s deaf!
ESTRAGON: Pull his rope! Get his attention! Let him help you.
POZZO: Oh yes. I’d forgotten. I forget so many things lately. Forgetting is all that make life tolerable.


VLADIMIR: I don’t agree. Sometimes forgetting can be a comfort. Especially when you forget something unpleasant. But I find that having a mission is what makes life tolerable
ESTRAGON: What mission? You never told me we have a mission!
VLADIMIR: Of course we have a mission. Otherwise we couldn't go on. We’re waiting for Godot.
ESTRAGON: Oh! But is that really a mission? Isn't it more of a commitment, a purpose?
POZZO: I have no idea what you're talking about. It doesn't sound very important. My own affairs, as you can tell are extremely important.
ESTRAGON: Did you happen to stumble over a boot on your way here?
POZZO: No. We have to go. I have important business.
ESTRAGON: What business?
POZZO: (hesitates) I don’t remember precisely at the moment. But when we get there, that will jog my memory. Then I’ll remember.
ESTRAGON: Where is ‘there’.
POZZO: I don’t exactly recall, except I know it isn’t here. (To Lucky) Up dog! We must hurry!


VLADIMIR: What happened to this tree?
ESTRAGON: What do you mean?
VLADIMIR: Come see for yourself.


ESTRAGON: Oh! - This is serious.
VLADIMIR: No! - In the overall scheme of things this is trivial.
ESTRAGON: But for the tree... Now it may die!
VLADIMIR: You have a point.
ESTRAGON: Godot may think we broke it!
VLADIMIR: No!
ESTRAGON: We’ll tell him Lucky did it.
VLADIMIR: It’s like the last Tasmanian. Its end is inevitable.
ESTRAGON: So few leaves... Still, there was hope.
VLADIMIR: Precious little hope!
ESTRAGON: Yes, but some. - I’m hungry.


BOY: Sir! Mr. Albert?
VLADIMIR: You again! Are you here to tell us that Godot won’t come today?
ESTRAGON: But he surely will come tomorrow!
BOY: Yes sir. No sir.
VLADIMIR: Yes sir. No sir. What does that mean?
BOY: Mr. Godot will not come today and he will not come tomorrow either. Mr.Godot said to tell you that he will not come at all, ever. He said you must work things out for yourselves.


VLADIMIR: Are you sure you understood the message?
BOY: Very sure sir.
VLADIMIR: Were you here yesterday?
BOY: No sir.
VLADIMIR: Have you ever been here before?
BOY: No sir. Never.
VLADIMIR: Then who was here yesterday?
BOY: That was my brother sir.
ESTRAGON: How many brothers do you have?
BOY: I don’t know sir. My parents keep having them.
VLADIMIR: This is ridiculous! You must have gotten the message wrong!
BOY: No sir. Mr. Godot made me repeat it several times.
ESTRAGON: Didi. I don’t understand. We waited. We waited. He promised to come so many times.
BOY: What shall I tell Mr. Godot sir?
VLADIMIR: Tell him you delivered the message. Tell him we are disappointed. Tell him we are confused. Tell him we are angry. Gogo, we are angry, aren’t we?
ESTRAGON: I don’t know. I don’t understand. I’m hungry.
BOY: Thank you sir.


ESTRAGON: What should we do now?
VLADIMIR: Quiet! I have to think!
ESTRAGON: What should we do now?
VLADIMIR: Should we believe that boy?
ESTRAGON: He mistook the message?
VLADIMIR: Or he was deliberately lying.
ESTRAGON: I never did trust him.
VLADIMIR: The young are so full of mischief.
ESTRAGON: What are we going to do now?
VLADIMIR: Maybe Godot is testing us.
ESTRAGON: Maybe he’s testing us.
VLADIMIR: Maybe he’s measuring our commitment.
ESTRAGON: Maybe he’s testing us.
VLADIMIR: He wouldn’t go back on his word. Not after promising to come so many times.
ESTRAGON: He’s testing us! What should we do now?
VLADIMIR: We’ll wait! He’ll come!
ESTRAGON: Of course he will!
VLADIMIR: That dreadful boy.
ESTRAGON: We’ll wait right here.
VLADIMIR: Nothing will move us.
ESTRAGON: Let’s find something to eat.


End Note: If I were to make this a five act play:
Act IV - Godot would come after all and tell them where they stand.
Act V - The information would destroy them. Hope would be lost. They would part, each alone, each searching for a length of rope.

1.
It was a small room in the far corner of his basement. Empty - as though someone had removed its contents in preparation for some purpose, now long forgotten.

The four walls were interrupted only by one door and, in the opposite wall, one long narrow window. Years ago, the window frame, which abutted the concrete of the adjacent building, had been painted shut, and over time a thick coat of grime had covered the glass completely.

A single light bulb, now dead, punctuated the bare ceiling. The only light to enter the room came through the doorway from the small lamp at the other end of the basement.

His fascination with the window had begun when he was young - still a student. One day, while rummaging through old magazines, he looked in through the door and thought he saw a pattern in the grime - a pattern that moved.

Fascinated, he approached the window. There could be no doubt, the pattern was moving.
He left the basement, took an aspirin and went to bed early.

A few days later he looked again, with the same result. This time he lingered at the window for over an hour.
Through the years, his visits to the window became more frequent, and gradually grew into a daily obsession. Despite the dimness of the light, the pattern had begun to form images - blurred, always different, and always in motion. The window seemed the entrance to another world - a world whose mysteries promised far more satisfaction than the dross and drudgeries of his everyday existence.

As his obsession grew he began to wonder what he would find if he opened the window. Would it break the spell or would he be able to see more clearly that universe beyond the glass?

Eventually, he resolved to find out. He had to open the window.

For several days he tugged and strained against the frame, to no avail. He then brought a putty knife, a screwdriver, a hammer and even a chisel. He worked feverishly and after a week, the window seemed to loosen in its frame. And through all this the patterns seemed to shimmer and swirl, as though beckoning him to continue.



2.
One last mighty pull and the window rose, as though now eager to reveal its secret.

The scene before him was no longer a blurred pattern in the grime, but a vivid landscape, brighter and clearer than any he remembered seeing before - a landscape of rolling green meadow bordered by distant rocky hills.
On the left were small trees and flowering shrubs nestling along a meandering brook. To the right, three small children played with a newly born lamb. He could hear their delighted squeals and the lamb’s gentle bleating.
Entranced, he stood motionless for many minutes, afraid to break the magic.

A cooling breeze caressed his face, wafting a multitude of spring fragrances into his deeply breathing nostrils.
Finally, with a great effort of will, and with much regret, he closed the window.

His wristwatch showed seven AM. He must prepare to go to work. He must return to trash strewn streets, to acrid odors, and to noise, noise, noise.

One thing only occupied his mind - he must return to the window.


3.
After work, he hurried home, wolfed down his dinner, and at last, stood before the window.
He needed tug only lightly - the window seemed to want to rise.

His first perception was that of crashing water. He viewed a seashore on a warm sunny day. He squinted in the brightness to better see the scene before him. Colorful umbrellas and canvas chairs dotted the clean white sand. Bathers splashed about in the water, alternately seeking and fleeing the endless waves. As though imitating the bathers, seagulls scrambled back and forth with the surf.

A gentle salt spray cooled and moistened his face. He licked his lips and tasted the briny salt sea.
He realized he was facing west, and the late afternoon sun was only beginning to paint the sky with rusty reds, with purples and with blues among the clouds.

Suddenly he had an idea. He bounded from the window and up the stairs. Moments later a thump, thump, bumping could be heard as he struggled down the stairs with an overstuffed chair.

He dragged it in front of the window and sank deeply into it. "Just like a king." he thought and continued to survey his magical domain.

The sun was now setting, washing the sky with a fiery glow. Minutes later, it had set completely, leaving a clear black heaven dotted with uncountable silvery stars.

"Just like the sky at sea," he thought, "Where city lights and smog can’t mask their flickering."

He sat there through the night alternately dozing and waking to the ever shifting scene.

"Was ever there anyone as happy as me?" he wondered.



4.
He was in trouble at work. Soon after arriving late, he was called into the boss’s office.

"Your performance recently has been substandard!"

"Yes Sir."

"Your attendance has been unsatisfactory!"

"Yes Sir."
"Correct these problems or we can do without you!"

"Yes Sir."

He returned to his desk. All he could think about was the window. What wonders would it hold for him tonight?

As he hurried home he conceived a plan to no longer eat in the kitchen, but to take food to the basement and eat in the chair in front of the window. Nearing home he passed a house with a yard sale. There, under a table, he spied a chamber pot.

"Perfect!" he thought. "Now I needn’t ever leave the window."

The scene that night, he thought, must be in Switzerland or Scandinavia. On the left were sheer crags, with a waterfall, splashing a fine spray into midday sunlight, creating a huge shimmering rainbow. On the right were a cluster of flowering trees, pink petaled, and alive with visiting songbirds.

Beyond the trees he could see the outskirts of a town with low houses along cobbled streets. Almost every window held a box of flowers. There were Begonias, Ranunculus, and Anemone. Children were playing excitedly with a ball, and two old men, seated at a small table, were rapt in a game of dominos.

He sighed contentedly, finished his food, and placed the dirty dishes on the floor to his left. His chamber pot was on his right.

Three young goats made an appearance on the crags. One, a kid, gamboled happily around the other two, who were busily grazing.

No thoughts or problems entered his mind. He simply relaxed, and watched, and sank more deeply into his chair.


5.
Edna was concerned. She spent most of each day looking out of her second floor window, at her neighbors, scurrying back and forth as they pursued their busy lives.

Something was wrong. She hadn’t seen him for six days - not since the evening when she saw him come home with a package of groceries and a what looked like a chamber pot.

Edna was a caring neighbor. She prided herself about that.

"I’ll just give him a ring," she decided.

No answer.

She hadn’t seen him go out. She phoned again and then went downstairs and knocked at his door.

No answer.

Edna called the police and waited at her window. Within five minutes they arrived - two patrolmen who were well known in the neighborhood.

Fred rang the bell and knocked as Charley peered in through the windows. After a few minutes conversation they reached their decision. Edna saw Charley take out a batch of keys and start trying them in the door.
Eventually one clicked and they entered.

A foul odor greeted them. They traced it to the basement. There they found the empty chair, dirty dishes piled on its left, and a half filled reeking chamber pot on the right.

Charley was puzzled. "Why sit in front of a cement wall?"

"Who knows," said Fred, as he closed the grime covered window.

A recent archeological discovery has yielded the following:

He: Me go hunt.

She: That’s fine dear, but try to do better than last week’s wooly mammoth haunch. It was stringy and tough. Try to find a younger animal. They’re more tender.

He: Me go hunt.

She: And while you’re hunting, try to find some more of those shiny bright pebbles. The girls are coming over this evening for a game of prehistoric Mah Jong, and we could use some more stones.

He: Before go, me want sex.

She: Not now dear. I’ve far too much to do. And besides, I have a headache. And remember, when you get home, wipe your feet outside. You keep tracking in mastodon dung. I’m tired of having to sweep up after you.

He: Me go hunt.

Some of you may think the above is fantasy, but this is not so. I have scrupulously and assiduously copied this exactly as it appears on a prehistoric bathroom wall.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

"Quiet please!"

Bam! Bam! Bam!

"The meeting will come to order."

Bam! Bam! Bam!

"Mr. Parliamentarian, do we have a quorum?"

"Yes Elsie. I count 23 members present."

"Will the secretary please read the minutes of the last meeting?"

Edna Wilson rose from her front row seat and read in her quaking, nearly inaudible voice.

"I move that the minutes be accepted as read," called a voice in the back.

"Wait a minute. My objection to the changes in parking spaces wasn’t mentioned."

Vigorous discussion followed, and it was agreed to record Charley’s objection and to otherwise ignore it.

"I move that the minutes be accepted as amended." called the voice in the back.

"Seconded," called another, and to Edna’s relief, the minutes were accepted.

"May we have the Treasurers report, please."

"Gladys isn’t here." This was Sophie. "She asked me to report that our bank balance is now forty-six dollars and thirteen cents. Twelve members haven’t paid their dues yet, and four still haven’t paid for last year."

Now came a stentorious sound like the sawing of wood. Joe Jasperson had fallen asleep again. This was early for him. He usually didn’t nod off until well into the discussion of ‘Old Business’. His wife Esther poked him.

Most of the meeting was devoted to ‘Old Business’, about which no discernable progress was made. Nonetheless, persons responsible for progress spoke at length, generally saying nothing.

Now a crisis was approaching. The meeting hadn’t gotten yet to 'New Business’, and the coffee
was already becoming tepid, the soda flat and the pastries soggy.

Jasperson was snoring again. Esther poked him again.

Inevitably, as with all meetings, it ended. The attendees moved faster than they had all day, forming the refreshments line.

Author’s Note: I never go to meetings.

The topic this week was "The Importance of Time.'

One bright midsummer day, Cave Man and Cave woman were out walking, hand in hand, northward, toward the huge blue-white mass on the horizon.

He: It seems closer every day.

She: That’s the way it is with glaciers. It surely means another ice age is starting. I guess we’ll have to pack up and move south. All the big game seems to have left already.

He: I suppose.

She: If you’d only hurry up and invent the wheel like I asked you to, moving would become a lot easier. Ever since we started toolmaking we’ve begun to accumulate lots more stuff. What’s keeping you?

He: I don’t know what shape to make it.

She: Why is that important? Make it any shape. I thought you were thinking about making it round. What’s wrong with round?

He: Downhill it will roll out of control.

She: Then make it square. Or maybe you’d better not. The ride will be too bumpy as you pull me along.

Suddenly, from behind a huge boulder, a massive head appeared.

It: Hi guys. What’s happenin?

She: Buzz off. What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be extinct. Your era ended ages ago. Don’t you understand the importance of time? What species are you anyway?

It: I’m the last of the Dinosaurus sexipottis - a species unknown to Modern Man.

He: Why so?

It: I’m rare. They haven’t found any fossils of my bones or teeth. They have no idea that I existed. They think those cave drawings were done by your species. They can’t conceive of another type of creature being so artistic.

She: You call that artistic? Not to my taste. And you’re so sloppy with your paints. You can’t possibly have a good excuse for the mess you make.

It: I think you’re quite rude.

She : I don’t care what you think!

Then it flicked its huge tongue, slurped them both into its cavernous mouth and swallowed them whole.

It: Urp!


Moral: Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be right. Sometimes it is better to just run like hell.

"I think I can do it."

"Don’t dare try."

"I’m sure I can do it."

"I’m sure you can’t."

"I’m going to do it right now."

"Have you ever tried it before?"

"No. But I’m confident."

"Remember the last time you didn’t listen to me?"

"Sure. But this is different."

"No it’s not."

"Sure it is."

"Wait ‘till tomorrow. It’ll give you a chance to think it over."

"No. I’m going to do it right now."

"Don’t."

SPLAT!!!

"Are you O.K.?"

"I think so."

"Ready to try it again?"

"Not right now. But I think I can do it."

1. The crew resurfacing Nesconset Highway really didn’t care about the quality of the job they did. Is this a case of repaved indifference?

2. A divorced gentleman telephones his former wife. Is this a case of ex communication?

3. A gourmet, on first tasting a new recipe for baked beans, finds them so delicious that he gorges himself, thinking he can never have enough. Is this a case of inflatulation?

4. Tony is a homosexual prostitute. Does that make him a fruit tart?

5. Here’s a tough one concerning the painting ‘Nude Descending a Staircase.’ Is this a case of in descent exposure?

6. Upon joining a herd of dairy cows, a new arrival is chased and achieved by an amorous bull, despite her loud and long protestations. Is this a case of a mooing violation?

7. In error, a young unmarried woman waits beneath the wrong theater marque to meet a friend.
Is this a case of miss under standing?

8.On the day after a mad genetic scientist creates a huge carnivorous male elephant his student assistant disappears, interrupting further progress. Is this a case of an intern in a bull delay?

9. An otherwise starving man has nothing to eat except a cupboard full of canned pineapple. Is this not a doleful situation?

10. Having just recovered from a prolonged bout of dysentary,William Shakespeare penned his immortal line, "Tis a constipation devoutly to be wished."

Without a word they stood
Around the tiny table
On which it rested - a small bundle
Five inches square, and two inches high,
Wrapped in brown paper,
Bound round with string.

The four of them, without a word,
Stared, still and silent,
At the small treasure which
Had consumed their lives
The last six years and more.

Their leader, Jeff, without a word,
Reached into a pocket
And brought forth a knife -
To cut the cords - without a word.

His trembling hands severed the strings
As he thought how near disaster
They all had been so many times
As worldwide they tracked their treasure
Until they finally found
Themselves around this table,
Without a word.

Ellen’s eyes
Were pouring tears
As she recalled, without a word,
How Phil had saved her
When the glacier calved
And all the dogs and sled were lost.


And Phil now stared
At that bundle which had cost
Their time, their wealth,
Their youth and health.
His thoughts were of their wild ride
Down raging rapids on the upper Amazon.


And Harry thought, as so oft before
Of that mountain climb, when alone the four
Had braved the avalanche
And he had sworn
The bundle never would elude him.

What was this treasure
Now to be exposed?
Some golden artifact
Rich with gems?
Or perhaps some Rosetta stone
Which held the key to a past unknown?

Now Harry planned as you’d expect
To write the tale heroic.
To tell the world what they’d achieved
And then to bask in gold and glory.

Four minds, four souls,
All intent, without a word,
Upon the paper Jeff unbent
And then the sight they all beheld.
Beyond imagination.
It was

A cream cheese and jelly sandwich
With a slice of pickle.
They all turned
And left the room
Without a word - without a word.

An auspicious start
A promising beginning
A salutary commencement
A favorable origination
An opportunistic inception

It was all of these, but unhappily it also had:

A disappointing finish
An unsatisfactory conclusion
An insalubrious termination
A woeful denouement
A dispiriting resolution
A sorry ending
An unfortunate consummation
A regretful finale

What else is there to say?

"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows! Heh. Heh. Heh. Heh."

Lamont Cranston, wealthy young man about town, has the power to cloud mens’ minds so they cannot see him.. His fiancee, the lovely Margo Lane, is the only person who knows to whom the voice of the unseen Shadow belongs.

We rejoin tonight’s episode in the abandoned warehouse where Margo is being held prisoner by that arch villain, Fearsome Freddy.

Margo: Oh, you villain!

Freddy: Ha. Ha. Miss Lane. I’ll soon make you tell me where your grandfather’s bearer bonds are hidden.

Margo: Never, you fiend!

Freddy: Ha. Ha. I can be very persuasive. Very, very persuasive.

Margo: You monster!

Freddy: Are those ropes too tight? Ha. Ha.

Margo: You villainous fiend. You fiendish monster. You monstrous villain.

Shadow: Heh. Heh. Heh. Heh.

Freddy: What was that?

Shadow: The Shadow! Your days of evil are at an end Fearsome.
Clank. Clank.

Freddy: Hey, who handcuffed me to this steampipe? And Miss Lane, how are your ropes untying themselves?

Shadow: The Shadow knows. Come with me Miss Lane.

Freddy: Hey, Miss Lane, are you related to Lois Lane?

Shadow: Heh. Heh. Heh. Heh.

(The End - Aren’t you glad?)

She climbed into my lap, all smiles and giggles. I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed, unable to resist.

"Daddy, I know a secret," she breathed in a whisper, tickling my ear as she nestled against it.

"A real secret?" I asked.

"Yes. Mommy told me, and I can’t tell anyone ‘cause it’s a secret."

"O.K." I said.

"Can I tell you?" she implored.

"Not if Mommy said not to." I could feel her little body sag in my arms.

"Of course," I continued, "Some secrets are best if they’re shared."

I felt a wave of new energy sweep through her little form as she eagerly accepted this new idea.

I squeezed again as she wriggled, seeming to want to get her entire little mouth into my ear.

"Mommy’s going to have a baby."

"Wow!" I replied.

"And I’m going to get to play with it whenever I want."

Just then Mommy came into the room.

"I told Daddy our secret."

"Mommy smiled. "So now it’s a secret among the three of us."

As she snuggled further into me , she seemed pensive. "You know, secrets are the most fun when they’re shared."

Again, I had to squeeze.

Joe turned to Harry. "I see we got a new guy on the job today."

"Yeah," Harry answered. "Ed told me he’s new in the union. We’ll have to show him the ropes."

Joe called out, "Hey kid! What’s your name?"

"Freddy, sir."came the reply as Freddy hoisted a pack of roofing tiles and prepared to haul them to the roof.

"You goin’ to a fire?"

"What do you mean sir?"

" Slow down. You’re ruinin’ the job."

Freddy put down the tiles and looked at Joe. "Huh?" he asked.

"Siddown a secon’ kid an I’ll tell ya what’s what."

Freddy and Joe sat as Harry joined them.

Joe began, " It don’t pay to work too fast. We want this job to last."

"Why?" asked Freddy. "There’s plenty of work ahead."

"Yeah. But unless the job gets behind schedule the bosses don’t free up the O.T."

"O.T.?"

"Yeah, kid. Overtime. Overtime. The whole point of the job is to pull as much O.T. as possible."

Now Harry broke in. "O.T. kid. It’s time and a half on weekdays and double time on weekends and holidays. That’s what this job is all about."

Freddy shook his head. "I didn’t know."

"Well now you know, so slow down. Remember kid, its American union workers like us that make this country great."

Joe slapped Freddy on the back. "C’mon kid. It’s time for our coffee break."

I can think of nothing sweeter than revenge - revenge that is complete, appropriate, and final. That’s what today’s little story is about. It’s a true story, and joy of joys, I’m the hero.

The triggering incident took place at work on a Monday during July in the mid 1970's.

We were at lunch in the coffee shop of the Barbizon Hotel. A jokester companion ordered his usual lunch - a can of tuna on toast with a thick slice of tomato and an even thicker slice of raw onion. I suppose it was a healthful lunch - it must have been because it smelled terrible.

From lunch we went directly to a meeting in the President’s office. We sat side by side on a couch, and while I was expostulating on some doubtlessly important subject, the jokester held his hand in front of his mouth and blew steadily into it , directing the stream of fumes directly at me.

Clearly such an egregious act merited a swift and punishing revenge.

That afternoon, I went to the Bloomingdale’s Delicacy Shop and purchased a quarter pound of Limburger cheese. At this point I should probably interrupt the story to describe the awful stench of Limburger cheese. If its fragrance is foreign to you, do not track down a sample and smell it for yourself. Trust me. It’s an experience you can do without.

I placed the cheese on a sunny outdoor windowsill, where by mid-morning on Tuesday, it was runny and overripe. When jokester went to lunch, I placed the cheese in an open slot in the credenza behind his desk

Then I waited. At least I waited as long as I could, and at about one-thirty I could wait no longer.

I looked in at his office, only to see that he had an after lunch meeting scheduled with the company President. They were walking around, pointing at the vents in the ceiling, thinking that some dead animal had begun to rot.

I went back to my office pleased with the comforting notion that justice had been done.

To this day, those of us who know of the incident, consider it the best of the gags any of us pulled, even better than the dead fish in the interoffice mail.

Dante was wrong. The first level of hell is here, on this earth.

The black moonless sky over the minefield was ravaged by sudden bursts of searing light followed by the dull thud of artillery explosions in the distance. The thudding grew gradually louder as the shells landed closer and closer.

The four of them huddled against the muddy sides of the ditch; the cold, damp, acrid air chilling them to the bone. All night they had been pinned down.

At last, rosy fingered dawn arose ahead of them in the east. The hopelessness of their plight slowly became hideously visible to them, promising only more misery.

"One of us has to go for help." said Andy. Andy was twenty years old, but his baby face made him look younger. At home he had a one month old son whom he had never seen. Often his thoughts went to the child and to his wife Laura, and how she clung to his neck, sobbing as they said goodbye. Andy was usually cheerful, secure in his faith that his God would protect him.

"Why can’t we all go?" Bill’s voice was a tired moan. His suffering was more acute than that of the others. He felt physical pain from the bursts of noise. His ears were now constantly ringing.

"Because it’s suicide! You saw what happened to Phil and the Sarge!" Each had stepped on an anti-personnel mine. Freddy sounded angry, but Freddy always sounded angry. Somehow life was always conspiring to swindle him. Today proved it.

"Let’s draw straws to see who goes." said Joe. Joe was a Cola addict, with straws always handy, should a bottle or can of Cola materialize. Joe usually had the least to say. He would generally stand aside and watch the others like a mother hen. Joe didn’t know it, but he needed to be needed.

Joe pulled four straws from his pocket, and hid most of their length in his fist

Freddy stepped up to Joe, reached out and pulled one of the straws from his hand. It obviously wasn’t a short straw.

Bill looked terrified. Being here with his buddies was bad enough, but the thought of going off alone... Yet he stepped forward and pulled the second straw. It too was a long one.

Now it was between Andy and Joe.

"I’ll go." said Joe.

"Like Hell." said Andy and grabbed one of the remaining straws. Another long one.

Joe opened his hand with the last straw only to find that it too was a long one. In their fatigue they has forgotten to cut one short.

"Now what?" grumbled Freddy. None of them had the spirit to go through that again.
They didn’t have to.

The shell exploded directly over the ditch. Where moments before, four young lives struggled to survive, now all that was left was bloody bits of flesh, bone and clothing, splattered over the landscape.
Here and there, part of an arm or leg could be found - it never was ascertained how many had been in the ditch.

The topic this week was "It Was A Dark and Stormy Night."

A Children’s Story for Backward Grownups

It was a dark and stormy night. Mother Robin deposited four shiny light blue eggs into the bottom of the nest. She settled on top of them to keep them warm. Father Robin sat on a nearby twig.

Morning came, with clearing skies and the promise of a bright new day. The warm wet turf below was redolent with spring fragrances. Mother Robin wriggled over the eggs to better feel their smoothness against her rump. All was right in the world.

Tweets was the last of his clutch to hatch. His brother and two sisters were several days out of their shells. They already has eaten delicious meals of regurgitated worms which Mommy and Daddy had gathered for them.

Tweets was fortunate. He was hatched on a sunny day, so his baby fuzz dried quickly. He was completely dry when Daddy robin approached the nest. At once Tweets began fluttering and squawking wildly. Daddy dropped a fat worm into his gaping beak. It felt so good - squishy and squashy in his otherwise empty tummy. "Life sure is a blast," he thought.

All went well in the nest in those early days. Mommy and Daddy were an efficient delivery system and each day saw the young ones losing their fuzz and replacing it with feathers. At last, his elder brother, Rusty, was ready to fledge.

Rusty stood on the edge of the nest and jumped. This didn’t look very safe to Tweets and he had no desire to try it himself. Moments later Rusty landed awkwardly on the edge of the nest. He was panting heavily.

"It was great!" chirped Rusty when his breath returned. "I can’t wait to get out again."

"That’s enough for today, Rusty," cooed Mommy robin. "Maybe tomorrow Twitter and Flutter will be ready to try. You can show them the ropes."

"What about me?" cried Tweets.

"You’ll be ready in a few days," peeped Mommy robin.

Tweets thought this was for the birds, but he had no choice. His feathers just weren’t ready yet.
Next morning Twitter and Flutter fledged. Daddy robin decided to take the three eldest for some fun. "C’mon kids. I’ll show you how we decorate windshields."

A few days later Tweets knew he was ready. He hopped onto the edge of the nest and jumped.
"Use your wings, bird brain," called Rusty.

"I know," peeped Tweets as he flapped his wings and began to soar. His landing was less than graceful, but what do you expect on the first try. Tweets was happy - exhausted, exhilarated and happy.

Time passes quickly for young birds. There’s so much to learn. What’s good to eat. What animals are dangerous. How to bathe in puddles or dust patches. The seasons sped by until again it was spring.

Now Tweets felt a strange tingling. "I need a mate," he thought. "I’d better stake out a territory."
At once he began singing loudly. "That’ll bring in the girls and warn away the guys."

The next day, singing loudly, as he was perched on a limb next to the house in the center of his territory, he spied another male robin looking at him. Strangely this robin was silent.

He made a threatening move toward it, and at the same moment it made a similar movement toward him. He called menacingly at it, but the interloper remained silent.

They were now only an inch apart and Tweets decided to peck at one of its eyes. As he did, the other robin pecked back so that the two beaks met with equal force. Again and again Tweets tried, but each time his thrust was parried. Then Tweets mustered all his strength and bumped against the stranger, hoping to knock him off his perch. The stranger bumped back with equal force, almost knocking Tweets to the ground.

For hours Tweets contested with the stranger. Finally, exhausted and hungry, he broke off the encounter. As he searched for and found food, the stranger was nowhere to be seen. Tweets began to think he had prevailed. Next morning he went back to his perch adjacent to the house and began to sing. Almost at once he spied the silent stranger and their battle began again.

In a contest between robins, winning is best. Losing is second best. But a tie is traumatic.
Tweets became neurotic. He began to suffer from acute depression. Each day seemed like one long dark and stormy night. The stranger showed signs of similar affliction.

As we all know, the state of robin psychotherapy is primitive at best, nowhere near the advanced condition of the quack nostrums for ducks.

Tweets never found a mate that spring. "My life’s been blasted," he thought. The truth is, with robins as with humans, we are our own worst enemy.

Consider my difficulties. What event shall I describe for you that truly deserves to be deemed momentous? Momentous for whom? For me? For you?

Well, I’ve selected a moment, momentous for us all, which is possibly the most momentous ever to occur - the gift from God of the Commandments by which mankind is ordered to conduct their lives.

Mel Brooks depicts this historical moment in his movie "The History of the World - Part One."

He shows us Moses descending from the Mount with three tablets, containing fifteen Commandments. Tragically Moses drops one of the tablets, which smashes into many small pieces. This tablet contained Commandments Eleven through Fifteen, heretofore lost to mankind.

I will not describe for you the frenzy of esoteric scholarship which attended the search for any shards of stone which might reveal even a modicum of this long lost wisdom.

Happily for you, I have recently been visited with a Devine Revelation, in which the content of this third lost tablet has been revealed to me. It is, of course, my duty and joyful privilege to share this treasure with you.

# 11. Thou shalt not bring cell phones to workshops

# 12. Thou shalt not neglect to dim thy brights when approached by oncoming vehicles, be they cars, trucks or donkey carts.

# 13. Thou shalt not use coupons nor pay by bank check at a supermarket express line.

# 14. Thou shalt not change lanes without signaling, whether driving a car, a truck or a donkey cart.

# 15. Thou shalt not do any thing such that I would not do.

I recommend that you memorize these admonitions and meditate upon them each evening on retiring, and again each morning. It is hoped that now I have enriched your lives with this wisdom, together we can remake the world into a better place.

At last it’s all clear to me! My epiphany has just occurred, abruptly, in one overwhelming coruscating paroxysm of enlightenment. Now I know how Newton felt, how Einstein felt, how Archimedes felt.

My moment of revelation came, naturally enough, while reading the Sunday New York Times. There it was, calling to me from, as you’d expect, the Financial Section. The headline read
"At The Dentist’s Office, X-Rays, Root Canals and, Now, Pampering."

A highlighted excerpt read, "Waterfalls, facials and freshly baked cookies. Open wide and say ‘This isn’t so bad.’"

The article begins, "At her dental appointments Deann Romanick sips green tea and takes in the scent of lavender and the sounds of New Age music. She gets free paraffin hand wax treatment, blankets, a warm neck pad and video glasses in which she can watch "Seinfeld" episodes while the dentist works on her teeth.

The pampering eased her through a root canal and a tooth replacement, and now with her fears of dental work gone, she has moved on to more elective procedures."

Oh Deann, come chew with me!

"Now more than ever people are looking to improve their smiles," said Dr. Irwin Smigal, a Manhattan dentist and founder and president of the American Society of Dental Aesthetics.
At first I found this puzzling. Why now would people want to improve their smiles when nowadays there is so much less to smile about.

Oh well, I thought, be grateful for the new terms entering our lexis. ‘Dental Spa’ and ‘Staff Aesthetician’ can now forever grace our language.

Certainly, Western Civilization has reached its culmination.

I think I’ll write to Dr. Smigal and recommend that hookers in the office would be a pleasant addition. Do you think my insurance will cover?

Part 1 - Mathematics and Malthus to the Rescue

Here’s my problem.

I’ve always wanted to be famous, but I just don’t know how to go about it. Lacking any special skills or talents, I’m faced with either having to be extraordinarily hard working(Not likely), or committing some unspeakable act. (Did I mention that I lack courage too?) I’ve got to come up with some approach which doesn’t require too much work.

Today I stumbled on the answer.

Malthus became famous when he predicted that human population growth would outstrip the food supply and lead to worldwide famine. He neglected to calculate for us exactly what the ideal worldwide population size should be. Here was my chance!

I carefully calculated the optimum number, and lucky you, you’re the first with whom I’m going to share this vital information.

The ideal world population number is 100,007. (The seven is for my immediate family. I don’t care how you divvy up the rest.)

Just think! With such a small population, everyone will be precious to everyone else. There will be abundant resources for all without straining the ecology. The earth will have time to heal.

Henceforth this will be known as Shinberg’s Law - to take its place next to Ohms Law , the laws of gravity, and a few others. I support the proof of Shinberg’s Law with unassailable mathematics:

100,000 + 7 = 100,007

Now who can argue with that?

I’ll just post my revelation on the Internet and wait to be engulfed by FAME.


Part 2 - Preparation for Fame

I always like to get an early start, so I’ve begun writing my acceptance speech for my Nobel Prize. Naturally I’ll strike exactly the right note of gratitude and graciousness. You, who know me so well, can be confident that my consummate modesty will carry the day.

I’ve also begun preparing for the trappings of fame; the limo rides to dinners in my honor, where I’ll make short speeches and collect outrageous fees, the honorary degrees, the hoards of women falling at my feet, the children staring at me in awe and struggling to gain my autograph - all these will I receive with my usual charming aplomb and insouciance.

Thus are the burdens of FAME.

Please quiet down children and pay attention. You won’t find today’s science lesson taught in any textbooks.

I’m about to make the case that the human female is a higher form of animal than the human male. When the lesson is over you will get to answer the burning question, which is ‘Have I made my case?’.

We’ll start with a review of yesterday’s lesson on evolution. Who remembers the two primal drives which exist all through the animal kingdom?

That’s right Sally, food and procreation. The food enables the individual to live and the procreation enables its genes to go forward one more generation.

Now who knows the two basic strategies followed in procreation?

Very good, Harry! Did everyone hear that? One strategy is to produce many young of which only a few survive and the other is to produce only a few young and try to make certain as many as possible survive.

Let’s review. Fish are a good example. The female lays hundreds of unfertilized eggs and a male releases a cloud of sperm cells over them. Fertilization takes place. Many hundreds of baby fish are born. They’re called fry. Maybe that’s where the expression ‘small fry’ comes from.

Anyway, most of the fry are eaten by larger fish. Only few survive.
Insects too produce many many offspring, most of which get eaten. Think about birds feasting on gypsy moth larvae.

As we get to higher animals, we find the second strategy becoming predominant - the production of fewer young with the parents caring for them after birth.

In humans this has reached a point where generally only one young at a time is produced, and a long period of care is needed before it can fend for itself.

This strategy by the higher animals and humans is controlled entirely by the female. She generally ripens only one egg a month, while human males blithely go on producing hundreds of thousands of sperm cells daily, following the pattern of lower animals.

If the female ripened one hundred eggs at a time, the fat, dumb and happy sperm cells would fertilize them all.

Now for the burning question. Have I made my case? Those of you who believe I have, raise your hands. I see all of the girls’ hands up and none of the boys.

What a surprise!

Hell’s Bells! You certainly are one ding-a-ling!

Part of the fun I have with our language is tracking some of the idioms which are ubiquitous in English.

Where’s the bellhop?
This apple pie really rings the bell.
You’re thoroughly cursed - Bell, Book and Candle.

‘Belling the cat’ has a long history going back at least as far as the 15th Century. It figures prominently in William Langland’s medieval poem about ‘Piers the Plowman.’

Bell sounds are often described by words that are onomatopoetic, from the tinkle of small bells to the clang of large ones.

The ringing of a bell can have so many meanings. Here are a random few:
Your toast is done.
Come to church.
Dinner’s ready.
Class dismissed.
Pick up the phone.
Mom, can I have a dime. Good Humor’s outside.

Oops, I have to leave you now. Someone’s at the door.

P.S. ‘Ding Dong the wicked witch is dead.’

The hotel guest, followed by the bellhop, arrived at the front desk. The bellhop pushed a heavily laden dolly containing four bags from a matched set.

"I’m checking out." the guest called loudly.

"Was everything satisfactory sir?" asked the desk clerk.

"Fine. But I’m in a hurry. Lets get this over with!"

The guest turned, looked at his baggage, scowled and demanded, "Where’s my fifth bag?"

"There were only four sir." responded the bellhop deferentially.

"There were five! Don’t tell me there were only four!"

The bellhop stood silently and glanced at the desk clerk.

"Don’t just stand there like a dummy. Go back and get my other bag!"

"Yes sir." The bellhop quickly departed.

The guest, drumming his fingers impatiently on the counter complained, "You people have such stupid help. No wonder so many hotels go out of business.

"Yes sir," mumbled the desk clerk

The bellhop reappeared, empty-handed.

"There were no additional bags, sir."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, sir."
The guest turned to the desk clerk. "Are you going to let him call me a liar?"

"No, sir" whispered the desk clerk.

"Excuse me sir," ventured the bellhop. "I brought your bags in yesterday, and at that time there were only four."

"What?"

"I remember because you insisted on arranging them yourself on the dolly and the top one fell off twice in the elevator."

"Young man, you’re impertinent!"

"What’s that sir?"

"I said you’re impertinent!"

"I know what you said, sir. I don’t know what ‘impertinent’ means."

The guest turned to the desk clerk. "See what I mean about stupid!"

The bellhop continued, "I also remember that you didn’t give me a tip, even though those two largest bags were unusually heavy."

Now the desk clerk was struggling to hold back a smirk.

"Let’s go!" the guest ordered and led the bellhop out the door.

A few minutes later the bellhop returned.

"I’ll bet he didn’t tip you this time either."

"Not a red cent."

"You know," mused the desk clerk, "Our jobs would be tolerable if only we could tell one guest a month to go to hell."

"You got that right!" agreed the bellhop.

It’s hard to believe what physicists are telling us these days about the fundamental nature of matter. It seems that subatomic particles aren’t particles after all, nor are they waves. They’re now thought to be strings - shimmering, vibrating strings. It’s hard to believe. The notion of strings tangles my reasoning in knots. Do you think these physicists are just stringing us along?

(Isn’t it hard to believe that I’d be brazen enough to write such awful puns?)

Further, we’re told these strings exist in eleven dimensions. I have no problem clearly visualizing up to ten dimensions, but an eleventh? It’s hard to believe.

It’s also hard to believe how much weight I gain after just one day of gluttony, and how long and difficult it is to remove. Again and again I resolve to eat less. This occurs usually after a large meal. Somehow, before a meal, eating less doesn’t enter my mind.

Speaking of minds, Harry Nelson Pillsbury was an American Chess Champion. He was famous for his ability to play simultaneous chess games blindfolded. His personal record, achieved in Moscow in 1902, was twenty-two simultaneous games. When he wanted to add a little extra showmanship, he would mix in some games of checkers or cards while giving a simultaneous exhibition. The current record is held by a Belgian, George Koltanowski. In 1980, he played fifty-six blindfold games simultaneously, winning fifty, tying six, and losing none. It’s hard to believe.

But all of the above is relatively easy to believe when compared to the New York Yankees’ current slump. They can’t hit. They can’t pitch. They can’t score runs. It too is hard to believe.

Thank you, Hanna. Thank you.

Your selection of ‘Code of Conduct’ as our topic for this week is both inspired and inspiring.

Your subtle sensibility exhibits a sensible subtlety, and has given you a keen awareness as well as an aware keenness concerning the dire need of this workshop group for serious moral instruction - a need indeed so great in this group that I feel compelled by a compulsive feeling, to set my natural overwhelming modesty aside in order to modestly undertake this vital undertaking - with, of course, my usual unusual vitality.

The rules I am about to impart, are of such import, that I must importune you all as to the importance of chanting them each morning, immediately upon waking, and repeating them aloud repeatedly to yourself upon retiring in the evening. Assuredly, only then can you be assured of imprinting their imprint onto your conscious conscience. Failure to do this would be unconscionable.


Rule # 1 - Do unto others before they have a chance to do unto to you.
Lets suppose you’re in a crowded parking lot , driving up one lane and down the next, looking for an empty parking spot. Finally you see one just ahead. Another car is coming from the other direction and the driver sees the same space. You, armed with Rule #1, accelerate madly, thereby achieving the space. I recommend that while doing this you lean heavily on your horn, thus warning any pedestrians to jump out of your way. Such consideration merits accolades from all who witness your performance.

Rule # 2 - Don’t look back. Someone may be gaining on you.
Satchel Paige was the first person, of whom I am aware, to use this admonition. I’m not sure he understood the many figurative implications of the statement.

Let’s start with just the first sentence. ‘Don’t look back,’ can be advice to be selectively forgetful of those memories which are unpleasant for you. Would life not be much more satisfying if we could expunge all recollections of failures, embarrassments, and unfulfilled aspirations? ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.’

I don’t suggest that it can mean to forget everything. Then nothing can ever be learned. Come to think of it, some of our leaders have already reached this exalted state.

In this world, we need our memories. Heaven is another story. Only if yesterday’s eternal bliss is entirely forgotten, can today’s bliss be fresh and tolerable, freeing us from eternal boredom.

Rule # 3 - Do as I say, not as I do.
This is, of course, the most important rule. My sacred right to privacy precludes our examining those things that I do. Needless to mention, they have little semblance to the things that I say. I find that I am, beyond morality, beyond immorality, beyond amorality. Indeed, I am beyond all hope.

Anyway, thank you Hanna. Thank you.

As an exercize, we were challenged to write a story not exceeding 55 words. Following are several examples.
--------
Charley had phoned about an hour ago. His flight back to college was leaving on time.

We were all in the den. The news broadcast said some passengers survived, but gave no names.

He’d call if he were safe. They’d call otherwise.

We sat in silence, hardly moving. Then the telephone rang.


----------

A Light Went On

This was their first burglary.

They entered the master bedroom.

"You look under the mattress. I’ll take the dresser."

He opener the top drawer, and there it was, the jewelry box, brimming with golden and gemstone trinkets.

" Forget the mattress. I’ve got the goods."

They heard a noise. Then another. A light went on.

-----------

A Light Went On ( An Acrostic in 54 Words)


A gloomy room, dimly limned ’tween
Light and dark. Shadows shimmering
Went back and forth ’gainst grey and green
On walls, on floor, on to oblivion.

A rumpled bed, a moaning man, last
Life still clung. Till finally his soul
Went forth, taking memories past
Out of body, out of mind, on to oblivion.

The dog barked.
The cat meowed.
The rooster crowed.
The hen clucked.
And no one realized that the end of the world was at hand.

The baby cried.
The mother soothed.
The father snored.
The sister painted her face, pursuing her dream of loveliness.
The brother squeezed another pimple.
And a huge asteroid hurtled toward a helpless earth.

The sun flamed.
The planets spun and whirled,
Pressing outward to escape their star,
While pulling inward as if to embrace it.
The galaxy was unconcerned.

The collision came.
Just a Little Bang in cosmic terms.
But big enough to vaporize both asteroid and earth.
And then, no dog barked.



Written on the LIRR between Hicksville and Northport

(Note: This was not an assigned topic.)

Patients arise! You have nothing to lose but your pains!

I have a new dentist. I’ve visited his office several times recently so he knows I’m always ready for silly banter.

"Have you missed me?" he asked, pleased as he approached the chair with his joke that someone could miss seeing the dentist.

"So much that I’d turn gay for you."

He was flummoxed with embarrassment and immediately I knew I had a fish on the hook.

"Don’t tell anyone you said that," he implored, as the nurse giggled from behind the chair.

"I was going to put it in the Port Jeff Times."

"Whatever you do, don’t mention me by name."

"I would never do that. By the way, how exactly do you spell Nicastro?"

Fellow humans - does it not fill you with pride to consider the many seminal inventions of the past which have propelled our species forward - forward to our present state of exalted civilization.

The inventions of agriculture, the wheel, toolmaking, art, railroads, autos and airplanes, electric power and computers - what a dizzying sample array, and all in just a few thousand years.

To what Olympian heights can we now expect mankind’s inventiveness to carry us.

I’d like to suggest three recent candidates for your consideration.

Late in the twentieth century (Remember that one?), Bloomingdale’s introduced "the Pet Rock" to an eagerly awaiting world. It was a small chunk of stone presented in a fancy box with a slip of paper delineating its pedigree and advising about its proper care.

This was an ideal pet. It was quiet, did not cost anything for food, didn’t require to be walked, especially in cold or rainy weather, and never had an accident. It merely lay contentedly inert in its box. It sold, if I remember correctly, for about $15.00, and Bloomies sold thousands.

Naturally, a follow-up product was needed for the next year, and mankind’s insistent inventiveness created one - "the Nothing Box." As I remember, this was a shiny black plastic two inch cube with one button and several lights dotted randomly around its surfaces. Once the button was pressed, the lights began randomly blinking, until the end of time, or until its batteries ran out, whichever came first. This too, sold well.

And then, of course, there’s Viagra.

Man is a masochistic animal. He has used his great gift of imagination to create self-torment and suffering as a pastime. Only when we realize this, to we begin to comprehend that torture called Golf.

It is my mission today to help you understand this pastime.

Golf masquerades as a sport. During the three to six hours required to play a ‘round’, a ‘golfer’ is required to swing a ‘club’ between thirty and sixty times and to tap a ball gently another thirty to sixty times. This requires about sixty seconds total. The rest of the time is spent either walking or riding uncomfortably after the ball, looking for it, and bemoaning your ill fortune that the ball didn’t bounce more favorably.

To truly understand the ‘game’ it is necessary to come to grips with its terms - that arcane lingo of misapplied English words. May I gloss? Thank you.

Address the ball - This does not mean speaking to the ball with such words as "I’m going to strike you ball." or "Please go straight ball." Instead, it means standing over the ball, filled with hope and trepidation.

Backswing - this word, largely misunderstood, does not refer to taking the club back in preparation for striking the ball, at the same time twisting yourself into an uncomfortable knot. Rather, it refers to your turning your back on the ball in an effort to show that you are really contemptuous of it and the misery it may be about to inflict.

Birdie - This term celebrates being able to walk a few hundred yards without stepping in Canada Goose droppings.

Divot - Deliberate destruction of the playing surface in order to create extra hardships for the players following you.

Hole - The ultimate repository of the ball. It enables you to stop counting and start again from ‘one’. A golf course has only eighteen holes due to the limited counting ability of the mental deficient who invented the game.

Hole-in-One - This is considered a great accomplishment. It means that you are excused from having to hit again during that ‘hole.’ It also means your friends are doomed to suffer the story ad nauseum.

Pro Shop - an inefficient, overpriced purveyor of usually useless parafanalia.

Rough - This is the area of the course from which most shots are hit.

Teaching Pro - An individual trained and dedicated to the destruction of your psyche. The Pro is the catalyst of masochism.

Tee - This is short for Tee-Hee, the near-silent giggle your companions utter at the awkwardness of your swing.

Truth - Unknown to golfers.

Now, having mastered the terminology, you’re ready to get serious. As in many other pastimes, you’re required to dress idiotically, only more so. There’s a famous old golf story about a professional woman golfer who made the mistake of wearing a knitted dress to play in. A rainstorm came up suddenly and in her waterlogged dress she was unable continue.

In my twenties I played every Sunday on the Black Course at Bethpage. Legend has it that when the rocks from the other courses at Bethpage were removed, they were all dumped on the site of the Black Course, making it extraordinarily difficult, perfect for unrelieved masochism.

One of my playing companions, who was the longest and wildest hitter among us, would almost invariably slice or hook his tee shot into the woods. We would hear him slashing and banging away in the tall grass until he joined us on the green. "I’m lying two," he would declare. See Truth.

My hero is a heroine. Her name is Rosie.

The first of her great deeds was performed late in 1979. To this day it is unappreciated.

To end a marathon and hardly be sweating is an achievement in itself. To cross the finish line in 2:56:29, the 11th woman overall, is certainly a remarkable feat. And to do it in so unconventional manner beggars the imagination.

In a marathon, every minute is precious. So to spend so many of them seated in a subway car must evoke our awestruck admiration.

Her New York performance was sufficiently impressive to earn her entry into the Boston Marathon early in 1980. Here she outdid herself and was the first woman to cross the finish line.

Now you must understand that Rosie was not part of the close-knit racing community, so it was not unexpected that course officials claimed to have no evidence of Rosie crossing checkpoints along the way, and competitors said that they had no recollection of her during the race.

Soon even some spectators were found who claimed to have seen her join the race about ½ mile from the finish. We all know how unreliable eye-witnesses can be.

So Rosie was stripped of her laurel crown, and the glories of her racing career were cast into permanent shadow.

Nonetheless, Rosie remains my hero - or should that be heroine?