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I had an unusual dream not long ago.
The dream itself was not unusual; I dreamed I was eating at a sort of little roadside diner. It was only after I woke up that I realized that my waitress had been Courtney Love. Not long after, I realized that the cashier had been Ewan McGregor, the fry cook had been played by Vic Tayback, and that the two mechanics eating in the next booth had been played by Harry Dean Stanton and Bob Denver.
None of them had been themselves, of course; I have no idea what Ewan McGregor or Harry Dean Stanton is like in real life; I've only seen them in movies.
Do OTHER people have dreams in which the background cast is assembled by Central Casting?
And more importantly... do I owe these people any money?
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Recipes: 2
This dish has its roots in Mom's Tuna Salad. Mom taught me how to make it, and it worked out just fine in college, provided I could keep it refrigerated -- it'll go bad overnight if you don't.
Something most college guys have to figure out for themselves is that proper nutrition can't be maintained by standardized consumption of beer and pizza (when times are good) or beer and macaroni and cheese (when times are poor). You have to eat some greens and veggies occasionally. This salad is loaded with them, tastes great, and you can adjust the makings to suit your desired calorie count.
Thing is, sometimes I wanted to make the stuff but didn't have the necessary ingredients; I had to improvise. Lo and behold, you can improvise any number of ways with this salad, and it's still quite good. I recommend it for sandwiches or just scooping straight out of the bowl with crackers.
It got its current name due to a cat I used to have named Faust; my roommates at the time nicknamed him Professor Doktor Faustus because he learned how to open interior doors by jumping up and grabbing the handle with his front paws, twisting it, and kicking the doorjamb with his hind legs until the door swung open. If the door swung inward, it usually took him a little longer.
Once a week or so, he'd wear himself out trying to open the front door, which was too heavy for him to move.
Anyway, he was a chow hound extraordinaire -- if he had you pegged for a sucker, you couldn't eat around him until he'd inspected the meal and received his tribute. Part of that was my fault -- he and I had an agreement that if he'd keep his distance while I ate, I'd save him a nibble at the end. For some reason, though, Faust had no respect whatsoever for one of my roommates at the time, a guy named Max.
One day, I decided to make tuna salad. I diced up some celery first, and while opening the cans, Faust of course raised hell about wanting what was in them, and I drained the water and let him have it, and he raised hell about wanting the REST of what was in the cans, and I ignored him and he swatted my leg, and I ignored him and he bit my ankle and I ignored him... and then I heard the crunching sounds behind me.
I turned around. He had leaped up on the other counter, and was eating the celery. Apparently, he meant to have SOME of what I was doing, whether I liked it or not.
Max came home from work later and asked if there was anything to eat. I told him there was tuna salad. He went and fixed a sandwich and sat down on the couch to watch the news with me. Faust promptly hopped up on the coffee table and yauped for his share.
Max ignored him.
Faust looked irritated, and leaned over the edge of the table, reaching out a paw to hook the sandwich and bring it closer for inspection.
Max moved the sandwich where Faust couldn't reach it, and bipped him gently on the nose with a finger by way of chastisement.
This was the fatal error; you could swat Faust or yell at him, but to patronize him was a grave mistake. Faust responded by suddenly leaning way forward, winding up with one paw, and firmly clouting the sandwich out of Max's hand.
Max squawked.
I goggled.
The sandwich arced gracefully through the air.
Faust cocked his head, calculated the feast's flight path, sprang off the coffee table, and positioned himself about where the sandwich would land on the floor, all in about three-quarters of a second.
I goggled.
Max recovered, leaped to his feet, hurdled the coffee table with a mighty bound, and fielded the sandwich out of the air about a foot above Faust's waiting hungry paws.
They looked at each other like that for a minute -- Max's face filled with unbelieving outrage, Faust's face creased with mild irritation.
Max roared.
Faust bolted.
I goggled.
Max launched himself after the cat, squishing the sandwich in a deathgrip, waving it around as if he meant to bludgeon the cat to death with it.
I sprained a latissimus, laughing.
Required:
a good-sized tupperware-style bowl with sealing lid
Ingredients: use only one from Column A, at least three from Column B, and at least one from Column C.
COLUMN A:
Miracle Whip salad dressing (1 1/2 cup or so); the new Miracle Whip Lite tastes just as good and has lots less fat, if you're into that sort of thing
Mayonnaise (1 1/2 cup or so)
Tartar Sauce (1 1/2 cups or so, or about 40 of those little packets they have at Long John Silver's)
COLUMN B:
one or two pickles, chopped up fine or run through a grater; whether they're sweet or sour depends on your taste. Pickle relish also works fine.
one good sized stick of celery, chopped up fine
a small onion, chopped up fine (about 1 cup chopped onion)
1 can sliced water chestnuts (not much flavor, but they do add crunch)
l small apple, cored and chopped up fine (mind the seeds!)
1/4 cup chopped parsley
1/8 cup chopped chives
1 cup cooked pasta (I always liked those multicolored corkscrew noodles or green spinach noodles, but nearly any pasta will do as long as it's in small pieces), boiled or steamed to be tender and slightly springy; drain and let cool before adding to salad; do not overcook!
COLUMN C:
3-6 entire hardboiled eggs, chopped or run through a grater (Put a pot of water on. Bring to a rolling boil. Put the eggs in it, and set the timer for ten minutes. This recipe works at all altitudes and at sea level.)
1-2 cans tuna (I prefer packed-in-water to packed-in-oil, and always be sure it's dolphin-safe; there's no telling what those fishermen may try to pack in a can and sell you...)
1 package of artificial king crab legs or lobster bites, chopped fine (these taste great, and can be found at the grocery store near the seafood; you can use real crab or lobster if you want, but this is cheaper)
1 can Spam, ground or grated (this is one of the few ways you can totally disguise the taste of the stuff)
1 cup bacon bits (Use real bacon bits. The artificial kind work okay, and they taste fine, but they get soggy and don't crunch, and what's worse, the artificial red color tends to bleed off the bacon bits into the surrounding salad and makes it look like you're eating a Bowl-O-Roadkill.)
Throw everything into the bowl and mix well. Note that it's not a good idea to use more than one from Column A; they don't mix well. Likewise with Column C; use seafood or Spam-and-bacon, not both (eggs work equally well with either one, and make your meat stretch much farther).
Something most college guys have to figure out for themselves is that proper nutrition can't be maintained by standardized consumption of beer and pizza (when times are good) or beer and macaroni and cheese (when times are poor). You have to eat some greens and veggies occasionally. This salad is loaded with them, tastes great, and you can adjust the makings to suit your desired calorie count.
Thing is, sometimes I wanted to make the stuff but didn't have the necessary ingredients; I had to improvise. Lo and behold, you can improvise any number of ways with this salad, and it's still quite good. I recommend it for sandwiches or just scooping straight out of the bowl with crackers.
It got its current name due to a cat I used to have named Faust; my roommates at the time nicknamed him Professor Doktor Faustus because he learned how to open interior doors by jumping up and grabbing the handle with his front paws, twisting it, and kicking the doorjamb with his hind legs until the door swung open. If the door swung inward, it usually took him a little longer.
Once a week or so, he'd wear himself out trying to open the front door, which was too heavy for him to move.
Anyway, he was a chow hound extraordinaire -- if he had you pegged for a sucker, you couldn't eat around him until he'd inspected the meal and received his tribute. Part of that was my fault -- he and I had an agreement that if he'd keep his distance while I ate, I'd save him a nibble at the end. For some reason, though, Faust had no respect whatsoever for one of my roommates at the time, a guy named Max.
One day, I decided to make tuna salad. I diced up some celery first, and while opening the cans, Faust of course raised hell about wanting what was in them, and I drained the water and let him have it, and he raised hell about wanting the REST of what was in the cans, and I ignored him and he swatted my leg, and I ignored him and he bit my ankle and I ignored him... and then I heard the crunching sounds behind me.
I turned around. He had leaped up on the other counter, and was eating the celery. Apparently, he meant to have SOME of what I was doing, whether I liked it or not.
Max came home from work later and asked if there was anything to eat. I told him there was tuna salad. He went and fixed a sandwich and sat down on the couch to watch the news with me. Faust promptly hopped up on the coffee table and yauped for his share.
Max ignored him.
Faust looked irritated, and leaned over the edge of the table, reaching out a paw to hook the sandwich and bring it closer for inspection.
Max moved the sandwich where Faust couldn't reach it, and bipped him gently on the nose with a finger by way of chastisement.
This was the fatal error; you could swat Faust or yell at him, but to patronize him was a grave mistake. Faust responded by suddenly leaning way forward, winding up with one paw, and firmly clouting the sandwich out of Max's hand.
Max squawked.
I goggled.
The sandwich arced gracefully through the air.
Faust cocked his head, calculated the feast's flight path, sprang off the coffee table, and positioned himself about where the sandwich would land on the floor, all in about three-quarters of a second.
I goggled.
Max recovered, leaped to his feet, hurdled the coffee table with a mighty bound, and fielded the sandwich out of the air about a foot above Faust's waiting hungry paws.
They looked at each other like that for a minute -- Max's face filled with unbelieving outrage, Faust's face creased with mild irritation.
Max roared.
Faust bolted.
I goggled.
Max launched himself after the cat, squishing the sandwich in a deathgrip, waving it around as if he meant to bludgeon the cat to death with it.
I sprained a latissimus, laughing.
*****************
Required:
a good-sized tupperware-style bowl with sealing lid
Ingredients: use only one from Column A, at least three from Column B, and at least one from Column C.
COLUMN A:
Miracle Whip salad dressing (1 1/2 cup or so); the new Miracle Whip Lite tastes just as good and has lots less fat, if you're into that sort of thing
Mayonnaise (1 1/2 cup or so)
Tartar Sauce (1 1/2 cups or so, or about 40 of those little packets they have at Long John Silver's)
COLUMN B:
one or two pickles, chopped up fine or run through a grater; whether they're sweet or sour depends on your taste. Pickle relish also works fine.
one good sized stick of celery, chopped up fine
a small onion, chopped up fine (about 1 cup chopped onion)
1 can sliced water chestnuts (not much flavor, but they do add crunch)
l small apple, cored and chopped up fine (mind the seeds!)
1/4 cup chopped parsley
1/8 cup chopped chives
1 cup cooked pasta (I always liked those multicolored corkscrew noodles or green spinach noodles, but nearly any pasta will do as long as it's in small pieces), boiled or steamed to be tender and slightly springy; drain and let cool before adding to salad; do not overcook!
COLUMN C:
3-6 entire hardboiled eggs, chopped or run through a grater (Put a pot of water on. Bring to a rolling boil. Put the eggs in it, and set the timer for ten minutes. This recipe works at all altitudes and at sea level.)
1-2 cans tuna (I prefer packed-in-water to packed-in-oil, and always be sure it's dolphin-safe; there's no telling what those fishermen may try to pack in a can and sell you...)
1 package of artificial king crab legs or lobster bites, chopped fine (these taste great, and can be found at the grocery store near the seafood; you can use real crab or lobster if you want, but this is cheaper)
1 can Spam, ground or grated (this is one of the few ways you can totally disguise the taste of the stuff)
1 cup bacon bits (Use real bacon bits. The artificial kind work okay, and they taste fine, but they get soggy and don't crunch, and what's worse, the artificial red color tends to bleed off the bacon bits into the surrounding salad and makes it look like you're eating a Bowl-O-Roadkill.)
Throw everything into the bowl and mix well. Note that it's not a good idea to use more than one from Column A; they don't mix well. Likewise with Column C; use seafood or Spam-and-bacon, not both (eggs work equally well with either one, and make your meat stretch much farther).
Recipes: 1
For some reason, University of Texas students seem to have a tough time of it.
I knew two guys who fought like hell to move out of the dorms, got their own place, then realized they'd bitten off more than they could chew; in order to balance their budget for the semester, they had to pretty much eliminate their food budget.
They did so by surviving on nothing but macaroni and cheese (generic, four boxes for a buck) for most of the semester -- rather stoically, I thought. I say most of the semester because they didn't quite make it; they wound up hospitalized with scurvy and general malnutrition around the beginning of May, and wound up punting their final exams. Some say they wouldn't have lasted that long, but for the nutrition inherent in beer.
Another fellow I knew -- a UT student -- got himself into a similar situation, but being smarter than that, he bound himself into consumption of variations on a single foodstuff, thus rounding out his nutritional needs. The single foodstuff was toast -- fried toast, garlic toast, roast toast, cheese toast, toast crouton salad, tuna melt on toast, open-face bacon and cheese on toast, chocolate toast, toast a la mode... (I'm told his vitamin C and D came from pills and sunshine...)
It got pretty big. His off-campus digs became known among his friends and neighbors as "Toast Terrace", and at one time hosted a rather odd internet bulletin board which carried, among other things, some rather odd toast recipes. He and his equally broke friends would get together and hold toast parties, compete as to who could best wax lyrical about toast, sing toast chanteys, and of course, drink toasts to each other's health. Altogether, this guy knew (and probably invented) more ways to make toast than most people could imagine, and he could probably write a book on nothing else but.
Anyway, this recipe I got from him. I got a reputation among my roommates as a terrific guy because of this stuff; they'd wake up in the morning and find this amazing breakfast laid out and waiting for them. Truth to tell, I like the stuff, it's quick, cheap, and simple, and it's about as easy to make a lot as it is to make a little.
Required:
1 quart fresh strawberries
1 pint whipping cream or 1 tub Cool Whip
1/4 cup sugar
butter or margarine
8 - 12 slices whole wheat bread (it works with white bread, too, but this apparently violated some sort of taboo at Toast Terrace; I was told that the last unworthy one who had served the Strawberry Toast on Wonder Bread had been flung off the balcony into the pool as a sacrifice to the Mighty Spirit Of The Heating Element)
eggbeater or blender
skillet or toaster
bowl
OPTIONAL: banana, sliced into little discs
Clean, dry, and mash the berries in the bowl with the eggbeater, or reduce them to a pulp in the blender. Gradually add about 1/4 cup of sugar and the whipping cream to the mix (if you're using Cool Whip, forget the sugar unless you're really in need of a sugar rush). You should eventually wind up with a pinkish whipped cream substance with chunks of strawberry embedded in it. Put this in the fridge.
Heat up the skillet, toss in a pat of butter, and fry a slice of bread on one side; when it's ready, scoop it out, add another pat of butter, and do the other side. Do this until you run out of bread. You can also just toast the bread normally, if you want to be quick about it. Top each slice of bread with a couple of spoonfuls of berry mixture and serve. Toss on a few banana slices if you want.
This stuff is best when the whipped mix is cold and the toast is still hot. It also works well with all kinds of berries, and even peaches and applesauce. The Toast Terrace mob tended to take things a little too far, however, and I don't recommend the watermelon, Rumplemintz, or Hershey's Chocolate Syrup variations...
I knew two guys who fought like hell to move out of the dorms, got their own place, then realized they'd bitten off more than they could chew; in order to balance their budget for the semester, they had to pretty much eliminate their food budget.
They did so by surviving on nothing but macaroni and cheese (generic, four boxes for a buck) for most of the semester -- rather stoically, I thought. I say most of the semester because they didn't quite make it; they wound up hospitalized with scurvy and general malnutrition around the beginning of May, and wound up punting their final exams. Some say they wouldn't have lasted that long, but for the nutrition inherent in beer.
Another fellow I knew -- a UT student -- got himself into a similar situation, but being smarter than that, he bound himself into consumption of variations on a single foodstuff, thus rounding out his nutritional needs. The single foodstuff was toast -- fried toast, garlic toast, roast toast, cheese toast, toast crouton salad, tuna melt on toast, open-face bacon and cheese on toast, chocolate toast, toast a la mode... (I'm told his vitamin C and D came from pills and sunshine...)
It got pretty big. His off-campus digs became known among his friends and neighbors as "Toast Terrace", and at one time hosted a rather odd internet bulletin board which carried, among other things, some rather odd toast recipes. He and his equally broke friends would get together and hold toast parties, compete as to who could best wax lyrical about toast, sing toast chanteys, and of course, drink toasts to each other's health. Altogether, this guy knew (and probably invented) more ways to make toast than most people could imagine, and he could probably write a book on nothing else but.
Anyway, this recipe I got from him. I got a reputation among my roommates as a terrific guy because of this stuff; they'd wake up in the morning and find this amazing breakfast laid out and waiting for them. Truth to tell, I like the stuff, it's quick, cheap, and simple, and it's about as easy to make a lot as it is to make a little.
Required:
1 quart fresh strawberries
1 pint whipping cream or 1 tub Cool Whip
1/4 cup sugar
butter or margarine
8 - 12 slices whole wheat bread (it works with white bread, too, but this apparently violated some sort of taboo at Toast Terrace; I was told that the last unworthy one who had served the Strawberry Toast on Wonder Bread had been flung off the balcony into the pool as a sacrifice to the Mighty Spirit Of The Heating Element)
eggbeater or blender
skillet or toaster
bowl
OPTIONAL: banana, sliced into little discs
Clean, dry, and mash the berries in the bowl with the eggbeater, or reduce them to a pulp in the blender. Gradually add about 1/4 cup of sugar and the whipping cream to the mix (if you're using Cool Whip, forget the sugar unless you're really in need of a sugar rush). You should eventually wind up with a pinkish whipped cream substance with chunks of strawberry embedded in it. Put this in the fridge.
Heat up the skillet, toss in a pat of butter, and fry a slice of bread on one side; when it's ready, scoop it out, add another pat of butter, and do the other side. Do this until you run out of bread. You can also just toast the bread normally, if you want to be quick about it. Top each slice of bread with a couple of spoonfuls of berry mixture and serve. Toss on a few banana slices if you want.
This stuff is best when the whipped mix is cold and the toast is still hot. It also works well with all kinds of berries, and even peaches and applesauce. The Toast Terrace mob tended to take things a little too far, however, and I don't recommend the watermelon, Rumplemintz, or Hershey's Chocolate Syrup variations...
Blonde in a Convertible
Wherever hitchhikers gather... you will hear the tale of the Blonde In The Convertible.
For that matter, you will often hear the tale where guys of ANY stripe gather. Sometimes, they claim to have been abducted by the Blonde while standing on the roadside with a thumb out. Other times, they claim to have encountered her while pumping gas. More often, they claim to have stopped to help her with a flat tire... and been EXPERIENCED.
The truth of the matter is... that the Blonde In The Convertible occupies an ecological niche much like that of Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster. People claim to have seen her, but her existence is suspect, indeed.
But I met her, once.
I was young, then, and I worked at a home for mentally retarded children. The place was twenty miles from my house, though, and at the time, I had no car. I carpooled whenever I could, borrowed a car whenever I could... and on occasion, I simply left for work a couple hours early, and stood upon the side of the Interstate, trusting in the fates to help me keep making a living.
You meet lots of interesting people this way. Once I got picked up by a stoned Mexican national whose English was about as good as my Spanish, and we were able to talk. I asked him why he was driving a rusted-out 1940s model school bus full of stuff that looked like he'd raided every garage sale south of Austin. He answered that he'd bought the bus for $200, and if he could get it across the border, he could sell it for three times that... and he was going to take all the stuff and open his own department store.
...and, once... I met the Blonde In The Convertible.
She was blonde, and wearing a giant pair of shades, and she was driving a champagne-colored convertible of some make or model that I couldn't make out because she whipped past me at 70 mph without so much as a glance.
I watched her speed past, and thought about The Blonde In The Convertible, and chuckled to myself.
A few minutes later, an identical champagne-colored convertible sped past. The same blonde was in it. She looked at me.
I did a double take. Huh? Was that the same chick? How many champagne colored convertibles could there be on this stretch of road? She sped away into the distance, and I watched her go... and then stuck my thumb out again, and smiled big, hoping someone would decide I wasn't an ax murderer...
...and a few minutes later, I heard a honk. Behind me, on the feeder road, was the blonde, motioning me to get in.
No dummy, me, I ran down the embankment and scrambled into the car. She asked where I was going; I told her. She agreed that this was on her way, and she took the turnaround and got back on the highway.
My mind was racing. I had been picked up by a Blonde in a Convertible. This was damn near a violation of natural law; women as a rule don't pick up hitchhikers, and a woman alone in an expensive car doesn't pick up hitchhikers any more than rabbits invite foxes out to lunch. What the hell? She HAD to be horny. Why me? Maybe she was just a nympho who was out for a drive and just happened to SEE me there, and she thought about it, and now we were going to find a motel... could I afford to miss work? Maybe I could just be a few hours late or something... but what if she wants me again, and again, and again...
I glanced at her. She said nothing. She drove, eyes on the road. What was wrong with this picture?
We drove. She said nothing. She kept her eyes on the road, arms ramrod stiff on the wheel. It hit me: this chick is scared stiff. Of what? Of you, ya damned idiot. But why did she pick me up, then?
"So," I said, trying to break the ice, "My name's Bedlam."
"Glad to meet you," she said in a tone that implied she'd happily abandon me on an ice floe. She didn't offer her name.
"So where you headed?"
"South." Same monotone.
"South to...?"
"San Antonio." Same monotone.
"Pull over, please," I said, in as level a tone as I could manage.
She looked at me for the first time since I'd gotten into the car. Her expression was almost panicked. She looked at me as if she were quite sure I had a gun.
"No, just let me out," I said.
Her expression changed to puzzlement.
"Most people pick up hitchhikers because they want to talk," I said. "You don't want to talk, and you look at me like you think I'm about to kill you. I'm not gonna kill you, and the only way I can think of to prove that is to get out of the car. I don't wanna do that until the car stops. If you'll stop the car, I'll get away from you, and you can go on about your business."
She looked at me funny again. "I ... um... I don't think you're gonna kill me," she said.
"You sure act like it," I said. "I just want a ride to work. I'm not a psycho. I'm a guy who works with little retarded children, and I wanna get to work on time, okay?"
She looked at me like I'd taken off my George W. Bush mask to reveal the face of Brad Pitt beneath... and she began to talk.
She was Born Again Christian, rebirthed less than a month, and in the process of turning her evil and sinful life around... and working on becoming less self-centered. Apparently, the idea of living one's life for others had been on her mind when she was driving down the highway... and she had seen this long-haired, bearded biker-lookin' guy trying to thumb a ride.
She'd blazed past him without a second look... but then, thought about it. Was it right to judge this hairy mutant by his appearance? What if he really needed the ride?
She'd turned around, gone back, and gotten on the interstate again, meaning to pick me up. She'd blazed past me again, as her nerve gave out. What if he's a rapist? What if he's a killer? WHAT IF HE'S A NECROPHILIAC?
...and what if he's a perfectly nice guy who just needs a ride?
She'd got off the highway again, turned around, and FORCED herself to stop on the feeder road behind me... and honk... and motion me into the car. And had placed her safety in the hands of the Lord.
I was kind of disappointed, to be honest. It looked like I was going to be getting to work on time, after all.
"Well," I said, "you were right to worry. I might have been a maniac. Hell, I might have just been a crook, and all a crook needs is an opportunity. You shouldn't pick up hitchhikers, at least not when you're alone."
"But you WEREN'T!" she giggled ecstatically. "You're just an ordinary guy, and you work with little retarded children! You're not gonna rape me at ALL! You've rewarded my faith! No, GOD has rewarded my faith!"
For one evil, twisted minute, I thought about raping her just to demonstrate the danger of misplaced faith. After all, you can't be TOO careful, and God helps those who help themselves. Instead, I reiterated the danger of trusting just any loony on the road.
For the rest of a short drive, we discussed one's duty to one's fellow man versus the necessity of reaching out a helping hand occasionally. I mentioned that one should judge oneself by one's actions, and others by their intentions, and she liked that one so much she asked me to write it down for her... and when we got to town, I asked to be dropped off at the roadside, and she wouldn't hear of it; she made me tell her where, and she delivered me to the front door. Quite a few of my coworkers were hanging around out front, waiting for the shift to start, and being dropped off by a drop-dead-gorgeous blonde in a convertible did quite a bit for my reputation at work for awhile after that. She thanked me effusively for all I'd done for her (What? Did I do anything?) and gave me a little peck on the cheek before driving off into the sunset of my memory...
...and nowadays, when I dwell where men gather, and men tell the story of the Blonde in the Convertible... I smile and say nothing.
*sigh*.....
For that matter, you will often hear the tale where guys of ANY stripe gather. Sometimes, they claim to have been abducted by the Blonde while standing on the roadside with a thumb out. Other times, they claim to have encountered her while pumping gas. More often, they claim to have stopped to help her with a flat tire... and been EXPERIENCED.
The truth of the matter is... that the Blonde In The Convertible occupies an ecological niche much like that of Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster. People claim to have seen her, but her existence is suspect, indeed.
But I met her, once.
I was young, then, and I worked at a home for mentally retarded children. The place was twenty miles from my house, though, and at the time, I had no car. I carpooled whenever I could, borrowed a car whenever I could... and on occasion, I simply left for work a couple hours early, and stood upon the side of the Interstate, trusting in the fates to help me keep making a living.
You meet lots of interesting people this way. Once I got picked up by a stoned Mexican national whose English was about as good as my Spanish, and we were able to talk. I asked him why he was driving a rusted-out 1940s model school bus full of stuff that looked like he'd raided every garage sale south of Austin. He answered that he'd bought the bus for $200, and if he could get it across the border, he could sell it for three times that... and he was going to take all the stuff and open his own department store.
...and, once... I met the Blonde In The Convertible.
She was blonde, and wearing a giant pair of shades, and she was driving a champagne-colored convertible of some make or model that I couldn't make out because she whipped past me at 70 mph without so much as a glance.
I watched her speed past, and thought about The Blonde In The Convertible, and chuckled to myself.
A few minutes later, an identical champagne-colored convertible sped past. The same blonde was in it. She looked at me.
I did a double take. Huh? Was that the same chick? How many champagne colored convertibles could there be on this stretch of road? She sped away into the distance, and I watched her go... and then stuck my thumb out again, and smiled big, hoping someone would decide I wasn't an ax murderer...
...and a few minutes later, I heard a honk. Behind me, on the feeder road, was the blonde, motioning me to get in.
No dummy, me, I ran down the embankment and scrambled into the car. She asked where I was going; I told her. She agreed that this was on her way, and she took the turnaround and got back on the highway.
My mind was racing. I had been picked up by a Blonde in a Convertible. This was damn near a violation of natural law; women as a rule don't pick up hitchhikers, and a woman alone in an expensive car doesn't pick up hitchhikers any more than rabbits invite foxes out to lunch. What the hell? She HAD to be horny. Why me? Maybe she was just a nympho who was out for a drive and just happened to SEE me there, and she thought about it, and now we were going to find a motel... could I afford to miss work? Maybe I could just be a few hours late or something... but what if she wants me again, and again, and again...
I glanced at her. She said nothing. She drove, eyes on the road. What was wrong with this picture?
We drove. She said nothing. She kept her eyes on the road, arms ramrod stiff on the wheel. It hit me: this chick is scared stiff. Of what? Of you, ya damned idiot. But why did she pick me up, then?
"So," I said, trying to break the ice, "My name's Bedlam."
"Glad to meet you," she said in a tone that implied she'd happily abandon me on an ice floe. She didn't offer her name.
"So where you headed?"
"South." Same monotone.
"South to...?"
"San Antonio." Same monotone.
"Pull over, please," I said, in as level a tone as I could manage.
She looked at me for the first time since I'd gotten into the car. Her expression was almost panicked. She looked at me as if she were quite sure I had a gun.
"No, just let me out," I said.
Her expression changed to puzzlement.
"Most people pick up hitchhikers because they want to talk," I said. "You don't want to talk, and you look at me like you think I'm about to kill you. I'm not gonna kill you, and the only way I can think of to prove that is to get out of the car. I don't wanna do that until the car stops. If you'll stop the car, I'll get away from you, and you can go on about your business."
She looked at me funny again. "I ... um... I don't think you're gonna kill me," she said.
"You sure act like it," I said. "I just want a ride to work. I'm not a psycho. I'm a guy who works with little retarded children, and I wanna get to work on time, okay?"
She looked at me like I'd taken off my George W. Bush mask to reveal the face of Brad Pitt beneath... and she began to talk.
She was Born Again Christian, rebirthed less than a month, and in the process of turning her evil and sinful life around... and working on becoming less self-centered. Apparently, the idea of living one's life for others had been on her mind when she was driving down the highway... and she had seen this long-haired, bearded biker-lookin' guy trying to thumb a ride.
She'd blazed past him without a second look... but then, thought about it. Was it right to judge this hairy mutant by his appearance? What if he really needed the ride?
She'd turned around, gone back, and gotten on the interstate again, meaning to pick me up. She'd blazed past me again, as her nerve gave out. What if he's a rapist? What if he's a killer? WHAT IF HE'S A NECROPHILIAC?
...and what if he's a perfectly nice guy who just needs a ride?
She'd got off the highway again, turned around, and FORCED herself to stop on the feeder road behind me... and honk... and motion me into the car. And had placed her safety in the hands of the Lord.
I was kind of disappointed, to be honest. It looked like I was going to be getting to work on time, after all.
"Well," I said, "you were right to worry. I might have been a maniac. Hell, I might have just been a crook, and all a crook needs is an opportunity. You shouldn't pick up hitchhikers, at least not when you're alone."
"But you WEREN'T!" she giggled ecstatically. "You're just an ordinary guy, and you work with little retarded children! You're not gonna rape me at ALL! You've rewarded my faith! No, GOD has rewarded my faith!"
For one evil, twisted minute, I thought about raping her just to demonstrate the danger of misplaced faith. After all, you can't be TOO careful, and God helps those who help themselves. Instead, I reiterated the danger of trusting just any loony on the road.
For the rest of a short drive, we discussed one's duty to one's fellow man versus the necessity of reaching out a helping hand occasionally. I mentioned that one should judge oneself by one's actions, and others by their intentions, and she liked that one so much she asked me to write it down for her... and when we got to town, I asked to be dropped off at the roadside, and she wouldn't hear of it; she made me tell her where, and she delivered me to the front door. Quite a few of my coworkers were hanging around out front, waiting for the shift to start, and being dropped off by a drop-dead-gorgeous blonde in a convertible did quite a bit for my reputation at work for awhile after that. She thanked me effusively for all I'd done for her (What? Did I do anything?) and gave me a little peck on the cheek before driving off into the sunset of my memory...
...and nowadays, when I dwell where men gather, and men tell the story of the Blonde in the Convertible... I smile and say nothing.
*sigh*.....
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Sins of the Farter
Once upon a time, not that long after I’d moved out of the dorms, a friend of mine -- call him Bob -- guy with no shame at all, got a bunch of flak once because of his stinkies. In the process of ranking him out about it, someone -- it might have been me -- said, "Light a match, man! (waves hand to disperse odor) Jeez!"
He looked at me quizzically. Someone else explained to him the flammable nature of flatulence.
His face showed shock ... and glee. "No way!" he exclaimed. Feeling another one coming on, he rolled backwards, flung his ankles about his ears, pointed his ass skyward, snatched out a Bic lighter, lit it, and held it ready.
It cost him the hair on his knuckles, but he was... ENLIGHTENED.
So to speak.
For months after that, you never knew when he'd suddenly fling himself on his back and let loose the torch of liberty... It cost him a bit with the chicks, but he was the life of any party. Anyone can throw up or take their top off, but Bob was the only one anyone ever heard of who brought his own light show.
With a little experimentation, he even found that he could vary the flames' colors, depending on what he'd eaten that day. The most common colors were blue and yellow, but he found that various foods, in addition to increasing his flatulence, produced blue and green, blue and orange, pure blue, orange and yellow, and there was one thing that even produced sparks. I don't know what it was. I frankly didn't wanna know, mad science notwithstanding....
It all came to an end one September day, at my place. I don't remember what we were all doing there. Bob was on the couch, Bobo and Troll were sitting next to him, and I was sitting on the floor on the other side of the coffee table. We were talking or something, and suddenly, Bob's eyes lit with an inner ...fire... we'd all come to recognize.
"Fire alarm!" said, Troll, realizing what was about to happen. Troll and Bobo immediately scooched away to give him room to work. I obligingly grabbed the coffee table and pulled it back.
Bob flung his ankles about his ears, rolled onto his back, and lit up.
Something went terribly, terribly wrong.
We're still not sure what.
Bobo thinks that the gas coming out the leg of his shorts ignited, and traveled inwards, causing an explosion in the seat of his pants.
Troll thought it was Bob's new synthetic-fiber parachute-material shorts -- they must've been flammable or something.
I don't agree with Bobo -- I saw the initial fire blossom right over the middle of his butt, right before the nine-foot tongue of pink fire shot out of his ass, right at my face.
I threw myself backwards, flat on the floor, just in time to save my eyebrows. For days afterwards, my mustache smelled like burnt hair.
All I could see was blazing pink Armageddon. It took a minute for my eyes to focus. For one horrible moment, I thought the curtains were on fire. I heard screams.
I sat up, figuring no fart ever blown could last more than a few seconds. Fortunately, I was right. My eyes focused. The screams continued.
Bob was face down, bent over the couch. His ass was on fire. Troll had a death-grip around his waist, and he and Bobo were beating the shit out of him, trying to put the fire out. I leaped up and began beating the shit out of him, too.
The fire went out quickly enough, but the material continued to smolder, and we wound up tearing his shorts off of him and running them into the kitchen, into the sink. Bob rolled on the floor, moaning. His poor ass was bald as an egg, and red as a lobster. He wasn't badly hurt -- not even any blisters -- and he later told us that it wasn't the fire that hurt him, it was Troll's huge hands whacking him on the ass -- Troll was a pretty big guy, and Bob was … well… small for his age… and several blows had fallen a bit further south than they'd been intended, and Troll had in fact fetched him several nasty blows to the 'nads.
There was a burnt, fused hole in Bob's shorts big enough to put a man's fist through without touching the edges.
We posted the shorts on the wall of the stairwell as a trophy to our cleverness ... and as a warning, for generations to come.…
He looked at me quizzically. Someone else explained to him the flammable nature of flatulence.
His face showed shock ... and glee. "No way!" he exclaimed. Feeling another one coming on, he rolled backwards, flung his ankles about his ears, pointed his ass skyward, snatched out a Bic lighter, lit it, and held it ready.
It cost him the hair on his knuckles, but he was... ENLIGHTENED.
So to speak.
For months after that, you never knew when he'd suddenly fling himself on his back and let loose the torch of liberty... It cost him a bit with the chicks, but he was the life of any party. Anyone can throw up or take their top off, but Bob was the only one anyone ever heard of who brought his own light show.
With a little experimentation, he even found that he could vary the flames' colors, depending on what he'd eaten that day. The most common colors were blue and yellow, but he found that various foods, in addition to increasing his flatulence, produced blue and green, blue and orange, pure blue, orange and yellow, and there was one thing that even produced sparks. I don't know what it was. I frankly didn't wanna know, mad science notwithstanding....
It all came to an end one September day, at my place. I don't remember what we were all doing there. Bob was on the couch, Bobo and Troll were sitting next to him, and I was sitting on the floor on the other side of the coffee table. We were talking or something, and suddenly, Bob's eyes lit with an inner ...fire... we'd all come to recognize.
"Fire alarm!" said, Troll, realizing what was about to happen. Troll and Bobo immediately scooched away to give him room to work. I obligingly grabbed the coffee table and pulled it back.
Bob flung his ankles about his ears, rolled onto his back, and lit up.
Something went terribly, terribly wrong.
We're still not sure what.
Bobo thinks that the gas coming out the leg of his shorts ignited, and traveled inwards, causing an explosion in the seat of his pants.
Troll thought it was Bob's new synthetic-fiber parachute-material shorts -- they must've been flammable or something.
I don't agree with Bobo -- I saw the initial fire blossom right over the middle of his butt, right before the nine-foot tongue of pink fire shot out of his ass, right at my face.
I threw myself backwards, flat on the floor, just in time to save my eyebrows. For days afterwards, my mustache smelled like burnt hair.
All I could see was blazing pink Armageddon. It took a minute for my eyes to focus. For one horrible moment, I thought the curtains were on fire. I heard screams.
I sat up, figuring no fart ever blown could last more than a few seconds. Fortunately, I was right. My eyes focused. The screams continued.
Bob was face down, bent over the couch. His ass was on fire. Troll had a death-grip around his waist, and he and Bobo were beating the shit out of him, trying to put the fire out. I leaped up and began beating the shit out of him, too.
The fire went out quickly enough, but the material continued to smolder, and we wound up tearing his shorts off of him and running them into the kitchen, into the sink. Bob rolled on the floor, moaning. His poor ass was bald as an egg, and red as a lobster. He wasn't badly hurt -- not even any blisters -- and he later told us that it wasn't the fire that hurt him, it was Troll's huge hands whacking him on the ass -- Troll was a pretty big guy, and Bob was … well… small for his age… and several blows had fallen a bit further south than they'd been intended, and Troll had in fact fetched him several nasty blows to the 'nads.
There was a burnt, fused hole in Bob's shorts big enough to put a man's fist through without touching the edges.
We posted the shorts on the wall of the stairwell as a trophy to our cleverness ... and as a warning, for generations to come.…
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
The Kirk Movie
When Becca and I were first dating, I soon came to realize there was another genre of film aside from those you normally find at the video store or Netflix queue, like horror, romance, classics, drama, war, science fiction...
...and that genre is the "Kirk Movie."
I would show Becca some gem of cinematic brilliance, and afterwards, she'd blink, rub her eyes, and say, "That was a Kirk Movie."
The trouble is, she never was all that great about explaining precisely what made a Kirk Movie. She couldn't explain it. She could give examples -- Videodrome was a Kirk Movie, as was Pulp Fiction, Radio Flyer, and various other little oddities.
I quickly learned that simply because Kirk liked a movie did not make it a Kirk Movie. Kirk, after all, liked "Gone With The Wind" and "It's A Wonderful Life," for example. These were not Kirk Movies. Often, weird little indie films would be Kirk Movies, but this was not a requirement -- Pulp Fiction was the least obscure Kirk Movie ever made, and several others were pretty mainstream.
Perhaps Kirk Movies were particularly bad films, like Plan 9 From Outer Space, or Robot Monster? I'm still pretty fond of those. But no, while these films were quite bad (and quite funny,) they were not Kirk Movies. They were "Mystery Science" movies, movies made to be made fun of on Mystery Science Theatre 3000. While they did fall into a specific category in the Becca Nomenclature, they were not Kirk Movies.
Horror movies? No. Becca has her own categorizations there -- thrillers, suspense, splatter, zombie, splatcom, even (as in "splatter comedy,") but a horror movie was still not necessarily a Kirk Movie. There remained some element, some inexplicable thing that separates THIS genre from any other.
Last week, we watched Masters Of Horror: Cigarette Burns, a spooky little number by John Carpenter. It's quite strange, and very spooky, and has to do with the search for a lost film... a film which has the effect of driving anyone who sees it utterly insane, and usually causing them to become violently so. As you might expect, the ending of this particular film is horrifying, a tad gory, and quite surreal. As I watched our hero's hallucinations unspool, it occurred to me that we might well be watching a Kirk Movie.
"Well," I asked, as the credits rolled, "Was this a Kirk Movie?"
"No," she said, "of course not," as if it were self-evident.
"WHY NOT?" I said. I've been married to this woman for fifteen years, but there are days I'm no closer to understanding her than on day one...
"Because the plot was self evident," she said. "It's quite obvious what happened, here. One thing led to another. At no point was I ever wondering 'what the hell happened?' "
"Wha?" I said.
She sighed. "The man began hunting the movie. The man met others who had seen the movie. He saw that they were crazy, and his personal demons and his quest were making HIM crazy. Finally, at the end, he saw the movie, and it all made sense. He goes crazy, and [SPOILERS TERMINATED]. We see all of this. At no point did I wonder if I was seeing things from MY point of view, HIS point of view, or the DIRECTOR'S point of view. It all made perfect sense."
"So," I started uncertainly, "A Kirk Movie is a movie that doesn't make sense?"
"Largely," she said. "Videodrome, for example: you can sit up all night arguing that the weird stuff you're seeing is either real, or James Woods hallucinating because he's insane, or a mix of both. Naked Lunch made nearly no sense at ALL except as allegory. THESE were Kirk Movies."
Ah. Well. At least after fifteen years, ONE thing make sense...
My Summer Vacation
We'd gotten the shed up to about 30 mph when the rope broke.
It was one of those little prefab assemble-it-yourself plastic sheds you can get at Home Depot, for keeping the rain off your lawn mower, you know? Hobbes was standing in the damn thing, with the doors wide open, as it sluiced along the lake on its back, dancing like a monkey, with everyone screaming at him to get back down inside the fucker. He ignored us, of course. He continued to do his improvised version of the Frug, while keeping a lookout for speedboats with girls on them who might lift their tops for any reason or no reason, and thus, when the rope broke, he went ass over teakettle into the bottom of the shed, which caused it to spin out and sink like a rock.
"Goddammit, Hobbes!" I roared. "You're towing that thing back to shore! I told you to sit your ass down, and now you have gone and sunk my tool shed!"
Hobbes' reply was a series of bubbles on the surface of the water.
Dancin' Dwarf was doing somewhat better, surprisingly. It had been his idea to mount water skis on an old Schwinn bike, claiming it'd be as fun as water skiing, but as easy as riding a bike. He hadn't taken into account the tendency of the skis to sideslip. He'd been reflexively shifting his weight back and forth to offset this, meaning he was furiously zigzagging along on the surface at thirty miles an hour or faster. I was quite sure that sooner or later, he was going to overcompensate it and get about a gallon of water up his nose when he ate it. Still, he continued to stay balanced...
Smooth, of course, had taken no chances. He'd rented a kids' bouncy castle, inflated it, and had it on the far starboard towline. Amusingly enough, due to the roof's aerodynamic design, rather than skimming along the water, it bounced! It'd hit the water, bounce a good three feet in the air, and land gently atop the water again, and bounce another three feet in the air.... like skimming a flat stone across the water. I wondered how comfortable Smooth was in there; the walls were inflated vinyl, and I couldn't see him. At least we were reasonably sure that if it flipped over or something, he sure wasn't going to drown.
The Gremlin, as usual, had done the unexpected; he'd simply tied his line to the nose of a large inflatable rubber alligator, and was skimming along the surface atop the thing. The unexpected part was that he'd brought his LAPTOP along, so he could get realtime shots of the contest on his webcam! We were all quite sure that if no other causalties were claimed this afternoon, Gremlin's laptop was truly doomed.
Cap'n Woody's vehicle had gotten the most weird looks from other boaters and passersby. He'd sneaked out to High Sierra Plumbing and stolen a portapotty. At least, I hoped that's where he'd gotten it; that's the only place in town you could get a brand new unused portapotty, and considering his girlfriend Michiru was in there with him, I was pretty sure this one was pristine. He'd laid it down on its back, and was commanding the thing luge-style, with the door open, acting both as top hatch and sail. Michiru took the forward position, to keep her trimmed, and Cap'n Woody remained in the rear, as ballast. Occasionally, he'd wave a pirate flag he'd obtained for the occasion.
"Cut her hard to port," said Chaosia. "Hobbes hasn't surfaced yet."
"Well, no," I said. "he has to dive down and get my dratted shed and bring it up before he's allowed to do that."
"Dammit, Doc," growled Chaosia, "just cut the boat left."
My dear wife Chaosia's the boat pilot between us; I grew up in the desert, myself, deep south Texas chaparral, and I know about as much about boats as a pig does about politics. I obligingly turned left, same as you would in your automobile, at any open intersection.
"Oh, hell, Doc, NO!" cried Chaosia. "TRIM TO STARBOARD, TRIM TO STARBOARD--"
"Huh?" I said. "Which one is starboard, again?" I consulted my little spray dampened cheat note, taped to the dashboard. "Is that the back of the boat, or the front?"
"CUT RIGHT, DAMMIT!" screamed Chaosia.
It was too late. When the boat curved to the left, the surviving contestants had all continued straight, and had slewed off slooooowly to the left... and all on a collision course with each other.
Dancin' Dwarf screamed. He was headed right for Gremlin and his giant rubber alligator.
Smooth, we found out later, was resting blissfully on vinyl clouds, totally unaware of what was going on; he could only see out of one side of his air castle, and was in midair at the time. He was vaguely aware that we'd turned.
Gremlin blinked twice, pulled a huge Crocodile Dundee knife out of nowhere, and cut his own line, jamming his legs into the water to brake. Dancin' Dwarf sliced the water in front of him, narrowly missing the alligator's nose.
Cap'n Woody and Michiru both glanced left at the same time, to see Dancin' Dwarf speeding towards them, almost completely out of control. Michiru immediately kicked Woody's knees out from under him, collapsing him to the bottom of the boat -- er, portapotty. She then reached up, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut.
She locked it, too. I could see the little red OCCUPIED tag spring up in the slot.
Screaming, Dancin' Dwarf sliced the blue waters, speeding towards his destiny.
Off to the right, my toolshed erupted from the water like a square grey shark seeking prey. It went SPLAT atop the water, and rested serenely. The doors opened, and Hobbes poked his head out.
"See, honey?" I said. "Hobbes is fine. No need to panic."
Chaosia stared at Dancin' Dwarf with horror as he sped on his collision course with the portapotty. Would the forward ski impale the thin plastic wall? Would Dwarf's entire contraption shatter, or would the portapotty's brittle plastic give way first?
Well, actually, neither. As both Woody and Michiru tumbled around in the sealed square cylinder, one corner went deeper than the rest of the box. The only thing showing above water now was a prism shape.
Dwarf hit the prism like a ramp, and was immediately airborne.
Hobbes goggled.
Chaosia goggled.
I goggled.
Gremlin furiously kicked and paddled his alligator, trying to keep the scene in the webcam's field of view.
And Dancin' Dwarf sailed into the side of Smooth's flying inflatable castle, as neatly as if we'd spent a week planning it.
I turned away, unable to look. That ski was going to shred that poor pink Barbie inflatable castle.
Amazingly, it didn't. Dwarf and his flying seabike rebounded off the side, spun out of control, and landed upside down in the water nearby. Unfortunately, Dwarf had by then imparted his velocity and kinetic energy to the castle.
Unevenly.
Now, instead of smootly and serenely floating across a fairy pond of green, Smooth and his castle were spinning on the castle's axis, clipping the surface every so often, usually with a corner, which of course added more spin. Imagine a pair of casino dice tumbling along the dealer's table ass over teakettle, and you'll see what I mean. Especially if one of the dice has a little man in it, bouncing off all the interior walls and screaming and cursing like a Turkish sailor with a kidney stone. Finally, in desperation, Smooth grabbed one of the doorflaps, and abandoned ship -- er, castle, plunging into the comparitive serenity of Lake Dunlap, and allowing his castle to tumble where it will.
I still sat there and goggled. Chaosia had to come and push me out of the way, throttle back, and turn around to go get everyone.
By the time we brought it back together, Gremlin was already rerunning and editing his video footage. "I think that means I win," he said. "I don't have to clean up after the barbecue."
"%$#@ YOU," said Michiru, ladylike as ever. "We're still floating. We didn't sink. Race ain't over yet."
"Yeah, but you got hit."
"That wasn't in the charter," said Cap'n Woody. "The rules clearly state that if the participant OR his vehicle are still afloat, the contest is inconclusive!!"
"Yeah," said Michiru. "And we're still afloat, and so is our vehicle, and it's still attached. Only reason YOU didn't eat it is because YOU cut your LINE!"
"Fine," said Gremlin. "You and me, then?"
"Fine with us!" sneered Michiru.
"DOC!" roared Gremlin. "FIRE IT UP! WE NEED A TIEBREAKER!"
I glanced around. My tool shed was paddling to shore all by itself; I could only assume Hobbes was under it. Dancin' Dwarf had abandoned his sunken Schwinn, and was making for shore, too. Smooth had climbed dazedly aboard the boat, and was looking up; the wind had caught his Barbie Castle, and we were flying the thing like a kite.
Regrettably, the contest's conclusion was nowhere as dramatic as its middle.
At first, Smooth insisted that since his accident hadn't been his fault, he should be allowed to retrieve his castle, and rejoin the race. The rules were clear, though -- once you or your vehicle is underwater, that's it. He had vacated the castle voluntarily, even though it hadn't been his fault that its trajectory had been altered to put spin on it.
This left the Alligator, with the Gremlin and his mobile webstation, and the Outhouse, with Cap'n Woody and Michiru. We resecured the lines, rescued the survivors, and cut back up Lake Dunlap, back towards my father-in-law's house, where we'd stolen the boat in the first place.
Well, when both contestants in a race are being towed by the same vehicle, this kind of skews the results. We know everyone's going to get there at the same time, right? So Woody decides to see about altering the results somewhat, and begins leaning hard left... then quick right... then haaard left... then quick right....
...with the over all effect that the Port-A-Bullet is starting to edge closer to the Alligator. If he succeeded in colliding with the Gremlin, it would be no contest; the port-a-can, with both Woody and Michiru aboard, outmassed the inflatable alligator by four or five to one, easy.
"What are you DOING?" shrieked Michiru.
"Helping the odds," called Cap'n Woody, still tilting hard left.
The portapotty brushed the gator. Gremlin immediately hugged his laptop with both hands, and furiously began kicking his legs to stabilize. Woody tilted right again, then haaaaaaaard left...
Gremlin didn't quite topple.
Michiru began screaming incoherently at Woody. Woody ignored her and began tilting right again... and then haaaaaaaard left....
....without noticing that the Gremlin had retrieved his Crocodile Dundee knife. I have no idea where he kept the thing; all he was wearing was a pair of fairly snug swim trunks, and the blade was big enough to fillet a dinosaur. I presume he keeps it in the same pocket Bugs Bunny uses to store pre-lit sticks of dynamite. Anyway, he leaned forward, and swung the knife at the portapotty's tow line.
He connected, but didn't sever it. This time, it was Woody's turn to scream, and he leaned HAAAAAARD right....
Grinning like a shark, Gremlin hugged his laptop to his chest with one hand, waved his toad stabber around with the other, and began leaning HAAAAAARD right...
Michiru, realizing no one is listening to her, at this point, began climbing the tow line towards the boat. Dancin' Dwarf, Smooth, and Hobbes all stuck hands out to help, and within seconds, she was safe on the aft deck.
Woody leaned HAAAARD left....
Gremlin leaned HAAAARD right...
The gator and the toilet surged towards each other...
The knife flashed, once, in the fiery sunlight...
The portapotty's line parted....
....and Michiru yanked the Alligator's bowline, untying the knot. The Alligator was free.
Gremlin and Woody looked at the boat, growing smaller in the distance, openmouthed.
Last we saw of 'em in daylight, Gremlin seemed to have gotten into the portajohn, and was struggling with Woody to see which of 'em was going into the water...
While I'm thinking about it, does anyone know where you rent those giant pink and blue inflatable apes you see outside car dealerships? I have an idea for an illustrated sequel to this story. Maybe when Woody and the Gremlin get back there will be video footage.......
It was one of those little prefab assemble-it-yourself plastic sheds you can get at Home Depot, for keeping the rain off your lawn mower, you know? Hobbes was standing in the damn thing, with the doors wide open, as it sluiced along the lake on its back, dancing like a monkey, with everyone screaming at him to get back down inside the fucker. He ignored us, of course. He continued to do his improvised version of the Frug, while keeping a lookout for speedboats with girls on them who might lift their tops for any reason or no reason, and thus, when the rope broke, he went ass over teakettle into the bottom of the shed, which caused it to spin out and sink like a rock.
"Goddammit, Hobbes!" I roared. "You're towing that thing back to shore! I told you to sit your ass down, and now you have gone and sunk my tool shed!"
Hobbes' reply was a series of bubbles on the surface of the water.
Dancin' Dwarf was doing somewhat better, surprisingly. It had been his idea to mount water skis on an old Schwinn bike, claiming it'd be as fun as water skiing, but as easy as riding a bike. He hadn't taken into account the tendency of the skis to sideslip. He'd been reflexively shifting his weight back and forth to offset this, meaning he was furiously zigzagging along on the surface at thirty miles an hour or faster. I was quite sure that sooner or later, he was going to overcompensate it and get about a gallon of water up his nose when he ate it. Still, he continued to stay balanced...
Smooth, of course, had taken no chances. He'd rented a kids' bouncy castle, inflated it, and had it on the far starboard towline. Amusingly enough, due to the roof's aerodynamic design, rather than skimming along the water, it bounced! It'd hit the water, bounce a good three feet in the air, and land gently atop the water again, and bounce another three feet in the air.... like skimming a flat stone across the water. I wondered how comfortable Smooth was in there; the walls were inflated vinyl, and I couldn't see him. At least we were reasonably sure that if it flipped over or something, he sure wasn't going to drown.
The Gremlin, as usual, had done the unexpected; he'd simply tied his line to the nose of a large inflatable rubber alligator, and was skimming along the surface atop the thing. The unexpected part was that he'd brought his LAPTOP along, so he could get realtime shots of the contest on his webcam! We were all quite sure that if no other causalties were claimed this afternoon, Gremlin's laptop was truly doomed.
Cap'n Woody's vehicle had gotten the most weird looks from other boaters and passersby. He'd sneaked out to High Sierra Plumbing and stolen a portapotty. At least, I hoped that's where he'd gotten it; that's the only place in town you could get a brand new unused portapotty, and considering his girlfriend Michiru was in there with him, I was pretty sure this one was pristine. He'd laid it down on its back, and was commanding the thing luge-style, with the door open, acting both as top hatch and sail. Michiru took the forward position, to keep her trimmed, and Cap'n Woody remained in the rear, as ballast. Occasionally, he'd wave a pirate flag he'd obtained for the occasion.
"Cut her hard to port," said Chaosia. "Hobbes hasn't surfaced yet."
"Well, no," I said. "he has to dive down and get my dratted shed and bring it up before he's allowed to do that."
"Dammit, Doc," growled Chaosia, "just cut the boat left."
My dear wife Chaosia's the boat pilot between us; I grew up in the desert, myself, deep south Texas chaparral, and I know about as much about boats as a pig does about politics. I obligingly turned left, same as you would in your automobile, at any open intersection.
"Oh, hell, Doc, NO!" cried Chaosia. "TRIM TO STARBOARD, TRIM TO STARBOARD--"
"Huh?" I said. "Which one is starboard, again?" I consulted my little spray dampened cheat note, taped to the dashboard. "Is that the back of the boat, or the front?"
"CUT RIGHT, DAMMIT!" screamed Chaosia.
It was too late. When the boat curved to the left, the surviving contestants had all continued straight, and had slewed off slooooowly to the left... and all on a collision course with each other.
Dancin' Dwarf screamed. He was headed right for Gremlin and his giant rubber alligator.
Smooth, we found out later, was resting blissfully on vinyl clouds, totally unaware of what was going on; he could only see out of one side of his air castle, and was in midair at the time. He was vaguely aware that we'd turned.
Gremlin blinked twice, pulled a huge Crocodile Dundee knife out of nowhere, and cut his own line, jamming his legs into the water to brake. Dancin' Dwarf sliced the water in front of him, narrowly missing the alligator's nose.
Cap'n Woody and Michiru both glanced left at the same time, to see Dancin' Dwarf speeding towards them, almost completely out of control. Michiru immediately kicked Woody's knees out from under him, collapsing him to the bottom of the boat -- er, portapotty. She then reached up, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut.
She locked it, too. I could see the little red OCCUPIED tag spring up in the slot.
Screaming, Dancin' Dwarf sliced the blue waters, speeding towards his destiny.
Off to the right, my toolshed erupted from the water like a square grey shark seeking prey. It went SPLAT atop the water, and rested serenely. The doors opened, and Hobbes poked his head out.
"See, honey?" I said. "Hobbes is fine. No need to panic."
Chaosia stared at Dancin' Dwarf with horror as he sped on his collision course with the portapotty. Would the forward ski impale the thin plastic wall? Would Dwarf's entire contraption shatter, or would the portapotty's brittle plastic give way first?
Well, actually, neither. As both Woody and Michiru tumbled around in the sealed square cylinder, one corner went deeper than the rest of the box. The only thing showing above water now was a prism shape.
Dwarf hit the prism like a ramp, and was immediately airborne.
Hobbes goggled.
Chaosia goggled.
I goggled.
Gremlin furiously kicked and paddled his alligator, trying to keep the scene in the webcam's field of view.
And Dancin' Dwarf sailed into the side of Smooth's flying inflatable castle, as neatly as if we'd spent a week planning it.
I turned away, unable to look. That ski was going to shred that poor pink Barbie inflatable castle.
Amazingly, it didn't. Dwarf and his flying seabike rebounded off the side, spun out of control, and landed upside down in the water nearby. Unfortunately, Dwarf had by then imparted his velocity and kinetic energy to the castle.
Unevenly.
Now, instead of smootly and serenely floating across a fairy pond of green, Smooth and his castle were spinning on the castle's axis, clipping the surface every so often, usually with a corner, which of course added more spin. Imagine a pair of casino dice tumbling along the dealer's table ass over teakettle, and you'll see what I mean. Especially if one of the dice has a little man in it, bouncing off all the interior walls and screaming and cursing like a Turkish sailor with a kidney stone. Finally, in desperation, Smooth grabbed one of the doorflaps, and abandoned ship -- er, castle, plunging into the comparitive serenity of Lake Dunlap, and allowing his castle to tumble where it will.
I still sat there and goggled. Chaosia had to come and push me out of the way, throttle back, and turn around to go get everyone.
By the time we brought it back together, Gremlin was already rerunning and editing his video footage. "I think that means I win," he said. "I don't have to clean up after the barbecue."
"%$#@ YOU," said Michiru, ladylike as ever. "We're still floating. We didn't sink. Race ain't over yet."
"Yeah, but you got hit."
"That wasn't in the charter," said Cap'n Woody. "The rules clearly state that if the participant OR his vehicle are still afloat, the contest is inconclusive!!"
"Yeah," said Michiru. "And we're still afloat, and so is our vehicle, and it's still attached. Only reason YOU didn't eat it is because YOU cut your LINE!"
"Fine," said Gremlin. "You and me, then?"
"Fine with us!" sneered Michiru.
"DOC!" roared Gremlin. "FIRE IT UP! WE NEED A TIEBREAKER!"
I glanced around. My tool shed was paddling to shore all by itself; I could only assume Hobbes was under it. Dancin' Dwarf had abandoned his sunken Schwinn, and was making for shore, too. Smooth had climbed dazedly aboard the boat, and was looking up; the wind had caught his Barbie Castle, and we were flying the thing like a kite.
Regrettably, the contest's conclusion was nowhere as dramatic as its middle.
At first, Smooth insisted that since his accident hadn't been his fault, he should be allowed to retrieve his castle, and rejoin the race. The rules were clear, though -- once you or your vehicle is underwater, that's it. He had vacated the castle voluntarily, even though it hadn't been his fault that its trajectory had been altered to put spin on it.
This left the Alligator, with the Gremlin and his mobile webstation, and the Outhouse, with Cap'n Woody and Michiru. We resecured the lines, rescued the survivors, and cut back up Lake Dunlap, back towards my father-in-law's house, where we'd stolen the boat in the first place.
Well, when both contestants in a race are being towed by the same vehicle, this kind of skews the results. We know everyone's going to get there at the same time, right? So Woody decides to see about altering the results somewhat, and begins leaning hard left... then quick right... then haaard left... then quick right....
...with the over all effect that the Port-A-Bullet is starting to edge closer to the Alligator. If he succeeded in colliding with the Gremlin, it would be no contest; the port-a-can, with both Woody and Michiru aboard, outmassed the inflatable alligator by four or five to one, easy.
"What are you DOING?" shrieked Michiru.
"Helping the odds," called Cap'n Woody, still tilting hard left.
The portapotty brushed the gator. Gremlin immediately hugged his laptop with both hands, and furiously began kicking his legs to stabilize. Woody tilted right again, then haaaaaaaard left...
Gremlin didn't quite topple.
Michiru began screaming incoherently at Woody. Woody ignored her and began tilting right again... and then haaaaaaaard left....
....without noticing that the Gremlin had retrieved his Crocodile Dundee knife. I have no idea where he kept the thing; all he was wearing was a pair of fairly snug swim trunks, and the blade was big enough to fillet a dinosaur. I presume he keeps it in the same pocket Bugs Bunny uses to store pre-lit sticks of dynamite. Anyway, he leaned forward, and swung the knife at the portapotty's tow line.
He connected, but didn't sever it. This time, it was Woody's turn to scream, and he leaned HAAAAAARD right....
Grinning like a shark, Gremlin hugged his laptop to his chest with one hand, waved his toad stabber around with the other, and began leaning HAAAAAARD right...
Michiru, realizing no one is listening to her, at this point, began climbing the tow line towards the boat. Dancin' Dwarf, Smooth, and Hobbes all stuck hands out to help, and within seconds, she was safe on the aft deck.
Woody leaned HAAAARD left....
Gremlin leaned HAAAARD right...
The gator and the toilet surged towards each other...
The knife flashed, once, in the fiery sunlight...
The portapotty's line parted....
....and Michiru yanked the Alligator's bowline, untying the knot. The Alligator was free.
Gremlin and Woody looked at the boat, growing smaller in the distance, openmouthed.
Last we saw of 'em in daylight, Gremlin seemed to have gotten into the portajohn, and was struggling with Woody to see which of 'em was going into the water...
While I'm thinking about it, does anyone know where you rent those giant pink and blue inflatable apes you see outside car dealerships? I have an idea for an illustrated sequel to this story. Maybe when Woody and the Gremlin get back there will be video footage.......
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