Batten Down The Hatches

People's personality weather is as unpredictable as real weather. High pressure in the cerebellum means it's going to be overcast with periods of acid rain spreading across the hippocampus by early morning, although some streaks of pale sunlight could possibly break through on the hypothalamus towards late afternoon if we're lucky. But I'd still pack an umbrella just in case.

Looking further into the week ahead, a dense fog could drift into the frontal lobes without warning on Wednesday. And beware of Thursday's isolated lightning storms that strike the spinal cord at dusk. Worse, there's a risk of forest fires engulfing large sections of scalp thanks to the careless disposal of inflammable thoughts.

Alas, human faces lack built-in barometers indicating what atmospheric conditions will be encountered when confronted with someone else's moods. And, woe is us, weathervanes do not protrude from human skulls forecasting which way the wind blows in an individual's current frame of mind. 

If only there was some sort of radar to track the storms brewing behind the eyes of those with whom we interact on a daily basis. But no such luck. We are thrust out into the world equipped only with whatever foul weather gear we've managed to accumulate from past life experience. And such meagre provisions provide inadequate protection from the changeable conditions that prevail.

Nevertheless, should ever meet me face to face, let in be known that my own personality enjoys a fairly temperate climate. It's mid-seventies in my mind, usually. All day long, all year round. Sure, a few clouds drift by from time to time, but mostly it's bright and clear and comfortable in my brain.

My customer Frank, on the other hand. Well, it's always heavy monsoon season in his head and he just can't cope. And that Sarah woman who Frank hired just last week? Complete arctic freeze as far as I can tell. Personally, I blame the man-made global warming of their workflow operations. Too much hot air passes between them, especially on those incessant Zoom calls Frank organizes. So bring me my sou'wester and galoshes, I'm invited to another on Monday morning.

As an aging member of the workforce, I comply with my own strict Kyoto protocol. In fact, I've 'gone green' ever since I gave up burning the fossil fuels of professional ambition, recycling all those ancient flow charts and productivity graphs from the days before the flood. That's how I keep my head above water when Frank is forecast to make land fall. 

Man's Fate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All Along The Watchtower

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

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

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

'Pepsi for me, please,' I replied.

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

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

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

'A glass of water?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fiduciary Fun And Games

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How I Became A Pacifist

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

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

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

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

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

SR936SW

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

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

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

Mysteries of the Foot, Part Ten

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

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

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