SR936SW

I would rather risk dismantling and reassembling a Fabergé egg than attempt to replace my wristwatch battery. Even simply removing the back of the watch is a complex operation requiring a steady hand and nerves of steel. One small slip and the entire case will be irrevocably damaged. And if I can remove the back without incident, I'm faced with an intricate set of cogs, wheels and springs that makes the inner workings of H. G. Wells' Time Machine look like the engine of a Honda Civic. Then the battery must be eased away from its mooring with surgical precision. Removing the detonator from an unexploded bomb in a densely populated area is child's play by comparison. I swear the asylums of the world are full of quivering, wild-eyed wrecks who tried to replace their own watch batteries. So, for sanity's sake, I pay a local jeweler a princely sum to do it for me.

Methuselah is a million years old, slightly hunchbacked, came from some European country that no longer exists, and is disgusted by modern chronometry. He knows more about Swiss movement than the Rothschilds know about Swiss banking, and whenever I visit his workshop he tries selling me an antique Rolex that is even more ancient than himself. After failing to make that sale, he offers me a selection of vintage lizard skin watch straps, so antediluvian they possibly came from a flayed Tyrannosaurus Rex. Nothing doing, so he resorts to insulting my watch because it was built in Russia, by Vostok. I actually own another Russian watch, made by Raketa, that he would really despise. But fortunately that one is mechanical and doesn't require a battery. 

Considering his great age, I'm surprised Methuselah doesn't need a battery himself, just to keep going. Perhaps he does. Perhaps his wife must take him to the watch-repairman repair shop every six months to keep the old man ticking over. And perhaps the watch-repairman repairman insults her for still being married to such an archaic model from a vanquished motherland. He's a dying breed, no doubt, and they'll run out of spare parts for him one of these days, which means Methuselah Jewelers will sadly pull down its storefront shutters for the final time. Who will replace my watch battery then? Can I trust an American jeweler with a magnifying glass and flash light strapped to his forehead? I'm not sure. Maybe I'll be forced to retire my Vostok an buy a Timex or, God forbid, an Apple watch or Fitbit that you simply 'charge' with the appropriate USB cable. That will be the end of Time for me.

Mysteries of the Foot, Part Ten

There are toenail clippers hidden deep in the back of the bathroom closet, sunk at the bottom of my toiletries bag, abandoned on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, sprawling carelessly on the marble sink counter-top beside the toothbrush holder. It's even possible there are toenail clippers still hanging off the end of my toenails that I completely forgot about mid clip. So many toenail clippers, so little actual toenail growth.

The thing is, I don't remember ever buying a single pair. So how did I accrue this record-breaking collection of toenail clipper? I suppose they could have been left in my house by absent-minded house guests. But I don't think I'd invite the sort of person who cuts their toenails in other people's homes. That's an ablution you perform in the privacy of your own domestic sanctuary. 

Perhaps they were a promotional give-away free from my podiatrist; or included gratis with every six-pack purchase of extra-fine and very fragile silk socks. I certainly never paid money for any of these toenail clippers that now create so much clutter in my bathroom. Just another mystery of the foot, one amongst so many. 

The Theosophist's Spring Break

Alas, the wise man sighed as we waited at the departure gate, we are surrounded by literal-minded people with remote-control drones where their brains should be. Never take anything literally, not even facts, especially not data, and never statistics. Graphs are not worth the graph paper they are printed on. Charts and maps will lead you astray and Venn diagrams just go around in circles. 

But don't believe me, either, the wise man added. I'm merely a secondhand encyclopedia salesman disguised as a spiritual guru. Just remember one thing: your objective should always be subjective and vice versa, or else you'll end up with lots of invective. I guess we can board now.

Like most wise men, he had once sat cross-legged in the ruins of an ancient temple, projecting an air of well-rehearsed inscrutability that was really a ruse to avoid meaningful conversation. But now he was speaking from seat B1 on the red-eye to Cancun, enjoying the extra leg room and in-flight entertainment system. A member of the cabin crew passed him another complimentary miniature bottle of vodka. 

All you can drink trolley service in the air followed by all you can eat buffet on the ground when you arrive at the resort. This is the life, he said. It doesn't get better than this. Then the wise man emptied his glass with a single gulp, covered his face with a sleep mask, and switched off his overhead light. Nirvana, he murmured. 

I encountered the wise man again two days later, while walking along the beach at sunset. He was standing waist deep in the waves, staring fixedly into the middle distance, but waved when he saw me. I didn't mean to disturb your meditation, I said apologetically. 

No worries, the wise man replied. I was actually just taking a discreet piss. Too many cocktails at lunch on top of the bottomless cappuccino this morning. My soul might be saved but my bladder is very definitely doomed. Speaking of, it's almost time for the dinner gong if you care to join me. I reserved a table at the tiki bar. They serve anything you want but I'm a huge fan of their Piña colada and crab cakes combo.

Observe the stars at night, the wise man told me as we waited for our dessert. See how they twinkle like the twinkle in the eye of some mischief-maker planning a practical joke. Imagine Jesus successfully walking on water for fifteen paces and then he suddenly steps on a banana skin that's floating on the surface. The whole Zodiac rocks with laughter. Well, that's how I became Enlightened wandering out in the wilderness, clad in nothing but my grubby loin cloth cum diaper, Lady Godiva length hair and an unkempt, flea infested beard. He gestured at the waiter. Order me a Caribbean Zombie, but with the dark rum and no orange slice. I've got to siphon the python again. 

I'm going to need a vacation to recover from my vacation, the wise man grunted when he returned from relieving himself. Fortunately, my job is emerging from a cloud of incense to spout counter-intuitive parables at credulous hippies, so it's not that taxing. And this is my souvenir, he said, slapping his bulging, over-stuffed belly. Tomorrow it's back to vegetarianism and holy water until Midsummer. Although I'll sneak in few mixers now and then, he added, indicating the two tiny bottles of airplane booze stashed in his pocket.