Laugh! It’s the British Raj − (Book review)

Wee Charlie’s World,

by Bryce McBryce

(Danpress adult fiction, 196pp, isbn 0959063048)

*****

Review by Cathy Macleod

Long ago, when Britain ruled the world, its military families regularly confounded the War Office. And thereby lies a hilarious scenario, from which author Bryce McBryce has created the funniest fiction I’ve read since . . . well, since I can remember.

In one far fortress defending the Indian Ocean, the Commanding Officer declares a brat named Charlie to be a worse distraction than militant Japan. It’s the eve of WW2, the British Raj at its glorious peak.

The boy’s father is a lowly sergeant, his mum a long suffering army wife, and their blimpish Colonel ever seeks promotion to higher rank.

Wee Charlie, innocently battling Life’s monsters, has his own world where adults intrude in ways he can’t understand. On the troopship he ignites a “brat overboard” crisis, in the colony he pollutes the convent’s holy water, in the fort he’s haunted by Wellington’s ghost, as a Boy Scout, sworn to be helpful at all times, he helps an enemy spy. And so on. Such mirthful situations abound.

Charlie’s quest to understand the world provides chuckles, nostalgia and a bit of philosophy. As this kid puts it: “The hardest thing to learn is people.”

Where Al Franken's's last book was Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them was funny, educational, and inspiring, his new endeavor, The Truth (with Jokes) is scary and a little depressing.

Don't get me wrong-- there are a few sections in the book that are really funny, but those parts seem to be scarce. One such hilarious comes a Al realizes that one of his favorite people, Sean Hanity seems to completely ignore any attempts to thwart his lies. He goes on as if they were truth regardless of the facts. Thus, Al takes a different approach to fighting them. Al debunks a list of Sean Hanity's accusations of John Kerry being a "flip flopper", and after each one makes up a lie about Sean Hanity, as Al see this as a better way to combat him. Now, the individual lies aren't all that funny in and of themselves, but Al seem to have great execution in this section. Comics often talk about timing as being the most important aspect of doing comedy well. I used to think this rule only applied to the spoken word, but Al managed to keep me laughing through this entire chapter. Just as my laughter subsided, all would present another lie about Hanity that would start my laughter al over again.

But alas, most of the book wasn't very funny. Certainly there were places that it was obvious that it was supposed to be funny, and many that invoked a grin, but nothing like what I have come to expect from Al Franken. Maybe his 3 hour a day radio show has drained his previously overstocked supply of really funny jokes.

Also, the book seems to be lacking any inspirational call to action. There is a lot of time spent on how much Bush and Company screw up, and how their policies are driving our country off a cliff, but almost none on how we can move forward as a party.

But, don't think that this is a bad book, or that it isn't worth reading. It is really an eye opener in many ways. Al tells us of the unethical, greedy adventures of Jack Abramoff and his friends in Congress. He exposes the real reasons Kerry Lost in 2004 Most prominently he shows how badly the Bush administration screwed up in Iraq. Prior to Al's well cited explanation, I was under the assumption that although Bush led us into an unjustified war with Iraq, he had done as good a job as an would at the execution of the war. Boy was that wrong. By closing his eyes and ears to the advice of many really smart people on both sides of the political spectrum, Bush fought a war based on positive-thinking rather than real strategy based in reality.

My advice is, borrow this book from a friend or your local library. At least wait until it comes out in paperback. I do recommend reading it before the 2006 elections, as it really is a valuable political resource and its a quick read (I finished it in just over two days). But, if you're looking for a good laugh, you're probably better off turning on The Daily Show or cracking open the latest edition of the Onion.

Isn't That Bigamy (c) 2005, ISBN 1411634241, Mike Vogel, Lulu Press

You have just broken up with your girlfriend who leaves you in a busy restaurant with no way home, a tough waitress dumps a drink in your lap for no reason, and now you have to walk home with a wet crotch. If that is not enough, while walking across a bridge, you witness a mob hit quite by accident. This is what happens to womanizer Stan Smith in Mike Vogel's Isn't That Bigamy.

But wait, there is more. The waitress turns out to be Asian undercover agent and lesbian, Becky Li, who is charged with the ungrateful task of posing as Stan's wife in the witness protection program in Utah.

Through a series of events, witnessed from all points of view, Vogel takes us on an entertaining romp into fictional city, Tamarind, Utah, where Becky mistakenly takes Stan and where polygamy is not just practiced, it is the law. To attempt to blend in, Stan not only marries the mayor's daughter, whose twin has an unhealthy obsession with her, he marries the town lesbian, who has more than an eye for Becky.

And if things are not messy enough, Becky is recognized by the murderer's associate as she and Stan board the plane headed for Utah in the first place.

Vogel's writing engages the reader through multiple accounts of the same events. Isn't That Bigamy will also find a following in fans of Seinfeld, who enjoy a story that just snowballs into hell through a series of unfortunate coincidences.

The characters are brought to colorful life, with the exception of Stan, who remains nondescript throughout the novel. One would be hard pressed to remember Stan's hair color, let alone his physical appearance.

However, Stan's womanizing personality comes through loud and clear.

THE FROGGIN INCIDENT

As I recall this particular happenin', which we all referred tah as the "Froggin Incident", it all started out innocent enough. T'were on a pleasant summer Saturday gatherin at Doc an' Isabel's. The folks that had come tah call wuz enjoyin some mighty fine music an' vittles an' a couple swallers now an' then ah some "Pick Me Up". This particular day Isabel had cooked up a mess ah frogs legs. I don't know about flatlanders, but as all hill folks know, they ain't nothin quite so tasty as a fine batch ah fried frogs legs, an' Isabel's were first rate that afternoon. Sets muh mouth tah waterin jes' thinkin on 'em even tah this day.

I can't recall how old Joe musta been around that time, but he weren't taho big, jes' a nubbin underfoot really, but Lord how that boy could put down them frogs legs. He would snatch them right off ah yer plate if yah weren't watchin close, like the world's supply ah frogs wuz dwindlin fast an' he were determined tah get his share afore they disappeared altahgether. 'Course he'd get his han' slapped on occasion an' a scoldin but never taho bad, cause truth be tahld, who could blame 'im? As I say, Isabel's frogs legs were considered some ah the best in the county.

When the last ah them legs wuz ate, young Joe looked about heart broke. There wuz still plenty ah other good snackin vittles around, like hush puppies an' corn dodgers, some chicken gizzards an' fried fish an' sech, but in Joe's mind, nothin else would do. He had the taste fer frogs legs an' that wuz all there wuz tah it. He set tah squallerin somethin fierce till Isabel had about as much as she could stahmach ah it.
"Joe" says she, "If yah want frogs legs, I reckon yah best git yerself down tah the cow pond early next Saturday afore I git tah cookin, an' bring us on back as many as yah reckon yah can eat. Fer now, I want yah tah hush up yer mouth, an' I'll hear no more ‘bout it this day."

Now lookin back on it, they mightn't ah been the best choice ah words fer Isabel tah use with Joe, cause as I done already tahld yah, when Joe got an idea fixed in ‘is mind, it lodged itself in, right sound an' proper. Then an' there I reckon, Joe thought ther weren't enough frogs in the world tah sate his appetite, but he were goin tah give it ‘is best tah find out one way er the other.

The week drifted by, an’ next Saturday mornin’ come as expected. Doc an' Isabel had once agin tahld folks they wuz more'n happy tah have 'em drop by, which wuz agreeable tah all. I muhself showed up kinda early tah help Doc haul some jugs down from the still, an' tah provide some quality control assurance afore ever'one else got there, if'n yah catch muh drift.

Usually young Joe wuz right there along with his paw, on mornins sech as this, tryin tah help as young'uns will, an’ generally bein’ more’n a hindrance than a help, but we wuz used tah him bein' around. This particular Saturday though, there weren't nary a sign ah Joe tah be found. Doc didn'a seem concerned about ‘is youngest son's absence. Doc tahld me that Joe'd got up afore the first light that mornin', an' wuz out the door tah the sound ah the cock's crow.

We knowed ther weren't no way that Joe would miss the weekly gatherin, so there weren't no reason fer worry, though I did miss the little fella, an' I reckon Doc did taho. It were unusual, but not unheard ah, fer him tah be off on some childish adventure on a Saturday mornin an' I couldn'a help wonderin what idea had poked itself intah the boys head this time. 'Course me an' Doc had fergot what Isabel done tahld that young'un the week afore, but young Joe hadna fergot one bit.

By the time we got the jugs down from the still, Isabel had covered the old plank table that sat off in the yard with a cloth an' started tah set some vittles on it. The other Yakel young'uns had brought out the old chairs that wuz kept jes’ fer this purpose, an' scattered 'em about the yard fer the folks tah relax in. All that wuz lackin wuz the company, an' that commenced arrivin straight off.
I reckon it were about an hour past noon time with folks in the yard talkin. Those with an extra large appetite wuz munchin away, yers truly included. A bachelor's gotta take advantage ah fine vittles when he can.

The boys wuz startin tah warm up ther instrements when I happen tah catch sight ah Joe headin on intah the house, luggin a great big ole burlap bag that seemed tah be filled up tah a size pert near as big as Joe hisself. He wuz a strugglin with it considerable, an' I could see it were an open question tah who wuz controllin who, but he finally managed tah get the whole thang on intah the side door.

Upon reflectin on the sight fer awhile, I reckoned that it mightn't hurt tah mention tah Isabel that her young'un wuz up tah somethin, an' so that's jes' what I done. She, upon hearin the boy wuz back, an' inside the dwellin’ no less, set off intah that house like a fox on the run, knowin Joe the way she did.

I don't reckon it were more’n a minute passed when the commotion started. The screen door flew open an' out come Joe, a runnin an' hollerin like the Unholy Hellion, an' ‘is maw Isabel trailin’ right behind. Now this in itself weren't sech an unusual sight, an' hardly called fer comment by those witnessin the event, but it did silence thangs down purty good. Ever'one wuz wonderin what Joe coulda done this time tah git the fire in his maw stoked so fast.

Now it so happens that the Parson Sheppard, jes’ the week afore, had done a sermon on Moses an' the Pharaoh an' the troubles that the Lord let down on Egypt cause ah ther wicked ways, which, as yah might recall, included amongst other thangs, a plague ah frogs. I can remember at the time a hearin that how I thought it were a kinda comical idea, an' hardly fittin as an act ah the Lord as what harm could a mess ah frogs do anyhow? But when I wandered on over tah the open front door an' see'd what wuz inside, well sir, I tahok tah quick unnerstandin’ ah what kinda trouble that there Pharaoh had with Moses.

Turns out that Joe had spent all them hours gatherin up ever frog that must ah lived in that derned pond. There wuz big ole gran'daddy bullfrogs, an' little bitty peepers, an' ever size an' shape ah frog in betwixt. The boy wuz a right good frogger an' he proved it that day, but I don't allow Isabel counted that tahward his credit, leastwise not at that particular moment.

Ther musta been hundreds ah frogs in that house, jes’ a hoppin ever which way, an' makin theyselves right tah home. I reckon Joe wuz bringin 'em all tah his maw in ther natural state fer her tah cook up, an' hadna considered that it might be more prudent tah do the prepatahry work afore he lugged 'em all in.

Anyhow, about the time Isabel walked in tah see what Joe wuz up tah, the bag had proved taho much fer the lad tah maintain, an' it got away from 'im, spillin its contents ontah the floor. Those captive hoppers saw ther chance fer freedom an' done tahok it right quick. Joe ‘parently tahok a look at his maw's face, an' likewise drawed the conclusion that this wuz his chance tah depart right quick. He scooted on past her afore the shock done wore off, headin fer the hills as fast as his legs would take ‘im. Isabel wuz a quick witted woman, but the sight ah all them frogs scatterin themselves throughout her house gave Joe a couple ah seconds head start afore she could regain her sensibility an' take off after ‘im.

I jes’ praised the Lord that day I hadna mentioned tah her that I might ah stahpped Joe fer he got in the house with his cargo er I might a been right 'long side Joe skedaddlin it down the road with Isabel hot on muh trail as well, hickory switch in han', an' bent on terrible justice. Even now, if'n she reads this here narrative, I reckon I'll still catch a peck ah hell fer it, as I don't spect that she ever quite got over the whole episode tah this day.

By the time Isabel come back, holdin Joe by the ear an' a lecturin him fer all he wuz worth, with emphasis laid on by a switch, we had tried tah gather up all the frogs we could an' clear the house ah 'em right proper. We had done a fair job ah it, but the mountain dew already consumed, along with the fits ah laughter that would catch hold ah us, weren't a helpin the effort one little bit. On tahp ah which, those frogs had already been caught once that day an' were determined not tah let it happen agin. I don't know if we gathered as much as we scattered but it were the thought that count. Leastways that’s the way I saw it, though Isabel an' Doc didn'a seem tah share the sentiment a'tall.

Even Doc, who generally could han'le most anythin', wuz fired up considerably fer quite a spell. He tahld me it wuz weeks afore he could lay down in ‘is bed er git up in the night without wonderin if somethin slimy wuz a gonna git squashed underneath 'im. I reckon frogs underfoot is worse than young'uns, an' a squashed frog must be a terrible mess tah clean up in the house.

An' ah course, there wuz the problem ah them frogs that crawled off tah outta the way places tah meet ther maker. Lord, yah couldn'a walk in that house fer quite a spell without an unappealin odor sorta sneakin up on yah, which caused Isabel no end ah embarrassment.

Poor Joe, I reckon he caught a whoopin ‘bout ever’time another frog wuz found in the house fer a week an' maybe more. What's even worse wuz Isabel didn'a take taho kindly tah all the good natured kiddin that come her way, an' she refused tah make frogs legs the rest ah the summer. Which jes' goes tah show the irrationality ah women, cause when yah think about it, how much more convenient could it ah got fer her, what with all those frogs hidin out right there in 'er own house? An' she done tahld Joe he could fetch as many as he thought fit anyhow.

An' that's the great Juggin Joe frog gatherin stahry which is still talked about up in the hills even untah this day, but not in the presence ah Isabel though. Doc’s temperament softened up eventually, an' he even saw the humor in it, but maybe not as much as the rest ah us.

Joe still loves them frogs legs, an' Isabel got back tah preparin 'em on ocassion, but after that episode, she was plum clear in her discussion with Joe 'bout exactly how many frogs he could catch in the pond, an' left no doubt in anyones mind that they wuzn't gonna be brought back intah the Jeckel household agin.

Author Joseph Yakel presents his own blend of humor and melodrama in this country boy comedy. Offered as a light-hearted, fun adventure with a feel-good edge, Yakel said he was looking to amuse his audience with something a little different. "With Juggin Joe, I wanted to create a funny, but identifiable character, and his own unique 'hook', that would draw readers into his world. Hopefully, I've done that with this comedy adventure, and Joe and the rest of the gang will strike a good chord amongst readers."

Yakel describes "The Legend of Juggin Joe" as an over-the-top fictional humor story that takes place in and around the Town of Westerlo, NY, and centers around the life and times of a hillboy dubbed 'Juggin Joe', for his uncanny musical abilities with the jug. Yakel said, "This book is a country boy comedy/melodrama that I've written in ‘country speak’, which makes the story that much more fun to read. It’s a light-hearted, clean, fun adventure, suitable for all audiences."

Have you ever watched a country movie, and, in a good natured way, tried to imitate the characters' accents and dialogue? Sure you have, and more than likely, you had yourself a good laugh with the trying. Now then, have you ever read a book with such a dialogue? Probably not, and further, you’ve likely never even seen such a book. Until now, that is. After you read ‘The Legend of Juggin Joe’, you’ll be able to respond affirmatively that, not only have you satisfied your longing to fill this heretofore literary void, but that you had a hilariously good time in doing so! Once the rhythm of the dialogue takes root in your mind, you'll actually start thinking and talking like the characters! And that, my friends, is the key that unlocks your door to Joe's world!

As the story begins, you'll laugh at Joe's country ways, and, perhaps, perceive him and the rest of the gang, merely as 'bumpkins'. But, as the comedy-melodrama unfolds, you'll quickly realize that there is more below the surface of that Westerlo topsoil than you had initially suspected. As you wind your way through the chapters, your laughter will gradually shift from being aimed at Joe, and somehow become laughter shared with Joe! By the time you realize that this subtle transformation has occurred, the hook has already been set! All the while, the secrets to unlocking Joe's full potential in the world are slowly revealed.

It's easy to identify with Joe. You'll root him on, share his joy, and feel his pain, as he weathers the storms of life. By the time the book ends, you'll have gained a newfound respect and admiration for Joe, his good-natured antics, and for his unmistakably simple perspective of life. Simply put, Juggin Joe transforms those around him, and brings balance to the world – it’s what he does.

If the grind of everyday life and work is putting you to sleep, worry your troubled heart no more. A remedy is now at hand. Good humor is a powerful antidote to the 'environmental lethargy' weighing you down. So, go ahead and read, "The Legend of Juggin Joe", and count yourself among those who have awaked!

“The Legend of Juggin Joe"
* ISBN 1-4116-2588-9 * Pub date: March 2005 * $9.00 paperback * 123 pages *

About the Author:
Among his credits, Joseph Yakel has three books. He describes "The Legend of Juggin Joe" (March 2005) as a 'country boy comedy/melodrama’ delivered with a writing style he dubs 'unconventional’. Joe categorizes his two other works as 'slightly more serious' genealogy books. The Autograph Memories of Mary Yakel (December 2004) is a 19th century memoir, and The JACKEL, JECKEL, JAECKEL, IEKEL, YAKEL Family History Book (March 2005) is a family chronology, tracing 350 years of his Rheinish ancestry. First published in 1998, Joe’s articles have appeared in publications such as Communications Technology, The Pipeline, and Army Reserve Magazine.

If you've ever seen the movie The Patriot you might recall the opening line. It goes ... "I have long feared that my sins would return to visit me, and the cost would be more than I could bear." Ah yes ... words of great wisdom indeed. Why I am recalling that line while deciding to write about my days of yore, could only mean I have something to confess. And to this poor, sweet lass, who has undoubtedly passed the test of time with flying colors and moved on with her life, I sincerely apologize. Now, where do I start after that opening line? From the beginning, I presume.

The summer of 1980. I had my license for over a year now and had done my best to do what damage I could to Mom's car and even my grandparents' car. This was a malicious act with the intent that if I did enough damage to theirs, they'd consider letting me buy one of my own. I was a working lad, after all. I needed to get from to and fro and had to have transportation. It was the obvious choice. I don't recall how we found her; a 1970 Plymouth Satellite with 23,000 miles on the odometer. The back seat still wrapped in factory plastic sheeting, with a slant six .225 engine. Oh ... the glory days. It was the original "little old lady from Pasadena" story. Except this little old lady lived in New Hampshire and not California. Nonetheless, it had manual steering and she couldn't handle its girth. After her husband passed away, it was stored in her garage collecting dust and awaiting a $750 cash offer from my grandfather to purchase it for me. My first love.

The symbolism of a car to a teenaged boy is simplistic in terms. It is freedom on wheels and hardly any man alive will argue this fact with me. Why we consider it this is beyond all realm of comprehension. It's not freedom per se. You have to make the payments, let alone the insurance and dive into the unjust world of realizing just how screwed you get by the auto insurance industry for being male. You also have to gas it up. Everything about the car is financially restrictive. So why do we consider it symbolic freedom? Well ... the girls, of course. The girls love the idea that a guy has his own car. And we're in the stages of playing exploratory baseball with girls and certain parts of their anatomy ... having a car to use as a ball field is just an easier outlet. I mean ... what else are you going to say to her? Hey, honey ... wanna go out in the woods with me? Um ... no. That never works. At least not with the kind of girls you'd want to bring home and introduce to momma.

So I drove the Satellite home and had all kinds of visions and adventures were going on in my head. Summer was coming after all and after last summer at the beach, this year was going to be even better. Why? Because now I had my own ride! Beer, babes, and beaches, oh my! What a wonderful world we lived in back in 1980. Bad hair, music trying to escape the inevitability of changing from the 70s and, the residual corduroy bellbottom pants. We were entering the disco decade. Eh gad. Somebody hit the brakes! If I knew then what I know now ... I probably would have knocked up some young lass and be in worse shape now than ever before. Thank goodness the world works in mysterious ways.

So ... we've covered "Freedom." Everyone understands that cars are freedom to young lads. Now ... let's talk about the French. My dear grandmother is French Canadian so let's get that out in the open before anyone accuses me of racial slander. I have nothing against the French. Hell, I'm part French and I kiss French and I eat French Fries ... so bite me if you think I'm a racist. Sorry. Obviously, I still have some pent up issues to deal with. To say what I'm about to will involve Old Orchard Beach at the same time as explaining about the French. In the summer time, at least from days ago, the French Canadians would flock to the stateside beaches of Maine and one of their favorite haunts was Old Orchard Beach. The prior summer, we had experienced this newfound treasure being Coasters of New Hampshire, by a fellow Freedom Driver a year older than us and already equipped with his drivers license who opened a whole new avenue of unexplored territory in the female gender to us. French chicks in the thousands. Oo-la-la!

There was one particular week and I do not recollect who went and who didn't. I may not even have driven that particular night ... but I remember it was night time when I met her. Why I can envision her so clearly and not recall her name is beyond me ... and you'll come to understand why as I complete this tale. She was small framed but built well, with fair eyes of bluish green and long, light brownish colored hair. I walked past her in a crowd and turned to see ... her other profile ...and was elated to see she was doing the same to me. I smiled the international language. She returned the gesture. I can't remember if we talked right then or rediscovered each other again later. Too many years have come and gone, too many cobwebs cluttering the attic of my memory. I remember ... suddenly sitting on the beach with this girl. She smoked Canadian cigarettes and she knew I didn't approve. Although if she had had a Columbian cigarette, I would have toked with great earnestness. But her beauty, although maybe wouldn't have won any pageants, to me she was drop-dead gorgeous ... she spoke broken English ... very broken and the only French I knew was the kissing kind. It was a match made in heaven ... for the summer that is.

The next thing I knew, we had decided to walk the park again, and to anyone who knows what Old Orchard Beach is about ... it's an amusement park chock full of ancient arcades and a boardwalk and amusement rides. When you're young, it feels so enormous. Getting older and revisiting it one day later on in my life, I couldn't believe how small it actually was. How ... divey it seemed to be ... but the days of yore had ways of changing what you experienced. They were truly magical, those days. This beach is undoubtedly unchanged from the test of time, and yet the comparisons from then to now are worlds apart only by imagination. That's magic, people.

Walking down a certain street, I noticed a young lad who appeared to be following us. She was perplexed with me and did not notice. Young love. I took notice and waited for the right moment. I could have been wrong, so I paid an ounce of extra attention and sure enough, this unknown creep was stalking us ... maybe her. I will be her hero, I thought and waited for a target of opportunity. The stalker spoke. She did not hear. I did. We kept walking and she kept looking at me ... why was she so engrossed with me? Hell ... I was just an average guy and she didn't even know I had a car yet! He said something subtle again and walked a little faster to catch up to us. Again, she did not hear him. Was she choosing not to? Was this her boyfriend from Canada? We did indeed suffer from a language barrier, but all we needed to really do was look into each others eyes, start kissing, and who the hell needed to talk anyway? Am I right? We both spoke French when we kissed, so who cared. Anyway ... this kid, a glimpse from the corner of my eye ... you see, I didn't want her to think anything was diverting my attention from her ... a helpless romantic ... and she bought and paid every cent; plus tax where applicable ... until he moved just close enough behind her, and I lunged her carefully into a storefront ... closed for the evening, guarded her by standing in front of her, and grabbed this stalking little bastard by the neck of his T-shirt to let him know ... he just made a huge mistake. She's with me, bucko. Ask a question and prepare to meet you maker!

"Daniel," she said, but pronounced it Danielle. French people. She looked at me with the utmost affection for my heroic deed, but there was something else in her eyes ... something I didn't quite understand yet desperately tried to. Her mind raced to find the words in English to make my density comprehend her. "My brother," she said finally in the most alluring French accent I had ever heard in my life. Daniel smiled a goofy smile and I think I caught him praying to St. Anne De Beaupre that he was still alive after the brief incident. I extended my hand and he gladly shook it. He said something to ... her ... why can I not remember her name and yet know what her brother's name was? I didn't French kiss her brother for crying out loud?! Weird. Nonetheless, they talked briefly in a foreign tongue that I did not need to understand and he bid me farewell and I him. The rest of the night was hers' and mine. We sat on the beach again later, kissing under the stars while listening to the waves crash against the shore. Her mouth tasted of stale cigarettes, but her passion was undeniable. My effort of heroism to protect a girl I barely knew, even if it was to her smaller framed and obviously weaker brother, paid dividends and left this poor French girl reeling.

I had walked her to her motel and bid her farewell. I would never see her again, I thought. I'm not sure what she was thinking. Next thing I knew, me and my local homies were all regrouped and on our way home sharing our stories of conquest. For some reason, and this is a true testimony ... they all witnessed me meeting her after all ... but I remained humbly silent and told them I had a good time with her and left it at that. They were all so willing to kiss and tell their own stories, that mine was accepted and forgotten. She was gone ... and she left this hollow pit in my stomach and after arriving home that night and falling asleep, I dreamt of kissing her and crashing waves on the beach in the darkness.

I woke up. It was morning. Something still didn't feel right. All I wanted to do was see her again. But even as small as Old Orchard Beach was, I would never find her again. I could never find her again. Could I? I ate breakfast ... and thought of French. I took a shower ... and thought of French. I told everyone in my house that I was going for a drive. I drove alone to Old Orchard Beach. I had to find her. I would find her. I knew where her motel was after all.

After arriving and parking my car, I made my way across the park and past it to the streets where the motels lined up on Atlantic Avenue. Route 1. I stood in front of her motel and the strangest revelation came over me. I wasn't nervous. Every time before this when I had to call a girl, even if I knew she liked me, there was this odd sense that maybe I was wrong ... that created this ... fear of rejection deep, down inside me. But not now. I had only met her brother and if I knocked on that motel door, I was certain to meet her parents and other family members. But for some reason, I wasn't nervous. All that was in my head was this undying urge to see this girl again ... and when I knocked and her brother answered the door ... and the door opened wide enough for her mother and father to see outside ... to see me standing in front of their motel door ... and smile at my arrival ... knowing how excited their daughter would be to see me ... knowing how excited she would be to see me there this day ... man ... my head was reeling! They had accepted me. They didn't even know me. But she came flying out of the bathroom, freshly showered and her hair was still wet. She wore shorts and a white T-shirt with a bikini underneath. She kissed me in front of her parents ... not French, but her parents smiled and was happy for their daughter. She told them we were leaving for the beach ... in French ... I didn't understand anything. I was lost in a world of wondering what it was about this girl ... other than her good looks that had me feeling this way ... that had me accepted in her world. I was going with the flow. My god ... I was in love with her. Was that even possible?

We spent the entire day together. Straight into the evening until just about the same time as we had the previous night. It was time to go again. I felt empty. Hollow. Lovestruck. For godsake, someone help me! We kissed passionately and I told her I was leaving and probably wouldn't see her again. Maybe next summer. She was only there for the remainder of the week and would be going back to Canada. We were worlds apart. Long distance relationships didn't work especially at our age and we both understood that. I left again. Again, I had this sinking feeling about this girl. Why? I can't even remember her name for crying out loud! Shame on me for that.

This time I let a day go between us. After I awoke the next morning, I sat in the living room and watched an interview with Stephen King on Good Morning America. He was on some beach with Joan Lunden and it looked vaguely familiar. She asked him questions and he answered them. And then ... right before a commercial break ... she dared to say it. "Good Morning America, here with Stephen King live from Old Orchard Beach." I screamed. There was no way I could make it ... Not now! He'd be long gone before I got there ... and then what? Her, you idiot! That's what! I didn't even really care about Stephen King. Maybe a little. But it was her and hearing those three words ... Old Orchard Beach. Oh my god. I felt like puking. I had to see her again. I couldn't let her go. I hadn't told her that I loved her. I couldn't tell her that I loved her. That would not be fair to her or me. After all, inevitably, we could never withstand the test of time. Too much high school was still left. We lived worlds apart. I stayed home that day and simmered in a pot of my own self inflicted misery. I was depressed. I yearned to be with her and even though when we were together we spoke so little to each other due to our barriers, it was our eyes and what we saw in each other that truly was the only language that needed to be spoken.

I couldn't take it. It was Friday when I woke up again and she'd be leaving in a day or two. To Canada until next year ... and god knows if or when I'd ever see her again. I wanted one more day with her. I showered and skipped breakfast and drove straight to Old Orchard Beach. The same knock on the same motel door produced a mother who smiled again when she saw me. In a thick French accent she said, "She's gonna be so glad to see you. She's on the beach." I thanked her and headed for the sands. She was sunbathing and unsuspecting. She looked so erotic ... so exotic ... so much like a tourist. I snuck up on her. I recognized the hair, the contours of her body, those lips ... despite her donning sunglasses ... she was stunning. Sweat and tanning lotion had glistened exposed parts of her body and I stood there and took in the few moments to navigate the scenery in silence before I announced my arrival. What an absolute dish. A sprig of parsley on the side was all I needed to go with this entrée.

Within the ocean breeze and the crashing waves, I uttered her name ... a name I wish for the life of me would return to my memory banks ... did I just imagine this poor girl? She looked up and tipped her sunglasses down towards me. Her face was both in shock and happiness. I had seemingly answered her unheard beckon call. Maybe she had some spell over me ... I don't know. She was elated and leapt up from her beach blanket and embraced me. Stephen King was sitting here 24 hours ago, I thought briefly to myself as I hugged her back ... all slippery and sexy. Again, we spent the entire day together well into the late evening. This would be indeed the last time we got to spend together ... at least this year, but our love for one another had grown from a mere passing and notice that the other was checking each of the other out ... like window shopping at the mall if you will, and there He or She is and how good they would look wearing the other... into ... this unpronounced love with extreme barriers and distance that threatened every ounce of its existence. It could never work. We were too young. It would never work. End of story.

Sitting on the darkened beach again that night, we stopped kissing in time for each to catch our breath ... content with listening to the unseen waves crashing in the near distance and I saw her head flicker towards mine and she said it in the darkness. "I love you, Jody," she said. I stupidly smiled and looked out at the ocean as if I could see it. She saw me smile. She knew I chose not to return her devotion. I did love her, there was no doubt. The realization that our love would never last consumed my behavior and left me blank. She said it again to confirm I understood her in her accented English. I silently grabbed her hand and pulled her head onto my shoulders and embraced her ... still not returning her devotion. What she must think of me ...

As time passed, the night grew old and it was time to go again. I had a long drive home alone and this by far was the best day that I had spent with this elusive French girl. We exchanged addresses. Pen pals. She gave me a puca-shelled necklace to remember her by. I took her to my car ... (shut up) ... I had to have something to return in gesture. I was always a writer of sorts ... self proclaimed ... whatever. My ex-girlfriend from last year had written a story and I had told her I would rewrite her idea and give it to her. She was not a writer ... and had no qualms about not being one ... her story was self proclaimed as "stupid." It was kind of, too. But I rewrote it with her intent and she was somewhat offended that I might take her stupid story and do a better job with it. Women. And there that story was ... all hand written our and crumpled up in my glove box where she made me put it after refusing to read it. It was right next to my Ray Ban's. I wouldn't need those tonight ... I thought with a sudden case of insanity. Hey ... I love you French girl whose name evades me, but those are Ray Ban's, honey. Here ... take these crumpled pieces of paper with a story in it and remember me. She did and expressed how thrilled she was. Did she even notice the Ray Ban's? Ah ... too long ago.

I left and actually mustered the urge to cry over her that night on my way home. I would indeed never see this French girl again in my life. Not next year or the year after that. Never again. She was but a mere chapter in a book with many others written about my life and her existence was but three days worth of encounters long. She was lost ...

Well ... not exactly ... quite yet anyway. School started, I met another girl ... And the French girl wrote a pen pal letter. I responded nicely ... somehow that feeling in the pit of my stomach when she wasn't around ... the way she would look into my eyes ... the expression on her face when she did ... all dissipated in my memory ... as obviously did her name ... poor, little French girl. Heavily involved within another relationship ... one of which I reached an entirely different base with another game of exploratory baseball, I had tired of the puppy-loved, long distance relationship with ... whatshername.

Another letter arrived and I ignored this one too but suddenly came up with a brilliant plan. Recruiting the assistance of my sister to respond a brief letter back to her in a women's handwriting ... I produced, directed, and starred in a brief eulogy of my own demise. We sadly reported to the French girl that I had been killed in an auto accident in my mother's alleged handwriting. We told her how much I had mentioned and thought of her and how sorry (my mother) was and that she need not write any more letters ... to a dead guy ... and guess what? Uhuh ... she mailed a frickin' condolence card addressed to my mother ... of course, which I had to explain. My mother wasn't happy ... and neither was the French girl, I'm sure ... but I moved on. Or did I? I often think of this poor, French girl and the anguish of which I might have caused her. Did she cry over my imaginary death? Was that fair of me to make someone do? So ... my past actions do indeed haunt me sometimes and I am truly afraid they will catch up to me ... and the price is greater than I could bear. Please, French-girl-whose-name-evades-me, forgive an old man who was once in love with you and was young and foolish enough to make such a stupid decision. I'm sure you're obviously better off without the likes of me and my conniving ways.

It started out like any ordinary Daddy/Daughter Day. Honestly, I don't know why we bother to call it that anymore since Mommy comes to lunch with us now. She used to work days and now she works from mid afternoon into early evening. But the name stuck and every day off from work I have that my daughter doesn't attend her preschool, we call Daddy/Daughter Day and celebrate by having lunch out somewhere together. On that particular Daddy/Daughter Day, things were already taking a strange turn of events. We usually pick between two restaurants, one a sit-down, full-menu, pizza joint and the other, a fast food burger joint... that flame broils. When asked where she wanted to go that day, she opted for the other fast food burger joint that doesn't flame broil. I immediately grimaced.

"No, Honey," I said. "Daddy doesn't want to go there."

Her four-year-old eyes looked up at me and made the saddest most pleading expression a father could ever stand to see on the face of his children. "Please, please, oh please, Daddy!" she begged.

Who could argue? I'm putty in her hands and the terrible truth is she already knows how to control this.

Now between the two more popular fast food burger joints, I'm not really a fan of either one. I generally opt for the sit down pizza joint with no playzone/playground that distracts my impressionable daughter's attention away from eating her lunch. This way, I can even have a beer with lunch and coerce her into eating using petty bribery. For example, "I'll get you a balloon if you're a good girl and eat all your lunch," or "We'll stop and buy a new movie on the way home if you're a good..." you get the idea. However, because of our geographical situation, we have to travel two towns south to any restaurants, and in that town, one of these burger joints just runs better than the other. Not to mention the quality of the food is a little better... not much, but a little.

The second odd thing that occurred that day was my wife claiming she didn't think she was going to join us. Sure, I thought to myself. Who could blame her? I gave her an indignant look for her obvious treachery and cowardice. She smiled in return. Uhuh. It's not hard to distinguish where my daughter gets her intelligence and savvy from. However, by the time I had starting the truck up on that cold winter day, my wife decided... either she felt guilty enough about her abandonment or she was genuinely hungry. I thought she must have been really hungry, on the verge of starvation, considering the option of our destination. Or... really guilty for that matter. So, she went out and started her vehicle. We drive in separate vehicles and she's already close to her work and can head straight there after lunch, then my daughter and I continue on with the remainder of our ritualistic day together.

Upon arrival, I'm still not coveting the fact we're where we are, but I browsed my numbered options across the menu board while watching the sole male cashier taking the one person's order ahead of us. It's extremely obvious this kid was very uncomfortable doing what he was doing and the fact that he hadn't been doing it very long is equally apparent. A rotund man standing in what I would consider management garb was standing behind the cashier and making himself look busy in an attempt to ignore the growing line of hard-up lunch incumbents beginning to form behind us. I guess we had actually arrived someplace "on time" for once, but the cashier was still over his head getting the order of the one person in front of us. And for the record, I don't think that person was ordering for more then himself. Anxiety drained the already pallid color from the poor kid's face. Now instead of finding the location of the numbered lunch the guy in front of us ordered on the computer keyboard, all he could focus on is how long clearing the line is going to take because everyone behind him is ignoring him. Sad. Finally, the rotund manager turned around without looking at any of us customers about to spend our hard earned dollars in the establishment that he controls, and instead of showing the kid where the button is, just pressed it himself and resumed putting a precarious bag of fries in a take-out bag and handing it to the drive-thru window clerk who appeared just as lost as the cashier. This was not a good choice, I thought to myself, but my daughter is ecstatic looking at the options of cheap and ineffective toys to have placed in her kid's meal. Some of the simplest forms of entertainment seem to thrill the young and innocent more than any technical toy... that is, until they reach a certain age. So, I should be thankful that she's not asking me for the more expensive ones at this point and relish the time I have left.

After a couple of minutes, my daughter was getting antsy and the line was still growing and I considered hopping over the counter and finding the button for a medium soft drink for the cashier. My wife whispered into my ear what her choice for lunch was and what to order our daughter and I realized that I was being abandoned once again to face the challenges of ordering fast food all by myself. I looked at her with a degree of my own anxiety and she raised her eyebrows apologetically and said, "She has to go to the bathroom." Uhuh. Being a woman, she knows full well that the lesser of two evils for a guy is to remain alone in the lunch line and become the next victim of the cashier's ignorance than it is to take my daughter to the... I can barely even say it... men's room. I watched them pull away as if I just fell off a cliff and even though they're the ones that are moving, I felt like I was the one heading for imminent danger.

"Next." I heard announced. I looked at the kid and he was looking at me, wide-eyed, like I was Ghengis Kahn. I guess I can come off looking a bit intimidating sometimes. I just can't help it. I ordered my two numbered choices and I'm not so sure it wasn't the fear of God this kid had over me that seemed to motivate him a little more, but he found them on the keyboard relatively quick. I ordered the kid's meal with the chocolate milk and while I'm waiting for him to find those buttons, I realized he was already looking at me with confidence building waiting for the next selection. Was he thinking I was easy? Oh yeah, Punk, I thought to myself... how about a fish sandwich on the side? Can you find that? He did.

"Is that all?" he asked with more confidence.

How about I hit you so hard the manager gets a bloody nose? That thought, those words had already formed in my head and were right on the tip of my tongue, but I successfully suppressed them back. The kid had done well. "Yes," I simply said instead.

"That'll be blah, blah, blah." I didn't listen to the total. I was holding the handy ATM card and waiting for the calculator sized pad to tell me when to swipe my card. When it did, I swiped.

CARD READ ERROR, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

Now why can't they make these card swipe machines universal, I was thinking to myself as I flipped the card the other way, every place you go so us poor customers don't have to figure out which way to place the cards. Are those illustrations really supposed to help? I swiped again with the card flipped over.

CARD READ ERROR, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

I could hear the lunch line behind me groan. I looked desperately at the kid. Now, my anxiety was building and I looked at him to save me. How the winds of change seem unforgiving sometimes.

"Can I just punch these numbers in manually somehow...?" I ask, "Maybe my strip is a little worn."

Okay, the fact of the matter is that I had already known my strip was a little worn. It works most places and EVERY gas pump. So why not right then? I use it a lot, what can I say? I keep it on my wallet, unprotected. It's most likely the wallet pocket that I keep it in that has worn the strip, but it could be the use, too. It's not like they make some protective prophylactic to keep credit cards in when placing them in wallets. Maybe I should invent one. But right then, at that moment, it was already too late in development.

My question went completely ignored. Now the kid could feel my temper rising and had seemed to master the art of ignoring me and looking at his computer keyboard as if it might just verbally tell him to go ahead and let me punch my numbers in. I was suddenly imagining the manager facilitating a meeting in the morning with all his employees before they opened and reminding everyone of their restaurant credo... "Ignore the customer and their questions long enough and they will just go away eventually."

"Try it again," he said with his voice wavering after hitting some button on the keyboard. The Easy Button, I wondered? I swiped.

CARD READ ERROR, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

I flipped and tried again.

CARD READ ERROR, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

Audible groans where expressed behind me and I felt that I might be lynched by the crowd at any moment. I didn't have cash, but I had another credit card... completely maxed out and I didn't really want to pay interest for lunch. Not at that place! I looked desperately around the restaurant for my wife. Certainly she had to be done with our daughter and be wondering why I was taking so long. She wasn't in sight.

I gave the kid my best Clint Eastwood's Dirty Harry Callahan look. "Go ahead, Punk, ignore my question again." Once again, the words were stifled at my lips, but already in the forming stage. He must have felt them.

"This guy's card won't work," he said to the manager practicing his very own credo to the utmost expertise. The manager looked at him as if my card had just been declined and then he finally made eye contact with me, but then realized the error of his way. Turning his attention back to the kid, he hit his own Easy Button on the keyboard. His expression did little to instill any more confidence to me about what he was doing than the cashier he was replacing.

"Try it now," said the manager.

I swiped.

CARD READ ERROR, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

I flipped and swiped.

CARD READ ERROR, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

I audibly proclaimed the fact that I was aware of the Lord's name and also knew what his middle initial was... in vain. I will certainly pay penance for that.

"Can I just punch in my numbers manually?" I asked getting my face as close to his as I could possibly get in a threatening stance. He practiced his credo. If you ignore them, they will go away. I suddenly envisioned Michael Douglas in the movie "Falling Down" while he attempted to order breakfast one minute late at one of these fast food joints that they fictionalized for the movie. "Whammy Burger" was the name they used and I suddenly felt like going "Whammy Burger" on this manager. I was pretty sure I didn't have a duffel bag full of automatic weapons however. I always forget something when we leave the house.

Then, three things happened within seconds. The assistant manager who was not only married to the manager, but also made it aware that she wore the pants in the family, came out from behind the cooking area to see why the entire foyer was filled with people standing there like some bad zombie movie by George Romero. Her first instinct was the same as her husband's and then it became immediately aware to me why she had decided to say "I do" to this man at the altar. Obviously, I had made an order and my credit card had been declined. If you ignore them, they will go away.

"No!" I protested. "Can't I just punch my (expletive) numbers in manually? I see numbers on this pad. I bet they're there for some purpose. Can't you hit something to activate manual entry, for the love of Saint Peter and all of these groaning zombies behind me?" Okay, maybe I didn't use those exact words.

She simply looked at her husband and he immediately returned to bagging fries and burgers and handing them to the drive-thru clerk. She then, looked at the kid and told him to return to the register.

"You'll have to eliminate some of his order and make it less than twelve dollars in order to process it," she said to him.

What? This all took place in seconds, mind you. The second thing that happened was I submissively pulled out my maxed credit card obviously quite unhappy with her decision and swiped the card waiting for that to be declined and physically grabbed by the crowd of people behind me and hung from the flag pole in the front of the restaurant parking lot.

TRANSACTION COMPLETE.

The kid was punching buttons when I did that. Stop doing that, I thought. I want all the (expletive) food.

The third thing that occurred was my wife and daughter finally returned to the counter. She looked at me as if I was inept at ordering food in a timely fashion not fully understanding the debacle I was in.

"Do you have your ATM card?" I asked her somehow unaware I was just approved. Why was I unaware? I don't know. Perhaps I was secretly enjoying the humiliation and was in denial about it finally coming near an end. The fact was, I was frazzled and visions of zombies and restaurant personnel being blown away with weapons of mass destruction that I had carried into the place in my own duffel bag were running through my head.

"We're about to go to (The Other Fast Food Burger Joint)!" I proclaimed so everyone in the place could hear me. How do you like them apples everyone?

She handed me her card. It's the same account as my ATM card. We're married. Why did I swipe it? I don't know. I swiped it. My brain screamed for me to stop, but I ignored it. Was the restaurant's credo contagious?

TRANSACTION COMPLETE. TWICE NOW, STUPID!

"Honey," I said completely broken, "I think that credit card machine just called me stupid."

"Go sit down with her," said my wife referring to our daughter while placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "I'll wait for the food and the voided transaction."

So I grabbed my daughter's hand and started to walk towards the back of the restaurant so I could get... away from peering eyes of hatred from the lunch line zombies. Away from it all. And as we turned the corner, out of sight, I thought for one brief moment that I could hear applause as I heard the cashier say...

"Next."

The other morning, I was making my infamous cup of coffee, still somewhat puffy eyed, and I was surprised to see a grasshopper in the sill of the kitchen window. It's an early October morning, so I'm thinking he must have hopped on one of us yesterday to get inside out of the cold. I'm not sure really, but even though it's a seemingly harmless little critter, the immediate sight of it somewhat shocked me. I am not afraid of bugs and I'm the house hero when it comes to "killing the infiltrating hornet" or "smashing the trespassing spider" or whatever for my wife ... who for all accounts and purposes is terrified of insects.

For the most part, I try to gather up the little bugs and bring them outdoors where they are set free to wreak havoc in someone else's household. That particular morning, I realize that the life of this grasshopper is in dire jeopardy. I remember considering trying to scoop it up with my hand and get it outside, but I was still half awake and if I missed this guy was going to be jumping all over the place and I was going to make a ruckus in a quiet, peaceful household that would surely wake the other occupants. My wife, daughter, and dog were all sleeping soundly and that's the way I wanted to keep it. On the other hand, if this critter wandered off ... or I simply forgot about him, his fate was certainly doomed. You see ... there is an assassin among us. She is silent and does not scream or announce her death swat. She is covert with deadly precision. And if she sees this insect inside the walls of her home, she will smash this bug without provocation and then I will be the one that has to remove the compromised body.

My wife is a gentle, loving, and nurturing woman. She is a wonderful mother and a loving wife. She is tender, beautiful, and passive. Except there is a dark side to my wife. She is a super hero to some ... to others, an evil villain. My wife has an alternate lifestyle. She has been trained in the ancient arts of the Ninja hundreds of ways to assassinate insects without cause, without provocation, without an ounce of consideration, and without a thought. It must have taken years of training and conditioning for this woman to be as effective as she is. She can assassinate a bug coming near her ... not even really going in her direction ... just near her and not even really notice that she just killed it.

One day ... not too long ago, my daughter, my wife, and I were in the back yard playing with our daughter's toy golf set and I was teaching her the all important lessons of pars and teeing off and which club to use. My wife stood in the background and watched admirably as I fought to maintain the focus of the five-year-old with such stimulating techniques. Suddenly, a small dragonfly flew near my wife. I'm not talking about the three to four inch variety of dragonfly that makes us all a bit nervous when it invades our space, I'm talking small. Like maybe just over an inch ... maybe an inch and a half. It wasn't flying at her. It was flying by her. But it made a mistake. It flew into the "Non-Fly Zone of The Ninja Bug Assassin." Also known as NFZNBA. Without flinching, her arm extended out, swatted the crap out of the poor unsuspecting dragonfly... who for all we know was on his way home with a toy for his or her tots as he promised he would be ... but as it would have it ... not this day ... not ever. He fell to the ground immediately dazed and confused. His wings were undoubtedly broken. He would never fly again. But that didn't matter because the assassin wasn't finished yet. The bug was still alive. Without consideration of this bug or his loved ones, my wife, the Ninja Bug Assassin, lifted a foot and stomped on the poor bug. I would love to say he was dead instantly and felt no pain. However, surprised as I was and my facial expression was surely conveying the fact that I did not approve of the unnecessary slaughter I had just been witness to, I watched the long tail section of this bug curl and uncurl as it writhed in painful convulsions which led me to take my larger booted foot and disintegrate the insect to put us both out of our current miseries.

I looked at my wife.

"What?" she asked. "It was coming at me."

"No it wasn't," I said shaking my head and reciting a prayer for the deceased.

"It might have," she tried to convince me.

The most horrific aspect of the whole assassination was the child seeing the entire ordeal. A future Ninja Bug Assassin already in training.

I try to show my daughter which bugs you can pick up and which ones you can't. Sometimes, I have learned new things about bugs myself. Like ladybugs can actually bite you. Don't tell me otherwise because one of them little creeps did so once and I winced and said "OW!" to the utter shock and horror of my daughter. Probably another reason why she will become a skilled assassin like her mother.

The Ninja Bug Assassin style of killing does not exhibit the most choreographic executions to the target. It's not always the most graceful or pretty sights to see. It can be downright awkward. It can involve hopping around on one leg, while screaming ... or running around in circles ducking and rising repeatedly like a chicken ... or swaying to and fro with both arms flailing in the air as if trying not to drown ... except not be anywhere near a body of water. Even a variety of these techniques can and will be used in many of the assassinations. The results are always the same. No matter what the poor bug does to escape the Ninja Bug Assassin, it winds up dead. It cannot escape from the lethal clutches of the NBA.

After the assassination, my wife returns to her lifestyle as if nothing happened without conscience. Almost as if humming a lullaby to herself it would seem. The body of the unsuspecting target will be dead or dying at her feet, a mere afterthought before she decides what to make for dinner ... or perhaps what she'll wear to work tomorrow. Something of that nature.

That morning, I'm looking at the grasshopper and trying to tell it to stay still. I know that I am going to forget to remove it when I'm more awake and think I can instill the speed needed to catch it and release it. If I did it then, I would certainly miss and be running and crashing and stomping all over the house to try to catch it before ... it's too late. She will awaken, come out to see what the ruckus is all about ... the grasshopper will hop near her direction, and without a moment's notice, even in her foggy state of awakening emergence, she will strike with deadly results and the carcass of the grasshopper will be squished against the fibers of the carpet and left for the "removal system" AKA ... me to clean up the mess.

A happy ending that day, however, I'm glad to announce to all you bug lovers out there. I remembered. Actually, okay ... I forgot at first and I was in the office on the computer and heard my wife in the kitchen starting her cup of coffee and a bright light of memory flashed across the warning screen of my brain. Oh my God, the grasshopper! I must save its life! I leapt up and without trying to raise too much suspicion went into the kitchen as if to kiss my wife good morning. But the skills of the Ninja Bug Assassin go far beyond the actual executions to the unsuspecting targets. She was dubious of my intent and anyone could tell her sonar, radar, and any other ar was on high alert.

"I have to get rid of a bug," I confessed immediately.

Ninja Bug Assassin Mode went into automatic effect. She walked across the kitchen like Keanu Reeves in another Matrix film. Slow motion, yet ready, willing, and able to strike the "blow of death" at any second.

"Where is it," she challenged in a demonic voice not her own.

"I'll take care of it," I promised. Her eyes scoped the entire perimeter of the kitchen and I knew then, this grasshopper's seconds are limited.

"Please, Honey," I pleaded for the innocent bug's life. "I'll take care of it. Get me a net from Jadyn's bedroom." She did without complaint. I had to be on high alert.

After handing me the net, she retreated back to the safety of the dining room where she watched in silence and almost what I think might have been a slight degree of melancholy that she was not going to have the opportunity to kill. I scooped up the grasshopper and ran him outside before anything else could happen to him. He must have felt the tension. It was so thick inside, you could have cut it with a knife.

I tipped the net upside down and as he fell to the grass I could have sworn I heard him say ... "Bless you, dear sir." I stuck a finger in my ear and wriggled it all around and went back inside. But first I said, "You're welcome, friend. Don't ever come back inside this house."

It's a catchy title for a story. It reminds me of one of Aesop's Fables where there will be some lesson instilled in young minds who endure reading it. That's probably not going to happen in this tale. Although, somebody might learn something from my mistake. That's only a mere theory with no statistics to back it up whatsoever.

It started out just like every morning. I go to the bathroom, wash my hands, turn on the computer, and then I go make my cup of coffee. Once the coffee maker is started, I return to the computer to crank-start the ancient phone-line modem and connect to the Internet.

The coffee maker chugs and churns on the kitchen counter. It's a two-cup model and it does just about the perfect job of brewing our favorite gourmet blend coffee. One of our few lavish luxuries. I brew one single cup, which is rather large, and when mine is ready, I set the machine up for my wife.

Once I finally get connected to the Internet, I am assuming that the coffee machine must be pretty close to finishing. It's sad that dial-up takes so long, but that's the undying truth to the matter. Just in case, I begin the process of checking out all of my favorite web sites, to obtain my sports news and stats, check the weather, and of course, my own personal author based web sites data. Now, surely the cup of coffee is complete and only awaiting the perfect amount of sugar and cream to be added and consumed with delight.

On this particular morning, I abandon one particular web site and leave the home office to retrieve my much anticipated cup of coffee. To my surprise, I hear another unfamiliar chug emanate from the machine as I approach it. What on earth could have slowed this process down, I wonder? Okay, the fact is, it could probably stand to be de-scaled, you know, the old white vinegar and water treatment that cleans the sediments out of the insides of the machine. It's a fairly new coffee pot and, to my own chagrin, I realize neither of us has taken the time to exercise this important maintenance procedure in our quest to obtain the perfect cup of coffee on a daily basis.

I gather that it's a little too early in the morning to start such a cumbersome task and promise myself that once my wife's cup of coffee is done, later when she finally gets up, that I will undertake the procedure personally.

As I grab my cup of coffee, I notice despite the amount of water I put in, the machine has not yielded it back. Although the automatic shut-off switch is no longer illuminated, only a half of the cup is filled with coffee. I ponder putting some more water in the well after I lift the cover to see if there is any left inside, and to my surprise there is none. Where did it go? Did it evaporate? Was that the foreign chugging sounds I heard the machine make just a few moments ago? Was it steaming off the water that was supposed to go into my cup of coffee? I inspect the counter-top to ensure that I hadn't actually spilled the water when pouring it into the well. As I notice the dry surface of the counter, I realize that I'm in denial that the coffee machine just needs a simple cleaning and resolve to my newly brewed cup of ... espresso, I guess. No amount of sugar and cream will make this gourmet blend of coffee the perfect cup on this morning. It's too strong, obviously because the proper amount of water did not brew and filter through the heaping ¼ cup of grounds placed in the filter trap.

I like cappuccino, so I settle for the strong coffee that morning. As usual, before returning to the computer, I set up my wife's cup so all she has to do is hit the start button when she decides to finally get up.

The coffee is strong, but tolerable enough for me. I resolve in the fact that I will be making another one later on for my commute to work and the machine will be de-scaled for that cup, therefore, it's not a complete loss.

I return to the computer and browse more sites and gather more data and statistics. Soon my mind is finally submerged in thought and the coffee machine de-scaling becomes low on the thought process. That is, until I take another sip of my coffee and grimace down the mouthful. Hey ... it will wake me up proper, right?

A little while later, my wife gets up. She stealthily approaches me from behind, trying to adjust her sleepy eyes to the bright monitor of the computer and ensure that I'm behaving myself on the Internet, and then she wraps her arms around my shoulders and neck and places her head next to mine for our first "good morning" kiss. Satisfied with the fact that I didn't quickly close one window and was startled by her attack, I offer to get up and go push the button to the coffee machine. We have a joke ... sort of. She tells me I make a better cup of coffee than she does, so I tell her it's all in the way I push the button. I've extended this joke to the way I stir the cream in sugar in the final product. Counter-clock wise for several swirls and then one final clock-wise stir to slow the whirlpool of hot coffee down. It's the one clock-wise stir I insist is the "flavor stir," I tell her and she smiles, certainly not buying into my theory.

I push the button to the coffee machine again and listen to it come to life and begin the process all over again for her cup. Returning to the home office, I keep a watchful ear out on the chugs and churns to make myself aware if she is going to endure the same problem I did with mine. Much to my pleasure, when the cup is done brewing, the perfect amount of water has filtered through the machine and she now has a perfect cup of coffee sitting below the cone. Lucky her. I add her cream and sugar and do the whole counter-clock wise/clock-wise procedure, which produces yet another smile from her sleepy face and I hand her over the cup. She happily walks to the living room to sit on the couch with her coveted coffee mug and wait for the caffeine to kick in.

I tell her about my less than perfect cup of coffee and the fact that we need to de-scale the machine. She tells me the manual for the coffee maker is conveniently inside the cupboard right above it where we also keep the mugs, the grinder, and the coffee. To my horror, there are several procedures to de-scale the darn thing. It's not rocket science. It's repeating the same process over and over again and letting the machine cool down in between. I have to leave for work in just over an hour and now my second cup of coffee of the day has a threatened existence. I fervently begin the process, but before I do, I decide to unplug the machine and run water through the well and just tip it back out in the sink.

Now, considering the title of this story, I'm sure the reader is just waiting to find out why I chose to call it what I did. You can imagine what I discovered when I tipped the machine full of water over. There, at the bottom of the sink was a large, black ant. The big ones that grow almost an inch long. He had been sitting on the bottom of the coffee machine well and I had mistaken him for some sludge of some sort since he had been boiled for God knows how long and was not moving around. He was dead, of course.

Suddenly, my mind screamed out. I must tell my wife to stop drinking her coffee and I'll just make her a new cup! Then, the rational part of my brain spoke up. My wife is totally "bugged" out by bugs. Pun intended. She has certainly already had a few sips off of her morning coffee. And this ant is undoubtedly the cause of the machine acting up incorrectly when it brewed my cup earlier. Maybe the ant was trying to drink as much of the water as it could so it wouldn't burn as bad. Who knows? Only the ant and maybe God and neither one of them are talking to me. Listen, J. I say to myself. If you tell your wife that you just discovered this ant inside the coffee machine, not only are you going to ruin her first cup of coffee of the day, she's also not going to be able to enjoy the next one or the one after that. All she's ever going to remember is that the machine was breached by a bug once and it will never leave her. And it's not exactly like I was feeling any adverse effects from the ant. I felt okay. It's not like the ant was crushed and ground up in the coffee grounds and then brewed. It was inside the fresh water well. So we weren't exactly drinking ant-flavored Columbian coffee. We were drinking filtered ant-enhanced Columbian coffee.

Not telling my wife is a dilemma. She not only suggests that I be completely honest with her, she demands it. By not telling her about this grotesque discovery, I am lying to her. "Shut up" screams the rational part of my brain. "You're not lying! You're simply omitting the truth! And think of the repercussions she'll suffer with all of her future cups of coffee! By omitting this one minute detail, you're actually saving her and she will be able to enjoy drinking coffee for many years to come!" He was right. Swallowing down a large lump of guilt, I decided to keep my mouth shut. I drank the coffee. And I was feeling fine.

I cleaned the large, black ant out of the sink with a paper towel and threw it in the trash. I then set up the de-scaling process of the machine and by the time I went to work, I had just about the best cup of coffee ready that the machine ever made. I did check the well after it brewed. Nothing. The perfect cup of ant-free Columbian coffee. Yumscilly!

Of course, since there is humor in this tale, I decided to write it and in case you're wondering, my wife reads everything I write. Therefore, this is more of a therapeutic confession to her for me then it is a humorous essay on rational behavior. So my secret won't be secret for very long. Once she discovers this piece (and she will discover it because she finds everything!) she will confront me and ask me if this is true.

It's a dilemma, people. By writing this essay, I have forsaken my own choice to conceal the very thing I made a rational decision to hide from her. The quality of her future cups of coffee are now at stake and it's all because of me and that stupid, lousy, suicidal ant. Of course, I can be satisfied with the fact that this took place a couple of weeks ago, so at least she was able to enjoy all those cups of coffee in between without wondering what other foreign objects may be filtering through our home brewed coffee.

Now, I am stuck on what to write about in my next essay. The mosquito and the spaghetti sauce, or the spider and the underwear drawer. Another confession and another dilemma are just waiting to unfold.

I woke up the other morning around 4 AM and there was this beautiful young girl in our bed between me and my wife. She was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and she smiled when I opened my eyes and she said ... "Hi daddy!" Hmmm ...

"What are you doin' in my swamp?" I asked her in my best Shrek impersonation. This, as always, produced a smile.

"Sleeping," she said.

"You don't look like you're sleeping to me," said I.

Mommy, who was now awake, decided to try and return her to her own bedroom and that seemed to work, but I never got back to sleep. So, I tossed and turned for about an hour and finally relented at about 5 AM and got up. I crank started the dial-up connection and went to the kitchen to start a cup of coffee. In my mind, I was imagining the two tasks competing in a head to head race to see which would get accomplished first: the finished product of a cup of coffee or finally getting online through the archaic dialup and low KBs connection. To my astonishment, the computer won hands down. Adding the necessary ingredients into my coffee, I made my way towards the office, set the coffee on the desk, positioned the chair to a comfortable setting, and placed my hands on the keyboard. Ah yes, I can write.

Had I just heard something? A door creaking, maybe? I turned my back to see a fleeting glimpse from the corner of my eye speedily making its way towards our bedroom where I hoped my wife had not suffered the same fate as I had that morning trying to get back to sleep.

"Hey!" I hollered out. The figure's pitter-pattering feeties stopped dead in their tracks, turned 180 degrees and bee-lined for the office.

"I can't sleep," she said.

"Join the club," I said. She tried in vain to tell me she was scared, but I could tell otherwise with her gorgeous, but lying eyes. She's not a very accomplished fibber yet.

"Why not lay in your bed with the door open for a while and I'll protect you since you're right next door to the office," I offered.

"Okay," she said excitedly. Too excitedly for me to think this was going to have any semblance of endurance. Sure enough ... a few moments later, she emerged back into the office to tell daddy a really cool story. Of course it was gibberish and she was making it up as she went along. Gotta love her 5 year old imagination. I have no idea where she gets it.

Now, if I was Mommy, I'd be making her get back into bed and saying ... you need your sleep because I do not want you to be a cranky girl at Nanny's today and high maintenance when you finally get home tonight. This would produce wailing and crying in protest, and that she was scared and that she wasn't tired. But I'm not Mommy. And I didn't want to hear either wailing or crying at this time of day. I simply do not have the fortitude my wife inhibits when it comes to such matters.

"Look Daddy!" she exclaimed referring to the predawn light coming through the edges of the mini-blinds, "it's already morning time!"

"Uhuh," I said, "but it's still early honey and I want your mommy to be able to sleep."

"Can I stay up?" she asked knowing I would let her. How does she do that?

"If you stay in your room and occupy yourself without waking up your Mommy." Off she went happily and I didn't really think Mommy was going to get back to sleep in all honesty. She has an uncanny ability to lay there for hours trying, though. And, I used to get up early when I was young. And look at me ... I turned out just ... fine? ... Hmmm ... wait a minute!

"Jadyn! Go back to bed!"

"Waaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!" Now ... even the dog was wide awake. I clicked the red X on the upper right hand corner of the monitor screen and called it a day on the Internet.

This very morning, while I write ... I have gone through the exact same routine as the other day, sans waking up to my wide awake daughter between my wife and me. I got a little further along in the routine this morning. I was already getting my stats on the preseason football games and the final roster cuts when I heard ...

"Mommy!" Oy vay! 6:15 AM is what the clock displayed. Wow ... she's sleeping in, I thought to myself sarcastically. "MOMMY!" She hollered even louder with more enthusiasm while I was deep in thought. One would think I'd be intercepting the hollers before they produced a wide-awake Mommy.

I went to her bedroom and opened the door. "What's the matter, Honey?" I asked.

"I want my nut."

"Excuse me?"

"You know, Daddy," she said with a degree of contempt and a dash of sarcasm. It's a little early for that, wouldn't you think?

"Um ... NO! I don't know."

"The peanut." I'm still clueless. "I think it's up on the shelf with my ballerina puppet." I moved the puppets and saw no peanut. "It's the one I got out in the woods, Daddy!" Obviously, she finally realized her father still had no idea what he was looking for. "The squirrel nut! Hello!" Yeah, full blown sarcasm. I hate to admit she gets that from me.

Now I finally understood what she was looking for. She had found an acorn in the woods one time while she was hiking with her preschool class. I have not, in all honesty, seen this crazy acorn in several months and why I'm looking for this damn nut at 6:15 this morning when I could be writing a blog entry is quite beyond my realm of reasoning.

"There's no acorn up here, Jadyn," I said.

"Oh ... okay. I thought it was." Uhuh ... sure you did. Conniving little ... Man, I love her though.

As I tried to exit her bedroom and shut the door, I got the "I gotta go potty" routine, so I just knew she wasn't going back to bed. I used to get up early when I was a kid. And look at me. I turned out just fine. Hmmm ... wait a minute. Nope. I don't want her wailing this morning. I just got an idea for a blog entry. How about petty bribery?

"Jadyn?"

"Yes, Daddy?"

"How about I put a cartoon on for you and you stay real quiet and not wake up Mommy."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" she practically screamed. So much for keeping the house quiet, I thought as the dog emerged from the bedroom.

Anyway ... Mommy's still in bed (wide awake, I'm sure) and my daughter is laying on the sofa watching her TiVo'd television show. And that gave me this opportunity to write this. Thank goodness!