Hope Without Hope?

Hope without hope? Doesn't make sense, does it? I mean, what are they talking about? What?

The presidential election, of course. Here we are just 48 days until what I call D-Day -- Decision Day. I remain convinced that given the perilous condition of this time in our history, time is not on our side for the perils are most likely to be catastrophic if not confronted forthrightly; and, even if they are addressed with courage and intelligence, there's no solid assurance that the worst-case scenarios can be avoided.

Global warming is a factual phenomenon. We have something like 40 to 50 years to minimize the devastating effects of irreversible global warming. Long before that deadline, the global water problem will have wrought deadly serious mass starvation and dislocations in many parts of the planet.

We've faced the threat of nuclear winter for six decades and that threat has not been diminished during that time period, rather it is greater now with more members of the nuclear weapon club growing each decade, and international terrorists more experienced in finding chinks in our defense.

With the advance of global warming comes an inevitable disruption of food supplies for many of the world's population, which continues to grow far beyond a sustainable level. The world community before long will be forced to decide whether to deal harshly with the issue of "freedom to reproduce yourselves" It's either curtail population growth voluntarily or by natural selection; i.e., survival of the fittest.

Through the next batch of time (next four years) we need a strongly principled and realistic leader for our nation. At best, he will be able only to redirect the course of our ship of state -- modestly. The super problems will remain unsolved, but they can begin to be addressed seriously.

I have believed fervently that that leader is Barack Obama and I've supported that belief with far more money than I'm willing to tell the missus.

Likewise, I most fervently hope that McCain will not become our leader -- the best I can say is that he is a doomed romantic and a faux populist who has even less governance ability than his friend, George W. Bush -- the worst President ever.

I'd rather not tell Mr. Pant about my hopeful hope in the face of hopeless fears. Obama is up and denouncing McCain as "not getting it". We know that -- my far greater fear is that the majority of the voters don't get it.

When I see Mr. Pant, I'll simply ask him -- uh, er, hey -- who do you favor to win? Will he know what I'm talking about? Should I ask him who he's planning to vote for? Has he registered? Is he even following our quaint ancient custom of choosing leaders? Does he even have a TV set? Can he read? What does he read? I mean, what language? Yes, I'll corner him with questions.

Yeah, sure. Corner. Who's the romantic?

I suspect my Mr. Pant will be curiously detached from my concerns. If indeed he is the guest observer I believe he may well be, he may point out that the vast bulk of life on planet Earth is not our minuscule species. Even if there is a nuclear holocaust, it'll clean itself up in a dozen centuries or so. "No big deal," he might say.

The Election Game

D-Day America is fast approaching. In just 58 days, some 130 million voters will have selected one of a half dozen names for President & Vice President of the U.S. The final tally may well depend on the number of Wishywashies who decide which of the lesser of evils to choose. This number might well add up to less than 150,000 when electoral votes are posted. This would mean that, in the final analysis, roughly 1 boob out of every 2,000 informed voters will carry the day, and therefore the fate of the Republic will depend on the indolent and/or clueless.

Oh, I hear the caterwauling of the Society for the Perpetual Care of Dumb Animals saying, "how dare you, picking on our poor little boobs -- they can't help it -- their parents were boobs, and their parents were boobs. What did you expect?" Our precious Constitution doesn't cast aside the votes of the lame and infirm and boobs. One man, one vote; of course, now it's one citizen.

I listened intently to most speakers at the Democratic Convention. There was a parade of ordinary elected officials and private citizens who cited the many virtues of the Democratic Party and the chosen nominees for the top spots. There was a constant background of popular younger-folk music that I didn't dance and jiggle to in front of my TV set. That's okay because I realize that jazz wouldn't do nor jitterbug big band music and certainly not these days good ole folk music and fiddling for square dancing, though fiddling maybe is more appropriate.

I can't blame Senator Obama and Senator Biden for not wanting to tell their supporters just how bleak the global situation actually is. If Emperor Nero had to worry about the citizens of Rome voting on his record, would he have worried about a backlash with his cruel treatment of that uppity religious cult who called themselves Christians? Hardly, the prototype soccer fans at the Colosseum needed their entertainment diversion because the good citizens of Rome didn't want to even think about the demise of their darling Empire.

That ole rascal Nero. Actually he was an interesting guy and in our age could have been a tremendously popular rock star. Loved loud music, the young adored him and it's only the liberal media that finally did him in. The Romans touted Pax Romana which is what our political leaders praise for our time. But Pax Romana was actually "peace on our terms", and, as long as you can get away with it, it's a banner that can fly high, just as our own warrior leader today brandished his "Mission Accomplished" banner on the deck of the embattled aircraft carrier Lincoln 6 miles from San Diego harbor. He did look like a gladiator didn't he, with that helmet tucked in the crook of his arm? Imagine what an immortalizing painter like Joshua Reynolds or Charles Wittson Peale could do with that pose. Precious.

But Roman politics during the Republic was crude by our standards, yet they had some virtuous characteristics. For one, if you were a candidate for the top job, you had to prove yourself as a military commander in chief by leading your own army in the conquest of foreign lands and/or wayward former Roman commanders. Wouldn't that be a better test than boasts of "I coulda if I had to".

Which leads to recollecting the Republican Convention. The made for TV spectacle reminded me of P.T. Barnum's travelling circus with the carnival atmosphere of hokum that featured the Greatest POW Who Ever Lived and the Beautiful Virgin Mother Princess of Wasilla, a mythical kingdom of Moose-eating Eskimos and Evangelicals.

I realize I'm clumsy in trying to appear objective. Actually, I'd be the first to admit that I'm a incurable rationalist. I believe that honesty is the best policy in politics as well as business and in life generally. I simply dislike liars and phonies and hoodwinkers. When I was a teenager, I went through a period when I exaggerated aspects of my personal life and soon found myself mired in the job of keeping track of to whom I'd told what. It was tiring as well as tiresome, I'm sure. I quit cold turkey for I didn't have the energy to keep up with my tiny web of lies. I still have a bad taste in my mouth at that period when I was a forlorn new guy in town and needed enhancement on my bio, or so I thought. How much more refreshing it would have been to be honest and candid, which was the case when I first wrote about my lack of character.

Has truth become so feeble in our current political climate that hokum reigns supreme? Have the people tired of bread and circus and want to listen to the shrill siren of the carnival barker? Perhaps.

Today, I'm thinking about Mr. Pant and whether he might be putting one over me. After all, I did initially approach him (and I bet you would have too seeing him looking like a bear) -- and, he did throw me for a loop chastising me for being late and demanding a stupid report nobody told me was due or even what the devil it was supposed to be about.

Do they have elections on his home planet or whatever space platform he happened to be hatched on? I imagine his kind are way ahead of us because we don't have anyone that I know about visiting far away planets or space platforms. And if they're way ahead of us, wouldn't they have figured out a better way of choosing all powerful leaders? Maybe they'd have a lottery to decide which infant would be educated solely to order others around, but with strict limitations on what mischief they could do, and if they did cross sacred lines they'd automatically implode and the next programmed leader would automatically take his place. Sort of like the bees and ants manage continuity of leadership.

Next time I see Mr. Pant, I'll try to wheedle out some juicy gossip about his home planet. Ha!

Games and Gamesmanship

Just two weeks ago, Saturday, August 9, I encountered Mr. Pant at the fitness center and he won handily that round, after I failed to return even one lob volley. After I finished my workout, I began to realize -- with a thump -- that I was victimized by a master gamemeister. No, I was victimized by my own poor gamesmanship skills. I had made a fatal mistake of taking Mr. Pant seriously, and I was being punished for my naivete.

For the next two weeks I consoled myself by watching hours of boring commercials interwoven with riveting glimpses of highlights of popular games. Just about every organized sport imaginable or so it seemed (actually 28). Every four years we're treated to the spectacular feats of professional (or quasi amateur) athletes whose ability to train untold hours, months, and days on end is remarkable itself. For the athletes, the Olympic games (and preliminary contests in between), there comes the moment when -- according to the rule bibles -- crowns them winners or losers. All their efforts pay off in a brief "15 minutes" of fame, and bragging rights forever.

It is all to show mankind's humane side to have these extended ceremonies, especially when compared to the world of "sports not" -- murders, wars, assassinations, bankruptcies, divorces, disease, and a multitude of other disasters (man-made and natural), plus all the games for which there are no written rules for winners, only rules of punishment for the losers.

The nice thing about organized sports is that there's a beginning and an end at which moment the entire endeavor is scored and thus a "final" reckoning, unlike the game of life which ends in a score of years lived, and, for which accomplishment there is no medal or garland, but there may well be flowers and wreathes. Isn't that why we watch or play organized sports -- at the end there's the dead reckoning, also, come to think of it, would include gambling (casinos, insurance, capitalism, etc.)?

The game that I find myself playing, only because I'm a player with Mr. Pant, supposedly has unwritten rules that apply. And, right now, I have every right to become, if I want, a sore loser. But out of adversity, I can overcome my awkwardness, my naivete, and witlessness. Supposedly. But, what if the other player is from another Galaxy or time in history? What if every response, every statement, has been programmed into a supercomputer -- programmed to keep the opponent hopelessly off balance?

I know what Jake would advise, if I was so beaten as to ask. "Awesome, just awesome", he'd say, and, with equal fervor he'd say the same if I wreaked the car -- Jake is, if nothing else, a perennial booster, an genuine enthusiast for things that move. Or the Missus -- no, no, she'd tell me -- quit while you're ahead.. Like the lottery, you can't lose if you don't play. But, THEY SAY, you can't win IF YOU DON'T PLAY. And, you do want to win, don't you? Don't you? You can't win if you don't try, that's what the Voices are telling me. Not one of those Voices are telling me to quit.

Americans don't quit! True Americans don't quit, do we? Why, that's the same as surrendering. John Wayne never surrendered, did he? Our great political leaders didn't surrender, did they? They don't accept defeat. They must never surrender, even to overwhelming odds against them, do they? If you've been sitting at the game table and lost a fortune, you don't give up, you must believe the odds will turn in your favor -- ultimately -- and so you give the house your IOU which obligates your precious grandchildren, who, after all, will inherit your recovered fortune, won't they?

So, watching the Olympics 2008 has served to revive my faint heart and vow to continue to play this game with Mr. Pant. The tide will surely turn -- ultimately -- won't it? I'm going to keep thinking of those some 940 athletes who stood on those podiums and listened so valiantly to their nation's anthems, and tried very hard not to think of physical embrace due on delivery. I'm not letting those 10,000 plus losers mess up my dreams. After all, most will get another chance in just four years. And, so, next month, maybe next week, I'll think of a way to get even.

Now, while I'm turning my attention to my contest with Mr. Pant, I'll watch the other spectacular quadrennial sport of the U.S. presidential election preliminaries called the major party conventions. The one in Denver this week features the Democrat party and all it's fractured elements and next week the Republican party in St. Paul, Minnesota featuring it's star windbags.

Can This Be Gamemanship?

It was Saturday, just before noon, when I encountered Mr. Pant again. He was sitting alone in the snack alcove at the fitness center, reading a magazine and biting his fingernails, as if he was waiting for someone. I almost missed noticing him as I was so preoccupied and wired for scanning for a raccoon fur coat and whatever it was concealing. This time he was wearing the proper male costume -- long baggy shorts and a tee shirt without affiliation affixed. As I approached him, I realized he was not biting his nails but sucking his thumb (his left thumb, if you must know) .

"Hi", I said, "I wasn't sure it was you . . . " Mr. Pant looked up and cocked his head to one side, and then to the other, like a hawk. "Wuzzup?" he says. "Wuzzup?" I repeated (like a parrot). "You tell me," I added. "May I?" then promptly sat across from him at the round table.

Pant leaned back and again giving me the once over, pretending he didn't know who I was. "Look", about that report, I've decided to go ahead and do it -- I just need you to tell me what the topic is, what the subject is -- for the report". I was feeling on top of the situation, calm, ready, I thought, for his off-the-wall shots.


"Whatever," he says and then repeats it for emphasis, "Whatever." "That's okay with me, " says Self. "Now, what about compensation? We need to talk about that, you know." "Of course, of course", says Mr. Pant. That's when his cell phone rings (Call to Post ringtone). Now, I can get a sense of who he deals with -- maybe the poor woman who has to make do with the dog food plus condiments galore. It's all one sided, the caller is doing all the talking and Mr. Pant was either grunting or growling. I wait, I wait. And I wait. Finally, I realize I've been snookered and get up slowly to leave, when suddenly he snaps shut his cell phone, leaving it on the table.


"Norm, the maintenance guy, said he saw you doing some advanced yoga exercises the other day. What kind of yoga exercises were they?" "Ashtanga", says Pant. "What?" I ask. We repeat. "How do you spell it?", I ask. "Why?", he asks. "Because . . .", and then I lose it.


"I was told you know everything," Pant said without bothering to spell ashtanga. "You were?", I said. "Yeah, that's why they said to ask you to do a report", Pant says. "Who they?", says I. "People in the know," Pant replies. "What?" I say incredulously. "They said you were a know-it-all", says Pant. '


Of course, it hurt to hear someone say that to my face. Know-it-all? Well, yeah, there was a time, in my youth, but not now -- as I grow older I know less and less and there will come the day when I will join the great voting bloc of "Know-Nothings".


Well, at least I was getting some information and was loading up for another question when he suddenly he stood up and said, almost in a whisper, "Gotta go, bye", and he went.


I was left with a bruised ego, nothing new really learned and I trudged slowly up the stairs for the waiting treadmill. For the next 45 or so minutes I'd be going nowhere fast, but I'd have some time to reflect on my latest encounter with Mr. Pant.


What was I to make of him sucking his thumb? Well, at least he's human, I supposed. He was clearly indifferent to me and my assignment. Whatever? If James Bond or Batman were dealing with some strange bird, they wouldn't have been blocked by a smart-ass nonchalant retort, "Whatever"'.


It slowly dawned on me that in addition to dealing with someone obviously from some other galaxy or period in history, I was being confronted with a master of gamesmanship. I realized with a thud that I'm way over my head (and there's nobody I can go to and whine).

The Victim Is Always Guilty

Well, there's enough truth to the statement -- the victim is always guilty -- to let it stand as is.

Alright, since you insist, I will explain. You ask: what about all those people, children and old folk, mothers and fathers, all ordinary people who are victims of earthquakes and typhoons and civil war and drought and viral epidemics, and sinking ships and accidental shootings? What did they do to deserve untimely deaths? Answer: they were all guilty of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know, then you argue that just about everybody is "in the wrong place at the wrong time". No, for example, if you're a pedestrian jaywalking and no car runs over you. you are in the wrong place but not the wrong time if no auto ran over you.

The problem with conventional sense of justice is that you might well believe that for every unfortunate thing (getting in the way while Mother Nature is having a fit or by Acts of God, if you're legally disposed) there is a villain or culprit or perpetrator.

See, this business of wanting to see justice (or fairness, if you're still in kindergarten) done is the way of our species to find malevolence wherever there is violence whether the perpetrator is Mother Nature, another government or your own or your neighbor's or even your own kin..

Must we haggle about verbal postulates? Just take my word for it, you can be guilty of being a victim without deliberately intending to be victimized by punks, thugs, robbers, neighbors, et al. If you are so inclined, you might find some comfort in arguing the role of various gods or God himself or herself has taken note of some degree of sin in the victims prior behavior.

I noted in my previous post that there had been no trials at Guantanamo in the seven years since the prisons were opened for detainees. Last Friday, August 8, the trial of Osama bin Laden's driver (why wasn't he referred to as his chauffeur?) Salim Hamdad was found guilty of providing material support of terrorism, but acquitted of charges of conspiracy, a more serious charge (dare I inquire why providing material support is more serious than conspiracy?). He was sentenced to 66 months, but has already served all but 5, after which time served he will remain a detainee for legal reasons yet to be ascertained. You should note that Hamdan was stopped at the Pakistani border by Afghan troops, and then was turned over to U.S. troops. Hamdan cooperated fully with the U.S. forces, thus, avoiding torture forcing him to give false or unimportant information to his captors.

I suspect that the primary reason more detainees at Guantanamo have not been brought to trial is because they have not cooperated with the prosecutors, leaving them with skimpy dossiers of evidence. If you were an Afghan native and were brought in by Afghan war lords in exchange for $5,000 bounty, without collaborating testimony by the captures, the charge obviously is "being in the wrong place at the wrong time" And if you're a detainee and have failed to provide sufficient confessional testimony, then you are, ipso facto, guilty of being in the wrong place in the first degree.

Now, aren't you sorry you just had to know about a rule of life so elementary and manifest as the victim is guilty? You' may find out someday when you are found to be in the wrong place at the wrong time -- and you try to exonerate yourself by pleading innocence. Alas, even if you are later exonerated for being wrongly imprisoned, you'll find out that being proven innocent (by DNA etc.) hardly renders you newly innocent and wrongly accused by the Public. You may find some groups who are Soft on Crime who will support you, but all those who have never been caught being in the wrong place at the wrong time will hardly sympathize, even if you've done 20 plus years in prison. [Don't despair: there's a magazine just for you: "Justice Denied: the Magazine for the Wrongly Convicted".}

I hope you're happy now. I was going to tell you about finally finding Mr. Pant in a place where we could sit and talk for a few minutes. You''ll have to wait for the next exciting encounter with the Stranger from Out There Somewhere.

Are We All Suspects?

I can tell already that you and my lovely daughter and no doubt my BW would believe I made a fool of myself when I was questioned by those virtual interrogators last week. You guys readily side with the authorities for no other reason than that I don't yet have a case on Mr. Pant. Well, I never claimed I had a open-and-shut case. I had plenty of well founded suspicions.

Consider these facts. The suspectee is seen wearing a raccoon fur coat in the middle of summer. He doesn't sweat, has no visible hair of his own, speaks impeccable, articulated English and is provocative in the first degree (and caused irreparable damage to my ego). He has insisted I had agreed to do a special report for him -- no doubt involving explaining what the Earthlings are planning for future galactic wars (why else would they want information from us about our intentions?) And, you know for sure those things he bought at the local discount warehouse were not for the purpose of ingesting.

Don't think I don't know what you're thinking: you don't have a case, Bozo -- wait until Mr. Pant commits the crime he no doubt is contemplating and then you've got your smoking gun and a bona fide perpetrator, otherwise you'd have only a suspectee, which doesn't sound at all dangerous. I suppose we are all suspects in the eyes of our detractors, for who among us has not strayed from the straight and narrow -- has not drawn the crayon over the line or driven faster than the 5 mph cushion over the posted speed limit? Who among us has not dozed off (showed disrespect) while a man of God or the President has given us the benefit of their sacred wisdom?

Listen, I don't know what your politics are but I still hear people carp about our esteemed President bombing the bejesus out of the A-rab infidels before they could bomb the bejesus out of us. As the President so eloquently asked -- who are you for -- US (i.e., the U.S.) or THEM. Now, if the President can carry out -- for our sake -- preemptive war, why can't we carry out preemptive arrests, based on our gut instincts that the suspectee is "up to no good"?

A lot of people sympathetic to THEM froth at the mouth about the Guantanamo detainees not being properly held. U.S. is supposed to assign eager-for-fame lawyers to the detainees and you just know they'll all get off scot-free. They throw niceties at the judges and confuse them with LEGALISMS and then the public begins to sympathize with the poor detainees. Well, they may achieve something warm 'n' fuzzy called "justice", but to let all these suspectees loose can only imperil our precious Statue of Liberty, don't you think?

Now, I have to admit that the "gumint" was a bit high handed with the detainees swept up in the military operations in Afghanistan beginning in October, 2001. Analysis of data on 517 detainees at Guantanamo showed only 5% were captured by U.S. forces, while 86% were arrested by Pakistani and Northern Alliance (mafia of provincial war lords) forces which were paid about $5,000 for each "enemy combatant" brought to the U.S. forces (no questions asked, bounty hunters were simply given vouchers to cash in). None of these combatants have been successfully prosecuted and a conscientious and reasonable person would conclude that many if not most of the detainees were guilty of being "in the wrong place at the wrong time", a crime that could well cost you your life.

You see, this factual account supports my view that although a person is known (very highly suspected) to "be up to no good" he (or she) might well be guilty, nevertheless, of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. My advice is to forcefully avoid being in the wrong place at the wrong time, especially if your country is being invaded. Most people who might otherwise be excused for being in the wrong place at the wrong time do heed prudent advice and stay under their bed or in a closet, until invading forces have become fatigued and have gone somewhere to eat. Unfortunately, for the military commanders who do their best to be fair and just, those whose homes (including closets and beds) have been destroyed in the course of Operation Enduring Freedom should be given some mitigating considerations for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

So, I would hope that those who cluck, cluck about my paranoia would at least see the justification for preemptive arrests and/or bombing, as the case may be. Even if you yourself were to be found guilty of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a moment's reflection ought to persuade you that you had done your duty in supporting the nation's efforts in providing you and your family with national security.

Suspicious Suspicions

Since coming home last Sunday after my brief encounter with Mr. Pant at W-M and telling the Missus I had a headache, she has continued to be solicitous about my health and has made it clear that if I'm to have heart failure, I should schedule it after she's checked out. I ought to point out that she doesn't talk so cavalier about her own demise, for, truth be known, "death" is not in her working vocabulary (I'm to live forever and she's never going to die).

I realize now that claiming I had a headache was not a good ploy to avoid conversation in order to "sort things out". Of course, you're probably sitting there with your altogether rational mate and muttering about how I should have leveled with the lady and told her exactly what happened. And, to your muttering, I say, you're living inside the "American Dream", and I'm not going to explain. (He who explains complains.)

But I am giving some thought about telling my daughter, Laura, about Mr. Pant. It isn't that she's so terribly rational; it's that she's patient and allows me to explain (i.e., complain) at length, and in a few minutes I have talked long enough to realize how stupid are my suspicions. When I explain to Laura suspicious matters, she's like Alice and I'm like the Mad Hatter. You just can't tilt at down-to-earth centered practicality.

So, I must turn to you, for you have no vested interest in my mishaps or madcaps and we're not engaged in self justification or have in-house reputations to uphold. Do we? Right? Right.

I've had enough time and space over the last week to run through quite a few virtual meetings with the local police department detectives, a regional FBI agent, and a CIA bureaucrat. They all asked the same initial question: has Mr. Pant asked for money? Each time I was asked that virtual question, I said, "no, not yet". It seems to me a more proper question would be, "has he offered to pay you for doing the report? "Not yet", I'd have to say.

Naturally, at the top of my virtual investigators' list is the question: what crime do you think, suspect, or otherwise believe your designated suspectee (I'm the suspector) has committed? As you will surely sympathize, I've got a lot of gut evidence that Mr. Pant IS UP TO NO GOOD. Of course, I'm not a total idiot, I know I have to come up with conventional stuff called evidence, the most prized of which is a "smoking gun".

Each of these potential investigators asked what name the chap went by and what is his physical description. Each time I was asked the question, I had to glance carefully at my saved real-time image and then grasp for words that would match the stored image. Where to start? After telling what the suspect was wearing, I figured the first place to start would be the nose, which is more prominent than, for example, the ears, which in this instance, Mr. Pant concealed under the large fluffy raccoon coat collar.

Noses, how do you describe a nose without waxing poetic? If asked, I would say, "his nose is hardly noticeable -- it appeared to me to be a regular medium size and shape, and it was placed about where you would expect a nose to be." "Not good enough", they all said at once.

I could have expanded on my description by telling my virtual detectives that Mr. Pant's nose was not crooked, nor hooked, nor broken, nor overly big or noticeably small; it was, as far as I could tell, a dual-nostril design. There were no long hairs sticking out, nor warts adorning, or jewels affixed, or painted. It did not exude sweat (for he does not sweat) or natural oils, or is one able to ski off of it, or make a fortune from as in the case of Jimmy Durante or use to woo the ladies as did Cyrano de Bergerac. Nor does the nose of Mr. Pant grow longer as did Pinocchio's as he invents the truth. I would end up telling the detectives that, as far as I could determine, the nose he proffered, so to speak, belonged to his own face, i.e., not plastic, as far as I could discern.

I hoped our inquiry into Mr. Pant's nose was finished. While being questioned, I didn't have the presence of mind to explain why the nose is an important place to begin to form a mental image of a person or one who, by all appearances, seemed to be a person. I don't know, but it does occur to me now that there might be some national register of noses, with photos of major designs and styles; there might be an enormous data base that can match noses to faces, and vice versa. Or, maybe there's a new medical speciality that deals only with nose problems, perhaps called nasusology (fr. L. nasus, nose) -- not to be confused with nosology, the classification of diseases.

When we got around to my descriptions of the four encounters I've had with Mr. Pant, I was left with such bare dialogue that I began, ever so subtlety, to embellish just a bit, you see. I added to my part of the dialogue, in particular, some sharp remarks which I thought of only later but not actually expressed at the time. I wasn't exactly fibbing, you see, because the embellishments did actually occur. I added some lines for myself because, frankly, I know I appeared to the detectives to be a simple boob.

One of my virtual detectives did note (the one who looked like Humphrey Bogart) , after listening patiently to my story for some time, that I had committed a typical mistake of confusing eccentricity with conspiracy. Because a person is different does not make him a suspect. And what is it you suspect? That he's preying on boobs like you (italics added)? [LAUGHTER]

That's when I just blurted out and told them about the weird things Mr. Pant had purchased at the supermarket. "Maybe," the tough virtual detective said, "he runs a summer camp for snotty-nosed kids, learning how to sweep, or cook, or weave baskets -- you never know."

I know you're going to say exactly what Laura would say -- that I was premature in running to tell the police or FBI. But I didn't waste anybody's time. That's the value of virtual interrogation -- nobody wastes time, except possibly myself.

So, I'm going to go back to Plan B -- I'm going to get some sun and relax before Labor Day. And, if I can manage, I'm not going to worry about what Mr. Pant is up to and what kind of terrible things he's planning to do, or is doing. But, it does occur to me now that in the event Mr. Pant is planning to do something terrible by combining vinegar with marshmallow creme, blame those virtual investigators who didn't take Mr. Pant seriously.

I hope you will agree with me.

And Then...

You're not going to believe this, but just as I was about to get through a day without thinking about Mr. Pant, I bumped into him at the supermarket. Why did I say "bump into"? I didn't actually bump into him, like I'm addled and can't wind my way through the aisles of the supermarket. What happened was that I found myself shopping at Wal-Mart for groceries and noticed -- with my superior peripheral vision -- a form wearing a raccoon coat pushing a cart. Ah, ha, this is my chance to get Mr. Pant straightened out about The Report!

But, no sooner had I put the canned vegetable juice in my cart than he had slithered away. Abandoning my carefully crafted list, I took pursuit (measured, so's not to cause panic) and you can imagine that that involved avoiding shoppers being guided by someone at home (the cook?) as they listened with one ear on their cell phone while grabbing with their free hand big packages of saturated fat and/or hi-fructose products.

I found Mr. Pant in the pet-food aisle. He was placing a huge bag of dog food on the cart lower shelf. When I approached him -- and being careful to block his exit with my cart -- I said, as cheerfully as I could -- "Ah, what kind of dog do you have, Mr. Pant?" He gave me that quizzical gaze, as though I was the crazy one., Then he says, "Six twelve twenty seven". "What?" I ask in dismay, "are you talking about?" "Six twelve twenty seven, right?" I shook my head vigorously. "I don't get it."

That is when you arrived here, is it not?" Again, I wagged my head sideways and -- then it dawned on me -- yet I still had to show dismay. "Your so-called birthday, is it not? "But, but -- as I was trying to cough up more buts -- Mr. Pant began to leave, so I said, in my best steely voice, "about that report. . . Mr. Pant held up one hand, "I know, I know, you are working on it."

While I struggled to find just one of my wits, he had disappeared. But not before I had made some astute observations. I noted what articles he had in his cart. The huge bag of dried dog food mentioned, and, a number of large family-size jars of mustard, dill pickles, vinegar, and, get this, marshmallow creme. Then I noticed about several multi-Twinkie packages. And, oh, yes, he had several straw brooms sticking forward from his cart like prows or assault rams. I stopped long enough to write these down on my list and also to note the small mole Mr. Pant had just below his right eye; it was about the size of a pencil eraser. If I had to verify my observations to help build a case, these notes would be useful, if not vital, pieces of a puzzle.

By the time I had reached home with the groceries and explained to the Missus that I had a terrible headache and needed to lie down for a short while, as I realized I was becoming disoriented. Of course, I also had to explain to my beloved, in some detail, that I had not suffered a heart attack, that I just needed to lie down for a few minutes. Within fifteen minutes or so I had placated her worries about my health. Actually, I didn't have a headache but needed some time to sort out the details of my encounter with Mr. Pant. What are we to make of a bear buying dog food? Specie ID problem?

I was in no mood to appreciate my own wan humor. What was I to make of his shopping cart contents? What do you think? He's either strapped for money and is down to eating dog food, enhanced with mustard and marshmallow goo. I nearly retched thinking about it. Then, see, he has this huge family -- maybe as many as a dozen children and relatives living in a one-room apartment. I've seen places like that on TV documentaries and I bet you have too.

I was much too vexed and frustrated to relax, so, naturally, I turned to rehearsing my report to the police, or, better yet, the FBI. How could he look at me and see my birth date? And, how could he possibly have seen scribbled on my cortex that I would tell him "I'm working on it (The Report)"? You might think it's simply eerie, I'm beginning to believe I'm dealing with a new kind of spy, perhaps, a spy from Outer Space -- like, way, way out there, out there where even astronauts fear to go.

Then again, Reason tries to wrestle me to the ground. Ah, Reason opined, he's probably part of some university psychology department "scientific" experiment designed to measure the average bloke's tolerance for in-the-face intimidation. The world is a barnyard, you see, and a rude confrontational rooster intimidates the polite and the compliant other chickens with shockingly bad manners. "Shock birds" they're called.

Well, nevertheless, I have no choice. I'll have to prepare my notes for the F.B.I. But, on second thought, maybe I ought to first clue in the C.I.A. Then again, I just might best be advised to soak up some sun while I can and wait 'til Labor Day before I tell them that Mr. Pant is up to no good.

My poor little brain keeps whirling, and I wonder -- could the vinegar be used with the mustard and marshmellow creme to make some kind of explosive? What do you think?

The Big Meanie and Other Annoyances

I apologize for telling my phantom readers to do homework on a fantasy cataclysmic catastrophe sometime in the future. After considering this hopeless assignment, I realized it was, well, an asinine thing to ask. We've got plenty of real catastrophes already pending, and not at all amusing for me, or Mother Nature herself, to add another, particularly since we haven't yet began to begin our homework on those pending. What? Global warming, for one.

Mr. Al Gore just today told us to switch over from nasty dirty fossil fuel to renewable energy in just ten years. Why that's 2018, practically tomorrow, or next week, in human response time to cataclysmic catastrophes. You know what all the politicians will say? "Sure, sure. We have time for one more commission to study the situation, and we'll address the urgent matter manana, without fail."

But we know they have no intention of doing anything bold and dramatic. Can't even get people to slow down from 65 mph to 55 mph. That'd save 10 -15% on transport oil usage, I hear. Every little bit helps, but no, we got to wait until we can have a National Emergency. Only dire National Emergencies are able to get folk motivated. Nah, it ain't going to happen until this current batch of kids get organized and wage a campaign to shame their indolent parents.

I'm sorry if I got some people thinking about the unthinkable -- that we might learn sometime in the future that a giant asteroid would collide with our dear planet in 16 months. What would you do? What would I do, I ought to have asked. Well, if it's far enough in the future, I'm not going to do anything because I'll be long gone from planet Earth, and, I don't expect to have acquired posthumously any new extraordinary powers.

Now, I was hoping to have some new information to report about Mr. Pant. I haven't seen him for awhile. Since Norm told me about seeing him doing yoga exercises, I've gone to the pool and looked around to no avail. Frankly, I'm frustrated and I intend to scrub this nonsense from my cerebral cortex. Once upon a time I'd spend a little time at a watering hole to scrub my brain of uncomfortable thoughts, images, insults, funks, etc. But it's been many years since I've quit drinking and smoking (what I gained in moral stature I've lost in sophistication and wit).

As I said, I'm sorry I even bothered to ask you to do some homework. It's not only a futile request but ungebe. This is summer and nobody is going to even think about heavy matters until after Labor Day. Labor Day marks the end of playtime and the beginning of serious time. All the Persuadables and Wishywashies are going to wait until after Labor Day before they begin to consider whether to mark on their ballot A or B (or C or D) or as some cynics would say Lemon A or Lemon B. So, who am I to ask others to do homework? I have no meaningful certificate to give to you when you finish the course.

Now that I think about homework assignments, I realize that my hangup about doing The Report has it's origins in my attitude about homework in general. In my most dreadful and dreaded nightmares I would have plumb forgotten to do my homework, simply forgotten. It's one thing to have a lame excuse, but to out and out forget is, well, unforgivable. And since everybody seems to glob onto "the dog ate my homework", that one is worn out and of no use to the rest of us.

You know, I ought to send Mr. Gore a letter telling him that if he wants us to quit cold turkey our oil addiction, then he and other "do-gooders" ought to tell us how other carbon dumpers have successfully broken the habit. Certainly, they don't expect us to go back to the old ways -- I mean, you can't expect everybody to go out and buy a new (or used) horse or mule. Where will you tie up and park the horse? Will they install horse riding lanes on our interstate highways? Will they require riding licenses and put you in jail if your horse runs away and tramples people? Would we be required to carry horse insurance? And what cartel would have a monopoly on hay and oats and manure carting? They've got us coming and going, you know.

One thing I did figure out about the Big Meanie -- the first thing the smart money people will do is find out where it will likely hit and then lock up leases for the diametrically opposite part of the globe, and, you can be sure, there's money to be made from folk near the target area, don't you think?

Enjoy the warm weather while you can. And keep smiling, I remind myself.

A Sighting

Yesterday was a work-out day. After finishing my workout, I bumped into Norm in the locker room and he told me that the guy I'd asked him about before had been doing what looked to him like yoga exercises on the edge of the pool. He said he looked like a contortionist the way he moved his body like a slow unwinding pretzel. "Oh, wow", I exclaimed, "this I got to see." That's when I realized I was midway between street clothes and sweaty sweats. I didn't want to alarm myself by appearing too anxious, so I dressed as I normally do (in no great hurry) so that by the time I got through the doors to the pool, the bear had disappeared. I peeked in the sauna and the steam rooms and then out a side door and still no bear. I asked the reception desk person on duty if she'd seen the bear and no cooperation from her, as she shook her head sideways. I retraced my steps to find Norm who by that time also disappeared. Growl.

Though I didn't get to see the bear, Norm's report gave me a momentary lift that my precocious paranoia might well be still in remission. However, as the day began to wind down, I did raise the question to Self that maybe Norm and the bear were working together in a scheme to shake my faith in my fragile sanity. But, by now, I put the episode in the plus column, even if Norm's report turns out to be false. Unreal euphoria is better than unrelenting depression, I say.

Still, no help from you onlookers. However, Jake (my son-in-law) mentioned on the phone the other day that the "raccoon person" might be a drug dealer, though he couldn't explain why a drug dealer, dressed as a bear, would give me a bad time about a bloody report. I also had to explain again that the bear person initially was wearing a "raccoon" coat; then Jake felt it necessary to tell me that raccoon coats now are in fashion with the ladies and if I wanted to buy one I could get one for about $400. I had to remember that he was trying to be helpful, always a valid assumption even when it's not really so when it comes to in-laws.

Supposedly, the Fourth 2008 is tucked away in the history cabinet, but I find myself replaying reels from 1945 about patriotism. It's July 4, on Coronado Island boot camp, and I see this skinny sailor marching along with other platoons on the parade field (the grinder) -- the P.A. system is blaring American martial music and I'm trying to march in step while at the same time I'm trying to trip the guy in front of me, and not get caught. Sure I'm feeling patriotic -- after all, the band music is designed to make my chest puff out and feel giddy enough to sign up for another 2 years. That's why it's called "shipping over" band music.

It's 1945 and nobody really knows how long the war will last. But I felt proud (and virile) to be in the Navy. My two older brothers had been overseas since 1940; my dad was a WWI veteran, his great grandfather and his brothers had been on the wrong side of the Civil War. In our boot camp platoon were rich kids and poor kids and us in between. Patriotism was assumed to be inherent, even if, as my favorite cousin was, 4F, unqualified physically to serve. Come to think of it, my Confederate ancestors were and were not patriotic, depending on where you stood.

So, how come so much is made of patriotism today? I frankly don't know. My hunch is that this is some kind of loyalty litmus test cooked up by the chicken hawks in Washington, D.C. who didn't serve in any branch, backed up by old men who served but were lucky to avoid bloody battles and who've made it their mission in life to be 100% enthusiastically obedient in all solutions military.

I don't want to get started down that tortuous trail. I've got more important things to do -- I think. I've got "a very important report" I'm expected to do -- or so I imagine! I can't really tell, from here. I told you I have spent a lifetime looking out of my peephole, and all the time giving me the air of confidence that I knew what was going on Out There. Well, listen. You probably are looking out of a different peephole somewhere else but it is still be a small circumscribed panorama you see. Even if you are the head of the C.I.A. or one of the thousand or so intelligence platoons at the N.S.A. or the Pentagon, you are still looking out of a peephole and GUESSING. Me and my ilk gladly donate our guesses to the country gratis, while the other guys get paid for their GUESS WORK.

This morning I woke up with a tantalizing scenario dangling in front of me. Sometime in the future, perhaps sooner than later, the INEVITABLE time has come when the astronomers tell us UNANIMOUSLY that a superastroid is on it's way to smack dear ole Earth in the noggin. There's enough time to do something, but no time to waste.

Here's your homework. What will you do when you find out the superastroid (dubbed by the media as Big Meanie and by the President as The All New Really Scary Enemy) will hit exactly four months from that time? Not much time, is it? Okay, let's make it a year and four months; gives you more time to prepare and/or panic.

"All right, all right, I'm coming." The Missus just told me I absolutely must take out the garbage or our place will be sealed off by the health department and a placard tacked on our front door -
- Beware: Toxic Odors Within.

What's Next, Bozo?

The man who popularized Bozo the Clown, Larry Harmon, died on July the Fourth at age 83. I intended the header above to refer to self not the actual, real-life, Bozo. It's just a coincidence.

The Missus and Self celebrated the Fourth at son-in-law Jake's house nearby. Barbecued ribs and other wholesome eats, topped by fireworks in the distance to be amazed by. I don't like to be shunned for being unpatriotic, but the truth is I find Awesome firework displays a bit like watching somebody else's Elongated Orgasm -- boring, boring.

Bozo, yeah, why not speak up? Nobody's going to accuse me of being unpatriotic because I find Spectacular Fireworks boring, though they will if you're caught not wearing a red-white-blue cap or displaying the American flag out front. I'm tempted to say something about the current Presidential campaign and the silly sallies about who's the most patriotic and who's the least, but I won't.

Whassup? That's today's greetings. Whassup! Or, Whasnew? "Hanging in there", I say. I don't like to admit to anybody this but I will tell you. There are times I feel like one of the Presidential candidates or their numerous surrogates -- you've got to review your speech in your mind's eye before you utter it. Got to look out for honest-to-goodness candor that will be "taken out of context", meaning any Anglo-Saxon vulgar colloquialisms meant to convey strong human emotions or blunt, unvarnished opinion.

I'd love to watch a debate wherein the contestants spoke like -- well, real people. "That's a lot of bullshit, and you know it!" No, no, that's not measured or diplomatic. Preferred -- "I beg to differ, dear esteemed colleague, your statements are misleading and are not supported by majority opinion; moreover, blah, blah, blah."

But, back to our Fourth. Over the last few days, I had given just a little thought to what My Report might contain -- just preliminary sketching, you understand. It didn't take long before I realized I was way over my head. What am I to report to whom and what is the purpose of My Report? And who actually is going to read the Report?

While Jake was tending the barbecue grill , I was tempted to tell him about the bear at the Fitness Center who had scolded me for not turning in a report -- yeah, you know, don't you -- "Whasamatta with you, Bozo? No, actually Jake is a model son-in-law because he's smart and goes along with whatever. I did give him a brief briefing and he didn't raise even one eyeborw, but said, "how much is he going to pay you?" Reasonable, don't you think?

Friday the 4th marked 232 years since the Declaration of Independence. In those many years, how many 4th of July speeches have been given? How many remembered? What difference did they make? How many minds were changed? How many fireworks were exploded? How many casualties? What did it all cost? If I was to find a way to quantify the significance of all those speeches and fireworks, wouldn't I need to know how many? How much?

See -- what's to be in The Report? What could I possibly put in my report that would/could possibly matter to anyone, even including myself and the Missus? So, I don't have any trouble talking myself up as being a significant author of The Report. On the contrary, I'm constantly reminding myself (with a thump) that I see but an infinitesimally tiny portion of what's to know.

In my lifetime, I've been looking out a small knothole in the fence that stands between myself and what's going on Out There. I see so little of what I personally can verify. I have to depend on others to inform me and they are well known to be chronic liars or worse biased (warped) or simply paid to entertain us (divert our attention from serious, dull, boring, complicated, depressing true things).

About every month or so, Larry King has a program about UFOs with guest missionaries and certified skeptics and critics. Of course it is so much BS but who cares -- obviously people will spend money on ads for an audience who want to believe somebody Out There cares enough to come check us out. I'm prepared to believe in the reality of UFOs when (a) somebody sells tickets for a genuine UFO ride and (b) somebody comes back and sells his or her story to a magazine about riding in a UFO. Of course, by then, the vehicles can't very well be called UFOs but rather IFOs.

I'll keep looking through my peephole to see if I can notice anything of import. Meanwhile, I'll continue to try to flush out that nonsense about the bear and his dumbass game.

Mano-a-Mano With Self

Am I losing it? Am I? Or, have I already lost it and don't know it? That's what I said to me when I woke up with a jerk this morning. Denial, indeed. Is my brain slowly -- slowly like an ancient glacier -- melting away?

A crazy bear insists I owe him a report. Not what he said caused me to constantly flip back to that day -- but his image. His face -- round, semi-slanted eyes, and a bluish grey caste. In a word, odd. Perhaps his con job is just beginning to catch. What's he really after, I asked me? Forget that baloney about a report, forget it. He's pulling one over on you and you can't let yourself be bamboozled.

I think I'm becoming flabby in the head since leaving the Big Apple. In 25 years. I became immune to being shouted at by crazy folk as I passed them by. You get used to being insulted on the street with provocative profanity that accuses you of various gross perversions. You walk on the wide sidewalks of the avenues and you are always acutely aware that 1 out of every 10 who pass by look right through you like a airport security machine does. That's not to mention the 1 out of every 100 who'd just as soon shoot you as to look at you. In the city, you must learn to walk without fear to avoid being picked out by predator sensors as fair game.

It's the repetitive images that are bugging me so. I've let myself slip, ever so slightly, into the paranoia zone, just the edge, mind you. I've rerun those images of the stranger so often they appear with equal reality in both my conscious and unconscious modes.

Awhile ago, I had a really weird notion -- could Mr. Pant be an agent for some force from outer space? You know, like a spy trying to find out about what we're planning to do after we blow up the planet or let it be smothered by CO2. Now, I mention that, not because I'm about to consign my sanity to believe such a cockamamie idea, but because I want you to know just how that paranoia is creeping up on me.

The main difficulty with losing it, I suspect, is that the person losing it is the last to know. That's the case with most abnormalities -- the perpetrator is blind to his own faults until everyone else gets tired of looking at it and tells him. It happens with obesity, alcoholism, rudeness, dementia, hubris, stinginess, halitosis and many other unpleasant behavioral anomalies.

Another notion: I have to face the possibility that my brief encounters with Mr. Pant are figments of my imagination. When I encounter a memorable person (or nonperson, for that matter), he or she alights on my hippocampus for awhile until he or she becomes comfortable in my messy or messed up "attic" upstairs. At night he or she or it roams around at will and feels perfectly free to interrupt my nocturnal problem-solving operations. After some time passes and everyone becomes acquainted, he or she or it becomes absorbed by the cerebral cortex and that's when it's let loose from the hippocampus. Comprehendes?

It's getting on and I have some routine domestic chores to carry out this morning. It's my off day and I don't work out. While I'm doing those things, I might as well begin to think about what I could conceivably have to report. Could start jotting down notes, you know. Couldn't hurt, could it?

I'm Working On It!

I thought I was clever thinking of a smart retort for Mr. Pant should he ask me again about that stupid report. That's so like me to think of a smartass reply AFTER the opportunity to be effective has passed. What bothers me most about this situation is that the damned encounter bothers me at all. I can't think of one celluloid hero who would respond as I did. Jack Lemmon? Well, maybe; but, in the end, he'd figure it out and wouldn't -- in the end -- look like a jackass. Wish I could same the same for Self.

Meanwhile, the creep hasn't showed up while I've been at the Center and worked out. I've asked some members of the staff -- at the reception desk, two of the trainers, and the maintenance man -- what they could tell me about Mr. Pant. Two of the trainers, Nicole and Charlie, just looked at each other and hunched their shoulders as if to say, "we haven't a clue". Does that make sense to you? Hannah, at the reception desk, put her hand gently over her mouth and smiled (or suppressed a laugh, I couldn't tell). Norm, the maintenance guy (I think that's his name), just shook his head, and then, kept shaking his head as though the question or thought brought forth a spell of agititus. If I had to summarize my limited inquires I'd say -- the staff jolly well knows who I was referring to but they weren't about to tell me anything. Growl.

Did I mention what my BW said the other day? No, I think not. Looking me up and down one morning after I returned from my work out, she blurted out, "what's the matter, you feeling alright?" Naturally, I responded just as any normal spouse would and turned on my puzzled look, "why do you ask?" Because you look puzzled about something -- and, I watched you as you got out of the car and you were mumbling to yourself, it looked like to me. Finding myself in the headlights of her sharp intuitive powers, I did as anyone in my shoes would do, I denied it. "Hey, I'm feeling just dandy. What's for lunch?" She stared at me for a brief moment (giving her time to decide with her computer logic mind, whether to feign indifference or simply lay off and pursue the matter more vigorously when I'm disarmed, like when getting ready for bed when she knows damn good and well my defenses are shut down).

Well, right now, I'm in my study and safe from prying eyes or scanning ears. I can confide in you, I hope. I have gone through -- systematically, I must say -- my proven routines of denial. I have busied myself with a spurt of clearing my cluttered desk. I've jotted off enotes to friends I have been neglecting for too long. I've talked with my children a couple of times, and when they ask me "What's up?" or "What's new?" I, of course, sigh and say there ain't nothing to report (aware only of my illogical ungrammar) . These are only a few of my tried and true tactics in my denial repertoire. Naturally, I'm in the early stages of denial and if you're at all skilled in advanced denial stratagems, you know that it is physically impossible to quit denying, you know, cold turkey. It's an organic process and each stage must be completed before you can go onto the next stage. That's elementary, right?

Just what is it I'm in denial about? Isn't it obvious? I can't refrain from worrying about my worrying about this absurd situation. Who is this Mr. Pant and why on earth should I even give him the time of day? Tomorrow, I'm going to sit down and discuss this dilemma with myself -- mano-a-mano. Yes?

You're Late! Where Have You Been?

That's what the rude "bear" blurted at me -- You're late! Where have you been?

I'm not going to embarrass myself any more than necessary (i.e., to confide honestly with you). I did not have the presence of mind to say, with a sneer or snarl, "what's it to you, buddy?" Or, better, "Didn't I see you at the circus last year?" No, I'm sorry to say, I was dumbfounded, I was flustered. My instantaneous response was to assume I probably was guilty of something. No, that's not quite right; I don't automatically assume I'm wrong -- quite the contrary. What it is is some primitive slow response that has to do with perils on the ground once our folks came down from the cozy trees. Something totally unexpected; something not experienced or seen demonstrated on the screen.

But I wasn't entirely stupid, for I did manage to ask in my best annoyed voice that "who are you? What's your name?" At least I think that's what I said. He, the bear, didn't answer, and, I later realized that had he said who he was, I'd know nothing of real importance, for that question, I realize, is a social reflex -- Who are you? What is your name? As if it was relevant to the situation.

I'm not going to go through the tedious narrative of what exactly was the verbatim conversation at that encounter and later -- suffice to say here that the bear was impatient to get me to acknowledge an obligation I had made before but which I had no memory of.

That initial meeting with the bear was -- wow -- two months ago, at least. At one point I was so agitated that I thought seriously about not going back to the Center until the bear had moved on, or whatever bears do when they have run out of boobs like me to make fools of. But, I didn't quit. That's not a particularly noble trait, though it is considered by many as a sign of strength (I'm not sure why).

Since that initial encounter two months ago, I saw the bear twice. In the first instance he repeated his assertion that I had promised to do a report and that it was long overdue. I kept asking what report and he kept accusing me of knowing but playing dumb. The second time, and the last time, he did tell me his name was Ahque Pant. Like James Bond, he said, "Pant, Ahque Pant."

What kind of name is that, I asked. Indonesian? Indian? Tibetan? He didn't say. And before I could ask him to spell his first name, he was ought of sight.

Since it's been awhile since I last saw the bear, I probably would have dismissed these strange episodes were it not for Mr. Pant's appearance. His face suggests an Oriental caste, I think it's because his eyes are slightly slanted and his face is more rounded than sharp. I can't say I looked very attentive at his eye color, but think more brown than not. But it's his skin color that distinguished our bear, Mr. Pant -- it was/is grey, with a slight bluish tinge. Grey -- like he was neither black nor white but smack dab in the middle of the anthropologist's skin pigment chart -- grey -- as if he'd been designed to blend in with all races, a centrist, if you will.

Oh, yeah. And another thing that I've remembered -- Mr. Pant's speech is remarkable because he articulates words so carefully with precise emphasis of vowels as well as consonants. It's like he had learned English in some artificial environment, or -- a crazy thought -- maybe his voice was not his own but one programmed by some computer. Oh, I forgot to add -- the person inside the bear costume was bald, completely hairless, as far as I could tell.

I have a feeling I won't see Mr. Pant again. That's a hunch. But, should he show up and ask me where that report is I've figured out how I'd reply. I'm working on it, I'll tell him. And the next time after that, I'll say the same -- I'm working on it. Ha!

About That Stranger

Well, did you give any thought to my PROBLEM? To be honest with you, I didn't really expect that you would. It's not your problem. I fault myself. Here I am trying to get you thinking about my PROBLEM and I haven't really confided in you, have I?

Let me tell you about my first encounter with this "person" who told me about my overdue Report. You'll find this interesting, perhaps amusing, even if you don't care a fig about my Problem.

Religiously, every other day I work out at a nearby Fitness Center, which is really a sweat shop. After all, that's what people do when they go there to work out -- they sweat. Imagine, paying a sweat shop to let you work up a sweat. I'm on a treadmill for 35 minutes, more or less. While I walk as fast as I can, I imagine that I'm running away from Mr. D. who I know is gaining on me -- each day, he gets a day closer. Then I push pedals on a unicycle for 10 minutes. Adding the two together, the machines tell me I've gone nearly 3 or more miles; yet, I know full well, I haven't moved an inch. Then I spend 10 minutes on hydraulic machines that simulate lifting weights in a variety of postures; altogether, I might have lifted in the aggregate the equivalent of a few tons.

At the Center the patrons come in many shapes and sizes, about as eclectic as any big city would display. Our Center is a 60,000 sq. fit. facility; the muscle machinery is on the second floor. Across from the wide stairway leading to the second floor, and adjacent to an elevator, is a snack alcove, about 20' x 20', with a couple vending machines and two small tables and about a dozen comfortable chairs . That's where I first spotted this person some weeks ago. He was wrapped in a heavy dark fur coat, his head almost completely covered. The coat reminded me of those raccoon coats popular with college students in the 1920s. At first glance I wondered if it was a friendly trained bear seated at the table in the alcove.

For several weeks, this apparition was seated at one of the tables. Sometimes there would be someone else sitting next to him. On maybe one or two occasions there were two other people sitting with him. After a week or so, I began to make mental note to ask one of the staff who was this person -- always wearing a heavy fur coat when the place was loaded with fans and air vents and everyone was wearing unfashionable casual skimpy. Did he have some disease that destroyed his built-in thermostat? Or -- as I amused myself -- was this one of those tacky reality shows with an actual bear there to entice the unwary to come forth and chat and be suddenly assaulted by a TV crew with a toothy reporter accompanied by an hysterical audience laugh track?

The bear-person was turned sideways when I walked over to his table, to simply ask -- what? Can you believe, I had challenged myself to finally approach and ask but failed to rehearse what my initial query would be? (Perhaps, I should have used a Dr. Watson approach: "I say there, my dear fellow, what cruel malady has struck you so unkindly as to force you to wear a heavy raccoon coat in this heated environment, this hot house?") But I didn't. I stood for a moment and before I could compose an appropriate question, the bear stared at me for just a second and then abruptly asked in a most unbear-like voice --

YOU'RE LATE! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?

(to be continued)

What Would You Do, If...

What would you do if you had just recently been told that The Report you supposedly promised to do long ago is now long overdue? What would you do if you also were told that whether you "go or stay for awhile longer" depends on that Report? What if you suddenly realized that you had been expected to be working on that Report all these years and had been oblivious of that obligation. And just what was supposed to be in The Report? Are you expected to explain the meaning of human life? Or, just what is planet Earth's actual intentions regarding conquest of space? Explain the weird behavior of your fellow humanoids? And, what have you done with all that time you were given when you arrived yo many years before?

I saw that! That look in your eyes, mumbling to yourself, "uh-huh". You think I'm kidding, don't you? You think I'm making things up, right? Well, I can't say I blame you. I mean, when I first was told about The Report, I thought the one who told me was putting me on. This guy keeps appearing and reappearing -- very disturbing, as you might imagine. (More about him later.)

Don't go, just yet, please. This is a true story, believe me. It's strange, that's for sure. It is, on the face of it, a bold faced fabrication -- but, wait until it happens to you -- out of the blue being told to get that Report in and you've apparently forgotten all about it. Just goes to show you how much we've been brainwashed by the Earthlings.

I wish there was some way I could convey to you the dread I felt when I was told to do The Report. I wish I could convince you that I truly want to know what you would do, under similar circumstances. The truth is, I'm terrified to realize that I just might not be able to do The Report, that all this time I've just been living an ordinary life, learning how to survive in a mostly artificial environment, learning how to fake it -- you know, to pretend knowing what's really going on but knowing deep down you don't have a clue.

Let me explain something. I'm going through this "thing" with this guy, this stranger. I don't know how to get out of doing The Report and still stay awhile longer, and I realize I need help. Naturally, I thought of telling my wife but, well, she's skeptical of strange things (even though she is a Catholic).

I'll be back tomorrow. I hope to pique the interest of someone who'll maybe have thoughts on how to deal with my PROBLEM, what I should include in The Report.

I'll leave you with this thought expressed by the 19th century Italian poet, Giacomo Leopardi (1798 -1837)
"It seems absurd, yet it is precisely true, that since all reality is naught, illusions are, in this world, the only true and substantial things."

Pretend You Are On a Train...

Pretend you are on a train that you believe is going to a destination you know fairly well. The train seems to be going faster and faster as you near your destination, as though the goal was a cosmic magnet pulling you toward it. While the train moves in what seems to be a forward motion, you are busy absorbed in the comfort of your private envelope of Self, and you hear snatches of conversation between a man and a woman.

The man seems to be doing most of the talking and you try to crawl back into your envelope, but, against your will, you continue to notice words and phrases that inform you of another envelope, split open, revealing tidbits of ordinary lives, not your own -- lives which are like aimless shooting stars that streak across the horizon and are quickly extinguished by our dear planet's atmosphere.

You wish for total privacy, for you cannot shut out completely the overheard conversation, nor can you tell your ears not to listen, at times enticed to hear more, at times annoyed and determined to ignore.

That's okay. It is a long trip and one needs diversions, like salted peanuts, to interrupt the soft drone of lulling repetition. You turn around to locate the source of the conversation and you see a man talking to a pretty young woman sitting next to him, who may or may not be a traveling companion.

The man, distinguished only by his lack of distinct features, could, for all practical purposes, be talking to himself, not a misdemeanor but certainly against the mores of our dunned-down civilization. You ask yourself, why can't he be self-absorbed like me? Why can't he remain silent in the face of our communal fate? Let us all go together, as loyal subjects of the universal honcho, and, for his sake, without whining.

Now, at last, you are saved by the white-jacketed attendant, who has brought you a teeny cup of peanuts in the expectation that you will purchase a few expensive sips of fermented grain to quench your thirst, and, joyfully, a complimentary set of earplugs. Now, you can reenter you cozy envelope at will, and...

Now, pretend you are in a highly unusual dream which makes you uncomfortable and you're haphazardly searching for an exit which you suddenly locate but then it moves away as you come closer to it, it continues to move away, like Doppler sound waves.
(to be continued)