AN UPDATE ON LOUIE

The kid looks 12 but he's only 6-and-a-half. He's been gray for awhile, but the gray seems more pronounced, now. He has a camouflage bandanna around his neck, but he's not looking like a rough and tough soldier. He is lying on his side, and, though his eyes are open (for the most part), they have lost luster. Am I reading too much into physiological signs and symptoms? Maybe, but I doubt it.

The bumps on his throat have not gone down, though I have used all but a day-and-a-half of the allotted antibiotic medication. The aspiration that the vet took a couple of Saturdays ago showed no signs of cancer--lymphoma, to be specific--but the vet told me that the pathologist kind of hedged his bets, seeing as how the bumps had so-recently arrived. I don't know, but I know what I feel.

I feel that the kid is slipping, a bit. He still barks and he still plays with Oliver, but, most of the time that I'm home and looking at him, Louie is lying on his dog-bed...he just looks tired, man. Just tired. And when he eats and drinks, right afterwards, he does this kind of retching/regurgitation thing. He's not outright vomiting, but he is having problems with his throat. And would that surprise a soul? Hell no. He's got his lymph nodes squeezing his trachea and his esophagus, in my not-at-all-medical opinion. Am I wrong? Maybe. Hopefully.

Anyway.

This is how it stands: I feel that my buddy, whom I have known since he was a little big-headed brindled days-old puppy, is slipping away from me. Like the emotional mofo I am, I remember all of him. His good days, his sweet days, his handsome days (always), and, maybe, his end of days. Bah. Bah. Bah! Words don't, won't, could never do him justice. He is a part of me.

And it hurts me to see him (maybe? yes) hurting, or, at least, feeling less-than. It hurts a whole hell of a lot.

Earlier today, when I got back home, I gave him a cold leftover half of a hamburger patty. (He's been getting tons of people-food, lately. And that will continue.) In the past, up to and including just a month ago, he'd have vaporized that treat. Swi-zaysh, down the chute. Like a vacuum. Today, he struggled with the little piece of meat. Oh, sure, he made sure that Oliver didn't steal it away from him--just a head-turn'll do it--but he struggled with it, man. He broke it into little grampa-sized-pieces. And then ate it. And, minutes later, he was doing his throat thing, the thing that makes me feel (like crying) like he's trying to force a cantaloupe down a garden hose. Not good, man.

Memories, like the times we used to share....

I may have the lyrics wrong, and, yes, it was an attempt at smarmy cheesy humor.

'Cause this is how it'll go down, if what I feel to be true, actually, is:

Meagan is going to drop Lou off at North Main Animal Hospital on Monday morning at about 9:00 or 9:30. They're going to do a biopsy of the bumps and, hopefully, just remove the fucking things. Quality of life, you know? At the very least, though, they'll slice and dice (hopefully maybe just remove) and send the samples to a laboratory, somewhere....

And this is what my gut-feeling tells me what will happen:

The sample will come back cancerous. Lymphoma. Listen: I have no money. I am scraping by. I had to jiggle a few commitments to be able to pay for his Monday surgical procedure. But it is not--not!--just a financial matter, a monetary concern. Hell, no. It is also a quality of life issue. I'll not have my baby boy rendered a motherfucking pin cushion. I just won't.

I think that God tells us when it is time to say good-bye. All the fucking drugs and procedures in the motherfucking world will not change that, but for a very very very limited time period.

Anyway....

Anyway.

My gut-feeling tells me that the biopsy comes back malignant. And if it does not?! I'll literally jump for joy. But, gut-feelings...? If the results come back cancerous, then an era is over. I'll not do chemotherapy for multi-fold reasons. One, I ain't got the greenbacks. Two, even if I did, it's just prolonging the inevitable. If a dog has lymphoma--a rapidly-growing motherfucker of a cancer--the dog'll not have a very good life, regardless of how long he or she lives. Just my two cents. Three, I remember (and see) Louie strong, soldier-like, affable, handsome, yes, The Best Boy Evah. And, also, my boy. Will I subject him to pricks and prods and days of nausea? Would I? Hell. No.

I'll watch him, though. I'll eagle-eye him, my lovely boy. I'll center every grain of my being on him and how he is feeling and how he ate and did he drink and did he regurgitate and is he in pain and will he be miraculous...until I have seen enough and the pain of having him hobbled is equal to or greater than the pain of seeing him set free.

And then I'll have to set him free, with much pain and much Love and many endless tears.

"The only knock against dogs is that they don't live long enough."

PS--I dearly hope I'm wrong.

PPS--If I'm not wrong? Well Louie, this, from one King Louie to the next, man. Peace to you.

BUILD THE FUCKING MOSQUE ALREADY

I mean, seriously. Build it. Build it!

I thougt we--as a nation--were built on religious tolerance.

Yes, we had 9/11 happen. It happened; it was horrible.

So the proposed site from Ground Zero is about a three-minute walk? So. Fucking. What.

Build it. Otherwise then, what?

Then we, as a nation, are a bald-faced hypocrite.

And, by the way? It's also a fucking community center.

Gimme a fucking break. What do people think the YMCA and the YWCA acronyms stand for?

So Christianity and Judaism work but Islam doesn't? Come fucking on.

It's simple bigotry. That's it.

9/11 was horrific. Just horrific. Here is a help to all the bigots out there: One group of people are not all the same. There are bad apples in every bunch.

I must repeat: It may be a mosque (so what?) but it will also be a community center.

Let's move on, folks....

This really pisses me off. I mean, really. Pisses me off, man.

GIVE OF YOURSELF...

Short Fiction:

"Give," he'd said. "Give of yourself. Just...give. Give the Devil an inch, and he'll take a mile...I mean, your life."

She'd been scared. She'd thought that she had known him--albeit they had been together, as a couple, for "only" four months--she'd thought that she had seen into the Personal Him.

"Listen," he'd said, "I think about violence and carnage and God and sex and horrific movies and peaceful retreats and Love and pressing a screwdriver into--pop!--somebody's eyeball. Warranted, of course. I'd not do it for no reason. I think about coffee and times lost and rot-gut best booze and times lost. I am a circle with black and white. I am yin and I am yang. I eat meat, yet I love animals. I poo-poo tofu, but it tastes grand. I am just as comfortable in watching 'When Harry Met Sally' as I am watching 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.' I profess love for everyone, yet I harbor silent bigotries. I--" He'd stopped, examined her. She'd felt like a housefly, straight-pinned to corkboard. His eyes had travelled over her face, her breasts, her thighs, her Special Place. "I'm hungry," he'd continued, his eyes glazed with his ubiquitous opium. "How about a meal?"

Her heart had fluttered like a butterfly, flitting hither and yon. Through her panic-stricken eyes, he'd seemed to double and treble. Focus, she'd told herself. Just fucking focus.

His eyes had lit up, then. Brilliant-blue. "Scared? Don't be. I'll make the salad; you make the steak. Grill it just the way you do." He'd dropped an ominous wink. "You cook my meat the best that anyone ever has."

She'd shivered inside.

What, she'd thought, seasoned with arsenic?

And but then they'd eaten a meal together--the steak was perfect and the salad was otherworldly--and they'd actually watched "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" and then they'd had some popcorn and taken the cats for a walk and then had so-steamy three-minute sexual intercourse and then they'd fallen asleep, legs intertwined.

***

And...she wakes up this morning and this kernel of a thought is in her head.

-----------------------------------------------------

Just fiction.

That's it. Just fiction.

Don't get all bent out of your shape(s).

-----------------------------------------------------

In other news, my doggy Louie may have lymphoma. I took him to the vet's after Nay and Meeg and I (last) had noticed bimpy-bumps in his throat, right where the lymph nodes are. I was crying last Saturday when I took him to the doc's. They aspirated him and told me to call back on Tuesday or Wednesday. The doc left a message on Tuesday--and I called and re-affirmed on Wednesday--that the pathologist could not find any cancer cells in the sample. Good, right? Well, hopefully. In the message, the vet noted that, since it was early, the pathologist said that maybe it was just the beginnings of canine lymphoma, a certainly-deadly disease. Or...maybe not. I cling to "maybe not." It could be lymphoid hyperplasia. Um.... LH is a disease of the lymph nodes caused by anything from fungi to bacteria to a virus to an act of God. I have no fucking idea what caused the bumps in Lou's throat. I can tell you this, though: He's spry. He's fight-playing with Ollie-wag and he's eating his food (and the food, my food, that I give him...'cause I love him) and, though he coughs more than he has in the past, his nose is still cold and wet (good health) and his barking is just fine, and his playing, as noted before, seems up to par.

So, antibiotics twice a day. Okay! Whatever I have to do! Yes. Yes. Yes. But, then, this: If Lou does have lymphoma? I haven't the funds for his treatment. There. I fucking said it. If it comes down to me having to retch one- or two- or three-thousand dollars out of a dry stone for his treatments that may only elongate his life by eight months to a year, I'll say no. Nope. Can't do it. Emotionally and fiscally, I can't do it. And I won't.

Six-and-a-half-years-old is Louie. King Louis the First, I used to call him.... I knew, going in, how "blink-y" a dog's life can be. I knew that dogs live like a candle burning from both ends. Going in, I knew that the only fault that any dog-owner could lay on his or her pet was that they leave too fucking fucking fucking soon! I knew that, but I saw a little brindled puppy. His head was huge and his paws were big and his body was small and I just fucking melted. Couldn't help myself. And, through the next six years, we were inseparable.

That's not to say that I was Opie and he was my dog nor that I was the Lassie-boy-tool. I wasn't. I'm still not, even with his maybe-not-purported death staring him in his graying face. (And mine.) What I will say is that I have never felt such...what? Togetherness. He. Is. My. Boy.

And when he hurts, I hurt. When he coughs, I feel a tightening in my chest. When he looks forlorn, I feel forlorn. For the last six-and-a-half years, as he's gone, I've gone. Or? Vice-versa. See, that is the thing about dogs. They intertwine with a willing host. And I am more than willing.

So we sit and wait. I give the Sir antibiotics twice a day and wait. Wait for the bumps to go down. Wait for the throat to slim. We--I--wait for Louie to be the Louie of old, sans bumps, ready to pull me on my Rollerblades for block after block after block. I'll not expect anything less! LOL

No LOL.

No. I wait, patiently, like a dog for his "master" to regain his health. Or vice-versa.

This is not a comedic situation. There is much grief and there have been many tears dribbled.

(I named my fucking website after him!)

Argh.

Websites don't mean shit. The love behind them, however, mean a hell of a lot.

Time ticks and I wait.

As does Lou.

King Louis the First.

(Never to be a Second.)

***

Megan's healthy...I'm healthy...Naomi's healthy...Ollie is Ollie...Cutie-Pie is thirteen (bastard) and healthy enough...and Mister Bubbles is healthy.

All of that is good and fine. I expect that (except for a thirteen-year-old pussy fromping about). What I do not expect--nor tolerate--is my boy, my Luigi, getting sick when he is 6.72. Don't expect it and definitely don't accept it.

So get better, Lou-Dog. Yesterday.

loveandhugsandmemoriesandsadsmiles,

--A___

A GOOD WALK SPOILED?

Mark Twain wrote that golf is "a good walk spoiled." Though it holds many frustrations, there are a few reasons I play. The nature is nice, birds and trees and squirrels and such; the flora and fauna make for a peaceful morning or afternoon. And then, of course, the good shots keep me coming back.

I made the best shot of my life yesterday, golfing with Pablo at Sylvan Glen in Troy. On a par-four, I made a bad shot and then a couple of decent shots and found myself about 75 or 80 yards from the green. The hole location was front left and I was just off the fairway on the left side, in the short-cut of rough. I grabbed my pitching wedge out of the bag and stood, like Tiger does, behind the ball, trying to visualize the shot. "I'm channelling Tiger Woods," I said to my friend. He snickered a bit and said, "I don't know if now is the best time to be doing that. He's not playing that great right now." I said, "Okay, then I'm channelling him because of all the women he's had." "Well, that's different," he said.

I addressed the ball ["Hello, ball."] and stood over it. Easy-peasy, I told myself. Just let it swing. Let the club do the work. I swung and the hit was butter; you know that feeling you get when you hit something dead-nuts in the sweet spot. Yeah. That was it. The ball arced gracefully through the air, and bounced on the fringe of the green, bounced another time on the green and rolled--"Holy shit," said Pablo, "I think that's..."--and rolled and rolled right into the cup. I dropped my club and hooted and held my arms in the classic sign for victory. High-fives and fist-bumps ensued.

The best shot I've ever had. It feels good. It makes me want to go back. Like, now.

I also made an adjustment to my putting stance--I'm just standing closer to the ball and keeping my arms tucked in more, basic stuff--and so my putting was more accurate, too. I holed a ten-footer and had good long runs on several other putts. (Putting has been my bane ever since I took up the game.) So that's good, too.

Sure, there were tons of horrible shots, but the ones that I'll remember are the ones that got my blood pumping, the ones that boosted the adrenaline levels. They're why I'll keep coming back.

IN MY LIFE....

Me-Again.

I have never met anyone like her. A few days ago, I forgot the date of our third year of physically knowing each other. My bad.

Yes, my bad. My completely horrific bad. And this is why.

And this is why: I have never met a better woman. She is me and I am her. Soulmates? Uh, yeah.

I--she's a rainbow. I want to proclaim to the skies that I love the woman, that she is my second half, that she completes me, that she is The Love Goddess.

And she is, all of those literary terms. But she is so much more than that. I'm sure you've heard the reference of someone being someone else's "other half" or "second half"? Yes. She is that, too.

She is so beautiful, to me. (Back off, Julio.) To anyone. Symmetrical face, sooty black lashes, fucking beautiful eyes, big breasts, tiny ankles, long reddish hair, strong legs...what more can I say?!

She is me. She is my life. She is my Love.

Wow.

I haven't ever felt so much Love before. I am in virgin territory.

I know this: Complete love. And it feels good. Damned good.

=)

[giggity-giggity]

Some say that one only encounters--One Time Only Sale!--the one person for which he or she was destined.

I would like to say that I am on the fence--pre-destination or free will?--but I think I have, already, the answer: Fate. I know, I know...Some may laugh. But think about it, Some. Have ye ever, ever, felt as "at home" as you do with your lover? Have ye?

I think it is a neuro-chemical-aurical thang. And throw a splish-splash of pheremones in there, too, for good measure. I think--I believe--it just is.

And you can thank whatever god to whom you pay homage. I pay mine to the Christian God, the dude depicted sittin' on a throne of clouds. I say to Him, "Thanks, God. Thank you, so much."

Love.

Love her.

Love, here.

I love you, Meagan. Forever.

Sexviolence--A Movie Review--and...Birds

I just got done watching a movie called Donkey Punch. If you don't know what that term means, I maybe suggest your looking it up on-line. Now, I am not a fan--at all--of the allusion (or the practice, for that matter) of a donkey punch, but the movie itself was a good one.

It had sexviolence--one word. That, in itself, is not a precursor to a good movie, but this one was.

I won't go into too much detail, but I will let this be known: The movie had quite a bit of violence and a little bit of sex and copious amounts of alcohol- and drug-use.... My kinda film!

Olly Blackburn directed it; it was his first feature-length film.

I got a kick out of the "Special Features" section on the disc. I usually like to get the director's opinion of his or her movie and Blackburn didn't disappoint. He talked about the film, about its violence and its sexuality and he spoke of it in terms that the movie was something akin to or as shattering as something like Deep Throat or Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Now, while good--no, uh-uh.

There was sex and there was gory violence, sure, but what really made me like the flick was the way in which the 20-something cast (three girls, four guys) played off of each other and made the script work.

(Maybe I'm just a sucka for sexviolence? Maybe I am. Maybe I am. But the movie worked. And I know quality screensmanship when I see it.)

The main reason I wrote this post? One, to get the word out on the movie Donkey Punch. I thoroughly enjoyed it and I hope others will, too. Two, something Olly Blackburn said. He said something to the effect (in the "Crowd Reaction" section of the Special Features) that, whilst the movie was being shown in Salt Lake, Utah, some Mormon woman, upon seeing some of the (banal) sex scenes, speedwalked out of the showing into the foyer of the theater...and promptly fainted.

To which I say this: Woman. Listen. You went to a screening of a movie called Donkey Punch. If you don't know the meaning of the term, fucking look it up. If you have a religious leaning, a religious "way of life," for God's sake (rice wine) know what the fuck you're getting yourself into. If you cannot see sexviolence on the screen, don't go to watch. Stay the fuck home.

...

[Or maybe I need to back off on her. Maybe she had low blood sugar, or some other pre-existing health condition. If so, I am sorry. I hope she got what she needed.]

...

But! If you fainted in the foyer of a theater from watching this movie?! Do your fucking research. Seriously. If you would be offended by breasts and asses and half-formed images of males' netherworlds, do yourself a favor. If you're offended by bloody deaths and knives and fatal punches and whirling deadly boat motors, do yourself a favor. In fact, do me a fucking favor: Stay. Home.

And...(smile)...to the rest of you: I recommend this movie. (winkwinknudgenudge) But I do. I do not recommend this movie to my mom, though. Just saying. She, and three other people (perhaps) read this blog-drivel, and so I need to make sure that I would not corrupt my sweet sweet Mom. (Mom, I do not recommend this movie to you. There. My Conscience is assauged.) To the rest of you: Watch it. Just make sure the kids are in bed.

[I can't get over that fainting woman. Shit. Get a grip, lady.]

Sexviolence. It's a new...cool...term.

(forpornography)

[Who said that?!]

***

In more pleasant news, a baby sparrow (I think) fell from the second-story roof of my mom's Tudor house and I sprang into action. (Just ask her.) With her help, I hustled the baby bird into a plastic Tupperware-like container and, upon her insistence, enclosed said box in a plastic bag. Off I was to the back porch, ladder in hand, whereupon I skimmied up the roof--with not a lot of handholds (I'd done it before)--thirty-seven feet in the air. Not a problem. I ain't scared o' no heights. The problem became when, near the chimney, I saw where the unfortunate fellow's home had been: Down a forty-degree grade, with absolutely no handholds, over the double-driveway. "This is where we part ways," I said to the baby bird. He blinked at me and squawked (probably for his Mammy.) "I hate to do it, but there aren't any things to hold on to, man. You're on your own." I angled the plastic box at the nest-in-gutter and let Baby slide. He tumbled, beak over ass-feathers, until he came to rest against a cylindrical roof vent. Okay, I thought, as I contemplated getting back down (coming down is always harder), he can't miss his nest. I am Superman. [cue music]

Well, as I was saying good-bye to my mother at her side door, I glanced to my right.... And who did I see? Seamus the Sparrow, much worse off for the wear after enduring two twenty-nine (?) -foot drops. Kid was not so spry, now. Kill him, my mind said. Put him out of his avian misery. I couldn't do it. My mom certainly couldn't do it. So we dug up a worm, and I cut said worm up, and we left the carcass, in the little plastic box, with the little damaged bird, and we, now, hope for the best.

Had it been me? Just me? I would have put a boot through his little head. I would have. Not to be mean, but to be (more) humane. I hate to see animals suffer. People suffering? Hell, I hate to see that, too...but to a lesser degree. Whatever. I'd have offed Seamus. Right then. I wasn't going to take care of the kid. My mom has bigger fish to fry, herself. She said to me, "I always hear about people taking sick birds in and nursing them back to health, but...."

Yes. I completely agree. She doesn't have time for it, I certainly am not Saint Francis of Assissi, the kid was mortally wounded...let it go.

(And it started off such a heroic story....)

I wish it weren't, but I believe this is how it will go: Seamus won't eat the worm-bits, he'll sit in the plastic coffin on the back porch for about two or three days/daze, and then he will succumb to both his injuries and also the lack of his regurgitating mama-bird. Sad story ends with baby-bird a Bustle of Nothing...nothing but feathers and a skeletal body.

And that is--kinda--the way the Animal Kingdom works: Survival of the Fittest. Yes, but....

But I coulda done better. I shoulda done better. I was so damned gung-ho to get the kid back in his nest, I didn't think ahead. I didn't think about the drastic slope of the roof on the driveway-side. Had I, I would have jammed a nylon rope in my pocket. Verily, I could have tied said rope tightly around the chimney and lowered myself carefully down the grade of the roof and gently deposited baby-bird into his nest in the gutter. And, with a rope, I could have clawed my way back up to the tippy-top of the roof. Would it have worked? Well, yeah, as long as the nylon rope held true. Is it worth risking? Absolutely not. I gave it a go; the baby bird tumbled, a second time, back over the roof (a mere three feet from his nest) and plummeted to his imminent death.

...

...

And that's why we're humans, and they're birds.

Fly free, Little One. Fly free.

=)

MEAGAN, MY MEAGAN...

Three years, today.

We both forgot. Wah-wah. We love each other. Passionately.

I'll have to make it up to her.

On the other hand, last night we consumated our third year of love. (With a game of checkers.)

;-)

(And it was after midnight--so, then, today, the 27th of July. I need to repeat that to myself about a hundred times.)

I love her. Completely. Infinitely.

***

I think we have a ghost in the house. I really truly do. A few things have happened....

***

Break: Meeg and I finish each others sentences and our moods are often yin and yang. Yeah. We sure as hell seem to be soul-mates. I am soooooooooooooooooooo lucky. =)

***

Back to the ghost. I don't want to get into details...there have been a few peculiar things here that happened, in the homestead, lately. I am a little freaked out. (But, maybe, in a good way.) We'll see what happens.

***

I love Meagan Elizabeth. I love her.

JACK

Jack.

Jack.

Jack.

Jack.

Lovely post--Jack all the thyme.

Jack. One name--the best.

Henry David Throw

I know. I know. I misspelled H. D. Thoreau's name. On purpose. For a reason.

HDT had a point, man. Simplify. Keep it simple (stupid). And this before electronics hypnotized damn-near every person on the "civilized" planet. Before.

I misspelled Henry David Thoreau's name...because. Electronically-speaking, I am fucking cursed, man. Everything seems to glitch, for me. Everything seems to go south in a hurry. This computer upon which I am typing is no exception. My baby has been to the doctor more than once. (Let's call it three or four times.) My cell phone has glitched on me. The big-screen TV, that once dominated a corner of the living room, went ker-plunk. And on...and on.

The reason I spelled his name as "Throw" in the title is because, well, I want to throw all my electronic shit out the do', mang. They completely belittle me, man, on a (seemingly) daily basis. They break, they befuddle me with their madness, they mock me from a distance. Am I the only person in the world who has problems with electronics?!

Fuck! The latest malcontent is the Nikon snap-and-giggle that I bought for the low low price of over $300 just six months ago. It's a great camera: HD video, good zoom, high pixels...it's a good damned camera! So why, now, is the motherfucking piece of metal and plastic not charging? Is it the battery? Is it where the battery cord penetrates the camera's body? I. Don't. Know.

And it pisses me off. This is not a ten-, a five-, or even a three-year-old camera. It is about six months. Gimme a fucking break. What do they make these things with?! Bubble-gum and tinfoil?! C'mon .

Anyway.

I have to take it somewhere. Its receipt is long-lost. I have to take it to a camera shop, I guess. And, eventually, I will. Luckily, I found its predecessor (excluding, of course, that hundred-dollar-piece-of-Canon-shit that died, enexpectedly, far far too early.) Yeah, luckily, I found the silver Canon when my mom looked in the sidewall of her passenger door in her car, about nine months to the day after I drunkenly left the boy in her car. Yes. I am lucky. Lucky, I guess, that I can plastic-purchase time-keepers at a (seemingly) manic pace.

I will tell you three this: If the motherfuckers lasted longer...well, I 'twouldn't be so manic.

Back to Thoreau. HDT knew of what he spoke and wrote. Back to Nature. Keep it simple. Simplify, gosh damn it.

I am not going to throw my electronics to the kerb (curb). I just love them too much. But it definitely is a love-hate relationship. Definitely. But the damned things are just too alluring. They call me.

But Henry David Thoreau had it right. Back to Nature, mang. Keep it simple.

Keep your sanity.

DETROIT POLICE CHIEF RESIGNS

Warren Evans had to resign. It seems that it was because a "personal relationship [was] a personal relationship."

I guess it also comes down to a conflict of interest.

Basically? It's peeps feelings getting hurt.

I saw a video of the chief acting like a warrior, facing down thugs and shit...he is good. He is a good guy. But his dick gets in the way?!

Gimme a fucking break.

What Detroit needs is a man with respect. They--it--had that with Warren Evans. What a fucking dipshit major city. Seriously.

***

DUCKS

I don't know if I have passed this on, yet.

We were all on the way home from Virginia Beach--I was behind the wheel of the 2010 Chevy Malibu--and the weather had kicked up, a bit, in the lovely curvy and hilly state of West Virginia. I was driving down some six-lane highway (seperated by the grassy median) and, as I angled the vehicle to the right and down (yet another) a hill, I noticed something on the shoulder of the far-left lane, the lane in which I had taken up residence. Must be another blown-out tire, I thought to myself. Yes. Yes, but then the tire began to move to its left...smack-dab in my lane. As I cruised along at 75 miles an hour, I soon saw that the tire was not a tire.

It was, in fact, a family of ducks. Four ducklings and a mother duck.

I was going 75 miles an hour. I tried to brake and move to my right, but that didn't work. The pavement was damp and the ducks were headed exactly to the spot that I'd swerve. It's a moot point, anyway. Once I depressed the brake, the physics took over: 75 miles an hour, downhill--steep grade--angled to the right as it were; the physics told the rear end of the car to shimmy to the left. I gave up on that idea. I wasn't about to flip down the highway thirty-two times and have us all end up (dead) in a fiery crash. Was not going to happen. So I let off the brake and said a quick prayer for the ducks.

The last three ducklings said good-bye to this world. (I like to think that they are doing their "duck-dives" in Duck Heaven, now.) There was not even a thump-thump-thump (obviously) when I ran 'em down. No...just, when I shot a glance in the rear-view mirror, I actually some feathers flying in the air and the Mother duck seemingly taking to the air. Apparently, the mom duck had had enough of her bird-brained attempt to cross the six-lane super-highway and had decided that the last duckling was not worth being Malibu-ed herself.

Nice mom, huh?

Why she even wanted to flirt with the Devil is another matter all together. Maybe she had a duck drug problem? Maybe she had fallen in with the quick mallards? Who knows. I personally think--and events bore this out--the idea was a bad one.

"What was that?!" said Naomi breathlessly from the backseat, snapped awake.

"Nothi--" I said.

"Ducks!" said Meagan, simultaneously. "A mother duck and her four ducklings!"

"Adam?!" said Naomi. "Why couldn't you have missed them?!"

Meagan answered her daughter why (and she completely understood), and I was left to drive in somewhat-blessed silence, saying a repetitive silent prayer to the duck-world: Sorry.

***

x> x> x>

WHAT THE FUCK #16762

So...Meagan and I were in line at Kroger's. I was commenting to the man behind us that he too purchased a 12-pack of Vernor's when I heard commotion ahead of me.

"I'll bash all the nigger's heads," said the African-American ahead of me. "I'll get my axe and cut them into little pieces," said the black man ahead of me.

I held out my hand. "Here," I said. "Shake my hand."

He looked down at me--a skinny six-foot-three black man--and he said, "I ain't shaking your motherfucking hand."

I removed my hand from the situation.

The man's order was done. His bags were packed. His change (the cashier rounded it up) was in his hand. Still, in his camo hat and with his neck veins pulsating, one never knows where the merry-go-round will end. Does he have a gun? Does he have a knife? Can he kill with his bare hands? (Probably.)

I was just happy to see the crazy motherfucker leave the building.

Meagan regained her voice. "What did you say to him?"

The cashier looked warily out the front window and said, "I just asked why he looks angry all the time. Every time he comes in, he looks angry."

It made me think: Just what is "crazy"? I consider myself pretty fucked-up. Crazy? Maybe. But then, when one actually sees "nuts," it makes one re-think the verbiage. This guy? Fucking nuts. Nutzo.

My prayers go out to the cashier. (And to the warped individual. His pain is heavy, man.)

Peace to all. And to all a good night.

LOVE.

TURNPIKE

I had a really horrible dream this morning. It had to do with work. One of my supervisors (him, but not--he had different glasses) was telling me that they were sorry they had to do it, but they had to "let me go." "Let me go where?" I asked him. He smiled all slantedly at me, his girly glasses slipping down his nose, and said something like, "I don't know, but somewhere other than here."

The sense of panic was palpable, both in my dream-me and also in my physical-me.

It didn't help that I'd gotten a speeding ticket yesterday on the Ohio Turnpike; that had been twisting my gut from the time I'd received the citation at 12:10 AM till the time I woke up at 11:00 or so. Now, a speeding ticket is a speeding ticket; it's not a DUI or a DWI or an OUIL or any other of those scary-assed alphabet soups, but, when you have a CDL and your job depends on your having said CDL, you tend to grip a bit about it. Plus there was the fact that I was one MPH less than being 20-over. Listen: I had been driving safely for about six hours--slowing down to 45 through construction zones and slowing gracefully into the up and down curves of the mountains of Maryland and West Virginia--but I had started to get a bit (quite a bit) tired and so I'd stopped at one of those service plazas on the turnpike and had done the responsible thing: stretched my legs, grabbed a coffee and, basically, regained my wits about me. I merged back onto 80-West (easily-done, as there were only about three vehicles in the vicinity) and I gunned the 2010 Malibu around a slower-moving vehicle--I wanted to get home, already--and zipped past a state trooper in the turn-around who already had his bubbles bubbling. Maybe he's after someone else, I thought to myself. Um...nope. I had no idea the speed limit was 65. I'm used to 70, being from Michigan. Said trooper didn't cut me a bit of a break. And? That's his perogotive. I'd have liked a break, but it is what it is.

So, the check is already in the mail to the municipal court near Ravenna, Ohio. I will not fuck with not paying quickly enough and having my license suspended which, in turn, will mean having my job cancelled. $140. I'll handle it. Though the other bills and loan payments are, and have been, piling up, this one's a biggie. As is my insurance. That's a biggie, too. Everything else has to take the back-burner to maintaining "license health."

What a pain in the ass, being financially-idiotic.

Yeah. So is being an irresponsible employee. I took today, Thursday the 24th, off from work mainly because one of our vacationing party was sick in bed all of Tuesday. It would have been a horrific struggle to start driving as originally planned, on Tuesday. So I ordered another night from the hotel and we drove all yesterday, on Wednesday. (God, the days have all just melded into one giant fucked-up slalom race.) Anyway, I called my supervisor at 8:40 on Tuesday night (he was on-call) and requested today, Thursday, off as well. Originally, I was to return to work on Thursday. He granted it, though he asked me if I "even [had] anymore days left." I assured him that I did. 'Cause I do. Anyway, the point is that I have abused the system in the past and was told that any vacation requests would not be granted if they were not called in at least 24 hours in advance. Okay. No problem there. I called the on-call supervisor at 8:40 on Tuesday night, requesting today, Thursday, off. That is about 36 hours in advance...and it was granted. So what am I worried about? Well, I had two of my co-workers call yesterday, while we driving, and I had one of them call me again, today, leaving a message saying that people were freaking out, wondering what they could do with me, wondering, perhaps, if I were stranded in Virginia. Listen: I called and talked to a supervisor and asked him if I would be able to take Thursday off, too. I got the green light and so I did. He could have said no and so I would have had to arrive back in Detroit at four in the morning and go to work at eight. They talk about safety all the time at work. How safe is it to be in a car for sixteen hours, get back in town four hours before the start of the shift and then go to work in a job that requires physical strength and working around five-ton machinery? Doesn't sound safe, does it? But, to me, that is a moot point, as I was granted today, Thursday, off.

But it doesn't sound good. It doesn't seem good. I called the same supervisor, intent upon updating him that I was back in town, and all was good and I'd see everyone on Friday. I had to leave that on his voice-mail; he didn't answer. He didn't answer, but, then again, I had called around their lunch-time. I know I don't like to get interrupted while I'm eating. Who knows? I'll see what's up tomorrow. I think I covered my ass...but who knows? Maybe there's some kind of unspoken rule to which I am not privy.

All that to say: This is exhausting.

On the plus-side: I had a great time in Virginia Beach. I would not mind living there. The cost of living is lower, plus one always has the beach and the ocean, right? I would worry that if I were to go down there to live, I would turn into a beach bum--literally. I hung out with a few, while I was there.

Then again? I worry about everything.

PREACHERS AND CIGARETTES

Have you had that moment? That moment in which what you were looking for had no place in the upstairs, the downstairs, the basement, the freezer, the fridge, the bathroom, the porch?

But...

I've had that occurence and I had it again.

(But then you find it in....)

It is simply amazing. It really is.

(You find it in the broad open?...)

***

I woke up early this Sunday morning to take a piss and maybe pinch out some of the unhealthy foodstuff I injested yesterday. I let the dogs out (Ollie'd been lying on the new couch--he'd get his) and I pulled a smoke from the pack and went and did my business. I got out of the bathroom after a particularly stinging shit and I let the dogs in, letting Lou lounge in the basement/kitchen stairs and Ollie--because he had slept on the couch and pissed in the dining room--in the pen in the basement.

Because I wasn't quite ready to go back to bed (and also because my stomach/tummy was still gurgling) I turned on the TV and flicked and chicked until I came across a guy named Joel Osteen. Joel Osteen. I'd heard of him before. I'd seen him before. Slick-haired and squinty-eyed, bright white teeth and superfluous.

Haley Joel Osment, right? That dude? The kid with the sixth sense?

Yes. No. Maybe.

They look kindred, sure. But Haley and Joel ain't no Osmonds. Haley's his own man and Joel is Yaweh's.

But, hey, truth be told? Joel Osteen is a hell of a speaker, a preacher, a harbinger of good news, a modern-day...prophet?

I know, I know. Right. Like that butt-smear knows a God-damned thing. He's in it only for the money. He's (assuredly) got nice cars and nice homes. He's married to an attractive woman, yet he still (perhaps) sleeps around.

Yes, but....

Maybe, but....

But I know this: I have watched the guy before, and every time I do, he brings-a me to tears-a with my own shame and hope and love of God and love of uplifting stories. Am I an easy mark? Perhaps. But I have got to give it to the man: he's good.

Here's the point: The whole time I was watching Osteen, I was intermittenly looking for a smoke, for my pack--17 if there were one. I could not find my pack. I smoked a butt from the ashtray and watched and listened (teared up) to Osteen's imploring of the audience to get up off their asses and to do what the Bible warrants. Simply put: Just do it. He didn't use those three words (they belong to Nike, see) but he definitely told us--in a most-pleasing manner--to pursue our dreams.

I know. Just another charlatan, preaching in the name of the Lord.

Maybe not.

I suppose I was unduly impressed by the man, and my searches for my pack-of-smokes fell to the backfield in my mind. The guy is hypnotic, is all I'm saying. I looked, a bit, during the broadcast, but never found the pack of Camel Wides. And, then, the show was over. (I cut it off before I could see J.O. imploring me to send cash or "get on my knees" or, basically, follow him as Savior.

I got up, let Ollie out of his downstairs prison, took a piss, and walked back into the living room to see my pack-o-smokes sitting right there, on the table behind my TV-watching armchair--right there in the wide-fucking-open.

It gave me shivers, 'cause I had looked there. The pack and lighter were on a bed of sea shells from Vag Beach...but I still shoulda seen them.

It made me think that, if Osteen were the man of God that he claims to be, could God not, perhaps, be trying to tell me something?

(And the Sun just poked out from the clouds....)

I'm not a fan of evangelists, but I recognize talent when I see it.

NATURE'S WAY...AND OTHER THINGS

In a Back-to-Nature moment, I ventured Outside--after a day, no, a week of working outside in Eighties-in-May-degree temperatures, and I sat down on the green metal chair in the backyard with a book and a beverage, intent upon seeing how the tale of Castle Rock's rabid dog would turn out. (I know; I've read it more than ten times--but it's still worth reading.) My own doggies accompanied me, which was nicer than nice.

As I folded my right leg over my left knee and dug into the part where Cujo brains himself against the driver's door of the blue Pinto (with Donna and Tad screaming helplessly), I noticed/saw/felt a yellowish creamy-white substance fall from the green heaven and establish itself on my right ankle-bone.

"Oh, shit," I said. (Yes.) "You gotta be kidding me." The splotch of bird shit lay there, on my ankle, resplendent in the late-afternoon sun, winking crystals at me. Louie looked over at me, briefly, and went back to his lying in the dirt. I put the book on the edge of the trampoline and snagged a couple of close-by large leaves. They'd have to do. I'd never been shit on by a bird before, but, instinctually, I gathered that I ought clean it off, before it solidified. (Yes. I am a man-o-th-woods.) The leaves turned out to be what the doctor ordered and I turned back to my book.

But the thought crossed my mind that I really should go in and wash my hands. Nonsense. I hadn't gotten any on my hand; I'd been thorough. That cleaning-thought passed, and I was, once again, in the Grimm fairytale land of Castle Rock, one in which a sheriff named Bannerman probably should have radioed in for back-up the very instant he saw the blue Pinto in the Camber's dooryard.

***

I remember hearing the story, a long time ago, about when my Dad, assuredly black-bearded and strong, was talking to a colleague when a bird screamed "Drop-Zone!" and left a bomb on his lapel. "Shit," he'd said, and the lady had answered yes. I remember hearing that story and thinking that my dad was a lovable loser--who else gets shit on by bird-brains?! I guess I do. And I also further surmise that, perhaps, the apple doth not fall from the wooden greeny thing.

Let me amend this, posthaste: My Dad was lovable, but he was not a loser. (Shit. It makes me feel all chink-y just writing that.) He was/is a success. World-travelling, bread-winning, business-opening, family-loving success. And I feel that I have big huge shoes to fill. (And, I can't, really. Each person is his or her own Sun.)

But the thought jabbed at me: Am I not my father's son? That's a loaded question. Of course I'm my father's son. I would never say otherwise. I think that it's a requisite part of living for a child to compare and contrast him- or herself with the parent of the same sex. Often, it's done beneath the conscious level, methinks. But that doesn't go away, I think. I think that that mindset stays with a person throughout his or her lifetime, and I think it is particularly forceful when they're in their mid- to late-30s.

Sometimes it is just a whiff of Have I measured up? and other times it is a full-blown gale-force scream that tells one that one cannot fill the god-damned shoes, damn it!

I acknowledge that. I acquiesce. But, in some ways, I fight it, too. Why the fuck must I be the spittin' image of the man whom I love and miss? Why shan't I bust my own groove? I have; I know I have. I know that I have "busted my own groove" and gone my own way, yet I still feel the cold fingers of Predestination chilling, tickling my back.

Am I doomed to die the death of my father and his brother? Am I doomed to deteriorate in the way in which my father's father died? Do I have the Lung Cancers and the Parkinson's and the ALSs genetic bulls-eye stitched upon my back, pink like weeping tattoos? Are they my Soul? Am I doomed? I'd love to floss it over with glitter and balloons, but the fact remains that genetics play a huge part in a person's wipeout.

As does free will and choices a person will/could/should make. It ain't over till the fat lady sings, right? Right.

But the troubling thought remains that I am not fulfilling my potential and that I think that I will be scolded for it. By God.

***

Have ye e'er been scolded by a sparrow, from the high green heaven? I was, today, and it made me think about my Dad.

AMERICAN...JUSTICE?

I admit: I watch American Idol, sometimes. I'm 37 and a male. Most of the time, I have watched it, through its ten incarnations, specifically to laugh at the fucks who think they have talent, but have none, to laugh at the poor slobs who believe that bad publicity equals out to good publicity, however pathetic that may seem. I have enjoyed watching Simon and Paula and Randy do their things. It's entertaining. It has been a joy and, I suspect, it will maybe continue as such (minus S. Cowell).

The show is geared towards little girls. Little I-haven't-had-my-period-yet-but-I-heard-that-Becky Alvarez-has-already-jeez-I-hope-it's-not-icky. Little girls who, God bless them, should be doing mathematics or other such bullshit. Playing with dolls. Baking a pie in the oven. Storming the jungle in the renewed Battle of the Bulge.

What they should not be doing is voting.

I can't understand, otherwise, why some doe-eyed fuck like Lee DeWyze (real name?) beat out the much- much- much- much- much-more-talented singer Crystal Bowersox. Here. I wish I had access to her last song--for votes--on American Idol. It was blues and soul.

Soul.

Now, I really don't want to dig on DeWyze too much--he's good--but, come on.

Here's the paint salesman, Lee DeWyze: Song.

Whoops. Did I fuck up and insert the wrong link? Hell, by this time, you've heard both of them.

What you missed when I missed the link was DeWyze doing the same ole bullshit that we have come to expect from Idols. And, also? He ham-handed his way through "Beautiful Day" by U2 and REM's song "Everybody Cries (Sometimes)".

What we have, here, is a failure to communicate. That's it, apparently. We have telephones and cells and computers and texts given to little girls...who know not what to do.

They don't judge on talent, they judge on looks.

And fucking shame on them.

Here is a glimpse, kids, little girls, into the real world: People come in all shapes and sizes and genders and talents. Sometimes? Sometimes the doe-eyed boy isn't the best out there. Sometimes? Sometimes a single mother with more Soul in her little finger than The Wise has in his whole made-for-TV body could win it all.

WAKE UP!!!

It was--and is--an outrage, a miscarriage of Justice.

I'm 37, a male, and I feel screwed by the results of American Idol.

Peace.

ERNIE HARWELL: "YOPTERIFKE"

I had to do better justice to the man, the broadcasting legend, the human legend, Ernie Harwell, who died a few days ago after a bout with cancer at the ripe young age of 92.

Here, in Detroit, we think we own him but, no, his career had started a good time before his time as a Tigers' broadcaster. Good ole Southern comfort, his voice was unique: raspy, high-strung, crackly, deep, melodious. Other adjectives may be out there, but I can't pin his voice down. And I believe that was a part of what made him great. Let alone the over-half century of broadcasting which (deservedly-so) sat his bony ass down in baseball's Hall of Fame...his interviewing of the fucking monoliths of baseball, his writing for the Sporting News at a ridiculously-young age of 16...but, no.

What is/was he to me?

He was a Constant. His is a voice of Memory.

Listen: I remember lying in bed, well past my bed-time, listening to Harwell's soothing voice from the West Coast trips, while, in the back of my mind, I had my parents' arguments still fresh. I remember eating baked beans and scorched hot dogs and walking in the lush green grass of my grandparents' house as Ernie's voice crackled and smooooothed through air.

I remember his "go-to's": "Stood like the house by the side of the road and watched that [one] go by". Or, when a Tiger hit a home run (Lance Parrish? Chet Lemon?): "And that one's...looooooooonggg gone!"

Baby memories, right?

Apparently not.

Those outside our fine metropolis may not give a whit or a damn about Ernie's passing. Here, in the Motor-Town Skyscape, people care. There was a public viewing of his body in Gate A of Comerica Park (against his wishes, methinks) and thousands of people stutter-stepped or rolled past to see the Body of the Dead Great-Man. And, you know what? I wish I had, too.

Harwell's voice speaks to History and...Memories.

I was between 10 or 93 when his voice started to register with me. His was a voice that could sweep across the Major League Baseball world and affect both young and old. The older simply had a head-start.

I was 11 when the Tigers won the World Series in 1984. I can't say that I really heard the man's call of when Larry Herdon caught the fly ball in left field. I can say, though, that my love of baseball was borne from that year. Who was I? I was an 11-year-old who had caught on, finally, to the beauty of baseball. The absolute beauty of baseball.

The Beauty that Ernie helped let people...see.

And, to top it off, he was a great guy.

I am certainly not (just 'cause I'm not) an overly-Christian guy, but I get the basic premise--Be good to one another, love one another, try to have a kind word for a person, help a stranger when you can--the premise that Ernie spread wherever he went. He was a great guy, more times than not having an ear for a person, a story to tell, a signature.

Through his years, he had always seemed to be self-effacing, giving the glory to God rather than himself.

I believe that he was as he projected, instead of what seems to happen more often in these recent years: A man (or woman) who is snidely disingenuous.

Ernie seemed real. And my gut feeling says he was real.

But, so what. Right? Let's not deify him. Let's not put him on God's right hand side. Let's not shove Hey-Zeus over for Ernie's place. He was "just" a broadcaster. He was "just" a man.

I agree. No Jesus-pushing, please. (Yahweh would never accept...nor would I.) But here's my point: In an ever-increasing world of booty-booty-booty and scandalous breasts and intermittent heroes, can't we please please please just accept one who actually is?

Sure, for those non-sports fans out there--and there are many, I know--the passing of a dude who called baseball games might seem minuscule, even irrelevant. (I had to force myself to type that.) Well, it's fucking not. He was just a man--a slight, balding, vain, self-conscious, melodically-voiced man--who was the voice of and to about four generations. Not a deity. Just a man.

But....

But nothing. This is as about as close as I can bring to you all understanding Harwell like I did and have. There is really nothing more I can say. (There is a book out there, Adam-scribe.) Really, nothing more....

Oh. Wait.

A relatively short time after hearing that he had acquired terminal cancer, our man Ernie was out on the grass of downtown Detroit's Comerica Field saying this, ever-melodiously:

Thank you very much. We don't want to be penalized now for the delay of the game, but I do want to express my feelings here. It's a wonderful night for me. I really feel lucky to be here, and I want to thank you for that warm welcome.

I want to express my deep appreciation to Mike Ilitch, Dave Dombrowski and the Tigers for that video salute and also for the many great things they've done for me and my family throughout my career here with the Tigers.

In my almost 92 years on this earth, the good Lord has blessed me with a great journey. And the blessed part of that journey is that it's going to end here in the great state of Michigan.

I deeply appreciate the people of Michigan. I love their grit. I love the way they face life. I love the family values they have. And you Tiger fans are the greatest fans of all. No question about that. And I certainly want to thank you from the depth of my heart for your devotion, your support, your loyalty and your love. Thank you very much, and God bless you.

Here.

Wonderful night. Any time he spoke, it was a wonderful night.

We Tiger fans? I'm sure other cities have had their broadcasters and feel the same. Most do. The difference? We had Ernie Harwell for about three decades.

It should have been a complete four decades: 1960-2000. But there was some fucked up kind of Detroit Tiger management Snah-Fih-Zoo in the early-90s that deemed that Ern was kaput. No-uh-uh. The only thing that could finish William Earnest "Ernie" Harwell was God calling him Home.

All this writing and talking and hyperbole aside, I really need to pass along my understanding of Ernie Harwell to you (three). It helped that he was a (assumed) great guy, but what really clicked with me was the way in which he would put me to bed, with his sweet Southern drawl, when the Tiges played the California Angels. Some pitcher would throw to Lance Parrish or Chet Lemon or Marty-fucking-Castillo, and the bed would melt away and I'd be...there.

God love and bless you, Ernie.

DUALITY OF KEYBOARDS

As the dogs fight outside, I type here, in our dining room, on a borrowed keyboard, USBd into the oft-sickly laptop. The picture that you see is how one must type, now. Briefly, that is. The computer store that now knows me on a first-name basis loaned me this keyboard whilst they wait for the new one to be delivered. Actually? I'm quite happy. I never thought that laptops could be so easily-fixed. I had always thought that they were prima donnas, reflexively ungh-ungh to the doctors' knives (or, um, screwdrivers).

Fifty or so dollars for a new keyboard installed into the laptop? Not bad, I think. Maybe I'm getting cornholed, but I think the price is fair enough--plus, they loaned me this USB keyboard at no additional cost.

Here is the axiom, then: Treat your laptop like gold. A single spilled sugary beverage can wreak havoc on its interior mechanisms. Trust me. Trust me also on this: Had the slip-slop been more significant, the mother-board would have been fucked. (I got lucky--only the keyboard was affected.) Had the mother-board been compromised? Might as well go shoppin', Tex. Three hundred fifty bones? Might as well buy a new laptop, Tex. This one, though, a Toshiba Satellite, has enough good side, memory- and capability-wise, to have made me consider....

But, no. I'd have waited to purchase a new one. Ben Franklin once said, "A fool and his money are soon parted." Wise words, Foun-Father. Wise words.

(By the way. I put the laptop a little farther up on the table and I positioned the loaned keyboard in typing range. Comfort is key, see?)

Last point: This is not a throw-away world. It may seem like it, but it truly isn't. Nor should it be. Anything worth having is worth fixing....

And that can be applied liberally--like massage oil! ;-)

Postscript: This Duality of Keyboards? It makes for some unwanted but accepted hand-eye coordination. See, I type on the one I'm typing on, but if I want to scroll around in the document, the best way is with the soft mouse of the lappie. So I have to reach over this loaned one and finger-fuck the soft mouse...lightly. It makes a person think.

ERNIEHARWELL

yopterifke

JERRY SPRINGER

There once was a faaaaaar-away land in which lesbians and fat people and cheaters and dwarves and giants and dog-lovers and cat-lubers lived. People "slept" with their kinfolk and nary a day went by without a Cuff-o-Fist breaking out.

There was a man behind the curtain who wasn't.

--And a break in to Reality. Times Square. Thousands of people. A bullseye on the United States, New York in the limelighted center. An SUV left running with explosive devices inside. Let us look at the devices, shall we? Gasoline, timing devices, consumer-available fireworks...kindling?--

Listen: The CNN anchors asking rhetorically if it were an international terrorist attack? Al Kumfuck is laughing right now. I don't blame them. They--the Osama Network--are guffawing. And absolutely loving this shit. They're saying to themselves, "Look! You get some irate numbskull in the A of U.S. and he'll do our job for us!"

Look. It'll happen like this: A man (or a woman) will walk into a densely-populated space--a market, a shopping center--and he or she will blow him- or herself up...along with however many people are standing in the vicinity. People will die. We'll become like a war-torn Middle Eastern nation. Arms and legs and heads and blood. Everywhere.

I am surprised it hasn't happened already.