Another Leaf Falls

American Fez has languished in the deep doldrums of neglect for the past few weeks. This was partly due to a death in my family and the personal sorrow it occasioned. Grief is a type of bipolar disorder, combining brief bursts of activity with long bouts of great apathy. Many arrangements must be made, affairs must be put in order, but I must also must fall across this chaise-lounge like a fainting flapper in an Edward Gorey sketch. 

However, my life, still thankfully a going concern, has not been entirely consumed by bereavement business and mourning. When not staring at the wall for hours, or visiting a funeral home to examine casket options, I have spent my days researching the unpublished and unfinished work of Charles Dickens, especially his attempts at writing science-fiction. 

Did you know, for example, that an early version of Nicholas Nickleby is set in the year 2047. Nicholas is sent into space aboard the rocket ship Orphan, but his capsule crashes into the hostile planet Dotheboys. Here he encounters the barely humanoid, evil alien Squeers, who is draining Dotheboys of all its natural resources and oppressing the inhabitants. I won't ruin the ending because I can't: there isn't one. Dickens only completed three chapters before deciding science-fiction was not his forte. 

Fantasy's loss is obviously literature's gain. Can you imagine a sword and sorcery version of Oliver Twist, where Oliver is a disinherited prince, exiled to the desolate island of Workhouse, fighting a legion of wizards and warlocks ton a quest to reclaim his rightful place on the throne? What about Little Nell building a time machine in the basement of the Old Curiosity Shop, so she can go back in time to fix things so that Quilp actually owes her money?

None of those would be particularly good reads, and it seems unlikely such nonsense would capture the minds of LARPing teenagers or Netflix TV franchise executives. Mind you, to be fair, I doubt Jules Verne would have been able to do much with Bleak House as a submarine diving beneath the sea. Everyone finds their level eventually, I suppose.

Prussian Cavalry In The Wires

It was a cheerful, friendly female voice, obviously computer generated, enquiring in dulcet tones if I were willing to entertain the possibility of purchasing life insurance from the company it represented.

Alas, no, for shall I live forever, I explained to the flirtatious machine. You see, I take sixty grams of Methuselah pills every morning mixed into raw goats milk and granola. I shall live long past the extinction of your diodes or whatever they are called. I will still be here many years after your artificial intelligence has grown senile and your circuit boards are ravaged by electronic dementia. I am an immortal being whereas you are merely the gal Friday of current technology, soon be cast upon the scrapheap of obsolete robotics. 

There was awkward silence on the other end of the line, presumably since the computer was attempting to process what I'd just said. So, to fill the void, I announced that I was already over two hundred years old, having been born at the time of Napoleon, and had witnessed the Battle of Waterloo while sipping my raw goats milk through a paper straw. Unfortunately, granola was not widely available back then, but I had made do with a large bowl of oats and barley. Not optimum, certainly, but passable in a war zone. 

In fact, the current situation reminds me somewhat of that famous conflict, I told the computer. I in the victorious role of the Duke of Wellington, and you as Napoleon, humbled in the Belgian dust. I was about to explain the analogous significance of defensive squares formed against unsolicited phone calls when the line abruptly went dead. As dead as Marshall Ney.

That was rude, I thought. Rude by any standard, even the limitlessly low standards of automated sales outreach. But such are the detached mores of digital modernity, I guess, anonymous and impersonal and indifferent. Who in their right mind would want to live forever in such a world?

Mid Terms

Skunkerton is a veritable mecca for the modern tourist. Local attractions include fast food restaurants, drug rehabilitation centers, large scale homeless encampments, and the grim sites of multiple teen suicides. 

Where else but in Skunkerton can you gorge yourself on microwaved meat product while a human oil-slick urinates on the street in front of your very eyes? 

Well, I suppose you can do that pretty much anywhere these days. But only in Skunkerton will that human oil-slick also be the city's current mayor, a certain James O'Backhander, running for election on the deliberately confusing Demopublican ticket.

O'Backhander is known to all his cronies as 'The Boss,' and in return he fondly refers to them as 'The Mob.' Together they rule Skunkerton with a ruthless combination of targeted violence, bribery, nepotism, and walk-a-thons to raise money for charities of dubious provenance.

O'Backhander has been in politics since the age of twelve, when he became Town Selectman for the bankrupt suburb of West Taxfraud. His first legislative act was to close down the high school where he was failing all his classes. 

After graduating 'sum cum via papa' from Corrupton Community College in 2006, O'Backhander immediately married South American lampshade heiress Martina Bormann. 

The couple have one son, Jose O' Backhander, whose name has already been put down for Congress.

James O'Backhander's proud track record of political achievements includes extorting money to build the new Casino on Rte 666; being orally pleasured by his secretary without being caught; and supporting the War with Iran while simultaneously calling for all American forces to be withdrawn, except for the African American ones.

Mayor Backander is neither pro nor anti abortion. He simply is one. Any citizen who doesn't vote for The Boss you will find themselves removed from the electoral register forthwith and harassed by local policemen affiliated with the Mob.

So vote Demopublican ... or else!

Stations of the Anxious

My tourist's train to Saltport is delayed by about an hour or more, so I'm stuck at an unfamiliar station with all my luggage, long-suffering feet cramped uncomfortable formal shoes. I hadn't wanted to pack them in case they got crushed. Ditto this stiff dress shirt and suit jacket. I resemble a recently unemployed middle-management executive, a laid-off white collar worker who's cleared the contents of his desk into a faux leather valise and an old rucksack, then decided to leave all his clothes on the nearest beach and walk into the sea. At least I'm not wearing a tie. It's still damn hot even though it's already September.

Suddenly the tannoy system bursts into sound and a metallic voice announces 'The next train to Moorland arrives in fifteen minutes.' Moorland? Where's that? I wonder what it's like there? Places I've never heard of always project a certain glamor to my mind. Perhaps interesting people live there; the sort of people in whose company I could spend many happy evenings. Maybe there are wonderful shops stocked with all the things I've ever wanted, and fantastic restaurants serving my favorite drinks and dishes at bargain prices. And, who knows, even that very French but welcoming cafe with alfresco seating I've dreamt about all my life. Existing infrastructure permitting, Moorland could bring out the social butterfly in me, replacing this fossilized caterpillar I've become, who can't even crawl to Saltport to spend a few precious days beside the sea.

So I looked Moorland up in my guidebook to Greater Landmass. Apparently it's over-developed suburbia, named Moorland to conceal the fact that the entire area has been paved over with road and parking lots, grey Nowheresville flanked by Burger King, Caffe Nero, The Gap, and Old Navy. Not a destination I'd willingly choose to go, despite the immanent arrival of the train that goes in that direction. I guess I'll stick with Saltport, although God knows when I'll get there. Train still delayed and the time isn't exactly flying by. But there will be a baked cod dinner at some point in my future. Then I can stare at the ever changing ocean until my eyes get tired, thinking of all the many towns across the waves, and what they might have to offer. 

Nights In Nurseryland.

I recently attended a dinner party at the home of Jack Sprat and his morbidly obese wife. It was a small affair. Just me, the Sprats, Little Jacker Horner from the corner, and that tedious Mother Hubbard woman who always brings her mangy dog along. 

Predictably, there were only two entrees on the Sprat's limited menu: boiled fat or dry-rubbed lean. Neither option looked particularly appetizing, so I closed my eyes and imagined I was savoring a dainty dish of blackbirds baked in a pie instead.

I honestly don't know why I attend these awkward gatherings. There's the usual polite conversation about Mary Mary Quite Contrary's garden, but it's hard to think of anything else to say when every sentence you utter needs to rhyme. Consequently, the meal is mostly eaten in silence, except for the loud slurps of Mrs Spratt devouring fat and the ear-splitting scraping sounds of Jack chasing a sliver of lean around his plate with a fork. 

Meanwhile, Old Mother Hubbard's dog spent all evening circumnavigating the table, from one guest to another, looking for scraps. Alas, there was nothing for the poor animal, since the Sprats famously lick their platters clean. Honestly, I don't understand why she doesn't just leave the beast at home, even if her cupboard is appallingly bare.

I'm off to Little Miss Muffet's tomorrow night. It will be just the curds and whey, as usual, but at least they're edible. In fact, I'd be looking forward to it if her stupid tuffet wasn't infested by spiders with no sense of personal space.

News From The Past

Ah the halcyon days of yore. Waking at sunrise with buxom servant girls scurry around your bedroom. They set a pleasant fire in the grate, pour your daily bath of heated well water, then crack open lead-lined windows to empty your steaming chamber pot into the street below. And, hark, there's the clang-clang of the Town Crier's bell as he bellows breaking news into the brisk morning air. 

And hear ye, hear ye, what was the Town Crier's news in such bygone times? The result of a skirmish between hussars and dragoons in some previously unknown village in a far off country. A new tariff charged on the importation of Chinese silk. Silver buckles on shoes for men are out of fashion this season. Old Mother Whartie is found guilty of witchcraft at the Impville Assizes. Egbert Stringwiddler has composed a new minuet that is all the rage at court. All the news that's fit to cry, hear ye, hear ye, followed by a rapid regurgitation of sponsored classified ads for the local weaver, costermonger, butcher, baker, and candlestick maker.

I sometimes wonder if there was a special 'Sunday morning' edition of the Town Crier back then. More of a Town Murmurer than a Crier, who announced his news in the cobbled streets with two hushed hand claps, more suited to the Sabbath than his traditional resonant bell. Perhaps, after quietly relaying his weekend updates, such a Sunday Town Murmurer would even linger at the corner, telling a few comic stories before moving on to other neighborhoods.

There were certainly Pied Town Crier Pipers, however. Of that I have no doubt. After being used and abused by the town's elders, these Pied Town Crier Pipers took their revenge by leading citizens astray with hypnotic chants of divisive fake news, mindless celebrity gossip, and endless stats from international sporting events. In fact, the Pied Town Crier Pipers are still with us today, although they are now wear the garb of professional journalists instead of a mottled tunics with matching leggings and floppy hats.

Batten Down The Hatches

People's personality weather is as unpredictable as real weather. High pressure in the cerebellum means it's going to be overcast with periods of acid rain spreading across the hippocampus by early morning, although some streaks of pale sunlight could possibly break through on the hypothalamus towards late afternoon if we're lucky. But I'd still pack an umbrella just in case.

Looking further into the week ahead, a dense fog could drift into the frontal lobes without warning on Wednesday. And beware of Thursday's isolated lightning storms that strike the spinal cord at dusk. Worse, there's a risk of forest fires engulfing large sections of scalp thanks to the careless disposal of inflammable thoughts.

Alas, human faces lack built-in barometers indicating what atmospheric conditions will be encountered when confronted with someone else's moods. And, woe is us, weathervanes do not protrude from human skulls forecasting which way the wind blows in an individual's current frame of mind. 

If only there was some sort of radar to track the storms brewing behind the eyes of those with whom we interact on a daily basis. But no such luck. We are thrust out into the world equipped only with whatever foul weather gear we've managed to accumulate from past life experience. And such meagre provisions provide inadequate protection from the changeable conditions that prevail.

Nevertheless, should ever meet me face to face, let in be known that my own personality enjoys a fairly temperate climate. It's mid-seventies in my mind, usually. All day long, all year round. Sure, a few clouds drift by from time to time, but mostly it's bright and clear and comfortable in my brain.

My customer Frank, on the other hand. Well, it's always heavy monsoon season in his head and he just can't cope. And that Sarah woman who Frank hired just last week? Complete arctic freeze as far as I can tell. Personally, I blame the man-made global warming of their workflow operations. Too much hot air passes between them, especially on those incessant Zoom calls Frank organizes. So bring me my sou'wester and galoshes, I'm invited to another on Monday morning.

As an aging member of the workforce, I comply with my own strict Kyoto protocol. In fact, I've 'gone green' ever since I gave up burning the fossil fuels of professional ambition, recycling all those ancient flow charts and productivity graphs from the days before the flood. That's how I keep my head above water when Frank is forecast to make land fall.