Picture from Hugh Hazelrigg
Tulle Hazelrigg's Story
As John diligently raked up the debris on the side of the road, he thought he heard silvery voices taunting him. "Yeah, yeah, rake and clean, rake and clean. Hit me with a lima bean."
The voice sounded like it was coming from nearby, right by his left elbow. But all he could see were four cups of hot coffee, sending up spirals of steam in the cold air.
He looked around to see if anyone else had heard, but no one seemed to have noticed. He kept on raking for a few minutes longer when he heard it again, "Drink your coffee, eat your toffee, I'm OK but you're a donkey."
This time he realized that it was coming directly from the coffee cups, and as he peered at the steam he saw a devilish face formed by the spirals of steam, laughing at him..."
Delia Robinson's Story
"If you need coffee, maybe the Lord will provide," The other workman guffawed as he tossed down his rake. His laughter jolted John from his muttered prayers as the man joined the others, heading to a nearby café on break. "Manna," shouted the man as they rounded a corner, "Ask God to send you manna."
"Manna!" John shook his head sadly. He was lost in the wilderness, indeed. "Manna!"
"Will you have fries with that?" The robotic voice was clear in the harsh morning light.
"What the…" John peered into the roadside brush. No one there. Stirring the vegetation with the rake, John sighed. Anyone could see the area was abandoned.
Intent on locating a device, a prankster's toy, a speaker or walkie-talkie hidden in the bushes, John failed to notice the delivery of a fine breakfast;. Even without fries, it was a lovely sight as it floated downward from a cloud to land on a nearby electrical circuit box. The steam from the hot manna spiraled upward in aromatic rapture.
Elaine Emmi's Story
Union Rules for Leaf Rakers
1. You must clock in at 8 a.m.
2. You must don an orange safety vest and reflective, protective gloves.
3. You must use a regulation size rake.
4. You will be allowed one bathroom break for every two hours of work.
5. Elevenses will be served at 11 a.m. Elevenses will consist of one cup of tea with any of the following additions: milk, cream, sugar, lemon. Elevenses should not be confused with afternoon high tea.
Micheal Jewell's Story
The local celebrity and filthy rich crossing guard named Joe Everdonne (pictured above), required by his late uncle's will to hold down a
job and remain gainfully employed or else give up his inheritance, has
hearby decided that he'll set up a stand on the street corner and make
peanut butter and jam sandwiches to hand out free to underprivileged
children on their way to school, as his contribution to the needy. He's got
enough for about three sandwiches, but he figures he'll cut them into bite
sized pieces to make them last. As the kids start to approach, he has this
quaint little song he sings (tra-la tra-la), praising peanuts for their protein value, and he twirls his long wooden baton made from a cardboard
tube that wallpaper came on, keeping his eyes carefully focused on the
ground, as not to scare off potential recipients of his charity snacks. Tell
me, would you take a snack from such a character, after noticing that one of
the bottles sitting next to the jam is Elmer's Glue?
The Real Story
At 8 AM (2 AM by my circadian clock) Hajo pounds on the door. "Help, Hugh! I need you to move my car!"
"What the.." I mutter to myself but open the door anyway.
"I need you to move my car IMMEDIATELY or they're going to tow it away!"
Sounds serious, I thought, but couldn't figure out why he needed me. As I was dressing I remembered he had lost the key which was his reason for buying another car. (That hadn't happened yet.)
When I got downstairs, Hajo was "negotiating" with a very polite young man in hard hat and reflective vest about the immediate fate of his car. Outside, the street was humming with chainsaws, trimmers, blowers and other machinery. He had until 9:30 to get the car out of their way before the police would tow it away. It was then I understood he needed me to help push it. Unfortunately, they quickly realized that, without a key, the steering wheel was locked. I could have told him that if the level of hysteria had been lower.
With the 9:30 deadline looming, Hajo decided to bribe/stall the crew with coffee. At the same time, he insisted I photograph the event. I was less than enthusiastic about the idea. I wasn't enthusiastic about anything except crawling back to bed. However, I'm glad he did. I like this picture a lot.
Picture from Elaine Emmi
Delia Robinson's Story
After struggling through the intricate steps of The Julebockon Hambro, they were exhausted, with barely enough strength to flop into chairs set before a table cluttered with dirty dishes.Hilda Dachshundsdottir frowned as Bruda Mordredsdottir popped a gnawed crust into her mouth, washing it down with dregs from an abandoned cup. Hilda edged her chair closer to Queen Eventrude, gesturing to indicate her disgust.
Queen Eventrude blinked, sat up, and glared at Bruda. "Gluttonous girl!" she thundered, but rocked back as an enormous belch rushed forth on the heels of her words, overwhelming further commentary.
Sigfried, Hilda and King Norbert all pretended to ponder a distant view, and Sonja the Frail giggled so helplessly her breast holders were knocked askew. Bruda defiantly lifted another cup to her lips but no one noticed.
In turning away from Bruda, they all unwittingly abandoned Queen Eventrude at a crucial moment: the roaring wind was not a belch. It was the breath leaving Queen Eventrude's body.
They were seated in a café with a corpse.
Hugh Hazelrigg's Story
Another appearance of the mysterious Scandinavian Six has been photographed by an American tourist in Bergen, Norway. "I couldn't believe it. They were just sitting there, right out in the open. They didn't even object when I took their picture," said Elaine Emmi of Salt Lake City, Utah.
Not much is known about the group, which has made appearances in Copenhagen, Helsinki and Bergen and points in between—the "Scandinavian Triangle."
They are apparently a garrulous bunch. Their language is unknown, although an expert linguist who overheard them in Uddevalla last month suggested that it resembles an extinct dialect of seafaring fisher folk of 19th century Finnøy. Moreover, their garb lends credence to this idea.
Some ufologists, including Jerome Clark, author of UFO Encyclopedia, have speculated that the group is trapped in a spacetime worm hole as a result of being swept up by incompetent, rogue aliens in the 19th century. As a result, when they appear on Earth, it's only close to their geographical place of origin, and almost never in the right era. This controversial assertion is, of course, derided by the scientific community, who regard the phenomenon as mere street theatre.
What is YOUR opinion? We want to know! Please go to www.superstupidideas.com and fill out the handy form! Don't forget to subscribe to our newsletter!
Michael Jewell's First Story
Yah,
Carl and I never meant to end up here in Bergen, brawling with a bunch of middle-aged Vikings....except this year, on our way to Oktoberfest, Carl started drinking in the car and I had to drive. When I asked him to read the map it turned out he was holding it upside-down. Unfortunately I didn't discover this until much, much later.
"Carl," I said, when we arrived in town, "I don't remember any hulking big castle sitting there, last year."
"Relax, Jarl," he said with a drunken slur, "It's only temporary."
Cheers,
Carl and Jarl,
Michael Jewell's Second Story
After stopping by a visit to the castle at Hillerod, we decided to stop by the nearest restaurant for some outside dining. I had Whale blubber, the specialty of the "House of Slottskroen" and my friends from the Society (of Creative Anachronisms) all had Vita Pickled Herring tenders washed down with a pint of Glug.
The Real Story
On one of my visits to Bergen, Norway, while wandering near Bryggen (Hanseatic League offices), I came across this group. You can learn about the Hanseatic League and Bergen:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bryggen
Just past the Hanseatic League museum and old offices are a few shops.... one is Baker Brun (http://www.bergen-guide.com/587.htm) I love that place, especially at tea time! Just beyond is Slottskroen (castle public house). As I rounded the corner, I saw sitting in the outdoor eating area this unique group of vikings. Actually they were actors putting on an annual event. A recreation of Olaf Tryggvason (king of Norway 995-1000) and his life; he brought Christianity to Norway. I can't remember what they call this type of play, maybe spelet. But it is popular in scandinavia and is about the introduction of Christianity. Now my Swedish/Norwegian and my memory fail me. They were very happy to tell their story and were very proud of their heritage. And not the typical folk you see sitting outside enjoy dinner:)
Picture from Elaine Emmi
Delia Robinson's Story
In a desperate effort to stay awake for his delayed flight, Ben had
been drinking so much coffee the room seemed to warp. He shivered at
the strangeness now visible in ordinary objects; the miniature cups
each holding sludge-like coffee, the tiny spoons trailing from the
saucers, and the diminutive red cloth napkin he had used to wipe his
fingers, all making him feel like a giant at a doll's tea party.
Nothing was like anything found in a café at home. With one hand, he
gripped his ticket in his jacket pocket and blinked rapidly, looking
around.
Across the table from him in the crowded airport café, a man wearing
what looked like prank x-ray glasses was rolling something between his
thumb and forefinger. Glancing from side to side, the man quickly
popped the morsel into his mouth and swallowed, before beginning the
rolling motion again. Good God, was it drugs? Ben worried, though
it really looked as if the man was holding nothing but a bit of bread.
A sign high on the far wall flashed "Nightology," whatever that was.
Above the sign, advertising another unknown product, a yellow rowboat
with out sized oars sculled in place. Giant white beach umbrellas
obscured further view of the area, suggesting the café customers were
enjoying a day at the beach. Ben cradled his head in his hands,
ignoring the waiter arriving with yet another coffee. A man in a
woman's cap seated beside him claimed the cup, using the confusion as
an excuse to begin a vivacious one-sided conversation in a language
Ben didn't know.
Struggling to focus his eyes, Ben blearily watched as the storyteller
repeated a phrase sounding like the punch line of his story. "Possa
portas! Possa portas!" To ornament these words, the man whooped,
flourishing a pack of fan folded passports jerked from his pocket.
Ben stared, first at the fluttering documents, and then at the
laughing face, dominated by teeth, which also appeared to have been
fan folded. Good God, was the man selling passports?
The bread-roller guffawed, popped another crumb into his mouth, and
looked mildly at Ben. Gesturing at the dangling garland of passports,
he said in terrible English, "Funny story. Tour guide, big group."
Through the din and confusion Ben realized an amplified voice was
calling his flight. Throwing coins on the table, he abandoned the
laughing men and ran for the gate as if dogs were on his heels.
Tulle Hazelrigg's Story
Ibrahim chortled and giggled and choked on his spittle. A hebephrenic, Ibby (as he was known to his friends), had battled compulsive laughter all his life, even once asking his doctor to prescribe "anti-anti-depressants" in the hope of causing all his incessant giggling to cease once and for all. His hebephrenia was a particularly poisonous maladaptation in light of his halitosis and horse-like decaying teeth. A major consolation to Ibby was his sweet and adoring wife, a talented seamstress who expressed her devotion to him by making him numerous intricately embroidered pillbox hats. She also designed flip books, the most recent manifestation being an art-noveaux rendition of a strip tease depicted on passports she had stolen from a string of dentists she felt owed her some compensation for their failure to save her husband's rotting teeth. Ibby had a caffeine and steroid-addicted nephew, Ivan, who worked as a bouncer at a nightclub at the airport, called Nightology. Unfortunately, Ivan was not in the mood to laugh when Ibby showed up one night to show him the book during one of Ivan's breaks. Ibby had managed to get past the security gates at the airport by donning a name tag he stole from a convention of the Descendents of Abraham, held annually at one of the airport hotels. Ivan's conjunctivitis was bothering him, and he felt he could not face another one of his Uncle's uncontrolled bouts of laughter. The last time Ibby had laughed this hard was at his mother's funeral.
Hugh Hazelrigg's Story
Ibrahim was beside himself with glee. Once again, he had talked his way through immigration. He had no idea how many times he had done this. Sure, he had the visas to prove it, but he didn't know how many. He couldn't count that high.
Meanwhile, the immigration official's eyes glazed over after inspecting a collection of visas literally as long as a man's arm. He was, of course, legally obliged to look at them all. Many cups of espresso later, he needed some fresh air.
Anyway, it didn't matter to Ibrahim now. He was on his way to Majorca. He had been to almost everywhere else on earth. Majorca! Aboard the Nightology!
His odyssey began as a teenager in Siberia where it was discovered he had a rare bone condition that cause his teeth to grow in a splayed-out fashion. Doctors in Israel investigating this condition contacted him through his Rabbi. They arranged for him to visit their clinic in Tel Aviv where tests could be conducted that could possibly shed light on the origins of this condition and the genesis of bone cells in humans. Some speculated that the abnormal growth could be halted or even reversed.
Ibrahim relished the attention and realized there was an opportunity here. Did he want the doctors to cure him? Not on your life! Since then he has criss-crossed the globe, visiting bone specialists and researchers—all expenses paid.
Eventually, the Abrahamic Society was formed, comprised mainly of people afflicted with the condition and medical researchers. Every two years they hold a reunion. This year it's in Majorca, and Ibrahim is looking forward to being the center of attention.
At 69, he shows no sign of slowing down. What a life.
Claire Arbogast's Story
It came on the afternoon of the fifth and final day of the retreat. First as sound, a distant, rhythm floating in the air over Golden Horn bay. Then as a feeling that somehow everything was different. Ibrahim’s focus broke, he looked around. Everyone’s eyes were open. Their prayer had done it.
The change was palatable, undeniable. With joy, they rose in unison and began to sway. Turbans, robes, and black hats—one hundred and twenty undulating men and women, faces smooth in ecstasy and wonder. Mouths agape. They, the most powerful leaders of Judaism, Islam, Christianity and Druze, the righteous religions of Abraham, had shifted universal consciousness of the oneness of humanity.
Ibrahim called out, “Members of the Abrahamic Reunion, our work has just begun. We must now sustain this manifestation of peace. Let us gather for our last meal together and talk of our destiny.”
Trailing group as they left the synagogue, Ibrahim stumbled beaming onto the narrow lane. Next to him Yosef, chief rabbi of Ethiopian Jews in Israel, steered him suddenly to the left away from the others. A woman wrapped in a silk, azure scarf and long, white skirt bumped roughly into him. Her vivid eyes intent in a dark, weary face, she opened her raincoat and shoved a package into Ibrahim’s hands. She said, “At the beginning of time, after light was revealed, the darkness came. Now when there are clouds, a strong wind of optimism can push them away.”
Fear of a bomb ricocheted through his being. But nothing happened. The woman was gone. The Abrahamic group was gone. He stood dumbstruck. The rhythm returned, notched up to a hum and seemed to move from the ocean to inside Ibrahim’s head.
Yosef pushed him in the door of the hotel toward the café, “Drink some coffee; open everything slowly.”
Ibrahim stirred his sweet, bitter coffee and casually opened the large manila envelope. Inside a note was on top of a bundle wrapped in newspaper. Just a few words, printed out by computer, it read, “They are alive. Be on the Nightology boat, meet me in the bongo lounge—I’ll know you. Leaves dock at 10 p.m.” A ticket and yellow flyer showing a big merchant disco ship slipped out.
Ibrahim looked to Yosef for help, but Yosef grimly finished his second cup of coffee. Ibrahim tentatively unfolded the newspaper.
A stack of six passports, covers taped and stapled to make one long accordion. He opened the one on top. Inside, a valid passport with a recent photo of his brother Imam. Unbelievable. Imam had been killed in a market bombing five years ago.
He opened the passports of Eliyahu, Elana, Abouna, Elias and Menachem, they had all been with Imam. All now with fresh photos and customs stamps from just last month.
He looked at Yosef who looked the other way, trying to remind Ibrahim to show no emotion.
But the buzz in Ibrahim’s head burst through like the angels of heaven and his face split open grinning. He held up the passports and cried out, “Can it be true?”
Yosef held still in mortification. Finally, he glanced about the café, and said, “Ibrahim, your family’s lost passports, they’ve been found! Let’s go now.”
The Real Story
In 2004, I traveled to Barcelona (where I lived in 1986) for the Parliament of World Religions. 9,000 people attended and Christians were definitely in the minority. Four of us interfaithers from SLC presented the work we had been doing prior to, during and since the 2002 Olympics.... especially after 9/11.
The woman in the photo below - Jan Saeed, is a Bahai from SLC and the hooka smoking Imam on the other side of Ibrahim, Shuaib, a Muslim plus a Mormon named Roger (not pictured) and I were the presenters from the Salt Lake Interfaith Roundtable.
During the conference we were feed in a huge tent on the beach by Sikhs, who as you entered would wash your shoes when you placed them in cubbies, give you a head covering, then you would sit cross legged on a straw mat. Holding a plate, Sikhs would come by with plastic buckets of fabulous vegetarian food and spoon out unnamed globs onto your plate.
However, one lunchhour we dashed across the street from the Forum headquarters to a mall on a quest for food. We stumbled upon a delightful middleastern place, complete with hooka! We were quite the international gathering with two Jewish fellows and me the quagan (quaker pagan) as well as the Bahai and various Muslims. Ibrahim, a Muslim, with no country ..... a man with no nationality!!! Born in Jerusalem, he like many Muslims, have no nationality. In order to travel he had to have travel documents from every country he visited, like Syria, Israel, Jordan, etc. He carried his travel documents all stapled together so he wouldn't loose them and to show how ridiculous the plight of Jerusalimites.
Everywhere Ibrahim went he would tell his story; and he really emphasized that he was a child of god roaming the earth. No anger. He would pass out little shiny white peace dove pins, like the one he wore. I still have mine. He had an infectious laugh and always looked on the bright side of life. It was interesting that two Israeli Jews spent a lot of time talking with him and his son :)
After lunch, the guys all partook of the hooka as Shuaib had never tried one and wanted the experience. As usual, I'm recording all with my trusty digicam! Oh yes, good Imam blackmail too!
What amazed me about the Parliament itself.....of 9,000 sometimes all in one gathering listening to folks like Karen Armstrong.... and these smaller gatherings as in the first photo.... no animosities between folks who were normally at one another's throats. Definitely a sense of acceptance and love..... and of reaching out in trust.
Picture from Delia Robinson
Tulle Hazelrigg's Story
Jurgen placed his arm around Gunther's waist and gave him a squeeze. "Hey man—you hast gotten ze love handlebars, nein?"
Gunther flinched and stepped aside. "Vell, at least I am gellin, magellin you dirty svine."
Hugh Hazelrigg's Story
As they trod amongst the clover, Roland cried "There's one!"
Buford answered, "I don't see anything."
"Look closer!"
Sure enough, there it was. Both jumped backwards, as if propelled by some unseen force.
It was not what they had expected.
In all, they counted 14 of them—a huge setback.
Although small at first, they began to acquire a form and expand.
More appeared. Soon there was a forest of them.
Their lives, and those of their families and friends, would never be the same.
Elaine Emmi's Story
"OMG, don't move, my contact lens just popped out!"
The Real Story
This snapshot makes me remember a friend who said "Between the three of them, my uncles share a total of four legs."
Picture from Elaine Emmi
Hugh Hazelrigg's Story
"But it's too damned hot, I'm telling you!"
Claire Arbogast's Story
For sure Howard knew before he even came inside that dating Susan would be a challenge. But when he walked in her house for the first time, he knew her ever-changing hair color--sometimes jet black, sometimes blonde streaked with red—her startling combinations of clothes, her almost unbearable bad taste in headbanging music were the least of it.
The organic, humid, almost tropical, air hit him first. Then, there was the collection of beer huggies on the mantel (a true indicator of our cultural mood she said).The walls covered with hubcabs painted with the asian auspicious animals—lions, dragons, tigers and such. And over in the corner, behind piles of plastic pots and tubs, a section of the house tiled with a small waterfall flowing into a pond and spiky garden of tall mother-in-law's tongues.
Susan picked up a clear plastic storage tub and walked to the refrigerator. She pressed the lever on the door and filled the tub with ice. She faced Howard and shined a blinding smile at him as she sat down the tub of ice near the pond while calling out “Hennnn-reeee!” A sudden splash, a wickedly fast flash of brown, and the ice flew everywhere. Belly wiggling, giddily rolling, the brown jumped up out of the ice. On hind legs stood an otter. “Meet Henry,” said Susan.
Tulle Hazelrigg's Story
Odie the odiferous otter demanded more ice. "My bath's too hot," he piped. "The lice like it hot, I like it cold. Get with it, human. You do your thing, I'll do mine."
Delia Robinson's Story
"You know I hate stories with talking animals."
"I know, dear."
"So nothing like that. OK? Just a really exciting story about someone like me who goes on really exciting adventures and…"
"All right, but after your bath, dear."
The Real Story
Odie is an orphan otter :( tho he doesn't look too forlorn in that photo with his ice bucket :) He lives at the Texas State Aquarium after being found next to his dead mother. His story is HERE.
If you ever visit my house you will see otters everywhere.... not only am I an otter fanatic, I'm convinced that I came from a long line of otters;). Otters are the only animal that delights in having fun!!! And they like sliding in the snow and swimming..... hmmm, I must be an otter.
Picture from Elaine Emmi
Tulle Hazelrigg's Story
"Hey amigos, this is fine, this is good. I like this kosher joint! And you, Santa, you're lookin' good man, but a leetle too svelt...eat up my friend!"
Delia Robinson's Story
"Maybe not quite YOUR color, Corky," Trots said, turning from her friend to examine her own reflection in the wine bottle. "That tone of orange makes your eyes look muddy...but it suits ME to per.... splutter, splutter... perfection. Dang! This talking is interfering with my chewing." She stuffed the mouthful back into place with a slurp.
"What'da ya mean! I look beautiful! You only say that because I chose this fabric first and I didn't back down." Porcena added, "You are so silly."
"Greedy too," said Gluttina, grabbing the last piece of bread. "Didn't she just bolt down all the fruit salad?"
"I did," said Trots with a happy burp, "umm...at least the guys aren't here. More food for us."
"Yeah," Corky nodded. "That's the BEST thing about the Crusades. The guys go off and we get to stay home and eat."
Claire Arbogast's Story
After Rachel fell in love with Billy on Match.com and moved to his New Mexican farm, of all places, she was lost about how to integrate her Miami University degree in fashion design with country living. She had found a good outlet for her eye for nuance and texture in her finely wrought taxidermy of hawks, lizards and alligators; but somehow it seemed insufficient.
One evening Billy went out to deal with the feral pigs that had been uprooting the potato fields. She heard the shots in the distance and greeted him as he threw a stack of pig sows at her feet upon return. Bloodied snouts covered with spuds and mud, the pigs called to her. They’d known a good meal; they’d been the best of friends, family even—why couldn’t that be preserved forever?
With Billy shaking his head in wonder and pursing his lips, she pulled the carcasses to her shop. At first, she thought about graceful arcs of pigs frolicking, water splashing. But it seemed to not reveal the true inner nature of the sows, ever in pursuit of the best meal. She sat the sows up, washed their snouts, and combed their matted hair. Even in death they seemed merry and eager for the next meal. Their ancient Spanish beauty emerged, unique. She began to notice this one had lovely, long lashes and this one a delicate turn to her razor-sharp tusks. As Rachel sleeve’s pulled across the neck of one of the girls as she noticed how the golden highlights in the hair glistened against the red of her shirt. Then, like an explosion, Rachel went to work. It took days, but in the end she knew she had broken the barrier of taxidermy.
Hugh Hazelrigg's Story
"What I worry about," said Hamleta, "is all those half-formed ideas floating about."
"I quite agree," replied Spamela, half holding her breath, hoping to sound intelligent.
"What do you mean, 'half-formed'?" Patti wondered out loud.
"It's bad enough they expect us to speak English, much less manage flatware," scowled Hamleta as the knife slipped from her grasp.
"I always hate these affairs," sighed Baconita.
Spamela chimed in, "but the food is free."
The Real Story
I'm wandering around Florence during Thanksgiving '07 about 7 p.m. one chilly, drizzly night, looking for a specific statue in the huge indoor/outdoor market. I'm cold, wet, hungry and my feet ache (my idea of having fun in europe is walking about 10 miles a day so I can see it ALL!!!) My friend Corinne and I are also looking for a place for dinner as we are almost giddy with hunger...you know that light and fuzzyheaded feeling...just a few moments longer and you won't want to eat because you will be beyond hunger...Phil has given up and is eating a sandwich back at our convent, reading and luxuriating in a hot bath. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch this scene. I walk on by as I can't believe what I have seen. I start laughing, grab Corinne and turn back. In the very front of the meat shop is this cheery medieval porcine delight...definitely worth a photograph and a lot of laughs! Enjoy!
Picture from Hugh Hazelrigg
DSC0040
Elaine Emmi's Story
Hot off the presses, just picked this up in the grocery store line when buying milk tonight.
Enquirer Headline: Gas hits $10.00 per gallon! It is cheaper to move vehicles about via forklift than to drive them.
What is to be done? People are hijacking utility vehicle drivers to move their cars about. This is a national scandal. This undercover photo shows Vice President Dick Cheney (in disguise) bribing a street worker. Read more on page 113 at the bottom of the page showing the first photos of the two headed baby just born in Cleveland. One head looks like Hillary and the other head like Obama!!! Exclusive photos here.
Because People want to know.
Delia Robinson's Story
"Can you drive a forklift?"
"Sure"
"And a pickup?"
"Of course."
"Fine. Then the job's yours."
"Great. What do I do?"
"It's dead easy. Just drive the pickup—the forklift's in the back—every morning around sun-up to whatever address I give you. A different address every day. Unload the forklift and pick up every car that's been tagged—usually three or four at the most. Load 'em in the semi parked nearby with the back open. Don't bang or otherwise scratch the vehicles. That's it. Load and go. Got it?"
"Errr..."
"Right. When you're done, bring your equipment back here, pick up your pay, and the rest of the day's your own. The next day, same story."
"Err..."
"Got it?"
"...sure..."
"OK. Here's today's address." His new boss pressed a scrap of paper and a set of keys into his hand, pointing at a vehicle parked outside. A forklift was chained to the truck-bed. "Get going!"
It was easy work, the pay was fantastic, and very few people were awake at that hour. One man, one of the few people who actually spoke to him, thought he was from motor vehicles and tried to bribe him. He acccepted the money as a tribute and loaded the car anyway. By the time the police showed up, he was long gone. It was a great job.
Claire Arbogast's Story
“Please, it didn’t mean anything. Sometimes this car just forgets where it is. If you let it go, I will get it home and let the air out its tires until it’s better. Here’s my card. I’m a licensed car therapist. I specialize in these things.”
Series from Elaine Emmi
Claire Arbogast's Story
More than 50 people from across the country gathered together at the Heritage House for Aunt Hildreth’s 90th birthday party.
Irving, her cousin twice removed and his wife Hattie came all the way to Clearwater from Vermont. For dinner, they had been seating with Matt, her beloved great, great nephew; It had been more than 30 years since they had seen most of the family. Just as Hattie was thinking it was time to call it a night and head back to the Holiday Inn, Cousin Bette stopped by the table for another beer. She and Bette had hitchhiked to California together back in the day. They had both ended up marrying Hazelrigg boys. But Bette had divorced in the 70’s, and it had been forever since she and Bette had seen each other.
Matt had heard a few tales about Bette and Hattie, but Hattie, now an assistant treasurer for the state of Vermont, stayed mum about her past. Bette however, had had a few beers and was feeling sparky. She reminded Bette about the time they got matching tattoos one night in San Francisco and peeled off her gold leather jacket to reveal the skimpiest of little black dresses and a full color Peter Max flower swirling over her shoulder and down her back. Bette’s reserve broke as Matt began to realize there was more to Cousin Bette than he could have ever guessed.
Delia Robinson's Story
Their elderly hostess rushed toward them, arms extended. "Darlings! SO glad..."
Her foot came down squarely on a bit of spilled food, skidding her into a long glissad across the linoleum. At the edge of catastrophe, her arms shot out to balance her rapid progress and lifting in a graceful curve, she snapped her body into a spin, back arched, head thrown back. Her brilliant performance ended at their table with a graceful curtsy.
Except for her grandson Matt, the onlookers gasped, hardly able to follow the rapid transition from an old woman in peril into a Ice Follies Star. Matt alone was unsurprised, for as a boy he had often played with the dozens of trophies kept on the closet shelf, all that remained of a once great career.
The Real Story
This sequence of photos is from our son's MBA graduation in Boulder. And here is the final shot. We are sitting around a table at a reception for Matt's MBA class after the graduation ceremony. Matt's two favorite professors, who are also mentors and have helped Matt to start his One Button company, approach and we introduce ourselves. Phil keeps staring at Page Moreau's nametag as Matt is explaining how much these two faculty members have meant to him over the last two years. Finally Phil says, "Moreau, that's an unusual name! I had a professor at the University of North Carolina who was my mentor...a very special guy...and his name was Moreau..." And incredibily, she is his daugther! No one can believe this coincidence. It's a very euphoric experience for all and Phil and Matt are both delighted at this highly unusual connection. 6 degrees of separation.
Picture from Elaine Emmi
Claire Arbogast's Story
Bart Simpson, the mascot for good relations with America, reminds tourists in the green zone that you can always find east by staring directly at the morning sun.
Hugh Hazelrigg's Story
"The bomb is in my pants, Walid! I hope it is not too obvious!"
Michael Jewell's Story
Ajitwala has the perfect way to convince his countrymen that all Americans aren't under the sway of the evil jinn, or Iblis, the prince of darkness. Ever since his trip as an exchange student to tiny Poultney, Vermont, he has been looking for some way to prove how basically benevolent Americans or at least Vermonters are, to his friends and family members back home. After much thought he believes that he's hit upon the best plan: he's applied for permission to use Bart Simpson in his work overseas. In fact he is with Bart right now, engaged in a pilot project in Iran, the two of them acting as unofficial good will ambassadors.You never know, Ajitwala says, this might even bring about world peace!
Delia Robinson's Story
From inside the puppet head, attempting to combat his narrow field of vision, Bart-for-now angled his head to the right . Uh-oh; the pleasantly cuddlly woman he embraced sported a beard. Another faux pas to cover with hopefully universal sign language. He tried a generous thumbs-up, punctuating the strangers word's which arrived at his earsl muffled by layers of sweltering foam rubber. What's he saying? Listen, he's saying it again... oh..."Get off my toe!"
The Real Story
Same trip to Barcelona for the Parliament of World Religions in 2004. Phil and I decided to take the Imam and another friend who was traveling with us to the Ramblas. The Ramblas is the old diagonal walking street and is part of the gothic quarter of Barcelona. It's one of my favorite places to walk as it's a mix of locals and tourists. It's where bookseller, birdsellers, flowersellers , pickpockets, prostitutes, transvestites at 3 a.m. and statue artists all hang out. Plus there are nice places to eat and watch the show streaming by. And the Mercat, the oldest indoor market in Barcelona is a feast for the eyes and a midpoint on the Ramblas. You can walk from the Statue Colom at the harbor to the Placa Catalunya (the center of town).
Turns out that the Imam is a Bart fan!!! Of course, we stopped for a photo op. The funny/sad part was that the person under the Bart suit said to the Imam, "Hey man, that bombing of the twin towers was bad, don't do that." That is why Bart is shaking his finger. Shuaib took it all in stride not bothering to explain that as an Imam he had been speaking out against terrorism for a long time.
Picture from Hugh Hazelrigg
Claire Arbogast's Story
No, it was here. No, it was here. Oh, that reminds me, I need to call about the cat. Now what was I looking for? Humm, a cup of coffee would be good.
Elaine Emmi's Story
If this desk could talk...
"Hello human, yes I'm talking to you, yes YOU; don't be surprised—desks can talk and often do. It's just that humans don't listen. They are often too noisy and too cluttered to hear. The cat listens to me tho; that's why she is often curled up on a sunny corner of my smooth surface.
"So, what can I tell you about the human who lives here and sometimes sits here? He likes to read and thinks that if he has so many tasks on his plate he will never die—he thinks to himself 'as long as I have projects pending I can't die, I'm too needed.' But we desks know better than that. Though I am from Honduras—I'm a Honduran Mahogany you know flame cut pattern, very mighty, durable and, I might add, beautiful...yet even I will die...especially in my circumstances as I will either collapse from bearing too many burdens or I will evaporate with the smoke of a huge fire when my human falls asleep with a cigarette dangling between his fingertips.
"Look over there, to the left, in that stacking tray. If my human thought to sort through all my burdens, he would see the winning lottery ticket from 3 years ago! My oh my, he has so many ideas they often hurl through the room colliding over me, causing great stress to my legs."
And the 7 year old girl walked to the desk putting her hands on the front panels of the drawers, feeling with warmth of the rainforest. She heard the call of birds she never knew existed and breathed in humid smells she had never smelled before. And they were both content.
Delia Robinson's Story
Delia examined the photo of John's messy study and laughed. "What do you think about this room?" she asked her husband pushing the picture toward him.
"Nice," he said and returned to his reading.
Sent by a mutual friend, Delia thought the picture was intended to illustrate a mind in distress. John was failing and perhaps this room held some clues.
She looked more closely. To her, the room was lovely. The colors were rich and glowing. The satiny grain of the wooden desk, the figures of the oriental carpet, the rich profusion of books overflowing the shelves, all spoke of the dynamic mind John had once enjoyed. Messy but vibrant.
In fact, John's study was infinitely neater than any room in the house where Delia and her family had lived for decades. For them, books stacked waist high, or higher, were pillars of promise. Paintings tilted against moldings spoke of boundless creativity, scribbled papers were reminders of unhatched ideas, landscapes as yet unseen, visions yet to explore. She firmly believed that unexpected humor and beauty should be welcomed as the raw material of art, and her house was full of creations based on this belief.
Perhaps such an exuberance of activity could be a snare, an entrapment yet what could one do? Call in the men with the dumpsters? Toss out the ingredients of an exciting life? Books were open on the table beside the tea pot. A sketchbook and colored pencils were on the window ledge by the blooming plants, while the shelves held randomly paired objects suggesting previously unimagined cross-pollinations and recombinations. Delia believed ideas were like compost; for the richest soil one had to keep the pile turning, the elements in motion.
She glanced once more at the photograph and nodded. That was it! That was the only clue in John's room suggesting trouble. Nothing appeared to have been touched for a long time. He had abandoned his sources, his grounding, and floated away. He had forgotten to stir the ideas that had nourished him for so long.
The Real Story
This is a study of a friend's study. Delia's account is cannily smack-on.
Picture from Hugh Hazelrigg
Delia Robinson's Story
"I tell you, Gunther, it was unbelievable…"
Gunther grunted and sipped his beer, one hand toying with the ring in his left earlobe.
"…This guy…he was…well…what a weirdo. And he really irked me with his collection of visas, all strung with filthy pictures…" Jurgen's voice grew marginally more cheerful. "I've got them in my coat pocket if you want to see 'em…"
Gunther didn't respond, but continued sipping his beer, all the while twisting his ear ornament.
Jurgen continued his story, words piling upon words. "He was a sly
one…and he kept laughing…and what breath! Gawd! Smelled like a dead
dog and…well, I just snapped. I grabbed his head in my hands…' Jurgen
wiped at the sweat gleaming his forehead and gestured powerfully, his
hand slicing downward, "and for crap's sake, his skull just crumbled.
Gunther, there was something wrong with him. Some disease where your
skull is as thin as an eggshell… Ever hear of it?"
Gunther shook his head.
"Well, he had it. What a mess! And you can't imagine the fuss at the airport. People screaming and running every which way, and us trying to catch them for a mind wipe…just plain chaos…and I can't tell you how many got away."
Gunther winced slightly but otherwise made no sign he comprehended Jurgen's story.
"Are you OK, Gunther?" asked Jurgen leaning closer. "Here I am yacking away, and you're in pain. That's why you keep fiddling with your implant. Isn't it? Something is wrong." Gunther nodded slightly. "So what happened?" Jurgen demanded.
Gunther opened his mouth, closed it again, and then spoke, his voice weary... "A bad day all round," he ventured. "A tough day for our squads."
"For mine, for sure," Jurgen encouraged. "But what happened in your district?"
"A riot. Can you imagine? A rebellion from the most unlikely bunch—the road crew. Unheard of! I was sent out because we got reports of cars being moved with a fork lift…all sorts of unbelievable behavior. Can you imagine? The liabilities? But it was far worse than that. They were crazed—laughing and whooping, gobbling down some swill they called manna. We had to straight jacket the lot of 'em and I really overtaxed my mind control trying to get the neighborhood quiet again…"
Jurgen nodded. "You do like it quiet," he murmured.
"Well it was far from quiet today," said Gunther. "I can tell you. And now I hear one man got away. He successfully hid from us in a culvert, and we never even noticed him. How'd THAT happen?"
"Where is he?"
"Don't know. But he's gone into hiding, so the word is out. He can describe everything we did, who were. What we look like. What if he had a camera?"
"Gunther! This is appalling!"
"I know it," Gunther shook his head wearily. "Rogues. You have 'em running loose from the airport, and we have this man. 'John' he's called, but no one knows more than that. He's on the run and we don't have a clue."
"Damn!" Jurgen slapped the table. At the sound, people at nearby tables jumped, stared and began drifting out the door as if compelling business called them elsewhere. "Damn." He repeated. "How'd this happen!"
Hidden by a room divider, a figure lurking behind their booth merged with the shadows and disappeared.
Elaine Emmi's Story
"I was in the elevator at work by myself and had just enjoyed a large Mexican lunch. I had to fart; there was no way around it. Luckily the elevator was empty so I let it fly. What a relief—but what a stink! The doors opened and I stepped out just as the boss and the VP dashed in and the door closed."
Claire Arbogast's Story
“And then I told him that if he had waited to add the vegetables, they wouldn’t have been soggy. Of course, he never listens. He’s always texting and thinks he knows everything. I remember how arrogant I was when I was young, so I try to be patient with him. He says I am old school and that I need to get a Facebook account. Facebook, schmace book. He needs to settle down and actually do something. He’s full of ideas but he never holds on to one.”
The Real Story
At the Weisse Brauhaus in Munich there are two large rooms. In one, the small tables are covered with white linen tablecloths and the fresh flowers are changed daily. In the other, the tables are long, there are no tablecloths and the crowd is loud and boisterous. You never know who you might be sitting next to—maybe even a dog.
This pair was deeply involved in conversation and I never got their names, but a third member of their party, Klaus, gave me his email address and promised to distribute my pictures to them.
Picture from Tulle Hazelrigg
Elaine Emmi's Story
Fred and Ginger were flying around some fruit one day, discussing what they would be doing for the weekend. "Let's go to Oliver Winery this weekend," purred Ginger; "I hear the mash will be excellent!" Fred, who would rather stay home and watch the finals of the nematodes annual curling match on CNN (Critter News Network), demurred. But Ginger was insistent and Fred, not wanting to create disharmony, finally agreed to the adventure.
However, catastrophe struck at the winery when Ginger got tangled up in a large sap drip. Though Fred hummed around her hoping she could free herself, his efforts failed. Now Ginger is on her way to becoming a beautiful amber necklace for some consumer 20,000,000 years down the road.
Back home, Fred consoled himself by catching the end of the arachnid triathlon. (Though predicted to win, the tarantulas came in a miserable last...they were found socializing around a bonfire instead of competing in the swimming event.) The next morning, however, Fred was dead. But his death was not in vain as it was recorded by famous Drosophilaphile Tulle Hazelrigg and Fred became the famous 1514.
Delia Robinson's Story
Though Mrs.Twitchard had been endlessly examined, prodded, poked, pummeled, xrayed, pet and cat scanned, the appalling buzzing still issued from her midsection.
The Real Story
Magritte took one look at the bizarre creature with the two-toned eye and exclaimed, "This is not a fly!"
Picture from Tulle Hazelrigg
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Picture from Elaine Emmi
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Picture from Elaine Emmi
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Picture from Elaine Emmi
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Picture from Elaine Emmi
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Delia Robinson's Story
The professor tapped a pointer against the glass.
"This aspect of their behavior has taken us by surprise here at the MIT Peeps Institute. In our thirty years of study, much has been learned, but we only recently discovered their actual social patterns. The mores of Peeps has been suppressed by captivity and confinement in same-sex enclosures. Captive Peeps had no access to drugs, liquor, gambling, or sex, which we now see is the focus of their existence.
"Our first ten years of study focused on Peeps as the object of predation: did they demonstrate any strategies for self protection, were their colors protective, would they fight if cornered, and so on. We also studied the Peep effect on a predator—we used dogs—when a Peep was consumed. Actually, nothing happens to either the dog or the peep. In further studies, Peeps were subjected to pressure, extremes of temperature, and various mutilating surgeries. We concluded that it was impossible to damage a Peep and I am sure all of you have studied these findings on the numerous Internet sites discussing our work.
"Studies reveal that peeps are always born in conjoined multiples. Professor….err.. ah.. mumble-mumble… conjectured this is a survival device, aimed at discouraging predation since solo peeps are more easily devoured. Professor….err.. ah.. mumble-mumble…, the Mengle of Peep Studies, also studied Peep defenestration, microwave effects, and altered or repositioned body parts. All these findings are widely documented both in print and on line.
"My own research shows that Peeps have an active intelligence. Any reader has experienced finding Peeps inadvertently crushed in library books, most commonly in The Diary of Samuel Pepys, or within similar titles, but few people suspected why. The Peeps are actually reading but weighing almost nothing, they frequently overbalance and are crushed. Pictures of this phenomenon are common on line. In personality, Peeps tend toward melancholia; they drink and drug to excess, and when given a chance, breed like…. Errrr… like…."
"Rabbits," suggested a young man in the front row.
"I was going to say Moon Pies," the professor said irritably, pulling a handkerchief from his jacket. In doing so, a toasting fork was momentarily revealed, tucked in a special inner pocket. He blushed, jerking his jacket closed while immediately slapping a chart onto the overhead projector. "This data…"
A student in the front raised her hand. "Have you had Peeps toasted?" she asked. "Over a stove burner, for instance. Delicious."
"Such behavior is NOT in the spirit of scientific discovery!" The professor licked his lips, his eyes shifting hungrily from the student to the Peeps enclosure. A plump peep was drunkenly attempting to pole dance. "Completely unscientific! I will see you IN MY OFFICE after class!"
Picture from Elaine Emmi
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Michael Jewell's Story
Goodbye Mr. President! Goodbye weapons of mass destruction! Goodbye Golden Arches of Super size me fast food lunches! Goodbye Goodbye... Goodbye ticky tacky houses! Goodbye gas guzzling SUVs! Goodbye! Goodbye poverty and racial intolerance! Goodbye littered sidewalks and condemned tenement buildings! Goodbye jokes with no punchlines! Goodbye reality TV. We hate to see you go... So long it's been good to know ya! Drop us a post card from wherever you go, but don't think we'll be coming for a visit. In the future the grass will be green on this side of the fence.
Goodbye!
Picture from Steve Miller
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Delia Robinson's Story
"Surprised? Of course we were. After the warm rain on Thursday night, there they were Friday morning. Yeah. They seem rooted, like they just sprouted from the earth.
"No, not dirty, just some crumbs of clinging soil that soon fell off. Perfect in every way, really, except in texture. They feel exactly like the sunflower growing beside them. Kinda cool and woody... Yeah, maybe a form of fungus... sure. Vegetative, I guess is the right word..."
Tulle Hazelrigg's Story
Abbie was feeling euphoric, though she couldn’t put her finger on the reason for her giddiness. She and Elmer were proud of their garden, and of course that brought her great happiness, but this was different. As she looked around her garden, the colors appeared more vibrant, and the sounds of insects sounded like a symphony. She had a voracious appetite this afternoon and had first consumed 3 chocolate brownies that Elmer had baked, followed by a chocolate ice cream Sunday and then 2 more brownies – and she was still hungry! She thought back over the day. In the morning she and Elmer had gotten up early to garden, one of their favorite pastimes together. They weeded the front gardens, and then had a late morning cup of tea together. After tea, Elmer disappeared to the very back reaches of their yard, out beyond the tool shed. She wondered what he was doing out there—there were a bunch of plants that he had seemed interested in, large beautiful plants with leaves shaped like hands. The plants had an exotic air, and their stems were weighed down with large bundles of yellow flowers. Well, whatever, she thought to herself. If he wants a little private time, that’s fine with me. Later he had surprised her by emerging from the kitchen with a big plate of brownies that he had baked himself! And now he had acted impish and pinched her bottom, and suggested that they go upstairs for an afternoon “nap”. She thought that sounded like a good idea too, but only after she had a piece of the pound cake that was sitting on the kitchen table.