tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69551841506048446332024-03-12T18:14:40.321-07:00problem reportSoftware crashes are an opportunity to take a break and do something creative. I use the opportunity to write little vignettes. It is a way to switch gears. I do not pretend that anyone actually reads them. I've been doing this for a couple of years and decided it might be good to save them somewhere.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-81079840628612595052021-06-12T08:21:00.004-07:002021-06-12T17:32:53.108-07:00Sanford Loses His Car<p> <span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Sanford was perplexed. He had parked his car somewhere, but in the sea of metal boxes it was hopelessly lost. He looked over the shimmering expanse outside Cheerwood Mall. It was a hot day, and the black asphalt soaked up the heat and blasted it back. He began to sweat.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The plan it seemed was to start in the center and work from there. Sanford was a lazy man who was brilliant at avoiding work. At work he was the Prince of Delays, where action items lay dormant until they were no longer action items, which was a secret that Sanford shared with no one. Through this strategy, it appeared at times that he was doing something when in actuality nothing had been done. Emailed missives on lessening unnecessary requests made it appear Sanford was thoughtful in his negligence.</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Here he was, faced with a task that he wanted to avoid, but he steeled himself and stepped out from underneath the jutting shelter outside the entrance of the mall. He felt the nuclear radiance of the heat through the bottoms of his flattened flipflops.</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He began down the center, thinking that he had been lucky and found a space near the front. His 2005 Honda Civic in Silver was nowhere to be found, but then again there was a lot of small silver cars parked in the lot, and they tended to blend together. Halfway down the aisle he decided this was fruitless and took a turn to the left, squeezing between the parked cars.</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He looked up and down, and four cars down on the left he spotted his car. He was sure it was his, because it was only four cars away from where he was standing, and he didn’t feel like walking any more.</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Sanford never locked the door on his car, because that took extra effort, and such was his efficiency. He opened the door, got into the drivers seat, and then hunted for his keys. They were always in his front pocket, but they weren’t there. He then realized that they must have fallen out where he tried on that pair of khakis at the Gap. He rolled his eyes. More effort!</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He was careful this time to note where he hd left his car, and trudged back into the mall. The cool blast of air conditioning braced him. It felt great. He entered the mall and went up the escalator to the second floor. At last he was in the Gap. He looked in the changing room, and there they were on the floor. Excellent!</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Leaving the store, he had to walk past the food court, so it was time for another round of free samples. He had a piece of mandarin chicken, a bite of marinated steak and part of a spring roll. He then bought a Cinnabon, sat down and ate the whole thing with enthusiasm. Traffic milled about, and Sanford was in no hurry to go back into the blast furnace outside.</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">After 45 minutes or so, he went back out to his car, and in its place was a Nissan Pathfinder. He was confused to be sure. Someone had stolen his car! He called 911. What Sanford didn't realize was that his car was actually two rows over. If he had looked at the rear bumper, he would have seen a sticker saying "My Child is a Honor Student at Dorchester High". He didn't have a child, or a girlfriend. He had tried one or the other but it was too much effort.</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">A policeman showed up 45 minutes later. He looked bored while listening to Sanford relate the tale of his car. It wasn’t a really long story, and the both of them were ready for it to end, but in different ways. Officer Santiago would get back in his car, turn the A/C on full blast, and start the process of filing the report. He was the opposite of Sanford, and actually got things done. </p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Sanford ended up ordering a Lyft, going back to his condo, and waiting to hear from the police. Meanwhile, his car sat in the parking lot at the mall, where it would continue to sit for three weeks. In the mean time someone would steal the license plate, a homeless person took up residence for several nights, and eventually the car was labelled a nuisance and towed away. Sanford didn’t have a clue what had happened, and true to form neglected to follow up because that would take effort. In the end, his car sat in a lot for a year, was eventually crushed. </p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">A year later Sanford would be in Pier One Imports, shopping for a lamp. He spotted a lamp that was made from ersatz rusted metal, liked it and took it home. He imagined that the metal in that lamp was recycled metal of which his car had been part of. So, Sanford did get his car back, and minimal effort was expended.</p>Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-23403252569324579952020-05-27T08:30:00.002-07:002020-05-29T10:32:22.470-07:00Herbie Hits Velocity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NOlKLdvxPSo/Xs6HaMpBePI/AAAAAAAAA-E/USUn-t-YWtk5o-ONd8Yz9WQ1yV0IPg_QQCPcBGAYYCw/s1600/herbie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1116" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NOlKLdvxPSo/Xs6HaMpBePI/AAAAAAAAA-E/USUn-t-YWtk5o-ONd8Yz9WQ1yV0IPg_QQCPcBGAYYCw/s320/herbie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Herbie’s gash on his head was the least of his problems at the moment. Having fallen off his skateboard for the umpteenth time, he found himself wondering why he had decided to take on this enterprise in the first place. The idea of a car towing him down the street while on the skateboard had immediately sounded appealing, and it was, for a brief while.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">His friend Chuck had come up with the idea, and like many of Chuck’s ideas, it did not involve him actually doing anything. He was, he would say, just an idea man. And often, his ideas were ill-advised and therefore appealing to the teenage mind. Issues such as mortality and loss of a limb or an eye never entered Herbie’s mind until after these things were over. Chuck was, and would always be, someone who was good at selling bad ideas to other people. He was the Ron Popeil of bad ideas. You could have one concussion, but wait - for this limited time offer you could get a concussion and a small gash on the head, which would bleed much worse than it was.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">So they got a rope from the tool shed in the back of Chuck’s house. A sturdy rope indeed. They considered where to tie it, and then Chuck had the idea of popping the trunk, and tying it to the latch inside. It was true that then Chuck would not be able to see out of his rear-view mirror, but then, what could possibly go wrong?</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Chuck started slow down the street in front of their house, and as Herbie was pulled behind, he thought that was indeed fun. Chuck was alternately looking ahead and then through the side mirror, hoping to get a glimpse of Herbie, and indeed Herbie was weaving in and out, while picking up speed. At that point, Chuck fished out his phone, and set it to record. He then began to steer the car with his knee, while he turned around in his seat, stuck his head out of the window, and began filming. This would be great on their YouTube channel. Needless to say, this channel often featured Herbie doing some stupid thing that Chuck had suggested he do, such as the time Herbie ran into a telephone pole while riding his bike backwards, coasting down a hill.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">At this point, Chuck had some decent footage of Herbie, but it would be even better if he sped up just a bit. So Chuck glanced forward just enough to look ahead, and then at the speedometer. He was going about 4 miles an hour, at his guess. So, he gently pushed on the accelerator.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">The problem was that there was a surge. Herbie was a little concerned, but it was even more fun at this point. Great fun indeed. Neither had considered the stop sign coming up ahead, and when they were nearly upon it, Chuck considered running it, but then decided better of it, so he took his foot off the gas, and pressed the brake gently.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Herbie could not see forward, because Chuck’s trunk was open, so he had no clue they were coming to a stop. In fact, at this precise moment, he had flipped around and was riding backwards. Backwards! How cool was that!</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">But the rope came suddenly slack, and Herbie continued to roll forward, at approximately 5 miles an hour. He hit the back of the car, his head hitting the edge of the trunk, which left a Frankstein-like gash in his forehead. Just like in the cartoons, Herbie did see stars.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">He ended up in the trunk, with his skateboard on the ground. Chuck, not thinking to look behind, went through the intersection. Herbie was a little disoriented by now, and tried to jump out of the trunk, to get his skate board. Unfortunately, the rope tripped him up, and he face planted on the asphalt.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Chuck then realized that Herbie was lying on the ground, and pulled over. The skateboard was in pieces, Herbie was lying on the ground moaning, while Chuck continued filming. Primo footage!</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">A few weeks later, their Youtube video has gotten 5,000 views, which was their best yet. They even picked up some new subscribers! Chuck had a great idea. Let’s do it again, but I will push you down the street in my car. Herbie’s mind, never thinking about past mistakes, agreed. It would be awesome. Maybe they would get 10000 views this time.</span></div>
Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-89518064290729994202019-02-14T14:42:00.001-08:002019-02-14T14:46:49.825-08:00Milo's Arch Enemy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YnhYna_XlUw/XGXusS4G8uI/AAAAAAAAAzU/4ydAVKFt_EET93OMHTxJwAmROC_gCOABgCLcBGAs/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2019-02-14%2Bat%2B5.40.03%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1216" data-original-width="1600" height="243" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YnhYna_XlUw/XGXusS4G8uI/AAAAAAAAAzU/4ydAVKFt_EET93OMHTxJwAmROC_gCOABgCLcBGAs/s320/Screen%2BShot%2B2019-02-14%2Bat%2B5.40.03%2BPM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
Milo had no enemies. Well, actually he did, but it wasn’t an enemy - it was an ARCH enemy. Milo was a superhero, and all superheroes had to have their nemesis. His was his neighbor down the hall from his apartment. Said neighbor (named Chuck, Charles or something like that) had put out a welcome mat with puppies on it that said “WELCOME”. It was attractive and playful. And Milo hated it, because he had bought the very same welcome mat only 2 weeks before, but had neglected to put it out. Now, he had a welcome mat that he couldn’t use. And the welcome mat was important, as that was the only thing that people could put outside their door to differentiate their apartment from any other faceless apartment door.<br />
<br />
Milo had only met Chuck a time or two before. He was scruffy bearded, thin and tall. He wore those skinny jeans that looked like something he had stolen from his girl friend. They had met downstairs while checking their mail boxes, and Milo noticed that Chuck had received a LOT of mail. The box was stuffed full. He wondered what that was about - bills? Junk mail? Fan Mail? One of the letters had hit the ground, Milo picked it up, and it was a handwritten envelope from Japan. Japan?<br />
<br />
Milo handed the envelope to Chuck, Chuck said thanks, turned and walked to the elevator. Milo followed. He was curious as to what was going on here, but didn’t want to appear too nosy. He smiled at Chuck while they got on the elevator, but Chuck had already opened one of the envelopes and was reading a one page letter. He smiled faintly. Milo was dying to see what was in that letter. He coughed a fake cough, and then said “Letter from a girlfriend?”. Chuck looked up, smirked, and said “Nope”.<br />
<br />
At that point the elevator doors opened, and they split up. Milo was vexed. He imagined it was a job offer. Maybe a piece of fan mail? He went through all the options. Milo’s brain whirled like a tire stuck in mud. After a bit, he decided he didn’t like Chuck very much at all. “He could have at least given me a hint” he thought.<br />
<br />
So Milo threw away his welcome mat, and bought a new one. This was a “Hello Kitty” one. “Let’s take it in a different direction” he thought. He put it out. Good. His was cooler than Chuck’s anyway, with the hipster-ironic thing going on.<br />
<br />
Two weeks later, Milo was taking his trash out, and walked by Chuck’s apartment on the way to the elevator. HE HAD A NEW WELCOME MAT. It was the same “Hello Kitty” one. Milo picked it up, and got in the elevator, and pushed the button for the first floor. On the way down, there was a small lurch, and the elevator stopped. Milo was perplexed, but he decided to wait patiently for a minute to see if it would start up again on it’s own. It didn’t. Milo ended up pushing the alarm button which rang a bell. About two hours later, Milo finally escaped, with his trash and the welcome mat, which he had rolled up to try to obscure it. But of course, as he got out of the elevator, there was skinny jeaned Chuck talking to a elevator technician. Milo had a moment of panic……and decided to rush on by.<br />
<br />
Chuck glanced at him, and saw the welcome mat. “You throwing away your welcome mat? Can I have it?”. Milo was stuck. He handed it over, ran out, dumped his trash, and ran back in to the elevator. Chuck was gone.<br />
<br />
Milo went upstairs, and Chuck’s welcome mat was back in place. He went to his own apartment, and HIS WELCOME MAT WAS GONE. So Milo now had an arch-enemy. The battle was on.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-53070976224454346572017-12-19T13:42:00.000-08:002017-12-20T07:28:21.533-08:00Bernice the Cookie Waster<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hXPZ_mI2ZMw/WjmGbdi_VOI/AAAAAAAAAsg/12ThIIVimaow0vA8g57jytJ0dF1LnmMzQCLcBGAs/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-12-19%2Bat%2B4.36.19%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1212" data-original-width="1600" height="242" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hXPZ_mI2ZMw/WjmGbdi_VOI/AAAAAAAAAsg/12ThIIVimaow0vA8g57jytJ0dF1LnmMzQCLcBGAs/s320/Screen%2BShot%2B2017-12-19%2Bat%2B4.36.19%2BPM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
Bernice had enough of the cookies. There they had been, sitting in the break room, for the last three days. Someone had baked them, and everyone had one, but not two. One would guess the noble reason was that no one wanted to be greedy, but the actual reason was that they were dry and had an off taste. No one knew who had made them, and since they were on a disposable chinet plate, there was no opportunity to locate the owner of the plate. The rumor was they were vegan, which meant no buttery goodness.<br />
<br />
Bernice had actually eaten three, one for each time she had been into the break room. Yes, they weren’t very good, but she couldn’t resist, even a mediocre vegan chocolate chip cookie that probably had some weird ingredient that was supposedly good for you, but was not very popular, particularly in a cookie that everyone should like. She felt like it was a bait and switch.<br />
<br />
She was ready to chuck the whole thing in the trash, as it had been three days. The foil was half off them, so as dry they had been originally, now they were even more so, brittle tan-brownish discs of styrofoam. But there was an unexpressed rule that whoever put a snack in the break room, was the one who decided when it had to go. Mind you, some things didn’t last that long, like the scrumptious tunnel of fudge bundt cake from last week, which was definitely made with butter, or at least margarine. Bernice wondered - is margarine vegan? She wasn’t sure.<br />
<br />
She took the last bite of the cookie. It was hard, but at least there was a chocolate chip in it. But who knows, maybe it wasn’t chocolate, but that carob nonsense which didn’t fool anyone.<br />
<br />
She then decided to take matters into her own hands, and dispose of them. Right now, indeed. She got up, walked through the maze of cubicles. Alex was leaning back in his chair, staring off into space as usual. She gave him a look and he hunched over the computer, pretending to be busy.<br />
<br />
In the break room was the plate of cookies, with three left on it. She picked it up, and threw it in the trash. Done! She had done everyone a favor. Maybe someone would take this as a hint, and bring in something tasty tomorrow.<br />
<br />
Later that afternoon came the email from Leonard. The subject line was “WHO THREW AWAY THE COOKIES?”. Bernice groaned. The email had been sent to the whole department, with a terse message about wasting food, particularly delicious cookies that had been brought in for everyone to enjoy. Leonard ended by saying he was disappointed.<br />
<br />
Alex peeked over the cubicle. “You threw them away, didn’t you?”. Bernice gave a grimace, and then nodded. “Good, because they sucked. I ate one and had to wash it down with old coffee.”. Alex then went back to his cubicle, to stare off in space again.<br />
<br />
The next day there was a bundt cake, a pumpkin spice one. But Bernice was now suspicious. Maybe it had chia seed in it? Maybe zucchini? She couldn’t be sure. There was one slice ready to eat. She broke off a piece. Not bad at all, she thought. She picked up the rest of the piece.<br />
<br />
Then she turned, and there was Leonard. “I know you threw away the cookies! I had plans for those cookies!.” Bernice shrugged, “Well, they were three days old, and people had stopped eating them”. “They were perfectly fine, someone may have wanted one, but you had to be Miss Wasteful and throw them away.” “Hey! I’m sorry! I didn’t know you had made them.” Leonard turned pink, and pointed a finger at her “WASTER, WASTER! You are the problem!”. Bernice tried to leave, but Leonardpicked up the bundt cake and threw it at her. She ducked and it hit the wall. Leonard then left the room cursing loudly, kicking cubicles. She could hear him saying “BERNICE IS A WASTEY WASTER. SHE IS THE REASON THIS PLACE IS GOING TO HELL.”<br />
<br />
Later that day she saw Leonard carrying a box, accompanied by the security guard who normally did nothing but watch netflix on his phone. As Leonard passed her cubicle, he hissed at her “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT”.<br />
<br />
The next day, there was a plate of cookies in the break room. They were an odd color, brownish with flecks of green. Bernice bit into one. It was kale.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-77788477334285612532014-12-09T17:09:00.001-08:002014-12-09T17:10:07.592-08:00Josef Makes Decisions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jKB7Us8K4ZE/VIedD5MLzbI/AAAAAAAAAbM/wVweb4kiC6M/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2014-12-09%2Bat%2B8.08.03%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jKB7Us8K4ZE/VIedD5MLzbI/AAAAAAAAAbM/wVweb4kiC6M/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2014-12-09%2Bat%2B8.08.03%2BPM.png" height="158" width="200" /></a></div>
Josef felt like a change. The blue socks had to go. It was black for him today. Black went with everything, so the decision to which pants to wear became much simpler. There were dependencies here.<br />
<br />
These sort of dilemmas cropped up every day for Josef. His mind was often made up, but only after some deliberation. Nothing was instantaneous; he was the equivalent to slow drip to Starbuck’s instant coffee. He always made a decision in the end, even if the path was not straight.<br />
<br />
Crossing the street that day against a red light was not unusual for Josef; he weighed the risks versus the inconvenience of waiting and the decision was clear. It was easier to walk out into the street and let the cars deal with it. It was most logical. He was small, they were big, so it is their responsibility to stop.<br />
<br />
So this day, a very temperate 65 degrees, partly cloudy, with Josef just having finished a nice lunch of a roast beef sandwich, potato chips and a coke, was the day that his assumptions were put to the test. Josef wasn’t actually hit by the car. The car was hit by another car when it had to slam on brakes to avoid him.<br />
<br />
It was a false causality to link his actions to being hit in the head with a half full can of soda. He did nothing to warrant the driver’s outrage. In fact, he had tried hard to go on his merry way, leaving the scene of the accident.<br />
<br />
The can of soda was lukewarm, and it gushed on him with enthusiasm. It left a small dent in his forehead. He says, and there is really no way to disprove it otherwise, that for a second he blacked out, and does not remember the next few minutes.<br />
<br />
Accounts say that Josef chased the driver down and kicked him hard, yelling that it was a free country and he was a loyal american. Then he slipped and fell on his butt, got up, cursed a bit and left down the street, hair plastered with sugary liquid. By this point, the police showed up and Josef was dragged back to the scene of the accident.<br />
<br />
In the end, nothing changed for Josef. He still crosses the street whenever he wants to. Often, you can see him not even bothering to look. What happened once can never happen again. That is what Josef decided.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-46089363199170673942013-04-09T19:13:00.000-07:002013-04-09T19:13:14.488-07:00Elias Likes to Date<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cv6r7oN6v-U/UWTJ-Weh9gI/AAAAAAAAAQo/n3sVabnVjts/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-04-09+at+10.09.37+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cv6r7oN6v-U/UWTJ-Weh9gI/AAAAAAAAAQo/n3sVabnVjts/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-04-09+at+10.09.37+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
It came to an end for Elias. A complete, grinding - metal on concrete halt. He was at once shocked but also delighted.<br />
<br />
His expectations had been different. It seemed to him, waiting this long for a relationship to die was in itself an admission of mortality. We only have so much time, don't we? Elias rubbed his eyes. It was part of the deal, it was expected after all.<br />
<br />
Cloe was smoking again. It was a nasty habit that she picked up when things went badly, or sometimes too well. In any case, it was only one cigarette, not a whole pack. It had been a long time, and while it is like riding a bicycle, it takes time for the body to adjust to the cool breeze of nicotine.<br />
<br />
Their relationship (such a word) consisted of trips to concerts, movies, things that two people do while surrounded by many more people. It was to her as if he lacked the ability to go beneath the shell. It was all superficial with him, not in a sexist way, instead emotionally plastic. She felt sometimes like he was on TV talking to her, a link that worked mainly one way.<br />
<br />
Fortunately it had been brief. It was something to remember to forget. She watched the brown veins of tar on the cigarette as she smoked it, and imagined it was doing the same thing to her lungs. Elias was just ash.<br />
<br />
Elias was working out while listening to Giorgio Moroder soundtrack music. The pulsing synths and thudding disco beat matched his breath as he did his sit-ups, his push-ups and pseudo-yoga posturing. The music guaranteed that the kind of peace that Elias felt was warm, soft and bland. It crowded out the details of the world and gave him elemental simplicity.<br />
<br />
He fixed himself a drink, and settled into the chair in front of the computer. He tapped out the address, and found himself on one of the dozen different dating sites he belonged to. He looked at the choices, and felt like he was in a candy store. Sweet and not a bit nutritious. Just his style.<br />
Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-26240734490407697092011-10-09T11:35:00.000-07:002011-12-10T14:43:30.566-08:00Fritz Goes There<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w4vfeE-jrII/TpHpZcSr5-I/AAAAAAAAAOk/6GGJ69HYTfM/s1600/Screen+Shot+2011-10-09+at+2.33.55+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w4vfeE-jrII/TpHpZcSr5-I/AAAAAAAAAOk/6GGJ69HYTfM/s320/Screen+Shot+2011-10-09+at+2.33.55+PM.jpg" width="320" /></a>Fritz went there. It seemed like the right thing to do, in the flashpoint of the moment, where there was no rewind, undo, command z. The camera would spin around, for then it could be seen the reactions of both Fritz and Ann in an instant.</div><br />
Fritz had made the mistake of saying the obvious - "I told you". It never really serves any purpose, after all. It isn't even that satisfying on reflection, when the fallout settles in. Ann was so thinned skin anyway. Comments never bounced off of her; they would bruise her ever so slighting, and sometimes she would nurse them back to health, but she was really a bad nurse - often her concern would make it bigger than it was, which meant that it was always big. This was, for Fritz, the biggest deficit in their relationship, inside his mental spreadsheet.<br />
<br />
They had a cat. Had a cat. Sentra (the cat's name) was a rogue. He was cagey. He pissed in Fritz's closet, so Fritz put a litter box there. Peace was then achieved, but like North and South Korea, peace was really just a term for un-war.<br />
<br />
Things would get knocked over. They found a dead mouse lying on their bed. Fritz flashed back to "The Godfather" for a moment. When either of them left, Sentra would be there, ready to jet out.<br />
<br />
It was a slice of freedom, and he did indeed escape. Fritz had warned Ann about this many times, because it was he that would have to chase him down. Sentra was smart, or maybe just so dumb that he really couldn't quite be understood by humans. Cats are like that.<br />
<br />
Ann had come home from Trader Joe's, with her two bags of frozen stuff, and the brownie mix Fritz liked. She had fumbled for the keys. The obvious thing would have been to put the bags down, but no, as Fritz would point out, she didn't do that. Unlocking the door, she pushed it open with body, and in doing so, saw the gray blur of Sentra out the door.<br />
<br />
Ann had not had much luck with finding him when Fritz showed up to help in the search. Their townhouse was a sea of many, with varying faces, but ultimately clad in a shade of vinyl. Fritz thought, if I had the brain about the size of a walnut, I would get lost too. Or maybe just not care. At least until dinner time. And even then, that could be a bug, or maybe a rodent.<br />
<br />
Fritz thought these thought while wandering through the complex, occasionally looking underneath rows of parked cars. There was no point in calling Sentra's name - first, he would feel like an idiot for doing it - people would think he had lost his car, and was calling for it - and second, it was doubtful that Sentra would even acknowledge him.<br />
<br />
Later than night, the discussion incrimination interrogation would begin, and the eventual "I told you" would surface.<br />
<br />
Ann at that moment narrowed her eyes. She had moment where she thought of Sentra out there , wandering around, and then she was out the door too.<br />
<br />
Sentra, on the other hand, had already moved on. Three streets over, in the late afternoon, Nicolette found Sentra grooming himself on the sidewalk in front of her town home. When she opened door, Sentra zipped in before her. Nicolette decided that this was a sign.<br />
<br />
Sentra, on the other hand, didn't really care one way or another. Humans were these big, mobile meat-things - too big to eat - really just there to provide a warm place to sleep, food and cleaning up crap. Nicolette decided this was a fair arrangement.<br />
<br />
Fritz, on the other hand, had to work really hard to get Ann back. It took two days of pleading, going by her parent's house, waiting out in the cold for her to come to the door, having messages relayed that she wanted nothing to do with him. This was an unfortunate side effect of both of their brains being bigger than walnuts….at least that was what Fritz decided in the end.<br />
<div><br />
</div>Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-66403213631947890902011-09-06T06:54:00.000-07:002011-09-06T06:54:27.463-07:00Alfredo the Tiger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zxDuQ44Etk4/TmYl3bu__PI/AAAAAAAAAOU/IlQHAEntHfs/s1600/Screen+Shot+2011-09-06+at+9.51.51+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zxDuQ44Etk4/TmYl3bu__PI/AAAAAAAAAOU/IlQHAEntHfs/s320/Screen+Shot+2011-09-06+at+9.51.51+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div>Alfredo felt it was useless to go on. Vera had fallen asleep during the long, protracted argument/counterargument that he had so eloquently constructed inside his own dialog with himself….the equivalent of masterbation, but in the case, followed by a brisk splash of cold water, and no happy ending in sight.<br />
<br />
Vera wasn't anti intellectual, it was simply that pragmatism was her grounding spot. There wasn't the nuance, for her is was just noise, stray data around the margins to prevented getting to the heart of things. It was in her taste in clothes (largely Goodwill) and her choice of music…for her is was the ONE album, "Double Nickels on the Dime", which would always come on at some random spot when she started her car. It was a weird sense of pragmatism even her; let someone else make the mix tape, so that it is all different and all the same.<br />
<br />
Alfredo rolled over, and ended up sitting on the edge of the bed. The dim glow of electronics was enough of a nightlight to make out Vera's profile. She lay still. Alfredo, on the other hand, always hogged the bed. But somehow he managed.<br />
<br />
It was at this moment in contemplation that he heard the sound of a car door opening. Downstairs. In front of his house.<br />
<br />
He waited.<br />
<br />
He heard the definite sound of a car door creaking. Definitely. Vera drove a 1975 Chevy Nova. The door definitely squeaked.<br />
<br />
At this point, Alfredo had to make a decision. A very hard thing for him to do. He had just argued with himself for half an hour……about italian neo-realism. Now, he needed to find his cell phone….it was downstairs…..sitting on the coffee table in the living room.<br />
<br />
He put is slippers on, thinking it would deaden his steps as he crept downstairs. He was tempted to peek outside, and paused for just a microsecond to look at the front door, but then he snapped back into focus, and found the phone, just where he left it. A small miracle indeed.<br />
<br />
The next 5 minutes will be re-examined again and again….in the future, in the same way that those pesky italian neo-realists argued in Alfredo's head. Things became quite blurry, but there was evidence at the end that could point to some of the major points.<br />
<br />
First, there was the phone call. It was, as records would later show, brief and incoherent. 15 seconds, to cover the most basic of information: a noise outside, and an address. After the briefest of time, Alfredo decided to look outside after all, as he could now hear the sound of a engine's starter kicking in and out.<br />
<br />
He doesn't remember grabbing the umbrella. Creeping out of the back of the house, looping around to the front, hiding under the bushes. The car kicked in, and shut off again. Alfredo could see someone half in and half out of the car.<br />
<br />
He then ran towards the car, and gave the car door a good kick. Some one cursed. The thief stood up, and unexplicably Alfred found a Sony Explod radio/CD car dash unit hurtling towards him, but fortunately the thief was a poor aim, and it fell on the ground.<br />
<br />
What happened next seemed like destiny, as a CD popped out. Alfred picked it up, and threw it like a frisbee.<br />
<br />
It is important to understand that Music CD's are not frisbees. They do not fly particularly well. They have a tendency to turn sideways, which this one did. But it did hit the car thief squarely in the head, and despite it's small mass, knocked him over. Alfredo doesn't remember this part - the part about the umbrella, but when the unknown person started to get up, evidentially he was met with a solid whack from the pink umbrella.<br />
<br />
Later they would find fragments of the Minuteman CD on the ground. Alfredo offered no explanation, but in retrospect, should have at least made something up. There was definitely a chance to elaborate. He was so unfamiliar with actually acting on something immediately. It actually made him uncomfortable. Vera, on the other hand, saved the fragments for many years. Alfredo, for her, was a tiger in a pair of bedroom slippers.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-57669688271938821302011-06-23T13:56:00.000-07:002011-06-23T13:56:41.932-07:00Archangel #38<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S07aWJD8STc/TgOn6iYgM4I/AAAAAAAAAMQ/rLOQCtIawjc/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-06-23+at+4.53.41+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S07aWJD8STc/TgOn6iYgM4I/AAAAAAAAAMQ/rLOQCtIawjc/s200/Screen+shot+2011-06-23+at+4.53.41+PM.png" width="200" /></a></div>It came as a shock, an emotional shock to be sure, but also a real electrical shock for Jimmy Bowden, as he casually flipped on the light switch. He had insisted on using the cool brushed metal plates for the switches in his new studio, but he actually had no business working with electricity at all. It didn't help that he was color blind, but even more - that he was definitely challenged when it came to simple mechanical tasks. Changing a tire.....maybe, if he took notes. Anything requiring a power tool had been deemed off limits by his then girlfriend Charisse. He had almost severed a thumb with a power drill, for christsakes, never mind the drill holes he had left in the small eat-in kitchen dining table that tended to become is adjunct workspace when his old studio was full of stuff he had pulled (rescued he says) out of dumpsters. And some of it did smell.<br />
<br />
Jimmy did jump back at that moment, and kind of crashed into a table full of paints. Some of these little plastic containers cheerfully popped open, and left spatters of paint, similar to a giant paint gun, on the floor. And Jimmy did like paint guns. Archangel #37 was painted entirely with a paint ball gun, after all.<br />
<br />
Jimmy's shock subsided when smoke began to pour out of the switch box, but that did not last long, fortunately, for the power breaker did finally kick in. At least he did not burn the house down. That would be a shame.<br />
<br />
The space itself had been built by someone else, a gruff beer-bellied guy who always wore jumpsuits, typically gray or blue, made by Dickies. He didn't say much, and listened to his stream of conservative talk radio at full blast on his admittedly cool DeWalt black and yellow boom box. Jimmy kind of envied it, and swore he would have one some day. It was LOUD, and Jimmy was so sorely tempted to plug in his iPod to it to listen to Morbid Angel, if could even figure out how to do that. He doubted the handyman/builder would like death metal.<br />
<br />
The paint on the floor sort of coalesced, and created this swirl of pattern on the floor. It was cheap acrylic paint that he had doctored up with various stuff so that it had a slightly runny texture.<br />
<br />
Jimmy had decided that he really needed another light switch, so he had wired it himself. He was confused by the wires, and red, green, blue (what was blue for?) and black were one thing, but the fact that it was hard for jimmy to tell some colors apart made it even more of a challenge. He looked at the smoldering, melted switch, and proceed it to pull it out of the wall with a crowbar, for in addition to everything else that made Jimmy unique, he was impatient and unable to think more than 3 minutes ahead. At some point, the box came free, and Jimmy fell backwards hitting his head on the floor, making a light thud as it bounced off the floor covered with industrial vinyl, the kind seen in commercial establishments with the little bumps about the size of quarters. His head at this point was covered in paint. He appeared to be bleeding psychedelic blood as he stood up, wobbly on his feed. He then slipped again, falling forward into a pile of whitewashed masonite siding he had scavenged. The paint had been absorbed enough that his body acted as one giant paint roller at this point.<br />
<br />
Later this year, he would hang Archangel #38 in his one-man show. He was careful as always to not say much as people milled about making comments. The general view was that it was his best work yet, a sense of spontaneity and spiritual explosion combined with the temperance of man's physical being. Or something like that.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-47292575887097496822011-03-23T10:47:00.000-07:002011-03-25T06:53:16.586-07:00Latisha Eats Lunch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-aX9Z7JSK4Dk/TYoxEQlUsrI/AAAAAAAAAMM/t9ZBdZnhWzI/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-03-23+at+1.42.26+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-aX9Z7JSK4Dk/TYoxEQlUsrI/AAAAAAAAAMM/t9ZBdZnhWzI/s200/Screen+shot+2011-03-23+at+1.42.26+PM.png" width="200" /></a></div>She looked in the back of the fridge, at the suspicious, small plastic containers. Some of them were perhaps viable, some were not, but she couldn't be sure until the lid was opened. She was wise enough to know if the lid bowed outward the least little bit, it was straight to the trash. These disposable food containers were so handy.<br />
<br />
But Latisha probed on. With her boyfriend gone, it was indeed time to get rid of this stuff. He was notorious for eating things way past expiration. Lunch Meat, in itself kind of gross, was unfortunately aged in the fridge until there was a sheen of slime on it. But Sean would happily consume it in a sandwich consisting of a slice of plastic looking American cheese (how appropriate indeed), a thick mortar of mayonnaise, two slices of lunch meat and oddest of all - a fried egg (in itself often well out of date).<br />
<br />
In the very back was a truly odd plastic container. It was low and oval shaped, and snapped together in the middle. It was made of a kind of semi-opaque silvery plastic, smooth and well made. Inside she couldn't quite make out the contents, but it looked like takeout Chinese. There were what appeared to be noodles, and little chunks of vegetables. It looked strangely appetizing.<br />
<br />
Prying the container apart took some effort. Using a table knife was not sufficient, plus she was concerned about injuring herself. In the end it was the tip of a flat blade screwdriver and a wine bottle wrapped in a towel that allowed it to pop open.<br />
<br />
When the container opened, there was a fragrant aroma - was it ginger and citrus? She couldn't quite pin it down, but it looked and smelled wonderful. There didn't seem to be any dangerous growths on it. It actually looked quite fresh.<br />
<br />
She found to her delight that that container itself was quite microwavable, although it did glow ever so faintly as the food heated. She was quite unable to hear the muffled screams from the container as it was bathed in hi intensity radio waves.<br />
<br />
----<br />
<br />
Znged had been patient. He was part of the early scout forces from a distant planet, which was called Lacasli Four, being the fourth planet (and final one) that had been colonized by his people. This had been over 4*4*3 years ago.<br />
<br />
The proud Lacasli's had managed to prosper and grow, despite the fact that their appendages were like limp egg noodles, and their bodies a lumpen mass, with all the organs seemly thrown in at random. This was actually their strength, for it was difficult to wipe them out once they took root. Shooting or stepping on them only caused them to spread. The only thing that had seemed to work was intense heat, and who had the time to do that? Fortunately for the Lacasli's, the planets they had conquered had been inhabited by dimwitted creatures that were slow moving and apathetic.<br />
<br />
This planet had been a long-shot, an inter-galactic crapshoot. They had blasted off in a huge ship shaped somewhat shaped like a kidney bean, and right before hitting earth's atmosphere, their little individual pods scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind. It was the hope that at least a few of them would survive the plummet to earth, their speed unabated by parachutes or retrorockets.<br />
<br />
Znged had not anticipated it being so cold on earth. It made him even more sticky and clumpy than usual. It was hard to move. It seemed to him that the sun more or less came on for random times, and would stay on for only a short while. He needed sunlight to grow stronger, and now he was feeling particularly weak and lifeless. <br />
<br />
However, he could now feel himself being moved, and then the sun shone intensely into his ship. He could feel things warming up. "At last", he told himself, "the invasion can begin". But as the temperature continued to rise, he became worried. Soon, he could feel himself beginning to cook. This had not been part of the plan.<br />
<br />
----<br />
<br />
Latisha munched down on what she decided was Ginger Lemon Tofu with Noodles. It was some of the best she had ever eaten. She decided that she did need to talk to Sean after all, if for no other reason to find where he did get this wonderful asian takeout.<br />
<br />
The container, made of a remarkable material that was neither a plastic or metal, ended in the trash because she could not find a recycling code on the bottom to identify it. Soon it would end up in a landfill with several dozen other empty containers, the contents consumed with gusto. The invasion wasn't a success, but was delicious none the less.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-2761155808902611872010-11-28T13:10:00.000-08:002010-11-28T13:10:35.620-08:00Paulie the Genius<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/TPLEp9VYxlI/AAAAAAAAAHk/TXl455c2gUI/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-11-28+at+4.06.40+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/TPLEp9VYxlI/AAAAAAAAAHk/TXl455c2gUI/s320/Screen+shot+2010-11-28+at+4.06.40+PM.png" width="264" /></a></div>It was Paulie's day off, a day that had finally come after 10 days of retail hell, the opening of the holiday season with the feral onrush of consumerism. It was for her a scene from a George Romero movie, flesh eating zombies falling off the escalator and into the fountain at the center of Glenville Mall, splashing around mindlessly to the sounds of generic pop christmas music.<br />
<br />
She had quit smoking, but found a pack of cigarettes the other day, and hadn't thrown them out just yet. They were still there, the blah blah blan cancer death label right where she can see it. In the end it wasn't her concern of burning holes in her lungs, it was her teeth she was most concerned about. That yucky yellowness that her grandma had.<br />
<br />
Besides, she had the Nicorette patch to keep her jammin. She actually hadn't bothered to step down to the lower dose at all. Everyday she slapped one on....sometimes more than one on those problem days. Being an Apple genius was just a title after all, it wasn't as if she was going to cure cancer, just help some poor schmuck who spilled a beer into their laptop, or dropped their iphone in the john (a public one at that....yick). It either boils down to liquids or gravity for most iphone's fatal demise. <br />
<br />
And sometimes they lie about it. You are looking at a two month old 4G iPhone that might smell like pee if you were actually to handle it. Instead, you notice the telltale droplets of humidity in the corners, or the white marks left behind when liquid evaporated, where they at least tried to dry it out.<br />
<br />
And they would stare straight at you and lie. Lie Lie Lie.<br />
<br />
Ah well, today is her day off. She didn't have to be a genius at all. <br />
<br />
So instead, it was a 24 oz diet mountain dew and her Xbox 360. She popped the lid on the acid green liquid - the most caffeinated of all diet beverages - and turned her Xbox 360 on. <br />
<br />
And of course, it was the red ring of death. Death. Like Logan's Run, her Xbox 360's life had hit it's limit - like the flashing light on the palm of the hand - Microsoft was pulsing a message....."Hey Pookie! Time to buy the new SLIM Xbox 360."<br />
<br />
And that was the problem with Apple she decided. Their products had to be both addictive and be programmed to fail in some ubambiguous way - no error 51, or frowny iPod - but a big red flashing screen on the iPhone - that says "I FAIL". Or if the screen is smashed, make a grating noise that makes the user want to smash it further.<br />
<br />
Brilliant.<br />
<br />
She opened the pack of cigarettes and fondled one. She decided, in the end, that Microsoft and Apple still had something to learn from Phillip Morris.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-33619454896839089292010-04-28T17:40:00.000-07:002010-04-28T17:40:39.142-07:00Sammy Seal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/S9jVV-UPXbI/AAAAAAAAAHE/nNYyEEKM26Y/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-04-28+at+8.39.30+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/S9jVV-UPXbI/AAAAAAAAAHE/nNYyEEKM26Y/s320/Screen+shot+2010-04-28+at+8.39.30+PM.png" /></a></div>Sammy opened his eyes underwater. He looked straight up, holding his breath, hoping it was long enough that he would never have to come up again.<br />
<br />
Breathing was such a curse. Being underwater, being a swordfish, being a shark. The soft rays of light filter through and create infinite shades of blue and green. The world has an up and down as well as a left and right. It would sort of be like George Jetson.<br />
<br />
He gasped and sat upright in the bath tub. Two minutes. He had counted in his head. Twenty Eight more to go. At 30 minutes, he would cease to be considered a land mammal and more of a sea mammal, like a seal. He would have to get a costume.<br />
<br />
Sammy the Flipper Boy! Watch him glide, watch him jump, watch him grab small fish off of a pole!<br />
<br />
That wasn't the plan. Sammy would have to reconsider this last point. He wasn't in it for the fame. It was for something else.<br />
<br />
It was for Danger.<br />
<br />
Sammy the Danger Seal! With laser guided precision, Sammy takes down a Iraqi secret sub base! Pow, Kaboom, BLAMMO!<br />
<br />
AIIIIEEEEEE!!!! Here comes SAMMY THE DANGER SEAL! ALLAH SAVE US!<br />
<br />
Sammy watched as the water went down the drain. He looked in that black hole, and imagined it to be a missile tube. He stuck his thumb in there, poking it in and out. At some point, it just stuck. He wriggled it for a moment, and it seemed to really be stuck. Finally, the thought occurred that he could squirt some soap into it and loosen it up. After a bit of twisting and cursing (under his breath) it was freed.<br />
<br />
Sammy stood up in the tub. He wasn't a seal any more. Now he was<br />
<br />
SAMMY THE DANGER BOYHal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-32454052414210916002009-11-17T18:39:00.000-08:002011-03-25T08:09:09.640-07:00Leonard In SpaceLeonard looked under the bed. The space underneath was a dim, dark frontier populated by socks without a mate, asteroid sized dust bunnies and a dull, slender black box. It was quite out of reach, but a broom handle allowed Leonard to fish it out, while also kicking up a cloud of dust that made him sneeze. The box was made of a flat, hard material with no apparent seams. He couldn't quite figure out how to open it, so he whacked it repeated with the broom, and pried it open with a knife, an action he would soon regret.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-35973123659300438942009-06-26T06:30:00.000-07:002009-06-26T06:31:54.722-07:00Positive Alex<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SkTNqpsFt3I/AAAAAAAAAG4/aN8KFJhvyas/s1600-h/Picture+3.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 140px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SkTNqpsFt3I/AAAAAAAAAG4/aN8KFJhvyas/s200/Picture+3.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351628389851969394" border="0" /></a><br />Alex felt positive. Positive that he had forgotten to lock the door to his house.<br /><br />This was of particular importance due to his acrimonious breakup with his partner Rick. The stuff that held together was what now pulled them apart. Who owned what, the ugly business of dismantling the accumulation of stuff. It felt like some maudlin encapsulation of the slow dissolution of 5 years.<br /><br />At this point, he just wanted to be rid of it. Perversely he didn't want Rick to have a bit of it. Rick said that he would show up one day with a UHaul and cart what he thought was his away. Damn if he gets the big-ass TV. Damn if he gets the stainless steel refrigerator. Damn Damn Damn.<br /><br />Alex's cubicle had been stripped of any reference to Rick, but the gaping holes where something once was whispered a reminder. He considered the empty cubicle 3 down, on the right. It was across from a window, a precious commodity. The reality was that his manager didn't wield enough influence to secure it for him. Hmmmm....he could just move his stuff in there. After all, it had been empty for one whole week when Tamara was escorted from the building, all of her stuff in a cardboard box. He looked under his desk, and there was a cardboard box with Rickstuff inside.<br /><br />The Razr buzzed in his pants pocket. He glanced at the screen, it was Rick. Alex let it go to voice mail.<br /><br />At lunch Alex went home. He tried the front door. It was locked. Whew.......<br /><br />He unlocked the door, and everything was there.<br /><br />He felt disappointed. It wasn't fair. The entire morning had been spent deciding the next move to get even, but there was no getting even, because Rick had not upped the ante. Alex checked his voicemail. It was Rick's easy voice, telling him that he was at the airport. He had applied for a transfer at work, and there was an opening in Portland. He was on his way there now.<br /><br />Alex was pissed. He was cheated. He wanted closure and Rick got the last word.<br /><br />The cell buzzed. It was Rick again. Alex ignored it.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-76240089873212052242009-06-23T09:23:00.001-07:002011-03-25T08:12:07.706-07:00Ian in Flames<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SkEBoBX0_9I/AAAAAAAAAGw/dizfEAaLS2Y/s1600-h/Picture+4.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350559619367632850" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SkEBoBX0_9I/AAAAAAAAAGw/dizfEAaLS2Y/s200/Picture+4.png" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 166px;" /></a><br />
It began with a bloody toe. Ian was wearing flip flops, and stepped on a piece of metal, which poked through the foam rubber and neatly sliced his middle toe open.<br />
<br />
It took him a while to get it to stop bleeding, and longer still to get a band aid to actually stick. He ended up wrapping the band aid with a small strip of duct tape to hold it in place. Later he would regret this decision, as the adhesive clung to his toe itself. It would require a lot of cursing and a pocket knife to remove.<br />
<br />
He stood in front of Elaine's apartment, on the 5th floor. There was no way that she was going to let him in. Perhaps it would be best to begin considering her his "ex girlfriend", but he was not ready to make that semantic leap just yet. It was not done just yet.<br />
<br />
Elaine was smart to ditch him, Ian thought. There were a lot of issues in his life. He used to think that some of these things were actually considered "personality", but losing his job made him reconsider. Work was an unfair scenario, trading part of his finite life to do someone else's tasks. This thought had informed his attitude towards his job. They owed him something more than a paycheck. They owned everyone big time. He had never read Marx but told people he was a marxist.<br />
<br />
There was smoking. He was defiant of anti-smoking laws. He was constantly harassed when he chose to smoke. It started in restaurants. Now it was public areas. Soon they would have anti-smoking detectors in his dorm room, he thought glumly.<br />
<br />
What Ian didn't know was that there wasn't a smoke detector at all in his dorm room, but there was a web camera. His roommate had installed it to monitor his room when he wasn't there. He had even put it on his web page, and without his knowledge, someone had posed his page to a blog that was read by millions. Ian was on his way to becoming a internet star, but not in a way that he would appreciate.<br />
<br />
Elaine would eventually get a text message from a friend that pointed her to this blog. She would think to herself, as she watched, how pathetic Ian was, with his little toaster oven, microwave and dorm sized fridge, with little else other than a bottle of peppermint schnapps wedged in the freezer. This bottle would figure prominently in Ian's future, when he accidentally set the room on fire.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-30076888695838630452009-05-28T09:00:00.000-07:002009-05-28T09:08:19.730-07:00Lydia's Color Palette<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/Sh62kJ0EPWI/AAAAAAAAAGo/4MVbz4Uq5N8/s1600-h/Picture+7.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 141px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/Sh62kJ0EPWI/AAAAAAAAAGo/4MVbz4Uq5N8/s200/Picture+7.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340906940333833570" border="0" /></a><br />Lydia broke her fall. It happened in slow motion. She thought of the six million dollar man; the odd noise that Steve Austin made when he jumped over something. That was not the noise she made; it was more like a "unhhhh" sound, inglorious to say the least.<br /><br />In the end, she was fortunate in that she just scraped the heel of her hand on the asphalt. She jumped out just before the "don't walk" sign came on. She glared at the drivers and as a result didn't see the small pothole in the pavement. The fall was humiliating, so she bounced up, collected her portfolio and dashed across the street as the cars beared down on her. One was audacious enough to blow his horn, a pathetic beep that inexpensive japanese cars have. She much preferred the air-horn on her rusty fiat.<br /><br />She was in a hurry because of her presentation. She was fried because she had finished it up at 1:00 AM. She wasn't even sure at the end if she had spelled the client's name correctly. It was a blur at 12:45, a bleary eyed prayer that her printer would comply and not run out of toner. She was sure at least that they logo was the right colors for she had sent that our for approval early in the day.<br /><br />Being a freelancer was at once a challenge and represented freedom, but within parameters. She had imagined in school that she would turn advertising on it's head, but she found that there was this big problem in that realization. Clients had their own ideas. Dammit.<br /><br />So it became about colors. Fonts. Lines. What was the soup du jour. Was it celery color (passe) or burnt orange (trendy ironic retroism). It was about demographics. It was about purely subjective preference. It was about history. Screw history!<br /><br />She stopped at starbucks. The green color was reassuring. It was soothing. She thought about the colors of the logo that had been decided for her. Orange, yellow and gray. Degraded typeface that she had found on the net. Something that was cutting edge 5 years ago. Sigh.<br /><br />Her coffee was her friend. It understood her. Hello Mr. Coffee. As she pushed open the door to the glass and steel tower, she failed to notice that the door sign. Pull to open! She smashed into the door, coffee exploded, and her portfolio was damaged. Yellow, Orange, Gray and now light tan.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-65494732303537649842009-05-11T17:33:00.000-07:002009-05-11T17:38:01.757-07:00Bad Luck Magnet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SgjEO1wC-TI/AAAAAAAAAGg/UbV2ZM0f6g8/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SgjEO1wC-TI/AAAAAAAAAGg/UbV2ZM0f6g8/s200/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334729517846165810" border="0" /></a><br />In the end, Sammy had to go to arbitration. It was in the afternoon, on the 12th floor of some office building, in an anonymous meeting room with a artificial plant in one corner, bathed in the blue haze of office lighting. He sat, drawing triangles on the back of the settlement form, listening to his lawyer talking to their lawyer. He felt like he was on TV. He had become convinced that anything bad that was going to happen, would happen to him. And he was right.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-3404502382266769612009-05-08T12:09:00.000-07:002011-03-25T08:13:30.058-07:00Stale Candy<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SgSD2n7mMeI/AAAAAAAAAGY/js044j3lmnA/s1600-h/Picture+3.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333532833168634338" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SgSD2n7mMeI/AAAAAAAAAGY/js044j3lmnA/s200/Picture+3.png" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 175px;" /></a><br />
Zasu poked the bottom of the Russel Stover chocolate. Yuck, maple creme. She placed it back in the box, and tried another. Caramel. Much better. She closed the lid and carefully positioned the box so that now one would know that it was disturbed. The fine layer of dust that stood around the box should have been a clue to the age of the box of candy. When she bit into the chocolate covered caramel, it was flat, hard, kind of brittle actually. It had not occurred to her that candy could go bad, much like her relationship with Frank.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-65241882858566000582009-04-27T09:24:00.000-07:002009-04-27T09:25:26.419-07:00Sam Drinks Mud<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SfXcYWRe0hI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/GjMeaTpI2Ok/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 141px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SfXcYWRe0hI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/GjMeaTpI2Ok/s200/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329408044916724242" border="0" /></a>The sun in California is significantly different. There is no scientific reason for this to be sure, but ask any visitor from elsewhere in the US, and they will agree. It is clearer, warmer to be sure, particularly if you are from the midwest or northeastern United States. The air feels different; there is a vibe of possibility, of the new. Anyone from California would perhaps disagree. There is a maxim that those that live near Disneyland rarely go; the novelty wears off quickly and it becomes something in the background, always there as a reminder, but at the same time it is a noise in the background, a dull roar that is tuned out.<br /><br />Sam had ceased to be annoyed by those, who on their first day in San Francisco, commented on how temperate the weather is. Weather, weather, weather. Weather was what strangers talked about when there was nothing else to talk about. Weather was something that no one had control over, and the inability to change the weather becomes a common point of contact. It is banal because it's commonality makes it so.<br /><br />Sam had to hear a lot of this because of his job. He was a taxi driver, but when he did speed dating he would elaborate, saying that taxi driving was both a way to pay the bills, but gave him fuel for his real work, which as writing 1 minute songs about people. He wrote these songs constantly, particularly when things happened in his job, such as the bastard in the rusted white van cutting him off at the last minute. "Van Driving Man" was an old standard.<br /><br />I'm a Van Driving Man<br />With a Master Plan<br />To rule the world<br />and to get the girl<br /><br />There was more to this, it devolved into a acrimonious rant about stupidity and compromise (I wanted a Camaro, but my wife wanted the minivan.). He didn't feel sorry for these people. They got what they deserved. He was excluded from this of course. He didn't get what he deserved, not nearly enough. Life was shoveling shit down his gullet, and he had no opportunity to swallow. It just kept packing in there.<br /><br />Time to pull over, and pick up another passenger, a pasty faced woman in her late 30's. He thought that she could use a new hairstyle, that the closely cropped and spiked look wasn't working for her anymore. It seemed strange when coupled with her new found poundage. He couldn't let things go, so why should anyone else?<br /><br />He grunted and took a swig of his cold Dunkin Donuts coffee. It tasted literally like Mud. But it was good mud.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-14542906079144042022009-04-13T07:10:00.000-07:002009-04-13T07:13:52.595-07:00The Tape in Franks Head<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SeNHzioFZkI/AAAAAAAAAGI/K9TKblgPYT0/s1600-h/Picture+6.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 142px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SeNHzioFZkI/AAAAAAAAAGI/K9TKblgPYT0/s200/Picture+6.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324178135275890242" border="0" /></a><br />The road whipped past, slick and shining with a drizzle of rain that had been intermittent throughout the day. The reflective paint of the stripes looks like pulses, fleeting flashes of light that blipped on and off, a hidden message that couldn't be decoded in time. Frank imagined the message to be ominous, a harbinger of some sort of bad outcome. He started to count them, but it was hard to see through the metal grating that separated him from the driver and his partner. Frank shifted in his seat, the handcuffs a little too tight, and his feet were starting to go a little numb. Soon the tingling would filter in, and there would be little or nothing he could do about it, another reminder of his failure to escape the law.<br /><br />All traces of his medication were slowly filtering out of his system, and the whispers in his head were rising from the dull roar of the road. In a way they were reassuring, he had been with them for so long that it was something familiar, even though the messages they conveyed weren't entirely good. Frank knew that, but the loop would continue to play until it wore him down and then he would cave to it's will. He didn't want to do bad things, but at times the mechanism would kick in, and he would see himself, detached, moving through the motions, digging the gun out of the back of the sock drawer, sticking the pistol against his head one more time. He knew this little loop would someday come to a conclusion, the tape flapping as the reel moved around and around, around and around, around and around. He began to bang is head, softly, against the side of the window, trying to loosen the voices, imaging they would escape through his ears, a wisp of smoke that would have a slight yellow trace, with the smell of burning sulphur. The smell would be unpleasant, but at least he would be free. He imagined himself soaring about the trees, floating on the ether, bodiless and ephemeral. He would be free at last, his head clear, not clouded by the numerous pills he had to take. It was a moment of respite, a break. He banged his head louder. Soon they would start to shout at him, and tell him to stop. This was a loop too. Every thing repeated. Every thing repeated. Every thing repeated.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-46050492722601984062009-04-12T17:14:00.000-07:002009-04-12T20:21:16.501-07:00Spring in Utica<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SeKEMtNNuJI/AAAAAAAAAGA/9tQgOCWNeCk/s1600-h/Picture+5.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 166px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SeKEMtNNuJI/AAAAAAAAAGA/9tQgOCWNeCk/s200/Picture+5.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323963063333664914" border="0" /></a><br />The problem with spring was that it was an in-between time, Sandra thought. She was a fan of the summer, and for her Spring was merely a practice round, a tease with a peek at the sun, followed by days of the typical Utica gray dreariness. She found herself in this moment, again, the perpetual moment of vertigo where she wonders how the hell she ended up in this place. It wasn't fair, but what is? Her sister Pamela, free and single, living in Key West. She had her priorities in the right place. Indeed. No mud rooms in Key West, just a place to let your swimsuit dry.<br /><br />Leaning against the kitchen counter, she heard a sigh, and then realized that it was her own voice, a small echo rattling through the house, soon enough to be filled again with the chatter of Ethan and Suze, home from school. Whenever she felt that life was passing her by, it was this moment of elasticity that pulled her back, back to now, a 32 year old stay at home mom who still painted on the side. Her painting remained her reminder to herself that there was always more. It gave her a strange bit of comfort, a feeling of quiet strength.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-8805937560325876212009-04-05T13:49:00.000-07:002009-04-05T13:50:50.550-07:00Mike's Cabin<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SdkZoHWHjaI/AAAAAAAAAF4/GwHmjZVOmOQ/s1600-h/Picture+22.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 142px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SdkZoHWHjaI/AAAAAAAAAF4/GwHmjZVOmOQ/s200/Picture+22.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321312611672231330" border="0" /></a><br />In the grand scheme of things, it couldn't have made much difference in how Stephanie and Mike fell out of love with one another, for there could have been many reasons, many brief, transitional moments where one felt slighted by the other, where the thin threads of a web were pulled apart, to drift in the breeze.<br /><br />Mike had moved on years before. Now, his life was consumed with his grand passion, building a cabin in upstate New York with their son, Andrew. It was the momental achievement, for Mike had absolutely no skill with the simplest tools. It was something that he had to prove to himself, more than anything else in his life. In an indirect way, it was perhaps his mid-life crisis, but instead of the buxom blond affair, or even the vintage sports car that collected dust in the garage, it was a log cabin that had arrived in a kit, with presawn logs and a set of instructions that were the size of a slender phone book for a town of 10,000 people. To be completely fair, it's bulk was in part from it's being in English and French.<br /><br />This project was well underway, and gave Mike an excuse to vanish on weekends, to "work on the cabin". In reality, he would often camp there on the site, watch a movie on his laptop, and finally sleep to the sounds of crickets in the night, without actually doing any work at all. He just wanted to get away.Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6955184150604844633.post-79686182406229567202009-04-04T18:42:00.001-07:002009-04-12T18:17:29.676-07:00Albert Gets Booted<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SdgNUix2FxI/AAAAAAAAAFA/AeBNOjTJZi0/s1600-h/Picture+7.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 142px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SdgNUix2FxI/AAAAAAAAAFA/AeBNOjTJZi0/s200/Picture+7.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321017606322657042" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Albert was confused. He was sure that he had put on two black socks, but now that he stood in the clear 7 o'clock California sunlight, it was obvious that he was wrong. It would not have been an issue if it was not for the gap from shoe to cuff that was approximately 2 inches. The pants were an embarrassment, but it was all that he could find that would match his jacket, that was in itself snug, with little stress folds around the armpit. It would have to do for court.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The drive there was mostly uneventful. He stopped at McDonald's for breakfast, consisting of two apple pies and a medium black coffee. He ate as he drove, a bit of the apple filling dripping out on to his tie. At a stop light, he dabbed it out with a napkin soaked with a little coffee. Meanwhile, the light changed and the honda accord behind him honked. He hunched down and mashed the accelerator as the car roared past. The coffee slipped out his hand and exploded in the passenger floorboard, drenching the pile of wrappers, empty bags and diet mountain dew bottles.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">In a moment of peculiar luck, he managed to find a parking place on the street. He weighed the potential for yet another ticket vs. the possibility that his case might be solved quickly. He could under no circumstances imagine his car booted, which it would be, with remarkable quickness.››</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_FS_53CyW78M/SdgMidlf2ZI/AAAAAAAAAE4/OqtcJ0KGo78/s1600-h/Picture+7.png"><br /></a>Hal Meekshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16059462843697565259noreply@blogger.com0