Bill Clarke

(All My Life's A) Circle

2011-08-02T07:50:00.003-04:00

July 16th marked the 30th anniversary of the passing of Harry Chapin - singer, songwriter, humanitarian, activist to end world hunger.

This past Sunday, a stripped down version our church band -SoulJourn- performed (All My Life's A) Circle. Here is a recording of that performance, presented as a tribute to Harry.

Interred in the Huntington Rural Cemetery, Huntington, New York - Harry's epitaph was taken from his song I Wonder What Would Happen To This World.

"Oh if a man tried
To take his time on Earth
And prove before he died
What one man's life could be worth
I wonder what would happen
to this world"

An Open Letter To Harold Camping

2011-05-21T19:20:00.004-04:00

Dear Harold,

Now that it is has become obvious - presumably, even to you - that your calculations and predictions were groundless, perhaps you'd like to enter into a discussion of why you were so off-base.

I just happen to be bold enough to believe that I know the reason, and it has nothing to do with the New Testament pronouncement of ...no one knowing that day and time.

No. It is far worse than that.

I have to shake the very foundations of your faith. Sorry, but it needs to be done. You were wrong for reasons that you can barely imagine, let alone accept. But maybe - just maybe - you are now ready to face the truth of the fundamental flaw in your understanding.

The fundamental flaw in the understanding of all so-called Christians around the world today. You, and all of the so-called Christians, have been duped and deceived by a master deceiver. This is going to shake your world, Harold - even more than it has been shaken by your massive failure of May 21st 2011.

If you are ready to have this conversation - contact me.

If not, I will understand. Often it is easier to cling to our delusions than it is to face the truth. But you, and all of the so-called Christians around the world, have declared Jesus a liar and a fool. Maybe it's time to talk about it.

Bill Clarke.

Water For Elephants

2011-05-16T17:37:00.001-04:00

Real 'quick and dirty' review of the film, which Trish and I saw last night.

Rob Pattinson - did a decent job of it; not spectacular but certainly not horrible.

Reese Witherspoon - was very good but too old for the part. The obvious age difference results in a lack of chemistry between the two main characters where chemistry was really needed.

Changes from the novel - very gutsy move to combine Uncle Al and August into one character and I think it worked very well. I doubt I would have thought to do that and, if I had, I further doubt that I would have had the balls to try. They tried and succeeded in my view; a gamble that paid off.

Overall, the film is worth seeing if you read the novel or not (...and in both the film and novel the elephant steals the show).

Westboro Baptist Church Goes To Mississippi – And Loses

2011-04-21T14:06:00.002-04:00

On Saturday USMC Staff Sgt. Jason Rogers, who was killed in action in Afghanistan April 7, was buried in Brandon, Mississippi.

That, by itself, is a sadly unremarkable – though certainly noteworthy and solemn – occasion for us to mark. And in fact when Sgt. Rogers’ body returned to Brandon it was greeted by hundreds, or perhaps even thousands, of well-wishers who gathered at the roadside to honor the fallen American hero. The dashboard camera from Mississippi state trooper Elmo Townsend’s cruiser gives an indication of the scene last Thursday.

What is most notable about Sgt. Rogers’ funeral in Brandon, however, is what didn’t happen.

You see, the troglodytes from Westboro Baptist Church had threatened to spew their poison at Sgt. Rogers’ funeral. But the Westboro mob wasn’t on the scene, and Sgt. Rogers was laid to rest without incident – thank God.

Why weren’t there protestors? Planning ahead by the locals, as it turns out.

From an Ole Miss sports message board, a tidbit of information…

A couple of days before, one of them (Westboro protestors) ran his mouth at a Brandon gas station and got his arse waxed. Police were called and the beaten man could not give much of a description of who beat him. When they canvassed the station and spoke to the large crowd that had gathered around, no one seemed to remember anything about what had happened.

Rankin County handled this thing perfectly. There were many things that were put into place that most will never know about and at great expense to the county.

Most of the morons never made it out of their hotel parking lot. It seems that certain Rankin county pickup trucks were parked directly behind any car that had Kansas plates in the hotel parking lot and the drivers mysteriously disappeared until after the funeral was over. Police were called but their wrecker service was running behind and it was going to be a few hours before they could tow the trucks so the Kansas plated cars could get out.

A few made it to the funeral but were ushered away to be questioned about a crime they might have possibly been involved in. Turns out, after a few hours of questioning, that they were not involved and they were allowed to go on about their business.

Fred Phelps, the disbarred lawyer and Democrat activist who leads the Westboro congregation, will undoubtedly pursue some form of legal action for the way his people were thwarted in Brandon. Let him try. There isn’t a jury in Mississippi which will see things his way.

This is a template for how to handle the Westboro people. If lawsuits don’t work, other means will. Whatever it takes to keep them from harassing bereaved military families on the day their fallen loved ones are laid to rest.

SOURCE - http://thehayride.com/2011/04/westboro-baptist-church-goes-to-mississippi-and-loses/

May 21st, 2011

2011-03-28T17:44:00.004-04:00

I have a deal for any of the believers who plan to be raptured on May 21st 2011 - this is a "no lose" proposition for you!

I will give you $100 in return for a promissory note for $10,000 - payable on May 22nd 2011. I will pick up the cost of having it notarized: you don't have to spend a cent and you will get $100 cash. Period.

When you get raptured on May 21st 2011 that will be the end of it as far as you're concerned and I will be out $100. Think of it as partial punishment for my disbelief. You get $100 now and I am left with nothing when you get raptured. Pretty sweet, huh?

But - if, for any reason, you are still here on Planet Earth on May 22nd 2011 the full amount of $10,000 is payable to me. In cash.

Really, how can you lose? You KNOW you will be raptured and I'll be left (with all the other unsaved people) awaiting the final end five months later. And, in addition to annihilation, I will be out $100.

Use the $100 to print up more bumper stickers: sweet, ironic justice for my disbelief - and YOU can make it happen!

Contact me at once and I will arrange matters with my lawyer and notary. But don't delay - for reasons entirely outside of my control, this is a time-limited offer.

You Decide...

2011-03-24T21:45:00.001-04:00

Trish thought it was a groaner, at best.

Maybe it's just pride of authorship, but when I came up with it this evening I thought it was hilarious. Well... as hilarious as a pun ever is. Anyway, here's the line:

When I was a child, my parents chose to deliberately expose me to the measles virus. I think it was a rash decision.

Okay.

Now that I see it actually typed out I realize: a stronger man would have resisted.

Hollywood Re-visited

2011-03-19T14:11:00.004-04:00

I use a program called Choicemail to prevent spam. It's an effective method: what happens is that I have a whitelist of email addresses and URLs from which I will accept email. If someone not on the whitelist sends me an email, the program sends them a registration form to complete. If it is a real person and they choose to complete the form, it is sent to me and I can decide to add them to my whitelist or reject their registration. I have the option of including an explanation for my decision.

Choicemail works very well and I have used it for a couple of years now.

Long time followers of this blog (and there are a few of you) may recall that back in March 2008 I posted this entry - Hollywood - A Cautionary Tale about my consultation with an intellectual-property lawyer in Los Angeles after a game show idea that I posted on tvwritersvault was developed without any consultation (or compensation) to me. The lawyer advised me to forget about it and I decided to take his advice.

Perhaps not surprisingly, tvwritersvault is not on my Choicemail whitelist - after my experience I certainly don't intend to use them again.

This past Wednesday evening I received a Choicemail registration request from Scott Manville - the guy who owns/runs tvwritersvault - wanting access to my email, presumably so that he could convince me to recommence using their services. This set off a short corresdondence that I am posting below. All I have done is re-arrange the emails into proper chronological order and removed any URL addresses (to limit further spam); I have not edited any of the messages.
___________________________
___________________________

From: Bill Clarke
Subject: Not authorized to send email to billclarke@*******.com
To: webmaster@*******.com
Date: Wed, 16 Mar 2011 20:40:32

Your request to communicate with the recipient has been rejected.

Reason:

Thanks but after one of my ideas (put on your site) was developed by
Hollywood without so much as a "by your leave" I figured you really
weren't the best place to share. I actually consulted a lawyer but
he said you didn't have a pot to piss in so...

Future emails to this recipient will be automatically deleted.

If you wish to contact this person, please contact him/her by other
means.
___________________________
From: Scott Manville
Subject: Not authorized to send email to billclarke@*******.com
To:billclarke@*******.com
Date: Wed, 16 Mar 2011 20:42:34

Bill-
Your claim is unfounded.
For your information, my Pot runeth over ;)
Ten years in the industry witha groundbreaking company will fill the
coffers just fine.

Best,
Scott
___________________________
From: Bill Clarke
Subject: Not authorized to send email to billclarke@*******.com
To: smanville@*******.com
Date: Wed, 16 Mar 2011 20:54:14

Runeth, huh?

Freudian slip, mayhaps?
___________________________
From: Scott Manville
Subject: Not authorized to send email to billclarke@*******.com
To: billclarke@*******.com
Date: Wed, 16 March 2011 9:23 PM

Yes, Runeth over, as in abundance, prosperity.... aka fucking rich.
____________________________
From: Bill Clarke

Subject: Not authorized to send email to billclarke@*******.com
To: smanville@*******.com
Date: Wed, 16 March 2011 9:36 PM

Terrific Scott.

Invest $10 of your wealth in a dictionary.
___________________________
From: Scott Manville
Subject: Not authorized to send email to billclarke@*******.com
To: Bill Clarke
Date: Wed, 16 March 2011 9:49 PM

Used with two N's or one. I chose one, as some publishers have. By
the way, you must be over 60 because nobody has to buy a dictionary
any more. Its free on that thing you're typing with one finger.

Tell your attorney he should stick to traffic ticket disputes :)
___________________________
From: Bill Clarke
Subject: Not authorized to send email to billclarke@*******.com
To: smanville@*******.com
Date: Wed, 16 Mar 2011 10:15 PM

Nah, it's two Ns. You know it is.

And speaking of one finger...
___________________________
From: Scott Manville
Subject: Not authorized to send email to billclarke@*******.com
To: Bill Clarke
Date: Wed, 16 March 2011 10:40 PM

Good luck in your small world.

One "N" is used often. You're just not exposed to literature or
publishing as I am.

OH, by the way.... you had three executives requesting to contact you
for your project, but your spam filter knocked out the requests.

Ooops.
___________________________
From: Bill Clarke
Subject: Not authorized to send email to billclarke@*******.com
To: smanville@*******.com
Date: Wed, 16 March 2011 10:48 PM

Oh, that must be it – thanks for clearing that up.

Well, as fascinating as this has all been, at my advanced age it
really is tiring to do all this one-finger typing so I’ll wish you
a pleasant good night. The nurse will be bringing my warm milk any
minute now and then it’s lights out at the Senior’s Home so, thanks
for the chat.
___________________________
___________________________

Juvenile? Not to be believed. Now, I readily admit to being just as juvenile as Scott Manville by goading him on like that but... Hey! I am the customer HE's the service provider, it's his professional image that's subject to scrutiny here, not mine.

Okay, now here's a short customer service quiz for you - one multiple choice question, three possible answers and I'll even provide a clue, okay?

Question:
You hear from a former customer that he has grounds to believe that he has been ripped off through the auspices of your service. Do you...

A) Assure the former customer that you will get to the bottom of it and report back to him, then obtain all pertinent details and look into the matter thoroughly to ensure that your valued customers are not being ripped off.
B) Dismiss the former customer's concerns without a second thought since you are no longer making any money off him anyway.
C) Use the opportunity to brag about how much money you're making.

(CLUE - the answer isn't B or C)

2011 Unity Coffee House

2011-02-21T12:36:00.002-05:00

I was asked to MC the 2011 Valentines Coffee House at Unity Kitchener. In addition to introducing the acts and telling a few jokes I also presented these three video clips unabashedly stolen from BBC's Walk On The Wild Side.

I don't know how long youtube will leave these clips there but until they take them down, here they are...

Statistics Canada Calls

2011-01-17T21:33:00.003-05:00

At 8:55 this evening, Statistics Canada called (780 area code, so Alberta). The man identified himself as being from Stats Can and asked to speak to Jennessa.

"Why does Stats Can want to speak to my fifteen year old daughter?" I ask.

"We're gathering information about use of EI." He tells me.

"Did you not hear the part about her being fifteen?" I ask. "How many fifteen year olds collect Employment Insurance?"

"Well, it says here that in March 2010 she was employed..." he says.

"She had a paper route."

"It says she was employed by the REE-Cord..." That's the way he pronounced it, too. With the long EE sound - the REE-cord.

"You mean, the Record." I say. "That's the local paper... the Waterloo Record."

"Was she paid hourly?" He asks.

"Did you have a paper route when you were a kid?" I counter.

"Yes." He admits.

"How were you paid?" I ask.

"By the paper." He allows.

"It hasn't changed."

"Did she contribute to EI?" This guy doesn't give up.

"It was a PAPER ROUTE. She was paid by the number of papers delivered. You don't pay EI on paper routes."

"Was she a member of a Union?" He asks.

"A Union for paper carriers?" I said. "Do they have Unions for paper carriers?"

"No, I guess not..."

"Well then..."

"Uh - why did she leave her employment?"

"Well," I said "...I'll tell you. She attempted a hostile takeover of the newspaper and when it failed she felt too uncomfortable to continue working there."

Long pause. Then he asked (get ready for this) "Did she apply for EI benefits?"

"No." I said. "She's decided to live off her investments."

GPS Tracking/Logging

2010-12-02T15:00:00.003-05:00

I asked what I thought would be a simple question but have been unable to get a straight answer either through internet research or a call to the Office of the Canadian Privacy Commission: Is the use of covert GPS Tracking/Logging illegal in Canada?

I should start out by telling you that covert GPS Tracking/Logging is a surveillance technique that involves surreptitiously affixing a GPS-enabled device to a target's vehicle in order to observe where the vehicle goes. If the device is one which broadcasts the target vehicle's location in real-time (usually by cell signal) that is GPS Tracking. If the device is one which records the target vehicle's locations for later retrieval (by retrieving the device) that is GPS Logging. Obviously this can be a much more efficient means of tailing a target than the traditional method of an investigator following the vehicle and with the ever dropping cost of GPS technology it becomes increasingly attractive. But before investing in that equipment or undertaking to use it, I wanted to know if I can do so legally.

In my view, at present it is not illegal in Canada. Others are not so sure.

The definitions under The Personal Information Protection and Electronic Documents Act do not include my (or more correctly, my vehicle's) location as being an item of "personal information". If my location (either current or historical) is not personal information then, logically, it is not protected under the act.

Could it be argued that the legislature simply did not anticipate the emergence of this specific technology in drafting its definitions? Well, Roger Easton of the U.S. Navy Research Laboratory, filed the enabling patent for GPS in 1974. In 1982, Texas Instruments Defense Systems and Electronics Group were the first to enter the commercial GPS market with the TI 4100 NAVSTAR Navigator. Magellan introduced the first consumer hand held GPS unit in 1989. Clearly, knowledge of the availability of GPS technology was well within the reach of the educated consumer more than ten years before PIPEDA became law on April 13th 2000. It would be disingenuous to claim that the legislature was unaware of the technology.

Technological questions aside, it would actually be contrary to traditional Canadian Public Policy to include my vehicle's location as being an item of "personal information" that requires protection. When I drive my black Chrysler Neon along the public highways of any province or territory in Canada I am required by law to affix a device to my car so that it is apparent that it is not just ANY black Chrysler Neon but that it is MY black Chrysler Neon.

That device is called a "Licence Plate".

The Licence Plate specifically and uniquely identifies that motor vehicle as being mine and I am legally required to display it any time that vehicle makes use of any public road anywhere in Canada. Not only am I required to display it but I am required to display it prominently and visibly - I am not permitted to cover it up or otherwise make it unreadable. That has been public policy since 1903 in Ontario (where I live) and shortly thereafter in the rest of Canada. I have no way of knowing who is going to make what use of the information obtained by the display of that device but I am required to display it.

And that makes sense. I am using public roads; I have no expectation of privacy regarding my vehicle's location. Neither do I have an expectation of privacy regarding my vehicle’s rate of speed nor its direction of travel - the roads are public; I expect my use of them to be a public matter as well.

Well then, what about private property? Don't I have an expectation of privacy inside my own home?

Yes I do. I have a complete and almost absolute expectation of privacy about what I do in the privacy of my own home. And I want that privacy protected. Vigorously.

...about what I do in there. Not the fact that I AM there. I can take steps to conceal the fact that I am at home if I choose to do so (leave the lights off, don't answer the phone) but it would be ludicrous to insist that I need the knowledge of the fact that I am present in my home protected from being known by others. If I want to play hide and seek with the bill collector that's my privilege but I can't insist that the bill collector not be allowed to use whatever legal means are available to him to determine if I am home.

Well, that's all GPS Logging/Tracking will tell you about my home - the fact that I am there. Actually, it won't even tell you that - it will tell you that my car is there; I could be out for a walk.

In my view, so long as a GPS Tracking/Logging device is affixed to my vehicle without causing any alteration or damage to my vehicle and is accomplished without trespassing (either in its placement or retrieval) then no law has been broken. I'm not a lawyer (and I don't even play one on TV) but that's my take on the legality of GPS Tracking/Logging. I would welcome any guidance anyone can provide in getting a more definitive answer.

Dances With Avatars

2010-01-24T19:07:00.004-05:00

Avatar
- Victory of style over substance

I just sat through Avatar in 3D on the big screen.

WOW - it looks beautiful. I mean it, really impressive and, once you get used to the stupid glasses, you can easily loose yourself in the visual splendour of Cameron's vision. I have a definite appreciation for why this movie is pulling people in to see it - you HAVE to see it and you have to see it on the big screen. Okay? Are we all happy now? Good.

Because it's not a good movie.

I'm sorry - and I know almost no one is going to agree with me on this but GOOD movies have compelling (or, at least, interesting) stories with well-defined characters. Characters who go through some sort of development and allow us, vicariously, to grow in some way with them. If we're lucky, such movies also have interesting locales and are compelling to look at. But the settings are secondary - story and character are primary. GOOD movies have good stories and interesting characters. Avatar doesn't; Avatar isn't a good movie.

In the last hour of this nearly three hour long flight of fancy - as I was shifting in my seat trying to restore feeling to my buttocks - I kept asking myself: If they were willing to spend millions to make it look so nice why didn't they spend a couple thousand to buy a good story?

I don't know the answer to that question. I don't know why Cameron chose to tell a watered-down version of Dances With Wolves without the character-development. Did he think that a good story would somehow distract us from the visuals? Could he be right? I don't know.

I'm glad I saw it - and I encourage other people to see it, too. In 3D. On the big screen. Absolutely - once should do it though. Because ultimately, this is not a good movie.

Back From Dominican Republic

2010-01-15T20:16:00.002-05:00

Hey - I'm back.

Interesting trip. The weather could have been better but considering the earthquake that happened and all - I guess I can't complain.

The earthquake was quite interesting. When it hit I was walking on Highway 5, making my way into the Town of Rio San Juan. Walking ahead of me was a guy on a donkey; I was just walking along in my sandals. The earthquake hit and, from that distance, it wasn't really bad but you definitely noticed it. I've been in three Earthquakes prior to this one and they all passed much more quickly; this one went on for at least a minute - at least...

Anyway, I got so distracted by the shaking of the earth that I didn't pay attention to where I was going and, before I knew it, I stepped into a big steaming pile of Pat Robertson...

Two "sleeps" until Domincan Republic

2010-01-05T16:13:00.002-05:00

I've gotta admit - I'm getting kind of excited!

My buddy, Wayne and I leave for the Bahia Principe Resort in Rio San Juan, Dominican Republic bright and early Thursday morning...

...and I mean early - flight leaves Toronto at 6:15 AM!

Back in September Wayne and I were talking and he was bitching about the winter coming and how he doesn't like the cold - blah blah blah - same thing he's bitched about before. So I said: "Book an all inclusive and get away." He said: "I don't wanna go by myself, will you go with me?" And I said: "Sure."

And now - here we are: two sleeps away!

Would It Still Be Christmas

2009-12-18T20:31:00.008-05:00

Would It Still Be Christmas is a song I wrote in 2000. As I was recording the tracks for it I experienced a massive hard-drive crash and lost almost all of my files. All I had left of this song was a quick mixdown of two guitar tracks and the vocals that I had saved as a .wma file and emailed to a friend for comments.

Disheartening.

But that .wma file served me well - it won some prizes on a "Battle Of The Bands" website and in a radio competition in Toronto. Not bad for an unpolished sparse little tune.

This past Sunday (Dec 13 '09) I sang it with SoulJourn (the church band I play drums for) at our services and our minister asked me why she couldn't find the song on youtube. So I used the recording from that Sunday's service and quickly put together this little video.

I hope you like it.

Jennessa Clarke - Believe

2008-12-15T20:22:00.003-05:00

Recorded Sunday December 14th 2008 in Guelph as part of the Grand River Music Christmas Pageant, this is Jennessa singing "Believe" from the movie The Polar Express.

More Political Humour

2008-12-05T10:19:00.006-05:00

I know I keep claiming to eschew political humour but I must admit that this one tickles me; I think because I've always believed that at the core of any bully is a coward and Mr. Harper seems to perfectly illustrate the point.

Creation Science 101

2008-11-22T20:07:00.005-05:00

I used to love Tom Lehrer.

I thought he was the cleverest songster that I ever heard - pithy, witty, intelligent - just a joy to listen to.

Well, Roy Zimmerman is this generation's version of Tom Lehrer. He, too is pithy, witty, and intelligent. Here he is singing Creation Science 101.

Enjoy.

Amazing Volleyball Return

2008-11-07T20:17:00.002-05:00

Trish and I attended a volleyball tournament at Jennessa's school this afternoon and I thought it might be a good opportunity to try out my new videocam. This short video tells the rest of the story.

First Recorded Instance Of Crowd Surfing?

2008-09-07T17:27:00.005-04:00

Here’s a video of Peter Gabriel performing (the appropriately titled) “Lay Your Hands On Me” I maintain he is the inventor of crowd surfing.

Now, there are those who contend that “crowd surfing” was invented by Jim Morrison in 1968 and, considering how drunk/stoned Morrison was 95% of the time, I suppose that is possible. BUT – there is no documented evidence of Morrison doing it and, considering Morrison’s well-documented fear of audiences, it seems doubtful.

This footage (from the film POV – produced by Martin Scorsese) was released in 1990 but I understand that the concert footage was filmed in 1988. From the anticipatory mood of the crowd you can surmise that they were expecting Gabriel to “crowd surf”. My understanding is that, by this time, this was already an established part of his performance. If I had to guess I would guess that he was doing this from 1986 onward.

There are three things I would like to draw to your attention in this clip:

1. Gabriel is flipped onto his front at one point and immediately flips himself back – considering all the hands lifting him I suspect that this was done to avoid being handled about his genital area – which anyone could certainly understand.
2. Gabriel is ‘relieved’ of his jacket during the ‘surf’ – rather than resist this blatant theft he acts to remove the jacket. I find his apparent attitude in this to be admirable: ‘if they want it, let them have it.’
3. Gabriel’s energy level once he is returned to the stage. To me, this is the most significant thing about this clip. I don’t know if you have ever attended a Peter Gabriel live performance. In addition to this film, I also have the concert footage of his “US” performance, and I saw him live at Exhibition Stadium while he was touring to support the “SO” album. His concerts are carefully orchestrated events – every movement, every gesture, is pre-planned and calculated to give the audience the maximum experience – he leaves almost nothing to chance. But when his security people heave him back onto the stage after his crowd-surfing experience it is evident that his energy level has been boosted to the maximum and he can barely contain himself as he finishes the song. I find this very telling.

The clip is eight minutes long; I uploaded it to my youtube account. I suppose they will eventually pull it since it is copyrighted material but until they do, here it is.

Sorry, I just thought it was funny.

2008-09-06T09:25:00.000-04:00

Jennessa Performing At The Guelph Music Centre

2008-06-20T11:51:00.003-04:00

Jennessa's programs at Grand River Music include periodic performances at the Guelph Music Centre. On June 15th 2008 she took part playing piano (a piece entitled "Jig") and singing this piece - "Just Around The River Bend". Jennessa was the only double threat performing that day.

I videoed both performances but only converted and uploaded the vocal piece, here for your enjoyment.

Golden Prison - The Louvre

2008-05-31T09:52:00.003-04:00

In the mid-1980s when I was planning my (thus far, only) trip to Europe I stumbled on and bought this videotape in the "pre-owned" bin at a video rental store. This was a 1978 NBC release of a Lucy Jarvis documentary about The Louvre. (I just today learned -thru IMDB- that it was originally made in 1964.)

The VHS tape was (and still is) in excellent condition and though the style and content is obviously dated, it stands up to viewing still today.

Trish and I have been ridding ourselves of old and no longer needed clutter in the house and I've given away almost all of my VHS tapes. I've kept a few that I figured I wouldn't be able to replace with DVDs so that I can digitize them. This is the first one I've done and it came out quite well.

Because it has never been released in a digitized format, I feel no guilt at sharing this documentary with others - if NBC (or whoever owns the rights) re-released it on DVD I wouldn't do this, but they haven't so they obviously don't care about making this film available to the public.

I've split the film into 'youtube-acceptable' size chunks and uploaded them (six in total, with a sum playing time of about 44 minutes).

I don't know how long they will be available; I imagine that if youtube gets a complaint they'll pull them. So if you're interested in watching it I'd suggest you do so sooner rather than later.

Golden Prison - The Louvre (Part 1 of 6)

Golden Prison - The Louvre (Part 2 of 6)

Golden Prison - The Louvre (Part 3 of 6)

Golden Prison - The Louvre (Part 4 of 6)

Golden Prison - The Louvre (Part 5 of 6)

Golden Prison - The Louvre (Part 6 of 6)

Switch Your Hot-Tub to Hydrogen Peroxide

2008-05-13T16:05:00.003-04:00

The drawbacks of traditional chlorine-based (bromide) Hot-Tub water sanitization methods are legion; the necessary chemicals are expensive, complicated, smelly, and really drying to the skin. But with a little pre-planning you can sanitize your Hot-Tub water with Hydrogen Peroxide (H2O2) instead of all those other chemicals. Save money, save your skin, and save having to perform all sorts of unnecessarily complicated water treatments.

I recently switched our 1558 Liter (410 US Gallon) Coast Hot-Tub over to Hydrogen Peroxide and I couldn't be happier with the results. The tub is easier to maintain, doesn't have that 'chemically smell' it used to have, and my entire family noticed being in the Hot-Tub no longer dries out their skin but leaves it feeling smooth and soft. We'll never go back to chlorine!

Now, Hydrogen Peroxide won't be an option for you if you don't get your water from a municipal water supply that chlorinates it. So if you get your water from a well or directly from a lake or river WITHOUT chlorination you'll have to stick with bromide. But the relatively low levels of chlorination provided by virtually all municipal water supplies is adequate and, since most people are on municipal water, Hydrogen Peroxide is an alternative for almost all Hot-Tub owners.

WHAT YOU WILL NEED
- 35% Technical Grade Hydrogen Peroxide
- Polyethylene Containers for Hydrogen Peroxide
- Hydrogen Peroxide Test Strips
- Clean Hot-Tub Filter(s)
- Glass measuring cup - 250 Ml (1 cup)
- Protective Gloves and Eye-wear

Obviously you'll need Hydrogen Peroxide. It is available in various concentrations and grades but for Hot-Tub use we want 35% Technical Grade. Depending on where you live, getting it can be tricky. I live in Kitchener, Ontario, Canada and, fortunately, in the neighboring city of Guelph there is a supplier who not only sells 35% Technical Grade Hydrogen Peroxide and all of the other supplies I need but offers free delivery to my area. In fact, Bob Simpson of SUPERFAST SOLUTIONS (www.superfastsolutions.com) has been a terrific source of information as well. If you aren't fortunate enough to live in Bob's delivery area try doing a web search for Hydrogen Peroxide suppliers in your area, you might get lucky and find Bob's counterpart near you. If not, you can investigate shipping your supplies from somewhere else, but the shipping charges will put your costs up a bit.

The minimum quantity of 35% Technical Grade Hydrogen Peroxide that Bob sells is 20 Liters (5 US Gallons). It costs me CDN$60 and, for a Hot-Tub our size, I figure is about a one year supply. Although the Hydrogen Peroxide comes in a blue polyethylene container with an attachable spigot, it weighs 26 KG (57 Lbs) and that seemed rather unwieldy to me so I also ordered five 4.5 Liter (1 US Gallon) polyethylene jugs for storage.

Hydrogen Peroxide Test Strips are plastic strips with a reactive pad on one end, similar to the test strips you are probably using currently to check Chlorine, Alkalinity and pH levels. The strips measure Hydrogen Peroxide from 0 to 100 parts per million (PPM). Bob sells me test strips for CDN$40 for a 50 pack.

When you first start using Hydrogen Peroxide, organic material that has accumulated in your Hot-Tub's pipes, pumps and tubes are going to circulate so starting out with a clean filter is advisable. Be prepared to replace or clean it frequently, at least at first.

You'll need to measure the Hydrogen Peroxide and since glass is non-reactive to it, a glass measuring cup is a good choice. And protective gloves and eye-wear should always be used when handling corrosive materials.

SHOCKING
Though Hydrogen Peroxide can exist quite safely in water already treated by chlorine, bromide and the other chemicals I was already using, to enjoy the benefit of unclouded, fresh-smelling, non-drying water I chose to make the switch when I was planning to replace the Hot-Tub water and I strongly suggest you do the same.

Once you've drained and refilled your Hot-Tub (and put in a clean filter), shock it by adding 250 ml (1 cup) of Hydrogen Peroxide for every 1000 liters (250 US Gallons) of water.

Let the Hot-Tub stand for one day with the circulation pump running intermittently. After that, check your filter and clean or replace it as necessary.

MAINTENANCE
Use the test strips frequently to check the level of Hydrogen Peroxide until you pick up the pattern of how much Hydrogen Peroxide to add and when to add it. Check at least once per week after that.

When the level drops below 50 PPM add 250 ml (1 cup) of Hydrogen Peroxide per 2000 Liters (500 US Gallons) of water in the tub - this is half the quantity you used to originally shock the water.

Maintain the level between 50 and 100 PPM (it isn't dangerous to exceed 100 PPM but it is unnecessary).

Remember to check and clean or replace the filter frequently.

SAFETY AND STORAGE TIPS
Undiluted 35% Hydrogen Peroxide is corrosive, toxic and can be fatal if swallowed. Keep it out of the reach of children and never use unlabeled or improperly labeled containers. Use child-proof caps on all containers. I used an indelible ink marker to label my storage jugs: "DANGER! H2O2 - DO NOT TOUCH".

Hydrogen Peroxide also reacts to sunlight and becomes more active at higher temperatures so store it in a cool dark place. I put my supply on a bottom shelf in the basement on top of a plastic sheet. The shelf is behind a door and I installed a hasp and lock on the door for additional security. I also keep the measuring cup, gloves and safety glasses on the same shelf and I only measure the Hydrogen Peroxide outside when I am about to add it to the Hot-Tub.

If you accidentally spill it on skin, flush the area immediately with running water. If it is accidentally swallowed, drink large quantities of water, remain upright and call a doctor or poison control agency at once.

In case of accidental spillage, flush the area with water to dilute. Don't return any spilled Hydrogen Peroxide to its container and keep undiluted Hydrogen Peroxide from going into the sewage system. Report any spills as required by Federal, Provincial/State or local regulations.

If you are using a spigot to dispense Hydrogen Peroxide leave it in place until the container is empty. Removing and replacing the spigot can cause lint or dust to contaminate it.

With a little pre-planning and some common sense you can safely switch your Hot-Tub water sanitization over to Hydrogen Peroxide and not only save money on the multitude of expensive chemicals you are currently using but also have an over-all better Hot-Tubbing experience.

Mistaking Our Egos For Ourselves

2008-05-04T20:07:00.000-04:00

Most physiological processes are either voluntary (finger movement, leg movement, etc.) or autonomic (heartbeat, digestion, blood circulation, etc.)

Only two are quasi-autonomic: breathing and thinking. We can control these processes but only to a point - they will become autonomic when we take our attention away from them.

The unique similarity between these two processes is the reason disciplines around Yoga and Meditation place such emphasis on breathing - because consciousness around breathing can lead to consciousness around thinking. The two are related.

The 'chatter' in your head is not YOU - it is the voice of ego.

You are the 'focus' that can direct the chatter and you are the spaces between the thoughts. It is in the moments when we still the chatter that we are most ourselves.

-"Be still and know that I am God."(Psalm 46:10)

Pure Pap For Now People

2008-04-07T15:56:00.003-04:00

"After some consideration, I've decided to remove this post. I don't normally do that because it feels a little "dishonest" somehow to go back and change what I wrote but I recently re-read it and realized that this particular post was overly critical and potentially hurtful and that is not what I am about."

Bill
June 26 2008

April? Already???

2008-04-03T17:37:00.001-04:00

Wow, I've just been so busy with working on the illustrations for the upcoming (Fall 2008) release of my non-fiction book (A real chore for someone as 'artistically-challenged' as I am) that I let this blog (and lots of other things) slide to the wayside. Please forgive me.

Here's a video of Jennessa (and other participants in the 2008 Grand Valley Rock Camp) performing IRREPLACEABLE.

Feel The Dancing

2008-03-15T17:38:00.006-04:00

I used to be the easiest person in the world to manipulate (I'd like to think that I've matured and this is no longer true but I can't cite any empirical evidence of that). Back in the day, all one had to do was tell me that I couldn't do something and, sure as God made little green apples, THAT's what I'd do.

The Reverse Psychology Poster Boy - that was me.

So, in the late seventies/early eighties when Wayne Walsh and I were writing songs by the bushel, our manager manipulated me easily to get us to write a Disco song. He simply told me that the reason I didn't like Disco was because I couldn't do it.

Well, that was one gauntlet the Reverse Psychology Poster Boy couldn't resist and - within two weeks - we had "Feel The Dancing".

I still cringe when I hear it.

Not because the lyrics are insipid (though they are)

Not because the tune is mindless (though it is)

Not because the production is painfully pedictable (though, my God, is it ever... and yes, I was the Producer)

No, it's because I was so easily manipulated into doing it.

So much for standards.

(Click on the title above to hear an MP3 of "Feel The Dancing")

Hollywood - A Cautionary Tale

2008-03-10T10:42:00.003-04:00

You come up with an idea, flesh it out and think, this is pretty good. So you take steps to protect it then submit your idea to appropriate agencies to see if anyone wants to develop it.

You're screwed.

The powers that be in Hollywood will take your idea and do whatever they want with it and give you nothing in return and there's nothing you can do about it. That's the lesson I recently learned.

On February 18th 2008, NBC premiered its new gameshow "My Dad Is Better Than Your Dad" - there's a description of it at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Dad_Is_Better_Than_Your_Dad

Its Executive Producer is Mark Burnett (the guy who gave us "Survivor") and its Creator is credited as Jon Hotchkiss (of "Penn and Tellers: Bullshit" fame).

Check out the description of the show and then check out my article from this very blog (from January 21 2006) - http://bilclarke.blogspot.com/2006/01/my-new-gameshow-idea.html

More than just a little similar, don't ya think?

Sure, they've made some changes. The name, for one thing, changed from "My Dad Can Beat Your Dad" to "My Dad Is Better Than Your Dad". But the changes are all sort of evolutionary; the type of changes you would expect once you start to develop an idea. The premise, the structure, the idea - it's all the same.

January 2006. That's when I published that blog entry. I didn't publish it until after I gave up on flogging the idea through tvwritersvault.com because I didn't want to spend more money renewing my subscription there. So my idea was in Hollywood's hands before January 2006. That isn't a coincidence.

Since I have actual proof that I had this idea first, I contacted an intellectual property lawyer in Toronto, he referred me to a lawyer in Los Angeles (I didn't ask this lawyer for permission to use his name so I won't, but he's a well known expert in the field and has worked on some famous cases involving idea theft in Hollywood.) His advice? "...just forget about it. Let it go. Move on with your life."

That's a verbatim quote from our email correspondence. So is this: "...for every successful TV show or movie, there are around 15 various different people who claim that they had written the idea first. Some of them have registered for Copyright Protection, and many of them have registered their scripts with the Writers Guild of America. None of them prevail, in my experience."

Remember, this guy is a pro - out there - dealing with these issues all the time. And he wasn't being cruel; he's seems like a real nice guy just telling the truth as he knows it: "...just forget about it. Let it go..." I'm taking his advice.

Moral of the story? If you come up with a good idea and you aren't prepared to develop it yourself, put it in the shedder. It'll bring you nothing but heartache.

Jennessa at the 2008 Unity Centre Coffee House

2008-02-22T13:39:00.002-05:00

While Trish and I were away on a long overdue honeymoon the annual Coffee House was held at Unity Centre. A friend at Unity was kind enough to videotape Jennessa's performance (Thanks Nathan!) so we didn't have to miss it. I digitized her performance and uploaded it to youtube, so here is Jennessa singing: "Big Girls Don't Cry".

Dr. Phil

2007-12-02T20:02:00.001-05:00

I came home the other day and my wife was watching the Dr. Phil program. She'd actually TIVOed this one particular episode so she'd be sure to see it. She invited me to watch it with her; I made a face and left the room.

After the show she sought me out and asked me point blank why it was that I didn't like Dr. Phil. You know, I had to think about it for awhile before I could construct a cogent answer but this is it:

Dr. Phil is a psychologist. Nothing wrong with psychologists - they make valuable contributions to society.

But psychology isn't like medicine. Heck, it isn't even really like psychiatry; psychology is much more 'art' than 'science'. Basically it's opinion. It may be informed opinion or educated opinion but - push comes to shove - it's opinion.

Dr. Phil doesn't present it like that.

The way he talks you would think he was telling you 'facts' rather than his opinions. Maybe informed opinions or educated opinions but - push comes to shove - still just opinions.

It strikes me as egotistical and condescending.

It strikes me very much like those fundamentalist evangelical preachers who present things as facts that really are just opinions; maybe informed opinions or educated opinions but - push comes to shove - just opinions.

Now, there are lots of people who don't like subtleties, don't like nuance, aren't comfortable with grey areas. There are lots of people who like things to be presented to them as certainties even when they're not - that's why fundamentalist evangelical preachers and people like Dr. Phil find audiences. Because there are lots of people who like to be told things that way.

But for many people - like me - it doesn't take very much of that to become a burr up our butts.

So much so that we may tune out what is being said - even when the opinions being expressed might agree with our own opinions. We don't want to be like the person doing it - egotistical and condescending - even if we happen to agree with them.

That's why I don't care very much for Dr. Phil - he strikes me as being just like one of those preachers who don't know the difference between what they believe and what is provable reality.

And they can be dangerous.

And so, too, can Dr. Phil be dangerous - even when he's right.

2 Lives Shattered 4 Ever

2007-11-07T14:46:00.000-05:00

When she was sixteen my daughter, Bonnie (now in her 4th year at University) made this short 'morality film' as a school project. The assignment was to produce something to discourage teenagers from drinking and driving during the up-coming Victoria Day (May 24) weekend.

I helped her with the editing and I even appear - briefly - in the film (yes - that's me in uniform) but she wrote and directed the film. And got an A+ for her efforts.

I stumbled onto her film while searching for something else on my hard-drive and decided to share it.

Shape of Things To Come

2007-10-13T20:56:00.000-04:00

This video clip is from 1968 – DO NOT USE GOOGLE OR ANY SEARCH ENGINE – see if you can answer these questions:

1. Who is the actor seen in the clip?
2. What movie is it from?
3. Name the comic who made his film debut in this movie.
4. How many mainstream actors appeared in this film? Name as many as you can.

I have posted the answers in the "Comments" area.

RIP C-fer Cat

2007-09-28T16:39:00.000-04:00

He came into our lives at the end of October 1998 and was struck and killed by a car near the end of September 2007.

So, for very nearly nine years, he was our pet.

C-fer.

C-fer Cat.

A silly name, I know. But then, C-fer was just that kind of cat: Silly. Funny. Sometimes moody. Always affectionate.

You know - a cat.

A cat who was great at catching mice but had the nasty habit of eating the top halves of them and leaving the rest for me to dispose of. A cat who was great at catching birds even though we put a bell on his collar so that he couldn’t. It didn’t matter: he learned to move so that the bell didn’t ring. We tried two bells – didn’t matter. C-fer was nothing if not determined. Finally we just took the bells off.

A nice neighbour saw what happened: a red car zoomed around the corner and struck him. The neighbour said there’s no way the driver didn’t know what happened but the driver didn’t stop. The nice neighbour put C-fer in a box and returned him to us.

There wasn’t a mark on him. I think he died instantly. But then, I need to think that.

He was still warm when we wrapped him in a shroud and buried him in the back-yard with a toy mouse to keep him company. Trish put a stone on his grave; I scratched his name on the stone. We all cried.

Good-bye C-fer. Thank you for being my friend.

The Perfect Mistake

2007-09-09T17:42:00.000-04:00

Okay - here's the back story: In July, I was on a family camping trip and I wrote this song - The Perfect Mistake.

I decided that I'd like our church band (SEGUE - I'm the drummer) to do this song so I threw together a demo of it so that I could teach it to the rest of the band.

I uploaded an MP3 of the demo and asked several people to comment - the comments were very positive; not just about the song itself but even about the demo (which, I must admit, surprised me because I didn't spend a great deal of time preparing the demo since it was only meant to be instructional and in no way a finished product.)

So I decided to add some video to the demo and upload it to my 'youtube' account and that brings us to here. I hope you enjoy it.

And, just for fun, here's a list of items supposedly invented by mistake:

Coca-Cola
Sticky Notes
Scotchgard
Implantable Pacemakers
Penicillin
Potato Chips
Nitrous Oxide
Tea Bags
Air Conditioners
Barometers
Purple Glass
Guinness
Champagne
Vulcanized Rubber
Microwave Ovens
Bubble Wrap
Teflon

"Mistakes are the portals for discovery."
- James Joyce

The Claypole Mission

2007-08-24T10:23:00.000-04:00

Some stories are specific to their time - this one actually had a "Best Before" date: January 1st 2000.

For the punch line at the end of the story to work it really needed to be read before then. I wrote it in 1999 and planned for it to be published in the December Issue of a major Science Fiction magazine.

But I missed the deadline.

So, better late than never, for your amusement I present...

The Claypole Mission

Harry Claypole died on the fifth of May 1969 at 4:00 o’clock in the afternoon. Poor Harry. After thirty years of service with the Zinger Wringer Washing Machine Company (If your shorts are in a wringer, make sure it’s a Zinger!) Harry was destitute. As the Personnel Manager explained: “…one of the conditions of the pension is that you have to be alive to collect it.” So Harry was without a job (it wouldn’t do to have a dead man around the place) without a pension and with little money to speak of.

It wasn’t long before his landlady threw him out. "I’m not having any dead-beat dead people in my house!” She yelled as she tossed his suitcase on the sidewalk. Poor Harry.

So Harry spent his days in the park feeding peanuts to the squirrels. He would have thought about his future but, being dead, he didn’t have one. And that’s the state he was in when the squirrel spoke to him.

“Say, you’re dead aren’t you?” The squirrel asked from the top wrung of the park bench that Harry was sitting on.

“Yes,” Harry replied. “Completely dead.”

“That’s what I thought,” said the squirrel. “You know, we really appreciate the peanuts and everything but don’t you think you could be doing a little more with your death than just sitting here? I mean, you’re gonna be dead a long time, this’ll get boring.”

“I know,” said Harry “…but what else can I do?”

“Well,” said the squirrel as he sidled up a little closer to Harry, “…it just so happens that I’m authorized to make you an interesting offer. I won’t go into the details now but, if you’re interested, we can make arrangements to get you to Alaska where some very important work is waiting for you.”

***********************************************************************************
Sylvia Claypole was hot on the trail of a very suspicious-looking ten year old. Sylvia noticed her in the Cosmetics section, followed her through Hardware, and was now stalking the girl in Junior Miss. Just as soon as Sylvia was certain that the ten year old was shoplifting she’d grab her.

Watching as the ten year old made her way towards the exit to the parking garage, Sylvia had to make a decision. She hadn’t actually seen her put anything in her shopping bag but if Sylvia let her leave without getting a look inside she’d never know for sure. The ten year old must have sensed Sylvia’s attention because she was moving faster now and would be through the exit in a few moments.

Sylvia decided. She ran towards the exit. The ten year old heard her and she was running now, too. The ten year old made it through the door first but Sylvia was right behind. As the door swung closed, Sylvia grabbed at the shopping bag. Resistance then, as the door slammed shut, the bag tore spilling its contents: two lipsticks, a box of screws and a Barbie hair-band clattered to the floor. Sylvia scooped up the stolen merchandise and flung open the exit door.

No one. Not a soul. Sylvia’s quarry was nowhere in sight.

Sylvia sighed, looked down at the property in her hands, shrugged, and headed back inside the store. Or would have if the door wasn’t locked. Locked tight in fact, without so much as a handle on this side. Sylvia stood and stared at the door as if she could will it open then, resigned, walked to the ramp and made her way back down to ground level where she could re-enter the store.

And that’s where her boss, Stanley, found her.

“A word Miss Claypole,” Stanley said as he held the Security door open for her. Sylvia knew what was coming. Inside Stanley’s sparse office Sylvia dropped the recovered stolen merchandise on the couch then settled in for another lecture.

“Miss Claypole,” Stanley began, “…in the six years you have worked as a Floor-walker…”

“Loss Prevention Operative” Sylvia corrected.

“Yes, quite” Stanley allowed. “Ahem. In the six years you have worked as a Loss Prevention Operative you have failed to successfully prosecute a single shoplifter.”

“That’s true but I have prevented loss” Sylvia countered and gestured towards the lipsticks, screws and hair-band. “Which is what the job is all about.”

Stanley took in the sight. “It’s what the job is called” he said, “…but not exclusively what it is intended to produce. Your fellow Floor-walk…er…Loss Prevention Operatives produce an average of three point five arrests per operative per week. And while it’s true that you do turn in stolen property, the ten to twenty dollars that averages per week hardly justifies the salary you receive.”

Sylvia made no comment. This wasn’t the usual lecture; they were actually keeping statistics now. That couldn’t be good.

“Management has decided,” continued Stanley “…to allow you two weeks. Two weeks to produce one prosecutable arrest or face termination.” With that he handed her a documentation, a copy of which would undoubtedly be in her file. “I hope you take this warning seriously Miss Claypole, it will be your last.”

***********************************************************************************
Harry had become philosophical and guessed that was what dying did to you. He found himself now in the cargo hold of some sort of military transport on its way to Alaska after being virtually kidnapped by the squirrels, yet he wasn’t worried. Of course…mused Harry …once you’re dead what is there to worry about?

Harry knew that he was going to Alaska to meet with something. He guessed from his surroundings that the something had to do with the military and, since it had talking squirrels as agents, must be involved somehow in espionage. Beyond that he had no idea what they wanted or why they had abducted him.

When the transport landed, Harry was taken by truck to a large underground facility which, once you got used to the total lack of windows, seemed exactly like any large office building. There were desks and filing cabinets, fluorescent lights and coffee machines, men in ties and women in skirts scurrying about just as they would in an insurance company or accountancy firm. Harry was taken to a small waiting room and told, humorlessly, to wait.

As soon as Harry sat on a large comfortable couch, a voice from somewhere overhead said: “Please sit in the arm-chair.” Harry looked around and saw a stiff, uncomfortable chair against the opposite wall. He shrugged, got up and sat in the chair. Unexpectedly, the lights dimmed and the wall behind Harry spun completely around taking the chair and Harry with it.

Harry found himself in a cavernous room lit only by two spot-lights: one, illuminating the area around his chair; the other, lighting up a large desk on the other side of the room. Seated at the desk was a bald-headed man in glasses and military uniform.

“Hello Mr. Claypole,” the bald-headed man said. “Welcome to TSA.”

***********************************************************************************
When Sylvia reached her apartment door she could hear the telephone ringing inside.

“Wait!” She cried as she searched through her purse.

“I’m coming!” She shouted while shoving her key in the lock.

“One second!” She yelled as she stumbled over her ottoman.

“Damn!” She muttered when she picked up the phone only to be greeted by a dial tone.

Sylvia hung up the phone and righted the overturned ottoman. She took her purse from under her arm and placed it on the couch and was just reaching around her apartment door to retrieve her keys when she heard a knock. Pushing the door open, Sylvia saw what had to be the largest human being she had ever encountered.

Dressed in a jacket and tie, the man was at least 6 foot six and must have weighed over three hundred pounds. His close-cropped brown hair framed a clean-shaven face that nonetheless reminded Sylvia of …what? A Koala bear? A raccoon? No. A…rabbit! hat’s it…this guy was a giant Easter Bunny. He said something but Sylvia didn’t respond. Not that she didn’t hear but her brain couldn’t put together what her ears and her eyes were telling her. No way could something that big make a sound that high. “I’m sorry, pardon me?” Sylvia stammered.

“I said ‘Are you Sylvia Claypole?’” That sound again – high pitched and whispery – was it some kind of a put-on?

“Yes. Mm-mm. Yes, I’m Sylvia” she managed.

He smiled then and, true to form, his two front teeth protruded ever so slightly. All that was missing were long floppy ears.

“Ahh Miss Claypole. I'm so happy to have tracked you down” he said. “I’ve been calling all day but without much success I’m afraid. My name is Teddy Lapin and I’m with the State Deceased Persons Department. I need to speak with you about your late brother, Harry Claypole.”

***********************************************************************************
“Redundancy Mr. Claypole, that’s the key to a successful Space Program” said Lt. Col. Thomas Jefferson Harper – for that was the bald-headed man’s name. “Redundancy. When President Eisenhower set-up the National Aeronautics and Space Administration he had the foresight to realize what a crucial role redundancy would play in any exploration of space.” Col. Harper was now standing in front of his desk. Harry noticed that wherever Col. Harper moved his spot-light followed.

“After all,” Col. Harper continued, “…you don’t want to put all your eggs in one basket. So when you’re going to send up a rocket you don’t build one, you build two. That way you have a back-up in case something goes wrong. The same with computers – you don’t program one computer but two with identical programming so that if the first one malfunctions the second on, the redundant one, can take over and bring the mission to a successful conclusion.” Col. Harper was now halfway between his desk and Harry’s chair, his spot-light still followed and lit him from above.

“Well, just as with small things like computers and rockets, the same principle applies to big things – like NASA itself.” Col. Harper gestures for Harry to join him. When Harry stood and walked he noticed that his spot-light followed him, too. “Accordingly,” Col. Harper continued “…President Eisenhower put his Vice-President, Richard Nixon, in charge of TSA –The Space Agency – a redundant agency designed as a back-up to NASA.”

Harry was now beside Col. Harper, their respective spot-lights making a double pool of light on the black floor. They walked at a right angle away from Harry’s chair towards blackness.

***********************************************************************************
“Harry’s dead?” asked Sylvia, taken aback.

“I’m afraid so” responded Teddy Lapin in his high, whispery voice. “He died at the beginning of May according to personnel records at the Zinger Wringer Washing Machine Company (If your shorts are in a wringer, make sure it’s a Zinger!). Excuse me, may I come in?”

“Oh I’m sorry. Of course, please won’t you…” Sylvia blinked and Teddy Lapin was in the room and seated on her couch. She blinked again and shook her head. How had he…? But by now he had a file open and was reading from it.

“May 5th 1969 at…4:00 P.M.” he read. “Harold T. Claypole passed away of apparent natural causes.” Teddy Lapin looked up from his file as Sylvia walked towards a chair opposite the couch. “Did no one notify you of your brother’s death?”

“Half brother, actually” Sylvia corrected. “Harry was the child of my father’s first marriage. And no, no one notified me. But Harry and I hadn’t seen each other in over twenty years. We weren’t exactly close.”

Teddy Lapin made a note of that in his file. “Be that as it may Miss Claypole, you are in fact Harry Claypole’s only living relative. Which is why I’ve come to talk to you today.” Sylvia noticed that Teddy Lapin’s mouth tended to twitch from side to side when he spoke. “Do you happen to know where he is?”

***********************************************************************************
As Harry walked beside Col. Harper towards a black wall he gradually detected what appeared to be a black elevator door. As they drew nearer, the door slid open revealing a much better lit hallway. The hallway was long with closed doors spaced roughly fifteen paces apart. None of the doors were labeled and each looked like all the others. Harry accompanied Col. Harper through the hallway and noticed that, despite the improved lighting, the two spot-lights continued to follow them.

“As you are no doubt aware Mr. Claypole, in a few weeks NASA will be launching Apollo 11. This will be the culmination of President Kennedy’s directive to NASA that they send a man to the moon and safely return him before the end of the decade. What you don’t know is that on the same day as NASA received its directive Vice President Johnson directed TSA to send a man to Venus and safely return him before the end of the century. You are going to be that man, Mr. Claypole.”

“Me?” gasped Harry. “I don’t know the first thing about space travel. You must have astronauts I mean, trained people who are much more qualified for something like this.”

“Oh, you are qualified, Mr. Claypole. Eminently qualified. The next person you’re going to meet is Dr. Karl Glenelg. He is our top scientist and will explain the details to you.” Col. Harper opened the next door on his left, which looked exactly the same as every other door they had passed.

You must have to count or something thought Harry otherwise I don’t know how you’d find you way around here.

***********************************************************************************
“Let me get this straight” Sylvia said. “You say Harry is dead but he’s missing?”

“That’s correct, Miss Claypole. Everyone down at the Department of Deceased Persons is quite concerned. I mean, we can’t have dead people out gallivanting around now can we?” Teddy Lapin gave Sylvia another one of his buck-toothed smiles.

“But what do you do in a situation like this?” Sylvia asked.

“Well, needless to say, this situation is somewhat rare. We considered filing a Missing Persons Report with the police but they pointed out that, being dead, Mr. Claypole isn’t actually a ‘person’ anymore. We’ve staked out the cemeteries where his other deceased relatives are located but so far, no luck. So all that left us was you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. As Mr. Claypole’s only living relative we felt that there is a possibility that he might try to contact you. Have you had any unusual mail or telephone calls since the fifth of May?”

Sylvia thought for a moment. “No. But the phone was ringing just before you got here. I didn’t get to it in time and whoever it was hung up.”

“Oh, that was me,” said Teddy Lapin. “As I said, I’ve been trying to reach you all day.” He handed her a business card and stood up – the couch creaked in gratitude. “Perhaps you would be good enough to call me if your brother does contact you? I realize it’s a long shot…”

“Of course,” replied Sylvia as she walked him to the door. As she opened the door she looked at the card in her hand and saw that it said only “Teddy Lapin” – no address, no phone number. Sylvia lifted her head and said: “Oh, there’s no…” but he was gone. She stepped into the hallway and looked both directions but he was nowhere in sight.

***********************************************************************************
Harry was confused. Not because the office he was in was so small. (Though it was small; he’d bumped the desk with the door when he came in.) Not because the walls of the office were covered in handwriting. (Though they were; floor to ceiling – some sort of formula with symbols Harry didn’t understand.) But because Dr. Karl Glenelg looked exactly like Lt. Col. Thomas Jefferson Harper, whom Harry had left in the hallway just seconds before.

“Well, this must be the illustrious Harry Claypole!” Greeted Dr. Glenelg when he looked up from the corner where he had been writing furiously. “We’ve all been looking forward to you joining our little team.”

“Yes. Hi,” said Harry. “Col. Harper said you could provide me with some details? I don’t quite see how I’m the right man for your mission.”

“Not the right man!” Dr. Glenelg exclaimed “…why my dear Mr. Claypole, you are the only man for the job. Because you’re dead. You are dead, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Harry replied. “Completely dead.”

“And therefore completely right for the job! Let me explain,” Dr. Glenelg pointed to a scribble of a globe on the wall to his left “…the planet Venus is the second closest planet to the sun. By the time you arrive there it will be roughly 159,000,000 miles from Earth. But we can’t just fly you that distance and have you rendezvous with it, we have to slingshot your spaceship around the moon and the Earth several times to give it sufficient momentum to reach Venus. Are you with me so far?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good. Now, using the conventional spaceship design that the boys at NASA are using for their Apollo missions… Well, I don’t think those ships could even make the trip, but if they could it would take them sixteen years.”

“Sixteen years?” Gasped Harry.

“Yes.” Dr Glenelg nodded. “Sixteen years.”

“Wow.”Said Harry.

“Yes. Wow.” Said Dr. Glenelg.

“But your spaceship design is faster, right?” Harry asked.

“Oh yes. Much faster indeed. With our design that same trip will take a paltry fifteen.” Dr. Glenelg bragged.

“Fifteen.”

“Yes. Fifteen.”

“Fifteen…years?”

“Yes.” Said Dr. Glenelg. “A paltry fifteen years” he paused. “Each way, of course.”

Harry shrugged. “Of course.”

“That’s crucial…”

“Because…?”

“Because twice fifteen is thirty.” Dr. Glenelg smiled triumphantly.

“So?” Asked Harry.

Dr. Glenelg looked confused. It never occurred to him that Harry didn’t follow his reasoning. “Well, it’s the uh – it’s because…the directive, you see? From Vice President Johnson? The directive to send a man to Venus and safely return him before the end of the century. Thirty-two years would put us past the end of the century. Thirty years brings us in under the wire.”

“I see.” Said Harry. “And you accomplish this remarkable feat…this one sixteenth reduction in travel time by…?”

“…by eliminating all life support systems from the design.”

“What??”

“Air, food, internal heating and cooling…all these things take up precious space and add unwanted mass to the spaceship. By eliminating them we achieve a much more efficient and a faster design.”

“Yes.” Harry agreed “But one that no living thing can survive.”

“Exactly,” agreed Dr. Glenelg. “Now, are there any questions?”

“Yes." said Harry. “Are you mad?”

***********************************************************************************
In the cold pre-dawn darkness Agent Nutley shifted uncomfortably; the park bench where he sat already dampening with dew. Why do they insist on meeting at these ungodly hours? he asked himself. But in truth, he knew that the cover of darkness was as much for his sake as it was for the Other Side.

In the two years since he’d become a double agent (‘gone mole’ as they put it in spy parlance) Agent Nutley had always given his clandestine reports to the Other Side under similar circumstances. Better than anyone, he knew the security that darkness could provide.

“Good morning, Comrade” came a voice out of the stillness.

Nutley spun and locked eyes with an old nemesis. “Vladimir!” he gasped. “They sent you? Your boss must be more interested in this mission than I thought.”

“Think what you wish,” replied the foreign spy as he plopped onto the bench beside Nutley “…a loyal agent does as he is told, he does not speculate about his superiors’ motives.”

Nutley chose to ignore the slight. Experience had taught him not to tangle with Vladimir unnecessarily. “Yes, of course” he allowed. “You look well. How long has it been since we’ve seen each other? It was Vienna wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Vienna.” Vladimir smiled. “Shortly after you began to work for us.”

For us not with us…thought Nutley …something has changed. He shifted again but this time not from the cold and damp. “TSA has found their man,” he said. “A Harry Claypole from here in the city. He’ll be in Alaska now.”

“We are already aware of Mr. Claypole.” Said Vladimir. “Your information has become as useless and out of date as you are.”

Too late Nutley realized he’d been set-up. As the thin piano wire of the garrote cinched around his neck and its cold steel sliced through his coat cutting a thin red line in the soft flesh of his throat he had time only to feel resignation and an overwhelming sadness. Nutley’s lifeless body slipped to the ground as Vladimir hopped off the bench and disappeared into the darkness.

***********************************************************************************
“Are you mad?” Asked Harry a second time in as many minutes. But now he asked it of Col. Harper after re-joining him in the hallway. “That guy in there says you’re going to shoot me off in a rocket with no heat and no food for thirty years!”

“Mr. Claypole,” Col. Harper responded in a voice like Valium “…how much have you eaten today?”

Harry thought. “Well, nothing…I haven’t eaten in quite a while now that you mention it.”

Col. Harper nodded. “And what do you think of the temperature in here? Is it comfortable? Too hot? Too cool?”

“Well, no. I find it quite…” Harry paused. “I don’t find it anything. Funny, the words don’t really seem to have any meaning to me.”

Col. Harper smiled and put an arm around Harry’s shoulder as he led him further down the hallway. “That’s right, Harry.” He said. “No hunger, no thirst. Not hot, not cold. Really, it makes you wonder why so many people are afraid of death. I mean, it’s not like you’re in pain or something.”

“But what about the time?” Asked Harry. “Thirty years is a long time to be cooped up in a little box… Oh, I see.”

“Exactly, Harry. Thirty years is nothing compared to what most people in your position have to face. And when you come back you’ll be a hero. True, you won’t be able to tell anyone about it. But you’ll be a hero. You know, you don’t really have any choice about it anyway.”

“I don’t?”

“No. Your next appointment is with Billy Williams. He’s legal counsel with the DRD – that’s the department that oversees our little agency. Billy’s going to explain all that to you. Now, don’t let Billy’s accent throw you – he’s a defector from Canada.”

“From Canada…?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Well, that’s my little joke. Actually Billy enjoys dual citizenship. You see, his mother was French Canadian.”

“And his father?” Harry asked.

“Wasn’t.” Col. Harper replied as he opened another identical door.

Inside, Harry found an office identical to the one he had just left but without the handwritten walls. There was an identical desk behind which sat an identical man.

“Bonjour M. Claypole. Hello. I am Mr. Williams from the Department of Redundancy Department. I trust you are well, how are you?”

“I’m fine.” Harry answered. “So tell me, how is it that a Canadian ends up with an American Government job?”

“Oh well, that’s simply easy. You see, Canada leads the world in redundancy. It is the most redundant nation in the world. The Canadian Government has had to deal with the French reality and the English reality for so long that we think redundantly automatically and without even thinking about it.”

“I see. And you’re legal counsel?”

“I am an attorney, a lawyer, qualified in both Canada and the United States both. Col. Harper has asked me to explain your legal position and your rights.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “That’s what he told me.”

“Bon. Good.” Mr. Williams spread both his hands open on the desk. “It’s important and it matters that you know that I have researched this well by doing a great deal of research and the conclusion is inescapable and can’t be avoided that you have no legal rights – your legal rights are nonexistent.”

“I see…”

“It’s because you’re dead and no longer living. The framers of the Bill of Rights and those who wrote it didn’t anticipate this situation and didn’t see it coming. Interestingly under common law, your estate has certain rights but you personally…that is to say your person, has none and doesn’t have any.”

“And if I went to a different attorney would I get a different opinion?”

“Bien sur, of course. Any lawyer or attorney that you hire or employ would give you as many opinions as you are willing to pay for.”

“I see…”

***********************************************************************************
Thirteen of the fourteen days Sylvia had been given to produce an arrest had passed without success. So she was understandably excited to be on the teenager’s trail. Sylvia spotted the boy as he sorted through some 45s and his nervousness piqued her interest. Sure enough, as Sylvia watched from behind a Mitch Miller LP she saw the boy slip two or three 45s down the front of his bell-bottoms. Now all she had to do was follow and grab him once he got outside the store.

The key was to follow without being spotted by her prey so Sylvia was taking extra care to stay out of sight. She stooped down behind the racks of tie-dyed shirts inside the main entrance and watched as the teenager made his way towards the doors. Moving quickly, Sylvia kept next to the wall with the displays hiding her. Around one more corner then out the door and the prey would be hers. Running now, stooped over, Sylvia took the final corner and – blam – ran into a wall.

A big, soft wall. Wearing a necktie.

Sylvia sat, undignified, and looked up from the floor as her eyes regained their focus and watched the wall evolve into Teddy Lapin.

“Oh Miss Claypole,” Teddy Lapin squeaked “I’m so sorry. I just didn’t see you.”

Sylvia shook herself and looked towards the doors just in time to see the back of her prey as he made good his escape. “Get me up. Get me up!” She yelled.

“No, no” Teddy Lapin cautioned as he squatted and held her down. “You’ve had a bit of a start. It’s better if you sit for a minute until you regain yourself.”

Resigned, Sylvia slumped back onto the floor.

“I’m sorry to have bumped into you like that,” Teddy Lapin squeaked, “but I was looking for you. There has been an important development in your brother’s case and I need you to come with me.”

Sylvia offered her arm and as the big man helped her up she said: “Go with you where?”

“Alaska.” Teddy Lapin squeaked.

***********************************************************************************
For technical reasons that Harry didn’t understand, TSA wanted to launch on July 16th at the same time as NASA would be launching Apollo 11. A ’scrub’ in Florida would mean a ‘scrub’ in Alaska; a ‘go’ in Florida would be a ‘go’ in Alaska unless local problems prevented TSA’s launch. Because of the NASA imposed launch target, Harry was immediately put into training.

Training consisted of sitting in a chair and being subjected to random blasts from a fog horn. Each time Harry heard the fog horn he was expected to reach out and push a button marked: ‘Return Launch Activation’.

As Col. Harper explained it: “You’re not just a passenger on this trip Harry, you’re an integral part of the mission. Without you there to push the button the spaceship would remain on Venus indefinitely and the mission would fail.”

Since no one knew what effect fifteen years of idleness would have on Harry, the training was designed to condition his autonomic system to respond. Four days after landing on Venus the fog horn would sound and continue blasting until Harry pushed the ‘Return Launch Activation’ button which would re-launch the ship back to Earth.

“Of course,” Col. Harper explained “…we would like you to get out and look around during your four day stay. Maybe pick up a rock or two to bring back with you. But even if you do nothing but sit there, once you push the button you’re on your way home.”

To further reinforce Harry’s autonomic reflexes, the button itself had been designed as a replica of one that Harry had to push during his thirty years on the line at the Zinger Wringer Washing Machine Company (If your shorts are in a wringer, make sure it’s a Zinger!)

{Stand up if you’re getting sick of this Zinger! gag.}

***********************************************************************************
“Temperature at the airport is a balmy 78 degrees, skies are clear. It’s three o’clock and time for the news…” droned the car radio as Sylvia and Teddy Lapin taxied to the airport.

“I still don’t understand,” Sylvia shouted over the newscaster’s voice after the cab driver responded to her request for quiet by turning up the volume. “Are you saying that Harry has been kidnapped?”

“Not kidnapped, no.” Answered Teddy Lapin who, with his high voice, was having an even harder time being heard. “The technical term is ‘snatched’. Live people are kidnapped, bodies are snatched.”

“All conditions are ‘go’ and the weather is ‘A.O.K.’ in Florida as crews prepare for the launch of Apollo 11,” said the radio announcer. “The countdown is proceeding on schedule and the world is watching as America prepares to send man to the moon.”

“I still don’t get any of this,” Sylvia shouted. “If Harry is dead, why would anyone take him to Alaska?”

“There’s a number of people – agencies – that would be very interested in getting their hands on Harry,” Teddy Lapin yelled. “You see, the chances of somebody still functioning after death are very small. Not impossible, just very, very improbable. But when you consider all the people that die – that have ever died since human life first appeared on this planet – then that small probability rises to a virtual certainty. Well, these agencies have done the calculations and they've been waiting. Waiting and watching. For Harry.”

“And it is one of these – agencies – that has taken Harry to Alaska?” Sylvia asked.

“Yes,” answered Teddy Lapin “…and you’re going with me to help convince Harry to come home. We have no way of knowing what’s been done to him. He may have been brainwashed.”

“In local news,” said the radio announcer “…Humane Society Officials are seeking the public’s help in solving a bizarre incident in an East End park. Officials have no idea why a partially decapitated squirrel was left under a bench in the park sometime last night or early this morning. Anyone with information is encouraged to contact the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.”

***********************************************************************************
Although the training schedule kept Harry pretty busy, he still found time to think. He thought about his life, about thirty years working for the Zinger Wringer Washing Machine Company (If your shorts are in a wringer…)

{Okay, okay. You can all sit down.}

Harry reached some conclusions: first, in the sixty-five years that he had lived he had accomplished nothing – no family, no career, no marker that said ‘Harry Claypole passed this way’. And he concluded that he’d been given the opportunity in death that he’d never had in life – the opportunity to accomplish something. Never mind that no one outside a few government bureaucrats would know of Harry’s accomplishment. He’d know. That would be enough.

As Harry pondered he gradually became aware of a sound. A distant ‘Ping-Ping-Ping’ worked its way into his consciousness. He had just begun to speculate about its origin when the door to his room burst open and Dr. Glenelg rushed in.

“Harry – thank God I’ve found you – we have to get you to the launch site and prepare for blast off right now.”

“What’s going on?” Harry asked.

“The rabbits are attacking,” said Dr. Glenelg.

***********************************************************************************
“We have operatives doing a frontal assault as a distraction, ” advised Teddy Lapin “…so we can slip into the launch site.”

Sylvia stared blankly, comprehension out of reach. “Operatives? Launch site? She stammered “…what are you talking about?”

Teddy Lapin steered their rented Volkswagen around another in what seemed like an endless series of turns down a huge spiraling vehicle ramp. “I know it’s confusing,” he managed. “You’re just gonna have to trust me. If I’ve figured it right, they’ll be rushing Harry to the launch site for an immediate blast off. They won’t want to risk having him captured before beginning his mission.”

Maybe I should have thought this through better thought Sylvia as she gripped her arm-rest for balance, Harry’s already dead, I don’t want to join him.

***********************************************************************************
“This way, Harry. Hurry up!” Dr. Glenelg coaxed as he led Harry down another indistinguishable hallway.

Ping! – Something whizzed past Harry’s ear.

Dr. Glenelg grabbed Harry’s arm and pulled him into an elevator. Harry turned and, just for an instant, glimpsed a group of small furry creatures turning the corner into the hallway. Sure enough, they looked like rabbits. One of them rose up on his hind legs and pointed something in their direction.

Ping! – The elevator door closed just in time to deflect whatever projectile it was that the rabbit had fired.

“Whew – that was close,” panted Dr. Glenelg. “We should be okay now, we’ll lock the elevator at the bottom. The rabbits have only penetrated to the fifth level of the complex. You should be safely on your way before they get much deeper.”

“I thought we couldn’t launch until the 16th,’ said Harry.

“That was just to throw off the Other Side,” said Dr. Glenelg. “We figured they’d be so busy monitoring the launch in Florida we could sneak you up without them knowing. But now that the rabbits have attacked we know that the Other Side has already learned about our plans.”

“And who are the rabbits?” Harry asked.

“Agents for the Other Side.”

***********************************************************************************
Despite whatever reservations Sylvia may have had, she had to admit that Teddy Lapin seemed to know what he was doing. He had deftly opened a service door and, after a confusing maze of tunnels, brought them safely to the floor of a huge indoor missile silo. A giant rocket dominated the space – belching steam. Sylvia was just beginning to think that this crazy plan was going to work.

“Hold it right there you two – freeze!” A voice emerged from the shadow of the rocket. Teddy Lapin froze like a small woodland creature caught in the headlights; Sylvia turned to see the source of the command. She saw a uniformed man with a bald head. He wore glasses and pointed a large, black gun menacingly in Sylvia and Teddy Lapin’s direction.

“Sylvia Claypole, I presume,” said the bald-headed man. “I’m Lt. Col. Thomas Jefferson Harper. We’ve sort of been expecting you.”

Sylvia figured she should be surprised that Col. Harper knew her name but she had been surprised so much in the last twenty-four hours that her capacity for it seemed pretty much exhausted. She simply accepted that he did know. And if he said they were expecting her well, that was fine with Sylvia.

“And just who is it you have with you?” Asked Col. Harper as he walked up to their position.

Okay, so he doesn’t know everything. “Oh,” Sylvia answered “…this is Teddy Lapin of the State Deceased Persons Department.”

Col. Harper smiled. He was now beside Sylvia with Teddy Lapin – still frozen in place – facing away from him. “I’m sure he is, Miss Claypole. The only question is: from what state?”

With that, Col. Harper reached up and grabbed a fistful of hair from the back of Teddy Lapin’s head then, with one jerk, pulled his head off.

***********************************************************************************
It took Harry’s brain several seconds to process what he had just seen. Dressed now in his flight suit and still being hurried along by Dr. Glenelg, Harry arrived on the floor of the missile silo in time to see Col. Harper, pointing a gun at a man and a woman, reach over and pull the man’s head right off his shoulders. The woman screamed. Harry noted with amazement that the decapitated man did not fall over. Nor bleed, for that matter. After a brief pause a long fuzzy ear popped out of the man’s neck cavity. This was followed by a second long fuzzy ear. Finally, a small rabbit head perched incongruously on the huge shoulders of the decapitated man.

“Vladimir! I should have guessed,” said Col. Harper to the rabbit. “I must congratulate you on your disguise. Most convincing.”

“It will please our scientists to hear that you said so,” responded Vladimir in Teddy Lapin’s high whispery voice.

“Okay, just what is going on here?” Sylvia finally asked.

For the first time, Harry turned his attention to the woman. Something about her was familiar…

“Sylvia!” Harry cried, “…what on earth are you doing here?”

Sylvia jumped at the sound of her name; her capacity for surprise apparently still unplumbed. “Harry, so it’s true. You are here.”

Harry and Dr. Glenelg joined the other three. Col. Harper kept his gun trained on the man with the rabbit’s head.

“No time for explanations now, Miss Claypole” Col. Harper said. “We have to get your brother launched before Vladimir’s comrades reach this far down into the complex. There are thousands of them swarming over the upper floors as we speak.”

“But I came here to convince Harry to come home with me,” Sylvia said. “Harry, you can’t seriously be willing to let them blast you to who-knows-where.”

“Venus,” Col. Harper and Dr. Glenelg said in unison.

“Venus,” Harry echoed. “Listen Sylvia, you don’t understand …this is my chance, my one opportunity to do something, to make a contribution, to accomplish something.”

“What do you hope to accomplish, Harry? To be the first dead man in space? You are dead, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Harry replied. “Completely dead.”

“Then I don’t understand why you’d want to do this. Other dead people don’t go blasting off to who-knows-where.”

“Venus!” shouted Col. Harper and Dr. Glenelg. In harmony this time -- just for variety.

“Sylvia,” Harry said taking her by the arm and leading her away from the others. “…I don’t have time to explain all this to you. Just trust me, it’s for the best. I’ll be gone a long time but I want you to do me a favor. Keep New Year’s Eve 1999 open. We’ll get together then, if you’re still alive, and I’ll fill you in on the whole adventure. We’ll celebrate the coming of the new century and the greatest adventure in history. I’ll even bring you a rock from another world.”

“Oh Harry, are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes I am, “ said Harry. “Col. Harper? Start the countdown. I’m going to Venus.”

***********************************************************************************
Sylvia paused and looked at the man in the tuxedo, trying in vain to see if she had gotten through to him. “And that” she said, “...is why you have to give me a reservation for New Year’s Eve.”

Copyright (c) 1999 by Bill Clarke. All rights reserved.

Drive Like Eighty

2007-08-15T12:38:00.000-04:00

Just for fun!
Lyrics are below the clip.

Drive Like Eighty

Oh, I can drive like eighty
I drive really really slow
Signaling a left turn
Everywhere I go
Yes, I can drive like eighty
The pedal nowhere near the floor
Oh, I can drive like eighty
Or maybe eighty-four.

Yes, I can drive like eighty
Wearing a jaunty hat
Staring dead at the road ahead
Man, I can drive like that
With my seat pulled tight up to the wheel
Just as close as I can be
Oh, I can drive like eighty
Or maybe eighty-three

With the windshield wipers slapping time
Like they did for Bobby McGee
The fact that I'm in bright sunshine
Doesn't even bother me
'Cause it's Rush Hour in the left lane
And I'm doin’ twenty-two
And the fact is I've forgotten
Where it is I'm headed to.

Oh, I can drive like eighty
Think of the gas I save
Everyone’s so glad to see me
As they pass, they wave.
And the road has really so much room
When you’re straddlin’ the center line
Oh, I can drive like eighty
Even though I’m eighty-nine.

Yes, I can drive like eighty
Even though I’m eighty-nine.

Copyright (c) 2007 by Bill Clarke. All rights reserved.

Sayonara

2007-08-07T10:10:00.000-04:00

Something a little more recent: this short story is from 1999 - but be darned if I can remember where or even if it was published.

Sayonara

I never claimed to be the best candidate for the job; I want you to understand that. But that’s often how the White Shirts do things. Someone who shows an interest, or has some background in the general area, or maybe is just being a pain in the ass – that person often gets the posting without even an attempt to find a better, more qualified person, from among the four thousand plus police officers on the Force.

That’s how I got the job. I wrote a report suggesting that the Force would benefit by having a “Profiler”. I drew a little bit on the Psychology I remembered from college and a whole lot from a chance meeting with a “qualified” profiler from the FBI. My report disappeared into the ivory tower that is the abode of the senior officers – the White Shirts. One of whom spoke some magic words or waved a wand and I was seconded for five years to the Major Crime Unit with the title of “Profiler” and a mandate to make the position into something useful. Sometimes that’s how they do it.

Do you see what I’m driving at? That I didn’t want to be here? Didn’t ask to be? I listen to the sound of the respirator and think about hearing it stop. I think about winking out of existence. I think about everything coming to an end.

**************************************************************************************

Dr. Emil Tobias was a nice guy. You might think the Director of the Creemore Institute would be like the warden from some old fashioned prison movie – it is after all an institution for the criminally insane, but Toby was a genuinely nice guy. I’d talked to him a number of times and met with him two or three when I was thrashing around trying to define my job. Toby gave me some good advice and welcome guidance. When he called a few months later and told me about Vigor Johnson I immediately cleared some time and made the two-hour drive up to Creemore.

Vigor Johnson had been convicted of thirty-five counts of sexual assault against teenage girls, although the actual number of his victims was probably much higher. Fifty-seven years old, Johnson would befriend the girls over the telephone or on the Internet by posing as a teenage boy. Once he gained their trust he suggested a meeting and told the girls his father would pick them up at some agreed upon location. The pretend involvement of his father was a touch of genius – it gave the girls an added feeling of security and didn’t raise their suspicions when a middle-aged man showed up at the rendezvous. Once a girl got in the car her fate was sealed and the almost sterile term “sexual assault” doesn’t begin to describe what he did to them. The archaic word “rape” applies here. He raped them. Viciously. Sadistically.

“A bona fide psychopath,” Toby said over the phone. “He’s here for a psycho-sexual evaluation as part of an eight-ten application. I thought you might like the opportunity to go one-on-one with a real psychopath.”

The officer in charge had applied to have Johnson declared a Dangerous Offender – an eight-ten application – and after only a few sessions Toby recognized what kind of monster they were dealing with. A real psychopath is exceedingly rare. Despite the paranoia of our times that convinces parents that one lurks around every corner, most of the sickos out there are just that – sick. A psychopath is on a whole different level. In the few cases where a real psychopath is at work more often than not he is long dead before authorities figure out what he was.

Johnson agreed to be interviewed. Creemore didn’t have videotape facilities but Johnson had no objection to the presence of my Sony cassette machine so that I could have a verbatim record of our conversation. Toby had him placed in a small interview room, introduced us, and left.

He wasn’t a big man – average height and weight. Clean-shaven and almost completely bald, which gave him a strangely youthful appearance. The only distinctive thing about him were his eyes. Clear, steel blue, intelligent eyes that seemed to take in every detail. There was nothing in his outward appearance that gave away what he was. And that made sense – he couldn’t be a monster if he looked like a monster.

Johnson spoke easily, candidly, providing details about his system of victim selection and never once denying what he had done. Born while his father was in a Prisoner of War Camp, he told of being raised by a man who abused his son by the same methods of physical and psychological torture used on him by his Japanese captors. He spoke dispassionately of his father’s subsequent death during a drunken barroom brawl when Johnson was fifteen.

After perhaps an hour of background I turned the conversation to more esoteric topics – I wanted an insight into how he thought, what made him tick. “Let’s talk a bit about your relationships,” I said after sliding a new cassette into the Sony.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Your adult relationships” I said. “You’ve told me about your parents, your family. As an adult, how do you feel about other people?”

He laughed. “There are no other people,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly that,” he said. “It wasn’t until I grew up that I began to realize that I’m the only person on the planet. Maybe the only one in the universe.”

Now this was interesting - a primal delusion. “In what sense do you mean that?” I asked. “Do you mean that other people don’t seem real to you or...”

“Oh no, you all seem real,” he said ““...as does everything else: the cars, the buildings, the trees. Everything looks and feels like it has its own reality, but it doesn’t. It’s all just a detailed illusion that I create in my mind.”

The prevailing wisdom about psychopaths is that they think they are the only ones who feel anything; everyone else is kind of like a robot. Johnson had taken this delusion to the nth degree. I didn’t want to challenge his belief system but I wanted more detail as to how it worked.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said “...the old saw about nut cases who believe that a room ceases to exist when they leave it. It’s okay. It’s what I expect you to think.”

“Well, it’s not every day that I’m told that I’m just the figment of someone’s imagination,” I said.

“I don’t imagine that it is,” he said and smiled. Did he mean that as humour? Or proof?

“Do you know anything about programming?” he asked.

“Programming? You mean like on a computer?”

“More involved,” he said. “Programming the mind. Since being locked up I’ve been experimenting with it. It occurred to me that rather than being subjected to the whims of my subconscious it might be more fun to take conscious control of my surroundings. You know, shuffle things around a bit."

“And is it working?” I asked.

He smiled. “That’s enough for today,” he said.

**************************************************************************************

I played the tape back in Toby’s office.

“Fascinating,” Toby said. “Johnson disclosed his central delusion to us of course. Disclosed it quite readily. But not a word on this notion of altering reality. And I know that I tried to explore the conscious versus unconscious aspects of his delusion. I wonder why he chose to tell you about it.”

“Just responding to my sparkling personality I suppose,” I said.

“Maybe,” Toby chided. “Or maybe he believes that you are here as the result of his controlling reality; that he brought you here. I don’t suppose you could spend another day with us, could you?”

I could have said no. Should have, in fact. But Toby had been so kind to me. Not only by involving me in the Johnson case but when I was first seconded. Toby took me seriously when my total lack of qualifications would have made it easy for him to be dismissive. I agreed to stay the night and see if Johnson would speak to me again.

**************************************************************************************

I used the afternoon to make phone calls and move things around in my schedule. After a tasteless institutional meal at the staff commissary, Toby spent two hours coaching me on the questions he wanted me to ask Johnson. Toby emphasized that I shouldn't push too hard or too fast on the 'control' issue - not at first. He was worried that I might scare Johnson off the topic if Johnson perceived that I doubted its plausibility. I decided to start the interview out of left field.

"Do you like music?" I asked the next morning.

"Yes," he answered.

"What's your favourite kind?" I asked.

"I like a Gershwin tune. How about you?" he answered.

"I don't think I know Gershwin," I said.

"You do, you just don't know you do," Johnson replied. "George and Ira Gershwin were brothers. George wrote music; Ira wrote lyrics. They were equally talented but George is the better known because he wrote some splendid instrumental pieces on his own. But I particularly like Ira’s lyrics. Listen." And he started to sing in a surprisingly good voice: "Won't you tell him please to put on some speed, follow my lead, oh how I need, someone to watch over me-ee-ee. You know that?"

"Yes," I admitted. I did know it.

"Don't you want the answer to your question?" he asked.

He'd caught me by surprise. "What question?"

"The one you asked yesterday. I was telling you about my experiments in programming and you asked if they were working."

Apparently Toby's concerns had been unfounded. I made a mental note to step cautiously. "I remember," I said. "Are they working?"
He smiled. "Famously," he said "...or should I say, infamously? I'm not sure which is the more appropriate. Would you like to see an example?"

Careful... I thought ...mustn't push too hard. But I was curious to know where he would take this.

"Oh come now," he said at my hesitation. "Just a small example to show you that I'm not --crazy-- it'll be the last of my little experiments before moving on to bigger things."

"Okay," I said.

"Splendid," he smiled. "Tell me, do you have plans for lunch? Will you be dining out or will you be joining us for the sartorial splendour of a Creemore meal?"

"Toby, that is...Dr. Tobias mentioned something about going to a place in town." I stammered; completely baffled about the direction this was taking.

"Ah, so the Good Doctor is planning a working lunch away from this dreary institution. Well, I hate to deprive you of whatever epicurean delights our head Head-shrinker has in mind, but if you eat any lunch at all today it'll be from the Creemore cafeteria."

"And that's to be the experiment?" I asked.

"Yes," replied Johnson. "I'm going to shuffle things around to make it impossible for you and Dr. Tobias to get away for your lunch date. Oh, don't worry. It won't be anything catastrophic, just a mild inconvenience."

There didn't seem to be anything more to say on the subject so I tried to steer the conversation to the questions that Toby had prepared but Johnson became uncharacteristically reticent. "We'll talk again this afternoon," he said as an orderly led him out of the interview room. I picked up my Sony cassette machine and headed for Toby's office.

**************************************************************************************

"I just don't understand it," Toby said, pushing food around his styrofoam plate. "I know it has to be a coincidence but God, what a coincidence!"

I didn't share Toby's bafflement. I admit I had been confused when first his Celica and then my Chevy refused to start. And my confusion grew as Toby checked every vehicle he could in the Creemore parking lot only to find that they all suffered from the same ailment - dead batteries. After about half an hour, Toby gave up and instructed an orderly to hook up a battery charger to get all the vehicles re-charged so the staff could go home at the end of their shifts. We returned to Toby's office, stopping to pick up some food at the commissary on the way.

"Toby," I said "...you may have the finest education the Sorbonne can provide but you aren't devious enough to think like a criminal."

Toby looked askance.

"Vigor Johnson has an accomplice," I continued. "Someone - an orderly or a nurse - someone from inside the institution with access to the parking lot. Johnson convinced this accomplice to sneak out and do something to the cars to drain their batteries. It's the only possible explanation."

"You're right!" Toby brightened. "But why would he go to all that trouble?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. The bigger question is: what's the best way to handle this when I go back in to talk to him?"

Toby looked at me. "You'd be willing to talk with him again?"

"Willing?" I said. "I think I have to. Don't you?"

**************************************************************************************

"How was your lunch?" Johnson snickered as an orderly let him into the interview room.

"Very impressive," I said. "Not the lunch of course, my being here to eat it." This was in keeping with the strategy Toby had devised: honest cynicism. Johnson was far too intelligent to be taken in by any pretense so I was to acknowledge what had occurred and express bewilderment that it had - nothing more. To let him know we'd figured out how he pulled it off would only make him confrontational. Or worse, cause him to shut me out all together. Toby theorized that Johnson's massive ego would eventually require him to disclose how he'd managed it.

I hit the ‘record’ button on the Sony. “I admit that what you predicted did occur. And I also admit that I am at a loss to explain it,” I said. “Beyond that I guess I’ll have to reserve judgement. Do you want to say any more about it?”

“You were the kind of kid who asked the party magician how he did his tricks, weren’t you?” he said.

“Was it a trick?” I asked.

“Okay...illusion. Since your whole reality is an illusion I guess this qualifies,” he said. “But not an illusion in the sense that you’re thinking. No smoke, or mirrors, or hidden wires.”

“So how do your experiments work?” I asked.

“In the details,” he said. “Basically I conceive of a different set of circumstances that would exist should a thing occur and when I’ve thought it through in sufficient detail it happens. That’s why I’ve kept my experiments on the small side – fewer details to think through. But I’ve gotten better at it.”

“So why are you still here?” I asked.

“Pardon?”

“I mean here, in Creemore. In custody. Why not think of a set of circumstances that would result in your freedom, work out the details, and walk out a free man?”

“I have bigger fish to fry,” he said.

“Oh? What?” I asked.

“Revenge,” he said.

“Against who?” I asked. “The judge who put you here? The cops who arrested you? The girls you raped? Who?”

“Everyone,” he said. “You, Dr. Tobias, the fat orderly who brings me my supper. From the President of the United States down to the lowliest urchin on the streets of Calcutta. Have you stopped to think what it would mean if I am what I say I am?”

“You mean, if you really are the only person on the planet?”

“Yes. I know you don’t believe it; you think my experiment with the car batteries was some sort of a trick. But imagine for a moment that I’m right. Think of what that would mean.”

“It would mean you were pretty important.”

“That’s an understatement. It would mean that for your very existence I was vitally important. Everyone on the planet had better wish me well – pray that I stay in good health. Because if something happens, all of you are going with me. That will be my revenge.”

“Pretty big gamble isn’t it?” I said. “Suicide? That’s what we’re talking about, right? Die and take the rest of us with you. But if you’re wrong all that you’ve managed to do is take your own life.”

“Hence the experiments,” said Johnson. “One more to go – a big one. It’s taken me quite awhile to figure out the details but when this one works I’ll know I’m right and not taking a gamble at all.”

“What’s the experiment?” I asked.

“My father had his flaws,” he said “...but give the devil his due, that man knew how to drive home a point. You see, you pay strict attention to what’s being said if someone is beating you while saying it. My father would get drunk and beat me. And the whole time he’d rant and rave about the Japanese and what they did to him in the war – they starved him, they tortured him. They were nothing but a bunch of sub-human maggots who should be wiped off the face of the earth.”

“I imagine that a lot of POWs felt that way,” I said. “But it was the Japanese military, not the Japanese people.”

“My father never made the distinction,” he said. “Neither do I. My final experiment is to give Dad his wish and wipe Japan off the map.”

**************************************************************************************

“I think you’d better put Vigor Johnson on Suicide Watch,” I said to Toby. “He’s approaching some sort of critical mass.”

Toby nodded. “I’ll arrange that,” he said. “Tell me what you found out.”

I gave him a quick run-down on Johnson’s plan for revenge by suicide and his plan to prove he was right by avenging his father’s mistreatment at the hands of the Japanese.

“Fascinating,” Toby said. “I think you’re right – he is approaching critical. The extent and detail of his delusion is incredible. And brilliant – the circular logic. I mean, creating a fictional country so that he can convince himself that he destroyed it. Fantastic.”

“Don’t kid around, Toby” I said. “We have no idea what the reaction to his failure might be.”

“What are you talking about?” Toby asked.

“When he finds out that Japan is still there,” I said.

“Oh,” said Toby. “Is it a real place? I’m sorry, I never heard of it.”

“You never... what do you mean? It’s the second largest producer of automobiles in the world. You drive a Toyota, for God’s sake!”

A frown crept across Toby’s face. “I’m a Chrysler-man,” he said.
“I’ve always driven a Chrysler.”

“Toby, I was in your car this afternoon – it’s a black Toyota Celica. Not a Chrysler. ‘Never heard of Japan’ – for God’s sake, practically every electronic device in the world comes from Japan. My cassette recorder...”

And with that I picked up my Sony. But something was terribly, terribly wrong. Because on its face where raised chrome letters used to be was now a blue plastic faceplate that said: Philips.

“I don’t want you going in to talk to Johnson any more," Toby said. “I think I know what’s happening. He’s planted some sort of post-hypnotic suggestion. Don’t worry, it won’t be permanent. You’ll laugh about it tomorrow when you wake up.”

**************************************************************************************

The next morning I wasn’t laughing.

I tried to figure it out during the drive home from Creemore. At first I thought the post-hypnotic thing might have some validity but that Toby had received the suggestion. I remembered a TV program where a hypnotist planted the idea in a guy’s head that there was no number three. And I watched the guy’s mounting frustration as he kept reaching eleven when counting his fingers. If that hypnotist could make someone forget something as basic as a primary number then I figured Johnson could make Toby forget there was a country called Japan.

But that didn’t explain the total lack of Japanese cars on my drive home – not a Honda or Toyota in sight.

I tried to consider the possibility that Toby was right, that Japan was a figment of Johnson’s imagination planted in my brain. I’d never been to Japan but the more I thought about it the more I realized that I knew an awful lot about the country. The names of cities, some of its history, Kabuki theatre, Sumo wrestling, the novels of Mishima, Yoko Ono. If I had been with Johnson a month he wouldn’t have time to plant all the details that were in my head. And I couldn’t have dreamt them up myself – I just don’t have that good an imagination.

I didn’t go to work that morning – didn’t even call in. Instead I went to the library. I checked every atlas on the shelf – no Japan. Nothing but water where Japan used to be, but never was. A check of the file catalogue produced the same result – no entries. While scanning through the encyclopedia I happened upon a reference to the Second World War ending in 1945 and was taken aback. I would have thought, not having to fight on two fronts, the allies would have ended the war sooner. A little more research and I pieced together that because there was no attack on Pearl Harbour the United States was delayed from entering the war. That delay made the fight in Europe harder and used up more resources.

This must have been the kind of ‘detail’ that Johnson had referred to. And he was right; there would be a lot of them. I signed out some history books and went home to study the impact the non-existence of Japan had had on my world. In spite of myself, I was fascinated. Excising Japan should have left a giant gash in history but Johnson had neatly stitched around the wound so that no one who didn’t know it was there would see the scar. I was the only one who knew where it had been.

The telephone jarred me out of my reading frenzy at about two o’clock. It was Toby.

“I’m afraid our Suicide Watch leaves something to be desired,” Toby said. “An orderly just found Vigor Johnson in his room. He used his pants to hang himself.”

“He’s dead?” I gasped. Then why weren’t we?

“Not yet,” Toby answered. “We rushed him over to the medical wing. They’ve got him on a respirator.”

“I’m on my way,” I said.

“Why? He can’t talk,” Toby replied. “Hell, he probably won’t last until you get here. His neck’s broken.”

**************************************************************************************

I went anyway. Changes were happening all around me as I pushed the Chevy as hard as I could in a race to... what? Johnson’s bedside? Would everything really pop out of existence at the moment of his death? If so, what did I think I could do about it?

The rate of change accelerated as I drew closer to Creemore and Johnson drew closer to death. I saw things literally disappear. I caught up with a station wagon loaded with a family and their camping gear. As I pulled out to pass it just winked out of existence. One moment it was there – solid and real. The next moment there was nothing – open road.

I turned on the radio. On the few stations still broadcasting the announcers sounded like everything was normal. I heard an advertisement for some worldwide television broadcast “...from Florida to California.” Florida to California? Worldwide? I tried to think of all the permutations and alternate histories that had to wink into existence and then out again for each successive change and my mind reeled.

The radio stations dwindled and dwindled until there was nothing on AM and only one station right in the middle of the FM band. It was playing a piece I didn’t recognize. As I listened I remembered hearing it during the Opening Ceremonies of the Los Angeles Olympics. And I remembered its name – Rhapsody in Blue – I don’t know if it was written especially for the occasion. I shut the radio off but checked it again half an hour later. The one station was still there, playing the same music.

Roads began to disappear. Exits from the highway that where there yesterday simply weren’t there anymore. Soon houses, farms, and towns disappeared as well. All that was left was one giant field of grain. One field of grain broken only by a single highway that ran straight and flat. Straight to Creemore. To Johnson.

Toby met me at the gate, dressed in an orderly’s uniform. He had been educated in Europe but now Europe was gone and with it Toby’s Ph.D. I couldn’t imagine the alternate history that resulted in him ending up at Creemore as an orderly but it must have included me because I was expected. Toby led me to a room on the fourth floor of the medical wing. After he unlocked and opened the door he looked at me, smiled, and then just disappeared. Like the cars and the off-ramps, the farms and houses. One moment he was standing there smiling at me and the next moment he was gone. Just like Japan.

Vigor Johnson was inside the room. There was rubber tubing running from the respirator to a hole in his neck as he lay on his back on the hospital bed. There was no one else in the room. Outside, darkness fell. And then there was no one else anywhere.

**************************************************************************************

Outside this room, I don’t know what is left. It doesn’t seem like anything could penetrate the black emptiness that lies beyond the door and the few windows. This room was on the fourth floor. I don’t know if it hovers now thirty feet above the ground, or stands on the ground, or if there is any ground for it to stand on. I suspect not.

I suspect that the entire universe has been reduced to this one room, floating in the empty vastness of eternity. Somewhere inside Vigor Johnson’s mind is the smallest sliver of awareness: just big enough to maintain his immediate surroundings. And me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here, tending him. My watch says three-thirty but long ago I lost track of the days and there’s no sun to tell me if it’s AM or PM. I used to have a chronograph to keep track of these things but it was a Seiko.

There are only three things left alive: Vigor Johnson, me, and my meager hope. I’m only a grunt cop who graduated in the bottom third of his class with nothing but a lousy Bachelor of Arts. The sheer tonnage of what I don’t know about any given subject would be enough to sink a battleship. If there were any battleships left. But I do know this: the only hope lies on that hospital bed. Inside the mind of a psychopath, a convicted rapist, a madman ...and the most important person in the universe.

The only hope is to keep him alive, help him recover. And then to convince him to put it back. Put it all back. The way it was. If he dies that meager hope dies, too.

The plumbing works. The electricity works. Food continues to show up in the food cupboard. I don’t know where it comes from. No... I guess I do. It’s there because Vigor Johnson expects it to be. Just as he expects me to be here. Someone. To watch over him.

Copyright (c) 1999 by Bill Clarke. All rights reserved.

Whistle Stop

2007-07-31T10:58:00.000-04:00

First: an apology - it's been almost a year since I've added to this blog and I'm sorry. Busy, blogspot did a change-over, lazy, forgetful - most of the usual excuses.

Anyway - here's an old short story of mine. It was published in the Toronto Star on Monday August 22, 1994 as a "Judge's choice" from that newspaper's short story contest.

Whistle Stop

Bobby Alton lived alone in a two-bedroom house on the western edge of the Town of Sinclair. His house was, like the town, small and sparse - containing what was needed to live but little else. A stone's throw from the house was an old unused train station that was rumoured to be an historic landmark but had fallen into such disrepair as to become an eyesore.

Trains still ran on the tracks that lay beside the old station but they no longer stopped there. Day and night the trains rolled passed, slowing to accommodate the bend in the tracks, then whistled a salute before crossing the road as they continued to more worthy destinations. On the peeling paint and splintered timber of his front porch Bobby would sit and watch the trains, feeling like they were teasing in the way they slowed without intending to stop then whistled a laugh as they sped away.

Bobby was only middle-aged but looked as old as the disused train station. He was thin and had an ashen pallor. His greying hair straggled across his widening scalp as if it had lost sight of some goal. The clothes he wore, though clean and reasonably well cared for, hung on his body like they wanted to be somewhere else.

The town-folk thought of Bobby as eccentric, a harmless aging bachelor living out his days on a disability pension and a small inheritance from his deceased mother, but in truth his mind was clear and he lived as he did simply because it had never occurred to him to live any other way. He wasn't dull-witted just not very creative.

He kept his house clean, did repairs when he absolutely had to, and tended a vegetable garden that grew in the back yard. At night he would either watch television or sit on his porch, sip beer and listen to the taunting whistles of the passing trains.

Every few days, Bobby drove his battered old Dodge to the two-block area that locals referred to as 'downtown'. He went to the Post Office to pick up whatever mail had straggled in, he did whatever banking or shopping needed doing, he talked about the weather with the old men who sat on a bench in front of Ray's Barber Shop.

In short, Bobby led a life that, if not exciting, was at least orderly and predictable. Predictable, that is, until the night the train stopped.

It happened on one of those rare moonless nights when the air is so clear and still that the stars seem to wrap around you like a blanket. Bobby was sitting on his porch trying to figure out the names of the constellations blinking over his head when the train pulled around the bend and stopped, big as life, in front of the station. So intent was Bobby on his star-gazing that he didn't even notice at first. Only gradually did it occur to him that the usual sequence of sound had broken and he looked over and saw the train.

It actually shimmered in the night.

The idling locomotive puffed and snorted like a bull pawing earth before the charge. The train was, quite simply, beautiful. It was sleek, ornate, and clean. Behind the engine was a coal-car followed by three coaches appointed in such luxury that they had to be private cars and, finally, a red caboose. Bobby hadn't seen a red caboose in longer than he could remember. In fact, the whole train was like something from the past. Bobby stared at it like you might stare at a living breathing Brontosaurus that just wandered into your front yard to munch on the rhododendrons.

As Bobby stepped from his porch towards the apparition, he heard a clear voice shout: "All Aboard!" then the sound of the steel wheels turning against the iron rails. He jogged towards the station but could not close the gap as the train rolled forward, picking up speed. Bobby stood on the empty tracks and stared after the train, the sound of the steam whistle ringing in his ears, as he watched the caboose disappear across the road. He felt water droplets form on his hands and face as the mist from the locomotive blew back and enveloped him. Then there was silence.

In the morning, Bobby called every official he could think of to try and learn more about the mysterious train. Where had it come from and why did it stop? Who was on board and where were they going?

He didn't learn a thing.

Actually, that's not accurate. He learned a great number of things, none of which was helpful. He learned that no one had any knowledge of a train matching the description of the one that he saw. He learned that no train was supposed to have made a stop - scheduled or otherwise - at the defunct Sinclair Station. He learned that not only were no old-style steam locomotives in service but that none of the officials were even aware that any existed outside of museums. He learned that he couldn't have seen what he saw.

Bobby decided to talk to Old Malcolm.

Old Malcolm was a fixture in Sinclair. No one knew for sure exactly how old Old Malcolm was but it was generally accepted that he used to baby-sit Methuselah. Old Malcolm had been an iceman back when they still delivered ice, had been a mailman back when they still delivered mail, and had been a milkman back when they still delivered milk. He was now retired because nobody delivered anything anymore except opinions and Old Malcolm delivered those daily from the bench in front of Ray's Barber Shop.

Bobby found Old Malcolm holding court at his appointed place. It had been a good morning for Malcolm. He'd already explained what was wrong with the government (there was too much of it), the problem with the economy (the government should print more money), and why the Sox wouldn't win the pennant (the players had too much money and they weren't being governed enough). Malcolm was just putting the finishing touches on his plan to end terrorism as Bobby sat and waited for his chance to steer the conversation to the subject of trains.

"And that's all there is to it, you see" said Malcolm, "with all'a these terrorists in jail with suspended death sentences their buddies wouldn't dare take no hostages or blow up no buildings. 'Cause they'd know that we'd lift the suspensions for some'a their buddies and take 'em out and execute 'em. Why, they'd be stopped cold in their tracks."

"Speaking of tracks" Bobby jumped in, pleased to have the opportunity so early, "how come the railroad doesn't use that station up by my place any more?"

The old men on the bench looked at Bobby like they'd just caught him picking his nose.

"Who's that?" asked Malcolm, "Who's asking that?"

"That's Bobby" said one of the old men, "Maggie Alton's boy."

"Bobby. Of course, Bobby. Well son," Malcolm prepared to answer "that station was designed for passengers. It's too small and out of the way for freight. And the railway don't use this line for passengers no more. People want to come to Sinclair they come by car, not train. 'S only freight moved on that line now."

"But people used to ride the train here" Bobby prompted.

"Yes they did. 'Course they did. 'Ats why they built that station" Malcolm explained, "Used to all kinds'a people'd ride the train here. Had three or four trains a day."

"What were those trains like?" Bobby asked.

"Like? Like? Well, they weren't like no trains you ever seen - Bobby Alton - steam trains. Ran on steam. Not like the diesel trains today." Malcolm began to reminisce, "beautiful they were. Black and shiny. They made a chugging noise when they ran. Diesels today just make a clickety-clack sound on the rails. Steam trains would do that too and they'd chug. It was a wonderful sound."

Bobby lay in bed that night and strained to hear the chug-chug-chug of the old-fashioned steam train. Each time a train approached he jumped out of bed and ran outside only to be disappointed as another ordinary freight train slipped passed the station. He finally fell asleep sometime in the early morning hours.

He didn't hear the train arrive so much as sense its presence. Maybe an hour had passed since Bobby fell asleep when he became certain that the train was waiting at the station. He found himself walking beside it. Through the thick windows he could just make out the shapes of people moving inside the luxurious passenger cars. As Bobby approached the front of the lead car, the Conductor swung down to the platform.

The Conductor was a tall man, meticulously groomed. His close-cropped beard framed a handsome, friendly face. "Good morning, sir” he said, "Ticket please."

"I'm sorry” Bobby managed, "I don't have a ticket. Could I maybe buy one on the train?"

The Conductor smiled sadly and shook his head. "No sir, I'm sorry but we couldn't do that. Rules, sir. I'm sure you understand." The Conductor took a watch from his vest pocket and looked at it. "Perhaps when you have a ticket we could be of service,” he concluded.

"Yes but where do I get..." was all Bobby got out before the Conductor cut him off.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I do have a schedule to keep." And with that the big man stepped back up on the coach. "All aboard!" he called and the train began to pull away.

Bobby jogged along beside the train. "Wait! Wait!" he called out but the Conductor was gone from sight. Soon the train moved too quickly for Bobby to keep pace and he fell behind, watching it disappear across the road.

The next morning Bobby was the first person on the bench in front of Ray's Barber Shop. He had hoped to catch Old Malcolm alone, before his entourage showed up, and didn't have long to wait before he saw the old man shuffling up the street. Malcolm had a gait that was maybe as painful to watch as it was to walk.

As he neared the bench, Malcolm pulled a newspaper out from under his left arm and waved it at Bobby like he wanted him to fetch it. "What'd I say 'bout them Cubans?" he demanded, "Didn't I say they'd pull something like this?"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you're right," Bobby blurted without a clue as to what Malcolm was talking about. "Listen Malcolm, I wanted to talk to you about the trains."

"Damned shame" Malcolm continued, "and it used to be such a beautiful island, too. What trains?" Malcolm looked at Bobby for the first time, "Bobby? Bobby Alton? You still going on 'bout them trains?"

"Yeah Malcolm, I wanted to know - did they ever have private coaches running on this line? You know the kind I mean, the fancy ones?"

"Pullman cars? Why, yes. Sinclair used to be quite the spot for rich people to come. Why, John Pendleton had three Pullman cars himself. Used to hire locomotives to take him and his friends all over the region. Had themselves one big traveling party in those cars."

Malcolm didn't have to explain who John Pendleton was. Like everyone from Sinclair, Bobby knew that the Pendleton family owned the mills that brought Sinclair into existence. It was John Pendleton who first started the mills.

"What ever happened to them? Pendleton's cars, I mean."

"Wrecked." Malcolm answered. "Train took the bend leading out of town way too fast and it derailed. Four or five people got killed, including Pendleton himself. He was up in the front car, dressed like a conductor. Used to like to do that. He'd get dressed up as a conductor and take tickets from his friends for riding on his train. Had a full conductor's uniform with a pocket watch and everything."

Bobby paused to take in what he'd just heard. "Pendleton" he asked, "was he a tall man with a beard?"

"Sure was." Old Malcolm nodded. "Great big good-looking guy. Had brains, looks, and money but got killed playing with trains like a little boy."

Bobby was confused. Not so much by what was happening although he didn't understand how. But it didn't surprise Bobby that a man as powerful as John Pendleton had been in life would also be powerful in death. Powerful enough to come back from death and bring a train with him.

No, what confused Bobby was why. Why had John Pendleton come back and why was Bobby the only one to see him? Bobby could think of no connection between himself and the dead millionaire. Pendleton had been rich, Bobby was poor. Pendleton lived an exciting life, Bobby's life was simple and boring. Pendleton had been powerful and good-looking, Bobby had no power. And looks - well, heads did not turn when Bobby Alton walked into a room.

Was that it? Was this some sort of other-worldly case of opposites attract? Had John Pendleton come back to Sinclair to find the resident least like himself? Or was Bobby not really a factor at all, just coincidentally at the right place at the right time to witness a miracle to which he had no connection? Perhaps Bobby's presence had neither caused nor been significant enough to prevent the miracle happening. Bobby was inclined toward this latter explanation.

Still, Pendleton had spoken to him, hadn't he? What was it he'd said - "Perhaps when you have a ticket we could be of service." So Bobby wasn't just a by-stander, he had a role in this mystery - or could have if he could get a ticket.

"Malcolm, what did you mean when you said Pendleton took tickets from his friends for riding on the train?"

Old Malcolm looked up from reading about the Cubans or whatever it was that held his interest now. "What'd I mean? Whadda you mean -what'd I mean- I mean he was a grown man playin' at bein' a train conductor. That's what I mean."

"No...Yes...I mean, I got that. But what about the tickets? Were they real tickets or what?"

"No, they weren't real tickets. Wasn't a real railroad. What Pendleton'd do was when he'd send out the invitations he'd send along these cards, see? And everybody was supposed to write a little poem on their card. Pendleton'd collect the cards like tickets and then read 'em out on the train while they were all galavantin' around the countryside."

One week later, Bobby was at last ready for the train. He dressed in a suit jacket and slacks, the finest clothes he owned, and waited on his front porch for the train's return. As before, it came when he wasn't looking for it. He had grown bored with the waiting and had removed the small card from his inside pocket to re-read it. He was wondering whether he should have said: "life" instead of "time" in the fifth line when he became aware that the train was standing in the old station.

Once again, Bobby found himself walking beside the train. The glass in the windows seemed less thick as he could clearly see that inside were people dressed in finery, talking and drinking and laughing together. Bobby approached the front of the lead car and, as before, the Conductor - John Pendleton - swung down to the platform.

Pendleton was just as well groomed and just as handsome as Bobby remembered him. He smiled, nodded, and said: "Good morning, sir. Ticket please."

Bobby handed over the small card. Pendleton squinted at it, perched a pair of glasses on his nose and began to read aloud:

"The days of yore are gone, my love,
They never will return.
If days before were long, my love,
We only had to learn:
That time is just a passing thing,
Too short to pay it mind.
The days of yore are gone, my love,
And that, my love, is fine."

Bobby held his breath and looked to Pendleton for some sort of reaction. Was his poem any good? Was it good enough to get on the train? Pendleton's eyes gave nothing away.

"How long did it take you to write this?" Pendleton asked as he slipped his glasses back in a pocket.

"A week." Bobby answered, "most of a week. I guess it isn't very good for all the time it took."

"I wouldn't say that" Pendleton replied, "No, I wouldn't say that at all. Many people couldn't write a poem this good in a lifetime." He handed the card back to Bobby. "Thank you for showing it to me."

"But...but...you said it was good" Bobby stammered, "Can't I come on the train?"

"The train, Bobby? Let me tell you about the people on the train." Pendleton paused then continued. "They're people like me. People who, through having too much money or not enough sense, squandered their lives and wasted their resources on idle play and meaningless activities. People whose lives were so empty that some of them don't even realize that they're dead."

"That's not you, Bobby Alton. That's not you at all. Oh, it could've been. If you had stayed on your porch just listening to the trains going by much longer you could have slipped into eternity doing just that. But you can think, Bobby, and you can write. You've proved it. And if you keep on thinking and keep on writing your life won't be empty and your time won't be wasted."

Pendleton climbed back up on the coach. "I will spend eternity riding this train to nowhere" he said, "because, with all the gifts I had, it was how I chose to spend my life. It's up to you, Bobby. You can ride this train or you can use your gifts to fill a lifetime. It's up to you."

Bobby Alton stood on the empty tracks and, for the last time, watched the red caboose disappear across the road.

Copyright (c) 1994 by Bill Clarke. All rights reserved.

How does a smart guy like Michael Medved get so screwed up in his thinking?

2006-08-05T13:26:00.000-04:00

I had a horrendous drive from the Beaumont area of Texas to the Dallas-Fort Worth airport to make a flight on Friday - about a 350 mile trip taking me right through Houston in the middle of a work day. It wasn't the road or traffic conditions but the length of the drive with a specific timetable that made it so onerous.

From Houston to Dallas I didn't really have to concentrate on the route (straight up I-45) so I had the radio on to help fill the time and Michael Medved was doing his talk show. Now, you don't have to listen for long to realize that Michael Medved is no dummy. I've heard him before and often wondered how such an obviously intelligent man reaches so many dumb conclusions. (A problem I don't have with someone like, say, Rush Limbaugh - whose adequate intelligence is so obviously overpowered by his xenophobia. But I digress.)

Michael Medved was expressing astonishment over the WorldCantWait.org full-page ad that appeared in the August 3rd New York Times calling for a popular movement to "...Drive out the Bush Regime". The ad is endorsed by a number of well known names including the predictable (like Sean Penn and Susan Sarandon) but also names that caused Mr. Medved some consternation. The sense that I got was that Mr. Medved couldn't reconcile that people for whom he apparently had some respect (my memory is that he specifically mentioned writer Kurt Vonnegut, Nobel-winning playwright Harold Pinter, film-maker Paul Haggis and actor Mark Ruffalo) held views in disagreement with his own.

Medved's conundrum seemed to be: "How can these respectable people be so wrong?" Never - not once in what I heard, and I think I heard the entire segment - did he even come close to considering the obvious thought: "Maybe I ought to re-examine my own assumptions here." The mere thought never even began to speculate about the merest possibility of crossing his mind. (HGTG reference but, again, I digress.)

Is that normal?

I mean, sure - when a xenophobe with merely adequate intelligence like Limbaugh fails to even consider an obvious question you take it in stride - it's the nature of the beast. But when someone with obviously high intelligence and little or no indication of xenophobia does the same thing you have to wonder about their psychological make-up. (Or - at least - I have to wonder about it. And, keeping in mind the New Age admonition ...if you spot it you got it, I have to wonder about my own psychological make-up.)

Confidence is generally a good thing. That is, I think it's better to have confidence in one's own thoughts and ideas than to lack confidence in them. But when such confidence causes us not to consider obvious questions then it is working to our detriment and not to our advantage.

Just another of one of the thousands of things that I need to consider.

Back From Louisiana

2006-07-22T14:38:00.000-04:00

We have this fountain at church.

(This isn't a non sequitur - wait for it.)

One of the ideas around this fountain is that congregants are encouraged to bring water back with them from their travels to add to the water already there; sort of a symbol of universality since, once added, the water can no longer be separated out.

My business in Louisiana took me to Grand Isle - about 50 miles South of New Orleans (as the crow flies) sitting on the Northern edge of the Gulf of Mexico - and I decided to fetch some 'Gulf of Mexico' water to add to the fountain. I parked my rental car close to the beach, took an empty water bottle with me, and walked to the waterline but the water was too shallow within arm's reach. I was just contemplating the logistics of removing my dress shoes and socks, rolling up my pant legs and wading out without benefit of a towel when a man with a Texas accent who was enjoying the beach with his family saw my predicament and offered to fetch some water for me. Nice man.

I explained why I wanted the water but either he couldn't understand my Canadian accent or didn't get the concept because he handed the bottle of water to me with an admonition: "Don't drink this now or it'll kill ya."

I love Americans. That's not sarcasm - I really do.

Sure, you could read a certain arrogance behind the assumption that I needed to be told not to drink salt water; but that's not what I focus on. The fact is that he volunteered to help me and, having done so, felt a responsibility toward my welfare.

At the risk of thinking in stereotypes, I do think that is typical of Americans and I think it often gets misunderstood. In their position of power (and hey, they are the most powerful nation on Earth) they have helped virtually every other country and it causes them to feel a sense of responsibility that may be mistaken for arrogance or even condescension. Really it isn't; it's genuine caring.

But when it is mistaken for arrogance or condescension, I suspect that many Americans feel unappreciated for the truly massive amounts of money, effort and time they expend for the sake of other nations. And they really do expend a great deal for others; I don't have hard numbers to quote but it is obvious that America expends more money, time and effort for other countries than any five other countries combined - no matter how you want to measure it.

We in the rest of the world often accuse America of failing to look at things from our point of view and there may be some truth behind that accusation. But if the rest of the world could just occasionally try to look at things from the American point of view maybe we would begin to realize that America is neither arrogant nor condescending but deeply caring.

It is a cultural characteristic of Americans that they care. And because they care, they help. And when they help, they feel responsible.

Maybe it's time we in the rest of the world tried to be a little bit sensitive to America's culture since we are always demanding that they be sensitive to ours.

Global Warming

2006-06-18T14:13:00.000-04:00

In the 6,000 year long History of the Universe we apparently have seen climate change occur before that could not be ascribed to human activity so it is possible that global warming is merely another natural cycle. Such naturally occurring climate change has never resulted in the extinction of the human race although it may have contributed to the extinction of some other species - like the dinosaurs - which is probably a good thing since it must have been difficult building a civilization with those giant monsters running around.

We need to determine if Global Warming is being caused by human activity so what we should do is burn down all the forests. This will put such a massive quantity of CO2 into the atmosphere that we will be able to quickly determine what influence that has on the climate. Purely as a bonus, it will also eliminate all that pollution generated by trees.

Subsequently, if we are able to conclude that we are causing global waming, we can construct giant wind farms where the forests used to be in order to generate the power we need and we can stop burning fossil fuels or, alternatively, we can burn all the fossil fuels at once to get it over with - one big giant bonfire. Then we would never be tempted to rely on fossil fuels again because they'll be gone.

If we're going to err, I think we should err on the side of caution. After all, we could always find another planet but once an Industry is gone it's gone for good. If it turns out that we are not causing global warming, at least we'll have had one heck of a good weekend.

Canadian Regulators Object To Aussie Ad

2006-03-24T11:59:00.000-05:00

The recently launched and now controversial (Tourism Australia) advertisement which concludes with the tagline "Where the bloody hell are you?" has now run foul of the Canadian regulator.

But it's not the tagline that's the trouble this time as much as the opener: "I've bought you a beer".

(Aussie) Tourism Minister Fran Bailey said she had been told by Canadian authorities they could not accept that line.

"We now have the Canadian authorities not wanting us to use the opening segment of `I've bought you a beer'," Ms Bailey said in Melbourne.

"The Canadian regulator says that this implies consumption of unbranded alcohol."

Source - www.news.com.au
_____________________________________________________________

The Aussies have misunderstood Canada’s objection. It isn’t the ‘consumption of unbranded alcohol’ that we find offensive but the misrepresentation that that stuff they drink in Australia is actually Beer.

You know like, Fosters – Australian for piss

Where The Truth Lies

2006-02-05T17:34:00.000-05:00

One of the few instances where the 'critics' are completely correct. This is a BAD movie.

The acting is brilliant.

The directing superb.

But the concept is so horribly flawed and so patently absurd that the result is a terrible movie.

God, I wanted to like it - since 'The Sweet Hereafter' I have been a big Atom Egoyan fan. But please, the reliance upon coincidence and the dependence on audience homophobia and the patently absurd denouement (the butler did it; give me a break) make for a joke of a film.

As I read the discussion of censorship as the reason for this film's failure I actually became encouraged - 'Who are these puritans who would stifle an important movie because of their intolerance?' I sensed a cause celebre. But it ain't so.

This film counts upon homophobia to make its point. It assumes homophobia among its audience for the film to make any kind of sense. This film assumes the worst from its audience and plays upon that. This is a BAD film.

Whom do I complain to to get back the 108 minutes of my life that this piece of self-indulgent crap used up? Atom -- PLEASE chose your material more carefully. I have not read the novel but if you were at all 'true' to it then you need to chose your sources more carefully. You are a better director than this piece of crap demonstrates - and it has nothing to do with the sexual content - it has to do with the basic premise: BE A BETTER DIRECTOR.

What Were They Thinking?

2006-02-02T17:29:00.000-05:00

Items extracted from the minds of famous people just before they did something momentous.

George Washington
These dollar coins are heavy but they're really flat...I wonder how far it would skip...

Abraham Lincoln
Eighty-seven...eighty-seven...It just sounds so gay. Is there a better way to say this...

St. Patrick
First snakes and then the Jews or first Jews and then the snakes? Decisions, decisions...

Martin Luther King, Jr.
I have an 'idea'... no, no. I have a 'suggestion'... nah, that's not it. I have a 'thought'... Damn, there's a lot of people out there...why did I agree to do this? I must've been dreamin'...

Albert Einstein
E=Eminem? No. E=Vanilla Ice? Certainly not. E=MC Hammer? Hmmm...

Martha Stewart
It sure is a lot of money but...is it a 'Good Thing'[tm]?

David Letterman
If I was willing to switch networks that would show 'em I'm serious...they'd have to give me the Tonight Show.

Bill Clinton
You know, they say eatin' ain't cheatin'...

James Frey
Who's gonna know? Nobody checks these things...

Palestinian Voters
What's the worst that could happen...

René Descartes
I think therefore I rock...Nah. I think therefore I rule...Nope.
I gotta get to bed, it's so late. What time is it? God, it's I AM.

I could be your hero...

2006-01-29T16:52:00.000-05:00

We had our joint birthday bash last night and I think a good time was had by all. I got to see a side of one of Trish's friends that I'd never seen before. First off, I had no idea that she had a tattoo until seeing her in a bathing suit in the hot tub. Second, she got a little drunk - didn't do anything outrageous - but you could see hints that this conservative, soft-spoken lady has a 'wild side' that she usually keeps under wraps.

It always interesting to find out there's more to people than you know.

An acquaintence of mine couldn't resist petting/interacting with the cats whenever one of them wandered into the room - I never would have guessed that he was a cat person. You never can tell.

As almost always happens at one of our gatherings, eventually the guitars came out and Rick took over the piano and we took turns entertaining each other. Goddamn I wish I could play guitar as well as Rick plays piano - the guy is just incredible. I was telling the 'surprise' cat-lover and his wife about Rick having donated one of kidneys to his best friend and, you know, what are the chances of being a match and everything and they were just astounded. But Rick is so casual about it - it's just something he did, not a big deal. I swear if it had been me I would try to get the story made into a TV movie or something. Rick doesn't seem to think he did anything so spectacular but I think he is a genuine Goddamn hero.

Not the kind of hero that we used to talk about in my police career - being a hero by being willing to take the risks, but a real hero who actually DID something. Hmmm - I think I sense a storyline coming together...

Observations

2006-01-28T17:23:00.000-05:00

The other day my wife told me that something was “…as plain as the day on my face.” And she wonders why I don’t take anything seriously.

My computer monitor stopped working so now I’m virtually blind.

I complained to the check-out girl that my groceries appeared to be moving by themselves. She said that happens a lot. Then I told her that my religion didn’t allowing scanning and asked her to key in all the codes manually; she said they had a special check-out line for that but it was in another store across town.

The waiter asked me if I was ready to order. I told him I didn’t know but I’d check with my parents.

I tried to use the drive-through at Tim Horton’s but they said I needed a car. I don’t think that’s fair.

We have government inspectors for meat but the stores can sell any kind of vegetables that they want to. I think this puts vegetarians at a distinct disadvantage.

A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a ladder for?

Telemarketers

2006-01-27T13:04:00.000-05:00

We moved into this house in September and, God knows, there are LOTS of jobs that need to be done to make it acceptable. I've been working away - new sub-floor and laminate in the Family Room, fixing the hot-tub (apparently the previous owners didn't understand basic chemistry) etc.

Anyway, we decided that the portable dish-washer that we brought from the previous house needed to be built-in. (The previous house was a rental with a small kitchen.) So I did a little research, bought the parts that I needed and decided on the placement for the built-in dishwasher. One problem: the hot-water pipe was directly behind where the dishwasher needed to be placed so we had to move it about 4 inches to make the dishwasher fit.

Not a problem - our friend Richard is a Wiz at plumbing, so we asked him to move the hot water pipe.

Now, I've gotta tell you - I'd rather do electrical work than plumbing because electrical either works or it doesn't whereas plumbing can 'sort of work' and I've never been a big fan of soldering copper. I think that compression fittings and flex-tube are the greatest inventions of the modern age.

But Richard is a die hard believer in copper and he is very good at it.

So Richard comes over to the house and decides to re-route the copper pipe. No problem - I think we would do just as well to replace it with flex-tube but hey, HE's the plumbing expert. So he goes about it.

Have I mentioned that I am a cheap bastard? Well, I am. And just like Richard believes that copper is superior to plastic when it comes to plumbing, I believe that aluminum is superior to plastic when it comes to venting. So when we moved in, I replaced the plastic exhaust from the dryer with an aluminum tube. But, being a cheap bastard, I used an eight foot length of tube rather than paying for a ten foot tube. My eight foot tube 'just' fit.

Anyway, Richard decided that he needed to move the dryer in order to do the re-routing. And, of course, my 'just fit' eight foot tube tore in the process. He tried to re-affix it but anyone who has worked with aluminum tubing can tell you that won't work. I told him not to worry about it and I would take care of it.

So I decided to splurge and buy a ten foot length of tubing. I also deciced to buy a 90 degree angle piece to make it easier to install (because installing the first one had been a bitch). So I figured I was ahead of the game - I had more tubing than I actually required and a piece to fit it to that I didn't have the first time.

Away I go - remove the old tube, replace it, fit the new piece, attach it - phone rings.

'Jennessa - Can you answer the phone?'

'Okay Dad.'

Keep working - this shouldn't take long.

'Dad... They want to talk to you...'

'Who is it?'

'I dunno...they said it was important.'

So I stop working on the dryer and pick up the phone...

'Mr. Clarke... What are you paying for long distance?'

'Are you serious? You told my daughter this was important?'

'Well it IS important, Mr. Clarke. We can save you 30% on your long distance calls...'

I hang up on them.

'Jennessa...' I call out. 'Please don't interrupt me unless the caller tells you who they are. Okay?'

'Okay, Dad.'

Back to work on the dryer. And those clamps can be a real bitch, you know?

'Dad... telephone!'

'Who is it?'

'It's the bank.'

Oh shit...maybe I better take this call... 'Hello?'

'Hello Mr. Clarke...I am authorized to offer you...'

I hang up on them.

'Jennessa...' I call out. 'Please don't interrupt me unless the call is a matter of life and death. Okay?'

'Okay, Dad.'

Back to work on the dryer. And I've almost got the aluminum tube hooked up to the vent outlet when...'

'Dad... telephone!'

'What is it?'

'They said it's a matter of life and death...'

'Hello?'

'Hello Mr. Clarke... I am an associate with Manulife. Do you know what will happen to your family if...'

...And I hang up.

...Is it possible to sue Alexander Graham Bell even though he's dead?

Limited Engagement

2006-01-26T14:28:00.000-05:00

I'm itching to get started on the next novel in the Bonfire Series (Working Title: 'Kindling') but I really think I should wait until I know what's going to happen to the first one (Splinters).

Getting published is a bitch.

After having exhausted everything I could think of to acquire an agent in the States to represent 'Splinters' (Long story short - I felt it had mass market appeal and that meant an American Publisher and that meant an agent) I decided to start trying the smaller Canadian Publishing Houses. But God, it all takes so long! You wait three or four months to find out that they don't think it suits their catalogue. (Well, Duh! It's a new approach to novel-writing. Of course you don't already have anything like it.)

At what point do you decide that your vision is wrong and the status quo is correct? I dunno - haven't reached it yet, I guess.

My friend Randy keeps pushing me to self-publish. 'That way,' he argues, 'you keep 60% of the margin instead of 8%.' And he's right but it seems to me that 8% of something is better than 60% of nothing.

I mean, it would be different if the book was non-fiction. If you've written a book about something like Economics or History or How To Skin A Cat you can go on a Speaking Tour and sell your book that way and self-publishing makes sense. But you really can't take a work of fiction on a Speaking Tour if you are an unknown author - who would show up to hear you? Imagine the posters - 'Tonight Ladies and Gentlemen - someone you've never heard of speaking about something you've also never heard of.'

Oh yeah - that's gonna pack 'em in.

It's different if it's a Celebrity Author. 'Tonight - Ladies and Gentlemen - Stephen King reading excerpts from his latest shopping list.' And they'd be turning 'em away at the door.

The Chosen People

2006-01-25T17:43:00.000-05:00

-------------------------!!!DISCLAIMER!!!------------------------
Before you hit the 'Flag' button - Read the ENTIRE article.
If you do you will realize that the only group being treated
in a deragatory fashion are antisemites.
-------------------------------------------------------------------

Who are the Chosen People?

If you said 'the Jews': congratulations - you are right. But ask yourself this: Is being 'Chosen' a good thing? It really depends on the context, doesn't it? The Jews were 'chosen' in ancient Egypt - chosen to be slaves. The Jews were 'chosen' in Nazi Germany - chosen for extinction; not a good thing. In fact, George Bernard Shaw quipped that, if the Nazis realized just how 'Jewish' their notion of Aryan Superiority was, they would immediately abandon it.

Actually, I can instantly prove to you that being one of the 'Chosen People' isn't a good thing. Anyone can be a Jew. In fact, if you are a man who is already circumcised or a woman it is as easy as joining any other 'Religion'. (If you are a man who ISN'T circumcised then, I grant you, it's a pretty big deal.) But when is the last time - other than for matrimonial reasons - you ever heard of someone becoming a Jew? C'mon, you know... Sammy Davis, Jr., right? Can you name anyone else? I bet you can't.

Sammy Davis, Jr. was a short, ugly, one-eyed black man, married to a beautiful white woman, living in the Southern United States in the 1950s. I mean - Hell, if he was already circumcised, he probably figured: ‘What've I got to lose...I might as well become a Jew. At least the food's good.'
If being one of the 'Chosen People' was a good thing, don't you think people would be lining up to join?

It's like the whole 'Gay' thing. The single most compelling argument for homosexuality NOT being a matter of choice is this: Who would chose it?

Okay, ask yourself this: What is the most powerful and compelling force of political/cultural change in the last two thousand years? It's gotta be anti-semiticism, right? I mean, c'mon - aside from the Nazis, you've got the Spanish Inquisition. And when you realize that people of Arab descent are also a Semitic people you have to throw in the Crusades as well. In two thousand years, name me one other thing as powerful as anti-semiticism... you can't. Do you still think that being 'Chosen' is a good thing?

But they persist. Jews continue to be Jews despite everything. They lose their homeland - there are still Jews. They regain their homeland but are restricted from going there - there are still Jews. The restrictions on them are lifted but chunks of their land are cut away - there are still Jews. Their sacred sites are given away - there are still Jews. They get blamed for every bad thing that ever happened on this planet yet there are still Jews.

Is there a direct relationship between anti-semiticism and some kind of learning disability?

What is the source of this hatred of a people who persist in spite of the best efforts of some to eliminate them?

It's because they killed Christ, isn't it?

The politically correct among us will point out that it wasn't the Jews who actually killed Christ, but the Romans. But secretly the Jews still get blamed, don't they?

You know my response to those who blame the Jews for killing Christ? - So what. If they did, they killed one of their own. Indians killed Gandhi - we don't blame every Indian for it. Blacks killed Malcolm X, a white American killed JFK.

And when you get right down to it, if Jesus came to Earth to be sacrificed for our sins then someone had to do the sacrificing. Whoever killed Christ - Romans or Jews - weren't they fulfilling the will of God? For God to give 'his only begotten son' someone has to take Him, don't they?

It's like God said: 'Okay Jews, I'm sending down my son to be sacrificed so you kill 'im, okay?'

And the Jews said: 'What? Us again? Why don't you have the Romans do it? They're gonna be gone in a few hundred years anyway.'

And God said: 'Tell you what, YOU finger 'im and I'll get the Romans to do the actual wet work.'

And the Jews said: 'Okay. But you know they're gonna blame us anyway.'

Potato

2006-01-24T09:40:00.000-05:00

The potato was first brought to the Netherlands in 1534; it was not readily accepted. In those days people believed that things growing underground must be poisonous – so, despite food shortages and near starvation the Dutch, like so many others, were slow to adopt this new food as a staple.

The Dutch King was a wise man and he knew that acceptance of the potato could make the difference between life and death for thousands of his subjects. So he ordered that potatoes be planted in the Royal Gardens. Then, as harvest time drew near, he had a fence erected around the potato plot and posted armed guards to protect it.

But only during the day; the potatoes were left completely unguarded after night fall.

You can guess what happened. The potato quickly became a regular staple in Dutch households. And, despite a nasty habit that the Dutch have of dipping French Fries in mayonnaise, it has remained so to this day.

Smell This

2006-01-23T10:12:00.000-05:00

Something I could never understand: Why do we call it 'gas' when it’s a liquid?

Does that make any sense? I mean, that’s at least one instance where I think the Brits are smarter than us. They call it 'petrol', which sounds a little weird but at least doesn’t mean something else.

If we call the liquid that we put in our cars 'gas' then shouldn’t we call the gas that we heat our homes with 'solid' or something like that? Natural Gas IS a gas, but gas is a liquid – it’s like we have a fundamental misunderstanding about basic Physics.

And another thing – Natural Gas doesn’t have any smell. They add that rotten egg smell to it so you can tell if it’s leaking. Who decided on rotten eggs? Why rotten eggs? I mean, I know you don’t want it to be something that people like to smell – like roast turkey or something. ‘Cause then you couldn’t tell if Grandma was trying to commit suicide or getting an early start on Thanksgiving. But why rotten eggs? It’s unpleasant, but it isn’t disgusting like dirty feet or something.

If you want to make it something people really don’t like to smell - make it smell like spoiled milk. Nobody can stand the smell of spoiled milk. My parents would stand in front of the refrigerator and argue about whether the milk was spoiled because neither one of them wanted to smell it.

'It’s past the expiration date.'

'Well, I had some yesterday and it was fine.'

'Yesterday wasn’t past the expiration date.'

'Well, smell it then.'

'I’m not gonna smell it. You smell it.'

This would go on until finally one of them would get a bright idea – 'Billy!'

So I’d come into the kitchen. 'Yeah Mom'

'Smell this.'

'Why?'

'Never mind why – just smell it.'

And that would work, too. Because there’s no way you can smell spoiled milk and pretend it’s okay. When you smell spoiled milk you just gotta make that 'spoiled milk' face.

'Ugh.'

'Okay, it’s gone bad – throw it out.'

I sometimes think my parents only had kids because they didn’t want to smell spoiled stuff in the refrigerator. My mom used to get me to smell stuff all the time. She claimed she couldn’t smell very well. 'Okay mom I’ll tell you what – you smell it. And if you still can’t tell if it’s bad then I’ll smell it.' That never worked.

My dad was worse. He’d get me smell something that he knew was bad. 'Here Billy – smell this.'

'Ugh. Oh god, that’s awful!'

'Yeah, well what’ja expect - it expired last August.'

Yellow Rabbit

2006-01-22T09:26:00.000-05:00

With apologies to Grace Slick, here is my 'updated' version of the classic 'drug' song - White Rabbit. I just feel that art needs to more accurately reflect current society. Who knows? - Maybe Gracie could stage a comeback.

On those few occasions that I have committed a travesty of Karaoke, I always request White Rabbit, ignore the actual lyrics and substitute mine. It goes over surprisingly well. So try these alternate lyrics at your next Karaoke party!

Yellow Rabbit
Only one pill makes you larger
Tadalafil, when you’re small
‘Cause the ones that you get from Phizer
Don’t do anything at all
Take Cialis – You’ll feel ten feet tall

And if you go like a rabbit
Jumping around from hole to hole
You’ll be hooked up for thirty-six hours
Instead of Viagra’s small window
Take Cialis and then you’ll know

When men get depressed or
A little older blood moves slow
But you can regain that concrete mushroom
If you get your blood to flow
Take Cialis and watch it grow

Defying logic by your proportion
Thanks to your yellow friend
It’s like the clock has been moving backwards
And you’re now nineteen years old again

Remember – the yellow pill instead
Raise the dead Raise the dead

My New Gameshow Idea

2006-01-21T11:39:00.000-05:00

My Dad Can Beat Your Dad

Three ten-year-olds (boys or girls) each pick one 'event' for their fathers to compete in against each other. Events can be anything measurable: hit a golf ball the furthest, lift the most weight, run the fastest, eat the most hot-dogs, whatever. We present five choices to the kids and they each choose one different event; (in alphabetical order - based on the Dad's last name.) Kids choose from among:
1- My Dad is the 'Strongest'
2- My Dad is the 'Fastest'
3- My Dad is the 'Smartest'
4- My Dad is the 'Bravest'
5- My Dad is the 'Grossest'

Once the three events are decided all three Dads compete in all three events. Dads win points based on each event: 3 for first, 2 for second, 1 for third, 0 for incomplete. BUT if a Dad fails to win the event his child picked, he gets a zero (he will keep competing because total points determines the winner.) This puts extra pressure on each one in turn. In the (unlikely) event of a tie, prize is split between the winners.

We play events in the order chosen. For the first event, Dads compete in randomly selected order. Whichever Dad wins the first event chooses the order for the next event. Whichever Dad wins the second event chooses the order for the third. Events are played on three consecutive days and are explained up front to all Dads.

Possible events.

'Strongest' - Restack a pile of construction bricks in the shortest time. Most 'chin-ups' in one minute. Rock-climbing the quickest. Marine-style obstacle course. (To mix it up, have them do an event with their kid on their back.)

'Fastest' - Steeplechase without a horse. Run a mile. Three-legged race with their kid as partner. Eat hotdogs/spaghetti/tofu/whatever in the quickest time.

'Smartest' - Kid goes in a maze Dad has a map of the maze and has to lead the kid out by giving instructions via walkie-talkie. Dad takes over a chess game against computer that is within three to five moves of checkmate, can he win? Spelling Bee.

'Bravest' - Walk a tightrope. Ride a bike across a 2X4 suspended between two buildings. Catch the most snakes in a pen. Pretty much any type of events where there is an element of perceived danger.

'Grossest' - Likely to be the most fun: eat disgusting things. Find a key in a vat of something disgusting to to unlock a chain holding their child before the vat dumps out on their child. Endless possibilities.

Spin-off Possibilities:
My Mom Can Beat Your Mom
My Mom Can Beat Your Dad
My Celebrity Dad Can Beat Your Celebity Dad
(or My Dad Can Beat Your Dad: Celebrity Version)

Credit Where It's Due

2006-01-20T14:51:00.000-05:00

In 1974 (when I was seventeen) I wrote and published a Science Fiction story entitled: "Axioms of a Mad Poet". It was a completely amateurish story and I no longer have a copy of it. (If, by chance, anyone out there HAS a copy I would love to get it from you. It was published in a small 'summer project' newspaper in Toronto's East End and back then I used the name "W.B. Clarke" because I thought it sounded more 'authoritative'. Hey, I was seventeen.)

Despite its pedestrian nature, there was ONE line in that story that I really liked: 'Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.' It may be the most meaningful line I ever wrote and was completely original. I'd like to think it would be remembered as 'Clarke's Law' or 'Clarke's Razor' or something equally ominous.

The problem is, the line HAS been remembered and quoted extensively (try a GOOGLE search) but is never attributed to ME! It is sometimes referred to as 'Hanlon's Razor' - (a mis-spelling of Heinlein) because the line: "You have attributed conditions to villainy that simply result from stupidity" is in "Logic of Empire" by Robert A. Heinlein. Nothing against him, but my phrasing is better and, frankly, more succinct.

I clearly remember writing this line because originally I had it as 'Never ascribe to malice that which is explained by stupidity' but decided to change 'ascribe' to 'attribute' and modify 'explained' by adding 'adequately' - I vividly remember making those changes and I was proud of the result even back in 1974.

SPERMAXX

2006-01-18T18:25:00.000-05:00

I received an interesting email solicitation. SPERMAXX, an all-natural herbal supplement, promised that I would see at leasta 30% increase in Semen Volume, Sperm Count, Sperm Morphology or Sperm Motility (Note it says 'or' and not 'and' in that claim) if I used their product for ninety days. They backed up this claim with a $1 Million guarantee.

So I went to their website (which is designed to get you to order their product rather than provide you with actual information, but I digress). Finally, I located the terms of their guarantee where, among other things, I found these definitions:

Semen Volume - a measure of how much semen is present in one ejaculation.
Sperm Count - a count of the number of sperm present per milliliter (mL) of semen in one ejaculation.
Sperm Morphology - a measure of the percentage of sperm that have a normal shape.
Sperm Motility - a measure of the percentage of sperm that can move forward normally.

I did a little research - apparently, the one they are counting on is the first definition since the Semen Volume can vary considerably and a 30% variance is not that great. Sperm Count, Sperm Morphology and Sperm Motility are far greater measures of fertility and 'Semen Volume' is merely a base-line number. Anyway, I figured I could beat their guarantee and cash in on the $1 Million.

I ordered a 120 day supply of SPERMAXX (at $59 per 30 day bottle- 2 pills per day) and waited. When the order arrived (with a load of other offers but again, I digress) I called my lawyer and then "cleared the pipes" (a 'Something About Mary' reference) and waited three days - based on my research. After the three days, I obtained a sperm sample and took it to a local Medical Lab and instructed them to measure the Semen Volume, Sperm Count, Sperm Morphology and Sperm Motility ($150 for those keeping score). The next day I began my course of taking SPERMAXX - exactly according to their instructions.

After 88 days, I again "cleared the pipes" and on the 91st day I again obtained a sperm sample and took it to the same Medical Lab and instructed them to again measure the Semen Volume, Sperm Count, Sperm Morphology and Sperm Motility (another $150 for those keeping score) and notified my lawyer.

When I received both reports from the Medical Lab, I copied my lawyer and contacted SPERMAXX by email to inform them that they owed me $1 Million. Because...

My Semen Volume - actually went down .05%.
My Sperm Count - remained unchanged at 0.
My Sperm Morphology - remained unchanged at 0.
My Sperm Motility - remained unchanged at 0.

The last three results were, of course, due to the fact that I had undergone a vasectomy seven years before. But since the conditions of their guarantee made absolutely no mention of surgical variance, I (and my lawyer) felt that I had met the specific conditions of their offer and their product had failed to meet those conditions and they were, therefore, liable for the promised payment of $1 Million. Apparently they disagreed.

Long story short - The SPERMAXX site is now gone and I no longer receive their SPAM (If, in any way, I contributed to this state of events I am thankful.) However, I am still out $536 (for their product and my tests) and have yet to receive the promised $1 Million.

There ought'a be a law.