A Cunning Plan

"stupid problems require stupid solutions"

[Note: this essay was originally posted to the now/rightly-defunct Epinions.com site as "satire," but in the aftermath of the recent #Brexit vote by the UK to leave the EU... perhaps it's an idea whose time has now come. Perhaps England itself might suffice for some part of this plan. Ahem. --BN]

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A Cunning Plan

The problem is obvious: there are too many stupid damned idjuts running loose, stirring up trouble for the smart people like me (and, to a lesser extent, like you). Now, it's easy enough for me to ignore occasional encounters with rampant moronity, but in these dark and troubled times it seems as though a smart man such as myself can hardly go ten or fifteen feet without having to pause to let some wingnut shuffle across my path.

 The problem seems worse online. Here on Epinions, for example, one can hardly utter three words before some slobbering buffoon blunders up to start flapping their Cheeto-stained lips in your face, blathering on about what they think and what they like and what their opinion on such and such is and blah blah blah and I think we've all seen and heard just about enough of this, right?

So I have a plan.

Once upon a year gone by George Carlin took time away from his cocaine dependency to suggest that maybe it might be a good idea to round up all the stupid people and dump them into one of the western states in the US-- one of the big boxy-shaped ones, like Utah or Wyoming or New Mexico-- so that the rest of us might live in peace and tranquility. Many people laughed at this suggestion from Carlin, due in no small part to the fact that he offered this suggestion as part of a comedy routine, plus I'm pretty sure that the aforementioned cocaine dependency did little to build a reputation as a man recognized for cogent thinking.

But just as Da Vinci envisioned the helicopter long before anyone really understand how to make one, Carlin's coke-fueled fantastic dream well have been simply a glimpse into the future, for today I am here to tell you that I know how to make that dream real.

Carlin's plan would never have worked if put into actual use, since there's simply no way that any state's population (or its congressional representatives) would have allowed their state to be used as a National Dillhole Dumping Ground. At this stage of the planning, Carlin likely threw up his hands in frustration and decided to have a few more lines of blow, but as I am not burdened with such chemical distractions, I have had time to work through the problems, and I'm here to tell you that there is a place in the far West where such a plan could work without significant popular or political opposition.

Guam.

Guam is perfect for my plan. Just consider the many advantages of Guam for such a plan:

• Guam is U.S.-controlled territory, meaning we won't have to deal with any tiresome immigration issues when we start shipping off the morons, but as a mere protectorate (or territory, or whatever it is... we can look that up later) Guam cannot claim the same rights as might a full-blown state. If we buried Oregon under four feet of mewling dipshit, there would be legal challenges and all sorts of problems, but with Guam... I mean, come on: it's GUAM.

• Guam has no significant military might of its own. If we try shoving our morons down the throats of any other country, no matter how normally pacifist and peaceful they might seem right now, once we start pumping our genetic sewage their way, I think we could expect see serious trouble. I suspect that even Switzerland or, hell, CANADA even would nuke up and go postal if they saw a long bus convoy of American morons coming over the hill, suitcases and change of address cards in hand.

• Guam is a long way away, separated from us back here in the U.S. by a few thousand miles of shark-infested ocean just perfect to alleviate any safety or security concerns of lily-livered folks back here who might otherwise worry about some sort of ugly resentful backlash if the (ahem) "parties to be relocated" were ever to find their way back to the mainland again.

• Guam is a fairly large island, allowing for large numbers of morons to be moved there, BUT-- and this is a strong selling point-- Guam is NOT so large that it might offer sufficient agricultural resources to allow the new moron population to expand even more. We neither want nor need a repeat of that unfortunate bunnyrabbits-into-Australia fiasco, so the limited acreage and rocky terrain of Guam will serve as useful "limiting reagents" to the growth of the moron population.

Now obviously there are some difficulties to overcome, but that is to be expected with any grand visionary plan such as this. For example, some of the native Guamanians (Guamites? Guamagranates? Someone Google this up for me, please...) will likely grouse and complain about this plan, unhappy that "their" island was chosen to become "Idjut Country" and possibly even reluctant to vacate the premises, but I expect that we can win them over through a combination of slick advertising and thuggish intimidation. Also, let's not lose sight of the fact that "we" (well, "I") back here on the mainland have done the bulk of the planning and organizing, while THEY on their happy little island have done very little to help, so perhaps we could simply play upon their feelings of guilt and tell them it's their turn to kick in.

Also, we need to help the native Guamanders (Guamicans? Guamese? We really need to get this nailed down before we roll out the hard-sell ad campaign...) get past the initial shock and realize that the wheels of progress can't be slowed just for their own petty selfish concerns. We're up to our eyeballs in morons here in the U.S., while there in the middle of nowhere sits a perfectly useful island that could house millions of morons, and it's time to get everyone on board. We need the space, dammit, so sacrifices have to be made, and I think we all agree that it's a far better thing that these sacrifices be made by folks other than us.

Any lingering reluctance from the natives (I really could use that name, people...) could be washed away just by running a nature documentary about Christmas Island. Twice a year that tiny South Pacific island is literally overrun by tens of millions of ant-sized red crabs as they migrate across the island for their mating and spawning. If you've ever seen it, you'll never forget it-- a seething crawling red carpet of walking micro-seafood. We'll show that to the Guamish (Guamolians? Guamozzles? This is starting to become embarrassing, folks...) and then tell them "now just imagine this same situation on YOUR island, except replace those teeny little crabs with Chuck Norris fans, K-car purchasers, and Ross Perot supporters. Are you SURE you wanna hang around?"

Guam would be vacant by lunchtime.

Remember-- future generations will judge us by what we do today. If we leave our children and our children's children to inherit an America littered with great blundering herds of slobbering doddering morons, what kind of parents are we? What kind of people are we? We need to make the tough decision today to ensure that the future is a little less dim for everyone.

Except those poor Guamicaneans. Er, Guamalusions. Guami... (sigh)

Dammit.

Now seems a good time to shut up

I sit here on a gray blustery Friday, trying to prepare for a Boy Scout camping trip this weekend, but my thoughts instead turn to Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut.

An armed man entered the school just an hour or so ago, and for no reason yet known, opened fire. On a school full of innocent kids and teachers.

Right now, reports indicate upwards of 30 people killed, including at least 18 children.

Twitter and Facebook of course are already seeing the usual major camps draw into familiar circles: the conservatives calling for prayers and bemoaning the sad state of our national character vs the liberals working up some outrage over the issue of gun control, and all I can think of is "SHUT UP -- ALL OF YOU!"

We have people down. Kids. Teachers. Parents. Bleeding and wounded and dying and dead. We have parents of 400 kids terrified beyond belief that their children were in this slice of Hell this morning, and then forced to pray the horrible yet understandable "please let the dead include someone else's family and not mine."

THAT'S where our thoughts and concerns should be at this moment, not on your -- OUR -- silly damned opinions and politics and morality. Later there will be time enough (and seems like there always is, even when there isn't) to argue and bicker and belabor the "why" and "how" and "what went wrong," but right now to try and use a still-unfolding tragedy as support for some pet belief or cause just seems… staggering gallingly offensively arrogant and self-centered.

Right now it's not about you, or me. It's about us: we have people in harm's way and hurting badly.

If you can't physically help that situation, then have the grace and good manners to stay the hell out of the way and not demand attention for yourself. We'll all then listen to your idiot mewling and lecturing just as soon as our people get loaded into ambulances, OK?

Promise.

sucking the thumbs on their feet

So Bank of America credited our mortgage acct with a refund of incorrectly applied fees. They didn't tell me this -- they merely changed the amount due on my mortgage statement this month without explanation or remark. When I called to ask "yo- whassup?" I was bounced through three different offices -- having to re-verify all my acct info and ID every time -- before I was finally told by someone in the Research Office that the refund was for (drumroll...) "fees."

"What fees, assessed when?"

"We don't have that information."

"But you are the ones who charged them."

"Yes. That is correct."

"And you don't know why they were refunded."

"That is correct."

"And you work in the Research Office?"

"Yessir."

"Is your office currently hiring?"

"No, sir. Why do you ask?"

"Seems like a cush job -- get paid to know and do nothing useful."

"Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"'Else'? That kinda sorta implies that you helped on some previous or different matter, now don't it?"

. . .

So today I go to make the monthly mortgage payment, and the refunded fees no longer appear. So I call to ask "yo, whassup?"

Again, bouncing through multiple offices and departments to wind up with someone who says (drumroll...) "we returned them."

"Returned them where?"

"Uh, wherever they came from."

"Which was...?"

"Well, I'm not sure."

"Did you tie them to a balloon and release it out a window?"

"No, sir. Let me check."

[on hold for 4 minutes]

"Hello, sir? We returned them to you."

"To me? Ah. And how did you return them?"

"I don't understand, sir."

"I believe that. I mean 'by what mechanism were the funds returned' -- were they deposited or was a check issued or was a credit made to my balance?"

"Oh... we mailed them."

"Why didn't you just credit my account?"

"Which account, sir?"

"My mortgage account balance due, since that's where it was last time I called."

"Yes, sir, but last Thursday a check was issued."

"And where is this check?"

"You've not received the check, sir?

[deep sigh]

"YES. This has all just been a test. I received the check that I didn't know about for the fees that nobody can explain and I have that check in my hand and that's why I decided to call and waste twenty minutes with you trying to figure out where the money in my hand now exists. (sigh) Is there someone else I can talk to -- someone with some abilities in banking or at least verbal communication?"

"I'm trying to help you, sir."

"And failing. Badly. When was the check mailed, and to what address?"

"Last Thursday, and it was mailed to your home."

"Can you please confirm that address?"

"You need your home address, sir?"

"No -- I know my address. I'm trying to confirm that *you* rocket scientists have it."

"Well... OK."

He confirms that they did in fact mail it to the correct address.

"So why didn't you give me the option of just having the fees deposited into my checking account?"

"We don't know your account details, sir."

"Yes, you do. You send me monthly statements for my mortgage, my line of credit, my checking, and my savings accounts. I'm pretty sure you guys save copies of that info since it's all IN YOUR BANK."

"Well how are we supposed to know that, sir?"

"HOW ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHO YOUR CUSTOMERS ARE? Is that what you are asking me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Would it be easier for you guys to keep track of who your FORMER customers are? I'm starting to get the distinct sense that you guys aren't really keen on the whole 'banking' thing."

[pregnant pause] How else can, er, do you have any more questions, sir?"

"Quite a few, but none that I expect will be answered in this call. I'll just go wait for my check in the mail returning fees from my account assessed for no known reason at no known date by departments unknown within your bank and now refunded for no know reason."

"Very well, sir."

"Oh-- wait. Actually, I *do* have one more question: if and when I receive this mystery check, I'll need to deposit it, and I'm wondering if there will be the traditional hold on that money."

"It will be a standard check subject to all standard treatment and policies."

"So Bank of America is mailing a Bank of America check to a Bank of America customer who will then deposit that Bank of America check into a Bank of America account which will then have those funds on hold for a few days as Bank of America waits to see if Bank of America has funds to cover their own check?"

[pregnant pause] "Yes."

"Excellent. Thank you so much, and good luck."

"Good luck with what, sir?"

"Avoiding accidental self-injury with a spoon. Good bye."

[click]

(sigh)

And so it goes.



people person B

Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.

I was one of those kids.

The kind from the 60s where rockets and spaceships and astronauts were the coolest thing imaginable. Where every trip to the local Gulf gas station meant an opportunity to claim yet one more NASA-themed collectible: some toy rocket, or pamphlet on spaceflight, or poster about the moon. I drank Tang, because that's what we were going to drink when we traveled to the Moon and Mars and beyond. I had a plush toy Snoopy doll in a NASA suit, complete with oxygen umbilical and "Snoopy" flight cap. I could at a glance tell you the specific differences between all the rockets in the US inventory. I dazzled at the wild artist conceptions of the mighty von Braun-esque winged spaceships depicted in our old encyclopedias.

And on July 20, 1969, I sat there in slack-jawed amazement as every fantastic imagination became a little less fantastic and suddenly a lot more possible as we, the people of Earth, watched one of our own step out for the first time onto the surface of another world.


To kids today, it's difficult to fully explain the monumental sea-change that event represented. We've walked on another world.

Never again could our species say "this planet is the limit of our reach." Never again would a child be born into a world where men had not traveled through the deathly empty black of space to leave prints on the face of that white disk smiling down at us from the night sky since our first ancestors looked up.

From now on, the sky is no longer the limit. From now on, there are no limits.

–––––

Somehow, in the intervening decades, we've lost that feeling. Instead of a world where we might achieve any goal if we set our collective will to it, we bemoan all those things we accept as somehow beyond our control.

The planet is warming. The oceans are dying. Our institutions are failing. Our leaders are corrupt, our favorite foods are killing us, pointless wars and fighting seem to be escalating wherever we look.

And still the Moon smiles down at us, amused at our petty worries and distractions.

Remember me? You used to find me so amazing -- so tantalizing. Now... you stare at your feet and mumble about how far you've sunk.

I liked looking up and wondering what miracles I might see in my future. I liked it a lot. And I miss that feeling.

And so, to the men and women of the Apollo program, on the occasion of the anniversary of quite possibly the Coolest Moment Man Has Yet Managed, a geeky red-headed kid from the 60s again says "thank you."

IN CONGRESS, July 4, 1776

The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America,

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.--Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

• He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.
• He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.
• He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.
• He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.
• He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.
• He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.
• He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.
• He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.
• He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.
• He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.
• He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.
• He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.
• He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:
-- For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:
-- For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:
-- For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:
-- For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:
-- For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:
-- For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences
-- For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:
-- For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:
-- For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.
• He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.
• He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.
• He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.
• He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.
• He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Brittish brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

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Happy Birthday, old girl.

This one hurts

"Where The Wild Things Are" is probably my favorite book, ever. It was written right around the time I was born, so I came into a world that had never seen that book, and I've grown up never knowing a world that didn't have that book.

I recall learning how to read for myself around age 4, and I recall all the Seuss books for their silly word fun, but it was Sendak's wild phantasm that totally swallowed me like some great wild beast. The world of that book was wild, dark, and somehow both dangerous and enticing at once. I recall spending long afternoons as a small child just staring at the pictures-- focusing on the tiny droplets of ink, as if somehow the pixelation itself might reveal another even more magical amazing world hidden between the colors of every frame, every graphical element.

Because magic is real, if you really want it to be.



I remember trying to imagine a world where such beasts might be real -- what might possibly explain their form and anatomy, their odd traditions, the geography of the ocean and forests. I owned a pair of cotton footy pajamas which I wore and secretly pretended gave me the power to travel, like Max, to the land of the Wild Things.

The book was, for all practical purposes, my first love affair. I recall marveling that "there's this guy named Maurice Sendak, and he just sat down and made this up. How cool is THAT?"

Pretty cool.

I carried the book with me through college, and it survived on through to marriage, and then, eventually, to the arrival of my own children. And when I started to have kids, each of them got their own copy of Wild Things. It was not a fact that I specifically ever explained to anyone -- at no point did I ever sit any of the kids down and say "and here's your magic book, and I hope it serves you as well as mine has me." That kind of overt sentimentality would have been totally counter to the Wild Things, to Sendak. Instead, I just gave them their book, and we'd then read it nightly, and we'd do the faces and make the growls and show our terrible claws and roll our terrible eyes, and then, like Max, every night we'd return to the world of the Real. And there was soup, and cake, and milk, and all was good.

For almost ten straight years, this was a nightly thing in my world, as each of four kids drifted through that young age where this book could fascinate and amaze and dazzle. Thousands of nights where I and some strange wild thing that carried some portion of my DNA would sail off through night and day
and in an out of weeks
and almost over a year
to where the wild things are.

And again, that book proved to me just how real magic might be.

And today I wake and find that Sendak has left this world and sailed on to another, and all I can think is Oh please don't go -- we'll eat you up -- we love you so!

And I wish I could wear my wolf suit and make mischief of some kind, and say "thanks."
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B

Can you see that you will always be my friend?

So today is April 21, which is San Jacinto Day, the day that Texas won her independence from Mexico in 1836 when General Sam Houston's forces surprised and defeated the hugely superior force of General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. And San Jacinto Day also happens to be the day of Aggie Muster, a sacred occasion when Aggies worldwide gather and remember fallen comrades and friends. If you're an Aggie, it's among the most solemn of all traditions.

Today I spent the day with my two younger kids, off on a school trip which is largely irrelevant to this post except to say if there was any doubt (and there ought have been none), a howling Merlin engine on a low-level *does* in fact harmonize beautifully with a children's choir.

It was a gorgeous glorious day, and a good time was had by all. We drive back in time to catch The Wife on the patio at our local Tex-Mex place, as she's heading to work, and we scarfed down the last of her chips and salsa and hugged her goodbye and then headed on home ourselves.

The kids headed out to play, so I plopped down to sneak in a few minutes work on a long-simmering script project: basically a thinly reworked heavily auto-biographical revisitation of the idiocy of my college days at A&M. And as I am making some changes to the final "curtain call" sort of scene, I hear the music from the final scenes of DANCES WITH WOLVES, and I immediately recognize it as that incredibly awesome moment when Wind In His Hair says goodbye to Dances With Wolves by shouting from the top of the valley overlooking his friend and the rest of the tribe:



And I'm sitting there hearing that scene in my head as I write about my own best friends from college -- some of whom are tragically no longer with us, and some of whom I remembered *at* Muster ceremonies in years past -- and it's April 21, Muster Day, and I'm drinking a Shiner Bock exactly as I did those many years ago when the scenes and memories in my screenplay were not just lies on a page but actual people and events and exchanges and (alleged) offenses, and somehow it's all just too damned perfect, so all I can do is lean back teary-eyed but smiling, and give a beer toast to the sky:

"Well played, Universe. Well played."

And to all you DG idiots, rejects and defectives who helped make worth remembering what in lesser hands might have been only moments of justifiable shame, I say "thanks for the (plausibly deniable) memories."
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maroon-tinted glasses B

Greatest Song Lyrics Ever, vol. 86

"Slidell" by Grayson Capps

I heard they cleaned the wreck outsida Slidell
just before the dawn
I heard five people got murdered
by a drunk woman talking on her cell phone

I got drunk last night in Slidell
waiting on the clean up crew
I've been on the road for fifteen days
waiting just to get home to you.

Just before the dawn--
-- you hear the rooster crow
Just before the dawn--
-- I'm gonna rise up... rise up... slow

Nighttime driving is like a dream
Hallucinations rise up from the road
It's lonesome at five am
when the white line becomes your soul

Just as the sun begins to rise
the highway is foggy as hell
And all the musicians are sleeping
You ain't got nothin but yourself

Just before the dawn--
--you hear the rooster crow
Just before the dawn--
--I'm gonna rise up... rise up... slow

I heard they cleaned up the wreck outsida Slidell
just before I passed through
I've been sitting for five hours on this barstool
Waiting... and thinkin 'bout you

-----

True genius almost always seems simple.
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B

Click To Play in Spotify

So You Wanna Call Yourself A "Coach"?

Then go read THIS.

It's the final send-off from (former) Texas Aggies football coach Mike Sherman to a long list of hundreds of Texas high school football coaches, a sort of combination thank you/so long/keep in mind sermon wherein Sherman defines and delineates several concepts which he feels are paramount to successful coaches.

And what's most cool is how most of the concepts do not really limit themselves to football coaching application.

Sure, advice like "Never Pass Up an Opportunity to Practice Tackling" might be rather specific and limited in non-football application, but when the bulk of the (long) letter addresses such Big Issue concerns as Respect and Truth and Honesty and Love... you know you're not reading a normal piece of football coaching rah-rah.

As a parent (x4!) who has spent a lot of time -- a whooooole lot... (oy) -- coaching youth sports, I have a pathetic familiarity with a lot of the emotions Sherman describes, and I like to think that I've come to share at least some of his values and beliefs. At least I hope so, because when I read Sherman's letter I want to send it to every coach I've ever worked with or against and shout "See!?! THIS is what I've been saying -- THIS is what it's about! THIS is why we're really here -- not for some silly damned plastic and fake marble trophy or some stupid aluminim medal or some bilious scrap of colored ribbon!"

When I read this:

We must never lose sight, however, that with the opportunity to coach these young men and experience victory together, there also comes the huge responsibility to make a difference in their lives. We must never lose sight of the fact: "once their coach always their coach." Where others may have failed them, we as coaches cannot. Where others have created mistrust, we must bring trust. Where others have created disrespect, we must bring respect. Where others have let them down, we must support them. We owe that to them regardless of their talent or ability. We owe that to them regardless of wins and losses.

I want to stand and cheer, as it reminds me that there is Hope and Good out there, and there are people out there fighting to defend these ideas, and there are men and women carrying these notions into the lives of hundreds of thousands of young kids who deserve to know and feel and experience and cherish all that should be most wonderful in Sport.

I have no idea where Coach Sherman will wind up in his next job, but I know these two things: whatever team he inherits will have the rare and wonderful opportunity to be led by a true gentleman, and I will become an immediate fan of whatever team he leads.




Thanks for your time in Aggieland, Coach.

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B

First Ten Verbs 2011

Back in the halcyon days of 2006 -- when the Internet still seemed interesting and amusing rather than just overrun with howler monkeys and hardcore Miracle Whip addicts -- I posted a meme wherein writer-type folks were asked/encouraged/ordered to post the first ten verbs from whatever project they were then currently working on:

A Bucket Of Love: Your First Ten Verbs (April 2006)

"Why?" you ask in that typically sniveling and mewling nasal tone of yours which sets all right-thinking people's nerves well on edge.

"SHUT UP," I explain.

And then I continue with another ref to that long ago post:

The exercise is intended to help you more clearly notice when your writing is passive and lackluster. In most cases (there are always exceptions) it's usually best to start strong and maintain momentum. If you look up and realize that you have a lot of "is" and "waits" and "sits" and "lays" as opening verbs, you might wanna give your opening a kick in the pants. Maybe.

So here's mine:

1. munch
2. stomp
3. roars
4. slaps
5. begins
6. speaks
7. screams
8. drops
9. scope
10. starts

Your turn, gravy-suckers.
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bored and hostile B

Greatest Song Lyrics Ever, vol 102

"Stomp & Holler," by Hayes Carll



Oh, Little Johhny Walker caught a bullet last night
Running from the guitar store
He took a left down the alley, guess he should've gone right
Now he ain't taken nothing no more more more
Everybody knows it's a hard time
Livin' with hate and the greed
Most folks earn what they get for a livin'
Others just steal what they need
Down on the corner, already talkin'
How they're gonna cut that take
I'm out here just workin' for a dollar
And all I wanna do is stomp and holler...

Oh, eighteen years, eighteen years
That's a long-old time to be
Sittin' face down, stoned in the alley
Wonderin' how to get to that shinin' sea
Everybody knows it's a hard time
Livin' on the minimum wage
Ah, some people just gonna sneak on through
Others gotta rattle that cage
One of these days, I'm gonna find my way
Or else just disappear
I'm out here in the filth and squalor
And all I wanna do is stomp and holler...

Oh, rock and roll, ache and moan
Listen to the young girls scream
Every time I get a little bit lucky
I gotta wake up from a poor man's dream
Heaven only knows how we get there
After all this trouble and strife
From all I've seen, you only get one shot
At what you're gonna do in this life
Ah, what the hell, I guess I might as well
Take a chance and try my way
I'm like James Brown only white and taller
And all I wanna do is stomp and holler....

-----

[beer salute]


puttering through the gutter B

OCTOPI WALL STREET!

So back on October 7, right after the time this whole "OCCUPY" thing was starting to grab traction online and become an oft-reffed meme in the social media universe, I spent maybe 6.27 minutes cobbling together a really childish pun based upon a favorite shot from the old 1955 Ray Harryhausen classic "IT CAME FROM BENEATH THE SEA", wherein a giant cephalopod was mutated by Atomic Testing and decided to attack San Francisco as a reaction. I posted the silly pic to Facebook on the evening of October 7, 2011.



I guess people liked it, as it kinda sorta took off and ran away from home, playing in the cyber-yards of a whooooole lot more people than I know or have met. On Facebook I can track that it has been "shared" just under 3000 times, but I have no way of knowing how many times it was re-copied and re-posted and re-shared, or linked via Twitter of posted onto blogs or MySpace or Google+ or Arpanet or whatever else is out there this week.

This afternoon I get a request for some info from some magazine guy wanting a copy.

Serious stabs at screenwriting creativity -- those I can't give away. But childish paste-ups of rampaging seafood? That's gold, Jerry! GOLD!
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screwed blue B

AFF 2011: Day 0 -- I Have A Dream

Before I embark on what might well end up an aborted attempt to blog my way through a replay of my 2011 Austin Film Festival (AFF) experiences, I think I'll share a dream I had the night before the conference opened. It was Wednesday night, I'd already checked in and had my credentials and IDs and invites and such, had already had some beers in the Driskill, had already had multiple way-cool screenwriterly experiences as part of this year's conference, and already had good times catching up with far-flung friends whom I only get to see maybe once a year at this specific event. So by all rights, I was surely "in a good place," mentally speaking, right?

No, fair reader -- with my brain, no such assumption is ever safe or well-founded.

I doze off to cerveza-stoked slumber in the Stephen F Austin hotel, and somewhere between 4:30am and wakeup time around 7am, I had a dream.

I see the main Ballroom of the Driskill Hotel, the room where many of the biggest and most popular panels in the conference always get booked. It usually seats several hundred guests, but in the dream, it's empty, save for one chair set alone, by itself, in the middle of the huge quiet room.

I'm in the chair, in my cargo shorts and t-shirt, backpack hung from one knee, notepad on my other leg, as I wait to take notes.

On the stage... maybe a dozen panelists -- all the usual suspects of name writers who I've met at Austin and in most cases developed some slight relationship with. I recall seeing Dan Petrie, Terry Rossio, John August, Lawrence Kasdan, Craig Mazin, Shane Black, as well as maybe a half dozen other faces which now are just gray shadows in memory. They are all just sitting there in their tall director's chairs, look down at me well back in the huge room. Some have their arms crossed and have that stern not entirely pleased expression I recall from way too many "talks with the professor" in college.

I recall glancing at my watch in the dream, as if I am anxious about starting whatever it is which is supposed to be going on, and then Petrie leans forward to his microphone:

               DAN PETRIE
     So, Brett... WHY are you still out there? Why
     aren't you up here on this side of the mike?

               BRETT
     I... I dunno.

               TERRY ROSSIO
     It's not really a question of not knowing
     something. We've told you -- all of us --
     more than enough for you to figure this out.
     What's the problem?

               BRETT
     I... I dunno.

               SHANE BLACK
     Jesus Christ, man. Just fucking do it,
     already. Look around you!

I recall looking around the room, as instructed, and recall seeing a lot of open space and nobody else.

And then I wake up.

And I rub my eyes, and I mumble something like "thanks a lot, God. Hell of a dream to drop on me the night before the conference kicks off."

I'd offer that perhaps this last lament was perhaps heard, as I feel I was offered a "make up call" later in the conference, but offering details about that here would be *spoilers*.

Still. This dream struck me as a rather harsh and sadistic fantasy to hose into someone's subconscious at such an ostensibly propitious moment.

At the minimum, somebody owes me a damned fruit cup.
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B

AFF 2011: a streaming retrospective overview

Running late... Thomas!... Driskill! Our home for the next 5 days... "Where are you?" Driskill! ... LORI!... "Those shoes are getting to me..." chicken tacos at El Arroyo... "I think Neil Young's dad is on bass..." ... beer tastes better with second-hand smoke... "I wish I'd worn *my* Porter Waggoner shirt..." ...the Drakes are cool... Driskill!... Kasdan in the hizzy... a beer? Well, if you insist... Lauren, Lisa, Jennie, Deborah, Jolly, Julie, Maya, Jacqueline, Max... Alvaro... Mazin... Turman... TR on the sofa, explaining Disney v. Lone Ranger et al... "Maybe it's a hematoma..."...aaa goodnight, Missus Wiznowitz... Stephen F Austin lobby at 3:30am is kinda quiet... up at 7:12am, 3 minutes ahead of alarm... where's cute triathlete barista girl???... mmmmm...Clif bar.... "where did you find that banana?"... mistaken for a person of relevance... the Isaac Newton Sandwich... Shane and Larry open the conference... talking about COOKIE'S FORTUNE with Anne Rapp before Kasdan comes in... Kasdan smiles, comes over to hug Anne, notices me, says "you're with HIM? Oh shit..." ... Driskill!... Richard! Derek!... beer me... Ramesh!... "Wow, that's a cute girl... that's a VERY cute girl... she's smiling... she's waving... at ME? Is that...? Huh? BLAIR!?! I smell t-r-o-u-b-l-e..." Stage Bar on 6th... very cool blues trio with two kids on bass and guitar and dad on drums... "'Crab puffs'? If you say so, man..." PAMIE!... "Zulauf sounds like a good Texan name..." CHRISTINA!... "are you interested in a u-rangotang movie?" cake shots are better than expected... "Drink beer? Well, on occasion..." ... Brian Anderson and Chuck Fitzpatrick... street pizza... Driskill!... "Well, OK, I'll have a beer..." ... finding a wayward Kasdan somewhere on Lavaca: "Shit -- just follow Brett. He's headed to a party somewhere...." ... Dulce is way too beautiful to be that alone... "Do you ever smile?" ... Max doesn't recognize me... Theresa and Holly and Jojo and Nancy... Howard Rodman might be Ed Wynn in non-disguise... Vivi wants pictures... NATALIE!... walking Congress at 2am... Stephen F Austin lobby at 3am is still kinda quiet.... up at 7:10am, 5 minutes before the alarm... free coffee sometimes is not worth the price... 31 never-noticed incoming messages on Facebook, dating back 18 months? Huh?... Alec Berg and Craig Mazin should tour together... "wrapped in the delicious bacon of failure..." ... Talbott, Brucks, and McCreery... the Big Vito at Jimmy Johns... Kasdan, Mazin, Petrie and Reese, oh my.... Driskill!... boots and jeans for the BBQ... "where did Julie Howe go...?" into the French Legation, and there's a THUNDER SOUL poster front and center.... two ambers, please... Salt Lick! ... nom nom nom nom... James Hart likes his 'Q... Tony!... Eilis! ... Big Red in bottles!... PAMIE!... "It's like riding a bike -- it's even more embarrassing to wipe out in front of friends when they all know you know how to do it...." ... RUM DIARY scene is already a zoo... Johnny Depp in the eye of the meat-storm... I am the dill pickle spear in a club sandwich of way-hawtness... Driskill!... stereo twin Jasons... "Wait-- you're the dead cat tree guy!?!" ... to Ruth's Chris, aka, the worst party venue they always seem to use... clinking drinks with Kasdan... Rick Dugdale sans Petrie... Lauren and Stephen... Dulce!... Max still doesn't recognize me.... "Did I wind up with another of your women?" "S'alright -- I have plenty more..." ... Driskill! Max does a spit take when she recognizes me... John Lasseter eating a cheeseburger underneath Humperdink.... "A beer? Well, alright..." ... elbowing past James Franco in the men's room doorway... Shane reads this stuff? WHO NEEDS MORE PRESSURE? ... last call... banana and decaff in the SFA lobby at 3am, as movie deals get done at the adjacent sofa... up at 7am, 15 minutes before the alarm, and once more into the breach... packed like canned hams into the FIGHT CLUB read-along w/ Palahniuk and Uhls... Buffalo wants a cavity search? We're out... fish tacos at the Irish pub... Ronson? No way... Confirmed -- Ronson... scaring Carl and Bethany... hanging with Blair in the 1886... cash bar? screw that! ... Driskill! ... Ags win! ... hanging with Chuck... talking with Theresa... Rossio slams via praise... are we going? it's time. come on -- let's go!... whoa-- that's the line? No way. Back to base... Driskill!... Arndt and Rossio talk writing for hours -- crazy awesome to watch... Jill!... Last call? Seriously? ... SFA lobby at 3:15am is pretty wild on a Saturday night.... up at 7:15am -- go to hell, alarm... load it up, pack it out... The Secret Garage... breakfast tacos at The Hideout... Dulce is again too beautiful.... lemonade with maple syrup? Wow.... rewrite panel with Rossio, and a pat on the head worth more than all the gold in California... to SFA ballroom with TR, Jolly Lauren, Deb, Lisa, Brian, and T-Crymes for the epic Michael Arndt "Endings" panel... sweet jesus this is good stuff Arndt is giving... Crymes to the shuttle, Lisa to the cab -- the exodus has begun... "And... I think we're all done" ... Driskill! ... Hanging out, shaking hands, swapping hugs ... talking the past, as we finally enter THE SUCK ... "OK, I think it's now officially Last Day..." ... a flurry of texts, a final hug, and we're out the door... long road home, with no music, no sound. Just thoughts... in the driveway, scrawled in huge glow in the dark chalk letters: "WELCOME HOME, DAD!" One last sigh, turn the knob, and then step back into the real world for another 361 days, 8 hours, 4 minutes, and 31... 30... 29... 28....

the tales we tell our children

So we're at the dinner table, eating dinner. The whole famn damily.

I think it's important to try and have the traditional "dinner 'round the table" thing for a couple of reasons:

1) I'm hungry, dammit

and

2) The Wife tells me that this "family meal time" is important, and I'm just too damned tired to argue another point and fight a war on a seventeenth concurrent front.

So we're all there, picking around the spaghetti or chicken or leftover whatever.

And as I am savoring my whatever and mentally listing the various ways God has hurled angelic balls of poo at me so far today, I hear Son#3 mumble something about "stupid girls."

"What? What's the problem?"

"Girls. They're stupid and icky."

Son #3 is 10 years old at the time, so he's on the early edge of that long vague ill-defined window when males become fascinated by females.

"You don't think they're maybe a little bit interesting?"

"No. Girls are stupid and icky."

"Well, I remember feeling that way, too, when I was young. But here's the thing -- you're growing and getting older, and soon you're gonna start to re-think this."

The Wife is watching me warily, and chewing more slowly. I smile at her.

"One day you're gonna meet a girl who makes you feel different. Some girl who makes you want to be smart and funny and strong, and who makes your heart beat fast, and whose voice makes you feel good just to hear. Some girl you try to spend time with even when there's nothing to do -- who just makes you feel all warm and safe and good inside whenever she's with you. And you'll one day find that girl who does this so much and so often that you decide you can't go on unless you know she's going to be there to make you feel this way every day for the rest of your life, so you'll tell this girl how much she means to you, and how badly you want her as your wife, and how you want to make a family with her."

And at this point I realize The Wife and the brood are all looking at me kinda weird and unfamiliar like.

"And then it's going to suddenly hit you: you really should have trusted that first instinct back when you were ten years old."

Dinner time is quality family time.
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B

On Writing: "Beaumont"

Real writing -- the kind that gets down into your chest and makes you breathe heavy -- takes place between the lines on the page. Great songwriting does it so effortlessly that it can be terrifying, like realizing someone has been watching you in supposedly private moments for years.

In the little song below, every single line calls to mind a deeper fuller scene not explicitly shared in the words being sung, and you're left at once both aching for more details yet also feeling somewhat ashamed of overhearing someone's deepest thoughts.

Learn to do this for a hundred pages or more, and they'll drive truckloads of cash to your door and hail you as a genius, kids.

Me -- I'm still learning.


BEAUMONT
(by Hayes Carll)

I saw you leanin' on a memory
With your back turned to the crowd
In that little bar on Murphy
Where they play guitar too loud
There were people drinkin' whiskey
There were hearts about to leave
It was cold as hell for Houston
It was almost New Years Eve

All the way from Beaumont
With a white rose in my hand
I could not wait forever babe
I hope you understand

The night was feelin' lucky
So I asked you to dance
And the way you looked up at me
Made me think I had a chance
But when I put my arms around you
I knew you weren't givin' in
I hope it will be different
If I pass this way again

All the way from Beaumont
With a white rose in my hand
I could not wait forever babe
I hope you understand

I walked the road to get here
With a guitar and a case
I'd have stopped in Pasadena
If I'd known about this place
But you looked like forever
Where the water meets the shore
I've been thinkin about you, baby
I can't do that anymore

I saw you leanin' on a memory
With your back turned to the crowd
In that little bar on Murphy
Where they play guitar too loud
There were people drinkin' whiskey
There were hearts about to leave
It was cold as hell for Houston
It was almost New Years Eve

All the way from Beaumont
With a white rose in my hand
I could not wait forever babe
I hope you understand

---

She's Still A Beauty

Once upon a time the event of humans being hurled into space by a few million pounds of barely contained explosives was the stuff of worldwide breath-holding. Back in the glory days, whenever Mercury or Gemini or Apollo sent our people up for a quick peek at the heavens, we'd all stop what we are doing, gather round a flickering TV screen and smile a deliciously stupid grin at the miracle unfolding before our eyes: "We're sending people into space! Human beings are leaving this planet!"

Sadly, things have changed, and not for the better, in my view -- at least, not when it comes to a launch. In our modern world we're too busy swapping pics of LOLcats to be bothered to notice that on this day -- May 16, 2011 -- a remarkable and terrifying and astoundingly brave phase in the history of exploration drew to a largely overlooked yet still glorious beginning of the end: the final-ever launch of the US Space Shuttle, as USS Endeavour lifted from Cape Canaveral. Endeavour's flight -- STS 134 -- will be the final flight of the Shuttle. The end of the line.

Rather than just watch a video clip and say "OK -- cool. Big rocket. (yawn) What did Jon Stewart do funny on the DAILY SHOW today...", take a few minutes (8 or 9, tops) to read this somewhat lengthy but entirely amazing essay first posted back in 2003 by Bill Whittle on his blog Eject Eject Eject:

"COURAGE"

Go on. It's more than worth it, if only to help you get a full appreciation of exactly what you are looking at when you then click and watch the video below.

-=-=-=-

Now, watch this and see if it doesn't hit you just a little harder:



Godspeed, Endeavour. May your return be blessedly and deceptively unremarkable.
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Aero-Geek B

April 21 -- San Jacinto Day

"On this field on April 21, 1836 the Army of Texas commanded by General Sam Houston, and accompanied by the Secretary of War, Thomas J. Rusk, attacked the larger invading army of Mexicans under General Santa Anna. The battle line from left to right was formed by Sidney Sherman's regiment, Edward Burleson's regiment, the artillery commanded by George W. Hockley, Henry Millard's infantry and the cavalry under Mirabeau B. Lamar. Sam Houston led the infantry charge.

With the battle cry, "Remember the Alamo! Remember Goliad!" the Texans charged. The enemy taken by surprise, rallied for a few minutes then fled in disorder. The Texans had asked no quarter and gave none. The slaughter was appalling, victory complete, and Texas free! On the following day General Antonio Lopez De Santa Anna, self-styled "Napoleon of the West," received from a generous foe the mercy he had denied Travis at the Alamo and Fannin at Goliad.

Citizens of Texas and immigrant soldiers in the Army of Texas at San Jacinto were natives of Alabama, Arkansas, Connecticut, Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, New Hampshire, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Vermont, Virginia, Austria, Canada, England, France, Germany, Ireland, Italy, Mexico, Poland, Portugal and Scotland.

Measured by its results, San Jacinto was one of the decisive battles of the world. The freedom of Texas from Mexico won here led to annexation and to the Mexican-American War, resulting in the acquisition by the United States of the states of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, California, Utah and parts of Colorado, Wyoming, Kansas and Oklahoma. Almost one-third of the present area of the American Nation, nearly a million square miles of territory, changed sovereignty."

Saaaaaaaaa-lute.

Happy San Jacinto Day, y'all.
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under the "A" in "TEXAS" B

a jug of advil, a bag of crap, and thou

Just another typical Thursday morning.

The kids had already left for school, The Wife had just pulled in from another night shift, and I was standing in the yard in gym shorts and a ratty T, coffeecup in one hand, hose in the other, as I soak the flowerbeds and the poison just applied to the newest fire ant beds that have sprung up, while mentally sorting through the Top 31 Things I Most Hate at the moment.

The Wife is telling me... something (I find my day goes better when I pay as little mind as possible to the thoughts, comments, requests and concerns of other people...), and she's walking to the curb to put something into the trashcans there waiting for the truck. But as she replaces the lid and steps back, she yelps, throws her purse and cellphone in one direction and her body another, executing what starts as something like a graceful pirouette maneuver but which quickly degrades into full-on pratfall.

I hear a loud "OOOF!", and there's a small poof of leaves puffed away from the impact.

I sip my coffee and shake my head, then sigh.

"Well, that looked painful. Are you OK?"

"errrg... no..." answers a small face-down voice.

"You need to move," I offer as assistance.

"i can't..." the face-down whimper explains.

I sip some more coffee.

"Well, you're laying on a fire ant mound."

At which point we discover that she was mistaken: she can, in fact, move, and does so, though none too gracefully. She log-rolls along the curb and now lies facedown with most of her body in the street. Our housecat strolls over and sits near her prone form, using her body as cover from a mockingbird shrieking and dive-bombing from the oak tree above.

A neighbor drives by, sees the scene, slows and gawks.

I smile and wave the hose in greeting. They drive on.

"I think I broke my ankle."

"Oh, I doubt that. It takes some effort to do that. You probably just rolled it."

I help her up, and she limps into the house and collapses onto the sofa.

"You need to get me some ibuprofen."

"Where is it -- in your bathroom cabinet, or in the kitchen?"

"The store. We're out."

"I think you mean you're out. I have all the ibuprofen I need right now."

"Will you go buy some ibuprofen? I can't move."

So I drive to the local quicky stop and buy some overpriced ibuprofen and an Antone's Super Po Boy (mmmmm... chow chow...) and return to find a small plastic bag of cat poo on the front stoop. I pick it up, glance at it, then drop it back to the stoop and head in to find The Wife on the back porch.


"Somebody left a bag of cat crap on the stoop."

"That was me," she answers from the back yard through the open door in the kitchen. "Pick up the ice -- my ice pack slipped and made a mess."

I notice three dozen ice cubes scattered all over the kitchen table and floor.

"If you were a car, Federal Law says I could return you as defective."

"What?" she asks, re-entering from the back porch.

"I invoke my Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination."

"Good. Did you get the ibuprofen?" she asks as she limps past.

"On the counter."

"The window casing looks good. You going to paint it today?"

"Window casing? Oh, you mean, 'the window casing in the upstairs bathroom'? I thought you couldn't move?"

"You need to pick up those tools up there."

"Ah, so apparently you can move only well enough to criticize. Good to see the injury is not slowing you."

"I'm going to bed now."

"Try not to burst into flames between here and there."

"Good night. Don't forget the cat poo on the porch."

I nod "OK" through a mouthful of Super Po-Boy.

"Mmmmm... chow chow....

And so it goes.
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B

Meltdown

"Do you smell something burning?"

"Huh? Whaa..."

"I smell something. Been smelling it for an hour."

"Mmm-hmmm..."

If it had not been 4:45am when this little scene started, I might have seemed more engaged. More interested. More coherent.

As it stands, I sat up and rubbed my eyes, and then sniffed.

"Hey-- what's that--"

"Smell? Yeah. That's what I was saying."

So we hop out of bed and go padding around. There's a strange semi-familiar burning smell hanging in the air, but it's not a burning wood or paper smell. It's definitely apparent in the bedroom, but not there in the bathroom (behind the closed door).

It's there in the hallway, but not in the utility room (behind another closed door).

Wife goes upstairs, says she smells it plainly in the hallway, yet in none of the rooms where the kids are sleeping (gain, behind closed doors).

I smell it in the den, and in the kitchen as well. It's not the coffeepot, nor the microwave or oven or cooktop. Not the fridge motor.

"No smell in the attic," wife whisper-shouts from upstairs.

"Good," I mumble and yawn. "So what the hell is it?"

I lean down, yawning again, hands on the countertop.

It's hot. Strange abnormal weird hot.

The dishwasher.

I note the "DRY" cycle is still running. I started the washer as I went to bed around midnight-thirty, and here five hours later the DRY cycle is still cranking?

I open the door slightly, and am immediately hit by the smell. It's like crayons melting on the stove and on the verge of igniting.

There's no flame, so I pull the door open. It's like an oven-- likely 250 degrees, maybe more.

I peek in and laugh. Anything made from soft plastic is... well, gone. Perhaps not totally gone from this universe, but surviving now in only a colored shadow on the floor on the washer. Anything made from Type 1 plastic -- which includes the caps to the sport bottles, a snap on lid for the dog food can, a plastic baby spoon, and two cutting boards -- has been liquified. Blobs of colored goo on the floor of the cabinet show where the melted plastic dripped, and the cutting boards have fused onto the floor and lower rack in a molten mess. In the back corner, there's a charred black stain where a heavy blob of cutting board had been dripping down to contact the heater coil.

None of the control buttons respond on the washer, so I reach into the undersink cabinet and yank the power cord, killing the wounded beast. I take the racks of steaming hot dishes into the backyard to cool and air there, spritz some Lysol into the air to slapfight with the melted plastic stink (so now we have a funky "white linen / molten crayola" stink working in the house), and then The Wife and I crawl back into bed for the final 45 minutes of sleep before Yet Another Day In Paradise pounces on us like a perching puma.

The family gets up and heads out to visit sis-in-law and the sideshow at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo.

Me? I'm now appliance shopping and installing today.

I don't think Billy Wilder done it this-a way...."
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thermoplastic fantastic B