I can't decide if I feel more like a student or some vaguely European unshaven soccer-shirted guy today. I brought my laptop down to my local Starbucks and am writing this post while sipping a venti gingerbread latte with soy, no whip. I wanted to get a white chocolate peppermint mocha, but there was no peppermint syrup in the house. Life is a bitch like that.

A most unusual thing happened to me a day or two before Christmas: via Facebook I received an email from a guy that I went to school with from 1974 to 1977. In January of 1978, my family moved from New Jersey (finally!) to Illinois (about 20 miles east of the Missouri border and St. Louis). Most of my memories of high school are from this second school, O'fallon Twp HS. The few friends that I maintain any contact with are from this school. Prior to that, however, in New Jersey, i spent grades 7, 8, 9, and half of 10 at Northern Burlington County Regional Junior/Senior High School. Good old NBCRJSH! Go Greyhounds!

I remember very little from my time at this school despite the fact that I went there an entire year more than I spent at the school I eventually graduated from. As an Air Force brat, I was accustomed to making new friends and then losing touch with them. When they moved away or when I moved away, there would be feeble attempts at letter writing, but, let's face it, teenagers are usually too involved in the moment to make good correspondents, and I was no exception. I know that I left many friends behind when we moved to Illinois, but I can't remember exchanging many letters at all. The one letter I do clearly recall was from a girl named Nancy that i must have written to about 2 years after leaving New Jersey. Her return letter said that she had become something of a danger to herself with sex and drugs and had chosen to become a nun. That's a letter you don't forget.

Anyway, a few days ago comes this email from a guy named Russell Caldwell who claims that we were good friends at Northern. I say 'claims' only because he clearly remembers me very well, but I have only a whole in my memory where he is concerned. It's quite flustering. he has since described several events and classes that I remember, but for the life of me I can't remember him at all. I do recall his name, but that's it. I had to confess to him that I am extremely embarrassed at the situation.

We have exchanged several emails now, and my philosophy is that if we were friends once before then we can be friends again. I hope he believes the same. So, if you see his name on my facebook page, now you know the connection. Some old friends are the best— some are the newest!

Well, I'm off now to write a physical letter, p-mail. Talk to you again soon.

"True friends stab you in the front."— Oscar Wilde

The Red Car, Part 2

I hope everyone reading this blog has had or is having a wonderful holiday. My own Christmas was fun. I spent the morning with my 'adopted family', exchanging gifts, eating a great breakfast, and catching up.

Before I return to the story at hand, if you have not read the first part, please do us both a favor and scroll down to the post before this one and do so.

I believe I left our heroes in midflight. While enjoying an early evening dash down a country road in a convertible red MG, we crested a low rise in the road only to discover that immediately on the far side of the rise, the road turned 90 degrees to the left.

My father has always been an excellent driver, and he really earned that adjective on this night. Of the two things that saved us from crashing through a cornfield, his skill behind the wheel was the foremost. The second thing that saved us was a broad, deep ditch on the far side of that left hand turn. I don't know what combination of steering and braking my father used, but before the road ended in front of us, he brought us very nearly to a standstill and very nearly perfectly aligned to travel in the road's new direction. Unfortunately, if you'll recall, the road was slick from recent rain. (I told you that would come into play.)

In my memory the moment is straight out of a cartoon. As the car slows down to a manageable speed, pointed in the right direction, we teeter and then slide sideways down into the ditch. And it's quite the ditch— no less than 8 or 10 feet across and very nearly as deep as our car was wide. Which is to say, after sliding down to the bottom of the ditch, we were well and truly inside. And again, I will point out that there had recently been rain, meaning that the passenger side of the car— the side of myself, my mother, and our dog— was several inches deep in muck.

Fortunately, everyone was A-OK. No one was dislodged. No one was jarred. No one was hurt— not even Mitzi the dog. We were rattled. And, we were certainly stuck out on a country road we knew nothing about, but we were all OK.

After extricating ourselves from the car and the ditch, it was quickly determined that the car would not be driven from the ditch. So, as night was beginning to fall, my father set off on foot for the farmhouse to be seen up the road. The rest of us waited, and I seriously doubt that a single other car came along the road that night. Some time later we heard the sounds of an approaching tractor bearing amy father and a very neighborly farmer.

In my memory it was a very big tractor, and in a moment you'll find out how powerful it was. The farmer and my father secured a tow line to the red car's front bumper with a large hook. I don't believe the towline was tied or wrapped around anything because after a few minutes of the tractor gently pulling against the stuck car, there was a sudden give. In fact, it was the front bumper that suddenly gave as it detached from the red car. In the second cartoon moment of the night, we watched as the bumped was flung by God's own catapult into a distant part of the cornfield. I know that later, after we were out of the ditch, my father tromped off into the corn to look for the bumper, but I don't believe it was ever fully recovered. You'll recall again that I previously mentioned the corn being high enough to obscure the ground.

On the second try, our car was successfully hauled out of the ditch, and a short time later we were on the road again, headed home. It was rather late into the night at this point and were quite definitely going home much slower than before.

The only thing left to relate is that when we limped back home, rather than have curious neighbors ask after our bedraggled car, my parents stayed out late and gave the car a good washing. Now their secret is exposed to the world.

Stay tuned for other exciting stories blandly told!

"I want to die in my sleep like my granfather... not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car."— Will Shriner

The Red Car, Part 1

This is a story that I'm going to tell on stage some day... that is to say, tell again some day. A few months after I started performing comedy, I told this story to a friend while we were waiting for the train. She laughed and seemed to enjoy the story quite a bit. So, emboldened by her response, I decided to tell the story one night down at Coffee Haven in Long Beach. It tanked. I tanked with it. Something like that. I thought the audience would get enjoyment just from hearing the events— I didn't realize that I also needed to tell the story.

There are only a few people in this world who know the events of this story and probably only one of them will ever read this blog. If I get any events wrong and you are one of those people, please feel free to correct me in the comments section.

In 1970 my father returned from Vietnam. We— my mother, my brother, and I— had been living in Sacramento while he was serving a one-year tour of duty in Vietnam with the Air Force. Immediately upon his returning, our newly reunited family packed up and moved to New Jersey. (We lived in New Jersey for 8 years. Don't ask me which offramp.) Very nearly as soon as we got there, my father purchased a red MG for himself. Quickly dubbed "the red car", that car stayed with my father for decades. It was the car in which I learned to drive stick in late '79 or early '80. (A story of its own.)

As near as I can tell the night in question must have been late Spring or early Summer. It was a pleasant evening, and the crops in the farm fields were high enough to hide anything lying on the ground. That fact will figure into the story later on. Additionally, I'm going to guess the year was 1971 or 1972 because none of us were very familiar with the back roads at the time. This too will figure into the story. (The other reason I'm guessing a very early year is because both my brother and I still fit into the back seat of the red car. I say "seat" but it was really just a small hard ledge.)

It had rained shortly before the evening we all got into the red car for a drive. We have always been a driving family and frequently enjoyed piling into the family car for a cruise down new roads. As I said, this was a pleasant evening, an hour or so before sunset. The world around us was damp from recent rain. Adventure called out to my parents so we loaded ourselves into the red car for a drive. We were in fact so complete that our family dog was curled up under my Mom's feet. (Mitzi was a toy pomeranian, and I dare say she was small by toy pomeranian standards.)

We lived in off-base housing, and as soon as you left the housing area, you were in rural New Jersey. We were surrounded by farms and the occasional forest. (Maybe someday I'll talk about the tiny Stephen King-esque graveyard we discovered in the middle of a dark forest.) Most people only the know the jokes about New Jersey and never learn how rural the state is— or at least was.

So off we zoom in our flashy red English sports car— a family of four and small dog all tucked into their places!

In my memory Rahilly Road is less than a mile from the back side of the housing area. It's certainly a road that we learned and used many many times during our 8-year stay. But this was our first time on Rahilly Road. It's strange name and rural aspect called out to us as a road we could have an adventure on. So, off we shot down Rahilly Road!

Here's a bit of trivia about country roads: Country roads were very often built along the boundaries of adjoining properties. As such, they tend to follow the borders of these properties. For their part, rural properties, properties going back decades or centuries, tend to be formed along township and range lines. That is, lot lines tend to very rectilinear. Therefore, the roads built between them tend to be rectilinear as well.

Rahilly Road was no exception. Rahilly shot straight as an arrow ahead of us as my father stepped on the accelerator. The wind was rushing past us because naturally we had the top off the car. Yes, my father's MG was a convertible. The four (or five!) of us were thrilling to the racing engine and rushing wind. We were a family of speedsters roaring down Rahilly Road, and as far as we could see Rahilly stretched out in front of us.

Unfortunately, without any of us really seeming to notice, after a mile or so, Rahilly began to rise and we approached a point where the road ahead of us could not be seen. In mere moments we raced up this small peak in the road to see what lay beyond.

Now, recall I mentioned that country roads tend to be rectilinear. (And, admit it, you've never seen the word "rectilinear" used so much before in one story.) I would say the two properties of these types of roads are: they have long straight stretches punctuated by 90-degree corners. Many times these corners are intersections and the straight road continues on. Sometimes, however, they're just 90-degree turns. Rahilly, which must be the name of the god of Impetuousness in some culture, opted for the 90-degree turn... immediately on the other side of the rise in the road.

Now, you may ask, how does a British racing car going 50 or 60 miles an hour navigate an immediate 90-degree turn? Look to part two of this story for the answer to that question.

"Auto racing is boring except when one car is going at least 172 miles per hour upside down."— Dave Barry

The Fast Food Rant

OK, I confess: I eat more fast food than I should. (In fact, it's probably true to say that eating any fast food is eating more than should be eaten.) In my defense, however, eating out is more than food— it's a social event as well. If I didn't talk to someone at a drive-thru now and then, I might forget how to use my vocal cords.

When did we forget how to serve fast food? For clarification, I've never worked in the industry and I hope I never have to. (Dangerous words from someone who is unemployed and well acquainted with irony.) It would seem to me that certain practices should be self-evident.

Rule No. 1: Drain the fucking burrito. I just got back from my new favorite cheap Mexican food place, Alberto's. (I have long enjoyed Alberto's as a chain, but they recently put one near me, just off the freeway on the University exit.) I had to change clothes after eating because the carnitas burrito developed its own wading pool at the bottom of the tortilla. After taking a few bites I noticed that the wading pool was draining all down my shirt and pants. After a quick muttered "What the fuck?" I examined the burrito and I could actually see the reservoir of burrito juice still untapped at the bottom. Swimming in one's food does not add to the enjoyment. Additionally, it begs the question "What is that juice anyway? Don't the pigs stop sweating after you slaughter them?" Lest you think this rule to be too specific, Baker's is similarly guilty with their machaca burritos. Something about frying up shredded meat on a grill brings out the spa therein.

While we're on the subject of burritos, I'm designating Rule No. 2 to be: Don't overstuff the burrito and/or use a flimsy tortilla. Honestly, if you put deliciousness inside your burrito I'll be back. Don't feel the need to oversell the burrito by stuffing a Ralphie May portion of meat inside a Paris Hilton veil of a tortilla. (May all the elder gods devour my soul if I ever use her name in this blog again!) When you're adding that last half-shovel of meat, ask yourself if it's really necessary.

My third rule is completely non-burrito related, and is the most important rule of all. Rule No. 3: The rim of the cup is not the fill line! Hey, soda jockey, you know how there's a line inside the cup telling you how high the ice goes? Why don't you add an imaginary second fill line about a quarter inch from the rim of the cup and pretend that line is how high the soda goes. That way, when you snap the ill-fitting lid on the cup, the cup doesn't transform into an armed soda bomb. Here's a visual clue, with the lid on, you should see only translucent plastic with the infrequent tip of an ice cube pressed against the top. If the entire lid turns the color of the soda and the precut straw cross in the middle starts sweating beads of soda, there's too much fucking soda. Drain off a teaspoon or two. I won't complain. Really. I'm tired of mopping up the inside of my car because I thought I might try to get the straw in. Just trying to get the straw in under these conditions explains why they're called "fountain drinks". Oh, and Starbucks, this applies to you as well. Somehow, after pouring more cups of coffee than dollars in the federal bailout, you don't seem to realize that your cups leak at the seam. If I ask for "room" give me room to add cream AND still have a half-inch of coffe-clear cup. If I don't ask for "room", you are still free and clear to leave that half inch. Or maybe you like emptying the trash that has a few score tips of cold coffee at the bottom.

Thank you for listening. If you know someone in the fast food industry, please feel free to pass these words of wisdom along. Doubtlessly, I've missed a few valuable tips. These were just the first ones that came to mind. Please add your own tips.

"I am not a glutton— I am an explorer of food."— Erma Bombeck