The Milky Way

'Imagine you're an astronaut experiencing significant gravitational force during blast-off,' I told myself while almost horizontal in the dentist's chair, my poor face exhibiting a ridiculous rictus grin. 'Per ardua ad astra,' as they say in sky pilot circles.

Being called from the waiting room certainly felt like exiting Earth's atmosphere; and entering this surgical room a good approximation of climbing into some NASA rocket's capsule. 

Now, after the novocaine, I'm drifting in outer space between hitherto unknown nebulas and hazy stars. That overhead lamp has become double moons, quickly eclipsed by a Martian warlord wearing mint-green scrubs, who approaches with his science-fiction tools of tooth and gum torture. 

But I am Captain Fez, trained to withstand any pain in the known Universe, even a root canal like the one that made Flash Gordon cry. 

Meanwhile, in another stratosphere, strands of silvery dental floss are sucked into a Black Hole that resembles an open mouth. An electric bristled toothbrush hurtles through time on its mission to discover hard to reach cavities. But I'm in suspended animation and wouldn't notice a Supernova if one exploded in my face.

"I'd like to probe you again in about six months," the Martian warlord says when his interrogation of my molars is finally over. "Please see the Venusian slave-girl at the reception desk to make an appointment on your way out."

And so I return to Earth, still feeling slightly weightless and unable to do much other than mumble and sigh. 'One small sigh for me, one giant smirk for my dentist's bank account,' to paraphrase Neil Armstrong.

Paper People

Sometimes I feel like an old library book: a musty hardback that has lost its dust-cover, with yellowed pages and coffee stains, and a few confusing sentences underlined in ballpoint pen. There's an abandoned bookmark inserted at chapter twelve, as far as most readers get before giving up. After all, the hero is not that engaging, never mind actually heroic. The plot is pretty much non-existent and you know who is the murderer is when you're only about halfway through. So it's more of a Why Would Anyone Bother rather than Whodunnit type of mystery. Last borrowed in 1975 according to the librarian's stamp, apparently by mistake. Still, even though it's just a predictable novel about nothing in particular, at least it's a book.

And it's better than feeling like the local supermarket circular, with which many citizens I see out on the street must secretly identify. Stare into their eyes and you will see 'on-sale' coupons for fruit flavored cans of soda. Look into their hearts and it's a package of cured deli meat, pre-sliced. And there are other people who are a daily newspaper with the cartoons and crossword missing. Just a gloomy front page, police blotter, classified ads, and a Sudoko puzzle filled out incorrectly. An entire community of waste paper that would be more productive if used to line the bottom of a pensioner's underwear drawer, or folded into the shape of an airplane to keep the kids amused. 

Goodbye To All This

As the leaves make their final farewells to the trees, I also bid adieu to Cedar Street. I was watching the world from my window when I made the decision to depart. There has to be a room with a better view than this, I told myself; a superior rectangle of world somewhere else that's more inspiring that this present portrait of quotidian ennui.  Perhaps it was just the net curtain irritating my face again, but I knew it was time to move on. Just take a look for yourself:

Commuter traffic struggles over the speed bumps in the street. The mailman shuffles down the sidewalk with his burden of unwanted consumer catalogs and credit card bills. Screaming children are dragged to school by exhausted parents. A homeless man collapses on the curb wondering where it all went wrong. All the neighborhood front and back yards have been paved over, so the early bird can catch no worm, fluttering aimlessly from wire to wire instead. And in the nooks and crannies of the cul-de-sac, a stray dog that's lost all sense of scent slams its head against the wall. Even the local rats seem confused by the haphazard sewer system that runs beneath the road. Where do all creatures great and small go from here?

I'm thinking the seaside. A brief thumb through the magazine called Coastal Living convinced me to check out ocean real estate. After all, I've always been fond of sand dunes and salty air, as the old song goes. I could haunt the harbor, watching what remains of the fishing fleet come and go. I could carve effigies of marine life from driftwood and sell my creations to tourists for cash. I could drink rum cocktails every night while watching the sun set over the bay. I could stack battered buoys and wrecked lobster pots against my house with a little plaque above reading "Ahoy there, matey. Welcome to the Captain's cabin."

I could do all that. But I'd be satisfied with merely seeing eternity reflected in a rock pool and the echoing sound of crashing waves. I'd bring the stray dog with me, too, because he'd enjoy all the smells of the beach and chasing gulls along the shoreline. We'd share a plate of fried cod and a side of clams then wander off home down the coast road. Contentment can be so easy.

Blue Sky Thinking

I never understood why the protagonist in 'Eat, Pray, Love' traveled to three different countries to sample food, transcendence, and romance. Elizabeth Gilbert could easily have experienced all three in Naples and saved on her airfare. 

After all, Napoli, besides being the home of pizza, is also a city of many fascinating churches and Sophia Loren. Its centro storico is quite different than the lungomare or the affluent neighborhood of Chiaia, so Elizabeth could at least feel like she was visiting three different environments despite remaining within the confines of the capital of Campania.

But I would never presume to find fault with the logic of an international bestseller (although such editorial changes would certainly have reduced the budget of the movie adaptation).

In fact, with enough ITA Airways air miles, a smart person could Eat, Pray, Love for free in Napoli. Well, the pizza would be about ten euros or so. Entering the Duomo is free but you'd surely leave a donation of about five euro. The price of love? Well, that's up to you, I guess. Although I would not recommend economy in that department. Nevertheless, I think the total gross expenditure would be a lot less than Elizabeth shelled out for her epiphanies.

Of course, the male equivalent of 'Eat, Pray, Love' is probably 'Drink, Watch Sport, Ogle,' and to indulge in those venerable if somewhat questionable activities I'd advise Mr Gilbert to also spend an educational weekend in Napoli.

I think the average guy could learn a lot from a combination of Italian amari, the Serie A championship-winning soccer team, and all the fashionable ladies sauntering along Via dei Mille. Perhaps I should write a book? 

Falling Off The Catwalk

You may notice the appearance of American Fez has changed. It is not as debonair as it once was; it's dressed down now and not as polished or well-groomed as previously. All its former 'sprezzatura' has been eliminated in favor of simple, utilitarian presentation. Suffice it say, the American Fez is no longer turning heads at Design Central. In fact, this poor blog would probably be unceremoniously ejected from Design Central and its membership card ripped into tiny pieces. This unfortunate tate of affairs occurs because I've been forced to switch blogging platforms from fashion-conscious Typepad to sweatpant-clad Blogger. So not only have I been required to swap my glad rags for plain old rags, I've also had to mess around with the so-called Domain Mapping (which is like trying to learn to tie your shoelaces with your teeth). Consequently, I'm not ever sure if loyal readers can even find me and my nonsense anymore. So if you are legacy reader from bygone days, please leave a comment here so I know you are not lost in the digital wilderness unable to find the sanctuary of Stephenesque during this period of transition and sartorial economy. Thank you.

The Customer Is Now And Always

Life is a supermarket featuring maze-like aisles stocked with a variety of different experiences: some fresh and organic, many often frozen TV dinners, and a lot canned in gooey syrup. You'll need help getting what you want down from the top shelf, and you'll find yourself put in the awkward position of asking a sullen stranger with a name tag if there's more of it stored out back. Don't forget your discount coupons and loyalty cards when you go shopping. And it's best to make a list before you visit, although that's impossible unless you've been reincarnated.

So how did you end up pushing the shopping cart with the broken wheel? Difficult to maneuver and causing obstructions in the personal care section. Perhaps you should have just taken a basket instead? After all, you only came in to pick up a few things. The basics. At least that's what you told yourself. So much for the Ten Items Or Less lane idea. Ah well, you'll just have to wait in the long line at check-out until you're called. "Cashier Number Fifty-Six Million is now available." And the funny thing is, you are not only the Consumer but also Cashier Number Fifty-Six Million, wearily unloading the experiences in your cart then also watching them trundle down the check-out conveyor belt towards you, scanning each one and placing it in your re-usable bag.

But wait a moment, what is this exotic purple fruit that the Cashier you doesn't know the price code for? The Consumer you doesn't remember putting that in his cart and he's not sure he wants the odd looking thing anyway. Is it possible to speak to a manager? Is somebody in charge here? Does anybody know what's going on? I've been shopping here my entire life and I've never had a problem before. I don't have the time for unknown exotic fruits right now.

Alas, no manager comes. Consumer you stands there staring at the Cashier you and he stares back. People in line behind you are getting impatient. You're holding everybody up. You know, just put it in my bag. We'll call it an American Mauve Melon selling for twenty bucks a pound. That seems about right. That seems fair. I've got other things to do and other places to be and, who knows, maybe I'll even like it. Just put it in my bag with the receipt. thanks. Jesus, what a life in the supermarket. Still, it's better than experiencing everything Online, I guess. Now, where did I park my car?