What can you say about President Benjamin Harrison?

Eh.

His grandpa was President William Henry Harrison, which probably got it into Ben’s head that he could become President as well, but while Willy’s nickname was “Ol’ Tippecanoe” (which I’m betting came from a really awesome Cabinet Retreat out on the lake), Ben’s nickname was the “Human Iceberg.” Which is fitting, because as far as I can tell, he’s also the Captain of the Titanic.

He did eventually win the election, even though he had 100,000 votes less than his opponent, which is a lot, considering there were only like 5,000 Americans at the time. It was the olden days.

He graduated from the University of Miami of Ohio, the college that tricks hundreds of incoming freshmen every year into thinking they’re going to have 4 killer years of sun and beaches and drug-fueled frat ragers, only to discover that they should have read their entrance applications a little closer. Welcome to Amish country, kids. Class starts at 7.

Harrison’s biggest political fights while in office were over the issue of tariffs. Screw that. I’m not reading that part of the Wikipedia entry. Boring.

One article blames a big part of his defeat in the next election on Benjamin’s wife dying. Apparently this distracted him a bit. Wow. Sorry, America. Sorry he wasn’t more fully present for your political bickering while burying his WIFE. That’s why I’m glad the last few presidents had really healthy, young wives, attractive wives, full of life women who you know would just rock your world if you had like 5 minutes alone with them, athletic and delicate and passionate and sensual and dominating when you want them to be, with that skin, that perfect perfect skin… wait. What was my point? Hmmm. Oh yeah. Ben. What can you say about Benjamin Harrison?

He then married his dead wife’s niece, who was thirty years younger. So… Yeah.

Two Trolls

Two trolls sat beneath their bridge and passed the day. Generally, trolls are very busy at their job of keeping people from crossing over bridges, but the Committee had assigned our trolls a train overpass, and no one came that way. (The Union Pacific Railroad had closed the line down back in ’86.) So the two sat, or stood, or paced each day away and chatted the way trolls sometimes do. Which is to say, rarely.

The older troll was named Hiccup (and I wouldn’t suggest you make any jokes about his name to his face. He won’t hurt you or tear your limbs off or anything, it’s just that trolls are given funny names all the time, so pointing that out to one is generally regarded as unfunny and awkward.) The younger one was named Abraham Lincoln. (Again, I would urge you not to make fun of his name, but because it truly is a funny name by troll standards. So if you made an “Honest Abe” joke or something the other trolls would probably laugh, but Abraham Lincoln would probably tear off your arms. He is just sick of hearing those jokes.)

Hiccup and Abraham Lincoln had been working the bridge for seven years. At first, they talked very little, being serious about their job. Unfortunately their little train overpass was in eastern Wyoming, just north of Cheyenne. If you’re anything like a troll then you have no clue about geography or states or where major population centers might be, but I have been in that part of the world and can promise you that no one lives there. There are cattle and pronghorn antelope and a couple farmers, but not one real person for miles. So they sat in silence, waiting. Then, Hiccup looked over to Abraham and said, “No one’s coming.”

“Shhhhhhh,” said the other troll.

But Abraham thought it over for a couple weeks and eventually looked over at Hiccup and said, “You’re probably right.”

“My other bridges? Well I’ve had seventeen. I couldn’t really tell you where they were or anything, you know, but six were steel, four were concrete, three were wood, three were stone, and one was made of sticks.”

“Sticks?” Abraham Lincoln asked. “Like little branches?”

“Yeah. Turns out I was sitting under a dam. A beaver dam. I figured it out after a month. The bridge I was supposed to be watching was a couple hundred feet downstream.” Hiccup looked thoughtfully beyond the shadows cast by the train trestle. To the south the ground rolled down into a slight valley that held a small stream. Two young trees, their limbs emptied by the winter but presently holding hope for the spring, looked down upon it. Everything as far as they could see was a grayish brown, except at the horizon, where the world struck out into an unbroken blue. Hiccup sighed thoughtfully, and sat on one of the rocks. “It was pretty wet under that dam.”

“That’s nothing. I once spent a year under a porch.”

“A porch? Like in front of a house sort of porch?”

“Yeah. The Committee had gotten it wrong. They thought it was going to be a drawbridge, like at a castle. You know how those old ones had moats around them? One of those. So it was supposed to be a big promotion for me to watch this castle, but when I showed up all I found was an old wooden home whose front steps had been washed away by a rain storm. What the owners of the home had done, see, was to find all the scrap wood they could find and sort of make a ramp from what was left of the front walk to the door. There I am, suitcase in hand, all nine feet of me just staring at this mud puddle covered by plywood and stop signs. Someone must have exaggerated or something to the Committee.”

“So you just set up shop? Just like that?”

“Yes I did,” said Abraham Lincoln. “I stayed there twelve months in the mud before my orders came in to move out. They assigned me to an old aqueduct, which wasn’t that great but at that point I didn’t care. Anything was an improvement after the porch.”

“Yeah, that beats my beaver dam story.”

Neither spoke again for a very long while. I think it was twenty four weeks. Trolls can only say so much. It’s just their way.

Hiccup stood and pushed his way through the snow and peaked at the sky. It glared back at him with empty anger. It would be weeks before the land would thaw from the late winter storms. During one of the squalls the trolls were sure that a person had come to cross under their bridge, and they had stood with claws and teeth and riddles ready, just like they were trained. It was dark and windy, but sure enough there was someone standing right there. But as soon as Abraham began to shout his bit about the Three Questions, the person asked his own. “Who?”

The two trolls looked at each other and asked, “Who what?”

“Who who!” the person said, and then his head flew away. Hiccup edged closer and saw that the thing’s body was made of pile of snow, blown there by the blizzard. He looked into the hole where the head had just been and saw the footprints of a bird.

“It was an owl. On snow.”

“Oh,” said Abraham Lincoln. “An owl.”

Abraham sat back down in the shadow of the train tressle, but Hiccup looked at the pile, which had grown into a wall of ice over the weeks. Idly scratching shapes in it, he shook his head, debating himself. He wanted to say something to his coworker, an idea that had been floating his troll brain for a few decades, but he didn’t know how to say it or even if he should. From across the their snow cave under the bridge, Abraham cleared his throat and asked what was the matter.

“I have an idea.” So Hiccup began to tell his coworker his plans. “I want to leave this troll business.”

“To do what?”

“I want to write chain letters.”

“But… you’re a troll,” Abraham finally said. Hiccup had spoken for two weeks straight about his plans, laying out all the possibilities and advantages and business plans he had been daydreaming. He had sketched out pie charts in the dirt. Abraham’s head was throbbing. Trolls never talked this much.

“I know I’m a troll.”

“Well, okay then.”

“Okay then what?”

“Well you’re a troll, Hiccup. You sit under bridges and wait for people to come and you ask them three questions that they must get correct in order to pass. It’s just what trolls do. Well except for hunting elves, but there haven’t been elves for a couple hundred years. So- when I say you’re a troll, you are supposed to realize that trolls aren’t supposed to make their living writing chain letters, they’re supposed to be guarding bridges.”

“Don’t you mean bullying people at bridges?”

“Hey, don’t take that tone of voice with me, pal. You signed the oath of the B.T.C., the same as I did.” (That stands for the Bridge Troll Committee, which I did not expect you to know.) “You agreed a long time ago to the ethics of this business.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Abraham.”

“It’s okay. It’s just that… I don’t know.” Then he furrowed his brow and paced he blurted out: “It’s a bad idea. There, I said it.”

“A bad idea? What are you talking about? It’s a brilliant idea.”

“Writing chain letters? The letters people get in the mail that promise something bad will happen if the person doesn’t send the letter along?”

“Or good,” Hiccup interjected. “Sometimes it promises something good will happen.”

“Whatever. Good or bad. That’s not the point. I’m trying to say that it’s a lousy idea. People don’t even write letters anymore.”

“Yeah, but you’re forgetting the internet, Abraham. The internet is a whole new world.” Abraham looked confused, so Hiccup explained. “Look, I just got transferred from this bridge in a city. It was next to this internet café-”

“Did you get a lot of traffic?”

“Oh, Abraham. You wouldn’t have believed it. Thousands. We’d be asking our riddles all day long and into the night. People were kind of clever there, but we would still eat maybe a good three dozen a day.”

“Where were you?”

Hiccup thought about this. The next day he said, “I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, but what was I saying? Oh yeah, this internet café.”

“I know what the internet is.”

“Oh.”

“And it only reinforces my idea at the expense of yours, friend. There are many more chain letters online, but they have lost whatever value they once had. And monetarily speaking, it was originally at zero.”

“I don’t think you understand. Maybe I’m not putting it right. It’s such a good idea in my head.”

“Your idea is stupid. You should stick with what you know. You’re a troll. And that’s it. And lately, yeah I’ll say it, you’ve been a crummy one.”

And then Abraham Lincoln took his mighty leg and swept it over the graphs and spreadsheets Hiccup and written in the dirt.

For a few seconds, Hiccup said nothing. He didn’t even move. His attention had been momentarily focused on the freight train loaded with coal and mid-size Chevy sedans that was about to cross overhead. But then he realized he was being rude to his friend and remembered the words in his head, this time really listening.

Something bright flashed in Hiccup’s head and he didn’t know how to interpret it. Then he realized it was a feeling, or rather many feelings bundled together. Very quickly he listed them off: Shock, betrayal, anger and hatred. He let out a cry and grabbed a large stone from his feet (I’d guess it weighed three stone, which is a bit of a joke I’m making. A ‘stone’ is a British term for weight, and I always thought it would be funny to say how much a stone weighed in ‘stones.’ Anyways, you can look it up online to see how much it weighed, but just know it was pretty heavy,) and threw it.

It went about half a mile before it crashed into a thicket of spruce. The owl that had visited them months before was sleeping, so it didn’t know that the stone had killed him, crashing right through his nest. His light black body fell to the snow just after the icicles that had been hanging from the branches above.

The engineer in the train hadn’t heard the scream over the roar of his engine, but he did get a very bad headache, so much so that he did not enjoy his dinner at all and later sent some angry text messages to his wife that he would very much come to regret.

Life and Death and Colorado Natives

Cowboys are not rednecks. I learned that from Shane. They seem like they should be in the same category: they both talk with a twang, both live out in the country, both drive enormous pickups. But there’s a major difference, and to me it signifies many more: Neckerchiefs.

If you ever see someone in a cowboy hat and boots and Wranglers and spurs and all that, but they don’t have neckerchief, you are looking at an imposter. A kid dressed up for Halloween. An ambitious redneck. A dandy.

What impressed this upon me was the only time I saw Shane without one. It felt almost disrespectful being in the same room, like seeing my mom without makeup. You feel like you should just bow your head and walk backwards out of the room, muttering, “I’ll let you be.” But it was spectacular. Here was a man who had never, and I’m going to go ahead and say ever, been in the sun without that thing wrapped around his neck. It was white underneath. White white. The line between the always-covered section of neck and the turned-leather swath was sharp, like the stripes on the American flag. Ever since, I’ve drawn the connection: Shane was a man, Shane was a man of the Earth, Shane was a cowboy. Hence, Shane wore a neckerchief.

Shane walked up to me, I assume guided by the hand of fate, and asked if I wanted to join him trapping. OF COURSE I WOULD. That afternoon found me in Shane’s pickup, headed down the highway. We turned off onto a dirt path and onto another, crossing the cattle guards and stopping every so often to let ourselves through wire gates.

Although I had lived there for years, I didn’t recognize this part of the land. Fall was ending and snow was beginning to dust the hills we crested. The path would lead down into the slight valleys, where we would rev the engine and drive through the shallow creek and onto the next hill. I was smiling, but kept glancing over at Shane. I regretted my baggy city jeans and my stupid sneakers. So dumb. And my lame jacket. Man, Shane looked so cool in his Carhart. What was that stain there? Was that blood? Awesome. Awesome. My jacket had mustard on it. I reached up and felt my bare neck. Shameful.We stopped next to a stream and got out. I followed Shane to a thicket of branches next to the water, not sure what to do with myself. He felt around for something, a chain that led to the water. He gave it a tough pull, and out came a metal trap. Inside of its rusted teeth was a lump of wet fur. “Muskrat,” he said.
“Muskrat,” I replied. What the hell is a muskrat, I wondered. He opened the trap, carefully reset it down in the water, then stood, gently holding and examining the animal. It looked like a big rat. A big wet dead rat.
“Is this all you trap?”
“You’ll see.”
The next two traps were like the first, with the small creatures caught underwater by the leg and drowned. Shane would later take them back to his shack and methodically skin them. He would cure the skins and drive them into Denver to sell. For now they sat in the bed of the truck as we bounced over the rocks, further into the wilderness. Shane had set traps throughout the wash.

I guess I was confused as to what we were doing. Maybe I thought we were just going to drive out and do some version of setting a cardboard box on a twig, and we would hide behind a blind and wait to pull the string. But what we were really doing was collecting the dead.

The fourth stop was under a large oak, which spread its arms over the creek. Wrapped around the trunk was a chain larger than the previous. He looked at me. “Your turn.”I put on my gloves and grabbed the chain. Those stupid gloves. Shane had the good ones, the ones outdoorsmen wore. Mine were the three dollar pair from the general store in Evergreen. They didn’t keep out any cold. But I grasped and pulled. It barely moved, so I squatted down and planted my feet between the muddy roots of the oak and strained again, harder. It moved six inches and I pulled again.

The muskrat must be caught in something, I thought. Or maybe it wasn’t dead and was fighting me in the water like a catfish. I pulled again and slipped, falling on my ass.
Shane smiled. “Almost got it.”
I got it. It was a beaver. A huge beaver. I had never seen one, except for pictures, and now this one sat laid out ignobly before me. I touched its tail. It was soft. I brought my hand back, because it seemed so disrespectful. I doubted the beaver would have let me if it had a choice. I hadn’t even asked.
“That’s a good one,” Shane said. “Let’s get it in the truck.” What he meant by that was I should get it in the truck. I didn’t want to disappoint him, but was not used to touching dead things. I should have dragged it back, but didn’t want to go and ruin the fur, so I picked it up like a baby. Well, like a toddler. It was so heavy. I walked it back to the truck, glancing down at its snout, a few inches from my face. There were the big buck teeth. Its eyes were closed. I could smell it. My jacket was soaked through. Wouldn’t have happened with a Carhart.

I finally flopped it into the back of the truck and got in. Shane nodded to me and I smiled back. I wasn’t sure what I felt. It was one of those situations you find yourself in when you are suddenly in unexplored territory. There are just too many new impulses and images being flashed into your head, so many unfinished emotions flying through that there isn’t time to form any coherent thoughts or opinions.

As Shane and I drove up from the valley, I was in the same place, embarking on a new world, or an old one. I felt like I was in the stories… French trappers pushing our canoe through Indian territory, collecting skins and gold, hurrying to stock up our cabins before the long winter. We were Louis L’Amour novels come to life. We were a Bon Jovi song. With all these thoughts flying around, I didn’t realize what I was doing, of what I was being part. I hadn’t considered whether this was something I approved of or not. I was along for the ride.

The snow was getting heavier and Shane turned on his windshield wipers. It was close to dusk, too. We were moving higher, away from the creeks, and I asked Shane where we were going. “One more trap,” he said. I wish Brian had been there, to point out the ominous signs outside, for me to realize that maybe this wasn’t someplace I wanted to be. But he wasn’t, and we crossed one more cattle guard and drove up towards an old tree. Shane put the truck in park and got out. He reached back behind the bench seat and brought out a rifle. I couldn’t figure out where we would find a muskrat up here, but followed him as he trudged towards a barbed wire fence. I was looking down, mad that I didn’t have waterproof boots. My stupid shoes were getting soaked and cold. Shane stopped. I looked up. There was the coyote.

If you ever want to fit in when visiting the western states, don’t say ‘coyote’ like you always do. Leave off the “ee” sound at the end. You’ll seem like a local and sound really cool. To doubly convince a ranch hand you’re one of his kind, also say crick instead of creek. That’s a lesson you’ll want to learn. Hopefully you’ll say it correctly in your head when I write about how we killed that coyote.

His front paw caught in the steel trap. The land around him had been painted white by the snow, but he had carved out a perfect circle of brown earth, with the trap’s chain leading through to the radius, a metal spike in the center. I had never seen a coyote before, and I thought three things: One, they were small. Two, they were basically dogs. Three, those Looney Tune cartoons were full of shit. Wiley Coyote looked NOTHING like a real one. Honestly, I don’t know if the original artist who sketched him out even tried to find a reference photo.

But then I remembered that Shane had a gun and was walking towards him, so I followed and tried to be more focused. The coyote had moved towards the back of his muddy circle, his head held low, eyes glaring. I could see the blood on his paw, the snow catching in his fur. We moved closer and could hear the low growl.

Shane reached into his coat and brought out a .38 shell. As he loaded it into the rifle he said that this was a good one. That, because of the late summer, a lot of them had spotty coats. But this one was good. I didn’t ask him how much a pelt like that went for. I wonder where I would find that out. The wholesale price of a coyote pelt in the mid-90’s. I bet it was surprisingly low. I’ve never seen anything made out of coyote.

I wanted to watch the animal for a bit, to hear its noises and see its motions, its wounded grace, but Shane aimed at its forehead and shot. I suppose that was his form of mercy. The animal was in a lot of pain, and it was probably selfish of me to want it to go on suffering for purely observational purposes, but then again I hadn’t set out a trap, baited it with menstruating coyote urine, and come back a week or so later.I didn’t think about any of this, because I was focused on the shocking amount of blood. Nothing really bleeds in the movies the way it does in real life. On television, when someone gets shot in the head there’s a little trickle of blood, or some gory brain flying out the back (if its on CSI), and that’s about it. Really, though, the sinuses are shattered and flooded. Blood instantly streaks out the nose. It pours. It seeps out of the eyes, out the mouth. What I hadn’t expected, though, were the ears. When Shane shot, the coyote’s head dropped to the ground and blood arced out of its ears, as if they were being poured out of pitcher. I thought of cherry Kool Aid. The blood pooled in the mud, and then it stopped.
“I did that for you.”
“Did what?” I asked.
“I normally shoot it in the heart, but I thought you’d think that was pretty cool.”
“Oh. Yeah. Cool.”
Shane squatted down and undid the trap. How long had that been dug into its paw? An hour? A week? He pulled the spike out of the ground and carried the rig to the truck.
“Aren’t you going to reset it?” I asked again.
“No. We got our scent everywhere. Coyotes won’t be back here for a long while.”
When he came back, he took hold of two of the legs and looked at me. I wondered what he was doing, and then hopped forward when I figured it out. I picked up the other side and we carried it to the truck. I was holding the bloody paw. I wondered if it was broken, but did not want to find out.

We drove away, and I looked back at the fence and the dark brown circle in the snow. The footprints and the tiretracks and the old tree. I looked at Shane, at his gloveless hands. He must have been only twenty, twenty one, but his hands were the same as his eyes, weathered.

When I first met him, we were driving. There were a group of us, I forget where we were going. He sat with his girlfriend, Tricia. To our left were bluffs, scattered with bare trees and scrub. “There’s a deer,” he would say. We would turn to look and not see any.
“There’s another. Whitetail.” Tricia would nod, and maybe the rest of us would catch a glimpse. Every couple minutes they would spot a group or a loner, and I looked and looked and saw nothing.

I thought that if only we were in a city that I could show him a thing or two. I could spot a cop two miles down the highway. My mother said I had a lead foot, so I had collected enough tickets to keep an eye out for ol’ Smokey. I looked for police cars, Shane looked for deer.

I guess I have no right for judging him and his kind. Animals play such a large part of his life that I will ever be able to grasp it. I assume he’s off in some corner of nowhere right now with Tricia and a couple dogs. Their horses, I bet, are in their stall in the back. Maybe they have chickens. Some cats to watch out for mice in the hay. Maybe they have a hummingbird feeder. Some sort of rabbit and a hawk. Who knows, maybe a cheetah. Shane seemed like the guy who could appreciate a dominance struggle with a wildcat. I have a dog. My neighbors have two bulldogs, but that’s it. I cooked some pork chops for dinner tonight, and probably had some chicken for lunch, and I know that just because I’m not at the slaughterhouse doesn’t mean I didn’t pay for the knife that cut that animal’s throat. Moving to Sarasota didn’t change my actions or eating habits, it only made me feel guilty for them. In that sense, Sarasota is like church.

I saw an owl one night. I was driving back from Ft. Myers, staring at the twenty feet of pavement my headlights lit. I only had three turns in that 45 minute drive, and the rest was straight. The monotonous sound of my tires lulled me. I was lost in my thoughts when it swooped down. It was just a flash. It was white, and it’s wingspan reached from one end of my windshield to the other.

Then it was gone.I stopped the car, and got out. It was dark, and the only sound was the wind. I hoped to see it again, to take it in, to have it fly right up to me again and disappear, but I knew it wouldn’t happen. A bird like that only lets itself be enjoyed once.

I watched Shane skin the coyote back in his shack. All the animals were lined up on hooks. He pointed at different organs with his knife and told me what they were. He pointed at a little sac. “This is the gallbladder,” he said. “it’s full of bile. You don’t want to cut that open.” He laughed.
Shane let me have the head.
I took it back and cleaned it. Without going into details, the process included a sharp knife and coat hanger. The coat hanger was for the brains. I used a lot of bleach, too. I felt like the Predator cleaning its skull trophies. At the time I didn’t think it was gross at all, but ever since I get nauseous whenever I smell bleach in a laundry room.

A couple years later I was staying with a friend and we went out with his little cousins and their pellet guns. We were on the prairie and it was hot. I took a shot at a bird and missed. I think I broke a window.
And then I stopped shooting, and never took a shot at anything ever again, because there was snow in the fur, and I could see his teeth, I could see his breath. I saw the trap in its leg, and I looked into its eyes.
And then there was the shot and Shane saying, “I did this for you.”

Bonvicktor the Caterpillar

One day Bonvicktor the caterpillar was scooting his way through a garden when he happened upon a rose bush with dozens of bright red roses fully in bloom. Bonvicktor decided that he needed to take a closer look at the roses, for he had been told by his friend Karmiklk the aphid "a rose's bloom is once in a lifetime." and it is was true, for caterpillars at least.

So, Bonvicktor began climbing up the bush and quickly remembered that thorns and caterpillars dont frequently meet, for various practical and autonomous reasons. Nonetheless, Bonvicktor tarried on, wedging and side-stepping the sharpest of obstacles that would turn any plump worm-like creature into something of a popped balloon. as far as popped ballons go, they fall. and that, Bonvicktor would like to avoid.

So, eventually, half-beaten by the fight, our friend reaches a high bloom. he looks over and sees what seems to be seas of red and pools of yellows scattered here and there. If caterpillars had tear ducts or lips, Bonvicktor certainly would have used them at this point. He was so overwhelmed by the beauty that he fainted and, luckily, was caught by a lower open flower. Due to the nature of the fall and the severity of the fainting, Bonvicktor completely bypassed the process of metamorphosis and during his sleep took the form of the flower upon which he slept.

Upon waking, he opened his eyes and stretched his wings, which felt very good indeed. a small girl was playing nearby and happened to notice the flowers and decided to take a closer look. She went up to them and sniffed the rose that was close to her nose. Chance has it that the particular rose that was close to her nose was the particular rose that Bonvicktor chose. the force of her breath lifted our friend into the air, so as she opened her eyes from the invigorating scent, she watched Bonvicktor take his first flight and giggled, "silly Bonvicktor, you're a flying flower!" as she ran back to play.

Unfortune Cookie

My lunch last week was rather unsettling. I accompanied my friend Scott to China Taste and began our midday excursion with what strangely has become my pre-meal ritual... mandarin orange tea with a slice of orange (or two, depending on my mood), two packets of "I can't believe it's not sugar" (Splenda), and a pair of fortune cookies for my own amusement. I should have known something was amiss when there were no oranges (or lemons) at the drink counter... I should have aborted the ritual altogether at that point, but I did not. I grabbed my two fortune cookies just the same, pretending nothing was out of the ordinary.

Scott opened his cookie first. His fortune was not atypical... something about friends or happiness or any number of things one would expect from the average fortune cookie. I can't quite remember the details, as is often the case when a thing follows its expected course. I do however remember the disappointment of breaking open my empty fortune cookie. Though disheartening, it was not altogether unpredictable. Occasionally an empty fortune cookie will slip through the cracks... we all know this. It's a risk we accept when we sign up for the job (of eating fortune cookies). The cookie's punishment for such an act of deceit was a fate nearly indistiguishable from that of its more honorable counterparts... my teeth chewed with greater contempt than usual, perhaps even with a bit of malice, though eventually I swallowed the well-chewed cookie along with any lingering feelings of contempt (and malice).

But what of my second cookie? I clasped it with both hands, staring sharply enough to pierce its shell and write my own fortune through sheer force of will, as I am wont to do from time to time. "What if you get two cookies in a row without a fortune?" Scott asked. My reply? "I think I might go run into traffic. That's nearly impossible." I steadied my nerves.

Crack. Nothing. Empty. Again.

I felt no contempt this time, no malice. This cookie hadn't betrayed me, and I instantly felt overwhelming guilt for sensing such betrayal in the first. One unfortune cookie is betrayal, but two in a row can only be by design. Suddenly I was scared. What were the cookies trying to tell me? It's strange how one takes a fortune cookie so much more seriously when there is no fortune at all.

As I started in on my entree, I meditated on the spectacular failure of my pre-meal ritual. Though uncertain of its meaning, I had already decided that observance of my post-meal ritual was out of the question... two more fortune cookies, two more packs of Splenda, and a second helping of tea... the pre-meal orange tends to suffice for post-meal purposes as well, serving as a sort of bookends to my silly habit. Perhaps sensing my disappointment and concern, Scott asked "You're not taking another one?" I shook my head, quietly answering "No. It will only be empty."

A brief moment later another fortune cookie thundered down upon the table... or perhaps it was more like a light clatter? Admittedly these cookies were far more imposing by this point to my mind's perception than in reality. "Open it fucker," Scott said. "I picked it. It will be fine." Wearily I lifted the cookie, which felt to me like a rusty old anchor struggling to remain barnacled and burdened at the bottom of the sea. I steadied my nerves... again.

Crack...

the cookie - and my sheepish half-smile upon noticing the slip of white paper inside. "You shall soon achieve perfection." Well that's certainly a departure from empty, but still I had my doubts. If Scott picked the fortune cookie, perhaps its fortune was never meant for me... only one way to find out. Counting the new cookie as one half the pair of my post-meal ritual, I had one more cookie to go before I could safely refill my Splenda and tea... before I could know that everything would be ok.

I approached the cookie bin cautiously; I chose my cookie carefully. Sensing something odd, I gently put it back and chose another. As I turned back toward my table, my eyes met those of an older woman who'd been refilling her diet soda. Clearly she'd been watching me, and clearly she thought me strange, but more clearly than either of the two she had no idea the gravity of the situation.

Crack.

"Generosity and perfection are your assets - and they show."
There it was. A perfect match (pardon the pun). From "you shall soon achieve perfection," to "generosity and perfection are your assets," in a matter of minutes. All was well again.

I learned two valuable lessons at lunch that day:
Heed warning signs wherever you see them - Had I paused to consider the meaning of the missing oranges, I may have aborted my pre-meal ritual, avoiding altogether the calamity which nearly befell me.

When things aren't quite going as planned, don't hesitate to put your faith in another - Who knows how this story might have ended had I not accepted Scott's cookie?

Or perhaps there are no lessons here, and the cookies were simply trying to tell me I am perfect... one can never be certain.

I'm sorry kick ass music Sunday.

By now everyone who went is sure to be asking, "Where was J.T. at Jake's show lastnight, this Sunday in November the 8th?" And I'll tell you; I had every intention of attending.

At 6pm I snuck out of my meaningless job where I've been working as a layman to Sarasota's pseudo wealthy.

Long story short I got out of there and headed to Publix having just enough money for two frozen pizzas and a 12 pack of Tab, plus whatever the door fee would be at the show and at least one vodka apple cider. In the parking lot there were these young people in burlap sacks and stripey socks with greased up hair and turnip mustache sort of attitudes and I thought "Fuck yeah, what is this, crazy Sunday?!" It wasn't until about 10 seconds later that I realized I hadn't thought that, but yelled it, and kicked one of the smaller dreaded guys at the same time. One of the youthful leaders, or the tallest and most daringly five o'clock shadowed looked at me and stepped sideways then said, "What's your problem man?"
I knew he was feeling hostile so I played it cool. "Are we kidding ourselves here or having a great f-ing time?" I was self concious about having really said the F word earlier, so I was taking it down a level. I continuted in a quickly improvised Caribean accent. "We just having a crazy Sunday here or what?" By this time they were circling around me a little and the accent didn't seem to be doing the trick. I looked over my shoulder and saw it was a full moon. I realized one, they were probably devil worshippers and two I should not try to be sexual with their girlfriends. Not because I didn't want it, which they didn't, but because the full moon is the one day a month in which I am incredibly sexually boring. It's an old family disease.
But that's not important, what is, is that these sons of bitches were probably out here worshiping the devil, and now they were going to kill me. I did the only thing I know how to do, the only thing I'm trained to do, and kicked the small dreaded one again and yelled "GET OUT OF HERE!"
They took this as an attack, not knowing that I was yelling 'get out of here' to myself. They came charging so I went running. I knew I'd never get in my car and start it before they overtook me, so I made the decision to ditch my ride. On foot I ran toward the road and up onto Ringling all the way to Payne Park. I looked back for the first time and saw they hadn't followed me. Knowing I couldn't very well go get my car this moment, and feeling like tying one on, I went to a Mexican bar to catch a breeze.

Inside were the two usual heaving bossomed senioritas and about twelve older Mexican gentleman. Noticing there was no room at the bar I took a small table for myself. The sweet one, the cocktail girl with the pretty face and bleached curls came over and asked me what I wanted.
"My life back."
"Excuse me?" She asked, leaning in.
"My life back." I said again, only slightly louder. She heard me this time, and judging by the damp sparkle in her pupil I could tell she was into these sort of desperate patron to cocktail server type jokes. I decided to go on.
"You won't even believe what's just happened to me." I went on, tapping the seat next to me. "I was just nearly-"
"What would you like to drink?"
I recovered the floating syllables at the end of my last sentence and said, "A vodka apple cider and two bowls, one filled with peanuts, one without."
She nodded and retreated back behind the bar. I could feel my heart slowing a bit from the run. I had nearly been killed but still had Jake's music on my mind. I knew if I wasn't there Jake would TP my life. A few moments slipped by as I sat back, alone in the booth, listening to some crazy Spaniard yodeling and f-ing terrific song on the juke box. My drink came along with the peanuts. I paid the girl, and just before she could turn to go I said, "You know what this needs?" Knowing that when thinking truthfully the answer to that question is almost exclusively 'black olives' or 'a father's love' She turned her head wonderfully.
"Some companionship!" I said.
She looked at me for a few seconds longer, offered a sympathetic smile then left me. I looked at my drink wishing I had ordered a run jangler. Wishing it wasn't a full moon. Wishing I had my car. Wishing I was on my way to the show. 'By God' I thought. Jake will simply crucify me if I'm not front row center. That maniac has been trying to get me to one of his shows for a leopards year. I turned and caught my reflection in the glass behind me, clearly seeing how sexually boring I was this, the November 8th.

Some time went by, and a few more drinks went down. I figured I should head back to try to get my car now if I was going to make it to the show. I finished up, paid, affectionately said my goodbyes and started the walk back up to Publix. I could see they hadn't flipped my car over or set it on fire but were still up there hanging out. I walked in circles for a few minutes, deciding whether or not I was brave. A buzz in my pocket made me jump. It was my phone. I pulled it out and saw INCOMING CALL: Jake
"Oh hell!" I shouted, ducking down a moment after, hoping the devil worshippers didn't hear me. Finally, I swallowed hard and answered. "Yeah?"
"J.T.?!"
"Yeah. What's up J?"
"Where are you?"
"Umm, I'm on my way."
"I'm about to go on."
I waited for him.
"Did you hear me?"
"Yeah. You're about to go on about what?"
"I'm about to go onstage you mormom!"
"Oh. Yeah, I'm uh. I'm just trying to get into my car. I got in a bit of a throw down with some devil worshippers and such, and they're kind of, guarding my car from me. So, you know, I hid out with this eye pastry over at some Mexican bar, waiting for these devil demons to take off, you know?"
"You don't have to lie to me. You're not coming?"
"No, I am! I'm just, this is real. This is all happening now, man."
"Look, if you can't make it, I'll just set my phone on the stage so you can listen to it that way."
"That'll sound terrible."
"If you don't hear the set tonight I'll TP your life."
I was silent for a moment. He said so calmly. He was serious. Jake was always so damned serious. I heard a click and knew I was alone on the phone. Alone, staring up at about two dozen devil worshippers waiting for my blood. I started to say a quick prayer for strength when I saw a large stick in the bushes. I quickly stopped praying and grabbed the stick. "This is it. This is goddamned everything." I said to myself. "You sick bastards can't have me. Not tonight. Not on kickass music Sundays. Yeah. Music Sunday!" I repeated, hoping to remember that phrasing to tell Jake later. It was clever word ideas like that that'll get Jake back on a guys good side. Jake and his brother and the long one with darkish hair. They all freak out over shit like that.

Suddenly I ran. Not down and not away, but up, and toward the demon kids. Life felt like it had slipped into slow motion. This could of course be because I am not a fast runner, but I like to think that it slowed to savor this moment. Life itself, not just mine, but the deeper philosophical meaning of life had slowed down. All life on Earth was crawling for me. Waiting, watching this glorious moment as I ran up the hill into the Publix parking lot, with a stick in hand, a prayer in my heart and the intent of taking it all back. Taking back my car. My pride. My f-ing life, man!

I got up into the lot waving the stick over my head as I charged toward my car. A few of the rascals looked over and I could hear one of them saying, "Look, it's that nutjob." They didn't seem to be motivated to come after me so I slowed down, stopped waving the stick around. I became very cool, playing it off as if the stick was my car's key or something. I got up to the car, and pretended to be unlocking it witht he stick. "I don't know why they make these keys so big." I said, sort of throwing the comment away over my shoulder as if I was a friendly stranger who hadn't kicked one of them earlier. Before I knew it the tall grizzly faced one was only a few feet behind me. I scrambled for the real key in my pocket, gripping the stick tighter in my hand.
"Why'd you kick our friend, bro?"
"Who?"
"Tony. Why'd you kick Tony?"
"I don't know who that is."
He held up his arm and pointed to the dreaded one, sulking with a beer can in his hand.
"I didn't mean to."
"You kicked him twice."
"Which guy?"
He pointed again, only with more of his finger. Like it was growing in anger. Like it was an eighteen inch finger. Tony, palming the beer, gave me a questioning look on que with the finger pointing. I offered him a shrug, genuinely sorry, then looked back. The long faced bearded one and I stared at each other for a long time.

"GLADIATOR!" I yelled, then for no Godly reason swung the stick into his leg. He yelped, more so out of surprise then pain I think. He then regained his composure and punched me square in the eye. I fell back, my head hitting against my car door, setting off the alarm. The tall grizzly faced brute stepped back, looking down at me. My head rested on the pavement, looking up at stars to a chorus of long whining beeps and honks coming from my car.
"That's for kicking our friend, bro."
"I'm just kidding." I said, not knowing why really. He started back toward his group who was ultimately pretty silent. At least against the whirring hell that poured out of my car. I lifted up onto my elbows and blinked a couple times to make sure I hadn't been punched blind. Slowly, I got up to my feet, now empty handed and embarrassed. My car key had flown from my hand on the impact of the ground. I looked around for a moment, but my vision was silly. The thought occured to me to askfor help from one of the devil worshippers but I decided against it. Eventually I felt a lump under my shoe and saw that I had stepped on it. I picked up the key and unlocked my door. Once open. I reached in and disabled the alarm. I managed to avoid eye contact with everyone until I was in the car with the door shut. With the car started, I pulled into gear and slowly rolled out of the parking lot. In my rear-view mirror I could see the people making their wa out of the lot, and on with their night. My phone buzzed again. The screen said JAKE. I flipped it open and pressed it against my ear. "Hello." I said. He wasn't there. Not his voice, but the sound of a live show, guitars and bass, drums and a crackling voice coming through the speakers of a cell phone. I was missing it. Staring out my at a stop sign on Ringling I listened to a few bars of Jake's most famous song, "Dance Pickle Extreme." There was color showing up around my eye, and I knew I would have a shiner. I hung up the phone, dropping it in the passenger seat, and driving on.

There was a spot just outside the Mexican bar, so I took it. Inside the same table waited for me. I slid in to the booth and waited, tapping my fingers on the sticky surface of the table. In a moment, my girl, the sweet faced, heavy breasted one, came over. She nodded, recognizing me from twenty minutes ago. I leaned my head back trying to catch the light and pointed to my eye. "For your honor." I said. She smiled weakly. "A drink?" She asked. "Rum jangler please." I answered deciding to stay here tonight.

Book Review for "Johnny Tremain" from the perspective of a 17 year old valley girl.

Probably the greatest book ever written, by both man and child, woman and other writing entity; Johnny Tremain tells the story of a young genius who becomes a silversmith and burns the fucking hell out of his hand. He's always embarrassed by this sort of melty hand keeps it in his pockets or in his mother's pies and pie type dishes.
One day he meets a girl named Cilla, Priscilla for long, who loves him despite his sick melt-hand. Paul Bunyan or John Tubbers or whichever is the name of that early revolutionary explorer comes along riding on his horse one day, screaming about lobsters in coats and what not, alerting the town. Johnny Tremain sees the opportunity to finally use the sick curse God put on him by melting his hand to scare and/or kill the lobster coats.
At this point Cilla is ridiculously in love with him and they kiss and he promises to make America into something great where even one-handed, pony-tailed dainty's like himself can work for a local paper or some other mid-level position at some kind of printing house. Cilla does everything in her power not to totally melt from her obsessive love for Johnny, not unlike the way his hand melted in the beginning of the story to foreshadow this supreme moment with Priscilla, "Cilla."
After a long, juvenile make out session Johnny goes after the red lobster people waving his sickly paw around yelling something about a tea party or a cherry tree until the lobster guys are so mind fucked that they shoot themselves to death.
Always being an opportunist, John Tubbers, or Wally Revere or whoever his name was then came along and took credit for killing everyone and even said he invented tea and teeth and apples and that Cilla was his wife and all other sorts of new America type bullshit lies, most of which none of the towns people believed. Anyhow, long story short, Johnny got his job back at the paper and married Cilla cause she was pregnant or something which was not totally unusual at this time for a fourteen year old girl.
The book pretty much stops there except for a short epilogue about that crazy horse riding Paulie Reverendton, talking about how he ended up in some famous magazine cause some of his lying paid off. Then he became president for a while until he was assassinated by Johnny Tremain. An almost forgotten part of the book and American history. In any case the book sprays out an unwielding amount of boy drama and hot girl sort of descriptions about the towns folk to the point that any nine to nineteen year old would easily form a wicked boy crush on both Johnny, Tubbers and Cilla, the later being a girl-crush. Read it. You won't be disappointed.