soon to be a major motion picture

What I like about this place is that there is never a dull moment. Take this morning for example. I decided I’d like to get into the City earlier than usual today. It so happens that doing this allowed me a good deal of free time at New Haven before my train boarded.

Walking into the station I see a smartly dressed lady holding a microphone in front of a commuter’s face. A casually dressed, heavier man aims a camera with a very bright light at him. On the cameraman’s T-shirt, the news-channel logo bears a stylized number “8.”

The newsstand wasn’t open yet so I headed for a bench. As I set my bag down the lady approaches me with some breezy yet purposeful smalltalk. I knew she’d be over. “I knew you’d come over here,” I allowed with a smile. She begins soliciting my opinion about the condition of the trains. “Would you say the trains are run down?” “No, I think they are adequate”. The cameraman aims the bright light at my eye. “What if I told you there would be new trains next week, how would that make you feel?” “That would be nice.” “Are you a commuter?” “Yes.”

The impression I got was that she was doing a commercial for the railroad. I answered her questions evenly, honestly, and with about as much enthusiasm as you’d expect from a commuter who showed up early for 5:40 am train, but she wanted more. “There’s going to be more room,” she offered, hopefully. “Great. Will our fares be going up?” “Would you say the trains are in poor condition?” “Well, maybe some remodeling of the lavatories would be nice…”

Her questions were delivered with the intent of eliciting a specific response from me. It seemed like what she wanted to hear was what her next subject said: "Yeah, it's about time. I've been riding this train for years and it's been going downhill all the time. And those seats!" But because I had no complaints, I felt almost compelled to say, "I'm sorry for not answering the way you want me to...", so strong was the expectation she communicated (without saying it). Instead, I just said, "I'm sorry..."

I’m pretty sure this interview will end up on the fabled “cutting room floor.” I hope so, anyway, because I have a feeling I come across as much more of a deadpan than I feel like I am.

The truth I don’t really think about the trains too much. As I told the nice lady, “they get me to New York and back. I’d say they are adequate.” What else can be said of a train? Hey, it’s there when it’s supposed to be, the roof doesn’t leak, it’s relatively sanitary and, for a man at least, the facilities function. It’s not like I go home and fret about not getting my money’s worth from Metro North.

Anyway, add another few seconds to my “15 minutes.” The last time I was in a news clip was when the local channel decided to do a story on the “phenomena” of “daytrading.” My face was just a millisecond of fill, but at least one friend commented. “You look pretty serious, man.” Yes, I suppose so. But I don’t feel serious. That’s the funny thing. But I thought the reporter did a nice job with the piece overall. She had a good sense of humor and she seemed to work well with the manager, who is a true deadpan. He’s about as exciting as drying paint, but she made him look as engaging as a rock star.

Someone once told me that I should be in pictures. But that was a sociology professor who had an effeminate manner. I never took it seriously, because I think he had ulterior motives.

This last clip brings my lifetime film credit total to 3 (three). A couple more and I might compile a boxed DVD set. Maybe I’ll start “preselling” it now…

weird is no longer cool

I thought it was pitiful to see a young man grabbing the behind of another young man on the platform. But on the train it became clear that one of the parties was actually a woman, which too was pitiful but in a different way. They looked identical. Care to guess what continent they were from? I'll bet she doesn't shave her underarms.

the stench from the train

yes, this one has not only noise, it has an odor. I should have suspected as much when I noticed the banana peel in the crack between the seat and the wall panel. and come to think of it, some of the noise stinks, too.

like the noise the college chicks are making up there. well, one of them, anyway. she's blabbing with volume and authority about how she wants to have "like, two acres of land so I can devote it to a labyrinth." A labyrinth? I thought a labyrinth was something that mad scientists had in their basements. But she allowed as to how she spent some time in one this summer and how at peace she felt. Go figure. Or take a class in women's studies at Yale.

And of course this land has to be near to The Cape. And she doesn't like some guy who's a "womanizer" and "lying sack of shit."

doll, whoever you rope into marrying you will be getting exactly what he deserves for being such a moron. Oh, I don't know. Do the even get married anymore?

but the smell is like a wet sleeping bag or clothes that have been left in the washer for a week.

this will offend the more sensitive among us...

...so, you'll just have to deal with it.

a time for everything...or not

There’s a first time for everything, right? Well, not everything. For example, will there be a first time that you are kidnapped by aborigines, coated in Skippy peanut butter, and made to sing like Carol Channing while they videotape you and broadcast it over the Web? I doubt it.

But, there is a first time for beginning my commute on a rainy morning, juggling my bag, my travel mug of coffee, the sports page, and an umbrella that has opened twice when not needed. Last night I set it on the porch to dry. It inverted and filled up with rainwater. I suspect it won’t be the last time something like this happens. But, hey, it beats singing like Carol Channing.

Is “female Viagra” really a good idea? Is it even necessary?

lost my thumb drive

so if you happen to find it on the Metro North could ya let me know? Thanks.

fall is in the air

This is a milestone. It’s raining and, to me, chilly, so I ordered a hot coffee instead of an iced coffee. This brought me face to face with the two Indian girls (what else would they be) in the Dunkin’ Donuts – the upstairs one. Apparently one is the evil twin of the other. Never smiles. Growls and barks. The other is always so kind, with a beautiful smile, soft-spoken, and a nice sparkle in her eyes. The other one has daggers in hers. She looked at me the other day and screamed, “May I help the next person please?”

Today she rattled off a barrage of undistinguishable syllables to her sister. She held up her hand for my money so that I had to reach wayhay across the counter and still had to toss it to make sure it landed in her palm. I asked her to repeat what she said.

Winter and summer in the same place at the same time.

this and that

Casual observances from the train: this morning, none, really. I slept.

This afternoon, the noise from the train was laughter. As in the most obnoxious teenage-girl laughter which was ceaseless because, when a mother, a daughter and two of her girlfriends have a happy boy-toy to flirt with, everything is funny. To some people, anyway. The mother looks particularly devious; a little too much mary-jane for you ladies, I'd say. Thank you very much for getting off the train!

From the subway: from inside the darkness of a little conductor's cubicle stare two hard eyes from a head that bears a long, white beard and a dirty blue head-wrap of some kind. He looks at me as if I'm the one who's weird. OK, mohammed. Whatever.

in the belly of The Green Monster

There I was in Boston, unable to connect with my sisters; all dressed and nowhere to go, as it were. With a Red Sox/Yankees game scheduled for that night, what's poor boy supposed to do? Get to the ATM, pull out two-hundred bucks, and stand on the corner by Fenway and bid for a ticket, that's what. I needed one only for myself, so I hold up my index finger -- palm-in, of course, because I'm a buyer. Still, people approach me to ask if I have tickets to sell...this is Boston: what would they know about hand signals?

"Buyer!" I intone, holding up the finger. Two girls approach and shyly ask if I'm buying a single ticket. "How much and where?" I inquire. One calls a friend on her cellphone -- how technology enables efficient markets -- and we negotiate. He starts at threee hundred dollars. I counter with one-fifty, and she says that he says "no deal." It's getting near game time and I don't want to miss the National Anthem, so I hold up two fingers. I make smalltalk with the other girl while the first one tells her friend "he says 'two hundred.'" I learn that one works at Harvard and the other at Yale. Yeah, sure.

Before long a clean cut young man is standing beside me. "Are you the guy who wants to buy a single ticket for two-fifty?" he asks. Hmmm. They may not understand hand signals, but they do deal around here, don't they? I correct him on the price and hand him the money. He counts it and a few moments later I am entering the mouth of the Monster.

More on the "atmosphere" later. For now it is common knowledge that the Yankees had one of their major-league blowouts, much to the very in-your-face satisfaction of the Beantown natives, so I won't belabor it. As I inched out of the city in my rented Escape, they revelled in the victory until the wee hours.

the charles falls

Imagine me sitting on the common in South Natick by the Charles River falls with a laptop. The Charles has that same muddy-algae smell that the Sudbury River did when I used to spend hours catching sunfish from it over in Framingham. My father called the fish “kivvers,” and I don’t think he ever fished there with me. He was too proud for that. He would take me to the Connecticut Lakes for Lake Trout, or we'd sneak a pole into someone’s back yard to grab some rainbow or brook trout. But he would not be caught dead fishing for kivvers. For a while, I was able to sell my catch to some black people. I was never able, I don’t recall, to bag the coveted pickerel from the Sudbury River.

But here in the Common… I can remember climbing a very tall ladder to the roof the library over there. My father was repairing one of the copper gutters, I seem to recall. I climbed another ladder there as a young man of 21 or so when my cousin was hired to do some roof repairs on the old tar-and-gravel. I always thought it was too high, and I climbed the ladder with a white-knuckle grip. That is probably the main reason that I had no interest in carrying on the family business.

And I remember the time Bridget and I came to this Common on our vacation, later in our twenties. I took her to all the places I had known as a boy. She loved them too. It was like she became my childhood buddy on that trip. We went over to those extremely high-end zero-lot-line houses my father did the roofing and sheet metal work for. I helped a little on those, not much. He used a composite roof tile meant to mimic slate. Lots of copper, too. He said something about the developer, an MIT educated international lawyer, not paying him fully. It was one of his dream jobs, too.

I’ve come to this park since, by myself. Whenever I’m in Mass, which isn’t too often, I will come here if I have time and transportation. This lovely afternoon I am joined by a half dozen Mallards and one assertive goose. Nearby a swarm of sparrows is grazing. The falls churn a short distance away. Across the falls, a lad fishes for…what, kivvers? That could be me, 30 years removed. I hope that boy's childhood better prepares him for adulthood than mine did. Enough whining.

Corrado’s South is still there, and they still won’t let you use their bathroom. I am giving serious thought to going into town to catch the Sox/Yankees game. I’d have to scalp tickets. I’ve never done this and I hate doing stuff like this alone. I think I’ll price them on eBay…hmmm…they start at $399 for a pair…that’s just not worth it. I’m not going to pay a sucker’s premium. But, oh, it will be mayhem inside that stadium tonight. The Sox may muster some last minute fight knowing they will not finish in first place. So if they do find their backbones, it’s doubtful they’ll find their cajones. They’ll fight like women scorned. Look for lots of bad calls and really obnoxious fan behavior.

This is a great moment. I will lay me down and catch some gentle z’s here.

noise from the road

been busy the last day or so, and commuting not by train but by rented Ford Escape. Friday I was the wheel man for this little escapade, and today I go to The Peoples Republic of Massachusetts to (hopefully) have some fried clams with one of my sisters.

But I have a couple of observations to report from this rest area in Rhode Island. The first is that I have heard a pre-release cut off the forthcoming U2 album and I have to say it sounds very promising. I've only heard it once, so I haven't been able to subject it to the second look rule. And, I'm not a U2 devotee. I have none of their records, though I will enjoy hearing a tune or two of theirs when caught on the radio. But, at first blush, I definitely want to get this new one. There is an energy, a passion, a putting forth of heart and soul that, now that I think of it, is one of the things U2 could always be counted on for. More on this all later, or perhaps on (yet) another blog.

The next thought is about life and death. I was scanning caught a little blurb about Hurricane Jeanne, which is about to hit Florida. It was an NPR station, so you know they can't just report something, they have to call in some left-wing expert to tell us what we're supposed to think about something (as well as why it's President Bush's fault). In this hurricane report, they inserted a clip of statement by the World Health Organization (watch out or they will choosing your kid's doctors) on how, get this, dead human bodies, if left lying around, don't really spread disease.

The expert from the WHO, whose suitably European name was given with a peculiar pronunciation that only enlightened people could execute, began to assure us that, while they may be disturbing to look at, it is a myth that dead bodies spread disease to living bodies. This I suppose is designed to reassure those who find themselves in a famine, plague, or period of pestilence. What will they do for us next, publish a paper entitled "101 Uses for a Dead Body?"

I'm going to cut right to the point on this. These structurally secular, humanistic, and usually atheistic bodies of learned folk who have appointed themselves as the thought and value shapers of the future may be able to draw on scientific or psuedo-scientific statistical information for authority to back up whatever message it is that they are pushing on this particular day. But can they tell you why it's jarring to see dead bodies?

Must every conviction they hold be the product of only a current scientific belief? Can they tell you why civilized people usually bury and honor the graves of their dead? No, they cannot, because there is no scientific reason for honoring the dead. There is no scientific reason for cemeteries, mausoleums, or funerals. It would surely be more scientifically sensible to harvest and sell organs and use an expired human body the way cattle processors sqeeze every vestige of utility from a bovine carcas.

Cows don't honor their dead. Humans do (or did, and should). Science cannot tell you why. But the Church can. The WHO cannot address matters of the soul, because matters of the soul cannot be dealt with scientifically.

When human life is accorded dignity, it really doesn't matter if leaving dead bodies laying around is a disease threat or not. The bodies will be laid to rest with the dignity they deserve, and the threat of disease would be a moot point.

Wow, this did turn into a rant, didn't it?

Now get this. I'm typing away at a deserted rest area. I have the air conditioning on. Gradually, people start parking near me. Now I'm surrounded. People mill around my Escape, smoking. The air conditioner draws in the smoke, until I close off the vent.

I still have the most incredible sense of desire to connect with that lady again, but the infatuation is quite over.

I blog, therefore...

There are few things I like better than losing a great post because the internet connection is weak. I guess I'd better get into the habit of hitting the "save as draft" button every sentence or two, since there seems to be no way of copying the text I am typing into this "create post" form (O, I see it works when I'm in 'edit HTML' mode).

I was saying that sometimes I think I have no life, as evidenced by the fact that I sit here and type all this stuff. Stuff like how the seat is squeaking (and why). In fact, the title of the lost post was, "I blog, therefore..." and the first line was, "...I have no life?" Then I was musing about how some large, inconsiderate person might try to sit on top of me, and lo, a slim young lady actually sat here (next to me, not on top of me).

I went on to recall that she was the same young lady who was next to me when I was making this observation. She was the one I woke up and asked to let me out, because I preferred to stand rather than "listen to those two idiots" in the seat immediately behind us. I felt a little sheepish afterwards, but they were really a nuisance. Sickening, actually. The young lady, on the other hand, is very humble (or appears to be), polite, and has beautiful hair.

Livin' large, baby!

keep your hand on your wallet

Well, it had to happen, didn't it? I suppose I was asking to have the money stolen out of my wallet at the gym. I put the cash in my pocket into this little wallet I carry and put that in the pocket of my big black bag, and put that into a locker, and locked it.

After my workout and shower, I found the lock in place on the locker, and the door shut but not latched. Odd, I thought, and then surmised that I must have failed to latch it properly when I locked it. I found my locker in that condition one time before, and figured it was the something funky with the locker; I didn't notice anything missing and never suspected anything wrong. I'll look at the lockers closely tomorrow: apparently there's a way to twist the whole mechanism so as to unlatch it.

It was only about $40, a relatively small price to pay for the knowledge that the lockers are not secure. After all, I've been carrying a laptop in that bag every day, as well. Guess the scumbag who stole my money couldn't get the computer out of the bag fast enough.

Yes, of course I checked everywhere else for the money, but I distinctly recall -- distinctly recall -- putting the cash into the zipper pocket and zipping it up. I also distinctly recall the sense that the guy -- or should I say the asshole -- next to me was watching. Allright, maybe it wasn't him...But, I had the definite sense that I was being watched as I handled the cash and put it away.

Certainly my stuff should be secure there. But I can also take the precaution of not handling money in front of people in the locker room. Not being a thief myself I suppose I have failed to think like one. I will say this: he was pretty smooth. Nothing else was disturbed. It was done in such a way as to increase the odds I'd be long gone before I discovered the theft. I think I'll email the gym to let them know. Maybe they'll comp me something.

There is no prize for naivete or carelessness. It would be nice to live in a world without thieves and the like but, alas, it is not so.

on a little siding

before the sun rise I stand by my laptop which is perched on a wood railing. The Acela races by in a cacophony of whooshing, clack-clanging, wind gusts and platform tremors. Oh, and here comes the local to cruise by as well.

I send this post via cellphone. Is this not cool? I know there must be somethin more productive I can accomplish with this incredible tool.

My Microsoft Word is disable because I didn't "activate" the software. Look, morons, I paid for it. That ought to be enough.

Must pack up for the train. I'll post if anything comes to mind.

life is good

I've lived in Florida half my life, so this little snap of fall weather takes some getting used to.

But I'm up for it. I'm in the prime of my life, more alive now than ever. There is much to look forward to. Life is good.

Today's train ride is scheduled to feature a nap.

chillin'

All's quiet on the afternoon train.
***
Is there a limit to how fat a human being can get? How fat does one have to be before he can't stand himself? Does being really, really fat say anything at all about the character of a person, assuming there is no disease involved that makes someone stuff his face and remain stuck to the couch?

Is it a good idea to have really, really fat schoolteachers?

Just asking.

blah, blah, blah.

I suppose the novelty is wearing off all this flying. The security guy had a real attitude this morning, and probably could have used a good whuppin’. But when I considered the immediately obvious possible consequences of administering said whuppin’, I decided I didn’t love him enough to be tough with him. I’m sure if he acts like that when he goes out for a brewski, he’ll get taken care of.

But, it’s all good. Even the lady from the islands that’s yakking at full volume into her cellphone in some unrecognizable dialect. Soon she’ll have to turn it off, and there will, theoretically, be peace in this row.

It’s a funny time we live in when holding the door for a woman earns you not even a nod of acknowledgment, when doing so almost seems to cause offense. People are so uptight, so unfriendly sometimes. I yearn for the days when people respected your space and didn’t seem to hate you just because you are a blonde-haired-blue-eyed-white-male. Remember when, if someone was being an ass, he could be put in his place? No more. If you tell him off, he calls security (because he knows calling his mommy wouldn't help). How long will pussies, girly-men, and miserable women be able to play the system without retribution?

Alas. Being idealistic about it isn’t going to help. You have to give people lots of space these days, even if they fail to do so in return. There are enough assholes around, enough people who screw with you because, in their little worlds, it’s fun. I’ve been around long enough to see what happens to people like this. You wish you could warn them, “hey, your life and the lives of everyone around you would be sooooo much better if you would just learn the Golden Rule and put it to use once in a while. Even if you fail to do it, at least knowing you failed would make you less of an asshole.” But they wouldn’t listen anyway, most. Some people need to crash before they pull their heads out of the sand. Trouble is, on their way to and at the crash, they hurt a lot of people along the way.

*Sigh.*

flying barefoot.

I’ve never wanted a flight to end like this one. It all started way back at the gate. There, right in the sweet spot of my peripheral vision – that is, ahead one row, left across the isle -- is a man with his leg crossed under him, foot up on the seat. That wouldn’t really be anything by itself if he had shoes and socks on. But he didn’t (and he still doesn’t). You OK with that? Well, I’m not. And because of his location, it takes a real effort to NOT give in to the morbid reflex of staring in disgust at this man’s foot.

To his credit, he put on a good show, feeling his toes from time to time, cleaning the toenails with his thumbnail, stuff like that. Then he would, of course, channel surf by poking (with a carefree flourish) the touch-screen with the fingers that had just caressed his bare foot.

As if this wasn’t bad enough, he began to scratch his head. I mean, he really worked it. With both hands. I assume there is a scalp disease of some sort motivating this action. It might also be some sort of massage one does while chanting. I don't know, but there it was: scalp-foot-TV-scalp, and sequential variations thereon. Occasionally he would bring his active hand to the area between his upper lip and his nostrils for some reason that I’d rather not think about.

*Oh, joy. We’re making our final approach. We’ve been told to fasten our seatbelts, fix our seats, etc. Pity they didn’t remind us to put on our freaking shoes, isn’t it!?*

In an effort to distract myself from this rank disgust, I read the Journal, listen to country music (Brooks & Dunn’s “When We Were Kings” is a tear jerker), and play music trivia. I’ll probably win the trivia, and when you win, your screen name gets put on the flight’s top ten. I play two rounds, and each for round I choose a screen name (limited to six characters) with a message in mind. My two screen names appear in the top ten as the phrase “bareft dothed.” It was my clever little way of giving voice to my outraged sense of public etiquette which, apparently, is a cultural thing.

Now, with all due respect, I don’t care where this individual is from, a pig is a pig is a pig, no matter what language he’s spoken to in. In fact, if you were to mime the phrase, "happy as a pig in sh*t," this guy's act would be perfect. But you know what, this guy could be your doctor. So make sure Dr. Gupta washes his hands after you page him.

What I witnessed for over two hours against my will (no, there weren’t a great deal of other seats available and by now I was afraid of what other activities I might be sandwiched between if I moved) began to work on my mind. I began to think of what the person who sat in my seat before me might have been like. The back of my seat…the touch screen. I began to lose my appetite. Then I thought of the subway in way I have never been inclined to think about it…I found myself repulsed at what sorts of eeeeee-yukkky stuff I might be exposed to all day long. And then I really lost my appetite. And I began to worry that I might turn into something like Howard Hughes – so disgusted with filth and paranoid about hygiene that he locked himself in a room filled with air filters.

But I calmed down. And got off the plane as fast as I could. But not before going to use the 'lavatory.' What was interesting about that was that door was unlocked, so I pushed it open and it seemed to stick. Then I put my weight into it and before long the angry face of a woman appeared on the opposite side. She was mad at me, I suppose, because it was my fault she didn't lock the bathroom door on an airplane. When will I learn?

And on the way out, the little piglet glared at me as if I had bad manners, when I didn't let him cut in front of me to get his bags.

planes, trains, and automobiles

OK, right, extraordinary stuff, pinball game of the soul, etc. etc. Right. Stuff like that happens. Maybe more on this later…(referring, of course, to the previous post)...

There was no choice for the title of this little essay, because today I have been on a train, and a bus (the automobile); plus I expect to be on a plane in a little more than an hour or so.

Why do I take the bus to the airport? Why? Guess I don’t want to spend fifty bucks for a car, when I can take the bus and the subway for 2. In addition to the economic benefit, it’s an exercise for me: it keeps me mingling with humanity. It gives me stuff to make noise about.

But there’s not too much happening. I’m not going to pick on the poor guy who’s on oxygen. I don’t want to beat up on the guy on the bus who smelled like he did (and even went so far as to call home and verify that the electricity AND water were back on, what with the storms and all) because he turned out to be a nice fellow. All the more so because my stop came just as he was winding up to give his multi-level-marketing pitch. Even the flight attendant sitting next to me at the gate is a pleasant lady. I guess life is good!

Except the freaking speaker over my head (and also over the seat next to the electrical outlets that power this very computer) which is blasting CNN at a volume calculated to make it be heard. Now here’s something that I need to make noise about. Why is CNN the default channel at every airport and hotel in the USA? What if I don’t like CNN? What if it’s in the same class as, say, CBS News, which is a distant cousin to Pravda? What would George Orwell have to say about this? Can I go over to the nice lady at the counter and ask her to change the channel? “Excuse me, ma’am. Would you please change that TV to Fox News?” I’d have better luck getting a date with that supermodel over there. The one sitting next to that gangster (he doesn't seem to appreciate my curiosity). Now there's an idea for a blog...

More later.

pinball wizard

Once in a while something extraordinary happens. OK, what a great opening line. I’m trying to get into my off the cuff ad-lib writing mode and it’s hard to with stiff people sitting next to you on the train. If only they knew what I wrote about them. But then, they go their way and I feel bad for what I wrote…

Something extraordinary. Something like the fulfillment of more than you dreamt for. Almost like a little bit of heaven right here on earth. This sounds so cliché; but my theory about clichés is that they become clichés because they’re usually true. And being so true and universally appealing, they get worn out, and become clichés.

So anyway. One of these things happened to me and, where else, but on the train. *Whoa, what a beautiful morning overlooking whatever body of water that is in this port-town-that-shall-remain-unnamed.*OK, about this extraordinary thing…the picture that comes to mind is a pinball game, and my soul is the little silver ball. Whoosh—it gets launched out of its little comfort zone into this bazaar of energy and electricity and flashing lights and ringing bells and bouncing bumpers and flipping flippers.

Oops. My laptop is hibernating. I'll have to continue this from, not the train, but the plane.

the fool on the train

Ugh. Everyone’s got a story, right? Well, not everyone. Only some people. But why do I have to listen to them? It’s pitiful, isn’t it? When a complete stranger starts spilling his life out to you, and you wonder, “do people feel this way when I talk to them?” God, I hope not. I mean, the things you hear. You don’t want to hear them. But you do. Things which, if you hear what’s being strongly implied, just about scream a confession, like: “I’m a complete fool. I do foolish things over and over. And look how I get screwed.” Then you hear the reason: “This girl I was supposed to marry…but that’s another loooooong story….” Remember, this is a person you’ve known for less than three minutes. You’ve only been allowed to say things like, “ummm-hmmm,” and “ahhhh. I see,” or “No, I didn’t realize that. I was always under the im---.”

These people, to hear them tell their own stories, are heroes, great thinkers, all around good folks, extraordinarily gifted, and usually victims of some ne’er do well. Usually these people are so eloquent that they have apparently talked themselves into believing whatever it is they are disciples of this year.

And then there are the people who’ve “discovered” a new, hot, unknown niche on eBay. And they want to tell you all about it. And everything about them is saying, “Yeah, baby. I’ve been looking for a way to rake in money without having to get out of bed all my life, and I’ve finally found it. AND, I get to look like I’m smart in the process! Life is gooo-oood. I’m gonna be on Oprah, someday. I can feel it.”

There used to be people who found the secret way to tap into government grants. Then they were into processing medical insurance claims from home in their spare time. Then they became stock market gurus buying dotcom IPO’s. Now they are into some “healthcare” thing; or perhaps are working for someone who has found a way to cut through all the red tape to get you your social-security disability benefit faster. You can hear all about it on some infomercial. They are like stationary gypsies. They stay still: new lands of opportunity come to them, at intervals.

These are people who have no time for mundane things like reality. Their heads are in the clouds; all we see are their feet dragging along the ground as the wind blows their helium filled heads to and fro, high above the rest of us. If you were wondering about liberal demographics, I’ve just given you the secret.

There is nothing like meeting someone with a sound mind. I don’t care what he does for a living. He might be the conductor (but not likely); a cab driver, a vendor, the guy behind the counter at the restaurant. But he’s not angling. He’s not buying into or selling the latest fad. He’s not a living, breathing bullshit-dwelling mole. I pray his tribe would increase, but I fear it won’t.

Perhaps the greatest fools of all are exemplified by those two behind me. Well educated, properly bred, well modulated voices, in agreement on things pertaining to the upcoming election. In his intelligent/eager/sensitive-male-voice, the man says, "they play the fear card. they play the religion card. It's amazing what people will fall for!" He's referring to the incumbent. He is apparently oblivious to the challenger's scare tactics (he'll cut your medicare benefit; he'll send your job to India; he's ruined the economy;he's only out for the rich; he's taking America down the drain, a vote for me saves you from him; etc.) or his recent visits to churches where he attempted to quote scripture and give a sermon -- hey, I thought you guys were the party of "separation of church and state." Oh well. Some pigs are more equal. And the fool who believes that is indeed the greatest fool of all. There is nothing he won't believe, and no Faustian bargain he won't make if it suits his beliefs.