who holds the keys

Chain-link fence outside the power plant. Padlocked. A padlock one could buy at the hardware store. Cabinet for the electrical service into the building, protected by bollards. Padlocked. Switchbox out on Route 41, middle of nowhere. Same. Electrical panel in the subway. Padlocked. Gate at the stadium entrance. Iron railing around the government offices. Same. Same. The briefcase with the codes. The restaurant closed for nonpayment of taxes. Padlocked. Padlocked. Her jewelry box, his gun cabinet, their storage locker. Same. Same. Same. Her secret, his secret, their secret. Who has the key. Keys. The missile silo. The hidden tabernacle. Silent shelter. Cave. Padlocked. Shackled. Handcuffed. Locked. The safe deposit. The vault. Who the keys, who the will. Where the keys. How. When.

missing

I got off the bus at West Genesee and West Fayette. A young mother with a toddler and an infant in a stroller struggled to navigate the steps down onto the sidewalk. I let them go and did my best neither to feel nor exude impatience. I stepped onto the sidewalk buffeted by a blast of December wind. Something on the ancient, rutted utility pole caught my eye. What? A Missing Persons poster was stapled on two sides of the pole. I moved closer. There, to my shock and horror, was an unmistakable image of me, under large block letters spelling MISSING with an exclamation point (fortunately, only one instead of the customary three). Below that was a photo of me in my Icelandic sweater, bought in Reykjavik in January 2016. It happens to be one of my favorite self images. My older glasses are bolder, my hair is longer and less gray, and I sport a sexy smirk, or so I've been told. So thanks for that. Anchoring the bottom of the poster "$5,000 Reward" is offered. How is that amount calculated? Is it based on the poster's (as in "one who posts") resources or my putative value? My name is provided. It is spelled correctly, with no middle initial. No information regarding age, reason for missinghood, potential danger to self or others is offered. The only other data provided is that I was last seen at the Solvay Post Office. Last seen, wait for it, today. Today? Is somebody trying to tell me something and what is it? I shook this off, having lingered for who knows how long at the corner absorbing all this. I proceeded west on Fayette toward home. Every utility pole, all eight, had two missing posters stapled onto it. Just me. Nobody else. I kept walking. Evening was descending, as it does so early in December. I quickened my pace. I keenly looked left and right, searching for something or someone, I didn't know what. At the end of the block, I paused and looked in back of me, where I had just traversed. Nothing. I turned left onto Williams Street, toward my apartment building. I decided I would not enter by the main door, at the lobby with the mailboxes. I somehow felt safer entering by the seldom-used back door. As I walked down the six steps to the door, key fob in hand, i halted. Another one on the door. I could have turned away. Turned away to go where? I summoned either courage or foolhardiness, waved the fob, and entered. now my heart was racing. I was sweating. I walked up the stairs to the third floor. I gingerly, and as quietly as I could, strode to apartment 312. Another poster.

fridge

I opened the door. The light came on, porcelain bright. I blinked. Blinked again. Bare shelves. Naked racks. Nothing on the door. Nothing in the crisper or plastic sliding bins on the bottom. A minimalist's dream. How about the freezer? Same. Not even ice. Yesterday was different. Milk, butter, deli sliced roast beef and turkey, mayo, ketchup, mustard, apple juice, lettuce, string beans, cherries, rice pudding, whipped cream in a can (expired), skyr yogurt (raspberry, strawberry, mixed berries with acai, vanilla), half and half, fresh gazpacho given to me as leftovers from the party, thawing chicken cutlets, carrots, Pepsi (the small cans), Pellegrino carbonated water. That's all I can remember. It was only yesterday, but that's the best I can do. The freezer? French vanilla ice cream (mostly gone; freezer burn crystals), marinated chicken cutlets, chicken wings, ice packs, ice cubes, soup, mixed vegetables, Indian food for one, hamburger patties, buttered corn. All frozen solid.

That's the best I can recall. It wasn't much, I admit. But gone. Disappeared.

All of it.

Where'd it all go?

Who took it and what did they do with it, and why?

Things just don't disappear, don't flee to another dimension, despite the standard jokes about socks missing from the dryer. That's funny. This isn't.

I feel violated.

No one has a key, as far as I can tell. She gave me her keys back. Finally. I made her. I have them on my bureau. She too. I made her return them. They're in the drawer. Maintenance? I asked. The office downstairs? They said no, of course not, clearly insulted. 

Could she, or her, have secretly made duplicate keys? Easily. I could have done the same. That's too easy a plot line. Too facile. Obvious. I don't buy it. Not because of intuition or intentional blindness, but because a) they would be easy targets as suspects b) the cameras; the cameras would show them (more on that later c) why now? why now after all these years? d) we were on such good terms, unless it was a charade, a facade e) if she, or her, were to stealthily intrude now, to what good? Cui bono, as they say in Latin

If it was her, or her, what was the trigger? And why this and not the money in the envelope for all the world to see, left untouched because I had it boobytrapped?

Someone, singular or plural, did this. I don't mean aliens. Someone.

Not as a joke. Some joke, eh? No, as a subtle and sophisticated mindfuck. I take that back, not so subtle. No note. No message smeared in lipstick on a mirror. No fingerprints, I suppose. What's the difference? You think the police are going to dust my fucking refrigerator for prints? Really. Because my fridge is empty? Emptiness was my default until a few weeks ago. (There's an aphorism for you.) I'd resolved to eat better, cook for myself, be healthier, save money.

Him? Him, you say? I can't see it. Talk about a flash from the past, the past before the past. He was a bully then, and might be now, but what would be the point? What would be the gain? If anything, it should be reversed. I should be stalking him and performing some intricate, elaborate indecipherable mindfuck scheme.

Here's what bothers me. There's nothing on the cameras, nothing in the lobby or in the hallway or by my door. Nothing. I sat in the office for 4 hours, winding, rewinding, stopping, freezing, and slo-moing. Nothing. Explain that.

Them. Them, you say? Impossible. They were only in my class for one semester, and then they went their separate ways, as disparate as dandelion seeds parachuted from seedheads into the whipping wind in a dozen directions.  

You. You. I thought of you first. You knew I would. That's pretty clever, if it was you. I could almost laugh. Almost. If it was you, I'm dying to know how you tricked the cameras. Hack the system and photoshop the footage? Not you, unless you got some professional help. From him.

Don't worry.

I have your keys.

Keep an eye on your toothbrush.
 

The Lockness Monster

You press the button on the fob. The nearly inaudible click. Press again the button with the closed padlock symbol. The horn bleep. Do it again, neurotically, the way you do, the way so many of us do. Undo it. Second thought. The driver's door gets unlocked. Click again to unlock all four doors. Third thought. Lock? The rapid-fire calculation of risk, safety, security, fear, privilege, race, poverty, wealth, bias, tree limbs, mice, rats, cardinals, sparrows, finches, crows, history, memory, future. Keep unlocked. After all, the car will be in view from where you sit. Plus, what is there to take? You have your laptop with you, which you prize more than the car, a 2016 sedan. They (who are "they"? why assume plurality? who are these contrived and conjured bogeymen from your primordial Freudian-Hegelian-Jungian dream swamp?) are welcome to the 15 or 20 returnable cans and bottles for 5 cents each. He or she or it or they can have the straw fedora sitting in the back seat, if that's what they really want. They can wear it proudly and defiantly. You will nod at them knowingly as you stroll by each other on the Parisian boulevard at midnight. Go ahead, from the so-called glovebox without gloves take the napkins, straws, CDs, condoms (unused naturally), chewing gum, chewing gum wrappers, wrench, Narcan, antacid tablets, cough drops, tampons (unused naturally), tire-pressure gauge, sanitary napkins, compass, torchlike flashlight, toothbrush, Geiger counter, gas mask, mouthwash, and her spare keys from 2016. Have at it. Have at them. Have them. You prefer that they leave the registration and insurance documents for two reasons: you'll need them; and doing so preserves the illusion that your identity has not been compromised by this intrusion. And is it an intrusion after all if the doors were unlocked? Will their defense attorney turn it around and claim your unlockedness was an invitation to browse, forage, and take? What defense attorney? No one would bother to investigate such an unheralded and low-grade transfer of goods. 

You drive home. You park in the camera-monitored private parking lot.

You press the fob twice to lock all four doors. You do it again to hear the confirmatory beep. 

he said she said they said it said

[insert smartphone text notification sound after each entry below, as appropriate, or inappropriate: piano tinkling, bell chime, shotgun, thunder, guitar twang, lion's roar, fart, burp, post-orgasmic sigh, trumpet blare, car horn, alarm, jet roar . . . ]

Dad: where are you?

Mom: hey, you.

Girlfriend: wyd

Friend A: 'sup?

Brother: hi there

Dad: frown emoji

Ex-gf from 1986: Where ya been all my life?

Sister:  where've you been today

Friend B: wtf

Girlfriend: wya

Friend C: wanna hang out

Ex-gf from 2015: Netflix n chill?

Girlfriend: whats your problem

Sprint: your bill is available online

Other brother: you got 20 bux till tmrw???

Friend C: hey, can I borrow like 20$

Mom: hello????!!???

Girlfriend now ex-gf: fuck offfuck you, you fuk and I'm pregnant

Dad: do you have the keys to the Mustang?

Ex-gf from 2018: I had your baby did you know dat

Friend A: u alive?

Ex-gf from 2015: Im in Kazakhstan dickface

Sister: u no i luv you dontcha

Mrs. Rivers, 7th grade English teacher: it's a gerund; know it now!

National Grid: your bill is overdue. your power will be cut off . . .  

Sister Mary Aloysius Gonzaga de Porres: that's a mortal sin

Dad: HELLO?

Brother: are you coming over now or not?

Dr. Ozcomert: are you breathing?

John Angleterre, boss:  Please be advised your position, and you in that position, have been terminated. Do not enter the premises under any circumstances under pain of arrest.

Sister: g'night love you talk tmrw

Private Number: Your appointment with Probation has been canceled. Please be advised it would be prudent if you were to assume a new name and Social Security number. Leave town now. Better yet, if you have a passport, leave the country. STAT.  

quote unquote exciting

I strolled into my bank. "My" is undeserving of this application of a personal pronoun. The article "the" is apt in this context that is being built one verbal brick at a time. When this institution was a credit union, when I joined it in 1990, "my" would be literally and figuratively correct. But that was then. (I don't have to tell you we live in radically different times. Even if you hear someone lament the externals of these times, you can't commonsensically conclude whose side they are on: the uncivil, invidious xenophobes or the unmoored, vexed communitarians [moi].) 

Back to my bank stroll. 

I glide through the lobby, a boulevardier without portfolio, a citizen of the commonwealth (as if our wealth were common!). Absent any forethought, I ease into one of the cozy faux-leather chairs arranged away from the tellers, a distance from the glassed, venetian-blinded offices of "associates." The armed chairs (meaning they had armrests not weaponry) were in a tight circle around a nonexistent bonfire, adjacent to a Keurig with coffee pods, creamer, sugar, stirrers, all of this free stuff intended to enhance the customer experience, to welcome bank customers and prospects, or bank customers' or prospects' friends or relatives awaiting the financial-task-performer's task completion. Granted, the chairs might potentially host a waiting retinue attending to latter-day Bonnies and Clydes or Jesse Jameses, their thumbs gliding on "devices" in order to share strategic get-away info. (But why would they be so foolish or risky? Today's thieves silently hack, 24/7, invisible even to the rest of the household above the Mountain Dew-empties-littered room in the basement illuminated only by a nest of computer screens.) Do not so breezily dismiss this heist theory: at the entrance, the bank warns entrants against wearing hats or sunglasses for this very reason. Really? How retro!

As I said, I plop down on the tawny-cream vinyl waiting-room-decor chair. I figure I'd complete a text or two before entering the line (no waiting line evident, actually) to "do my business." Being old, I am an agonizingly slow texter, using my (not "the") index finger, not my thumbs, which anyone under 40 does, which is agonizing for millennials et al. to observe. Drives them nuts.

No hurry.

A flaneur not in France. 

An associate pops out of her office, her face barely disguising worry and urgency.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asks in the international language of officialese.

Insouciantly (to continue the français theme), I reply, "No, I'm fine."

If I could've, comfortably attired in my paisley smoking jacket, sans chapeau, I'd've lit a cigar, tossed the wooden match, and asked her for an espresso.

I continue my dilatory digital dalliance on my device.

Within minutes, another associate pops out of her office, next-door to the office of the aforementioned associate.

"May I help you, sir?"

Your poseur-narrator, a former English teacher and retired editor, appreciates her understanding of the distinction between "can" and "may."

However, for this gadabout, the word "sir" in her query is jarring, off-putting. Why? Three, maybe many more, times this associate and I have interacted professionally at the (not "my") bank. She has answered my queries, helped me perform the proper paperwork, seen my signature affixed, and secured a financial instrument or two for me.

Sir?

You don't remember my name, or if not my name my visage, or if not my name or face my signature if I show it to you?

Without hard evidence and with a dollop of imagination, I conclude the two bank associates see me as a threat, an indolent idler casing the joint. A would-be John Dillinger or "Pretty Boy" Floyd in-waiting. (Pawlie Kokonuts does have a certain criminal panache, don't you agree?) 

Some welcome, Keurig and all.

This institution boasts the slogan "America's Most Exciting Bank," a curious tagline given that a tsunami is at least as exciting as a wedding; given that a once-in-a-lifetime stock market plunge is at least as exciting as a World Cup victory.

Despite my insouciance, was I too exciting with regard to Financial Institution Security Heistiness (FISH)?

May I help you, sir?

"No, I'm fine. Thank you," I replied avec un sourire anglais.

Hello, Anybody Here?

The GPS-oriented map app said, "Your destination is on the left." It repeated it for good measure. (It wasn't repeating it neurotically; the app developers know people need and want assurance.) It was just past sundown. He consequently was breaking Rule 1a: Don't deliver food in the dark. "You don't drive well at night; it's too hard to find the locations. It's just not worth it," he neurotically had told himself over and over.

"Your destination is on the left."

He emerged from his car (actually, the bank's car), insulated food bag in hand.

The order was for $3.92. Our driver wanted to decline the offer. He typically rejects such a low amount, but he had already declined a few offers day. He didn't want to risk getting "a bad grade" owing to poor performance data.

He couldn't read the numbers on the houses on the winding suburban road. He was careful not to walk on the road, endangering his life for $3.92.

First, he went north searching in the just-fallen darkness for 3409 Sycamore Run. Oops. The numbers were declining.

Reverse direction.

Where could it be?

There's only one more house and it's on the corner, he mused. If it weren't the house on the corner, he'd have to cross a major roadway, and the map app is rarely that wrong.

He walked toward the corner house, stepping on grass already wet from dew. Regretting he did not grab the flashlight in his car, he had to stand a foot away to search what looked like numbers to the left of the front-door steps. As if he were employing a hybrid of braille and sight, he felt the texture of the peeling paint on the wood and drew closer: 3409. Shrouded by a pine tree and bushes, the tired house featured flaked and chipped white paint, creaking wood, missing siding, and worn steps on the porch.

He walked up a few steps and knocked on the door, which gave way, loose on its hinges.

A dog barked, in the manner of a sentinel not an attacker.

He heard a voice say, "You can open the door. Come on the porch. It's all right."

To his right, was a window, the bottom of which was six inches from the porch floor. On the other side of the open window, even with the porch floor, sat an emaciated but alert woman in her early twenties on a mattress with a comforter and a hungry kitten. Heavy-metal music emanated from her phone.

"You surprised me."

"Sorry."

"Here's your order." A half gallon of pink lemonade, mashed potatoes with gravy, and a chocolate chip cookie.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He hesitated. He wanted to ask if she was all right, if she needed more food, if it was safe there. He stood for an awkward 10 seconds, above her position on the mattress. "Good night. Take care."

The next day, around the same time, he accepted a delivery of the exact same items to the same "destination." This time, he did not need to fumble in the darkness to find the locale, this time on his right, because he approached from another direction.

He walked onto the porch, just like the evening before. The window was open a foot. The dog barked, a mixed of German shepherd, beagle, and retriever, he'd guess if quizzed. The cat was meowing and pacing.

"Hello, anybody here?"

No answer.

He repeated it, more loudly, and accompanied it with a forceful rapping on the window sash.

He waited a few minutes and then called the intended recipient via a feature of the food-delivery app. He was rewarded with no answer, not even a greeting on the food orderer's phone. He left a message: "Hello, I'm here with your food. I'm trying to deliver it."

Twenty minutes went by.

He thought of leaving the food there, placing it on the mattress through the open window.

He considered walking in through the window.

He considered calling 911.

What if she had overdosed just now? After all, someone had ordered food for this location, presumably hoping to eat and drink it. Would he remember his NARCAN training? (It wouldn't matter; he didn't have it in the car.) What if a crime were in progress? What if she had passed out from hunger?

"Hello, anybody here? Hello!?" he shouted loud enough to arouse neighborly suspicion.

Flummoxed and rattled, he began to walk off the porch, phone in hand, about to hit 911.

The dog stopped barking. He heard a door open. He halted and back-walked to the window.

Walking to the window was a stout woman, old enough and similar in appearance to Yesterday's Child as to be her mother: same oval face, brown eyes, and dirty-blond hair (streaked with gray). 

"You surprised me."

"Sorry."

"Here's your order."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Take care."

"You too, sir."
 

taking my digital temperature

I tend to be obsessed with taking my digital temperature. I often take it many times a day. And I can't seem to stop myself. No amount of willpower can prevent it once I yield to that fixation. It's not what you think. It's not a solipsistic medical obsession. It goes deeper than that. Taking my digital temp goes right to my soul. You think I am afraid of fever or variations in body temperature? No, that's not it at all. I told you, it's deeper than that. This solipsistic obsession is very modern, au courant. I go to CreateSpace, the self-publishing arm of Amazon, and check daily sales figures of my four self-published books. I allow myself to feel glum if nothing shows up or to feel cheerful, even elated, if I find a few hits, a few sales. I check similar data at KDP, Kindle Direct Publishing. I check sales of these same books in electronic versions, from around the globe. If I told you the highs and lows of these daily, even hourly numbers, you might find yourself rolling on the floor laughing. Or crying. (Don't we have Internet acronyms for these emotional outbursts?) But what of my own emotional outbursts, no, inbursts? What possesses me? What is this hunger? It cannot possibly be about money. The amount are laughably or cryably or pitiably minuscule. Is it approval or validation? What is this craving? What drives it? What emptiness am I trying to fill? What would constitute enough? And why would I want more after that? U2 sang, "I still haven't found what I'm looking for." I have to ponder the question before the question: why am I even looking? 

baby, love

She crossed South Salina Street, against  traffic, looking over her shoulder, walking fast. Slung on her hip a curly-haired boy, maybe three years old, mixed race. He'd look beautiful in a cereal commercial, or on a box of Wheaties. She was young, white, skinny, harried, nervous. She darted diagonally, pausing for traffic on the double yellow line in the center only because she had to. She kept looking back. Reaching the bus kiosk on the other side, she averted dashing the kid's head into a metal column of the bus-passenger waiting area. If she did, you imagined, she'd just keep going. You silently compared her handling of the boy to lugging a sack of potatoes, carrying a package, a handbag. The child seemed an after-thought in every respect. A physical burden, for starters, but she was not about to let him slow her down. He did not complain, though he was awake. Her reckless rush began to irk you. This boy is going to get hurt. And this is just what the public sees. What are his chances? You began to generalize and fantasize in the extreme: what is it with everyone, nobody works, she's running to find cocaine, what a shithole. What a dampening of a sunny day in Syracuse, though too hot for your comfort. But something slowed you down. Grace or whatever you care to name it (or not name it) freeze-framed your observation as she moved out of sight. The conversation in your head shifted. Christ, she's scared. It's fear. Don't be mad at her. Maybe she's running for her life, both figuratively and literally. What would anger at her accomplish, anyway? Is someone chasing her? She's panicked. Off to your right and in her urban wake, maybe someone is flashing a gun or yelling threats at her on the other side of the window in front of where you safely and coolly sit, sipping iced black tea with wild berry. Refugees in America.

shelter in place

an addendum to a fearsome lexicon

twisting

gimme shelter

here and now

there and then

tedium

awaiting

the knock on the door

blasting

dead bolt

click

rustling

roiling

curtained heart

stopping

stuttering

in place

unlocking the doors

After I parked at the Wegmans [yeah, I miss that apostrophe too], I decided not to press the lock activator on the key fob for the 2006 Honda Civic. Why lock it? It is an insidious habit. What is there to take? Why is it so important? What is so scary in suburban DeWitt, aside from its suburbanness? My act of civic bravery, or common sense, was not based on the fact that it is not my car (my wife's). It was a statement, a statement not clearly articulated. What was in there, besides some CDs? (Oh, what about that nifty portable battery charger? Hunh? Hunh?) Sure, "they" could steal maps and insurance cards. Good luck with that. We never seem to have the right maps, so welcome to 'em. Who are "they" anyway? And why would "they" single out this car? Are they on a crime spree? Were they waiting just for me? How many of them are "they"? What are their eating and sleeping habits?

I looked at the headlines of The Post-Standard and The New York Times. Too ominous. I decided not to buy a Sunday paper, though I was grateful that my browsing informed me of an interfaith event tomorrow at the Zen Center for the people in Japan. I'd like to go. Will "they" be there?

I bought five-seed four-grain bread, or is it four-seed five-grain, sliced. I used self service. I inserted a five-dollar bill and got seventy-five cents of change. The prompts on the computer screen assume plastic or something else. I used neither paper nor plastic. I decided not to wear the sunglasses I had worn over my regular glasses on the way in. Way too dorky.

Miraculously, I found the car fairly easily and was pleased to find the door unlocked. Still. Thinking this might be worth a blog post, I had written "unlocked" on the church bulletin shortly after exiting the unlocked car. You can move this paragraph closer to the top if you prefer. I had thought "unlocked" might be a nice metaphorical theme to follow, to muse about. Now I'm either not so sure or too lazy or both.

Maybe it's just the rusty taste of fraudulence in my mouth, maybe that's what's putting me off from pondering on and on, like they sing in The Journey song. Fraudulence about what? C'mon. Locking your car door in DeWitt, New York? Give me a break. Puhleez. What's the big deal?

Ever hear this one: fear knocked on the door, faith answered. Do I have that right? Maybe it's fear locked the door. I opened it. Faith was there. No. I'm not sure it is either one. On Cayman Brac most, maybe nearly everyone, keeps the doors unlocked: house, car, truck. Doors unlocked. The Doors were a good band, but they were more unhinged than unlocked.

Be Not Afraid

"Be Not Afraid." I recall a hymn with that title from my days in the seminary (stop your faux recoiling; it's not the least bit shocking for you to learn that upon examination of conscience [yours]). "Be Not Afraid" is not a bad motto (let's call it personal autodidactic mission statement) to live by. I've been told that "fear is the chief activator of my character defects," and I have found that to be empirically true.

Of course, fearlessness has its limits, just as fear (reasonable and prudent fear) has its uses.

Remember the 1993 movie "Fearless" by Peter Weir? The character Max survives a plane crash and his postcrash behavior is wildly fearless. (I haven't watched that movie in years. I should re-view it, if for no other reason than to check out lovely Isabella Rossellini and because of the fine acting from Jeff Bridges. And to know what I'm talking about.)

Yes, fear has its obvious utility in everyday life (e.g., having enough fear not to stand in front of a locomotive; or is that called prudence?). But I suspect fear gets in the way of authenticity. Fear prevents me from being fully alive. I admire people who exhibit the right blend of fearlessness and confidence. That's part of what I admired about Willie Mays's playing: its fearless disregard for the possibility of failure.

Is it a thin line between fearless and reckless? I suppose so.

I truly believe people sniff out fear (literally and figuratively) in social situations (e.g., the workplace) and respond accordingly, just like in the jungle.

Most of the time, in a quiet moment, I need to meditate on what it is I am afraid of. Losing what I have? Losing what I don't have? What is "having" anyway? (And does anyone "have' anything that isn't simply on loan?)

The fearful tightrope walker is more apt to trip, yes?

I didn't learn how to ride a bike until fifth or sixth grade (afraid of falling).

As I imagined myself as Willie Mays in my childhood outfield, I typically missed the fly ball (Charlie Brown-style) or missed the fastball at the plate, "stepping into the bucket" (afraid, in both cases). One day, in kindergarten or first grade, I wore my Giants uniform (expecting everyone to be in my game), and fearlessly and joyfully tossed a rubber ball against a wall, playing catch all by myself. Is that fearlessness taken to the sociopathic extreme?

In November 2005, around the time my brother Richard was dying, I attended a public preproposal meeting for work. Without getting into all the details now, at a public forum a stuffy and officious official publicly asked me to state, for the official record, my name and company name. I paused. The room of sixty or so professionals paused to listen. Then I solemnly declared, "His Lord and Eminence Pawlie Kokonuts of XYZ Brands." [Actual nominatives changed to protect the guilty.] Silence, followed by a smattering of nervous laughs. Why that outrageous announcement? I guess I felt, "You only live once, asshole. Lighten up." Fearless? Or foolish?

Maybe Mondays would go better if I had slightly more fearlessness. Or maybe I'd be recklessly fearless, and Mondays would be spent waiting for an unemployment check.

Which is not the worst thing on Earth.

I've done it before.

Be not afraid.

p.s. I'm afraid I've been meaning to give this unsolicited shout-out for a long time: Check out "These Are Me Thinks," a very clever and astute blog. Army rules!