Two Monks And A Truck

Thank you for considering Two Monks and a Truck for your upcoming move. Here are a few things you should know about us:

First of all, we are not a licensed moving company.  We are a monastic religion born in the mountains of Tibet. However, during our short time here on this planet, we must also be good citizens.  So, we bought a truck and started helping our neighbors move – for free!

That's right: your move will be free. There are no costs associated with our service. But donations, or alms as we call them, are graciously accepted and may be delivered in person to our monastery during daylight hours. Goats and chickens are always welcome, as are bales of cotton, beeswax candles and antibiotics.

With Two Monks and a Truck there is no contract to sign. What value can be gained from words on paper if there is no underlying trust between human beings or if there is no place to store the paper? We don't have file cabinets.

The monks are not paid. Do not attempt to give them money. We provide for the basic needs of our monks, including one cooked meal per day, cold running water for washing up, a stone slab lined with hay to sleep on at night and a hickory switch to self-flagellate away thoughts of needing more.

We are not responsible in any way for your things. Of course, we will be careful not to damage your belongings, but "bad karma happens," as the monks often say.

It is possible that our monks will not speak to you for the duration of the move. However, there may be loud chanting or ululating. This is normal and not a cause of panic. Join in if you'd like. 

We offer flexible scheduling, meaning that our monks have complete flexibility to come to your house at a specific time or to stay at the monastery and meditate. If we don't arrive on time, you'll know why – we are in a transcendental state!

Sorry, but no pianos or safes. Our monks are not very strong, so nothing heavy please.

We recognized that your move is important to you, but you must also understand that on a cosmic level, it means nothing, nothing at all. If we end up moving you tomorrow or next week, it will be OK, trust us.

Finally, most of our monks learned to drive in Tibet. It would be better if you drove the truck. 

Customer Reviews:

"This moving company sucks! They didn't show up on time and when they did, the driver backed into a fence, which I now have to pay for."

"Wonderful experience. The monks arrived before dawn and we sat in the lawn drinking tea and watching the sun rise. After that, we called a different moving company and they moved our stuff."

"Price was a big factor in my decision to use Two Monks and a Truck. The fact that they were free was a big plus. I had hoped to move in February, but March was fine."

"Horrible. Horrible. Horrible. The two monks were both skinny as rails and incapable of lifting even the lightest boxes. My wife and I loaded and unloaded the truck ourselves. Plus, I paid to buy them lunch – they looked as though they could die from starvation at any moment!!"

"Because of Two Monks and a Truck, I am in a better place spiritually. Physically, I am still at the same address."

Fiat 500 Abarth

Hey everyone, it’s Hung Baxter. I want to thank you for reading this, my first ever car review for the Road and Track magazine, on-line edition. I am looking forward to providing you with many informed and potentially useful opinions, much like those other guys who write car reviews – but they are boring posers!  Fortunately, for people who love fine automobiles I am here representing a fresh, young, urban audience.  It’s like “Hello, Hung,” and “Goodbye boring guys.”

Today I review the Fiat 500 Abarth.  Let me just say right away this car is legit.  I mean, you’re going to be blown away by this Italian goomah. (That’s an actual Italian word.  It means lover!)  But first you’re going to have to get over the size thing.  The Fiat 500 Abarth is small. I mean really small.  When I first saw this car I didn’t know if I was supposed to drive it or shake it to see if it bobbled.

But drive it I did, readers, straight from the dealership back to my hood in center city so I could pick up my girlfriend and begin the professional car review process.  Right away, people are noticing my ride. At this one intersection, I pull up next to a Caddy Escalade. Dude rolls down his window and starts laughing.  I say, “Hey, you got it wrong, man. I ain’t fronting.  This car is hot – 160 horse power; 170 foot-pounds of torque.”  When the light turns green, I tell him, “You don’t believe me? Well, you can read about it tomorrow in the Road and Track magazine, on-line edition.” Then I press down hard on the gas pedal and take off, leaving a trail of thick rubber on the road.

There was a lot of that during my test drive. The Fiat 500 Abarth will leave rubber on the road, even when you’re trying to drive all responsible and shit. For example, I did not mean to smoke out those school children on the bus when I sped up to pass it.  I hadn’t yet learned how to control this automobile’s freakish power.

When I pull up in front of my girlfriend’s place and she sees me behind the wheel of this cherry red gelato (that’s another Italian word – ice cream!!), I can tell she is all kinds of impressed. “Hop in,” I tell her. “We got some serious test driving to do for my first ever column in the Road and Track magazine, on-line edition.”

“So, what do you think, babe?” I’m watching as my girl slides her sweet ass onto the finely-stitched leather seat.  (Also, I’m thinking of maybe getting a little action on this leather later on.)  You know what my girlfriend says?  She says, “it’s cute.”

“Cute!” I say, “Does cute do this? I quickly throw the Fiat 500 Abarth into gear and bring on a crazy 360 degree drift that catches the attention of all the guys chilling over by the Korean market.

Of course, the Fiat 500 Abarth isn’t just about impressing. This car can hold its own in practical matters.  Like when my girlfriend says that we need to go to her sister’s house and help her move out.  She is finally leaving that deadbeat husband of hers and we gotta give her a ride back to their mother’s place.  I say, “no problem, as long as I can get back early enough to write up my professional review in time to meet the deadline for tomorrow’s edition of…” “I know,” she says, cutting me off, “…the Road and Track magazine, on-line edition.”  Damn, girl, you are fun-ay!

When we get over to the sister’s place, she’s waiting outside with all her belongings.  There is no sign of her good-for-nothing husband, but this Fiat 500 Abarth has a pair of growling mufflers that sound like a soup kitchen latrine on sauerkraut and pork night.  You can hear it coming for blocks.  I tell my girlfriend to hurry up and get her sister’s shit loaded up before there is trouble.  Easier said than done, since the sister is the size of a water buffalo, plus she’s got ten bags lined up on the curb.

The Fiat 500 Abarth is rated to hold 4 people and 9 cubic feet of cargo, but I would say we maxed it out with the two of us up front, the water buffalo squeezed into the back seat and a couple of her cockroach infested suitcases in the trunk.  

With the moving done, my girlfriend and I head for the highway to see what this car can do. We take advantage of the Fiat 500 Abarth’s short wheel base and tight suspension to maneuver past the toll booth on the bridge in that little space to the left where normal-sized cars can’t fit.  “Don’t worry, babe, that’s a special ‘free lane’ they built just for drivers of the Fiat 500 Abarth.”

Outside of the city, the air doesn’t stink so bad, the sun is shining, and the Abarth sparkles like pawn shop bling. I’m telling you, days just don’t come any better than this. We just keep driving this most excellent ride until the sun goes down and the gas tank does, too.

By the time I return the Fiat 500 Abarth to the dealership, it is closed.  I leave the car on the lot and jog the six blocks back to the subway, all the while dreaming about getting home and writing this review. The way I see it, it’s a new beginning for car reviews at the Road and Track magazine, on-line edition, and Hung Baxter is at the wheel.

(Dear Editors: There might be some confusion about the temporary disappearance of the Fiat 500 Abarth from the Langhorn Fiat dealership out on Freeport Boulevard. But I’m sure they’ll be cool once they read this hip review and their sales shoot way up like never before.  As a gesture of goodwill, though, you might want to buy them a new set of tires to replace the ones I torched. - HB)

Actual Time

Every dream has a backstory. Rarely, though, can you tie one to the other as neatly as this.

I was on a business trip recently, traveling through numerous cities in a few busy days.  I arrived first in Tucson, Arizona.  The plane’s wheels hit the ground and like everyone else I turned on my mobile phone.  A message on my phone’s screen read, “the time has been adjusted to the current local time.”

Looking again at my mobile phone, I noted a slight problem: the clock had not been set to the correct local time.  The phone’s time had been pushed back by two hours, but it should have been three.  Arizona doesn’t recognize daylight savings time. You would think my big-named cellular provider would know this!

How could I walk around Tucson for the next few days being an hour off?  I knew intrinsically that there must be a function buried deep in the phone’s menu system that would fix this issue, but I was too busy to worry about it, so I opted to live with the confusion.

Later that evening when I checked into my hotel room, I decided that I would need to set an alarm for the next morning’s meetings. Normally I would use my phone’s alarm function.  But my phone was an hour off, which meant that I would have to set the alarm for an hour later or was it earlier? The clock radio in the hotel room was no better.  It didn’t have the correct local time, either.  According to the television news program I was watching it was ten p.m. in Tucson; nine p.m. according to my phone; seven p.m. according to my laptop computer (still reflecting the time at home).  And the clock radio?  Nine twenty-three p.m.  To make matters more interesting, the clock radio was designed so that idiot hotel guests could not change the time and mess it up for the next guest.   

Fast forward a few days and more jet wheels skidded across a tarmac below me. This time I was landing in Los Angeles. I turned on my phone and got the same courtesy message from my cellular provider.  But this time they got the time right.

That evening I bedded down up the coast in Ventura, California. I was quite tired from the day’s traveling and was a bit anxious about getting up early the next morning when I would catch a ferry out to Santa Rosa, one of the islands in the Channel Islands National Park.  I needed to be at the dock by 7 a.m. If I missed the ferry, there would not be another one until two days later.  So, backing out all the time necessary to wake up, shower, eat breakfast, check out of the hotel and catch a cab to the ferry landing, I figured I would need to be up no later than 5:45 a.m. 

I set my phone’s alarm and noted that it needed a charge.  I looked around for a wall outlet near the nightstands on either side of the bed. Nothing.  This is the topic of a different rant, but I will save that for another day. The nearest receptacle, it turned out, was around the corner and out of my sight line.  This would not do.  Plug my phone in one of these plugs and there was a very real risk that in the morning I would stumble out of bed to the buzzing alarm, in the dark, looking for the phone, trip and bang my head against something – something hard and unforgiving.  No, I would have to use the clock radio.  At least I could program this one.  I set the alarm for 5:45 a.m., turned out the lights and fell slowly to sleep.

I slept poorly that night.  The worry of oversleeping and missing the ferry worked its way into my brain.  Over and over again, throughout the night, my dream state would ping my conscious mind setting up those lucid dreams when you are not sure if you are awake or dreaming.

It was under these conditions that I had the dream that I wanted to tell you about.  The dream itself lasted only a moment. All this back story for a few seconds of dream.  Anyway, it went something like this.  In the dream, I was lying awake in bed, thinking to myself.  I was thinking that I had been up a lot in the night, but that I felt surprisingly rested. What time is it? I wondered.  I looked over at the hotel alarm clock. The large illuminated digital numbers read 2:30 a.m.  Wow, I thought, I still have more than three hours to sleep.  But when I looked closer at the clock, I saw another display – much smaller, in the upper right hand corner of the screen. It read: “Actual Time: 5:45 a.m.”  Actual Time?  That got my attention.  I woke up from my dream, which of course was a huge surprise, because I thought I was already awake looking at the clock.  Only now I was awake for real. It was pitch black in the room and I struggled to focus my eyes on the clock.  It read 5:45 a.m.  In the next few moments, the alarm came on with its obnoxious buzzing noise.

I was confused at first, but then the whole story, starting back in Tucson, fell into place.  I knew I would need to write it down.  So, that’s done. I’m also thinking that I may have invented the world’s first dream clock,  a device that breaches the space-time continuum by accurately recording both dream time and actual time.  Perhaps in a future dream I will go down to the patent office and stake my claim. 

PRL

Every so often the New Yorker runs an advertisement near the back of the magazine for a “perfect reading lamp.” The ad itself is not very imposing, a small box sitting in line with a few others that together make up a single column of the three column page. And yet this ad for the perfect reading lamp (henceforth PRL) always catches my eye. I don’t know why. Well, yes I do: it’s perfect; or so they say. A perfect reading lamp. Who couldn’t use one of those?

The advertisement in the New Yorker for the PRL includes an inset photo of the lamp. It’s attractive enough. Truth be told, the look of this lamp doesn’t knock me off my feet. But appearance isn’t everything. It’s function, not form, that matters more in an argument for perfection. Appearance is subjective; the real factors here are the optics and ergonomics of the lamp. Optics and ergonomics: that’s science! And on this matter, the ad states that “the Double Swivel Action places light correctly for a high or low chair, desk or a computer.” Note the capital letters in Double Swivel Action. I didn’t put them there; the advertiser did. Everybody knows you don’t go around using capital letters in a reading lamp advertisement unless you can back them up with science.

I have come to know the PRL in my life, even though I don’t actually own one. My familiarity with this product has grown over time such that I imagine I do possess a PRL, and that it sits proudly next to my favorite reading chair. Not only that, but I also imagine myself sitting in that chair reading a good book under the glow of the PRL, a warm throw on my lap, a tumbler of whisky on the end table, a log crackling in the fireplace. It’s a peaceful place within my imagination. Perfect, even?

Actually, no. Quite the contrary. It wasn’t long after my imaginary PRL was out of the imaginary box and my imaginary self was enjoying the latest edition of the New Yorker under the lamp’s perfect light, laughing out loud at the funny cartoons, that the real me became a bit, well, jealous. Okay, I know that sounds ridiculous. I mean, why would I be jealous of a scene out of my own head? Theoretically, I am in charge of my own fantasies, right? Why not just push these thoughts away? Believe me, I tried. But I would no sooner throw the switch controlling the PRL to the off position when my imaginary self would turn it back on again and commence reading. Once my imaginary self even smirked at me and jiggled the ice cubes in his whisky tumbler indicating that he could use a refill. The nerve!

I told my therapist about the struggle I was having with my imaginary self over the PRL. He said that this was a very normal situation, that the rational brain sometimes collided with the irrational subconscious on issues of expectation, desire, insecurity. Underlying all this fantasy and cerebral playacting, he said, was a deep-rooted disappointment, probably related to some childhood incident – a much ballyhooed toy that didn’t live up to expectations, a real dud of a family vacation, that sort of thing. According to my therapist, the jealousy I felt toward my imaginary self stemmed from the irrational notion that he possessed what had eluded me all my life: perfection. The next time I saw my therapist, there was a warm radiance about him. Something was different. Was that a PRL beside his chair? Yes, he admitted it was true. He purchased one after he heard about it from me, and he loved it. Especially the Double Swivel Action. He motioned for me to give it a try. “Come bask in the glow of perfection,” he said. Instead, I got up and left, calling him an opportunist and a traitor.

For a long time after that, my imaginary self and I didn’t communicate. We learned to coexist. What choice did we have? We were kind of stuck with each other. I got pretty good at ignoring him, though. Whenever my imaginary self was around, I would purposely and completely turn my attention to something else. Something pleasant: a good meal, my favorite Sopranos episode, sex, roller-coaster rides. It got to the point where I became comfortable enough to be in the same room with my imaginary self as he sat reading next to the PRL. I could even tidy up around him, gathering up old magazines and depositing them in the recycling bin, removing the empty whisky glasses from the end table, vacuuming the Cheez-It crumbs on the carpet – my mind a thousand miles away. In this manner, I was able to return some normalcy to my life. Really, I had let this PRL business get out of hand.

For his part, my imaginary self was happy to ignore me as well. He stopped grunting when I walked too close; the frequency of taunts and smirks decreased and then stopped altogether. Without the expenditure of energy spent annoying me, my imaginary self became more and more lethargic. He started looking sickly and seemed to nap more than he read.

Nevertheless, I was still having serious pangs of jealousy. I hadn’t sat on my favorite reading chair since the imaginary PRL showed up and my imaginary self parked his ass there. The worst was at night. As I lay in bed propped up on my lumpy pillow under the diffuse, yellow, inadequate light cast from my bedroom reading lamp, I couldn’t help thinking of my imaginary self downstairs dozing comfortably under perfect light. I was even bothered by the waste of imaginary electricity from the PRL burning bright. Money doesn’t grow on trees, not even in the world of make believe.

I couldn’t envision this situation getting any stranger than it already was, but that’s just what it did. Late one night, long after I had gone to sleep, I woke to a faint thumping sound, like a finger tapping on the skin of a drum. At first, being groggy and disoriented, I couldn’t place the noise. Then I became aware that it was coming from downstairs. So, I got out of bed and walked in the dark by feel – first through the bedroom door into the main hallway, and then down the stairs, carefully holding on to the banister and avoiding the squeaky steps. From the foyer on the first floor, I could see that a light was on in the living room. Surely it was the PRL. I quickened my pace, the thumping noise growing louder as I got closer.

When I reached the living room, I found that the PRL was indeed switched on, but there was no sign of my imaginary self. The chair was empty. I reached down and touched it with my hand. It was cold, indicating that no one had been sitting there for some time. (Does an imaginary person give off body heat?) The thumping noise, I quickly determined, was coming from the PRL itself. I bent down and looked up under the lamp shade. There I discovered the source: a moth, frantically drawn to the light. The poor thing was alternately bouncing off the light bulb and lamp shade with alarming frequency. When the badly beaten moth finally stopped to rest momentarily on the edge of the shade, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. Involuntarily, I sat on the chair and stared up in disbelief. The moth had a face. My face. Or my imaginary self’s face. Whatever! The distinction was irrelevant. More importantly, my imaginary self had metamorphosed into a moth. And now it was being taken by the light of the PRL.

This was it; this was the end. Despite my jealousy and feelings of misplaced animosity, I could never have wished this fate on my imaginary self. I looked up at the moth as it leaped again from its perch, ready for another round with the PRL. Horrified, I reached out and grabbed at the moth repeatedly until I had successfully cupped it in my hand. I could feel that I had it there in my closed fist. It was moving, attempting to open its wings. Thankfully, I hadn’t squished it. With my free hand, I found the switch of the PRL and turned out the light. I brought the fist holding the moth close to my chest and sat back in my comfortable reading chair. Breathing deeply. In the dark. In the perfect darkness.

Two views

A minivan is parked on the side of the road, hazards flashing. The driver, a man, visibly irked, stands outside the vehicle. Something is on the road. Something small. Still rolling. The man is looking both ways, waiting. No other cars are coming, just mine. He is waiting for me to pass. Whatever it is, wobbling now toward a stop. I slow, ease across the double yellow line. It’s a Mr. Potato Head. Wobble. Wobble. The man is uneasy, embarrassed. Why? Well, yeah, okay. I drive by, trying not to smirk. Mr. Potato Head is face up on the road, smiling. The man is not.

City Lights

I stopped in at City Lights bookstore, as I usually do on trips to San Francisco. City Lights fills me with wonderful feelings of literary history and pride in America's independent publishing houses. This is one great bookstore. The store itself has expanded a bit and remade itself over the years, but it is still essentially the same warehouse it was when in opened on Columbus Avenue in North Beach back in 1953. Founder, owner and renowned Beat generation poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti still works here, although, despite my many visits, I have never seen him. That is, until this time.

I was upstairs at City Lights. The upper floor is a loft of sorts with walled offices to the front that look over the main floor below and a small oddly shaped room to the rear filled with books of poetry. I had the room to myself on this visit. I picked up a copy of “City Lights Pocket Poets Anthology” and browsed through it. The air was warm and musty. The light dim, despite the incandescent lamps and a window that looked out on dead space in an alleyway.

The quiet of the moment was broken by a sharp ratcheting of a door latch opening and closing. I looked over and saw an old man, gray hair and beard, wrestle with the hook on one of those “store personnel only beyond this point” chains. The man was Lawrence Ferlinghetti. There are vintage photographs of Ferlinghetti everywhere in City Lights bookstore. No mistaking him.

Ferlinghetti walked right past as if he didn’t see me. In fairness, I purposely made myself small and stood out of the way. I briefly considered asking him to sign the anthology book I intended to purchase, but I am always wary of such invasions of privacy. They just seem wrong to me. Instead, I watched as Ferlinghetti shuffled slowly past. He is 88 years old now (I looked this up later) and impressively robust. Near the top of the steps, Ferlinghetti stopped and rearranged some postcards in the literary postcard rack. A few more steps and he stopped again to pick up a book that was lying backwards and upside down on the shelf. Did I do that? Before putting it back, Ferlinghetti, opened the book and read from its pages. It is amazing to me that this remarkable man, the last great Beat poet, former Poet Laureate of San Francisco, friend and publisher to Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Neal Cassady, Bob Dylan, was also a simple store clerk. Business is business after all.

Satisfied that everything was in order, Ferlinghetti walked slowly down the stairs. I listened as his feet made contact with each creaky wooden step. At the bottom of the staircase he stopped. There was a click. To save electricity, he turned the lights off for the upper floor. He turned the lights out on me! Before that thought could fully register in my mind, there was another click and the lights came back on. Ahh, so he had seen me, and remembered that I was up there. For one brief moment, Lawrence Ferlinghetti thought of me – only me and my need for light. Pretty cool. After that, I suspect, his thoughts turned to lunch.

Now showing on GOLTV

I have a pet peeve about my son's disposition to talk with his mouth full. I have corrected him nearly a million times already in his twelve years of existence and, sadly, I suspect it will take about a million more.

Today when I got home from work, Conor was watching some soccer on television. "Who's playing?" I asked. Unfortunately he had just taken a big bite of a carrot.

What came out in response was "leverkusenversusfcbayernfromthebundesliga."

"Could you repeat that?" I asked, "after you have finished chewing?"

Conor held up a finger indicating I should wait while he swallowed what was left in his mouth. Then he very clearly enunciated the following: "Leverkusen versus FC Bayern from the Bundesliga."

"What?" I asked again.

My son smiled. "It didn't matter that my mouth was full," he said. "you were never going to understand that."

I have to admit that he had me there. He gets a pass this time. Not so, the next time he tells me about his day with a mouthful of chewed up spaghetti.

The cardboard box

"We were evicted from our hole in the ground; we had to go and live in a lake!"

"You were lucky to have a LAKE! There were a hundred and sixty of us living in a small shoebox in the middle of the road."

"Cardboard box?"

"Aye."

"You were lucky. We lived for three months in a brown paper bag in a septic tank..."

- Monty Python, The Four Yorkshiremen sketch

* * * * *

How we happened to have a large collapsed cardboard box in our TV room is a story in itself. A few weeks back, I was watching a football game on ESPN while I waited for a soccer match to come on another station a bit later. The soccer match would be presented on tape delay, meaning that it was on-going as I watched the football game. Given that ESPN is forever scrolling the scores from other sporting events along the bottom of the screen, there was a very high likelihood that I would see the outcome of the game I wanted to watch later. That's how I came up with the idea of folding up a box to cover the bottom few inches of the TV screen where the scores were displayed. It needed to be a rather large box, as the TV is a 53" widescreen HDTV. Just so happens I had a box that would do the job. I watched the football game and then switched over to the soccer match never having heard the score.

As I mentioned above, that was a few weeks ago. The box has yet to be put away. The other night we settled in to watch the season premiere of The Office. I was the last one downstairs. By the time I arrive, not only are the sweet seats in the room taken, but the blankets too. Our basement gets kind of chilly with the air conditioning on. A light throw is pretty much a necessity to sit comfortably down there.

Without a spare blanket in sight, I scan the room for something to cover up with. That's when I spot the box standing up against the wall. Without a word, I walk across the room, pick up the box and carry it back to my chair. I position the box over my body. Cover myself in cardboard. The box reaches from my feet to my shoulders.

It is really quite comfortable, the box, and remarkably warm. I feel lucky to have it. My son takes notice and is quick to comment. "What are you doing, Dad?" He has a look of disbelief on his face. "Do you think you are too good to cover yourself with a box?" I ask him. "A cardboard box is all the shelter you will ever need." He rolls his eyes. Wifey knows where this is going and stays out of it.

We watch The Office for a while, my son and my wife under soft down blankets, me under a large cardboard box. Then:

"Dad, are you going to keep that box on top of you for the whole show?" my son asks. I answer affirmatively, repositioning the box gently across my torso. It makes a soft scratching sound where it rubs against my knees. I signal my satisfaction with a smile. My son shakes his head.

We turn our attention back to the television. Moments later:

"Okay, give me the box." My son reaches out with both hands grabbing at the box. "No way," I tell him. "You can't have the box. You were just dissing the box." But he is determined. "Come on. I want the box." I tell him he is not worthy of the box. "Please, let me have the box." Wifey pleads for quiet, telling us she can't hear the television. Finally I relent. "Fine," I tell my son sternly. "You can have the box. But only for a few minutes. After that you have to give it back. Deal?" He agrees.

I pass my son the cardboard box. He passes me his blanket. The box is huge on him. He can barely balance it on his body. "Pretty nice, huh?" My son smiles, his braces glimmering. He feels he has pulled a fast one on the old man. I position the down blanket across my lap and take a sip of wine from my glass before pushing back in my recliner.

Once again we are enjoying the program on TV. Until:

"Dad?"

No response.

"DAD?"

Nothing. Eyes straight ahead.

"Come on, Dad. Give me the blanket back."

thump thump thump

"What is that noise?" I asked my twelve year old son.

I was sitting quietly, enjoying a morning cup of coffee and thinking about nothing in particular.

"Oh, that's me," my son answered. "I'm trying to see if it's possible to jump without bending my knees."

You can always count on a twelve year old to both interrupt a quiet moment and give you something to think about.

I defy you to put the hypothesis of jumping without bending out of your head without at least visualizing the process or even standing up and giving it a go yourself. Just be prepared for questions from anyone within earshot trying to enjoy a quiet moment.

Patina

The installer said our new patio doors should be stained or painted within the first six weeks to protect the wood. That deadline slipped. Then Bill Clinton left office making room for George Bush, 9/11 and war with Iraq. Obviously, I was in no mood for staining wood. I gave up my gym membership somewhere along the line. Stopped running, too. Got out of shape. Some nasty accusations about secret torture camps made the news, complete with nasty photographs. The furnace broke on the coldest day of the year. Then I started running again, but fell. It hurt. I vowed never to run again. Another election. Domestic spying. The air conditioner broke on the hottest day of the year. Melting ice sheets. Sea level up to here. Still the patio doors remained untreated. Lately, though, things have been okay. There's talk of bringing home the troops. I've returned to the gym. Run a few times without falling. My football team has a winning record. There are fewer Hummers on the road and more hybrids. There’s money in the bank. The mortgage is solvent. I am feeling, well, hopeful. So, last weekend I went to the hardware store and bought a pint of wood stain, some sandpaper, masking tape, a drop cloth and a new paint brush. I came home and got busy. First there was the sanding. The patio doors had taken on a patina over the years consisting mostly of human exhaust, skin oil and kitchen smoke. It took a lot of sandpaper to remove this grime. But it came off eventually and the replenished wood soaked in the stain with a pent up thirst. A second coat deepened the luster and filled in the spots I had missed. The doors look nice. Clean. Transformed. Red oak now instead of yellow pine. Next weekend I'll add two coats of polyurethane to lock in the stain and they'll be done. It’s hard for me to imagine. The patio doors are ready. Ready for what? That's the question.

Spin cycle

Our new washing machine and dryer were delivered last week. The washer is one of those high efficiency front-loading machines that uses about a thimbleful of water to clean a load of clothes. The Energy Guide Statement claims that running this machine for a year will cost $9 in electricity. That's less than I spent at Starbucks in the last three days!

I wouldn't normally get excited about laundry. I haven't actually washed a single article of clothing in many years. Wifey handles that. Okay, now, before you get all uppity about how my domestic behavior perpetuates sexist roles and responsibilities, allow me to state in my defense that I do most of the cooking in our house. And a good deal of the grocery shopping, too. And in my spare time I sew little sweaters for the short-haired dogs locked up at the local shelter so they don't shiver at night. I, uhm, well, I cook and I shop - let's just leave it at that.

Anyway, the new washer is pretty cool. Except that it really vibrates during the spin cycle. In fact, the whole laundry room seems to vibrate. The first time I saw this happening, I was a bit concerned. "Don't worry," Wifey told me. "This is normal." She went on to explain, "this machine spins so fast that clothes come out barely moist, which of course cuts down on the time they spend in the dryer." I haven't seen the energy rating for our dryer yet, but I'm guessing it is pretty efficient on an annual basis as well. Maybe the equivalent of five or six Starbucks cappuccinos.

Sensing that I wasn't sold on her normalcy claim regarding this vibration business, Wifey pointed to a sticker on the washing machine. "Read for yourself," she said. "I can't," I replied. And I couldn't. The washer was spinning so hard, the words on the sticker were a blur. Just then, the spin cycle ended and the big box of a washer came to a halt. The sticker that my wife wanted me to see came into clear view. It read:

"Your new high efficiency washer spins almost twice as fast as conventional top load washers. You will notice different sounds and slight vibration. This is normal."

The last sentence was underlined. You can imagine the people at the washing machine factory answering all the phone calls from concerned customers claiming that their washing machine is shaking as though it's poised to take flight.

"We have to tell people that this is normal," the shop manager must have screamed to his customer service staff in frustration.

"But we have, boss – look, it says right here on the sticker: 'This is Normal.'"

"Well, it's not enough," the shop manager surely fired back. "Underline it, damn it, underline it!"

I'm still getting used to our hyper-active washer. It sits on the main floor of our house, so during spin cycles you can feel the vibrations from a good distance away. Mind you, it's not a problem. The rumbling just catches me off guard sometimes.

Last night, in the upstairs bathroom, I was getting ready to snip a few nose hairs with a pair of those really sharp curved scissors designed for this purpose, when I felt a slight vibration between the metal blades and my left nostril. Near the sink, some toothbrushes rattled softly in the ceramic dish holder. For a moment, I didn't make the connection. Were we having an earthquake? Then I remembered the washer. "Oh yeah..." I went ahead and snipped the nose hairs. What the heck. The clothes need washing and the nose hairs need trimming. This is normal now.

Shaken, stirred, or whatever

I have never had a martini in my life. Never even tasted one. But last night I had a dream in which I drank a martini in a classic martini glass, and it was the most delicious drink that ever passed my lips. It was one of those five second dreams that comes out of nowhere without even a trace of relevance. The glass may have been handed to me, although I don't remember there being other people in the dream. For all I know, it may have been floating around in the air for me to grab. I drank the martini down in one gulp and was strangely overcome with the savoriness of the cocktail. That seemed to be the entire focus of the dream, as if this was some important moment of erudition in my life – the recognition and acceptance of what I have been missing all these years. At the bottom of the glass was a single green olive. At this moment in the dream, as the olive rolled into my mouth from the upturned glass, my attention switched from the surprise of loving this unfamiliar concoction of vodka and vermouth to the anticipation of the familiar briny taste to follow. But just before I could bite down on the olive, the dream ended and I woke up. Shortly thereafter, I sat down to a bowl of Cheerios and milk that tasted, well, just plain strange.

More than just Pooh

At the bookstore I spotted a book by A. A. Milne called "The Sunny Side." Milne, of course, is best known for his Winnie-the-Pooh stories. But before he wrote Pooh, he wrote humorous stories and poems for the British magazine Punch. First published in 1921, "The Sunny Side" is a compilation of Milne's favorite writings from Punch, or at least those that he thought an American audience would appreciate. What first caught my eye with this book was the subtitle on the dustcover, which reads "Short Stories and Poems for Proper Grown-ups." Now there's a grin! I opened the book and read the blurb on the inner sleeve. Then I read the opening lines from several of the stories in the book. The more I learned about A. A. Milne's humorous side, the more I liked his style, and the more I saw similarities between this book and the book I would like to compile of my own stories and poems. Putting aside debate as to whether or not I qualify as a proper grown-up, I purchased "The Sunny Side" and took it home. I'm about half way through. The stories are a bit dated, but quaint and creative. I suppose this is the best you can hope for with a book of humor pushing 90 years old. "Well, isn't that quaint." I wonder if that was what Milne was getting at when he mentions in the introduction that "The Sunny Side" will be the last of this sort of book. The reason, he says, is that "this sort of writing depends largely on the irresponsibility and high spirits of youth for its success, and I want to stop before...the high spirits become mechanical and the irresponsibility a trick." Really?! Let's see, in 1921 when Milne wrote those words, he would have been 39 years old. Too old to write humor? But just the right stage of life to start writing children stories about a bear named Winnie-the-Pooh? Go figure.