It was such a cliche, I meet a mysterious woman in a seedy bar, she accepts my offer of a drink and my small advances, until many drinks and several hours later we stand together in the mouth of the small, dirty alley sharing a warm embrace.
I can smell her perfume and the bourbon on her breath as I lean in for another passionate kiss. We've been here for at least half an hour, and one of us should suggest retiring together to somebody's apartment or hotel room.
I hesitate to speak. My mouth is occupied. But that's not it. Her name has slipped away in the cloud of bourbon that's surrounding the inner folds of my brain. Was it Nancy or Heloise? No, something more modern like Britney or Madison? That's not it either.
We end our kiss and I lean into her body, my face nuzzling the side of her neck as I drunkenly struggle for words. What was her damned name? She hugs me tightly and it heightens my frustration as I again try to remember her name.
Suddenly, it comes to me. Linda. That's right, pretty Linda, and just as suddenly I feel the icepick thrust into the back of my neck. Pain and shock explode in my head as the tip of the ice pick makes its way steadily through the tissue and bone of my neck, finally poking its way out of the front of my throat, and I begin to fall, sliding noiselessly down the front of her coat.
Definitely a cliche.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
I could've been somebody...
I was in 10th grade and things were rocky at home. My father and I had never gotten along well. How does one get along with an abusive megalomaniac? Dad was a foreman with a company that installed underground utilities for other companies, the majority of the work being digging trenches, burying conduit, and pulling cable through it for the phone company. He was a proud blue collar worker. After 8 years with the company and a reputation as one of the toughest, most productive foreman, he was head of a large crew and taking down a cool $5.60 an hour.
We didn't get on well, and as I grew older and matured, our relationship deteriorated. He was particularly unhappy about my aspirations as a musician and took every opportunity to let me know about it. I could never understand what his problem was until I grew old enough to realize that music was one thing (maybe THE one thing) that I could do reasonably well, but that he had absolutely no ability to do. He couldn't carry a tune with a bucket. I don't think he could tell which of two pitches was higher or lower. He didn't take well to the notion that there was anything he could not do, and found the idea that I could possibly to something that he couldn't to be particularly repugnant.
On this particular afternoon, I was home after school, practicing my trumpet. I was in my bedroom, but happened, between Arban's exercises, to hear him pull up in the front driveway. I remembered that I had locked the front door, so I rushed to the living room to open it to avoid aggravating him.
As I pulled the door open, he was getting out of his candy apple red Maverick, lunchbox and hard hat in hand. He was wearing his usual work outfit, a short sleeved blue work shirt, stained and patched blue jeans that he only wore for work, and worn cowboy boots. He was a smaller man than me, five feet eight inches tall with a slender yet broad chested build. He wore his hair on the longish side and sported a full beard and mustache. His popeye-esque forearms bulged and were covered with light hair, bleached by days spent working in the sun. He was covered with dirt from head to toe, damp with groundwater and perspiration.
As I stood there holding my trumpet, waiting for him to enter the house, he glared at me across the yard and said "Playing music is no way for a man to make a living."
And try as I might, I could not avoid the thought that invaded my mind at the very nanosecond that his comment ended -- "I've just received career advice from the Mole Man"
Things went downhill over the next few years...
We didn't get on well, and as I grew older and matured, our relationship deteriorated. He was particularly unhappy about my aspirations as a musician and took every opportunity to let me know about it. I could never understand what his problem was until I grew old enough to realize that music was one thing (maybe THE one thing) that I could do reasonably well, but that he had absolutely no ability to do. He couldn't carry a tune with a bucket. I don't think he could tell which of two pitches was higher or lower. He didn't take well to the notion that there was anything he could not do, and found the idea that I could possibly to something that he couldn't to be particularly repugnant.
On this particular afternoon, I was home after school, practicing my trumpet. I was in my bedroom, but happened, between Arban's exercises, to hear him pull up in the front driveway. I remembered that I had locked the front door, so I rushed to the living room to open it to avoid aggravating him.
As I pulled the door open, he was getting out of his candy apple red Maverick, lunchbox and hard hat in hand. He was wearing his usual work outfit, a short sleeved blue work shirt, stained and patched blue jeans that he only wore for work, and worn cowboy boots. He was a smaller man than me, five feet eight inches tall with a slender yet broad chested build. He wore his hair on the longish side and sported a full beard and mustache. His popeye-esque forearms bulged and were covered with light hair, bleached by days spent working in the sun. He was covered with dirt from head to toe, damp with groundwater and perspiration.
As I stood there holding my trumpet, waiting for him to enter the house, he glared at me across the yard and said "Playing music is no way for a man to make a living."
And try as I might, I could not avoid the thought that invaded my mind at the very nanosecond that his comment ended -- "I've just received career advice from the Mole Man"
Things went downhill over the next few years...
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Baby talk
I've mentioned it in this blog before, but it's an amazing technological time we live in. Everyday, people from all economic strata use and benefit from amazing technologies. It's also a great time for design and the meeting of design and techology. iPhones, iPods, computers, medical devices, cars, you name it, these devices are ubiquitous and influence peoples lives in ways that I think we as a society, don't fully understand.
There's one industry though, that I've noticed for the amazing leaps in design and function in the past several years. No, it's not sports cars, it's not the Segway, it's not Apple. It's the baby products industry.
I live in a neighborhood that contains, well let's face it, a lot of yuppies. These couples are having kids left and right these days, and because I live in an urban environment, it's possible to observe them out walking or running errands, all with their kids in tow. The first thing that caught my eye was the heavy duty, jogging mommy stroller. These things are amazing: lightweight construction from the latest industrial materials, large wheels with substantial titanium frames, carrier sections (you know, where the baby hangs out) that can be totally closed off into weatherproof little enviro-bubbles for junior's total comfort, plus pouches and slots and pockets for all of the modern accutrements, including the ever-present bottle of water. And they fold up into a slender package with a handle on one end that weighs less than junior.
Next, is the car seat. Again, an great design. A federally approved molded seat that straps into the car to securely hold junior in the event of any kind of mishap. If there's a bad accident and junior gets thrown from the vehicle, he merely slides down the road in the ever-protective car seat. But that's not all. The car seats are now being designed so that you can just leave junior in the seat, remove the seat from the car, and carry the seat around with a sun hood included. And some of these car seats even snap into the above mentioned industrial stroller. Amazing.
I have no doubt that at least some of the principals and materials used in these devices have filtered down from the space program.
I remember when I was a kid...you rode on mommy's lap in the front seat until you were a little enough pain in the ass to ride in the back seat. There were no seatbelts, let alone modularized federally approved cocoons for baby's protection.
But then, my mom never went out and jogged when I was an infant...
There's one industry though, that I've noticed for the amazing leaps in design and function in the past several years. No, it's not sports cars, it's not the Segway, it's not Apple. It's the baby products industry.
I live in a neighborhood that contains, well let's face it, a lot of yuppies. These couples are having kids left and right these days, and because I live in an urban environment, it's possible to observe them out walking or running errands, all with their kids in tow. The first thing that caught my eye was the heavy duty, jogging mommy stroller. These things are amazing: lightweight construction from the latest industrial materials, large wheels with substantial titanium frames, carrier sections (you know, where the baby hangs out) that can be totally closed off into weatherproof little enviro-bubbles for junior's total comfort, plus pouches and slots and pockets for all of the modern accutrements, including the ever-present bottle of water. And they fold up into a slender package with a handle on one end that weighs less than junior.
Next, is the car seat. Again, an great design. A federally approved molded seat that straps into the car to securely hold junior in the event of any kind of mishap. If there's a bad accident and junior gets thrown from the vehicle, he merely slides down the road in the ever-protective car seat. But that's not all. The car seats are now being designed so that you can just leave junior in the seat, remove the seat from the car, and carry the seat around with a sun hood included. And some of these car seats even snap into the above mentioned industrial stroller. Amazing.
I have no doubt that at least some of the principals and materials used in these devices have filtered down from the space program.
I remember when I was a kid...you rode on mommy's lap in the front seat until you were a little enough pain in the ass to ride in the back seat. There were no seatbelts, let alone modularized federally approved cocoons for baby's protection.
But then, my mom never went out and jogged when I was an infant...
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Industry
Most of us, as we travel through life, acquire a nemesis or two. Holmes had Moriarty, Superman had Lex Luthor, Tom had Jerry. I've had my share of them, schoolyard bullies, underpaid bosses with Napoleonic complexes. But one of the worst I ever had was my sixth grade teacher -- Miss Murray.
Miss Murray and I were chemically predisposed to hate each other. You know the feeling, you walk into a room and meet somebody you've never seen before in your life and the hair stands up on the back of your head and you just don't like the motherfucker! That was me with Miss Murray. It was a crappy school year and we fought, oh we fought, tooth and nail throughout the year. I was upbraided for talking in class, my grades were all above "C"s (which was demanded by my crazy father, but that's another story) and since the numbers couldn't be made to lie, report cards always noted problems with my 'attitude' and 'comportment'. I hated that bitch!
To counter, I used my razor wit to humiliate Miss Murray whenever possible. I was on the lookout for ANY inconsistency in her behavior, directions given to the class, anything! It became obvious, even to my father (this was a man who used to take new teachers a belt and instruct them to 'whip my ass' if I caused them any trouble) that something was not quite right between Miss Murray and I. I even tried to be moved to the other sixth grade teacher's class, but was turned down by the principal and told that I should learn to 'get along' with Miss Murray.
Things continued to deteriorate until The Report incident. This was a milestone in my academic career. The event that taught me that teachers were sometimes, nay MOST of the time, out to get me.
One day in geography class, Miss Murray assigned us all to pick a country and do a report on it. The report was big , I forget the required word count but it was a big project and worth a substantial portion of our grade. I decided that I was going to put Miss Murray in her place. I was going to do the best damned report she'd ever seen...she'd have to give me an A and oh how it would gall her. I then set to work.
First I had to pick a country. I wanted something exotic, but not too exotic. Somewhere with a rich history, about which plenty of information was available, but foreign enough to be not well known or understood by my classmates. After several days of consideration I found the perfect country -- The Phillipines. I then set about learning everything I could about this country and its history. I was a varacious reader as a child. I usually read two to three books a week for fun, plus whatever reading I needed to do for my schoolwork. I tore through books, maps, journals, magazines to prepare for this.
Then the writing began. The requisite four drafts were required before I got the final version. If Shakespeare had written about geography, he would have had to work to match this tome. I mean, I nailed it. The rich history, the indigenous peoples, terrain, current statistics on crops, GNP, you name it. This thing rocked. Then I went to work on the final phase -- sexing it up.
The Report as it became known in my family, was a work of art. It was like an artifact produced in the scriptorium of The Brothers of the Order of Saint Robin the Cowardly. It was ensconced within handmade covers of heavy cardboard hand painted and lettered, and bound with leather laces. It included a forward signed by the Secretary of the Library of Congress (actually I wrote and signed it, but it was pretty good...), a table of contents, bibliography, and index. The text, as previously stated, was excellent and informative. Flowing languidly throughout and drawing the reader into the previously unknown world of Luzon, Manila, Quezon City, etc. Then, the coup de grace, pictures! I raided every National Geographic and periodical I could find to illustrate every point of The Report with maps, graphics, staistics, photographs, satellite imagry, you name it! Remember, this was LONG before the days of personal computers and wikipedia...I went through three pairs of scissors goddammit!
Finally, the day came. The Report was due and I was set to deliver it to Miss Murray and watch her plunge into the depths of despair as she realized that not only would she have to give me the best grade ever for this work, but that a Nobel or at the very least a Pulitzer, were not out of the question. I loaded The Report into a wheelbarrow for transport to the bus stop, then wrestled it into the seat next to me for the journey to school, where, with the help of three friends, I delivered it to Miss Murray's desk.
There is a look that comes to the eyes of an animal when it is threatened. It's a feral set of the eyes that conveys a mixture of pure fear, hatred, and aggression. I've seen it in wild boar, snakes, and raccoon in the field. This is the look I saw in Miss Murray's face as The Report was delivered. Surprisingly, she had no snide comment or complaint at the time. I should have known something was up. You see, at the tender age of, whatever age it is that one is in sixth grade, I had not learned of the lengths a paranoid, hateful adult would go to in order to save face. It never occurred to me that a teacher would actually do what Miss Murray was about to do to one of their young impressionable students.
A week later, we got our reports back. As I carried The Report back to the desktop next to mine, with the help of a couple of classmates, I was bemused by Miss Murray's total lack of comment. I opened the front cover to find my grade staring me in the face - F
You know that camera shot that has become very cliche in movies these days? The one where the camera is in a full face shot of the protagonist and does a zoom in and a pull out (by moving the camera I suspect) at the same time to convey shock, awe, and surprise??? Picture that shot on me!!! I couldn't believe it. F. I searched frantically through The Report. No red ink. No comments. Just a big F. Ahhh, what cunning! What guile! Now it was I who was forced to assume the position of the supplicant and ask Miss Murray about the grade. I skulked up to the desk and asked "Miss Murray, I don't understand about my grade." "What don't you understand Keith?", she asked. "Well maam, you've marked an F at the beginning of The Report, but there are no corrections or comments. I don't understand why I got an F." And then it came. The Explanation. "One of my pet peeves is when a student cuts up National Geographics to illustrate a paper." she said.
!!!!!!
Everything within my peripheral vision blurred. I was shocked...no, I was hurt.....no, I was pissed off! WHAT!?!? "But you never said that using these materials was not allowed" I said. "That's irrelevant, I don't like it and because you've done it, you get an F. I won't discuss it further."
As I drug The Report into the kitchen on the sledge I'd made with my coat and some tree branches, my mother asked how it went. I told her what happened. She couldn't believe it. Even the old man was livid. The next day they accompanied me to school, stormed the principal's office (where they were able to see my endowed chair for the first time) and insisted on a parent-teacher-principal conference to discuss Miss Murray's total mishandling of my education. The fact that the principal had not allowed me to change classes should have been a clue. It was deemed that Miss Murray had acted totally within her prerogative in this matter and I was an asshole.
After a brief vacation I was back to school and ready to do battle for the remainder of the school year. I recovered from the F by getting "A"s on everything for the remainder of the year and went out of my way to make Miss Murray as miserable as possible. She did likewise. Later, I moved on and the incidents of my sixth grade year moved to the back of my conciousness.
It was just the other day that I realized that Miss Murray, despite herself, had actually done me a great service. She had taught me that I should not expect to be treated fairly. That people to whom I would be responsible would not always explain themselves or make their expectations clear, but would still insist on my producing the work they wanted.... In short, she made it possible for me to survive in the corporate world based on my experiences with her.
She was still a bitch.
Miss Murray and I were chemically predisposed to hate each other. You know the feeling, you walk into a room and meet somebody you've never seen before in your life and the hair stands up on the back of your head and you just don't like the motherfucker! That was me with Miss Murray. It was a crappy school year and we fought, oh we fought, tooth and nail throughout the year. I was upbraided for talking in class, my grades were all above "C"s (which was demanded by my crazy father, but that's another story) and since the numbers couldn't be made to lie, report cards always noted problems with my 'attitude' and 'comportment'. I hated that bitch!
To counter, I used my razor wit to humiliate Miss Murray whenever possible. I was on the lookout for ANY inconsistency in her behavior, directions given to the class, anything! It became obvious, even to my father (this was a man who used to take new teachers a belt and instruct them to 'whip my ass' if I caused them any trouble) that something was not quite right between Miss Murray and I. I even tried to be moved to the other sixth grade teacher's class, but was turned down by the principal and told that I should learn to 'get along' with Miss Murray.
Things continued to deteriorate until The Report incident. This was a milestone in my academic career. The event that taught me that teachers were sometimes, nay MOST of the time, out to get me.
One day in geography class, Miss Murray assigned us all to pick a country and do a report on it. The report was big , I forget the required word count but it was a big project and worth a substantial portion of our grade. I decided that I was going to put Miss Murray in her place. I was going to do the best damned report she'd ever seen...she'd have to give me an A and oh how it would gall her. I then set to work.
First I had to pick a country. I wanted something exotic, but not too exotic. Somewhere with a rich history, about which plenty of information was available, but foreign enough to be not well known or understood by my classmates. After several days of consideration I found the perfect country -- The Phillipines. I then set about learning everything I could about this country and its history. I was a varacious reader as a child. I usually read two to three books a week for fun, plus whatever reading I needed to do for my schoolwork. I tore through books, maps, journals, magazines to prepare for this.
Then the writing began. The requisite four drafts were required before I got the final version. If Shakespeare had written about geography, he would have had to work to match this tome. I mean, I nailed it. The rich history, the indigenous peoples, terrain, current statistics on crops, GNP, you name it. This thing rocked. Then I went to work on the final phase -- sexing it up.
The Report as it became known in my family, was a work of art. It was like an artifact produced in the scriptorium of The Brothers of the Order of Saint Robin the Cowardly. It was ensconced within handmade covers of heavy cardboard hand painted and lettered, and bound with leather laces. It included a forward signed by the Secretary of the Library of Congress (actually I wrote and signed it, but it was pretty good...), a table of contents, bibliography, and index. The text, as previously stated, was excellent and informative. Flowing languidly throughout and drawing the reader into the previously unknown world of Luzon, Manila, Quezon City, etc. Then, the coup de grace, pictures! I raided every National Geographic and periodical I could find to illustrate every point of The Report with maps, graphics, staistics, photographs, satellite imagry, you name it! Remember, this was LONG before the days of personal computers and wikipedia...I went through three pairs of scissors goddammit!
Finally, the day came. The Report was due and I was set to deliver it to Miss Murray and watch her plunge into the depths of despair as she realized that not only would she have to give me the best grade ever for this work, but that a Nobel or at the very least a Pulitzer, were not out of the question. I loaded The Report into a wheelbarrow for transport to the bus stop, then wrestled it into the seat next to me for the journey to school, where, with the help of three friends, I delivered it to Miss Murray's desk.
There is a look that comes to the eyes of an animal when it is threatened. It's a feral set of the eyes that conveys a mixture of pure fear, hatred, and aggression. I've seen it in wild boar, snakes, and raccoon in the field. This is the look I saw in Miss Murray's face as The Report was delivered. Surprisingly, she had no snide comment or complaint at the time. I should have known something was up. You see, at the tender age of, whatever age it is that one is in sixth grade, I had not learned of the lengths a paranoid, hateful adult would go to in order to save face. It never occurred to me that a teacher would actually do what Miss Murray was about to do to one of their young impressionable students.
A week later, we got our reports back. As I carried The Report back to the desktop next to mine, with the help of a couple of classmates, I was bemused by Miss Murray's total lack of comment. I opened the front cover to find my grade staring me in the face - F
You know that camera shot that has become very cliche in movies these days? The one where the camera is in a full face shot of the protagonist and does a zoom in and a pull out (by moving the camera I suspect) at the same time to convey shock, awe, and surprise??? Picture that shot on me!!! I couldn't believe it. F. I searched frantically through The Report. No red ink. No comments. Just a big F. Ahhh, what cunning! What guile! Now it was I who was forced to assume the position of the supplicant and ask Miss Murray about the grade. I skulked up to the desk and asked "Miss Murray, I don't understand about my grade." "What don't you understand Keith?", she asked. "Well maam, you've marked an F at the beginning of The Report, but there are no corrections or comments. I don't understand why I got an F." And then it came. The Explanation. "One of my pet peeves is when a student cuts up National Geographics to illustrate a paper." she said.
!!!!!!
Everything within my peripheral vision blurred. I was shocked...no, I was hurt.....no, I was pissed off! WHAT!?!? "But you never said that using these materials was not allowed" I said. "That's irrelevant, I don't like it and because you've done it, you get an F. I won't discuss it further."
As I drug The Report into the kitchen on the sledge I'd made with my coat and some tree branches, my mother asked how it went. I told her what happened. She couldn't believe it. Even the old man was livid. The next day they accompanied me to school, stormed the principal's office (where they were able to see my endowed chair for the first time) and insisted on a parent-teacher-principal conference to discuss Miss Murray's total mishandling of my education. The fact that the principal had not allowed me to change classes should have been a clue. It was deemed that Miss Murray had acted totally within her prerogative in this matter and I was an asshole.
After a brief vacation I was back to school and ready to do battle for the remainder of the school year. I recovered from the F by getting "A"s on everything for the remainder of the year and went out of my way to make Miss Murray as miserable as possible. She did likewise. Later, I moved on and the incidents of my sixth grade year moved to the back of my conciousness.
It was just the other day that I realized that Miss Murray, despite herself, had actually done me a great service. She had taught me that I should not expect to be treated fairly. That people to whom I would be responsible would not always explain themselves or make their expectations clear, but would still insist on my producing the work they wanted.... In short, she made it possible for me to survive in the corporate world based on my experiences with her.
She was still a bitch.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Mr. Creosote's food science....
I like to eat. Really. I appreciate well prepared food, be it some regional peasant fare or expertly crafted haute cuisine. I like to cook too, and I'm pretty good at it. I refuse to use a recipe and tend to like to prepare simpler, straightforward dishes. Sometimes after watching a cooking show or perusing a menu on the window of a fancy restaurant, I like to play a little game where I think about ideas for dishes that, frankly, sound uhhh, not so good. Here's a few ideas:
-tuna pudding
-peanut butter soup with canned asparagus spears and cranberries
-angel hair pasta with stewed prunes
-waffles with anchovy paste
-oatmeal with braised eel
-baked trout stuffed with parsnips and Brachs caramels
-pan fried calves liver with orange sauce
-egg rolls stuffed with cottage cheese and vienna sausages
-gaspaucho of strawberries, waermelon, peaches, and oysters with a chicken fat meringue
Isn't this fun? The best part is that one will hopefully never have to eat any of this! I've fantasized over the years about collecting these kinds of ideas for a while then doing a cookbook. Would you buy it? Maybe I can get Rachel Ray involved.....
-tuna pudding
-peanut butter soup with canned asparagus spears and cranberries
-angel hair pasta with stewed prunes
-waffles with anchovy paste
-oatmeal with braised eel
-baked trout stuffed with parsnips and Brachs caramels
-pan fried calves liver with orange sauce
-egg rolls stuffed with cottage cheese and vienna sausages
-gaspaucho of strawberries, waermelon, peaches, and oysters with a chicken fat meringue
Isn't this fun? The best part is that one will hopefully never have to eat any of this! I've fantasized over the years about collecting these kinds of ideas for a while then doing a cookbook. Would you buy it? Maybe I can get Rachel Ray involved.....
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
A Rose By Any Other Name...
I was walking home from the grocery store yesterday and a flight of urban pigeons caught my eye as they flew toward me. As usual, a couple of them were flying precariously low, so that as they came closer I instinctively ducked. When this happens I'm not near as concerned that a pigeon is going to collide with me as I am that one is going to shit on me. It's happened.
Anyway, all of this got me to thinking about...err...shit!
I know this isn't an attractive topic for the old blog, but think about it -- for something as useless as shit, the human race has come up with a lot of words for it. They say Inuits have 100 different words to describe snow. I decided to see how many words came to mind to mean shit. Here goes:
shit
crap
caca
dung
cowpie (specialized)
manure
spoor
droppings
guano
excrement
turd
feces
scat
ordure
That's about all that I can some up with. 14. That's 14 words to describe something that's useful for two things, fertilizer and medical diagnoses. Is this one of the reasons that people from Japan tell me that English is a hard language to learn?
Anyway, all of this got me to thinking about...err...shit!
I know this isn't an attractive topic for the old blog, but think about it -- for something as useless as shit, the human race has come up with a lot of words for it. They say Inuits have 100 different words to describe snow. I decided to see how many words came to mind to mean shit. Here goes:
shit
crap
caca
dung
cowpie (specialized)
manure
spoor
droppings
guano
excrement
turd
feces
scat
ordure
That's about all that I can some up with. 14. That's 14 words to describe something that's useful for two things, fertilizer and medical diagnoses. Is this one of the reasons that people from Japan tell me that English is a hard language to learn?
Thursday, August 28, 2008
An Urban Love Story
We sat opposite each other on the Red Line. She was petite, brunette, with a subtle beauty that catches the eye. I was smitten. I cast occasional glances her way, careful to look away before she caught me, until she did. My smile was answered with one of her own. Her eyes darted around the rumbling subway car as I stole yet another look and we flirted silently, until we eventually reached my stop.
As I departed the train and walked down the platform, I felt a tap on my arm. Could it be? And as I turned, yes, it was her, not only the same stop but she wanted to speak to me! Shy men wait their lives for an event such as this. Thoughts of courtship, unbridled passion, nestbuilding and even children quickly ran through my mind as I faced her. "Yes?", I asked. "Dolphins on Pluto eat pond sludge", she said. And with that she smiled and wandered away to find a seat on the nearest bench and await the next train....
As I departed the train and walked down the platform, I felt a tap on my arm. Could it be? And as I turned, yes, it was her, not only the same stop but she wanted to speak to me! Shy men wait their lives for an event such as this. Thoughts of courtship, unbridled passion, nestbuilding and even children quickly ran through my mind as I faced her. "Yes?", I asked. "Dolphins on Pluto eat pond sludge", she said. And with that she smiled and wandered away to find a seat on the nearest bench and await the next train....
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