*From the Desk of...* Scribblings, musings and general ravings from the failed inventor of Lonely House

*May 2002* Just back from the BookExpo America in New York City Spent most of the time at the convention center being alternately ignored and ridiculed for my work (and my open fly). Happy to get back to Lonely House. Delighted to discover my new fluorescent dog kibble was a great success. The idea is that it makes dog poop glow in the dark so you can see it (and dispose of it) at night. I left out a few pounds of it for Mr. Barker in my absence. When I returned in the evening and gazed out at the backyard I was pleased to see "a thousand points of light" (to paraphrase GHWB). The lawn looked like an inverted planetarium. Anyhoo, I scribbled down a few ideas on the bus ride home. These are them....

Turn any lame lap dog into a gargantuan guard dog with these clever devices. Employing the same technology originally developed to help humans with bad hearing and poor vision, the unpatentable “Woofenlarger” screen and “Wooflification” megaphone create an intimidating pet sure to scare off potential burglars and dim-witted second cousins. Note: Do not expose dog to Woofenlarger screen in direct sunlight.
EMERGENCY TIE
	So you’ll always be prepared for... Last minute interviews! Hot dates! Unexpected clients! Surprise dinners! Quick–it’s the boss! “We hope you’ll never need it–but it’s good to know it’s there.” Caution: Replace tie every 5 years or sooner as fashion dictates.

From the Desk of...
*July 2002* There are good inventions and bad inventions. By that I don’t mean ideas that work and ideas that don’t. After all, any fool can invent something that does what it’s supposed to do (expect me, of course). No, I mean that some inventions help humanity, are inherently good. M & Ms, for example. Other products get produced, marketed and sold successfully but have a negative effect on the world. Double-sided tape comes to mind. Or 64-ounce cardboard soda cups. Fortunately (or otherwise), the down sides to my ideas become evident well before the marketing stage. I mean, even Mr. Barker could tell that the self-foaming whipping cream was going to involve way to much clean-up to be commercially viable. Sometimes, though, an idea comes along with both a bright upside and a dark underbelly. Such is my Sporkpen. It’s a simple idea, really. A ball-point pen with a spoon/fork thingie on the other end. I have found it useful for working through lunch; I’m able to do scratch out some force vectors while still enjoying my ramen noodles and yogurt. It’s very useful. Perhaps too useful. Think about it. If this were marketed through the office supply companies it could increase productivity over 10 percent. But it could also eliminate the lunch hour as we know it. Do I want to release such nightmarish efficiency on the world? Do I want my obituary to read: Mister Genius–Wiped Out Lunch? Do I desire the further enslavement of my low-income, white-collar brethren and sistren? On the other hand, the ramen noodle concession could be quite lucrative.... Oh, and here’s another idea I’ve been working on. Mr. Barker likes this one–perhaps a little too much...
CAT CONTACTS	Contact LENSES, that is. For all their supposed dexerity and agility, every cat owner knows felines knock over a lot of expensive knick-knacks, not to mention costly brick-a-brack. Recent discoveries by veterinary opthamologists have revealed the answer--cats can't see good. That's why we now offer contact lenses specifically designed for your tabby. We're so confident in this product that we'll DOUBLE YOUR MONEY BACK if the lenses don't effect your pet's vision. Specify S, M or L. 1 Pair...19.99 Installation...$499.99 TO DETERMINE YOUR CAT'S EYE SIZE: 1. Measure cat from nose to tip of tail. 2. Divide by 100 or so. 3. Multiply by 3.1214 .375" or less = S .376" - .593" = M .594" or more = L


From the Desk of...
*October 2003* The long interval between entries was as regrettable as it was unavoidable. Chalk it up to my falling in with a bad crowd. That and the big house fire. It all started last summer when I met my new neighbor, H. L. Hovercraft, the infamous spiritualist, gothic novelist and Hummel figurine collector. He seemed a decent enough fellow, engaging in idle chatter when stopping by to borrow a cup of sulfur or inquiring about local graveyards and burial sites. His property, a small ranch home across the cul de sac, was kept in immaculate–if somewhat drab–condition. And excepting an occasional inhuman wail emanating from his home you couldn’t ask for a quieter neighbor. I suppose in hindsight I should have been more wary of Hovercraft. He had a gaunt appearance and was as jumpy as an inbred kitten. Often, he would pause in the middle of our chats to hold arguments with himself, usually chiding himself for having told me something or urging himself to ask me some favor. He always kept himself as veiled as possible, donning a long motoring coat, leather gloves, a wide-brimmed fedora and wrap-around sunglasses. At first I thought he had an aversion to sunlight, but he wore the same odd outfit day and night, indoors and out. And despite the sunglasses, one always got the feeling when talking to him that he was glancing around nervously, as if someone were following or eavesdropping on him. But the biggest sign I blithely ignored was Mr. Barker’s negative reaction to Hovercraft. Whenever the frail man passed our property, Mr. B. would watch him intently from the window, growling menacingly to himself until he had wandered away. And whenever Hovercraft visited, I would have to order Mr. Barker upstairs, whereupon my usually cheerful comrade would retire to his study and sulk. Nevertheless, I ignored or endured Hovercraft’s idiosyncracies for one simple reason: he was pretty normal for our neighborhood. I guess I’ve never said much about our little enclave so some background is in order. Lonely House is a typical split level home in a cul-de-sac of an aborted subdivision called Pleasant Hills. Construction began in the mid-Seventies but was soon abandoned when the developer absconded with the funds. The development, situated in a rural area of a Midwestern state, had (and has) no city services. It is unincorporated, and to this day I’m not sure which county we are in. What remains of Pleasant Hills today are five homes on a large cul-de-sac at the top of a steep hill. The remainder of the property is divided amongst the five like slices of pie. In short, Pleasant Hills is a bad place to raise a family, but a great place to conduct dangerous experiments in privacy. That’s why I’m here, anyway. In addition to myself and Hovercraft, the neighborhood consists of Nells Nellstrom, the eccentric apiary; Maharish Armstrong Prophet, the billionaire doomsday cultist, and some famous celebrity who thinks they’re too good for the rest of us. Hovercraft’s place was originally occupied by Hunter Thompson, but he moved out, commenting between puffs on his cigarette holder that the place was “just too damn weird.” So you can understand why in a community like Pleasant Hills a guy like Hovercraft would not seem particularly odd, why he would indeed seem somewhat likeable. After all, he’s one of the few residents who lives above ground and has no armed guards. Anyway, when Hovercraft discovered I was an inventor he started dropping by for longer visits. It turned out he was conducting some experiments of his own, although of a more esoteric nature than my own. Still, we shared a love of combustible materials and personal privacy and were soon sharing recipes and swapping Loompanics books. It was a mutually beneficial relationship: Hovercraft would tell me how to circumvent state safety regulations and I would tell him how to get ectoplasm stains out of a tweed jacket. As the months dragged on and winter approached, Hovercraft’s visits increased in frequency. And whereas prior visits always had some business purpose, these seemed to have no purpose at all but recreation. Many was the night we would hang out in my library listening to They Might Be Giants or Charles Ives CDs, not conversing at all, save for the Hovercraft’s loud slurping of weak tea and my contemplative chewing of Little Debbie snack cakes. I might have resented the intrusions had I not sensed in the nervous little man a need, however poorly expressed, for some type of human companionship. Or, more precisely, a desire to share some dark secret or concern. Since he was not a man to be questioned directly I thought it best to bide my time and wait for him to spill the beans, as it were. For I knew from what few comments he allowed himself in my presence (or from those of that nagging Other Voice he argued with, which I had begun to jokingly refer to as Aunt Bernice) that Hovercraft was fiddling with realms that were best left unfondled. His reading list was claptrap at best and dangerous at worst: The Book of the Dead, The Necronomicon, Aldous Huxley and Bill O’Reilly. His questions to me were of an increasingly disturbing nature, having mainly to do with multidimensional geometry and adding extra sleeves to sports jackets. As the New Year approached, Hovercraft seemed even frailer and rheumy eyed than before. And sullen. His worsened appearance, combined with the eery moans and wails coming from his home on a nightly basis, told me the old reprobate was working feverishly toward some culmination of his experiments. And the increased delivery of casket-shaped crates to his ranch home didn’t bode well either. I know from living in this neighborhood that such boxes contain only two possible things: corpses and (of course) rocket-propelled grenade launchers. The day after Christmas, Hovercraft finally opened up to me. We were watching a bowl game and eating ham sandwiches. Hovercraft was in an unusually relaxed and friendly mood. So much so that Mr. Barker actually joined us in the rec room for some Bailey’s and coffee. The game ended and we were soon listening to the Perry Como Christmas Album. “George,” Hovercraft said as if suddenly making a decision. “I’ve suddenly made a decision. This project of mine–I’m chucking it! It’s too dangerous, I tell you. Not just for me, but for mankind.” “That’s a smart move, H.L.,” I said merrily. “Why don’t you work on something that will help mankind instead? In fact, come over after the first of the year and help me with that gizmo I told you about–the one that tells you which parking meters still have time on them.” He happily agreed. Then the three of us joined Perry for a round of “There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays.” After that, we sent Hovercraft home with our warmest wishes and a tin of my cousin Ellen’s snickerdoodles. Things seemed to have taken a turn for the better. It was only later as I lay in bed that I wondered if Aunt Bernice would have her say. The answer to that question came early the next morning with a violent knocking on the front door. Taking the time to put on my new terrycloth robe, I shuffled down and looked through the peephole. There was Hovercraft, a panicked expression warping his already warped appearance. I flung open the door and ushered him in. He was mumbling semi-coherently about abominations and big and tall mens clothing stores. After gulping down a leftover glass of Riesling, the crazed homunculus calmed down enough to make some sense. “I did it!” he moaned. “I didn’t want to, but they made me!” “Who?” I asked. Then, remembering Aunt Bernice, switched my line of questioning. “The experiment–you performed it, didn’t you?” Hovercraft nodded, terrified. “What was it’s nature?” “Oh you know!” he shouted, although I didn’t. “A transdimensional shift!” I stared it him, taking in the import of his words. After what seemed like half a minute but was in fact only twenty seconds, Hovercraft roused me from my reverie. “Can you help me? For God’s sake, George, can you?” I shook my head sadly. Many have studied the mathematics of multiple dimensions, of Einstein’s assertion that time is just another dimension, like length or width. But few have considered the one simple, horrifying ramification of this theory. If time is indeed just another dimension, should it not behave like the others? And if you can transpose the length and width of an object simply by turning it on its side, should there not also be a way to turn.... “George–can you help me!?” Hovercraft repeated. I sighed heavily and braced myself for the worst. “Take off your coat,” I commanded. Hovercraft slowly complied. And although I knew what I would see I was not prepared for it. The old loon had indeed completed a multidimensional shift. His body was still a foot wide and a foot deep–but now he was seventy years tall! And worse–he only had five-and-a-half feet to live! (More next time–oh yeah, and below are some inventions I’m working on.)
"STUMPY" The Big-Eyed, Legless Squirrel "My name is Stumpy-- please kill me!"	What could be more pathetically lovable than little Stumpy, the rodent amputee? Alone in the forest, with no one to forage for him, he's sure to die a slow death of starvation. That is, if an owl doesn't rip him to pieces first. The 4½" tall figurine is lovingly handcrafted of the finest nauga-porcelain plaster and finished with Rustoleum® for years of tearful ownership. Stumpy is sure to be the crowning addition to your collection of big-eyed figurines. It's simply the finest in kitsch. Guaranteed twice as pathetic as the I LOVE YOU THIS MUCH figurine or some of your money back.

From the Desk of...
*June 2004* As I said, Hovercraft had been dabbling in some wicked bad hobbies. I mean, you don’t end up seventy years tall by building ships in bottles. He was lucky I had installed a 100-year-old door for aesthetic purposes or he would have been too tall to enter the house. As it was, shivering and multi-dimensionally misshapen in my foyer, the frail alchemist could barely keep it together. “You’re the genius, George–do something,” he whimpered. Thinking quickly, I brought him a chair and had him sit. “Don’t move,” I told him. “You may have only inches to live.” As I mentioned, he had managed to turn himself on his four-dimensional axis so that his time was a short as his height had been (about five-six). Perhaps another man would have left the malevolent loon to his strange fate. After all, he was obviously up to no good and deserved whatever horrible end awaited him. But then the same could be said of everybody. I believe that’s the first half of the Christian message. So I was determined to help him if I could. But how? I needed more information. “H.L., I don’t understand how you made it across the street. It’s got to be a hundred feet doorstep to doorstep. You should have expired from old length.” “No, no,” he stuttered distractedly. “It didn’t happen until I was at your door.” Slowly, Hovercraft related his strange tale. Actually, those were the only kind he had: slow and strange. He had left my house the previous night, happy, slightly tipsy and determined to turn over a new leaf. He was going to quit his otherworldly pursuits, burn his notes and become a respectable crackpot inventor like myself. But he hadn’t counted on the power of “Aunt Bernice.” Well, that was just the name I gave to the nagging voices he conversed with. I couldn’t hear them, of course, being deaf in one ear. But the perceptive Mr. Barker certainly could–and didn’t like them one bit. I knew these entities had to be either an auditory manifestation of powerful subconscious forces, or something far yuckier. From what Hovercraft was telling me it was the latter. “I made an amazing discovery,” he said cheerlessly. “This hill, this subdivision–all of Pleasant Hills–is built on an old Indian burial ground.” “Duh!” I replied, forgetting my manners. “I assumed that when they sold it to me for next to nothing.” Hovercraft looked straight at me. His eyes almost in focus. “Don’t you see? We’ve disturbed their sacred resting place. It’s made their souls restless and vengeful.” “Oh, stop it.” I said. “That’s just a movie cliche. We’ve all seen Poltergeist.” “No, you fool!” he said, shaking his hoary head in and out of our plain of existence. “They’re not Native American Indians–they’re Bombay Indians.” Now it was my turn to be shocked. Disturbing a few Apache graves was one thing; messing with bodies from the subcontinent was quite another. I remembered how angry the 7-Eleven manager had gotten when I messed with the take-a-penny tray–and he wasn’t even undead! “That’s why I moved here,” Hovercraft explained. “I thought with my command of esoteric arts I could call them up and bend them to my will. Maybe learn a few ropes tricks....” He trailed off dejectedly. “And now they’ve got the upper hand, haven’t they?” “They were relentless. The voices–nagging, always nagging. And all that curry! A little is fine, but it can really be overused.” I nodded in agreement. “When they talked me into working on the transdimensional shift I was happy to do it,” he continued. “At first, anyway. But then I learned of their plan. You see, they’re souls are turned on the multi-dimensional axis. And being hundreds of years old, they can’t get out of a twenty-year-old ranch house. It’s simple physics.” “But with your help, they could make that turn and escape.” I mused. “But to what end?” At this the old man sputtered incoherently. I gave him some Oreos to settle him down. At last, wiping the crumbs off his polygonic mouth, he continued. “Horrible. Most horrible.” They were a troupe of entertainers come to the New World, you see? Singers and magicians. You know, playing up the Indian stereotype for the uneducated settlers. Did pretty well too, I gather. Until one night their sitar playing sent a herd of bison into a stampede.” He sighed. “They never had a chance.” “The point being...?” I interrupted. “Even dead, they’re still showmen. They want nothing more than to reenter this plain of existence–and perform. “Last night when I went home, I destroyed everything. Then I left the house and locked the door, thinking I had trapped them inside forever. But they managed to dig under the foundation and through the dirt. It’s as old as they are; I should have thought of that. They chased me down the street and turned me on my axis just for spite. Now they’re gone to perform their unearthly and poorly-rehearsed act.” “Where in this country could they be successful?” At this, Hovercraft again shook violently. “There is a place,” he said. “A horrible place where the worst acts from the world over not only exist but thrive. Alive or undead, the crowds gather there. The more bizarre and unearthly the performers, the better. I’m afraid they took control of my body and searched the Internet. They found it–“ “You don’t mean...? You can’t mean...?” “Yes,” he cried. “They’re headed for Branson!” It made sense. Horrible sense. In a city where a Russian comic, a Japanese fiddle player and a washed-up Polish crooner could thrive a troupe of Bombay street performers would fit right in. And Boxcar Willie’s theater was now vacant and ready for a haunting. I sat down and thought for a long minute. “What can we do!?” Hovercraft moaned at last. I stood up, having made up my mind. “About the Indian troupe? Nothing. There’s nothing we can do. At least if they stay in Branson they won’t terrify the rest of the country.” “But what about me?” he asked. “I can’t stay like this forever.” “Stand up,” I said. Hovercraft complied hesitantly. If there is one thing I’ve learned from years of experimentation, it’s that the most difficult problems usually have the simplest solutions. Hovercraft had been turned. All we needed to do was turn him back. “Turn,” I commanded. He twisted slightly. “Like this?” “No.” “Like this?” “No.” “How about this?” “No, you fool. Turn other-wise!” Finally, Hovercraft twisted in a way I cannot describe. There was an audible “pop” and he was back to normal. That is if there is anything normal about a short, dark evil scientist. It’s been months since that eventful night. Winter has turned suddenly to Spring, as it does here in the Midwest. And if Hovercraft hasn’t totally stopped dabbling in things beyond this world, at least he keeps up his property. And that’s all you can expect from a neighbor. Oh--here's something I'm trying to market.
CUBERTISEMENTS™ Don't waste valuable wall space--sell it!	Patented CUBErtisement™ partitions let you sell vertical space to marketers, simultaneously increasing revenue and livening up the work environment. That's a win-win-win! (Call for rates.)

From the Desk of...
*All Hallow's Eve 2004* Sorry again for the long delay in writing. I have been busy trying to market my newest invention. No takers, I'm afraid. Too bad, too, because it's an item most people say they need--although it turns out few people actually want. It's called a "Moral Compass" and it does just what the name promises. If you want to know the right thing to do you simply go where the arrow points you. Like most great inventions (I apologize for the self-congratulation) the principle by which the Moral Compass operates is elegantly simple. But it's also a trade secret, so don't ask. Being a genius of humble means, I couldn't develop and market the thing myself. Usually I take my marketable ideas to a cadre of local venture capitalists. However, since that group is habitually unadventurous and undercapitalized I decided to try my luck with some of the big boys. I sent a prototype out to 10 potential investors, including Dean Kamin, inventor of the Segway. My thinking was that they would all find the compass so indespensable they would start a bidding war to buy the rights--and I'd finally make enough money to get my tuba out of hock. I mailed out the packages, then went about my business. In this case, it was personal business--I had to move out of my split-level afer it burned down. The fire was the sad epilogue to the H.L. Hovercraft affair I wrote about earlier. Yes, even though I saved that mad metaphysicist from the terrors of his transdimensional shift, I got nothing but grief for it in the end. For while we were celebrating Hovercraft's rescue over spiked egg nog, a Shoggoth slipped through event horizon we had left ajar. And after I retired for the evening, the stupid thing caught fire when one of its pseudopods flopped too close to the fireplace. The good news was that Hunter Thompson--who found the neighborhood too frightening--had just moved out of his place. Not only was I able to pick up his house for a song, but I didn't even have to change zip codes. Anyhoo, after the move, and about three months after sending out the compass prototypes, I started receiving replies from my potential investors. The first was from Kamin, who was not pleased. "The thing is broke," his letter said. "It insists that I buy back all the Segways and apologize for trying to scam the country." I was disappointed, but not disheartened. You can't be a failed genius without learning to accept criticism. But as the weeks went on and the emails, calls and letters trickled in, I began to suspect I was not going to be making my fortune and, indeed, there would be no happy homecoming for my tuba. All of the respondents complained that their Moral Compasses were defective. Steven Spielberg's told him to stop trying to make pretentious films and go back to making action pictures. Bill Gates' prototype advised him to put out a version of Windows that actually works. Donald Trump was admonished to grow up and get a haircut. And the compasses sent to Ted Kennedy and Dick Cheney wouldn't stop spinning. So there you have it. An invention that failed not because it didn't work, but because it worked too well. It's like a Twilight Zone episode, only without the interesting parts. Still, I think I may have a way to make it a big seller. All I have to do is reverse the arrow....

From the Desk of...
*July 2005* Another disastrous half year, but this time it wasn’t my fault. Actually, I’d venture to say that in this cul de sac I cause fewer major disasters than most. This time it was Annie, the owner of the split-level bunker on the corner. Annie—or M. Anetha Prophetess, as she is known to her followers—is typically the quietest of my neighbors. Sure, her group gets a lot of truck traffic; but the loading dock is at the base of the hill a quarter of a mile behind her front door. Most months, the worst you’ll hear is the low “pop” of automatic weapons fire or the even lower droning of her devoted subjects’ chanting. The only people who ever show up her front door are process servers and the cable guy. But January 1, 2005 was a different story. It was the same problem it always is with doomsday cults—the day comes and the doom doesn’t. And that leaves a lot of disgruntled—and in this case heavily armed—cultists. Suffice it to say that I had to spend a lot of time boarding up windows and covering the lawn furniture with armor plating. But now things have settled down. Annie has a whole new group of deluded followers and a new date for the end of the world.* But the whole episode got me to thinking—why are people so bad at predicting the end of the world? I think it’s as simple as not keeping up with current events. Who has time nowadays to read the papers? Face it, the only free time we have left is when we’re in the bathroom. Sure, you can bring the Post into the stall with you, but how does that look to the boss? Plus, there are sanitary issues. The solution—print the paper on the clean, bleached white tissue we all need to do our business. Hence, my newest invention:
THE TOILET PAPER	ANOTHER GREAT WAY to save time AND trees! It's an entire day's newspaper printed on a 2-ply roll of cushiony-soft bath tissue. Just read, use and flush (in that order, please!). And since you probably won't read/use the whole roll in one "sitting" we've included a handy dispenser that clips to your belt or purse strap. Note: crossword and Jumble® may not be viable. Wall Street Journal New York Times San Francisco Chronicle USA Today Christian Science Monitor Mon-Sat...50 Dly. Sunday...$1.75 Wkly.

From the Desk of...
*August 2005* Not much to report from Lonely House. I was vacationing in the Arizona Desert. You get some good hotel rates this time of year—and if you don’t pass out from heat stroke it’s rather a pleasant time. When I wasn’t searching for shade I was rereading some of my favorite books, including Young Adult Novel by Daniel M. Pinkwater, The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by my departed neighbor Hunter Thompson (or Old Cranky as we called him when he wasn’t armed). I was lucky enough to find a place that would accommodate Mr. Barker. That’s the reason I rarely get out of the cul-de-sac (that and my mild agoraphobia). It’s hard to get a good petsitter when your neighbors consist of a heavily-armed cult, an unreliable necromancer and a hive of large naked eunuch women (I’ll tell you later). It’s even harder to find one who can keep up on Mr. Barker’s Latin lessons. The worst thing about not traveling is I don’t get to send postcards. Which gave me an idea for a product:
PRE-CARDS

Better than POST-cards, 'cuz you don't have to go anywhere to send 'em! Now you can show your well-to-do, jet-setting friends that you too have a life. And since you're either destitute or a tightwad, you'll be happy to know that Pre-Cards are cheaper to send than real mail.



From the Desk of...
September 2005 Everybody says they want to save the environment, but nobody wants to give a spare body part for the cause. Suffice it to say I am done sharing my inventions with the world (except for you, gentle reader). My latest lesson in public ridicule came when I was invited to participate in a demonstration of alternative fuel vehicles in nearby Scutville. Since I am civic-minded, and a cash prize was on the line, I jumped at the chance. Scutville, for the nonlocals, is a small but destitute town just down the road from Couer de Petit Chien. As the capital of Hatchett County, it plays host to the annual Blighted Wheat Festival, a week-long celebration of family, farming and breaking-and-entering. Normally, I steer clear of hootinanies and such, but since the house was being deloused anyway, I figured it would be a good change of pace. Alas, like many of my ventures, this one did not go quite as expected. Just minutes into the demonstration of my vehicle, things got ugly. It seems that, unlike human-powered flight, human-powered ground transport is simply too controversial. This despite the fact that my Human-Powered Vehicle (or HPV) would reduce both fossil fuel and land use while drastically cutting harmful emissions. As soon as the rabble understood the nature of my invention, they started hooting and sneering. And when I tried to start the engine, things went up for grabs. I had to make a run for it, only narrowly escaping being impaled by a corn dog. Of course, there is a subtle difference between human-powered flight and my HPV. The former, you see, runs on the muscle power supplied by the passenger; whereas my car runs on...er, have you ever seen the movie Soylent Green? Well, here's the illustration I sent to the Patent Office:
	The HPV (Human-Powered Vehicle) averages a nifty 18 miles per cadaver (highway). Caution: mini-crematory propulsion system is hot; do not use as rumble seat.
To add insult to injury, it turns out the competition was for Middle School Students. First Place went to a girl who taped a balloon to a Hot Wheels dragster.
From the Desk of...
March 2007 Of the myriad misfortunes that can and do befall me, the second worst is temping. Alas, that odious fate has overtaken me the past few months. ("What is the worst fate, you ask? That would be a full-time job.) Since mid-December, I have been spending my days at a large corporate monolith in Downers Grove. It's a long, rectangular building covered with a green-tinged panes of glass, like scales on a rectangular dragon. The Bromide Company, which I currently serve, is packed into the 4th floor. Temporary agencies are odd ducks, staffed by peppy young women whose burnt-out rate is about 3 months. Where they go afterwards is unknown to me—back to cosmetology school, if they're smart. Aside from a queasy optimism, they also share the ability to hear exactly what they want to hear no matter what you tell them. When I signed up last year I was originally interviewed by Courtney. Her review of my resume was peppered with odd comments. "Oh--you're an inventor!" she squeaked. "I bet you travel a lot. I love Puerto Vallarta. There's really no rejoinder to that. "We don't get much call for electron microscopists. Have you done mail presort? It went on like this for a while until my fixed stare brought her back around. "What kind of position are you looking for?" "I was thinking of something in the theater--or perhaps some kind of part-time espionage," I explained. "I'm an expert marksman, a world class chef, a good singer, I type a little--" "Typing!" She perked up, although with her it was hard to tell. "I've got a word processing opportunity we need to fill...." And so it goes. No matter what you tell an agency rep, they only hear "typing." Which is how I ended up in a cubicle, tip-tapping away on an old PC with a 386 processor and a dot matrix printer. Fortunately for me, I'm a wicked fast typist--130 wpm with either hand. Which allows one hand free for snacking. It's hard to wrap one's mind around what business the Bromide Company is in. I've been typing correspondence and reports for 2 months and am still in the dark. They seem to be involved in every aspect of American business, from smelting to employee benefits to fish hatcheries. As my supervisor explains it, "The Bromide Company doesn't actually make anything; it makes things more complicated." The first weeks were spent in quasi-somnolent bliss: typing, doodling, inventing (my newest product idea--the mobile television, gas-powered so you can take it anywhere in the house). The supervisor seemed to like my work, and had the good sense to leave me alone. I wasn't happy, but not miserable either, as I counted the days until the assignment would end. Then, just last week, it happened. I was typing away while munching on a Space Food Stick when my reverie was interrupted by a jarring sound. "Hey...um. I believe it's common practice to use the Oxford comma in a series." It was a grating, adenoidal sputter, like a strangled yet supercilious goose. "This is a page one rewrite," the voice continued as the hefty document I had recently completed went careening into my G.K. Chesterton coffee mug. I turned, rage building inside of me, crumbs rolling off my beard, about to lay into this interloper. I stopped mid-insult. It couldn't be. No, it couldn't possibly be. But it was. Peering squinty-eyed at me from the cubicle opening was my arch nemesis, Wick Pindl. My first encounter with Pindl was at the 4th grade science fair, where he edged me out of first prize. I grew mold on an orange; he split an atom. He had a narrow cranium and protruding forehead, like the nose of a sperm whale. His light brown hair was long and thin and stood up in lonely clumps like the crest of a woodpecker. He had brooding lips, droopy eyes and small, pointy ears like a bat's. This odd collection of features, combined with his vast intelligence, amorphous physique and complete lack of color sense let me to assume he was an alien. I often wondered, as he stood at the blackboard explaining a word problem, whether he could breathe under water. Throughout middle school, he was a constant thorn in my side. If I tried to answer a question, Pindl answered it first; and even when I did answer first, he would correct me. If I liked a girl, he would one up me by actually talking to her. If I broke my finger playing dodge ball, he would break his in a soapbox derby. My assignment at Bromide, already passing at a snail’s pace, became increasing unbearable as Pindl resumed the oneupsmanship of our younger days. Questions about grammar he answered immediately. Critiques of the previous night’s television programs he offered up with lightning speed. And directions to the bathroom, supplied before a newcomer could even speak, displayed a disturbing prescience. And in a tactic surely aimed at making me jealous, my old rival began fraternizing with the female employees with whom I had shared nothing more coherent than an audible stomach growl. Pindl jauntily hopped from work station to work station, chatting amicably with members of the opposite sex about such intriguing subjects as astronomy, Star Wars and graphic novels. Such was my alarm that I did not at the time notice the less than keen interest displayed by the objects of these nasally discourses—the eye rolling and clipped rejoinders. My only thought, as in grade school, I was being one-upped. This jealousy led to a disturbing change in my behavior. My inner nerd, so carefully sublimated in adulthood, began to show itself. My conversations, though still limited, were increasingly peppered with such arcane phrases as, “by the by” and “have a care.” I even found myself reading The Economist without giggling or drawing moustaches on the world leaders. I did not recognize that I was simply trying to beat that supercilious egghead at his own game. Needless to say it was a losing battle—you can't out-Pindl a Pindl. The situation came to a head a week or so after he arrived. It was a Monday, as I recall, when Pindl showed up with his meteorite. Yes, he had his own piece of space rock! The thing had landed right in front of his condo over the weekend. “What do you think, Mr. G?” he asked, dropping the thing with a thud on my keyboard. I inspected it, an asymmetrical chunk of dark, dense rock about the size of a quarter. There was no reason to believe it to be legitimate, save for Pindl’s great blind luck. I knew it was the real McCoy. “Probably a chunk of asbestos from a 747,” I yawned and tossed it in the trash. “You wish!” he said, trying to look nonchalant while pawing through a waste basket full of coffee grounds. That day Pindl became an office celebrity. Everyone from the janitor to the CEO stopped by his desk to admire his meteorite. “See that speck there?” he would tell them. “It’s most likely an amino acid.” During these exchanges I would continue to type, all the while eating my liver (as Joe Heller used to say). At the end of the day I stopped by my supervisor’s office. Pindl was there, casually leafing through a document I had worked on. Upon seeing me, he started reading it aloud in a theatrical tone. “’…We have therefore decided to summarily dismiss this employee….’” He looked at me questioningly. “’To summarily dismiss…’? Good lord, G, you’ve split an infinitive. E. B. White is no doubt spinning like a gyroscope in his mausoleum.” This was the last straw, mocking my grammatical skills right in front of the supervisor. And incorrectly! There is, after all, no reason to prohibit split infinitives in the English language. Did not even the great bard Gene Roddenberry famously write “…to boldly go where no man has gone before”? It’s one thing to mock my taste in clothing, my annoying laugh, or even that strange growth on my neck—but putting my paycheck at risk was just too much. “I’m going out to lunch,” I announced, tight-lipped. When I returned a few hours later, the office was in an uproar. Well, maybe not the whole office. Just Pindl. “You evil cretin!” he cried. “What have you done with it!?” His flared nostrils flared even wider and his sperm whale forehead was alternating between light rose and beet red. “Perhaps the Smithsonian scooped it up while you were proofreading my work,” I replied, calmly removing my vintage Members Only jacket. “Thief! Thief!” he cried. “You’ve stolen my priceless meteorite!” “I’ve been at the zoo. I don’t know anything about your little pebble.” By now our coworkers had stopped pretending to work and had turned around to enjoy the show. There’s nothing like a nerd fight. “Give it to me. Give it to me!” He stood directly in front of me, teeth bared. I could see that floss was not on his shopping list. “You’ve always been jealous of me. Of my superior intellect and achievements!” “You know you’re a temp, right?” I asked calmly. The supervisor had wandered over by now and stood hovering, unsure whether to join the audience or intervene. Pindl wheeled toward him. “I demand you take this man into custody! He has robbed me! Search his person—search his briefs!” “Er, I don’t think that would be appropriate,” the supervisor stammered. The stifled giggles from the coworkers further enraged Pindl. His head looked like it would explode—which was a real possibility. It was time to light the fuse. “Feel free to search my things,” I told the supervisor. “I can assure you that rock is not with me. I’ve been at the zoo for the last hour. What would I possibly do with a meteorite at the zoo?” I turned to Pindl. “It’s not like I would, say, cover the thing with peanut butter and feed it to the giraffe.” Then I smiled, ever so slightly. The effect was stunning. A look of confusion crossed Pindl’s face, followed in rapid succession by realization, terror and, finally, apoplectic rage. The flurry of rabbit punches he rained down on my shoulder tickled so much it almost hurt. The supervisor dragged him away. He was replaced the next day by a nice woman named Vicky. My assignment ended a few weeks later. I can’t say I miss Bromide, but it had its moments. Here’s a photo from when I fixed the copy machine.


From the Desk of...

April 2007 Many people have asked me to post a photo of Lonely House. Okay, it was just one person, and the County Assessor at that. Nevertheless, if a picture is indeed worth a thousand words this should save me a lot of typing. As you can see (and I trust the assessor will notice come tax time), the workshop needs some TLC. It suffered minor structural damage during my brief adventure with my neighbor, H.L. Hovercraft (you can read about it in my forthcoming article, The Shadow Over Wal-Mart, which I believe will be in the June issue of Guideposts). The foundation also took a beating when Mr. Barker knocked over my aquarium of Sea Wolverines. Those were some angry crustaceans! The church-like structure in the B.G. (as the movie folk say) is actually a church-like structure. Not a church, exactly, but not NOT a church either. It¹s the tip of the iceberg that is/was the home of the Liz Yahweh ben Prophet cult. The whole complex, below ground and above, is vacant now. They made the horrible mistake of scheduling the end of the world for July 4, 2006. The elders, I¹m sure, thought they¹d spend the day in fervent prayer, followed by a few days of revising their apocalyptic forecast. Instead, some kids blew off a few M-80s in the parking lot. Alarms went off, shots were fired and heart attacks were suffered by a few octogenarian devotees. The result was the leadership had to flee the county ahead of the ensuing lawsuits and criminal charges. Doomsday cults look like they’re all fun and games, but you have to remember it¹s also a business. Someone dies from a snake-bite and, poof--there goes your tax-exempt status. The house has been on the market ever since, and it could be vacant for a while. That makes two empty homes in the cul-de-sac since Hunter Thompson left us last year. That just leaves me, Hovercraft, the Bellstrom Hive and the Hammonds, the nice Mormon family across the way.


From the Desk of...

Christmas 2007 I was throwing out some old papers (at the prodding of the County Health Inspector) and ran across the first story I ever wrote--and I can report that it's still as pointless and outdated as it was the day I conceived it. Here is the first part: SPACESHIP BLASTOFF ROCKET TRIP TO THE MOON OF EARTH B- General Taylor admired the towering spaceship that towered two thousand feet above him on the launch pad. Its gleaming titanium-diamond alloy surface reflected the snowy peaks of the Himalayas in the distance. “Impressive, isn’t it?” said Professor von Frankfort, who had come up beside him. “She’s impressive,” the general replied. “In the Navy we always call our ships she.” Both men were wearing parkas to protect them from the cold, but they had to yell to be heard above the cold arctic winds. von Frankfort took his pipe out of his mouth and laughed. “Well, is she ready for take-off?” “All the food and water and weapons and scientific equipment are loaded. And we’re pumping in the high-octane gas fumes now. I’m just worried about the hull.” “Bah! As head rocket scientist on this project I can assure you that nothing is stronger than titanium-diamond alloy—except the supermegatanium we used to make the capsule. Why, gamma rays couldn’t even penetrate that!” “Look out!” cried General Taylor as a giant ball of fire erupted and hurled toward them. He pushed the scientist to the ground just as the flames reached them. “You really should be more careful with that pipe!” he said. “You set off the gas fumes.” The professor got up and brushed himself off. “Lucky I ordered these inflammable parkas!” he said. “Well, we better get back inside Mission Control,” the general said. “The sun’s going down and it’s going to be a dark night.” “Hopefully we’ll put an end to that,” the professor replied. The light from the setting sun shone on the side of the massive rocket ship, showing the name written on the side: UNS Blastoff! * * * As night fell a small V-shaped jet hurtled over the Atlantic Ocean. There were four people inside, including King, a shepherd-mix who sat alertly in the copilot seat. It was piloted by Lt. Billy Desmond. In the back seat sat his younger brother, Capt. Rex Desmond, and, beside him, Yuri Yokomoto. “Sank you so much for give a me ride, Captain Lex,” he was saying. “No problem, Yuri,” Capt. Rex replied. “After all, we can’t go on our moon mission without our geology expert. “I’m just sorry your jet broke down.” “Yes. Japanese jet not so good as Amelican,” Yuri said sadly. “Well, they’re pretty darn close,” Rex said to be polite. “Not so low, Billy!” “You’re not the boss of me!” Billy sneered. “Actually, I am,” Rex said. “I’m the captain, remember?” “What a ripoff!” Billy pouted. But he nosed the jet up just the same. As kids, Billy used to push Rex around. But as soon as Rex became as big as his big brother, that all changed. Rex got better grades, was a better pilot and, most important of all, could beat Billy in a fight. Rex only hoped he wouldn’t have to prove it again on this mission. King barked suddenly. “That’s right, King. That’s the coast of Europe,” Billy said. Rex checked his watch. They’d have to speed up to get to Nepal by bedtime. “You better speed up, Lieutenant,” Rex said. “But don’t break the photonic barrier.” “I know how to drive!” Billy replied. “Excuse preeze?” Yuri said, bowing slightly. “What is photonic barrier?” “It’s like the sound barrier, except with light,” Rex explained. “As you know, when you break the sound barrier it creates a sonic boom. Well, when you go faster than the speed of light, it creates a blinding flash of light.” “Speaking of light, it’s pitch black outside. And the headlights aren’t helping much,” Billy said. “They won’t this close to light speed,” Rex noted. “Turn on the radar.” “Well, duh!” Billy said. “This darkness is a heck of a thing, Yuri. What do you make of it?” Rex asked. “By the way, would anyone like a cocktail?” “Yes, preeze,” Yuri said. “Not while I’m driving!” Billy whined. King barked. "But King wants some milk," he added. Rex pushed a button and a portion of the back seat folded down to reveal a complete bar. “No one know,” Yuri said. “All we know is moon has been getting weaker and weaker for past few month, and now it go out compreetery.” “Could it be the Russians? Or the Chinese?” Billy asked. Yuri shrugged. “We, ah, won’t know until we, ah, get there.” “And if we don’t arrive by lights out we’ll put the mission behind schedule,” Rex noted. “I’m speeding up now!” Billy said, hitting the accelerator. “No!” Rex cried. “You’ll create a photonic boom!” But it was too late. The speedometer had already passed light speed and a photonic burst lit up the countries below them. “We just blinded everyone in Turkey,” Rex sighed, taking a sip of his martini. “Temporarily,” Billy snickered. [Part II to come.]



From the Desk of...

January 2008 Here's another part of SPACESHIP BLASTOFF ROCKET TRIP TO THE MOON OF EARTH B-. Exciting, ain't it? The Desmond brothers got up at precisely 6:30 a.m. (or 06:30 in military talk). They had a lot to do before the 3:00 p.m. (or 15:00) take-off. Billy didn’t want to get up, but Wes (with help from Rex), managed to wake him.- They rushed downstairs to the cafeteria, where Cookie the cook had promised to give them a nutritious breakfast of pancakes and orange juice.- “Here ya go, boys,” Cookie said as soon as they sat down. He put two big plates of pancakes in front of them, with the butter already melting on top. “There’s syrup on the table and a pitcher of milk if you want it.”- “Woof,” said Rex.- “Come on, Rex” Cookie said, wiping his hands on his apron. “We’ll find something for you in the kitchen.- Wes and Billy both tore into their breakfasts, which also included sausages and bacon. It wasn’t until they were almost finished that they noticed the three people who had joined them.- “Good morning, Yuri!” Wes said. “How did you sleep?”- “Velly good. I dream I froating like snowfrake,” he said smiling.- “I say, these are golly good pancakes!” said a skinny Englishman next to Yuri. “Of course, in England we call them flapjacks.”- “Oui, they are magnifique,” said the girl on the other side of Yuri. “But in France we call zem crepes.”- Wes, remembering his manners, stood up to introduce himself.- “I’m Capt. Wes Desmond of the United State Air Force,” he said. “And you must be Prof. Dudley Picklesforth.” He shook hands with the Englishman, who had a very weak grip.- Picklesforth raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “Sir Dudley Picklesforth, if you don’t mind. Foremost authority on aliens. And I must say, old bean, that you needn’t crush my hand.”- “And I am Meez Bridgette Simone,” the girl said, holding out her hand. “I am Prof. von Frankfort’s assistant.”- Wes noticed she was very pretty, with big eyes and long dark hair. Billy noticed too, because he jumped up and shook her hand before Wes could.- “And this is Lt. Billy Desmond, my brother,” Wes explained.- “Magnifique!” Simone said to Billy in her sweetest voice.- Wes then shook her hand. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Je m’appelle Wes.”- Simone’s eyes widened. “You speak zee excellent French, monsieur,” she noted.- “Big deal!” Billy grumbled. Just then the young Navy Corporal Jim Benson entered and announced it was time for their mission briefing. The team returned their plates to the kitchen. Wes figured he’d have just enough time to brush his teeth before the meeting.- . [Part III to come.]