You Can't Go Home Again

Now that everyone has decided to protest my blog by not checking in, it is probably a good time to return. Like Superman from space after five long years of looking for a long dead Krypton. Some of you have moved on with your lives and I can accept that.

As my friends will not be reading this, let me take a moment to welcome you perfect strangers, and thank you for abiding my long absence or showing up just as I was ready to recommence. Whichever the case may be you know who you are and you have my very deep appreciation.

This is also a good time to reappear because I have just returned from a two-week vacation, not the one-week elsewhere reported by YB. I have decided to slowly re-immerse myself so as not to go into WRS (workplace related shock). Sadly, Tom, Patrick and Betsy were all unavailable to go to coffee at 10:00 this morning, so I made the journey alone. Mary was happy to see me. Tom did suggest a mid-afternoon coffee run, and he even paid as a welcome-back-to-work gesture of goodwill. He also suggested that I leave the office early today so as not to “over do it” my first day back. Smart guy, that Tom.

Less than a week ago I drove through the very dead landscape that lies near the sight of those horrific events about which I have previously written. The landscape is dead because copper smelting plants have an unfortunate byproduct – arsenic – that tends to inhibit the local animal and vegetable population. Only the strangest of weed vegetation has grown there since long before Adelle was murdered and I resided a few miles away on a hill overlooking the water. The smelting plant has been gone for decades and now, I am told, they are going to build luxury condominiums overlooking the bay and starting in the low $800s. The local joke is that they won’t need to light the parking lots since they will glow in the dark.

As we cruised along the waterfront, I resisted the urge to make the four block detour up the hill to see the first house I ever owned. In the early 1980s, $90K bought 4 bedrooms, 2 baths, an almost 180 degree view of the water along with a five minute drive to work downtown. It was a time of double digit interest rates; I paid the seller 10% and gave my note for interest only at 13% and I felt fortunate to be in the market.

The house was always “Old Man Black’s Place.” Old man Black was long dead and we bought it from his widow’s estate. There was evidence of the fire that started in the closet where widow Black smoked in secret – the fire department had to go through the roof to extinguish the blaze. The house readily accepted all of my sweat equity and served as my classroom for home repair and remodeling 101.

It was the party house on July 4th with an unobstructed view on the back porch of the Blue Angels and the fireworks. The police closed off the neighborhood at 9:00 a.m. that day, and friends would have to hike in from wherever they could find to park.

There were great neighbors in this hood. Ed and Molly lived next door. An elderly 100% Irish couple, they were friendly, small child-tolerant and kept an eye on the house whenever we were away. Molly eventually took ill with the cancer and Ed had the main floor coat closet converted into a bathroom (an idea he got from our home) and rented a hospital bed, turning the living room into her final bedroom. Ed was lost without Molly. Even after I moved far away to be closer to that candy covered cottage in the deep dark woods, I still picked up Ed every Wednesday and drove him to the Elks club where he would flirt with the waitress in her mid-50s and insist on us each having 2 or 3 Stingers before ordering lunch. Eventually we would both get misty-eyed as he spoke of Molly and I thought of my recently-crumbled family. I miss Ed.

There were many other great neighbors on that block. The 7th Day Adventist family was wonderful, but my son never understood why they didn’t give him any treats on Halloween. The family on the corner was Irish too; he was a psychologist and family therapist and a great guy in spite of that. Their house and ours were considered for interior shots in a Tom Selleck film called Divorce Wars: A Love Story. High-powered divorce lawyer Jack Sturgess discovers that his own marriage is failing and must juggle his own domestic conflicts with his clients' problems. Their house was eventually chosen and the hassle they endured plus the damage left behind made me glad Old Man Black’s Place was not chosen.

We had awesome block parties. On Halloween weekend we would get sitters for the kids, put on costumes and dance until 3:00 a.m. when someone from a different (and petty & jealous) block inevitably called the police.

But then my marriage ended. So did the marriage of the couple on the corner. So did the marriage of my associate at the office – he lived a couple blocks away. Adelle never woke up from that fateful night's sleep. And all the time that hypocrite was abusing the trust of so many people.

I have been tempted to blame the arsenic, but life is never that simple.

The neighborhood holds many memories: some good, some not-so-good. Truthfully, there’s no longer much of an urge to drive those four blocks.

Anyway, it is good to be home.

R.I.P. Adelle

The service was fairly well attended. Many people from our mutual former employer were there, along with the press, a number of friends and acquaintances and gawkers. And her mother; she did not speak our language and I did not speak hers.

Such services should be a celebration of the decedent’s life, but it is hard to celebrate a life that ends so tragically and violently. It was my first time for all of this. I picked out a nice urn which was surprisingly expensive. For myself the complimentary cardboard container would be sufficient, but this was all that was left of Mrs. A’s little girl, and I felt she deserved better. The minister on retainer to the mortuary appeared to have never read the Bible and delivered a few banalities. If I had it to do over I would have left him off the agenda. I gave a rather stirring eulogy and peppered it with scriptures of hope, although I knew that Adelle was now beyond hope. This was before the era of “open mike” funerals, so the service was short, and then it was over.

The meeting with Mrs. A was scheduled for after the service. I made an appointment with a lawyer who spoke her language. We were no more than five minutes into the meeting when she told the attorney that she did not want to work with him. Adelle had trusted me, so she trusted me and she wanted me to do all the work. What followed were many years when my office staff excitedly looked forward to the Christmas holidays when Mrs. A would, without fail, send a huge box of goodies from her country.

Not a week after the police discovered Adelle’s body, her son was apprehended. He was not far away and seemed to have no real plan of escape. I’ve watched enough TV over the years to know that you replace your license plates, change your appearance and then drive the speed limit in a straight line as far as you can before making a right angle turn for either Canada or Mexico. I really do not think any of it was planned. Spontaneity can be a good thing, unless you feel the urge to do or say something hurtful. In that case I would suggest really thinking over the pros and cons of your considered actions.

Mrs. A asked me to help her grandson. She said she could never speak to him again because of what he had done, but she wanted me to help him. Although I knew the difference between homicide and manslaughter, I was a stranger to the criminal justice system. This is where you realize the value of attending alumni functions. One of my classmates, Seth Metrone, had distinguished himself as a criminal trial lawyer. Several years earlier, I had to take a foreign professional athlete to Seth’s office to have him explain the law of statutory rape. I turned the young man’s case over to Seth.

Every state has a “slayer statute,” a law that says you cannot profit from a death that you cause. If you kill her, you cannot inherit from your mother’s estate, even if you are the only named beneficiary in her will. The standard is not “beyond a reasonable doubt” as it is in a criminal trial; the state cannot convict you unless a jury of your peers finds you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. But the slayer statute is not a criminal statute, it simply defines a property right so the standard is “the preponderance of the evidence.” Many people who kill another are never convicted, yet are kept from insurance proceeds and inheritance by this rule. While the young man’s fate had yet to be decided, it was pretty clear he would never see a penny. Or would he?




At the state capital, in the Department of Licensing, a complaint is filed. The first of many.

Just two little words

Not an hour from where our friend, the SC, sits in his garage smoking and pondering the imponderable is an evangelical center of faith and learning where people study God's Word and pursue His calling in their lives. This center offers degrees in theology, intercultural studies and psychology. The focus of their school of psychology is the integration of the Christian faith with today's mental health services.

These are noble sentiments, and I am certain the school strives mightily to maintain this focus. I am not an expert on these subjects. I know a psychologist who appears to be normal. And that first Bob Newhart show was pretty darn funny. But it seems to me that there is a certain amount of arrogance in any one human attempting to control or claiming to understand another.

Never forget: “therapist” is just two little words shoved together.

If SC were to hop on “the 5,” as the Californians like to say, and head north for a spell, he would come to the campus. With a little research he would discover that this school was the first of its kind, and that it grew out of a series of lectures given 45 years ago next month. Those lectures were given by a consulting psychologist from Tacoma, Washington. The school was named for this consulting psychologist.

But, SC will not find the consulting psychologist’s name on any sign or building.

Mary, Jackie and Delmar

When Tom and Betsy and I (and sometimes Patrick) go for coffee, we go to Starbucks. Where else would we go? There we are greeted by our Starbucks friends. Mary, who is less than half our age, calls us "baby." "Hi baby, how are ya today?" If one of us goes for coffee without the others, Mary will rat that person out. While less demonstrative, Jackie was named manager of the quarter for the downtown area, and always greets us with a smile. Delmar has our orders ready almost before we walk in the door.

A Starbucks friend learns your name and your drink. That's why when you make a Starbucks friend you never throw them a change up, you always order the same thing. If you want something different, you go to a different Starbucks. You tip your Starbucks friends - not some left over change coins, but paper money. You use your auto-reload shareholders card to buy the drink, but you tip well, at least once each week.

Our Starbucks is very small and located two blocks from our building's entrance and it is a point of pride with Tom and me (Patrick doesn't get it yet) to go in shirt sleeves no matter what the weather or temperature. There is a big new Starbucks opening up across the street from our building entrance, but I don't think we will abandon our Starbucks friends.

Memorable Starbucks friends I have known:

• Bitsy - at my last job, before everyone decided to go to Joelle's, we followed Bitsy to two different Starbucks stores, we liked her so much.
• Nancy - for several years I spent one or two days each week in Portland, Oregon. Nancy managed the store on SW Washington and never forgot my quad grande nonfat latte which is my I'm travelling on business and need something a little more expensive drink.

P.S. The cups in my part of the US tend to leak from the rim at the seam.. This was not a problem on the west coast, so I assume that some union is to blame.

I Smell a Rat

Freud once commented that a child would destroy the world if it had the power.

Finding time to write is always a problem. It is compounded by the many unpleasant emotions that underlie the memories of those days. I find it a real effort to focus clearly on the events of that time without being repulsed by the feelings that accompany them. Not just the feelings related to Adelle’s death, but those that were part and parcel of my life falling apart. While my narrative of Adelle’s demise is accurate, I find that the time-line of that tragedy and the concurrent events in my life are not synchronized. I offer no apology for these minor discrepancies.

The facts were pieced together later. While she slept, her son assaulted her first with a baseball bat, then a gun and finally with an axe or hatchet. Evidently it took a lot to kill her. For the next week or two he continued to live in the house, and even had a bunch of friends over for pizza. When one commented about the rank smell, he told them it was a rat that had died behind the wall. Finally he ran away with a friend. He had a new pickup truck, a gift from Adelle, in which to make his getaway.

You are, like so many people at that time, assuming that he was a surly, moody, bedraggled, disrespectful, class-cutting juvenile delinquent. On the contrary, he was a straight-A student. His employer described him as the best employee ever. He was a well-liked, good looking, clean cut, friendly and respectful young man. He called his mother faithfully at 3:30 everyday after arriving home from school. The company that Adelle and I worked for was small, and office parties were usually family affairs. He was a nice kid and was always willing to play with the smaller children. No early warning signals could be seen outside the home.

His father became anxious when, after a week, the phone was not answered and messages were unreturned. He finally drove to the house, found it locked and dark. Peering through the window of the garage he saw the totaled car and called the police.

I was able to answer the coroner’s question about body disposal; I knew from the papers she left that Adelle requested cremation. The difficult job of contacting her mother, who lived in Europe and spoke no English, was done by Adelle’s ex-husband to my deep gratitude. The next obvious job was planning her funeral service. This was not easy because, to risk a suit for trade name infringement, Adelle was the Smoking Non-Christian.

During this whirlwind of several days I made other trips to the house. Did you know that Servicemaster offers a complete array of bio-hazard cleaning services? I completed my inventory and had the safe in her closet drilled. I met with a realtor who opined that selling a home where a murder had occurred could prove to be challenging.

Two or three times a week, I dropped Hansel and Gretel off at that candy-covered cottage in the deep dark woods. I cried every time.

Still, less than a 20 minute drive away, that old man continued to do those unspeakable things. Our paths had crossed once, and they would soon cross again.

Explanations, excuses and apologies

I love anagrams. Most of the names I use blogging are anagrams for the real name. Sharp cookies in the use of search engines, like Mrs. Yak, have likely identified the real name of my dead assistant, who I refer to as Adelle. You can still read some newspaper accounts online, but they are not as scintillating as my "behind the scenes" look.

I am back in my office having spent the last two days at home finishing up the new copper plumbing supply system I built, and tearing out all the old corroded galvanized pipe. I love my Ryobi reciprocating saw - cuts through those pipes like butta. The water pressure is now where it should be: at full force the shower will peel the skin off your back.

After I return a few calls, wade through a mound of paper and go for coffee with Tom and Betsy (and maybe Patrick) I hope to get back to the narrative.

But first, an apology. Thoreau said that tradition is a more interrupted and feebler memory. Well, my feeble memory interrupted a fine and longstanding tradition, and I feel terrible. For years I faithfully sent a package of Peeps to the YB of the SC every Easter season. Several times in the last month I thought, "gotta get those Peeps." Sunday morning I realized that no Peeps had been sent. The chain has been broken, and likely all sorts of bad things will befall me. This is my public apology, and I am sorry. Very sorry.

A Short Red Leather Skirt

and a short red leather jacket to match. That’s what she wore as she entered the New Orleans. I had been sitting with Tessa and Sam, yakking, laughing, sipping a local brew and enjoying the zydeco. À propos of nothing, it was Tessa I had originally had some interest in, but that was before I knew that Sam was headed in her direction. Sam and I shared office space and, well, a good smoke as the saying goes. Less than two years later I would perform Tessa and Sam’s wedding ceremony and they remain, to this day, happily married.

I do not remember her name. She was tall. That and her almost-platinum blonde hair garnered her more than a few second looks. I cannot remember her face, only an aura that was what – closed, cold, nervous, unapproachable? She was Tessa’s friend and Tessa thought we should meet. Another blind date.

At least I had some support on this one. But the yakking and laughing temporarily gave way to a stilted question and answer session. I felt like a dentist trying to extract a painful molar sans anesthesia. There was so much strangeness during that period of my life that this seemed just one more surreal experience that I could blog about later in life. Thankfully, good beer and good company prevailed and soon Sam, Tessa and I were yakking and laughing as SRLS smiled and nodded. The seafood etouffee was excellent (as always).

After dinner we took a stroll around Pioneer Square, before piling into Tessa’s Subaru for a drive to the Famous Pacific Dessert Company. Each table had a box of Baby Boomer Trivial Pursuit cards, and I proceeded to quiz the three of them since I literally knew all the answers. That was when it became apparent that I was running with the wrong crowd, a frog among tadpoles. How can you have a meaningful relationship with someone who doesn’t share any of the trivia of your youth? Paul McCartney was in a band before Wings? I resolved then and there never again to date anyone more than 12 years younger than me.

Dessert was over and, thankfully, I lived in the opposite direction so they dropped me at my car and Tessa and Sam would drive SRLS home. I cheerfully proclaimed the evening to be “fun” and told SRLS that it was nice getting to know her. I scrupulously avoided any mention of “we’ll have to do this again.” Being a guy, I figured that mine was the next move, and that was a move I was not going to make. SRLS was not my type, but more importantly I did not need any additional work to do.

Imagine my surprise when the phone in my office rang two days later and SRLS was on the other end of the line. It seems she had great time the other night and wondered if I wanted to get together. I hate to disappoint people, even people I don’t care that much about; it’s one of my many character flaws. So we agreed to meet for a movie and dinner the next weekend. Movies are great, especially with someone who is not easy to talk to. I still can’t remember her name but the movie was Cyrano de Bergerac starring Gérard Depardieu. We had dinner at Duke’s, my regular hangout. I notified the staff earlier that day so whenever there was a lull in our conversation, someone would come and sit down to chit chat.

What I learned about SRLS was that she was just coming off a long-term relationship that ended badly and that she was finding it difficult to trust men. Smart lady. I would have told her that I had no interest in a relationship, and just wanted a little company. But she made the last call putting the ball in my court and I knew I would never call her.



It seems that after I left our mutual employer, Adelle paid a lawyer to draft a new Will and other estate planning documents that superseded the ones I had drafted for her, gratis. The new documents gave me total control of her estate and directed any interested parties (i.e. medical examiners) to contact me in the event anything happened to her. Now I had a funeral to plan, an estate to probate, a mother to contact and a lengthy murder trial ahead of me. Not to mention that blood-soaked mattress.

And now, back to our story

Let’s see, where was I? Oh, right: dead assistant, bloody mattress, dark night, killer still on loose.

To be more accurate, Adelle was no longer my assistant before she died. I had left our common employer almost 23 months earlier. Unlike most of the other faithful subordinates who, over the years have declared to me, “when you leave this place, I’m resigning,” Adelle was good to her word. She had started her own business, based out of her home aka scene of the crime.

How to describe Adelle? She was maybe 5’5” brown hair, brown eyes, caps in front with a slight overbite. She wore a skirt suit with hose and matching pumps everyday; I stood in her closet looking at those dozens of outfits that would soon be sold or given to charity. She had curves, the kind that Dashiell Hammett could describe so well, but which have never done much for me. She had a hard edge, and smoked as only a European or Fullerton resident can. Finally, and it may be uncharitable, were the sporadic episodes of halitosis. The smoking, combined with the kava she continuously drank (and, I suspect, less than complete attention to dental hygiene) made her breath potent enough to bring tears to your eyes even as she sat on the other side of your desk. Fortunately, these episodes were not a daily occurrence; it is easier to fire someone than to have the personal hygiene discussion.

Rereading this description, I see that you might get the impression that she was not attractive. To the contrary, I think many men found her attractive - there certainly appeared to be many men in her life. Now she was dead. As I wandered through the house I noticed it was dark, even with every light turned on, lots of dark wood and carpeting. Most of the walls were festooned with kiddy art, drawn by her son and not unlike the colorful items that decorate cubicles everywhere.

“I Love Mommy.”

“Happy Mother’s Day.”

Well, I thought, there won’t be any more of those. I tried to remember the name of the last guy who lived with Adelle. After I left our common employer we kept in touch, but not frequently. There was almost always a guy living with her. She would go out on Friday nights to drink and dance, bring some guy home and he would stay for six months. Pizza cartons and beer bottles littered the family room. A late model import sat in the garage - totaled.

I found the liquor cabinet, which appeared untouched and full of exotic liqueurs from Europe. I thought I needed a drink, or at least deserved one. I grabbed a bottle of Bols Advocaat but, I wrongly assumed, the eggs had gone bad. I later discovered that there are two varieties of Advocaat: a more liquid "export" version found in the U.S. and the "thick" Advocaat which is sold mostly on the Dutch market and eaten with a spoon. Not the time to be drinking, I thought, best to keep your wits about you.

I would have had that drink if I had known that this was not to be a one time event. Adelle’s son had done this. A decade later, the son of yet another of my employees would also commit a cold blooded murder.

Not far from where I stood, an elderly man, a man I knew, was committing unspeakable wrongs on the people who trusted him the most.

Tom and Betsy and Patrick

The problem with using a blog to recount a lengthy episode in one's life is that the day to day commentary gets pushed aside. There ought to be two columns, one for the history lesson du jour and one for everything else.

This week our coffee triumvirate was breached. The three of us, on many occasions, have passed Patrick on our way to or from coffee. He goes to the same Starbucks we do, he works in the same suite of offices and for the same person. But we have never invited him to join us. Perhaps Tom and/or Betsy felt that inviting a new member to our coffee run would be a betrayal of the trust and solidarity that we have constructed among ourselves. Or, maybe they are like me and the thought never crossed their minds.

This week Patrick invited himself. He stopped by my office at half an hour before the appointed time and asked if it was time for coffee. I told him the correct time and, with a smile, suggested he join us. When the time arrived, Patrick was at Betsy's desk, ready to go. It was a sunny day so we eschewed the through-building shortcuts and used the sidewalk the whole way. I was vividly reminded of many walks to Joelle's Java with Bob and Linda and Charlie, fellow employees at my former employer. We went to Joelle's because they liked the place, even though I thought the coffee was sub-par. There was a daily trivia question - a correct answer got you a hole in your "buy 10 get one free" punch card. Between us, Bob and I could always come up with the answer. I miss those guys.

Patrick's presence changes the group dynamic and he still has to learn some of our coffee team etiquette. We will have to see how it goes.

Yes, Virginia, there is a BOB

It was twilight and I was more than a little creeped out. After I finished my conversation with the medical examiner I called the Sheriff then left my office in a daze, telling Joyce that I would be gone the rest of the day. An hour later I picked up the house keys from the Deputy assigned to the case and, with frequent stops to check the map, arrived at the house around sundown.

Yellow police tape was stretched across the front door, and the prime suspect in Adelle’s death was still on the loose. I circled the house looking for any signs of forced entry or exit. I was not playing CSI, I was taking inventory. I was now responsible for, well, everything and I wanted to do it right. A deserted house, especially one that the cops have sealed off, is like a magnet to neighborhood punks and other lowlife looking for a quick score. After all, if the lady of the house is dead and the cops have left, who is there to say “don’t take that”?

Adelle had been one of my best hires, one of the good choices I learned to make after the Mary Kay fiasco. Adelle was born and raised in Europe; she married a member of the U.S. armed services, moved with him to the land of the free and bore him a son. Sometime after their return to the U.S. it became apparent that this man’s love for the bottle outweighed all other loves. Adelle despised weakness and my guess is that the existence of this weakness, more than the drunkenness and philandering, doomed the marriage.

She was a single mom, and single moms make great employees. Couple that with her ambition and Teutonic heritage and you get a real workhorse. She drove everyone around her crazy because she held them to the same impossibly high standard to which she held herself. Of course, she did not hold me to that standard, because I was the boss and could do no wrong. People like that you don’t need to manage; you just give them a little course correction now and again. And listen to everyone else complain. But the work got done, it was done well and on time and I and my little fiefdom looked great to my superiors. All that seemed like yesterday as I broke the yellow tape and slid the key into the front door lock.

I took a breath and pushed the door open. It was the smell of death hanging in the air but, since I had never smelled death before all I could think of was rotten meat. Like when you accidentally cut the power to your fridge before leaving on vacation. The place was a shambles – food, garbage and the detritus of suburban life lay everywhere. In the bedroom, where the brutal act took place, little strings hung from every blood spatter trying to make sense of the trajectory of each blow and shot. The mattress was saturated, oozing with blood. I had a bad feeling or, more accurately, a feeling that something bad was there with me. I gave “it” the name BOB, a nod to the evil demon of Twin Peaks. Beware of Bob. It occurs to me only now that Christians, who have allied themselves with the purest of good, should be acutely sensitive to the purest of evil, especially when it has shed its angel of light costume. This was really bad. I had never before sensed anything so malevolent.

You're Fired!

Mary Kaye was a tall, willowy graduate of a Christian College that, while not the Harvard of Christian Evangelicalism, does have an excellent business school. She seemed so earnest and, because of what we had in common, I thought I knew her. I made that mistake one other time and it altered the course of my life. Mary Kay was so very nice, and that would have made it extra hard to fire her, except that I could no longer stand her. (I can only hope that my tolerance for the unabled has grown over the years.) She could not do the work which, honestly, was of the most entry level variety. I believe she went on to struggle through the consequences of some poor life choices, but we all quickly lost touch with her. That experience taught me a couple of valuable lessons: I became much better at hiring the kind of people who can do the work and I discovered that I had some skill at humanely terminating the employment of others. Both talents have served me well.

My personal life felt like a ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl. I had rented a room in a house owned by three women, and we quickly fell into a routine of platonic domestic bliss. One of them (a fellow WC alum) could really cook and I was pretty good at cleaning up. One of them was good company and the other had many suggestions for my improvement. My new, well-meaning friends were setting me up on blind dates. My office colleagues were setting me up on blind dates. My students were setting me up on blind dates. One student even asked me out “to discuss whether she should apply to law school” (a patent metaphor for “I need a decent meal”). Juxtaposed with all this social nonsense were the times with my dear children, Hansel and Gretel (not their real names). These times were bittersweet. I felt the irrational guilt that only divorced dads feel. Inevitably, I had to return them to that candy-covered cottage in the deep dark woods. Although I told anyone who asked that my wife had been a victim of spontaneous human combustion, she was very much alive and there was a great deal of tension between us. Like I said, a carnival ride.

Joyce was looking at me.

I said into the phone, “What body?”

The voice at the other end said, “Adelle Henton.”

“Why are you calling me?” I asked.

“She left instructions,” he said, “to call you if anything happened to her.”

“What happened to her?” I asked.

“For that,” he said, “you gotta call the Sheriff’s office.”

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.