Ellen Freeze Has Naked Pictures of Me

Ellen Freeze has naked pictures of me. There's no getting around this fact. It happened a long time ago when I possessed the forward-thinking ability of a mayfly and it was somewhat acceptable to pose naked. There was a time in the 1960's and 1970's when nakedness was celebrated. People were making formal as well as casual naked appearances at a variety of events. There were streakers at sporting events, and Hair, the smash hit Broadway play with all its nakedness was breaking attendance records. In fact, Hair played in almost every major city in America, and people flocked to the show. Apparently, they couldn't get enough of the naked stuff.

It was against this cultural backdrop that I agreed to pose naked for Ellen's photography project, entitled "Naked Guy." Ellen Freeze, in addition to being a trendy artist who wore a flirtatious wisp of feathers in her long blonde hair, was the prettiest girl, ever, to make the gratuitous leap of speaking to me. And she had already captured first place in a city-wide photo exhibition with her poignant black and white photo, "Abandoned Pumpkin After Halloween." Really, all artistic appreciation aside, my secret hope was that if I posed naked, perhaps she, too, would somehow become naked in the process, a strategy that proved fruitless.

The photo session took place in Ellen's loft. It was the first loft I'd ever seen and the open space with exposed beams and industrial looking plumbing, electrical pipes, and heating ducts made me feel considerably more trendy than the luckless person who'd never set foot in a loft. Automatically, a loft exposure dubbed a person a hipster and it was understood that a long line of new avant-garde friends would soon follow.

The photography equipment in Ellen's loft was set up prior to my arrival. A roll of backdrop paper along with several of those umbrella-looking flash reflectors awaited my performance. While Ellen swayed around the room plugging in cords, she offered me a glass of wine, a courteous effort to loosen me up and squash any inhibitions I brought to the session. It was painfully obvious I'd never posed naked, but I did my best to feign like it was an everyday occurrence. Her gentle reminder that I remove my chocolate-brown monkey-socks was a giveaway to my amateur status in the endeavor.

She asked about my favorite music, and no sooner had I mentioned Gordon Lightfoot, than the song, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, a big hit at the time, filled the room. This, too, apparently was supposed to make me feel comfortable. After removing my monkey-socks, Ellen began clicking away, the flashes, like lightning, exploded all over the place. There were spots in my eyes as I tried to keep track of her while she crouched and pranced with her camera. I'm not sure how many strippers have performed their routines to the melodious requiem of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, but it is an unsettling experience; the big ship, sinking with twenty six thousand tons of iron ore, made standing naked, sans socks, in a cavernous room seem less than provocative. And to make matters worse, every time the lyrics referenced "the big lake they call Gitche Gumee," Ellen shouted, "Show me the Gitche Gumee!"

When the session was finished I vowed never to pose naked again: I'm just not comfortable without the reassuring confidence a sturdy pair of socks can provide. And, now, every time I hear The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, I'm transported back in time to my naked moment, my toe-in-the-water into the hipster art world. Through the years, I've often wondered what happened to the photos and have looked cautiously over my shoulder, halfway expecting the pictures to surface whenever I've made a bid to hold a position of notoriety. Surely, I told myself, Ellen, being one of those cutting-edge artists, has moved many times in the past thirty years and my photos, likely discarded along her artistic route, were but a forgotten footnote in her career. That is until one day while filling my bag with lemons at The Vegetable Patch. A familiar voice called out from behind a mound of peaches, "How's the big Gitche Gumee!" It was Ellen, smiling and winking, no feathers in her hair but still attractive with an unmistakable flair. With barely a polite wave hello, I scurried away with my sack of lemons and stopped for a moment to catch my breath against the side of the building. She's back, she remembers, and she holds the key to a photographic legacy, the revelation of which would be decidedly embarrassing.

In order to avoid any kind of public scandal, I made immediate plans to resign from all my public positions. The Pia Zadora Fan Club (president), The Kildare Bird Club (president), along with The Midwest Gourd Society (seed acquisition manager) and The Bring Back Bonnie Hunt Club (charts and graphs director) would soon be receiving formal letters, informing them of my resignation from office in order to spend more time with my family. This was a close call and a foreboding reminder, as Gordon Lightfoot warned, "The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound and a wave broke over the railing." It just goes to show, one minute the waters are calm and the next thing, the gales of November come early. There's just no telling what lays waiting in the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.

Johnny Cash's Dog

It's not my imagination, more and more people are dressing in all-black. Black sweaters, shirts, jeans, jackets. It's as if the world is hosting a fashion tribute to the late Johnny Cash. He left a musical legacy unparalleled by few, and many people apparently feel the urge to pay homage to him through fashion. It's a good look on some, but now there's Johnny Cash at the Kandle Nook, Johnny Cash at the Rexall, and his likeness can be seen browsing the display cases at the Fudge Barn. I've been noticing something about these dressed-in-black people, especially when standing in line behind them at the grocery store. The all-black garments seem to attract a large amount of debris, like threads and dog and cat hair. This is especially true if the dressed-in-black person has a light colored pet. The hairs littering their backside form a sort of untidy collage that screams anything but Johnny Cash.

As a public service, while waiting in line behind Mr. or Mrs. Cash, I count the pet hairs on the back of the person's clothes, and when finished (often, this takes almost until they are checking out and leaving the store), I say the number out loud, followed by the identification of the pet. For instance, I might say "thirty-six, dog," or "fifty-five, cat," depending on the animal. This is not an effort to be rude, rather it's an attempt to be helpful, alerting the wearer-of-black that they have some personal maintenance to do before attending that all-important-meeting. There is no charge for this favor.

So far, no one has thanked me for this valuable observation, even though it's delivered in a soft-spoken and respectful manner. There have been some off-putting looks, and one woman turned around after I said "forty-four cat, twenty-two dog," (the combo, perhaps the most difficult to sort while counting), and quickly replied, "Sixty-six, nut-ball." I figured she was just one of those math whizzes, because she didn't even bother to take into account the dog and cat part.

Another time, after I said, "Twenty-nine dog," this guy delivered an immediate, "Hike!"
It became clear that my message was not being received as intended. That is, until I ran into Mincey: waved-out, wild looking red hair and big peace-symbol earrings. She was ahead of me in line at Happy Foods and wearing a black cape when I said, "Nineteen, cat."
"Twenty-one, if you look closer," she replied. "I counted them before I came into the store. I left my beret in the car because, besides looking not right, it had thirty-three, and the two added up to be an even number, and you know what can happen with that." She held out her hand, "I'm Mincey; I count. My cat, Mr. Numbers, keeps me busy. Beige fur."

We walked out of the store together, counting out-loud, in unison, the floor tiles beneath our feet. Once outside, the subject eventually turned to the wisdom of Zorro for choosing a black horse. "Imagine the maintenance on the cape if he'd have ridden a white one," she said. We laughed and also agreed there's no room for plaid in our lives. As Mincey says, "It's a confusing mass of every-which-way colors that has the ability inspire a headache." And shirts with pictures on them. Mincey said when a guy shows up for a date wearing a t-shirt featuring a picture of a largemouth bass or a deer head, the relationship is deemed unsalvageable.

My own shirt was a plain light grey, and, other than buttons, had no ornamentation, which gave me the courage to ask a question that's kept me wondering for a long time. I asked her what kind of dog she thought Johnny Cash had. Her answer was very definite, "A black one." She told me how she observed these things for many years and even brought binoculars to a Johnny Cash concert in 1976. Her report: "Nothing, not one hair, so it must've been a black something-or-other." Mincey was an expert in her field.

I thanked Mincey for assigning a punctuation to this mystery, and when I turned to go, she shouted after me, "See you on the next odd numbered day with a multiple of three, my shopping days."

On the way home, I wondered if that meant we had a date. This could be trouble. Maybe I'd gotten in over my head and people will talk about my new affair and I'll be relegated to the liquor lane at Happy Foods where the guys wearing odorous cologne check out. I can't possibly have an affair; it's just one more chore with extra laundry, leftover beverages, and unexplainable half-eaten bags of snacks, not to mention the burden of keeping stories straight. This had doom, worry, and disappointment written all over it. There was only one option: I headed to Gibler's Sporting Goods where they sell t-shirts emblazoned with the wholesome, yet pugnacious, largemouth bass. I hope Mincey understands. Breaking up is so very hard to do.

Bonnie Hunt's Blue Drapes

If it wasn't for my enthusiastic infatuation with Bonnie Hunt, I would have never joined the BBBH (Bring Back Bonnie Hunt) club. I'm not much of a joiner, but tackling the direction of Bonnie's career all by myself seemed quite formidable, so I've become immersed in a stew-pot of Bonnie's fans. The club meets once per month and is dedicated to all things Bonnie, the foremost of which is to bring her sparkling personality back to television. We meet at Ginny Nooten's house, and each gathering is chock full of news about Bonnie, as well as Bonnie handicrafts, made by a few of the more inspired members.

My contribution to the club is my Bonnie Hunt Drapery Report, which, for the sake of clarification, is compiled into a poster-board-sized bar graph. It's a simple graph identifying each day of the week, along with a corresponding blue bar, indicating whether Bonnie's bay window drapes were open or closed at 10:00am, the time when I make my daily, well-being, drapery check. I whiz by Bonnie's house on my bicycle, practically unnoticed, and only glance furtively at her window so as not to appear nosy. Once, Bonnie waved to me, and I returned a polite wave, but didn't stop. She deserves her privacy, and, besides, I'm hesitant around celebrities.

Really, nobody is bothered by my excursions except for Ginny Nooten, who is envious of my first-hand association with Bonnie. More than once, she's tried to pry the location of Bonnie's house from me, but I always reply the same way: "Out of respect for Miss Hunt, her home address must be kept confidential. I'm sure you understand." This bugs the hell out of her, and once, when I referred to myself as merely a neighborhood fixture, reporting on the well-being of our beloved Bonnie, she called me a "neighborhood nut," which is saying something if you tallied some of the behaviors of the BBBH club membership. There's Francine, who embroiders Bonnie's likeness on hand towels and pot holders, and Harriett, who makes Bonnie Hunt refrigerator magnets from shellacked magazine photographs, and not-to-be-outdone is Dory Wibben, who manages to celebrate Christmas 365 days a year with her glitter-encrusted Bonnie Hunt Christmas ornaments. To be called a nut among this bunch is a notable accomplishment.

What really bugs Ginny is that my monthly bar graph garners more than its share of attention. Each month, the entire BBBH club gathers around the poster-board and discusses the meanings of the open-or-closed blue drapes. Generally, if they're closed, they conclude she was out late, the night before, at some swingin' star-filled extravaganza. And if they've been closed for extended periods of time, they surmise she's out of town, working on a fabulous new venture that only a few insiders like us could be aware of. So, even though Ginny resents my presence, she's well aware that my drapery reports are an integral part of the glue that keeps the BBBH club together.

The other part of the BBBH club glue is DeAnne Speckles' South-of-the-Border punch, which is nothing more than a giant margarita in a beach-ball-sized bowl of ice. It does, however, help loosen up the players in the Bonnie Hunt puppet show. Ginny Nooten makes Bonnie Hunt hand puppets, which are featured at the end of each BBBH club meeting with an often-improvised puppet show. Ginny insists on being the Bonnie puppet while another member is chosen to take on the role of one of the many puppets in her repertoire. At the last meeting, she asked me to play the role of Bonnie's producer, Don Lake. The Don Lake puppet is a bespectacled, balding man casually dressed, and, as disagreeable as Ginny can be, her impeccable attention to detail is remarkable, right down to Don's tiny headphone and microphone set. Ginny always speaks first, followed by appreciative applause from the BBBH club members, almost as if it's the opening of Bonnie's television show.

--Bonnie (Ginny): Hello everyone. Welcome to my living room. (applause) I have a concern today.
--Don (Me): What's that, Bonnie?
--Bonnie: Well, Don, there's this guy who rides his bicycle past my house every day at ten o'clock in the morning.
--Don: What's the problem?
--Bonnie: He gives me the willies.
--Don: What does he do?
--Bonnie: Nothing. He just rides by. No wave, nothing.
--Don: What would you expect him to do?
--Bonnie: Wave or something, I dunno. I'm a big star. Shouldn't he at least wave hello?
--Don: Maybe he's the thoughtful type and doesn't want to bother you.
--Bonnie: No, no. There's nothing thoughtful about this guy.
--Don: He sounds swell to me, a gift, a harbinger of the day.
--Bonnie: Oh please. This guy rides by at the same time every day. I swear, I could set my watch by him.
--Don: Do you wait for him?
--Bonnie: Well, no, maybe, sometimes. I dunno.
--Don: I think your curiosity might be turning into a crush!
--Bonnie: Goodness, no!
--Don: Maybe he's playing hard-to-get and you're falling for it.
--Bonnie: No, no, he's...he's up to something, I swear!
--Don: I'm seeing a big red heart with "Bonnie loves the Bicycle Guy" inscribed in the middle.
--Bonnie: I wouldn't have a crush on this guy if he was the last man on Earth! He thinks he's so smart with his charts and graphs. I'll tell you what he can do with those bar graphs! My puppets are way better than any goddamn graph. I don't even know where I live. Why can't he tell me where I live? Is that so freakin' much to ask!
--Don: I think it's time we break for a commercial.

The BBBH club meeting ended with an awkward silence while everyone gathered their handicrafts and filed out the door, trying in earnest to disregard the uncivil turn of the puppet show. I'm thinking this may not be the club for me and will be looking for another club where the merit of a well-organized bar graph is appreciated.

Hi-ho Silver, Away!

Truth serum or something close to it, that's what they give you during a colonoscopy. Someone could ask you anything while you're under the influence of that stuff, and you're compelled to tell the truth, even if it's not in your best interest. The doctor (or nurse with an axe to grind) could ask you if you ever cheated on a test, and your reply might land you back in high school, repeating your senior year all over again, or worse, all four levels, depending on the evidence gathered.

Several years ago, during my procedure (that's what the medical professionals like to call it), I'm certain the doctor coerced the combination to my bicycle lock from me. Three days after the procedure, my bike was stolen. More than a little curious, eh? I mentioned this to her while she was reading the test results over the phone, and she acted oh-so-innocent, like larceny and deceit never crossed the threshold of the hospital. "We are here to heal, not steal," were her exact words. Despite her denials, I told her it won't be so easy next time, as I just might purchase a brand new lock after the procedure so I'll have no knowledge of the combination during her drug-assisted interrogation. I hoped she learned a lesson from my suspicions; after all, doctors can afford their own bicycles.

The other day, I was subjected to another "procedure." Prior to putting me under the anesthesia, a nurse asked what kind of musical accompaniment I wanted. She said they would be putting me into a state of twilight, and as I drift in and out of consciousness, I might be able to hear some of the music they play in the operating room. Figuring a lute player was out of the question on such short notice, I requested "Lies" by the Knickerbockers, because, I said, "There won't be a word of truth to anything you hear while I'm sedated. I'm a compulsive liar, so don't believe a word I say, and leave my bike alone, and what is this anyway, a hospital or a sock-hop."

There was an uncomfortable, worry-filled silence before drifting off into a nurse-driven twilight; I was consumed with fear about what might be revealed this time. I mean, everybody has secrets that shouldn't see the light of day. There was the time I pirated a copy of "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken," and the time I stole all the Mounds Bars from my nephew's trick or treat bag. And there's stuff people do in the privacy of their own homes that should remain private. For instance, my wife and I are history buffs, aficionados might be a more accurate term, and occasionally reenact historical events. Lately, we've been in rehearsal for "The Lone Ranger meets Miss Kitty," two pivotal characters from the old west that never had the chance to meet on-screen. Marshal Dillon had plenty of time to make his move; the alluring Miss Kitty waited nineteen years, but came up with nothing but a yearning in her heart and whiskey on her breath. In our romantic drama, the Lone Ranger, mask and all, finally gets the chance to court the unfulfilled Miss Kitty, the saucy red-head who knows how to work a beauty-mark. These are the kinds of beans that could get spilled and wind up in some medical journal for all the world to see, or, at the very least, become the subject of hospital gossip or, quite possibly, an inclusion in a person's medical file.

Upon waking from the procedure and still in a state of twilight, I thought I heard the doctor say, "This guy has a nice ass," though it could have been, "This guy is a pain in the ass." I'm not sure which one it was, but I'm sticking with the former, as, at this stage of life, the compliments arrive on an all too irregular basis. Then, while in recovery, she remarked, with a somewhat unreadable tone, how I talked incessantly throughout the entire procedure, "jabbering about this and that" was how she put it. When she said, again in a monotone, that the whole experience was the highlight of her career, a nearby covey of nurses began laughing and whispering.

They allowed me to rest in silence for an hour while I gathered my senses, time enough for me to fret obsessively about what kind of information the medical staff gathered from my "jabbering," as the doctor so casually put it. While leaving the hospital, I walked slowly down the exit hallway, and just when I pushed on the swinging door at the very end, I could hear a woman's voice echoing through the corridor, "Hi-ho Silver, away!" followed by a boisterous throng of laughter.

I wondered about the statute of limitations on The Ghost and Mr. Chicken caper, then made a silent pledge to buy a new bicycle lock first thing in the morning.

Vivian's Vortex of Discontent

The Bowl 'n Roll's main business is bowling, but within the confines of the establishment, a dimly lit tavern and a sandwich counter add to the glamor of the bowling alley experience. Redondo, the sandwich maker who has taken sandwich making to a new standard, has a gold capped tooth that lights up his friendly smile against a neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign.

It's not just me, lots of people have discovered Redondo's sandwich-making abilities. At lunchtime, people are lined up three deep around the counter, waiting for his specialty creations, each one named after a different bowling term: The Strike, The Spare, The Ten Pin, The Railroad, The Turkey, The Lucky Shot, The Crawler, and my favorite, The Gutter Ball. Often, the purchases are made to reward or insult a bowler. Like one time, a guy ordered a Gutter Ball for everyone on the opposing bowling team, hoping, amid howls of laughter, the culinary prophecy would jinx their games.

I don't bowl, but Redondo's sandwiches have become a part of my dietary regimen, so I guess you could say I'm a regular at the Bowl 'n Roll, regular enough for Redondo to greet me with, "Hello my friend, Gutter Ball un momento." There's other regulars aside from the sandwich regulars like myself. There are, of course, the bowling regulars, and then there's the tavern regulars. The tavern regulars often mix with the sandwich regulars as the sandwich counter extends into the bar, and one particular tavern regular perches on the bar-stool closest to the sandwich cash register so she can divide her exposure between the two groups. Her name is Vivian, a little too much lipstick, a little too much Vodka, and a steamer trunk full of opinions.

Vivian has been a fixture at the Bowl 'n Roll since 1978, the year her bowling team, The Alpacas, took the alley championship. There's a plaque in the entryway "to prove it, if you have any doubts." She waves her ice-filled glass in wide, circular gestures while offering her odious commentaries. Vivian is disagreeable and often times downright nasty, but the truth is I'm drawn to her like a moth to a flame, even though it's always me feeling scorched. As soon as Vivian begins one of her barb-filled bombasts, it's like a carnival barker calling, "Step right up, right this way sir, don't be afraid, come listen to Vivian's Vortex of Discontent!" And I'm drawn in every time, like wanting to see the bearded lady but knowing I'll be sorry later and pay the price with a series of nightmares.

All these conversations take place amid the background crackle of tumbling bowling pins. Vivian's favorite response to anything that doesn't please her is, "Oh, give me a break." This phrase discounts all those who don't measure up to her standards. Once, I mentioned Bob Dylan, and she broke into something about how Sinatra was the only singer worth mentioning in her presence. "Bob Dylan," she said with a wave of her glass, "Give me a break."

In an effort to limit my exposure to Vivian, I've been getting my Gutter Ball sandwiches to go, but while waiting, I find myself being sucked into the eddy of her vortex. The other day, she went on a tirade about how there's no such thing as global warming, and when I tried to explain about the polar ice caps melting, her response was, "Warming schwarming, give me a break."

Lately, she's taken to calling me "honey" in a tone that's anything but endearing. After our disagreement about which color M&Ms possess the qualities of an aphrodisiac, she slurred her final remark, "Listen here, honey, it's the yellows, but don't get any ideas; I have a boyfriend who could squash you like a bug," followed by a demonstration with her thumb mashing an imaginary insect on the bar (It's possible the bug may not be the only imaginary thing in Vivian's world).

Once, in an effort to build a bridge of friendship, I bought Vivian a drink, but it had the opposite effect: "What, you think you own me or something, just 'cause you bought me a drink? You bongo-playin' types got nerve. Give me a break." Even when I agree with her, I'm curiously delegated for blame, like when we both mourned the loss of Pluto's designation as a planet, I was reprimanded, "You and your fancy-assed telescopes couldn't leave well enough alone."

This whole unstable relationship is as much about my own culpability as it is Vivian's. If it weren't for Redondo's fine sandwich making, I might be able to end this sour flirtation with her. But several times a week, I pull open the doors of the Bowl 'n Roll, and my arms flail wildly and I spin around, helplessly caught in the swirling vortex of Vivian's discontent.... and somehow, knowing it'll end with a Gutter Ball, it seems okay; a risky road worth taking.

I forgot to mention that each sandwich comes with a complimentary, medium-sized pickle.

Ten Years of Fake Laughter

Alanna was a charming woman who graced me with her presence for ten years. I say it was nine, but she claims it was eleven, so we settled on ten, though some people say it was probably only nine, but because she endured my irregular flirtations with lucidity for so long a time, it felt like eleven to her. When we parted, she said that she never quite understood my sense of humor, and that, for the entire ten, nine, or eleven years, she laughed at my comments just to be polite.

I asked her why she didn't say something sooner, and she claimed she was being kind and didn't want to hurt my feelings. She had this peculiar laugh, like a barking seal, that could only be heard when she was inhaling air at the end of a long protracted silent bout of laughter. So I asked her if that quirky laughter was real, and she said that she often faked it, the way some women fake orgasms to keep the relationship on an even keel.

This was many years ago, and to tell you the truth, I've never completely recovered from this revelation. I used to think I knew what was funny, but for quite a long time, I've often been left wondering whether something was funny or not and whether people are laughing at me or with me. Sometimes, when I'm telling a story, people start laughing, and I wonder what they are laughing about, but I keep on telling the story because I think it's a good story but not necessarily a funny one.

I'm not a joke teller. I can't remember jokes. Some people have a Rolodex of jokes in their heads, but as my friend, Eva Gleckler, the comedy critic who has honed her expertise from many years of unfulfilled dating, says those people are not funny, they just have good memories. And I think she's right. There's a surly guy across the alley, Earl Swonk, who only bothers to shave when the V.F.W. holds their monthly fish fry. He's built like a fire plug and has a heavy-footed, deliberate walk, like a robot ready to stomp out miniature villages of tiny people. He's more than a little rough around the edges, and I think some people would say he's downright scary. He's definitely not funny, but he has more jokes logged in his head than fifty comedians. Give him a topic and he'll break into a series of the most off-color, politically incorrect jokes you ever heard. He remembers them all. That's not me; I get everything twisted around in the retelling so that, not only is the joke no longer funny, but I have to backtrack and explain the part about the Norwegian guy that I forgot to include in the first part of the joke.

Many times, when I watch movies labeled "comedies," they don't seem funny at all. Some are quite good, but they often seem tragic and sad, and I have honest empathy for the characters and their troublesome situations and am reminded of either myself or friends in similar circumstances.

And now, when I'm with a group of people and they suddenly break into a fit of laughter, I wonder who among them is fake-laughing and whose laughter is genuine. There should be a laughter-detector kit for these circumstances; it would be a big help for people like me. I just don't know anymore; since Alanna's departure, my comedic sense has been disheveled, and I'm thinking the joke has been on me. Ten, nine, or eleven years is a long time to live, unknowingly, with fake laughter.

I recently saw the lovely Alanna at the annual gathering of the Midwest Gourd Society, the colorful, handicraft-horticultural club where we first met. She barely acknowledged my existence, but when we spoke for a moment, I tried to work one of Earl's jokes into the conversation. She just stared at me with a blank expression on her face and said, "The cake is really good this year," and turned and walked away.
I shouted after her, "I forgot about the Norwegian guy in the beginning!"
But there was nothing, not even a polite, sympathetic, quirky bit of laughter, only a disapproving, "Oh brother," as she disappeared into a crowd of friends gathered at the gourd accessory table.

I wonder if Alanna has been fake-laughing at her present husband's jokes or if he even suspects any disingenuous behavior. Perhaps he's the serious type like Perry Mason, and there's no need for the faux-laughter. Or maybe he's just so darned hysterical that she can hardly contain that quirky laugh. Or maybe he's one of those genius inventor-types and, in his spare time, concocted a fake-laughter-detector that not only monitors the integrity of Alanna's laughter, but alleviates the burdensome chore of remembering the placement of the Norwegian guy.
I just wonder.

Thirsty Dreams

Betty the cat steers the rudder of our home. She, along with the rest of the household, just barely tolerates my presence. I'm pretty much allowed to go anywhere in the house but often times get a snake-eyed warning or a hiss for reasons that elude me. At night, Betty sleeps on my wife's side of the bed and occasionally opens one eye as if to say, "Don't try anything, buster. I'm watching you."

Every evening, I place a standby glass of water on the nightstand on my side of the bed, as occasionally, a dream will induce a powerful thirst, worthy of immediate quenching, and it's nice to have a beverage handy during these emergencies. Often times, a small sip of water will suffice, but during one thirsty dream, I awakened so desperately parched that I not only drank almost the entire glass of water, but splashed my face with the remainder. It was the dream where the very selfish Ann Coulter and I shared a life-raft adrift on the Pacific. She had a water bottle and refused to share even a drop, and proceeded to yak on and on about what's hers is hers and not wanting any of my left-leaning slobber. She laughed after suggesting I get out of the sun by sitting in her shadow (which had all the substance of a spaghetti noodle, almost no shadow at all). The thirst, the blistering sun, and the non-stop jabbering nearly drove me overboard til awakening safely in my room.

The thirsty dreams occur on a regular basis, and after a drink of water, I can usually fall right back to sleep. But last night, after a very thirsty dream involving Drew Barrymore, something unexpected happened. Drew and I were lost in the desert, brought there by our participation in one of those Hollywood scavenger parties. We'd been searching for Ozzie and Harriett memorabilia when we wandered off the beaten path. During the ordeal, Drew conducted herself like a lady and was almost apologetic while discarding several articles of clothing, revealing tattoos that not many people know exist. The unforgiving desert sun, along with Drew's tattoo revelations, caused me to startle awake and reach for the water glass, which, to my dismay, was occupied by Betty the cat, slurping and splashing like a riverside baptism.

Maybe Betty has these same thirsty dreams, but she has her own water bowl in the kitchen. Nevertheless, I patiently waited in the dark and watched her fall nonchalantly back to sleep, thoroughly refreshed, while I stayed awake, parched like an old saltine, wondering how many times we've shared the same glass of water.

In the morning, I questioned my wife about Betty's late night water excursion:

--Her: Oh, she's been doing that since she was a kitten.
--Me: So, you're telling me that for the past three years, Betty and I have been drinking from the same glass?
--Her: I suppose. I thought you knew.
--Me: If I knew, why would I drink from the same glass?
--Her: I didn't think it bothered you.
--Me: Drinking cat slobber bothers me.
--Her: She's probably cleaner than you. She's constantly grooming herself.
--Me: Yes, I've seen how she cleans her private parts, and then we share a water glass. At least I have the decency to use toilet paper.
--Her: Thank god for that.
--Me: I'm feeling woozy.
--Her: Think of it this way: it's her way of accepting you, a common bond. You should be complimented.
--Me: Should I return the acceptance by using her litter box?
--Her: Don't be silly.
--Me: I’m telling my doctor I've been drinking cat slobber. Maybe there's a special test and some medication to wipe out the cat cooties that are crawling through my body.
--Her: Now you're being ridiculous.
--Me: I'm woozy.
--Her: It's all in your mind.
--Me: OK, give me a kiss.
--Her: Not so fast, Romeo; you've been drinking cat slobber.

And so the romantic avoidance continues, only this time it's for the very legitimate excuse of unhygienic cat slobber. The possibility exists that I'm permanently cootied. A levelheaded call to a responsible medical practitioner should tell me how long it takes for cat cooties to wear off. I'm hoping the doctor can steer me towards a twelve-step, cat-slobber-sharer program where commiserating with other cat-cootie-carriers is a dignified road destined for healing. From now on, though, I'm bringing a water bottle to bed, something I won't be obliged to share with noodle-shadow Ann or Betty the cat, but Drew, oh sweet Drew, can have a sip anytime she wants.