Oh, sure, things are better, but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it.

It all began a few days ago, and by "few days" I might actually mean a year, or, to go to the start of the story, going on a couple years now.

A few days ago I got in my car, Timmy, to go to work and was made very afraid by his not starting. Turned the key...nothing. No lights on the dash. no failed attempt to start, just nothing.

About six months ago this happened, too, but Timmy quickly recovered and started up on the second try. Since then, it's happened occasionally, sometimes requiring four or five attempts, but he's always come through. Not the other day, though, when he began dead and became increasingly moribund the more I tried to breathe life into him by turning the broken key.

In this narrative I may have skipped over the incident a year ago when I broke the key in half inside the ignition, but I was coming to that. It may have been on one of those recalcitrant efforts to get him started, or it may have just been when I was in a hurry, but once when I was returning from a dental visit I turned the key in the ignition when the key was not all the way in.
I didn't realize that at the time, nor did I understand the ramifications of the massive upper body strength us males are so famous for, so instead of turning the key in the lock, I managed to only turn the part of the key that was outside the lock. The part safely and snugly inside the lock stayed in place, and I ended up with half a key in my hand.
I ended up using the half in my hand to push the half in the lock all the way in, and have been using that bastardized key ever since.

So, when Timmy didn't start the other day, I figured that broken key was somehow involved. Making things worse, if that's the right word, when I first laid eyes on Timmy, before he was mine, his ignition was dangling down in the vicinity of the driver's knees, below the column. This was somehow explained as not being a problem, and it was fixed before I handed over my hard-earned money in exchange for the right to call him mine.

That, too, lay on my mind as I sat in the driveway uselessly turning a key that did nothing.

My fear, of course, was that I'd need to replace the ignition switch. While that may not seem like much to you, you probably have a current car where parts such as ignition switches are readily available. Also, you may have some idea about how to replace one, a skill I lack.

While I know as much about repairing cars as anyone did in the 70s, which is to say replacing head gaskets, cleaning carburetors, and that level of things, the interior of the car and body work have been a closed book to me. I have no idea how to dismantle a door or dashboard, but after a bit of hunting around, I was able to strip the trim from the steering column and came up with this rather imposing sight.



It took me a few days riding back and forth to the store getting strange tools before I was able to really get down to the problem. I could have had Timmy towed to a repair place like a normal person would do, but I had no idea where to take him. The locksmith who solved the mystery of his locked trunk seemed a good idea because I felt he could replace the key chamber, but I wasn't sure how far his expertise went.
A dealer would be good, though frightfully expensive, but it's been years since I've seen a Geo Metro dealership, and I just wasn't sure Jim's Auto Repair could find an ignition switch for a 1991 Geo Metro. Hell, I wasn't sure anybody could, not without using the Internet and waiting a week.

So, I fretted.

From time to time I'd go out and try something, and when it didn't work, I'd grow more despairing and desperate and try to solve those emotions with ice cream. That, and repeating my mantra: Fuck this car, fuck my life, fuck me.

That course of action, to my surprise, dismay, and consternation, did nothing, nothing at all.

After using the wisdom of the Internet to learn about hotwiring, I tried some of that for awhile. My goals were simple:

1) Do no irreparable harm (nothing I couldn't undo, when I screwed up)
2) Get Timmy running
3) Don't electrocute yourself, unless it comes to that

I wasted quite a bit of time trying one thing, checking something out, and leaving the car even more discouraged than when I'd last approached it. It took a long time, and a lot of thought, for me to work up the courage to try something, and Timmy's continued state of death did little to buoy my flagging spirits.

Then, I came up with a realization. No matter what I did, Timmy didn't show any sign of having any electricity at all in his system. I left the horrors of the driver's compartment and raised the hood to poke around there. No matter what I tried, I couldn't coax a spark out of the battery, so I decided that was the culprit.

It's a pretty simple fix to replace a battery, but it isn't as cheap as it would be if I could somehow repair the battery. Even with our current, wildly inflated costs of commodities, lead is much cheaper than batteries, but repairing a battery is about as feasible as repairing a burned out light bulb.

I might be able to get away with getting a jump, but one of the delights of buying a used car is not knowing how far along the path any of the components are. If it was the battery that was the problem, it hadn't been doing a great job of holding a charge for the last six months, and the hot weather was pushing it.

In the end, I went and got a new battery, carefully noting the make and model of the one that was in there. That one, held in place by tied bungee cords, of course, wasn't the right model, but I was more amazed that the computer at the Autozone carried information about 1991 Geo Metros.

I replaced the battery and literally held my breath as I turned the key. Lights went on! The engine turned and sputtered into reluctant life!

I was so excited it nearly replaced my feelings that this is a temporary solution and much greater problems lie hidden. Maybe the old battery was just out of juice, but I wish I could shake the feeling that whatever drained one is busy right now, draining this one.

In the meantime, I may be able to go shopping again. Tomorrow.

I try to explode my head on a fairly regular basis, but so far, no luck.

Back when I was young and impressionable I read or heard about an unfortunate person who was unable to forget anything. I don't know if it was a psych report from the 1800s or just a story, but the essence of it was that this poor sap, being unable to filter his thoughts or his mind's contents, ended up an insane, gibbering mess and may have died.

Whether or not it's true, it's something I mull over from time to time and wonder about. I usually picture it as having a mind that's racing without restraint, bombarded with memories, and I can't say it's a pleasant thought. Being like that probably would drive someone crazy and blow a gasket or two in the brain.

Since my mind doesn't work that way, though, I try to blow it up several times a week using a wider approach. Instead of speeding too many items through my more limited faculties, I try to make my mind explode by attempting to overflow it by filling it with all the things going on at any particular moment.

I think I first considered this when I was in court. My appearance, naturally, consumed my thoughts for the few days before I was scheduled to appear, but during and after the proceedings I noticed the other people in the court and thought about them as well. The day, I decided, was crucially important for those of us on one side of the aisle, but was just another Wednesday or whatever for those who worked there. My life and freedom and all that jazz was on the line, but for the clerks and judge, it was just business as usual. The day after my appointment I'd be done worrying about the judicial system, but they'd be there doing the same ol' for another room full of people who'd spent the previous few days tossing and turning over their fate.

My life, my world, would have moved on to other things while other people would be taking my place shuffling before the judge and the clerks would be filling out the same paperwork with only the names and numbers slightly different.

I still think, occasionally, about what's going on in nameless courtrooms and how nameless people are being sentenced or released and the clerks and bailiffs are chatting about new items in the cafeteria or the weekend's events. The decisions made by the court will profoundly affect the lives of people who've obsessed about the outcome for days, but I know nothing about it and never will.

But that's not all.

After having spent most of my life in the business world, I think about all the crises that come up. I can't see a movie opening or product rollout or anything without giving at least a little thought to how hectic it must have been the last week. People I don't know had their lives focused on getting some color right on a flyer or arranging for seating or babysitting while I've been in innocent denial of what's been going on.

At any given moment there are people frantically trying to put things right. Except in rare cases, I never get to see all the behind the scenes scurrying around and am ignorant of the incredible pressures put on people. A new webpage is needed, the manufacturer can't ship handles for hair brushes, a Power Point presentation isn't loading correctly, banners have been misplaced, a nervous kid finally decides to walk up to a cute girl to ask her out, there's no wood left for a fire, all kinds of things are going on ... right not ... that I'm unaware of that are crucial to those involved.

I try to consider all the things that are going on a few times each week. These life-changing moments are occurring all the time, all at once, and I keep thinking that if I could be made aware of them, my brain would explode.

Every minute of every day supremely important things are happening and here I am, wondering about breasts again.

I've tried, but I can't say too much funny about this incident today. It was just so damn cute...

Next door, there's a family (again). The husband was away for awhile (for the previous owners, it was the wife who left, I think), but he's back now and their family is complete. There's him, his wife, his older daughter, and two darling twin girls whom I guess to be somewhere around four or five.

These twins dress alike, and I can't tell them apart, not that it would much matter since I don't know their names. They know mine, however, and nearly every time I go out to my car they tap on their window, call out to me, and wave. I doubt it's the high point of their day, but they often act very excited.

I often see them in their frontyard, playing on the swingset and, being kids, they always want to know what I'm up to, where I'm going, or are eager to show me whatever it is they're doing, have acquired, or plan to do next. I don't know much about kids, but they're always asking questions and I try my best to answer.

Today, however, was just great. I was heading out to the store and their dad was with them in the lawn, talking on his phone. He may have been trying to get some work because he works for the studios and is still suffering from the strike last year that I still believe hurt all the "regular" people while leaving the writers and producers pretty much unchanged.

Anyway, one of the girls called me over to the fence to show me something, and I obliged.

She then proceeded to open her mouth, pull down her lower lip, and show me where her two lower front teeth were coming in. It was, of course, a momentous event for her and her twin had to show me how only one of her teeth was coming in. They'd both lost the same two, and I was tickled pink that they shared this big deal with me.

Or, maybe it wasn't a big deal to them, just "news."

I have no idea how old kids have to get before they stop doing shit like that, but it's sort of a shame that we lose that innocence at some point in our lives. Adults, unless we know them very well, don't go around showing us their scars, but kids are trusting, interested, and full of wonder. They don't filter nearly as much as I do as an adult, and I'm really glad these two are right next door.

I like them so much it never even occurs to me to let them in on the big secret that one day they'll fall in love with the cutest guy ever who will then break their heart and they'll feel worse than they ever will again.

But, who knows? Maybe they'll be spared that and do the dumping themselves. All I know is I hope nothing ever pulls them rudely from their world, not for a long time.

It's been one whole day now that people in California have been able to apply for same-sex marriage licenses and we, surprisingly, haven't been struck yet with any calamities from the almighty.

Maybe She approves.

Although I've never dabbled on the other side of the fence myself, except, maybe, sort of, I'm hoping that the gays I've known take advantage of this. Not that I want them to later experience the crushing bitterness of divorce or anything just to be equal, but, really, what the people down the street or across town do in their homes really doesn't interest me that much. Nor do I think that two guys or two women marrying each other will change how we think of marriage in the slightest.

It's two people who love each other, being together for more than tax reasons.

I was touched to read that George Takei was the first one in line to get a marriage license in West Hollywood. That's so cool, and I'm very happy for him. He may have never thought it would happen in his lifetime (he's 71, according to the article), and now he can live his dream.

He probably doesn't remember me, even though we met. And by "met" I mean that we were eating in the same deli in Burbank in the late 1980s and were seated right next to each other at the counter. He may have asked me to pass him some mustard in that beautiful deep voice of his, and I'm sure I obliged once I noticed who he was.

I nodded at him to show that I recognized him, and he sorta smiled back. I like to think he was happy I didn't call him Sulu or make a fuss, but now I'm wondering if he wasn't disappointed I didn't make a pass at him. Back then I was desirable.

Whenever I run across the results of one of those "What would you ask of a generous genie" or any plain wish thing, near the top are always flying or being invisible. This makes sense. More than half the population are women and I suspect they're mostly the ones who don't recognize the exciting benefits of being invisible, especially not near or in showers, dressing rooms, and locker rooms in some of the nearby gyms.

Even with all that going for it, being invisible wouldn't be my first choice.

For a long time my pat answer would have been stopping time. In an episode of Bewitched, which I watched faithfully although less so after Darren was switched, she once wiggled her nose and everyone around her was frozen. This, I thought, was very cool.

Not only could you run around, molesting and embarrassing people, but if you were so inclined you could also grab a bunch of stuff and live happily ever after. The stealing, however, might make it difficult to live happily, but still on the plus side would be the ability to mess around with people and their stuff and create hilarious situations.

Later on, of course, I recognized the drawback of all this time stopping. If I wasn't careful, I could spend so much time in the stopped universe, time that would still count against my years on the planet, that I'd age rather quickly. If I even spent as much time in the stopped universe as I did in this one, I'd age twice as fast as everyone around me, mostly without any explanation.

This worried me. Being the recipient of such powers would have to be carefully controlled, something I'm not always good at doing.

At this stage of my life, when I have about twenty years left, I've come up with an alternative wish. No, not to live forever, although doing so metaphorically wouldn't be half bad, and I'm not even sure that I'd want to be a vampire and obtain my longevity through sucking the blood of innocent strangers, although the super powers vampires are rumored to have are very cool.

No, now I'd like something more like this:

I'd like to divvy up my remaining time and live it out at the pace of one week every five or ten years. The rest of the time, I don't know, I'd be in suspended animation or whatnot.

The thing is, I'm damn curious about what the future will bring. Everything from how the oil crisis will be resolved to what becomes of the polar bears to how many goddamn more changes are they going to make to professional American football. I want to see how long the United States will be rule before she falls like every other major civilization has and if we'll ever get flying cars.

The future intrigues me, and not least of all because it's going to happen. There's a lot of ways a lot of things can happen, and I want to see what biologists and doctors and scientists come up with to change things. I keep hearing things like "What would Galileo make of our world today?" and, while I can't compare to the great thinkers or inventors of the past, at least I could be around to give future generations a fresh perspective.

Since I can't imagine living every single day for five or ten thousand years as being much more than a chore of eating and surviving, and since just a glimpse of the future would leave me with many questions and much unknown, I've decided about a week every five or ten years would be enough to catch up. I wouldn't be conversant with everything going on, but I wouldn't be totally out of the water, either. It would give me enough time to get up to speed, to discover a few hidden gems, and to answer the question of how history will treat George Bush.

I'd also lose everyone I know and love and would be sentenced to a life without friends or even acquaintances. That would be a heavy burden, but at least I'd find out if pubic hair made a comeback.

The other day I was looking over some web page detailing the ten worst things to eat and was not surprised to see that I'd eaten all of them at one time or other. The list included all the usual suspects, everything from sodium nitrate to trans fats, so it was pretty boring.

They did mention MSG, which no doubt thrilled the Accent people, and mentioned that if you wanted a little more taste to add salt. Which they also mentioned as a bad thing to ingest, further down the list. Sugar was on there, too, in a number of forms, but the list was mostly all those man made things added to preserve freshness, synthetic sweeteners, and Olestra, that fat-reducing thing that causes anal leakage.

I got so upset with my diet after reading that article that I decided to have a simple, healthful dinner.



My intentions were good, but even after eating six carrots, I can't say that I was satisfied. Yes, they were grown by my sister so were probably organic and as fresh as could be, but, somehow, I wanted more not very long at all after devouring them.

Yes, it's more than most people on the planet ate today and I'm sure it did my eyes a world of good, but even with all that going for it, I felt something was lacking. I considered munching the greens, which I'd discarded, but I've never heard of anyone doing that and wasn't about to experiment. I guess it's fine in a salad or something, but I was feeling more hungry than adventurous and ended up throwing a chicken breast on the grill. And, fixing a side order of mashed potatoes with olive oil and garlic.

No one kissed me, but my tummy was happy.