Beginnings, Again.

Here is an old quote from David Lynch's Twin Peaks - it still makes me chuckle:

Deputy Andy Brennan to his girlfriend: "Listen, the Tacoma Sperm Bank was looking for donors. Naturally, I applied because it was my civic duty... and I like whales. A routine physical revealed that I was sterile. Sure I thought that meant that I didn't have to take a bath. But then they told me the truth. Cheryl, I can't have babies. So how are you pregnant?"

It was the early 1990s and I found myself single again in my mid-30s. There was a lot of strangeness in my life during that period of time. Art was imitating life: the TV show Twin Peaks was very popular. The show was set in the Northwest so we thought we had a special bond with the log lady and Agent Cooper. Having lost all my local friends in the divorce settlement, I made new friends. Sunday evenings we would have "damn good pie and coffee" parties and watch the show. It felt good to have friends who didn't know what kind of horrible manipulative monster I was according to documents filed with the court.

Of course I still had my best friend and his wife - they were mine pursuant to the prenuptial agreement. It was always good to be with them but they were not local so we saw each other only infrequently. And don't forget, common use of email, text messaging and blogs was still a decade away. As a faculty member of two universities I had two email accounts but no one to whom I could send email.

My new friends permitted me a measure of catharsis that would not have been available with my family or even Andrew, my favorite bartender at Duke's where I ate dinner at the bar 3 or 4 nights a week. These were people my age who were on the verge of growing up, but not quite ready to strap on the spouse, kids and/or mortgage. And there I was, their new friend. I had done all those things and I had been spewn back into their world, like Jonah from the fish.

While I do not endorse over-indulgence in tobacco or liquor, things really did seem okay on the front porch of my fellow WC alum's home, enjoying that fine buzz that only Scotch can give when combined with the oxygen deprivation of a good cigar. (Our friend the Yak prompted this memory when suggesting we smoke one in my garage next time he is in town to show our SC solidarity.) We solved many of the world's problems, and all of our own, as the sky turned from pink to purple to black.

Through these friends, I made other friends, some of whom had grown up in the same small town as the Yak and his family. As Steven Wright says, "it's a small world, but I wouldn't want to paint it."

Starbucks was moments from erupting. Every street corner sported a latte cart and the owner/operator knew you and your drink order. It was generally thought that, if you could scrape together enough cash buy a cart, you could work short days and make great money. Like I said, the Starbucks eruption had yet to wipe out these hopeful entrepreneurs.

My office was on the third floor of a five-story historic building in Pioneer Square where Darrin McGavin (r.i.p.) as Carl Kolchak hunted underground for The Night Strangler, and paved the way for Mulder and Scully. Each morning the entryway smelled of the bleach used to clean the fetid aroma of urine that clung to the person who had slept and relieved himself there. The interior walls were oak paneled and exposed brick; an open-cage elevator ornamented with brass traveled slowly between floors. It was a small office; all together there were five of us.

It was December 5th, 1991, the week after Thanksgiving. The phone rang, and Joyce said, "the Pierce County Coroner is on line one." I picked up the phone and said my name. The voice on the other end of the line said, "What do you want us to do with the body?"

to be continued . . .

Captain's Blog: Stardate 2943.5

OGWND here. I am taking the day off: no blogging , no posting, no work. A long weekend!

Feel free to use the comments section below to pretend you have your own blog.

Coming Out

I've been living a lie, but have yet to break up any dirty dishes and throw them away.

Sorry. Let me start over.

I've been living a lie. The SC does smoke - I have seen him with my own eyes. Yakimaniac is, well, let's just say that I read the book* and his name accurately reflects his true self. Even Shilohman has not veiled himself (notwithstanding the Biblical roots of the word "Shiloh," to aboriginal Americans the phrase Shi'i Loah meant "many, many words.")

I have not had a glass of wine since starting this blog.

Until I do, my wine consumption can hardly be called occasional which means "occurring now and then." There was a then, really. I distinctly remember the last glass of wine I had. Actually, it was a tumbler of wine, but why split hairs? The point is that, until I have another glass of wine, the title of this blog is deceptive. We all picture in our minds the SC pouring over his keyboard in his Fullerton garage, surrounded by a blue haze of cigarette smoke. You may have pictured me in an expensive suit lounging in a leather chair at some exclusive club (not Sandy's) sipping a fine Cabernet while dictating my blog entries to Ms. Perkins, my faithful and longsuffering personal assistant.

That picture is false my friends! Put it right out of your minds. There is no "fine Cabernet" in my hand. It is a quaich full of 16 year-old Caol Ila. Truth be told, I wanted to use The Frequent Imbiber of Single Malt Scotch Guy, but that name was taken. OGWND was my second choice.

Now you know. I feel better for coming clean and I hope you do too!




Ms. Perkins, please proof this draft, make a hard copy for the file and publish this post immediately. Then call the steward, my glass is empty.

*(Woodbridge, S. The Secret Files of Clarence Wyngarten, M.D., Chicago: Crossway Books, 1979)

Sandy on Line One

She called. Every good spy calls back. The voice mail she left tossed out the either/or question of whether I had called and/or whether she had missed my call. Ironically, my fitness level has increased tremendously since I started walking two blocks out of my way to avoid passing the fitness club and possibly encountering Sandy or one of her fellow employees who are undoubtedly carrying my photo with orders to "be on the look out for."

Sadly, I have no plausible excuse to offer her. My wife is encouraging me to pursue this mad affair with fitness, claiming that only benefits to my well-being and our relationship can result. I am so tempted and yet, when I pick up the phone to call Sandy, a vision of Grant passes before my eyes.

Yes, friend, the OGWND hides many dark and loathsome secrets in his breast. One of these secrets is a former membership in another fitness facility. Each morning I would rise before dawn and go to "the club." I quickly fell into a routine that, while not conducive to fitness, was nonetheless a very enjoyable way to start the day. First the steam room, then a shave, then the sauna, a cold shower, another steam followed by a cleansing shower. By the time I was done I was limp as a rag, every bit of phlegm had been expelled from my lungs and I was ready for my Starbucks coffee and cinnamon scone.

The only blemish on this otherwise perfect start to the day was Grant. Grant was a heavily muscled Asian power lifter who did double duty at the club as personal trainer and front counter guy. Every morning he would flip me two towels with a questioning look that said "working out today you pathetic tubby weakling?" Then, on my way, out he would almost perceptibly shake his head in disgust. I don't know if Sandy's club has a Grant, but now that I am walking those extra blocks I don't have the energy to find out.

I am still casting about for a real good excuse to give Sandy. In the meantime, thank goodness for caller ID.

Somebody should check to see if Jerry and Tim are still here

Two headlines caught my eye this morning. I think it was my right eye. Here they are:

"Afghan Christian Convert is Released, Then Vanishes"
"Wanted Nigerian Warlord Disappears in Nigeria"

I am not overly concerned about these two headlines as it is my steadfast belief that the rapture will be a bit more widespread. However, last Wednesday seven members of Sierra Leone's Commonwealth Games team went missing. The exact quote from the Melbourbne police was, "Six athletes and a weightlifter from Sierra Leone have gone missing." Evidently weightlifters are not athletes, or at least this one was not.

Tomorrow there will be a solar eclipse - coincidence? I think not. The eclipse will spawn the "largest and biggest event in the history of Libyan tourism" according to the Libyan Deputy Tourism Minister. Coincidence? Again, I think not. You factor in the mysterious death today of Caspar Weinberger along with the announcement that George Clooney has agreed to do Ocean's 13 and I think maybe something is going on. Something big.

Flirting with Fitness

Her large brown eyes sparkled as she slipped her hand into mine and said, “Hi, I’m Sandy.” She exuded a voluptuous and vibrant aura of fitness completely devoid of the angular lines and emaciated form of what seems to pass for health these days. Sandy’s teeth were perfect and her complexion flawless. I was about to do the unthinkable. I was about to let this attractive young woman sell me a fitness club membership!

She assured me that every member of their team was devoted to my health and fitness. We toured the club, side by side, as she pointed out the state-of-the-art equipment and described the various exercise classes and strongly recommended that I work one on one with one of their personal trainers. The place was clean and the shower/locker rooms were immaculate. Plasma screens, Bloomberg terminals and web access (in case over-exertion should move me to blog) were conveniently placed around the facility. The pungent smells of sweat and bleach mingled with the herbal fragrance she wore. Growing weaker by the minute, I was falling hopelessly under her get-fit spell.

In the end I told her that I would have to think about it and I left to buy some lunch – a PB&J on wheat with a grape soda. Poor Sandy is too young and naïve to know the hard brutal truth. Fit, attractive young women are not the way to lure flabby middle-aged men into a fitness club. Today I was protected by my work clothing. She may have her suspicions, but the last thing I want to do is prove to her that I am a fat pasty old guy by getting into workout clothes. I have my pride and my fantasies.

If anyone can refer me to a health club where the staff are all obese and elderly I am ready to join.

Stalling for Time

I need to find a new favorite stall. I don’t know how many other people are like me, but if I am any place for any length of time (like a job that is not located in my garage) I eventually have to use the restroom. And, in a relatively short period of time, I pick a favorite stall from among those available. I know it is not mine exclusively, but I like to pretend. I usually pick a handicapped stall, not for the extra room but because the door swings outward. In the movies, every time someone gets caught and beat up in a toilet stall, the door comes crashing in on him – did you ever notice that? If the door swings out you have an advantage in a situation like that. Today is the second time I have found my favorite stall violated. I suspect the same person is responsible, because both crime scenes presented the same M.O. – an unflushed bowl. The guy is probably an artist, or a don’t-look-back type. If the door swung in I would ambush him. Today there was even some seat-top residue and even though the bowls are cleaned and disinfected daily I will never be able to use that stall again.

Do you remember when someone thought up the heated toilet seat? A lot of people thought that was a great invention. Not me. If the seat is warm, then the assumption is that someone’s rear has just been there. If the seat is cold, you can pretend no other butt ever sat there.

Tom and Betsy

Like oxygen, nutrition and water, caffeine has become one of the necessary elements of my day. It seems to ward off headaches and a nagging sense of incompleteness. The only acceptable form of ingestion for me is coffee. I take it with a little 2% milk. I make a cup at home first thing, before the crack of dawn and just about the time my marathon-running neighbors are headed out for a run. That is the cup I savor alone. Then, usually around 10:00, my coffee pals and I leave the building to get some coffee. My coffee pals are Tom and Betsy. Although we work in the same place we do not work together. Tom is married with children; Betsy is single and claims that all the good men are married. It is a short walk, but we find time to talk and laugh. Yesterday we found out that Betsy had previously worked at the U.N. and for NATO. That’s the way it is with your coffee pals – always something new to learn about them. I can’t wait for 10:00.

Do I know you?

As I was walking down the street today, I made eye contact with a dapper man who smiled at me in recognition. (I often hear people mutter my name as they pass me on the sidewalk, but that is another matter.) So, fearful of offending someone I should remember, I returned his smile as he veered in my direction. He had the look of someone who used to drink and smoke heavily. He pressed his finger to the button hole in his throat and squeaked/wheezed: "I think I know you from somewhere, I am sorry you have to see me in this condition." I asked him where he thought he knew me from and we went back and forth a few times before he concluded that he did not know me. He smiled, apologized, spun on his heels and tottered away. I have the feeling I have not seen the last of this little man.

Great News - Berto Is Back!

With terrorists lurking behind every artificial plant, the first thing I do when I get a new job is to get on a first name basis with one of the security guards. You know, just in case the shooting starts I want the guy with the gun to know I am a friendly.

I had been chatting up Berto for quite a while; I picked him because he was the only guard who appeared fit enough not to have a heart attack if bullets did start flying. Anyway, one day last November Berto was gone. Maybe a vacation or illness? As the days passed I grew more and more concerned and finally asked the dour uniformed woman with the platinum blonde dye job if she knew what happened to Berto. She looked at me like she didn’t know what I was talking about.

Months passed, no Berto. Only recently had I resigned myself to chatting up another security guard (those terrorists are still lurking). Then today, as I strolled out for lunch, who should be standing at the escalator kiosk, but Berto himself. It turns out his gun card expired and, evidently, the State lost the first renewal form he sent. The company told him to stay home until he had a valid gun card. He was home almost 4 months – without pay! That is a pretty lousy deal and, let’s not forget, he had possession of his gun the whole time! I was very glad to have him back and told him so.

I voted today

The primaries are today. I stopped by before work to do my civic duty. The problem with primaries is that there are only names on the ballot. No issues, just names. Without my reading glasses the names look very similar. And those circles you have to fill in look really fuzzy. If you declare your party affiliation, you don't even get to see the names of the enemy.

So I looked for names similar to mine, or like those of long forgotten girlfriends and high school vice-principals.

All the polling place volunteers were so nice. They appear to be retired from real work and someone had brought them doughnuts and coffee, so there was much to rejoice about. Maybe I will retire and work at the polling place. It's a long day, but it is only a couple days a year.

Ode to my PIM device

Other bloggers shamelessly recycle their previously published material. I am no better than they. I had a poem published last month in an online professional journal. You should read it if you get the chance. It did not take first place, but it was published. I felt good and disappointed all at the same time.

Don't get too close

Some mornings, especially in winter, my skin feels so dry that the thought of a shower makes me itch all over. So, instead of a shower, I wash my hair in the sink and use a rag under my arms. This seems to work just fine and people in my office look at me as if I had fully showered. It is a deception, but a harmless one, I think.

Fife 2000 Cabernet from Trader Joe's

I may buy an island in Fiji. There are islands for sale. I have even spoken to a real estate broker in Fiji. Mel Gibson bought his for $13.5 million U.S., but you can get a modest one for $2 million. My problem is the commute. As I have gotten older I have begun to experience panic attacks while flying - something that has never happened in many years of business commuting. The other problem is the money.