SAVING THE TROUBLE OF A FIELD TRIP

The Stanford Prison Experiment is now online. In the early '70s, a series of volunteers took part in a psychological test to find the effects of prison life on so-called average people. Their results were amazing; the change in the attitudes of the "prisoners" (not to mention the "guards," also volunteers) was scarily complete, and the conclusions they draw about prison life are not encouraging, especially when seen from today.


By contrast, here's a different (and more contemporary) Stanford study which is a bit more upbeat: Flash Videos showing how various things are made.

"If you've ever wondered how things are made - products like candy, cars, airplanes, or bottles - or if you've been interested in manufacturing processes, like forging, casting, or injection molding, then you've come to the right place.

Each of these walk-throughs starts with a narrated diagrammatic walk-through, followed by a short video showing actual examples of the product being made. The couple I looked at were actually pretty interesting.

Although. The movie on Jelly Beans is just plain creepy. I wouldn't want Mister Jelly Belly anywhere near my kids.

HAMPTONS INVASION PASTORALE

The streets are already quite a bit quieter, as everyone in midtown is halfway out to the Hamptons for one last spin on the yacht with Yoko or whoever before their new semester starts, after which they're just not going to be able to justify the expense and the time anymore away from the glorious horror of the city.

After this weekend, the city's hotspots will be harder to get into, as the slightly (and extremely) upper class climb down from their hilltop mansions and cram themselves back into the clubs where their hard-earned tans can fade back into that deathly back-pages-of-Interview pallor that will serve them so well when bagging their quarterly crop of C-list actors and diplomats' spawn between Christmas and New Year's.

And the bridge-and-tunnel people will wait longer in line to get into the places they dominated all summer, and many of them will shrug in despair or disgust, and clutching their dates, climb back into their Chevy Suburbans and head deeper into the Village to find someplace a little less on the map but that serves Hefeweisen and Japanese-style chicken wings, and everything shall continue to be right in the world.

I'm going out drinking tonight, doing no more than my civic duty. Then it's back to working on the book for most of the weekend. Get outside and enjoy the ever-shortening days, you beautiful freaks.

MTV VIDEO MUSIC AWARDS WRAPUP

Here is No Cash, No Credit, my play-by-play of the evening's festivities at Radio City Music Hall.

These are the notes I took tonight, with minimal editing (mostly for spelling, you're welcome), so anything you don't understand might be actually ununderstandable.

A caveat, before you read it: I am softening noticeably on Christina Aguilera, and the greatest moments of lucidity come from, of course, Kelly Clarkson and Justin Timberlake.

This was not a banner year.

THE HURRY-UP BETWEEN WAITINGS

I've gotta admit, I'm starting to focus on the book again, because there's a couple of other people who would really like to see it done. Not just in that I-wish-you'd-stop-whining-about-it-already kind of way, but the, y'know, other way. That's where I've been the last couple of days (when sober, and take that how you will), and where I'll be intermittently whenever my writer's block skips out for a while.

I got deadlines all over the place, and it's great.

I will, however, be doing my shot-by-shot of the MTV Video Music Awards tonight, as I've done over the last couple of years. How this became the one tradition I've managed to keep to, I have no fucking idea. But well, whatever.

Pulling for Mr. Cash to win big, of course. Beyonce and whoever else can kiss my black ass.

WELL IT IS ON THE WAY HOME

Those of you who may have started reading this space in the last month or two might think it's little more than a repository of trivia night & karaoke raconteurism and links without all the snark picked off of 'em.

If you were thinking that, you've got me pegged, though it would be nice to perhaps mix it up a bit. So here's what I'm gonna do.

After trivia tonight, I'm going to catch the second half of the Howard Dean rally in Bryant Park. Come on down. I'll be the Canadian-looking one dressed like one of the Mummenschanz puppeteers, minus the roll of TP stuck to the sides of my head. (Of course.)

BOWL OR DIE. (see also SING OR DIE.)

I have it on good authority that the actual friend of my family [he's the tattooed chap on the left in that picture] who was the quote allegedly inept endquote karaoke DJ unto whom many who were present (1-2-3-4!) delivered a cattily delicious next-day beatdown two weeks ago has since bought a whole new audio system, and so I'm throwing down my size-fourteen gauntlet, this being a real good Monday for more personal humiliation and all. (I'm prepared to give our hipster friend another chance. He is almost family, and he did apologize to everyone for making the greatest works of Alan Jackson and Olivia Newton-John into skip-laden ten-minute mood pieces. No really. He did.)

And regardless of how I may mangle the music of your life tonight (come on out. Love to see you), I'd also like to keep in mind the idea of an evening of the spherical arts. (And I'm not just saying that because I got a gray-market copy of The Big Lebowski on Friday last. I mean, sheeit, I hain't even seen it yet. See, it's been the other kind of weekend, the kind with birthday parties and intense writing sessions.)

That music you hear means we have a hostile segue to this quote from The Incredible World of Bowling Noir, a cinematic history:

Bowling is a bright beacon of chuckleheaded salvation burning in the dark existential American night, which noir characters can either follow to safety or spurn to wander forever lost. It is a symbol of goodness, wholesomeness, and tract housing--insipid, yes, even nightmarish in its own peculiar way, but rejected at one's own peril.

Put another way: bowl or die.

The above quote refers to Fred Macmurray, of all people.

Alright, alright, I'll watch the thing. I'm as stoked to see it as I have ever been to see anything in my life. Well, anything starring Jeff Bridges.

WE ALL NEED SOMEONE TO BLAME

So Toronto Mayor Mel Lastman (who was a bumbling loudmouthed buffoon long before the light of international attention was shone upon him, ask any Torontonian) was shifting off the blame for the blackout even before it came out that it wasn't his jurisdiction. And the American corporations who have neglected operations at the power grids sure won't own up to their roles in this.

But now the finger of blame is pointing at a whole new group. (Pat Robertson, take note.) That's right, blame the heterosexuals.

"Our job at COCK [that's the Center Of Covert Knowledge] is not to tell straight people how to fix the problems which are endemic to their communities. It's their job to figure out how to make things better for the rest of us. We can simply show them, as honestly and compassionately as possible, how they are responsible for progressively driving Western society directly into the toilet," he said. "I mean, there are plenty of gay people who are as full of shit as any straight people you might meet, but we're working on that, too. But the difference is that when things go badly in the gay community, the lights don't go out. Instead, we have parallel parades."

HOLD ME CLOSER, TONY DANZA

Capricorn: This month finds you and your daughter moving to Connecticut, where you will work as a housekeeper for a Type A advertising executive and her flamboyantly homosexual son. Her wisecracking, red-haired mother will visit often, much to your delight. Over time, you will come to lust for your employer, and use your thick-tongued Italian stallion charm to coax her out of her power suit and onto the floor of your decrepit van.

BEFORE HIS RIDE GETS HERE

I'm not sure if I can overstate how cool I think Warren Zevon is. My dad had a copy of Excitable Boy in his house in the early '80s which he'd taped for playing the car, and I stole that tape and played it constantly, clandestinely, until I learned every grunt and horn part. I still have that tape. On the other side is Lynyrd Skynyrd and Savoy Brown, which has seen very little except for rewinding and fast forwarding over to get back to Warren. Ah, Warren.

Through detox and marriage woes, through being forgotten and rediscovered, through having all his friends fade away or otherwise forget him, he's continued making grouchy beautiful music. What a fuckin' role model.

Then ever since he found out he was dying of mesothelioma, he's been recording like crazy, trying to get as much down as he can before his ride arrives. Every month is a bonus at this point for him. Now he's lived long enough to finish (and see the release of) his latest record, out next week, and his next goal is apparently to live "until the next Matrix Sequel."

Never mind David Letterman's continuing worship of the guy, I like him just the same. May he live a good while longer, and may all our deaths be as fruitful as his.

LET X=X

Let me tell you a little bit about the level of commitment I have to my day job.

I am not even a secretary; I am a typist. I am not paid to think, nor do I wish to be. I do not take minutes, I only take dictation in the rarest of emergencies, and I am not in charge of any processes outside of my own small, tightly run, hermetic fiefdom. (Think of me as Jennifer Marlowe minus the bouffant and, I must admit, the impressive embonpoint.)

So why I had to be in a planning meeting for the better part of four hours today is beyond me. Anyway. End of rant.

Last night at trivia, I put together an audio round featuring only acts with the letter X in their names. I used... let's see. There was T-Rex, XTC, Sir Mix-A-Lot, Generation X, Rex Harrison (from "My Fair Lady"), the Dixie Chicks, X Ray Spex, Mojo Nixon, Ultravox and Sixpence None The Richer. A few people got ten out of ten. Eclectic freaks, I love you all.

No Styx, Sex Pistols, Jimi Hendrix, X, Kick Axe, Maxi Priest, Moxy Fruvous, Pixies, Electric 6, Xuxa, Extreme, INXS, X-Ecutioners, Klymaxx or Xavier Cugat. Maybe next time.

Also, I'd like to say I feel bad for adopting a Johnny Olsen voice that might have been (more than) slightly over the top. I shall, however, apologize for nothing else. It was, as usual when I host, a hateful crowd, hissing openly at my every utterance and calling for my head. Caren, on the other hand, was gracious and charming as usual. She's a hell of a good Quiz Ms. in any circumstance, and she brought the proverbial it last night. Bless her, and everyone who came and made being a heel so much fun.

OKAY, OKAY, I'LL BUY YOUR DRESSING

Paul Newman's Op-Ed piece about why he's suing HUD is the funniest thing I've read in the N.Y. Times since they stopped publishing fiction, whawazit, last month. He claims that the character he portrayed in the early '60s is being -- whatever the opposite of defamed is -- by the feds today, and he'd like them to cut it out:

Mr. Newman claims that the Department of Housing and Urban Development, called HUD, is a fair and balanced institution and that some of its decency and respectability has unfairly rubbed off on his movie character, diluting the rotten, self-important, free-trade, corrupt conservative image that Mr. Newman worked so hard to project in the film. His suit claims that this "innocence by association" has hurt his feelings plus residuals.

Somewhere, in a bunker far away from sunlight, Bill O'Reilly is not getting the joke.

FOR TEN POINTS: HOW MANY FINGERS AM I HOLDING UP, RIGHT NOW?

I stayed up extra late last night, hand crafting each of the trivia questions I'll be asking tonight at the Baggot Inn with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. I'm quite proud of them, really. The 'Name That Heifer' visual round is deceptively simple once you figure out the patterns, and those with a working knowledge of Sanskrit will have an edge in putting the different passages from the work of Rumi back into their original order.

Oh, who am I kidding. There's bad pop music and hopefully a few in-jokes you can be in on, and I have kept wanton Canadiana to a minimum. Booze is cheap, there's a few bucks and some free clothing in it if you're any good, and it's even possible someone you love is gonna be there.

HIGHTOWER UPDATE

Turns out Hightower got on the show after all. Son of a gun.

He's sounding a little shaky, like this is the biggest crowd he's ever been on TV in front of, but hey, that's my guy.

THIEVES IN HIGH PLACES

My namesake Jim Hightower not only has a new book (and a weblog!), he's actually going to be a guest on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart tonight.

(Since you asked, he looks exactly like my dad, and they come from the same part of Texas, so I'm guessing we're related, but I don't know how. I love being asked if I'm related to him, though. He's a fairly reasonable guy whose attitude I really happen to like.)


(Update: Seems he's been bumped. I guess they thought Samuel Jackson would "draw" more "viewers." Fine. Maybe they'll reschedule if he decides to run for something. Everyone else is doing it, so really, what the hell.)

[that last link via TMW]

SEEING THINGS IN THE DARK

Alright. Here's the gallery of the thirty-some pictures I figure may be worth your time if you're up for another gallery of blackout pictures. Mostly they're of the Times Square cocktail party at dusk (and then later at dawn) and people making time along 42nd Street.

If you have the patience, the morning shots are definitely better than the evening ones. That's because I actually took my tripod, which meant my chronic case of the shakes was less of a concern.

I'm actually proud of some of these shots. Which shows you how drunk I am at the moment.

Anyway. Hope you find something cool here.

THE SECOND LAST BLACKOUT UPDATE

Okay, I'm back from an all-day family thing.

I'm setting up my blackout photo gallery, and it should be up tonight.

There are tons of good ones out there by now. You know, for a medium that relies so heavily on electricity, the blog world has covered it spectacularly well. I'm looking forward to spending all night reading up on everyone else's story. I might link to as many of the good ones as I can tomorrow morning, but then I'll probably move on to more mundane things, like hunting for good trivia stuff for Tuesday.

ON LIFE AND DEATH AND THE HEAVEN THAT IS COLISEUM BOOKS
They were dancing in the streets when the power came back on.

Literally. Grown women and men, at the stroke of noon when the power went back on in our neighborhood, instantly started dancing. A roar could be heard from Times Square, a block and a half away. And a group of people started singing and dancing outside my window, three floors down.

The lights are on
The lights are on
The lights are on, woo!
The lights are on

On a sunny hot August day, at the stroke of noon, it would be hard to even tell, and yet that familiar hum just started back up again, and you could hear it after having it not be there all night, and it wasn't long before the smells of the city started taking over where for a while there began to be a hint of salt water in the air, and the clear slightly greasy grassy smell that is just different enough from the normal New York air cocktail that people could tell. You could actually see people sniffing the air.

My story was pretty lame, actually. I was at work when the lights went out, I stayed there for a while while I answered a few emails from people who were wondering what was going on, and I wandered home across 42nd Street, taking a few pictures.

One thing I thought was cool: Not every place was dark. Some buildings had their own emergency power source for what I'm sure were valid reasons. But the only place along 42nd that was fully lit (and in the twilight it stood out against the ever darkening landscape like a klieg light) was, of all things, Coliseum Books. The place was well-lit, fully air conditioned, and jammed with people who were just sitting around, waiting patiently for the bathroom, reading random novels, listening to the news broadcast on the intercom, and sharing the mutual camraderie of a large yet livable disaster. It gave me a warm feeling that just wouldn't have been there if, say, it had been Starbucks with power instead.

So by the time I got to Times Square, there was a bit of a party among the people who were there. It really was like 9/11 (minus the whole being-attacked bit, which was a huge difference), and everyone had a bit of a laugh about it. People were handing out water, cops were on every street corner, I saw nothing but people being nice to other people. That weirded me out more than anything else, actually.

I got home, made myself a sandwich out of perishables, and went to sleep about 4 hours earlier than normal. The only sounds coming from outside were the occasional siren and laughing bunch of kids. It was like spending the night in a much smaller town.

I woke up this morning about 4:30, just before dawn, and I figured I'd go out and take some shots of the sunrise. The streets were full of sleeping people and police vans, but everything was quiet. Obviously, nothing major had happened overnight. Not that anyone expected it, aside from the top police brass and other professionally paranoid people. 1977 sounded like hell compared to this, even though this time it's lasted about as long (in some places, like most of Brooklyn, they're still out. My heart goes out to them.)

So when they turned the power on at the stroke of noon (almost exactly), everyone danced and sang in the streets, and I decided to try and go to work. This was silly. Not even my boss was there, and my boss I'm sure tried to sleep there last night. The power on the East side was still out, but it went on a little after two, at which point I was mostly out the door anyways. I hung out with a friend in Bryant Park for a while, where we watched the men watch the topless sunbathers while trying to look like they weren't looking. Some things are universal and defy even acts of darkness.

I've heard no news about the details of the blackout, and I've only started talking to people outside the city about what's happened. It'll matter at some point. But right now I'm feeling pretty good about how everyone I've seen dealt with it.

I'll post a proper gallery of all the shots I took (I wasted a lot of digital bandwidth) later tonight, as soon as I can suss them out.

PICS

Here's a couple of shots of the gathering cubicle crowd outside my office:

looking up 3rd Avenue from 42nd Street
the crowds and cabs clashing even more than normal
It'll take a superhuman effort to get anywhere
bicycles and trucks seem to be the best forms of transport

A photo session in the back of a pickup truck
interrupted by the truck stuck in a wave of pedestrians
two other women looking to hitch a ride uptown
and off they go to wherever

For the first hour, there was a lot of sirens and alarms, and no small amount of shouting, with the occasional megaphone. Now, it's quiet. Cop cars are on all the corners with their lights on, but aside from them, the streets are full of people all staring at each other, blocking pretty much all traffic, wondering what the hell to do now. Those who can go home are on their way there, as I will be soon. But everyone has questions.

Once again: I'm fine. I'm going home, where you might not hear from me again until the power comes back on. The battery on this laptop is half-bled, and I wanna save something for later.

Everyone in the office is talking about the great blackout of 1977. They make it sound romantic, and then they catch themselves. I'm not looking forward to that kind of story, though we've all lived through 9-11, and this feels more like some Emergency Broadcast System version of that.

Stay cool. I'll talk when I can.

BLACKOUT

The power went off a little over an hour ago here in Midtown, and there's a bit of chaos. We're hearing that it's out everywhere within about a thousand miles of here, which means if you're reading this, then there's no power where you are neither.

I'm going to upload a few pictures, and then maybe save the battery for a while. I'm not leaving the office just yet; the phone lines are working here, and everyone's kind of joking about it anyways.

EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS ROCKS

My pal Brittney wrote an excellent story about The Southern Girls' Rock and Roll Camp.

May she write a hundred more coverstories, and may each of these kids start a dozen bands. Seriously, this is the kind of operation that warms my heart. Anarchy symbols on fresh faces, widespread and automatic mistrust of authority figures, perfecting the elusive art of writing about what you love and hate, combined with applicable technical lessons and a little cross-band networking thrown in, in an environment that is constructive and you-can-do-it... man, nothing but good can come of a camp like this.

And Brittney, you rock more and more worlds all the time. Fucking A.

Pottymouthingly Yours,
T.

MORE FROM THE SOCIETY PAGES
I swear, officer, I didn't mean to go without coffee today, it just kind of happened. I got into work (after doing pretty well at trivia last night, thanks mostly to the geography expert and the 80's music dude each homering late in the game. I felt like Hannibal Smith pushing BA Baracus and Face to the limit to achieve the objective of winning enough prize money to pay a bar tab we flat out could not afford ourselves, and those of you who have done this know how completely it redefines "Living On The Proverbial Fuckin' Edge, Holmes," and after that, wandering (with Valerie, who didn't play on our team but made us look rather more photogenic) across town to the JAS mart to shoot some more pics of bodacious and arcane candies (check 'em out at Vidiot's mobophotoblog) before we all scurried off to the four corners of the city from whence we came) and it's been one stupid little thing after another the rest of the day. Aw, thass right, Maizie, I gotta right to sing the blues.

So given all that (it's just gonna be a month of late nights, I commend myself unto thee, O gods of insomnia, at least I'm having a good time, and hey, last night was relatively chill and dignified, especially compared to the wanton superexcellent vague craziness of Monday's karaoke), it's a wonder I'm still awake this deep into a decaf day. Well, I would be a puddly mass of goo, shifting listlessly about in my seat like Jabba the Hutt after a deep-tissue massage, if it weren't for the timely purchase last night of a pack of Black Black, this Hi-Technical Excellent Taste and Flavor Gum with the rich tastes of caffeine and menthol. The flavors come at you in waves, first the gummy taste you expect from the Wrigley's-shaped piece, followed by the heavy caffeine kick and then the menthol afterburn. It tastes like a minty Chernobyl, with a cool finish.

I'm so getting more of this stuff.

(For completists, here's vidiot's take on last night, and jonmc's too.)

MOVIE REVIEW

A warning from Kimya:

if you are going to see freaky friday tonight be sure to bring your jamie lee curtis grinch face itis immunity spray.

WHY MY HANDS ARE BLACKENED STUMPS THIS MORNING
Well, the bike made it home from drunken karaoke last night, and this morning shit blew up.

42nd Street may be fabled in song and story. It may be one of the most famous avenues on the planet. But it's about as smooth as Rod Stewart's face. The manhole covers are often up to a foot beneath street level. All the rain of the past eight months has opened up potholes you could bathe in. And they're working on underground things all the time, and they have these huge 2-inch-thick metal sheets they put over the street that you can drive over and are supposed to protect whatever's going on under them but only serve to take out my tires and make it impossible to maneuver.

And did I mention that pedestrians in this town wander around in the middle of the street like autistic four year olds?

So this bus moved sideways across two lanes (this happens, no biggie, they're big & slow & easy to stay out from under) and edged me into one of the abovementioned potholes. I did get the driver to apologize, seeing as he was just lost and not really in control of his vehicle. But the impact knocked my chain off in such a way that I'm going to have to take the pedals off to get it out. The damn thing is really wedged into the housing of the gears. I have no idea how it could get that screwed up. It's kind of a miracle, but not in the Miracle On Ice* kind of way. Kind of the opposite, actually. The Anti-Miracle On Hot Pavement.

So now my hands are covered with bike grease, and I'm cranky and I wanna go home and have a handmaiden wipe my brow and feed me grapes. I will, however, settle for trivia at the Baggot Inn tonight. I invite you to share the sublime joy of figuring out whether or not President Polk kept a ferret, or what grist actually is or which came first, the Bronze Age, the Iron Age or the Stone Age. Or whatever.

(I'm hosting this evening myself (with Caren, of course) one week from tonight. Mark your calendars.)

Point? Silly rabbit, I have no point. I'm a little hung over, I had a ball last night, I've barely slept at all and my hands are filthy. Elvis in Graceland, but I love this town.

I'm off to find me some industrial cleaners. The dainty hand soap in the kitchen just ain't cutting through like I like it to.

* Speaking of which, too bad about Herb Brooks, not because he died young or anything -- he was almost 70, and had lived one hell of a good and eventful life -- but that a part of his legacy looks like it's going to be hijacked by the Buckle Up America people, and his death is going to become some kind of example. That's not what the guy should be remembered for. A real good coach? A genuinely great motivator of people? A pretty astute hockey mind? Sure. But he's not Gary Busey drunk off his ass and helmetless doing 180 on a motorbike; and it sucks that in death he's becoming a poster child for vehicle safety.

SNUFF PHOTOGRAPHY FOR KIDS!

This day has not been so hot so far, and not that I'm like a big metaphor-drawer or nothing, but I did find the gallery of disemboweled plush toys, and looking at it now, I feel a little better for my lot in life.

It just tears at my little heart to see such inhumanity done to inhuman things. (And seeing all these gaping wounds just oozing styrofoam and stuffing all over, I wonder if I'm feeling vulnerable enough to rent Crash this week.)

SUCH A FINE LINE
between muggy and clammy.

I'm watching people on the street right now in tank tops and shorts, sweating and shivering at the same time. Many of them have umbrellas, even though it's been bordering on sunny for the last couple of days. It's just that there's nowhere for the wet from the streets to go. There are water droplets floating in midair like gulls in a polluted sea breeze, and every once in a while they just kind of decide to flock downward and land en masse in a mini-monsoon which starts from about ten feet off the ground and lasts all of four and a half seconds.

Did I miss a memo? Seriously. If I wanted Miami weather, I'd move to Miami.

GOTHNIC CLEANSING

So yeah, I was in Toronto for a couple of days, just to blow off a little steam and get a marginal amount of business done. There was one night of revelry, though, and it was better than I thought. (I haven't seen Javina in something like a decade, and between her and Towerbrave and all the new friends I made, I managed to blow off a lot of steam, without getting arrested or waking up under a police car in some other town. For once.)

So. That said. Here's a partial gallery of the Toronto semi-gothy journal meetup party on Saturday at Savage Garden. (I have many disclaimers, but really I've just been going through the pictures at my leisure, when I haven't been writing. Hate me because I'm sporadically prolific, not because your eyes are drawn to me whenever I wear these gloomy clothes.)

I forgot how fun hanging out in a club full of chronically depressed people can be. And no, I don't mean the people in these pictures. I'm talking about the people in the background of these pictures, with their hands over their eyes or their floppy hair pulled down over their face so we can't see how burdened they are with their their own existence.

I feel your pain. No, I don't. Ha, ha! (What, neither do you? Cool! Let's play Master and Servant!)

LOOK WHO'S ISSUING FATWAS NOW

I know Larry Flynt's prayer for the death of Bill O'Reilly is only kind of a joke, and wishing death upon anyone is not sanctioned by God, Allah, Buddha, or pretty much any other deity of your choice.

But I couldn't help but smirk, and it is a well laid-out poster. In fact, if the rest of his magazines were designed as well as this pray-for-death handbill is, then maybe I'd pick them up more often. I mean, off my floor. You know, to read. The articles.

A LITTLE AIRPORT SECURITY STORY

I cleared the first round of customs quick. Quicker than I thought I would. Even with them pulling me apart. Forgot about the allen key. In my second pack, I use it on the bike. Past tense, used, more like. Security guy pulled it out of the bag, and we both looked at it and started laughing. Him, because he thought for a second he had really caught me trying to do something wrong, and me because I had no idea how someone would use that in some sinister way, except maybe to poke someone's eye out. That might hurt. Twitch, twitch.

It was funny, though. He was a little sheepish, especially after the other places on my personage he'd previously prodded his little magnetoprod thingy. It just happened to be the same guy who went through my bag and my briefs (they rotate around, about a dozen of them). I made a point of cooperating, and everything was fine, and eventually he knew it, and at that point we were waiting for the eight-count of the square dance so we'd be back at the starting point. Poor lug had a job, and I had a flight.

- You could check this if you wanted it, he added, helpfully.

- I could, except I'm not checking anything.

- Well, how are you for time?

About 20 minutes before the plane was to take off. Shuttle bus was late. Accident on the highway. Thursday rush hour.

* * *

Deano the Boss wasn't thrilled about me taking tomorrow off.

- What'm I gonna do?

He says to me. - We'll get Jake to finish the indexing off tomorrow. Wish I knew earlier, he said. I filed for the day off three weeks ago, when I bought the ticket, you never read an interoffice in your life and you know it. I think to myself.

No showing the boss up, even with just him & me in the room. Doesn't matter. Doesn't care. - Jake knows what to do, Deano says. - He'll take care of it. Have fun in Canada, he says to me, not all trippy or nothing. My everbelovedboss Dean is absolutely incapable of guilt. Not Catholic or Jewish. No monopoly on guilt in the jesuspeople, but some people are born with guiltglands, and Deano's just don't secrete. Otherwise he's perfectly normal. That's not true.

Jake. Nice guy, western cowboy charming, can type fine. Knows all 26 letters, space bar and return keys too, even. Not much else to my job, and everyone this side of Deano knows it. Ah, it's cool. Jake's alright. A swell goodfieldcontacthitterhardworkingteamplayer type. Likes my music, too. A real mensch. Head injury once from working too hard. Collapsed in the supermarket after an allnighter. Scar on the side of his face. If I don't come back, he'll have two offices. Life will go on. Theirs, anyway.

* * *

I pretend to mull about the tool in the securitista's hand, my belt open after the inspection. - Forget it, I say. I don't have enough time. The flight's leaving in ten minutes. Looking at my watch, I know it's closer to twenty, but I've already given up on the thing. Not worth the grief. I paid, what, six bucks for it. Fuggit. There's not six bucks worth of grief between here and the top of that escalator. Two packed flights between here and my check-in, both to third world places. Mountains of luggage. Old people wandering valiumy bewildered around in semicircles. Meathead grandsons yelling all elbows on cell phones. All the way through and all the way back. For a six dollar allen key? The hell with it. The hell with it. - Just take the thing, I tell him. It's not worth the grief.

He shrugs, throws the allen key into a bin. Clank. Not the first he's had to take. Not the tenth. Wonder when he gets off work. He's got a stool in some Jersey bar with his name on it, I bet. Def Leppard and Joan Jett on the jukebox, and Bruce, lots and lots of Bruce, yeah sure, bootlegs, Greetings from asbury park, you don't have to call me lieutenant Rosie, but don't call me boss, Bud on tap, don't touch the seat in the shitter, half a dozen names on the chalkboard for the pool table. Bartender is, mmm I squint in my head, 20, with the belly ring, frosted hair baywatch high, her mouth is always open in either surprise or guffaw, out-of-her-shirt out-of-his-league hot, but smiles happy to see him, not just new-tip-source-coming-in happy, but familiar heyiknowyou happy. A million places with two million bartenders and a hundred million louts with two hundred million ass cheeks for a hundred million stools, and here's an example, the whole chain waiting for this joe to get out of this uniform and into another. What makes America great.

He walks away, leaves me alone. - Am I done, I ask him. - Oh yeah, you can go, he says.