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. 

Man's Fate

My survivalist neighbor, John, has been busy converting his nuclear fallout shelter into an emergency water tank. Apparently no longer afraid of fiery death falling from the skies, these days he's more concerned about drought and data centers consuming all his drinking water. 

Preternaturally paranoid, like most Doomsday preppers, John is disguising this new water tank as a backyard swimming pool. 'So no scavengers will drink my water,' he confided. 'Because they'll think it's full of chlorine and kids' urine like every other swimming pool,' 

To paraphrase Roosevelt, I guess he has nothing to fear but a post-apocalyptic Burt Lancaster doing laps and pontificating from the shallow end, while John tries to surreptitiously quench his thirst.

'What are you using for a source?' I asked him. 'Sparkling or still? 

'I'm tapping a natural aquifer that runs beneath the sidewalk ,' John replied. 'And probably add a hint of lemon or lime, depending on the availability of fresh produce, as I'm sure local fruit farmers will be impacted by the water shortages.'

Too much work for too little reward, as far as I'm concerned. Personally, I've been putting money aside every year to save up for my ticket on the Human Ark rocket-ship that takes mankind to Mars. Sure, I can only afford an economy seat, but I'm good with that. After all, who needs a china tea service and fancy cutlery if you're in suspended animation for however long the trip takes?

And we all know John's water tank will eventually fail. Remember when his jerry-built porch addition collapsed on that Amazon delivery guy? Even the zucchinis in his vegetable patch withered and died before harvest time, and his herb garden is already a virtual wasteland.

John's going to feel pretty stupid distilling and sterilizing his own urine when he gets the interstellar postcard from my Martian home. 'So much better relaxing on this red rock in outer space than fighting murderous gangs of thirst-crazed zombies on that burning desert we called Earth,' I'll write. 'Wish you were here.'

In truth, of course, I'll be glad that he isn't there. Fanatical lunatics like John will definitely not be welcome in the New New World. We shall be required to be ruthless if we discover a stowaway on our ship because we don't want a repeat of all man's madness that prompted us to leave in the first place.

All Along The Watchtower

Instead of a traditional welcome mat, Gerald's front door featured four big signs: Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted, Beware of the Dog, This Property Protected By Zonal Security, and No Soliciting, Police Take Notice. There was no sculpted pineapple perched over the threshold, nor any other example of whimsical greeting to indicate gracious hospitality could be found inside. It was more of a fortress than a home. The kind of place where the basement was converted into a nuclear fallout shelter instead of a man-cave. Chez paranoia with two and half baths.

With some justification, you might describe Gerald's house as the domestic equivalent of a surveillance state, with closed-circuit television recording every nook and cranny. Visitors couldn't even escape his electronic eye by stepping into the backyard, as there were cameras hidden in the shrubbery, listening devices surreptitiously attached to the sprinkler system, and motion detectors triggered by every blade of grass. His neighbors called Gerald's garden gate 'Checkpoint Charlie,' and the mailman pretended to be a clandestine courier from some foreign power, delivering secret documents and fake passports to a dead letter drop.

'You can never be too careful these days,' Gerald declared, allowing his head to be scanned by facial recognition software, a necessary protocol before the reinforced steel doors to his living room would swing open. 'Take a seat. Drink?'

'Pepsi for me, please,' I replied.

'Sorry, I don't keep commercial beverages in the house. It's impossible to track the liquid's route from point of origin to final destination. Anything could happen to it during the journey: contamination, increased toxicity, even dilution.'

'Okay, I just have whatever you're having, then.'

'I only imbibe my own recycled urine, although I do risk adding a splash of aromatic bitters if I'm in a festive mood.'

'A glass of water?'

'Certainly, although it might take a while.' Gerald informed me. 'You see, I draw all my water by hand from a climate-controlled artesian well plumbed in a secret location on my property. I don't trust tap or bottled water. Nobody in their right mind would.'

'Oh, well, don't bother if it's that's much trouble. I'm fine.'

'Oh good,' he said with a sigh of relief. 'I have a contractor coming round in an hour with a quote to install barbed wire coils on my perimeter fencing. There is a block party on this street at the weekend and I want to make adequate preparations for any and all eventualities.'

It was not easy for me to gain admittance to Gerald's inner sanctum. Applicants were required to undergo a comprehensive vetting procedure that included submitting a written essay on their reasons for visiting, providing three forms of photographic identification, and be personally vouched for by two unrelated individuals known and trusted by Gerald for a period of at least five years, preferably longer.

In my case, the three IDs had been forged by council elders, two of Gerald's closest friends were bribed to endorse my application, and the essay was written by AI. It was a risky strategy but had worked. I had been allowed to gallop over Gerald's drawbridge and breach his defenses. Now it was time to get down to business. 

'Your essay explained that you wanted to inquire about the Bouncy Prison on my lawn.' Gerald said, 'Well, it doesn't get much use because I have no children and other people's children are banned from the premises. But it's the same as a regulation Bouncy Castle except that you lock the kids in so they can't get out. I bought it on a whim in case the need should arise to incarcerate local brats while keeping them entertained until their parents arrive with the ransom money.'

'That is profoundly interesting. Thanks for giving me the lowdown.' I replied. 'But I do have one more question before I leave you to the barbed wire salesman. Have you heard the Good News of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ? This magazine The Watchtower has some really wonderful articles you might find particularly inspiring.'

Fiduciary Fun And Games

My accountant, Robert Cratchit CPA, crunches his numbers in two dark rooms above a Panda Express, surrounded by beige filing cabinets that are older than Stonehenge, and a dusty display of museum-quality calculators and ink-jet printers that beep and belch with irritating regularity. The only window is permanently jammed shut in favor of an ancient A/C unit, recycling lukewarm air tinged with a vague hint of industrial-strength soy sauce.

The ambience in Bob’s office might inspire Edward Hopper to set up his easel and open his paintbox. A portrait of two shadowy figures furtively burning the midnight oil. Nighthawks At The Paper Shredding Machine, perhaps. I often think it’s the sort of place where Bernie Madoff did his internship.

Last July, after placing a to-go order two egg rolls and a thing of fried rice, I made my bi-annual ascent of the Bob’s back stairs to deliver some important news. ‘For the next fiscal quarter, I’ll be switching up my Monopoly game,’ I told him. 'From the standard edition to one of those fancy theme editions based on popular movie franchises and other types of entertainment.'

His face darkened momentarily, as if this meant not just cooking my books but stewing them for several hours in a combination of congealed fraud sauce and dry-rubbed embezzlement. Fortunately, his mood lightened considerably as I explained my intention of playing the Harry Potter World of Wizardry version of Monopoly from now on.

'But you've always done okay as the Scottish Terrier; house on Connecticut Avenue; passing Go every year and collecting your two-hundred bucks; a little Community Chest now and then; not much Chance, zero Luxury Tax. It's a conservative strategy that's served you well. Why risk everything now with this trendy Gryffindor nonsense? I mean, you haven't even seen the films, never mind read the actual novels.'

'I know. It's just that I'm just sick of opening the same old Monopoly box each morning. Commuting around the same pale blue-green board every day, one or two spaces at a time, landing on the same boring Utilities. I really think I need some magic in my life.'

The day was drawing to a close. What natural light remained in Bob's office sank into shag-piles of dust and antediluvian coffee stains. We would have been arguing in the dark if it wasn't for the harsh yellow glow from an aggressively twisted Anglepoise lamp screwed into his desk. He took a deep, wheezy breath and sighed, then shrugged his heavily dandruff laden shoulders.  

'Everybody want some magic in their lives,' he said eventually. 'Of course they do. I've been there myself. But are you sure you want to go straight from Pennsylvania Railroad to the Hogwarts Express? Clamping a broomstick between your legs, waving a wand around, chanting gibberish all day long. Seems like a very big jump to me. Too big for you. You'd misplace your Philosophers Stone before your turn to throw the dice. And you're way too conflict averse to play with evil characters like Lord Voldemort. He'd walk right over you. Imagine landing on one of his hotel properties. You'd be bankrupt in the first five minutes.'

'So you're telling me not to diversify my Hasbro portfolio; to forget the Harry Potter dividends and stick with regular everyday Monopoly?'

'Yeah. Stick with regular everyday Monopoly. Honestly, it's a fine old game with a proven track record. Absolutely you can swap out your Scotty Dog counter for the Top Hat. if you want.  You deserve an upgrade after all these years of playing. Then simply wait your turn, throw the dice, collect your two hundred bucks, but let the big guys win. It's a safe bet that way, as safe as houses, provided your competition doesn't own the title deed for the property where the houses are.'

Bob's advice wasn't what I wanted to hear. But perhaps he was right. I was nearly sixty years old; slowly being swallowed by the whale of retirement like a decrepit, gray-haired Jonah; far too old for a Hogwarts freshman. After all, I'm merely an egg roll and fried rice guy, not some chiseled hero who fearlessly inhales enchanted elixirs from Goblets of Fire. At least, not during the week anyway. And nobody invites me to join the local Kiwanis club, never mind an Order of the Phoenix or other secret society. Who was I kidding to think I could survive and prosper in a Wizarding World of occult finance?

So I left Bob's office and shuffled downstairs to Panda Express, feeling somewhat disappointed yet content and relieved to be maintaining the fiscal status quo rather than learning a brand new game. I paid for my take-out with Visa, adding a decent tip as usual, even though the service was perfunctory at best. Credit cards, eh? Who needs magic when we already live in Never Never Land.

How I Became A Pacifist

Many years ago, when I was but a callow youth, our well-traveled neighbor returned from a sightseeing trip to Australia wth a gift for me. It was a boomerang, obviously, and my inner snob, which was maturing much faster than the rest of me, was somewhat bored by its predictability. At least it's not a stuffed Koala bear, I concluded, or a Sydney Opera House snow-globe. What I really wanted, of course, was a huge Crocodile Dundee style 'bush' knife. Something that I could use to threaten the local kids. They would only laugh at the boomerang, knowing that if I tried to throw the damn thing it would neither find its target nor return to me when concluding its round-trip journey through the air.

And, indeed, that's exactly what happened. Although I never discovered if in fact the boomerang would have come spinning back to me, as it crashed through the window of our well-traveled neighbor's garden shed mid-flight. Fortunately, he was away at the time, visiting Istanbul for business reasons, so I was able to clandestinely retrieve the boomerang while denying any culpability for the incident. It might have been the local kids playing baseball, I volunteered, when asked if I knew anything about the damage. 

After being so completely unhelpful, I recall standing there for several minutes, a brazenly innocent yet greedily expectant expression on my face, glancing at the well-traveled neighbor's luggage, wondering if he'd brought me back a souvenir from Istanbul. I had no idea what kind of weapons were wielded in the shadows of the Topkapi Palace, but was pretty sure they would be far more frightening and effective than a dumb boomerang. I was thinking possibly a curved blade, similar to a scimitar, or maybe even a double-headed axe. Both could usefully spark terror in the hearts of local kids in playgrounds everywhere.

Alas, my well-traveled neighbor merely produced a bag of tourist quality Turkish Delight from his suitcase. He seemed to believe I'd be excited by these unappetizing lumps of powdery confection, but the only people who needed to live in fear of them were my dentist and his hygienist. Let's be frank, Turkish Delight wouldn't even hurt if you threw it pointblank at your enemy's eye. Between this innocuous bag of candy and the unreliable boomerang, my well-traveled neighbor's gifts had left me defenseless, at the mercy of vindictive local kids, whose cap guns their neighbors had given them after day trips to the Alamo or Tombstone. Is Turkish Delight pellet proof? What if I glued together a suit of armor for myself from all those tiny cubes of starch and sugar? To be honest, I'd be better protected by a marzipan nose guard and a licorice jockstrap. I was screwed.

The white flag of surrender was not an option, but since my uncle had just returned from a guided tour of the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, the pipe of peace was. Although he hadn't actually presented me with such a pragmatic souvenir, my uncle did smoke Virginia leaf, so I was able to borrow one of his more elaborately designed regular tobacco pipes, claiming it was hand carved by a Lakota medicine man. I even drew a few buffalo around the bowl with an erasable marker pen just to reinforce the effect. The local kids would never fathom the depths of my deception. They were far too ignorant and easily impressed by Wild West nonsense, which was partly why I'd been at war with them in the first place. But sometimes discretion is the better part of valor, especially when inconsiderate adults won't help you assemble a lethal arsenal of your own.

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.

Shod

In the shoe store, I've never been a loafer guy. Especially not the casual, virtually shapeless canvas kinds worn without socks. And definitely not those velvet, so-called Venetian, slipper sorts that seem ridiculously impractical for negotiating canals and gondolas. Both are more appropriate for a Turkish brothel rather than city streets in the USA.

And speaking of houses of ill-repute, what depths of professional and aesthetic depravity were plumbed by the cobbler's workshop that first stitched decorative tassels on a client's loafer? Tassels belong on a Vegas showgirl's costume and nowhere else. That shoemaker was obviously aided by the wrong sort of elves.

As for penny loafers, well, even the name sounds cheap. 'Golden doubloon' loafers I might consider, but only for wearing around the house pretending to be a pirate. I'd never allow myself to be seen outside in such an insult to proper footwear. In fact, if you ask me, any shoe that lacks laces can be classified as resort-wear. 

But, for me, such rigid rule-making ends below the ankle. I'm happy to clothe the rest of myself in sporty socks, blue jeans, open-necked shirts and chore coats. I've even been known to opt for a pair of Bermuda shorts if the weather is unbearably hot and humid. So I'm not sure how or why I became a draconian tyrant about shoes. Draco himself surely wore open-toed sandals, which always leaves me wondering how any self-respecting Athenian could have taken him and his tedious laws seriously. 

I suppose we can make an exception for Italians wearing loafers, but only in the south and when lounging beside the sea. 'Dolce far niente' is a very good excuse, after all, and only a fool would argue with its wisdom. Besides, it would be rude and unseemly to impede your neighborhood passeggiata by kneeling down in the middle of the sidewalk to re-tie a shoelace that's come undone. 

On second thoughts, perhaps I should begin envisaging myself as a loafer guy. When all is said and done, it seems that sitting at cafe tables in the sun while talking nonsense and pontificating is all I'm good for in these days of enforced retirement. And that's the loafer lifestyle in a slip-on nutshell. Thank you for letting me talk this out with you. I'm thankful for your time.

The Star Gazer's Almanack

I'm a very poor planner. My daily 'To Do' list may as well be written in invisible ink and blueprints for my future fade as soon as they're unfolded. And I'm pretty much legally blind when it comes to Vision Boards or manifestation maps. 

Going forward, I'm just stumbling around in the dark with a faulty flashlight. Someone who shall remain nameless always neglects to replace the dead batteries. There are sleepwalkers with a better sense of direction than me.

Fortunately, I have a lucky star to follow. It's named Unsirius and sits in an obscure constellation called The Leprechaun, forming the tip of his long beard and illuminating that proverbial pot of gold. 

How do I know it's my star? Well, it's only visible by observing the night sky through the wrong end of a telescope, from the middle of the Bermuda Triangle, and only when it's raining. I'm the only person who does that, as far as I know. 

And how do I know it's also lucky? I don't get wet when I'm following it, that's how, even though I obviously didn't plan to bring an umbrella with me.

So I go here and there, wherever my star leads me. I do this and that whenever my star winks. And I remind myself, as Ralph Waldo Emerson claimed, that life is a journey and not a destination. 

Being about mid-journey now, I've accumulated many pictures of roadside attractions along the many circuitous routes I've taken: memorable people I've met; breathtaking buildings I've visited; beautiful landscapes I've walked through; out of focus snapshots of good times I can't quite remember.

But mostly there's a scrapbook filled with selfies of me imitating a Mediterranean wayfarer disembarking from his private yacht. Perhaps that's who I've always wanted to be: the Sailor from Gibraltar approaching the Port of Shadows. 

But ambition lost at sea, dream overboard, castaway on a desert island of what might have been. I lack the energy and motivation to maintain that kind of A-list lifestyle. I'm certainly a man of leisure these days. I just don't own a boat and couldn't afford to pay the crew anyway.

It's Spring now. The season of new beginnings. My star is shining on Erewhon Avenue, as usual, directly above the alfresco tables of the French cafe about halfway down the street.

Take a seat, the starlight seems to indicate, you've done enough already. The only plan you need to make this evening is when to move inside to the bistro after finishing your apéritif.

Machiavelli The Scrivener

"If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever." So wrote George Orwell in his novel, 1984.' 

Reading in my safe, terror-free teenage bedroom, I often used to wonder what kind of boot it would be.

A traditional Nazi jackboot? 

Or a trendy desert boot designed to conceal the threat to our republic behind an aura of nonchalant hipsterism?

A muddy hiking boot maybe, for intimidating rural insurgents in the mountains? 

Or perhaps a furry Ugg boot worn in feminist controlled dictatorships? 

An authoritarian astronaut's anti-gravity boot to future-proof any nascent Stalin's off-Earth autocracy? 

Wellington boot for history buff tyrants who conduct their brutal repressions via live action re-enactments of the Battle of Waterloo? 

Thigh-high river wader for reigns of terror focused around the Venetian lagoon? 

And what about a Das Boot, for confused German film students with a poor command of remedial English? 

Submarines aside, I guess it doesn't matter what type of boot it is, as long as we're talking about a size twelve with steel toe inserts.

But Orwell was ever so slightly incorrect, of course. It isn't a boot we need to fear but a bot. An internet bot, from Russia or China or even Arizona. 

And it won't be stamping on a human face. No, it will be doing the informational equivalent: posting on social media.

In other words: "If you want a picture of the future, imagine an AI bot commentating on a human Facebook feed —forever."

To be fair, the blog post you're currently reading can't claim to provide much better content than the imminent AI bot dystopia. 

All I've done is waste your valuable time with a list of whimsical boot possibilities for 21st Century Caesar's shopping list.

Mind you, if any 21st Century Caesar is reading this, please consider me for a role in your propaganda department. I need a job. 

00AD

As eldest Elder and Scribe Emeritus of South Cashville Mega Church, the Lord has commanded me to authoritatively translate the New Testament into contemporary Evangelical-English, customizing its formerly wishy-washy contents to fit our own highly personal prejudices and preferences about this modern world we currently share with zillions of sacrilegious scumbags whose existence we can't tolerate. 

In his infinite wisdom and mercy that works in mysterious ways, God has also instructed me to "highlight the NT's latent eroticism and make the whole thing more commercially upscale." Consequently, I'm adding a lot more exciting 'cinematic' chapters and premium tier parables that do not appear in the original, lame-ass, bleeding-heart source material. Let's just say my new versions of the gospels are more James Bond than King James, more Palm Beach than Palm Sunday. Although my Book of Revelation is still pretty similar to Tyndale's sixteenth-century rendering of those super fun events we're all looking forward to. Hallelujah!

But I don't blame Mark, John, Matthew and the other guy for their usually uninspiring and often tedious scriptural efforts. After all, they wrote before the invention of movie cameras and special effects, so it's not the Apostles' fault that innovative, big-budget blockbusters such as The Spy Who Loved Me and Octopussy weren't screened in Judean theaters to demonstrate how to construct a fast-paced thriller, and why their unfortunately primitive, prudish and sanctimonious Bible stories lack car chases, high-tech gadgets, exotic locations and passionate sex scenes with foreign love interests. 

Not that my New Testament transforms Jesus into a typical, close-up ready 'man of action.' For example, my Messiah doesn't kick the moneychangers out of the Temple himself. No, my King of Peace controls an invincable squadron of Kung Fu Killer Disciple Drones (KFKDDs) that fight all his righteous battles for him. Meanwhile, he's relaxing at the beach club in Galilee, seducing all the hot babes gathered at his feet by turning water in Vodka Martinis, shaken not stirred, and challenging the evil Pharisees to coups of baccarat. Blessed be his name!

One crucial improvement I've made is that Jesus doesn't die in the end. He escapes to Alexandria with a suitcase full of cash and Foxy Foxdalene, the most beautiful woman in Judea. Honestly, that whole gloomy crucifixion thing is such a downer. What were the Apostles thinking? Forget about them, my unputdownable translation of the New Testament should be available from Amazon and all good bookshops this Easter. 

The price tag of $666 in Bitcoin might seem slightly expensive compared to most other instantly downloadable ebooks, but it took me several weeks to spice things up to a level acceptable to God, especially those dreary Letters of Paul to the Thessalonians: not worth the price of a stamp in their earlier form, if you ask me. All that hard labor at the coal face of the Lord doesn't get done for free, you know. 

Furthermore, you can consider your purchase to be a donation to the very Holy and Sacred cause of spreading the Good Word far and wide. So why not withdraw all your retirement savings and buy as many as possible? You too can feel like an Evangelist for just the cost of a small second house that you'd only rent out to blasphemous lefty students anyway. Amen.

Off White Collar

I'm no clothes horse, more of a clothes donkey, possibly even a clothes ass, but I do try to take pride in my personal appearance as far as anatomically and financially possible.

Nevertheless, I'm always dissatisfied whenever I study my reflection in a full-length mirror. Why does the expensive silk shirt I bought suddenly seem cheap? Why is there sheen on my sport coat lapels when there should be shine? These black shoes are too formal to pair with these green and burgundy polka-dot socks. Furthermore, my left pant leg is too short and the right leg is too long. I wanted to be the new Beau Brummell but I just look Bow-legged instead. I can't go out looking like this.

Time to summon my inner quick-change artist. So I slip into a different shirt, kick the formal shoes off, yank the socks over my long-suffering feet, pull on other some other pants, step into dark brown loafers, thread a casual belt though droopy belt loops and try to hide everything beneath a dark blue blazer.

Yet that damn mirror still denounces me as the complete opposite of the fairest of them all; the absolute bottom of the city's best-dressed list. Hmm. What if I roll my sleeves up, tuck the shirt tails in tighter and unbutton another button down from my already gaping open collar, taper the trousers to my ankles, adjust the hem on everything, then switch it all up from plaid to stripes or perhaps just plain old plain pattern?

Alas, none of these alternatives will reconfigure my disheveled silhouette into an acceptable shape. They are all conventional clothes in my regular size, so why do I appear to be wearing clown shoes, jodhpurs, and an off-the-shoulder peasant blouson? This might be a fine uniform for nine-to-five in an Oriental harem but it's not really appropriate for a downtown office, not even on Casual Fridays. But I have to leave now or I'll be late for work.

Of course, despite looking like Sinbad the Sailor, I'm still the most put-together and debonair guy in the conference room. My colleagues resemble a ramshackle gang of grimy vagrants who've just rolled out of their moth-eaten beds.  Such are the disgraceful sartorial standards in the modern workplace that even an unstylish chump like me might be Cary Grant compared to his slovenly associates.

No wonder the writing is on the wall for our doomed business, except the writing is printed in Comic Sans on an unwashed 'The Dude Abides' tee-shirt. Honestly, who would want to hire such an unfashionable and unprepossessing group of  unkempt deadbeats? Bring back the Man in the Grey Flannel Suit before it's too late, even if his suit is polyester nowadays and not exactly made-to measure.

Yes, I'm no clothes horse, but at least I'm hanging around the stables, wandering up and down the paddock, trying to qualify for life's rodeo.

The Old Haunts

Take a wander through your old haunts. Observe the disheveled specter of the rag-and-bone man driving his horse-drawn carriage of unwanted junk through this gentrified neighborhood. Witness the forlorn gypsy phantom with her wilting bundles of lucky heather locked outside our exclusive gated community. See the obsolete lamplighter's ghost searching recently repaved roads for the last of the long lost gas lamps.  And then there's me, a solitary shade cast across the dark facade of the shuttered town diner, like some sort of gloomy Edward Hopper oil paint figure, watching a trio of circus clowns wrangle their unwieldy stepladder as they unfurl a plastic banner over the diner's old neon sign: Caffe Tepid, opening soon. So farewell scrambled eggs with a side of sausage; hello guava parfait, I guess.

Although, truth be told, I've not frequented the town diner for several years. I used to, back in its heyday of gleaming chrome and red leather upholstery. But those mid-fifties fixtures and fittings were ripped out when the original owner died, replaced by laminated wood and polyvinyl. Obnoxiously loud music and ugly kitsch decorations invaded every booth and counter, and nobody bothered to refill the napkin dispenser to refresh your coffee. Elvis had left the building and some untalented punk rock group made themselves at home. Where there had once been lines around the block at Sunday brunch, in the final days there were only a few grimy students debating if they should order a ride-share to MacDonalds instead. Such is the fate of anything old fashioned or unique in the remorseless march of twenty-first century progress.

But surely this is how history is supposed to happen; the way of all flesh, as the saying goes. Once upon a time, even the rag-and-bone man, the gypsy, and the lamplighter all enjoyed their time in the sun. For many moons ago, the rag-and-bone man was selling the latest gadgets door to door, city people considered the lamplighter's evening chore to be an amazing urban innovation, the roving gypsy's lucky heather remained wild and unpicked on the moor; and even I thought the town diner was the most happening spot in this damned town. But not now. Things change.

The Invisible Third Party

Buying a haunted house is one of the biggest mistakes first-time homebuyers make when getting on the property ladder. Not only do you need replace the kitchen cabinets and bathroom fixtures, you have to deal with the apparition of a headless nobleman floating through the wall you've just repainted. And what about are those creepy grinning skulls that suddenly appear behind you in the bathroom mirror while you're trying to trim your nose hair. It's no fun to find out that a jilted Victorian bride killed herself in what you thought was your cozy living room, and now is now a wispy grey lady who weeps and wails by the television every night while you're trying to watch reruns of The Newlywed Game

Fortunately, these typical restless spirits are easy to deal with. Most ghosts, especially disembodied phantoms draped in a white sheet, can be quickly and easily banished by pointing a three-speed rotary fan in their direction. Full power will blow them back to the tomb in no time at all. If the ghost is merely a cold, damp spot on the floor, buy a space heater and melt them into oblivion. I've employed both methods with great success in my own home, an isolated nineteenth-century vicarage overlooking an abandoned graveyard in East Grimsby. 

But if you live in a modern house built on sacred Indian tribal lands, and I know many of you do, then things might be a little more complicated than just a trip to the local hardware store to stock up o ghost-busting appliances. You will probably need an old fashioned Latin Exorcism, but it's not the demon that will make your spin like Linda Blair's in the famous Hollywood movie, it's the bill you receive from the Catholic Church two weeks later.

An exorcism can be spine-chillingly expensive for many ordinary households. On average, a gallon of holy water costs about $250 per gallon, more if it's freshly blessed, and a variety pack of votive candles can really push the price up. Most Catholic dioceses will throw in the priest for free, but you're still looking at over $500 per ceremony just to expel the restless spirit of a former occupant, who may or may not have been murdered in your master bedroom.

The same is true of booking a seance with a qualified medium. The full 'is there anybody there?' experience is not cheap, especially if you're seeking to communicate with the departed across the Vale of Death. I once worked in an office haunted by a former employee who died before he could update an important spreadsheet with new data. His mournful apparition appeared at his desk each working day, attempting to finish this task he had not completed in life. The only solution was to posthumously fire him via seance. His astral severance package was naming the conference room in his memory, a small price to pay considering the seance cost two thousand bucks, which did not include janitorial overtime fees for mopping up all the ectoplasm.

Such unexpected and nightmarish expenses are why I'm incorporating my new Ghost Insurance Company, featuring a special introductory offer just for you. For affordable monthly payments in the Crypto currency of your choice, GIC will cover all the exorcism and clairvoyant costs if your home or business becomes infested by unwanted spooks, wraiths, demons or poltergeists. So apply now, you know it makes sense.

Young Adult Fiction

Like millions of curious children around the world, Colin Hippo was disappointed to find no gateway to Narnia at the back of the old wardrobe in his bedroom. There was, however, a very pungent portal to Hell at the bottom of the young man's laundry basket. It took the form of two sacrilegious socks, worn for five days straight during a misguided hike through Stinky Hollow, a muck and filth flooded valley in the nearby Brown Mountains. Although Colin's hands were proverbially idle, his trail-walking feet were certainly not, yet the Devil had apparently still found a lot of work for them to do. And all of it smelled real bad. Just take a whiff for yourself.

Before selling their soles to Satan, Colin's socks were unremarkable grey-green poly-cotton socks with yellow reinforced toes. Colin had bought them at his local outdoor sports emporium, Mad Sherpa, famous for its cautionary mountaineering motto: "If you get lost climbing Everest, you won't freeze to death in our latest range of thermal fashions." Stinky Hollow wasn't Everest, sure, but what it lacked in formidable peaks it compensated for with unbearable stench. As soon as an intrepid hiker set foot in Stinky Hollow he'd be immediately knee-deep in fetid swamp. Consequently, specialist sweat-wicking socks were an expedition must, no matter how expensive they were. And that's where Colin left the beaten path before even taking his first step: with his tiny allowance, Colin could only afford a single pair of socks to last him the entire week. So what was initially a simple hike in the woods had turned into a rambling Black Mass.

Clearly, some sort of 'wash and fold Exorcism' was necessary to restore Colin's accursed laundry basket to its former God-fearing state as a convenient receptacle for dirty clothes, and not remain the Stygian pit of eternal and very rancid damnation it had become. But the Exorcist would require detailed washing instructions instead of a Bible, a bottle of concentrated bleach rather than a sprinkling of holy water, and obviously an industrial strength oxygen mask, not to mention a pair of long-handled tongs for wrenching the socks away from Satan's clutches. In this case, the Exorcist was known as "mom," and she had plenty of experience of struggling withe the Dark Side, so everything ended Happily Ever After.

The moral of this story is: if your route takes you across odiferous terrain called 'Stinky Hollow' in the Brown Mountains, perhaps choose a different route. And always pack at least two spare pairs of clean socks, even your route fortuitously passes through an area known as Relaxing Foot Bath Spa in the Dazzling White Mountains.

Privacy vs Piracy In The Digital Age

Everyone is sick and tired of installing Big Tech's perpetual and superfluous software updates. I 'update' this blog every week or so, yet don't find it necessary to require 'multi- factor authentication' just so you can scroll through all the nonsense I've written here. But maybe I should? 

After all, even the most inconsequential paragraphs I post are far more valuable than Apple's tedious "bug fixes" and Google Drive's tiresome user-interface improvements. I don't want those evil Chinese bots gaining access to my opinions about the music of Alban Berg or if bald men should wear hats inside or not. 

Alas, ubiquitous computer hackers are proving difficult to outwit and out-code. Most of our Online passwords are already compromised before we've even thought of them. Everybody everywhere can download everything about you at the nefarious touch of a button on their burner phone. 

It's like your pet parrot is squawking out your mother's maiden name all night long and your Social Security Number is simply 012-345-6789. Very soon Big Tech will need to demand DNA samples and a colonoscopy to sign into your Internet accounts. Perhaps Microsoft already does? I have no idea. I drew the curtains on Windows many, many years go. 

So will my reader's banking and credit card information be safe with me? Well, if reading American Fez entails first answering my impertinent and very intimate 'multi-factor authentication' questions, I have to say that's a definite No. Let's face it, I have no qualms selling people out to the highest bidder. Partly because I want the money, but mostly because I've always secretly dreamed of being an Auctioneer. 

"Do I hear fifty dollars in Bitcoin for the password to Jane Doe's Bank of America savings account? Going, going, going. Sold to Vladimir Spamkov for fifty dollars in Bitcoin!" I'd prefer to be auctioning artworks and antiques but I'll take what I can get. You've been warned.