Worth A Thousand Words

Today's Track: Sara--Bob Dylan

I decided this morning to do some cleaning. I don't know what led me to this decision, though I suspect extraterrestrial involvement. You see, I clean no more often than is strictly necessitated by considerations of health, safety, and general well being. And it shows. My house is like a Discovery Channel documentary. Things are rapidly degenerating to the point where one cannot enter a room without being prepared to make first contact, or at least step in something really icky. I have lovely plush blue-green carpeting in my bathroom, which quite perplexes me, because, as I recall, the flooring was white vinyl when I moved in. There are areas of my home in which it is entirely possible to find deposits of unidentifed rubbish so advanced in age and mass that they have begun to be subjected to their own internal geologic forces. And there are at present no fewer than three separate entities vying for control of the environs of my closet, one of which has attempted to establish diplomatic relations with my dog. At least, I hope that's what it was doing...
I decided to begin my adventures in household sterilization by cleaning off the dresser in my bedroom, as the things inhabiting it seemed least likely, on the whole, to be capable of biting me. The things I found there, as a collection, are quite startling, and probably speak not-insignificant volumes about me as a person. Among the items I found were:

• One of those plastic-and-glass 'bird' toys which, through the complex mechanics of thermodynamics, are able to simulate ducking and drinking from a vessel of water, but which, owing to the much simpler devices of Murphy's Laws, doesn't
  
• Several assorted golf balls
  
• Enough loose change to pay down the national budget deficit, or at least make tacky coin necklaces for the entire population of Hokkaido
  
• An inexplicably great quantity of string
  
• Something which looked like a socket wrench engaging in some revolutionary form sexual intercourse with a second socket wrench
  

As I was pondering these items, I noticed--as I generally do everyday--the picture I have leaned against my mirror. It seems almost absurdly out of place amidst the other rabble, like the Pope in a KISS video. It's not even framed. Just a simple color print, but easily the most valuable item in the lot. No, it's not a photographed map to Eldorado or Cibola or some such place (although that would be appreciated, should any of you be considering a Christmas gift for the Masked Logician). It is a portrait of Sarah, my pseudononymous beloved.

**Caution: Sappy Doting Ahead. Proceed At Your Own Hazard**

I acquired this particular picture just before Christmas. I keep it positioned on the dresser as it is so that it greets me each morning when I wake. Though, if I am to be completely honest, most of the time this early-morning admiration occurs before such time as I've located my glasses, and so the benefit is much more a subliminal rather than a visual one, as I am quite stunningly nearsighted. At such times as I am able to actually see it, however, it never fails to please me greatly. Whenever I look at it, I'm struck simultaneously by two thoughts: One, that she is perhaps the most singularly lovely woman I've ever seen, and, second, that I am preternaturally lucky that such as she be willing even to be seen in the same room as myself.
Yes, for those of you haven't yet guessed it, I am totally, utterly, inexcusably, irrevocably, helplessly, hopelessly, head-over-heels, starry-eyed, slack-jawed, falling-down, three-degrees-to-starboard, upside-down, ass-backwards in love with this woman. I can--and do--spend the preponderance of an entire day in just thinking about her. I find that something as simple as talking with her on the telephone for a few minutes can lift my spirits completely. I have spent literally hours reflecting on some detail of her person, such as her eyes (which, by the way, are a fantastically indescribable gold-ringed blue-green-gray color). Or the way she laughs. Her smile, her grace, the fact that she knows who Ernst Blofeld is... I find myself constantly awed by her in more or less every way. Yes, I am pathetic. Thanks for ponting it out.
All silliness aside for a moment, Sarah really is a fantastic woman. She's extremely intelligent. I feel as though we can commmunicate on a similar intellectual level most of the time. And, when we can't, she tries not to make me feel like too big an idiot. She has a unique and wonderful sense of humor (and yes, that does mean that the thinks my jokes are funny). There is a powerful warmth about her, and a great wealth of personality. Very caring, emotionally open, strong in will and character, and wise in a way I doubt I'll ever be. At the same time, she somehow manages to remain quiet, reserved, and unassuming, which only adds to her charm. In addition to being, basically, a wonderful person, she is also, in my opinion, an exceptional writer--a fine example of her work can be found here--and a gifted artist in many other media. And let me not forget her angellic voice. Or... Well, I could go on for hours about her.

*At this point, I am going to temporarily ignore the 'whipcrack' noises emanating from the reader. Besides which, I warned at the end of the last paragraph. *

I suppose it goes without saying that we make a tooth-aching couple. From the silly pet names--among which are "Snuggle-Bunny" and "My Sweet Potato"--to the way we always make stupid moon-eyes at one another and ceaselessly engage in the most revoltingly cute displays of affection known to man, there is pretty much no goofy-couple activity we've forgone to this point. We finish each others' sentences. We talk for literally hours on the phone when we can't be together. We can't go more than sixty seconds wihout professing our undying love. We are, in short, disgusting. For my part, I am old enough and wise enough to know full well what a fool I sound, but far too young and in love to even begin to give a damn, and I'm pretty sure she feels the same way. I say this because, believe it or not, we were not always this way at all.
I was in high school when Sarah's mother introduced us. Not precisely the opening of a great timeless romance, it would seem. But we traded pleasantries, made small talk, and so on. Then for a while we didn't talk much. But slowly--due in large part to the fact that I was painfully shy--we came to be friends. It turned out that we had a good bit in common. We were intrested in many of the same things, belonged to some of the same clubs, and had very similar dispositions. She just happened to be what is technically known as "a huge Trekkie dork", which meshed well with a number of very similar tendencies in my own personality. My sense of humor, which has always been rather odd, seemed to find a welcome audience in her. In spite of the fact that I was cultivating quite a cynical turn of mind at that time, she always interested me. Therefore it came to pass tha we spent progressively more and more time together.
Fast-forward a bit, to just before the end of my last year in the high school. I was working through a number of problems in my life at that time, which is a polite euphamistic way of saying that I was a basket case. As a result, I'd gone from a top-of-the-class, straight A, Honor Roll student to...well, pretty much anything but. In my infinite adolescent wisdom, I chose to deal with this in a strictly rational and logical fashion, being that I actively ignored everyone and everything and withdrew totally from the world. Totally, that is, except for Sarah. Even during the worst of those times, I always looked forward to whatever time I spent with her. I can remember waiting outside the room where she had her final class of the afternoon, waiting for dismissal time, so that we could hang out together. We'd talk about the day, or things in the upcoming week, or whatever. Never anything much, just friends relaxing and enjoying one another's company. Most every day, we'd stroll around the grounds together, often hand in hand, just laughing and killing time. We lived a fair distance apart, and, as I didn't have a car, we did most of our communicating outside of school by telephone. Much as we do even today, we'd talk for hours, the subject ranging far and wide and beyond description. I even (almost) worked up the courage to ask her to my senior prom. While I hadn't been paying attention, she'd become my best friend, and I had come to care a lot more about her than I would have ever thought possible at the time. Over the next few months, we grew closer. At her encouragement, I--a world-class introvert bordering on psychological reclusiveness--I began to 'open up', which was something I had absolutely not been prepared to do. As a result of this, my feelings for her, which were not, though I failed to rcognize it then, merely those of friendship alone, increased significantly. Skip forward again. A little over a year ago, I guess it would have been. One evening, after spending some time with Sarah, I began to think about her. Really contemplating her, and how I felt about her. I realized, quietly and with no fuss or fanfare, that I loved her. It didn't come to me like a moonstruck sonnet, or a flaming vision. It just was. I loved her. It was an odd thought, because it was so unexpected. But it was also true. And dangerous. After all, here was my dearest, truest, and best friend, and there are just certain feelings one is not supposed to have for one's best friend. So I decided to keep that little bit of information to myself. But, sooner or later, the cat dashed out of the bag, as they are wont to do.
Somehow, at some point, she let me know that she too possessed feelings that were not strictly platonic. But nothing could come of that, obviously. Our friendship was far too important to both of us to risk any sort of alteration to our relationship. I said we shouldn't, she said we wouldn't. We thought we weren't.

Obviously, we were wrong. But, in my opinion, wrong in a most spectacular way. We've been lucky, I think. We've bridged the space between friends and more-than-friends successfully, if not precisely effortlessly. That same deep, meaningful mutual understanding that made us friends now helps to form an indescribable and enormously powerful bond between us. We've only been an 'acknowledged' couple for a few months at most. And it should be said that this is very much a first for both of us. Neither Sarah nor the Masked Logician, regrettable though it is to say, were previously highly experienced in the realm of romance. But the way it feels, the content familiarity, the connectedness, the things that get said without speech, all seem to say that we're doing something right.
For my part, I feel as though I've gotten more than I could ever have hoped for. I had a friendship of the most profound sort imaginable, and now, in addition to that, I've got a partner, a lover, another half, as it were, who makes phrases like 'soul mate' seem almost too shallow. We speak of marriage, of children, of one life together. Forever doesn't seem like long enough.

Olympic-caliber woolgathering, I'd say. I've been sitting here for what feels like hours, staring at this picture. Not a bad occupation, I'll admit, but this house isn't going to clean itself.

Tin Soldiers

Today's Track: Five Feet High and Rising--Johnny Cash

It began, as have so many of history's most profound and critical events, with a sandwich and a dull clunking sound.

It was quiet. As they say in the movies, perhaps a little too quiet. The late afternoon sun was ambling across the land, and somewhere, a bird sang out, a long, sweet tune. I stood by the kitchen sink, ankle-deep in thought. I had a decision to make, one on which more fates than mine might come to rest. I knew I must weigh my options with care, measure the situation with the utmost mental precision, and choose the path of most wisdom. But boredom always wins, doesn't it? And, besides, I was anxious to get back to a particularly tasty lunch. So I moved in haste, and was lost. What difference, I asked myself, could it possibly make? And so, little realizing the peril that I was casually dispensing from a harmless yellow bottle, I filled the little round resevoir. Indifferently, I slammed the door, set the timer, and walked away from my dishwasher.

Before I continue recounting the events of that fateful afternoon, let me pass on a couple of things. First, the combination of Stephen King, Pink Floyd, and a filling--if rather boring--sandwich will dull a human's wits faster than a swift kick to the head. And second, there is a reason, speaking in terms of concentration, certain detergents are marketed for use in dishwashers and others are not...

The afternoon stretched on, bloating its way through to early evening. I sat in my livingroom, complacently reading and digesting, and preening my ego. I was more pleased than usual with myself for having, in my infinite ingenuity, used a largish quantity of liquid hand/dish soap in place of regular dishwasher-formulated detergent--of which I had none--thus saving myself a trip down to the neighborhood branch of Buy-N-Go-Broke, our local grocery mafia. I'm not sure when I first noticed the sound. Perhaps I'd been hearing it for some time before, slowly, insidiously, a soft, steady patter-splash-slosh wormed its way in amongst the final chords of Dark Side of the Moon. I tracked the racket to my kitchen, whereupon I was struck by some subtle, unidentifiable difference about the place, something I just couldn't put my finger on. Also, try as I might, I could not recall my kitchen ever before having contained any major freshwater lakes. Ah, I thought coherently. Further observation led me to conclude that it was not fresh water at all, but in fact greywater, which is highly misleading, in that most of it was actually white. That is to say, it was utterly saturated with soap suds, resulting in a fluid approximately the consistency of marshmallow creme. The source, obviously, was the dishwasher, which was also concurrently producing the patter-splash-slosh sound as it ejaculated great viscous gluts of the afforementioned fluid.
Ah, I thought again, poking idly with my toe at a blob of suds that floated past at that moment.
Someone's going to have to do something about this.

War, then. This dastardly machine wanted a fight, and I was going to give it one.
I am no stranger to the little-known and often under-appreciated art of appliance combat. Many's the time I've marched forth, toolbox in hand, to glorious battle against the devious Brigadier-General Electric and his gleaming white horde. Oh, the tales I could tell. The time, for instance, when the electric range, perhaps in a feeble mechanical approximation of nonviolent resistance, chose to operate at only one temperature--that being the one labled on the control dial as "White Dwarf". (Victory: Me Casualties: Small sections of my epidermis) Or perhaps the inccident wherein the microwave adopted such a mode of operation as to always sound as though popcorn were being prepared inside, even at times when it was not, strictly speaking, turned on. (Victory: Me Casualties: One electrical outlet; one small water glass) In fact, my only acknowledged defeat--and only just acknowledged, at that--came at the hands of a demented and truly evil specimen of domestic engineering which had posed for years as an electrically powered hot water heater in my neighbors' crawlspace. I will not soon forrget that foul day. I was dragged from the safe confines of my bed at some unreasonable, barely post-dawn hour by a phone call asking for my assistance with a slight mechanical problem. Feeling immediately suspicious, I listened on, finding out, in the course of the conversation, that the water heater had suddenly gone AWOL early that morning. So I, of course, agreed to see whether I could be any assistance. My first clue that this little adventure might be destined for somewhat less than an auspicious end came when I opened my front door. To call the weather that morning a rainstorm would be much like referring to a lecture Al Gore on fiscal policy "a bit dull". I personally witnessed, on that day, raindrops the size of liquor shots hurtling intothe ground at what I conservatively estimate to be the highest velocity ever achieved on the planet earth. Things were not going well. So I make my way next door, having had most of my skin washed completely off. My dear neighbor, a woman nearly old enough to be my grandmother, proceeds to explain how I'm to go about getting at the water heater. There exists beneath their home, so says she, a crawlspace more than adequate to allow easy, upright locomotion by a gentleman of my (not insubstantial) height. Red flag. When I inquired as to the entrance to this area, she instructed me to "use the big door around the side". red flag #2. I've lived next door to this house for years. There is no big door. What there is, as I came to find out, is a perfectly square opening approximately the size of my head set into the house's foundation. Behind some enourmous shrubs. Partway below grade. But I was not discouraged. Not, that is, until I found out, after another few minutes of natural pressure-washing, that the door sealing this comical aperture would not fully open, despite my using of many magic words. Oh well, no pain, no gain, they say. So I clamber into the flowerbed, through the mud, and underneath the shrubbery with every bit of the unerring natural grace of a cow in a three-legged race. Another few minutes splashed by, and, after bending only a couple of the lesser laws of physics--as well as part of the framing--I managed to insert my impressive bulk into the opening. Despite the kind lady's assurances to the contrary, there was indeed barely room to crawl, let alone stand. But by this point, even crawling would have been an accomplishment, and I would gladly have done so. That is, until I took a second crouching-shuffle-step forward. There are few physical sensations that can match that of forty-five degree water rushing unexpectedly up to your chest wihle both feet simultaneously descend into no less than seven inches of rank, diseased-smelling mud. This is, of course, precisely what happened. At this point, pure stubborn determination takes over. I proceeded onward in a sort of half-floating duckwalk for a while (despite its claustrophobic dimensions, the crawlspace seemed to go on forever). Alright, I thought, at least it can't get much worse. I really must stop saying things like that. I was fine up untiil I tripped over the submerged electrical cables. I would probably have given in to my more rational impulses and fled at that moment, were it not for the fact that my flashlight, perhaps sensing the essential futility of the situation, enthusiastially and summarily died.
Suffice it simply to say that things went precipitously downhill from that point.
You can't win 'em all...

With these and countless other campaigns under my belt, I felt that the dishwasher situation was well within my grasp. Surely, after all I'd been through, I could not but triumph. And so I strode purposefully across the kitchen, managing--quite well, I think--to maintain my composure as I briefly lost my footing in one of the deeper and more densely soaped regions of the floor. As I approached, I sounded my battle cry, which to the untrained ear apparently sounds much like random vitriolic cursing. I struggled grimly, for long hours. There were times when even I, proud antagonist of the mechanical menace that I am, despaired of my chances of success. But in the end, smiling grimly, I emerged--literally--from the conflict, a hard-fought victory in one hand and a mop in the other. Let this be a lesson to you all. You need not be tormented by your appliances, your machines and gadgets. Rise up, friends. Take back your homes. Just remember to use the appropriate soap.
Good night, and Godspeed.

But... Hmm. Was that toaster making that sound yesterday?

Philosophy For Humans: III

Not Just For Sports Fans, Anymore

Today's Track: Psychic--The Crash Test Dummies

It was a conversation that actually began sometime early last summer, I suppose. It was, as were so many of our discourses at that time, an absurd and quite possibly illegal hour of the morning. I had just signed online to conduct a few pieces of general web-based business--checking e-mail, reading weblogs, getting into pointless electronic arguments with other Trekkies, etc.--when Sarah, in a blatant disregard for the fact that I had the volume on my (admittedly overpowered) PC speakers set somewhere in the "liquify-granite-at-thirty-paces" volume range, sent me an instant message. The resulting alert tone can only be described as sounding like a dinosaur being put through an industrial belt sander at the, er...apex of its mating ritual. After a little of the standard "how was your day?" sort of small talk, I disclosed that I had only moments ago been thinking of her, in fact only an instant before her abrupt 'appearance'. After a few moments of silence, she responded by asking me one of the more bizarre questions, at least in context, that I recall ever being posed: "Do you have ESPN?™" The sheer, staggering lack of any logical connection with the rest of the conversation, combined with lack of sleep and the fact that my brain had recently been pulverized by the aural equivalent of a sudden kick in the groin, left me utterly at a loss. In the end, I reacted much the same as George Washington probably would have if asked whether he was interested in saving money on long distance telephone calls. That is to say, "Huh?"
After a bit of thought, I added that, no, I didn't; that I in fact didn't have cable at all. Yes, that's right, friends. The Masked Logician is one of approximately seventeen people in the United States who still haven't succumbed--er, I mean subscribed, to any sort of other-than-on-air television programming.
After a bit of further discussion, I finally established that she had actually been referring to ESP, which is a shorthand way of saying "To Hell with the Psychic Friends Network." The whole ESPN thing was actually a very funny joke that I had enthusiastically fumbled. How silly of me.

Now, flash forward to Thursday night.

Sarah and I were, for one reason and another, lying quietly about, feeling very contented and relaxed and ever so slightly sleepy. Just the sort of conditions which seem invariably to inspire deep, meditative, philosophical thinking. So I wasn't terribly surprised when the discussion, after a great deal of aimless verbal meandering, turned again to the subject of ESP and other 'psychic' phenomenon. I'm not entirely certain, but I seem to recall that the whole affair began when one of us remarked on our apparently uncanny habit of awakening almost precisely at the same instant on a significant percentage--being well above half--of the mornings on which we had compared notes. Not precisely bulletproof scientific evidence in favor of telepathy, I know, but certainly food for thought. From there, we traipsed over the still-craggier intellectual terrain of precognition, encompassing along the way dreams (purportedly) precognitive in nature. Progressively more wary despite my innate love of intellectual exploration, I somehow fought back the urge to hum the theme from The Twilight Zone as I recounted some of that peculiar species of subconscious activity pulled from my own personal dreaming experience. While I remind the reader--insist, in fact--that none of them particularly represents and sort of verifiable, objective proof of anything more mystical than my own suggestibility, they are, again, substantial if rather rich and fattening intellectual sustenance. And, before I finally succumbed to sleep--a bit warily, it must be understood, given my state of mind at the time--we even made cautious ventures into the realms of other 'psionic activity', such as psychokinesis (the correct and more logically accurate designation for that phenomenon popularly known as telekinesis).
There was a good deal of talk on this and further topics, but, sleep encroaching as it was, much of it was becoming, at least to me, less than entirely intelligible. Suffice it to say that I’ve had plenty to ponder the last couple of days. Let me express right now, just for sake of initial clarification, where I stand, as of now, on such matters. Specifically, I stand queasily near the center, pallid, eyes clenched, mentally reciting the emergency procedures and fingering the Dramamine in my pocket. No, wait a moment. That is where I stand on boats, for which, obviously, I have no great love. My stance on mental activity which seems to lie outside the realm of convenient scientific explanation (for which I prefer the comfortingly vague and meaningless term supernormal) is somewhat less confident. Being a staunch--if not totally rabid--rationalist, such things, I am not ashamed to admit, make me about as nervous as Pat Buchanan in a hedonist commune. However, I believe very firmly in the principles of empiricism, at least in the broad strokes. Pure science, begotten of pure reason, borne of pure, unbiased thought and observation. In other words, let the facts speak for your conceptions, not the other way around. So I see an inquisition into the existence of supernormal psychic abilities as a reasonable, if somewhat uncomfortable line of inquiry.
But the issue is a bit large to tackle all in one shot. So take a smaller element; precognition, say. In and of itself, still a grand matter. Can we see the future? Should we do so, if we can? What, precisely, is it that we see, since the future is said not to exist yet? What metaphysical implications, if any, present themselves as a result of this ability--or lack thereof? Can we, philosophically speaking, truly hope to get all our long distance calls for one low rate, even on weekends? I cannot pretend to know the answers to these questions. But what I can do is help to inspire needless and totally baseless fear by saying that:

if in fact humans are naturally precognitive, then it is at least possible that everything we do is based on our subconscious reactions to the future, and that free will is, if not specifically an illusion, at least a moot point.

There now, don’t you feel better? Goodnight, friends, and think on...

Seriously, though, I know you were expecting me to hold forth on the subject at greater length, but for once I’m going to beg off. The conversations I’ve had with others (everyone seems to have an opinion about this sort of thing) and with myself are only blue-skying in the purest and truest sense. Not that this is a bad thing. The exact opposite, as a matter of fact. Open, free thought is the only way puzzles ever get solved. What I’ve basically intended tonight is to say to you “What do you think?” I know it seems as though I’ve gone miles out of the way in order to do this, and perhaps I have. And if so, I hope it’s worked. It is my fervent hope that, each time you read something here in the unsettling parallel universe of Cognitive Dissidence, you go away with something. An answer, maybe, or better yet, a question. Or perhaps simply, in the words of Douglas Adams, “a profound sense of something or other”.

...and at least I didn’t tell another Nixon joke...

For those of you trully interested in pursuing an investigation of so-called ’supernormal’ phenomena, there exist literally thousands of sources, some more legitimate than others. I suppose the Rhine Research Center is as good a starting place as any. Good luck.

Precipitous Circumstances

Today's Track: Riders on the Storm--Creed (Woodstock ‘99)

I awoke this morning, blissfully unaware of the proximity of mortal danger. I stumbled from my bed in the customary manner, partook of copious amounts caffeine, and, almost as an afterthought, switched on my faithful if mostly useless television. And lucky thing, too!
After a brief internal debate over which network’s talking heads I was least incensed with this week, I settled on a CBS affiliate. In slightly less time than it took the picture to resolve itself on the screen, I had utterly tuned out the broadcast, after my usual fashion of television viewing. I was just settling into a contemplation of a rather cryptic notation I’d spotted on the back of my hand when I heard it...
*beeeep-beeeep-beeeep...beeeep-beeeep-beeeep*
Falling on my consciousness was a familiar, ominous and somehow smugly self-righteous sound, the digital equivalent of the small man with the enormous, toothy grin helping his fellow theatre-goers to the exits after a ’mysterious’ cry of “fire!”. It could only mean one thing. Sure enough, across the bottom of my TV screen crawled an Important Message from my friends at the Federal Bureau of Meteorological Panic.
At first, I thought it might be something with which the populace was capable of coping, such as another hole in the ozone layer, or perhaps nuclear winter. But I was totally unprepared for the catastrophic threat borne in that little scrolling blue bar. I dropped bonelessly back into my seat, struggling to get a grip on my mind. Surely, I thought, there must be some mistake. Maybe someone’s idea of a prank. This couldn’t be happening.
The dreaded Winter Storm Watch...
Snow. Snow was coming.

Ok, so those of you who live in geographic regions where snow--real snow--actually occurs are thoroughly confused. Let me clarify. You see, the Masked Logician resides in the southeastern portion of the United States, a quaint bit of geography mostly known for humidity and Baptists. In any given year, the skies above my homeland are far more likely to be darkened by great marauding swarms of Mickey Rooney-sized mosquitoes than by winter snow clouds. Alright, I suppose that’s selling the point a bit glibly. We typically record, in the course of an average winter, cumulatively, almost as much snow as the typical Minnesota resident manages to track onto his or her carpet after a trip out to shovel the driveway.
Ah, how I remember my first childhood snow...
Being warned not to catch any of the flakes on my tongue, lest there not be enough to go around. Ehillarating snowball fights that went on for hours, each intense volley followed by a mad scramble through the neighborhood, hoping to collect enough snow to construct the next snowball before the opposition.
Gawking at hapless motorists--true natives, these--as their cars slalomed wildly through the streets, seemingly knocked off course again and again by the impact of individual snowflakes.
Yes, those were good times. But as an adult, I have been forced to give over my innocent notions, and now recognize snow for the deadly serious business it is.
I have it on good authority that things operate quite a bit differently elsewhere, but here, snow means that schools are abandoned, businesses close their doors, and utility service becomes about as reliable as an Independent Presidential candidate. Travel is next to impossible--we have plow trucks and the like, but trust me, they are merely decorative. Every supermarket, general store, gas station, every consumer outlet of any description is rapidly flooded with previously normal humans who have temporarily become gibbering lunatics, mobbing and mauling one another in search of the staples of survival (the primary ones being milk, bleach, and white bread, for no readily apparent reason). There are few things in heaven or earth more humbling than witnessing a charming, blue-haired old lady falling into mortal combat over a roll of toilet paper; large, sensible handbag--no doubt with a well-worn Bible nestled inside, next to dozens of pictures of her grandchildren--finding new life as an instrument of war.
There is nothing like a bracing winter snow to reduce the population of the southern U.S. to some bizarre sort of Tennessee Williams parody of Lord of the Flies.
That’s all fine and good for the great unwashed, I say. But, being myself of a far more rational bent, I believe I will stay at home and read a book instead.

Now that I think about it, though, I can’t quite remember if I have any milk left...

There Are No Privileged Observers

Track Two: Sunday Morning--Velvet Underground

I don't recall now how I came to be standing behind my house at such an inhuman hour. There I was, just after dawn, watching. Watching what? That's precisely what I asked myself after about thirty seconds. You see, the view across the back of my property is something less than pastoral, and entirely devoid of anything even remotely interesting enough to engage my attention before noon. But I had staggeringly little else with which to occupy myself at the time. I couldn't even have a decent breakfast for a few more minutes, as I had only just put a bagel in the toaster. Oh, well. A little quiet observation might do some good. So I decided to relax and enjoy the sunrise. This was a failure. The sunrises I tend to enjoy the most are the ones on colorful vacation postcards, or, more frequently, the ones containing tequila. Fair enough, I'll stare somewhere else. To the south/southwest, the land becomes wooded. Not badly so, either, save for the scrubby second- and third-growth which really needs to be cleared. Much manual labor. Balls. Into the western and northern quadrants, the property opens up, spreading out with, it must be said, very little grace and charm. Lots of open, rolling land, mostly unfettered...
And full of grass, I think, with a sudden pang, grass which will need mowing before too long. Not to mention fertilizing, watering, de-thatching...
Yes. I realize, with no small quailing of spirit, that, even though it's only January, it's not at all too early to begin preparing for another season of lawn-maintenance festivities. Ugh. Which reminds me. I hope that the neighbors will keep their lawn in order this season. Then it dawns on me--no pun intended--that I have new neighbors. Someone finally got duped into moving into the sad, ramshackle little place up the hill from my house. It had been empty for so long that I’d begun to wonder if the owner was ever going to snare another pigeon. I have no idea what became of the last tenants. Seriously. I came home one afternoon this past summer and just happened to notice that some of their belongings were scattered about outside, and the family car seemingly abandoned in the yard. I thought little of it, and continued to do so for the remainder of the next three to four weeks, during which time they gave no more sign of their whereabouts than the late James Hoffa. At some point, a month or more later, the husband returned, apparently to collect the automobile. Mildly interested to note his return, I watched for a while as he busied himself about the place. After a few minutes, he strode purposefully west, across his yard, across the brambly ditch which marks the extreme boundary of his property, and off, it would seem, into the obscurity of the ages. I haven’t seen him since. Thinking about his disappearance, my mind lit upon the enormous nest of armor-plated, nuclear-powered hornets which, as near as I recall, seems magically to appear each spring very near the mysterious neighbor’s last known position. For years now, I’ve been meaning to deal with that. It’s only a matter of time before a squadron of the benighted things decide to carry away my dog. Or perhaps my house. I suppose I could at least protect the area immediately about my domicile with some sort of bug-zapper, with the added benefit that those are great sources of canine amusement, thus saving me tedious hours of throw-the-stick, fail-to-have-same-returned, which is our peculiar variation on the classic game of fetch. Oh, wait. No. I can’t plug in the bug-zapper, because I keep forgetting to repair my one external outlet. It has never, to my knowledge, functioned. But this crucial fact always eludes me until such time as I need to use t, in which case I am always in something of a rush, and so find it much simpler to use an extension cord connected indoors. This latter has always proven especially convenient since there is a fully functional outlet just inside the front door. The only drawback, I’ve found, is that the decorative solid-glass storm-door never closes just right with the cord passing through it, thus leading to the possibility that a sudden gust of wind might...
But that’s no longer a problem at all, I remember, as said glass door has, as the result of a recent accident, been rendered mostly nonexistent.
I knew there was something I needed to do today...

A whiff of black smoke alerts me to the fact that my bagel has recently begun its fascinating metamorphosis back into its constituent carbon. I head inside, noting as I go that the hinges on the door need oiling badly.

As an afterthought, I recall why quiet observation always puts me in a bad mood.

One New Year, Slightly Used

Today’s Track: Auld Lang Syne--Jimi Hendrix

Yes, I know. Some anal-retentive souls would insist that January 15th is a preposterous time to pass on wishes for a happy New Year. But then, these same individuals would, no doubt, assert that lightning cannot be used to remove the paint from an automobile, or that the transformers from HO-scale model train sets are unsuitable for use in cooking, thus casting quite a pall on their credibility, I think.
In any case, I do want, belated though it may be, to wish you all the happiest year you deserve.
Moving on...
Every year, as December draws to a close, Americans everywhere, giddy with the warm nostalgia of holidays past, set themselves seriously about carrying out one of our eldest rituals: namely, getting into knife fights over which NFL teams are going to be in the Super Bowl.
What’s that you say? You think that that’s an insane and, more to the point, utterly pointless and stupid thing to do? True, probably, but such activities appear to take on the blinding radiance of genius when compared to that other January tradition.
That’s right, friends. You know what I’m talking about. Each January, we drag our bloated bulks away from our holiday leftovers, take pen in hand and draft yet another of those hateful--and often masochistic and always comical--works of most sublime fiction that we refer to as our New Year’s resolutions. We resolve therein that we will do many things noble, great and wise. We will give up vice, improve our health, give selflessly to charity, and help to raise up our fellow man. We swear to these goals, we who are far more likely, generally speaking, to take our daily exercise as we step over the prostrate form of our fellow man to steal his newspaper. Obviously, any sane and rational human would immediately give over such an exercise. It is no surprise that this practice continues to be almost as popular as the purchase of lottery tickets.
I must admit that even I, noted rationalist and self-proclaimed champion of logic and reason, have participated in this foolish activity on occasion. It’s true. They say the first step to being cured is to admit that you have a problem, so I don’t feel to badly about telling you this. But, in recent times, I have tried to break the accursed habit. In 2001, I went cold turkey. I didn’t make a single resolution. I was therefore pestered incessantly for the rest of the year by some warped fragment of my conscience which insisted that I was a dispicable and utterly backward creature for this lapse. So, when 2002 came around, I hit upon a stroke of minor genius. I resolved not to make any resolutions. Unfortunately, reflecting on the logistics of this proposition resulted in a minor psychotic episode. And here we now find ourselves, inching cautiously into 2003. I’ve wracked my brain again and again, and I just can’t see a way out of my conundrum. Even though I’ve put off doing so up to this point, I fear that I may have to *cringe* make some resolutions. But, as my one last stubborn concession to sanity, I will acknowledge the futility of my effort by resolving to do things that could not possibly, under any circumstances, actually occur. This way, I have already made my peace with my inevitable failure.
Without further ado, here is my list of:

New Year’s Resolutions

• I will see Elvis Presley in concert...with Patty Hearst.
  
• I will make at least one meal from a member of an endangered species.
  
• I will tunnel to Ireland, where I will dance naked in the first pub I see.
  
• I will construct an operable nuclear power station using only items found in my sofa.
  
• I will write an epic poem using only words found in the lyrics of Lee Dorsey songs.
  
• I will become a multi-billionaire, only to lose my entire fortune to a one-eyed Brazilian rancher in a game of checkers.
  
• I will campaign for president on a strict platform of “incomprehensible names for the rich and oxygen in every household before the year 2010.”
  
• I will rollerskate in a buffalo herd.
  
• Using only lawn clippings and stuff from the refrigerator, I will create intelligent life in my bathroom sink, whereupon I will teach it to speak Klingon.
  
• I will try to be nicer to people.
  

Oh, and, by the way... Don’t you think “Anal-retentive Souls” would be a great name for a rock band?

Perspcacious Prodigal and Periodic Pedant, Revisited

Today's Track: Wasting My Time--Default

Diligence? I don’t even own a horse.
--Lord Cynicus

Just when you thought it was safe...
Out of the dense and forboding mists of needless curmudgeonry, wreathed in the uneasy witchlight of obstructive cynicism, shrouded in the plush, well-tailored robes of social apathy, hair swept fetchingly back by the twin gales of capricious boredom and copious free time, eyes alive with something which might be noble intellectual purpose, or possibly the fervent desire for a nap, the Masked Logician arises once more.
Far back in the dim recesses of last October, the Masked Logician, presumably much to the relief of some, faded from all knowledge. I have it on the ludicrous authority of those few even more asinine than myself that this is only fitting, seeing as all knowledge had faded from the Masked Logician some years previously. For reasons I trust are perfectly obvious, I refuse to dignify such remarks with any response more eloquent than that posed by the raising, in unison, of two certain phelanges in a time-honoured and quietly expressive twin salute. For a number of reasons too staggeringly dull to go into, I decided for a time to move on to other methods of wasting time at other peoples’ expense. But my mind has rested fitfully these past months, falling at last into an intellectual fugue that would not be assuaged by even the most potent of chemical additives. I cast about myself for a cure, some cerebral poultice to calm my mind, or at least something passable on the television with which to distract it. What I realized was that something was missing from my life, something was lacking. Also, that network TV has really gone to hell in the last few years. I decided at last that I must have a purpose. A calling, a quest, some grand endeavour to which my intellect might be bent--and here I disregard those who would glibly point out that my intellect is already more than just bent, but in fact nearly sprained. However, those of you familiar with higher callings and noble purposes will be well aware that they are all rather a lot of work. Ok, new plan. Wouldn’t it be simpler, I said to myself, to simply vent into electronically publishable media, thereby giving others the benefit of my seemingly endless mental rabbit-hunts? What you’re saying, basically, I responded to myself rather cautiously, is that, just because you are, forgive the expression, approximately as sane as a badger in a rain barrel, there is no reason that you shouldn’t inflict yourself on an unsuspecting reading public? To which I rejoined--and I quote-- “Meh.”
For this reason, I have at last returned, brimming with vim, vigor, and other altogether more dubious substances, ready to sieze the tiger, to take the world by the horns, to look my life squarely in the mouth, as well as other mangled bits of figurative language, on a scale more magnificent than ever before. Ok, so I’m actually doing this because I was instructed, probably on account of the fact that I behave this way all the time, that I must begin writing once more.

In either case, The Masked Logician returneth...