My new business card:




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A shutter and some overalls make tricks of
light and shadow dance and sometimes
catch the smile behind the
squint.

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Chain-smoking, sweating profusely and pacing maniacally my father felt certain he had cleverly disguised his anxiety by humming softly and casually to himself. A little over three years earlier he had almost lost his wife and first child during delivery, but they were in a hospital this time. Surely, a host of doctors and nurses could keep better track of a small woman and newborn than the clerk and night manager at Western Auto.

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In an effort to plot the route from fetus to my present state and location I will be recalling particular episodes and scenic pullouts on the journey. What fears pointed me in a specific direction? Or, failed to? How have desires and distractions affected the landscape? Who put those mountains in the way? And why is there more than one brand of vanilla wafer?

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Years ago, never mind how many, in small town Midwestern America, everything was closed for business on Sunday, except church. I could never understand why, if god wanted me to rest on the Sabbath, I was spending so much time struggling with a Windsor knot and looking for my other dress shoe. A paradox I still wrestle with, periodically, if I feel a need to exercise. When I questioned my father about this dilemma, always the philosopher, he responded, “Keep quiet…and find that shoe.”

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If piece of mind wished to be found it would probably rest itself in the shade of a leafy maple, or wander a busy thoroughfare until someone gave it a lift. Instead it skips, mischievously, just out of reach beyond anxiety, nostalgia and blistered feet.

Anxiety was waiting impatiently in aisle 17 of the local supermarket. Beans as brown as the shiny bag that encased them, for $7.99 a pound they promised to be my best friend.

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If you took a universe and sliced it up the size of tea biscuits, how much Earl Grey would you need?

Much like the principals in the Spanish Inquisition, I’ve never really looked for answers, but have satisfied myself with trying to find more entertaining ways to ask the questions. When pressed I must admit to a certain curiosity, but not being terribly concerned with, who built the Great Pyramids, how many stars speckle the night sky, or why the chicken crossed the road. Most explanations can eventually be rendered by a subtle geometric interpretation of the color blue.

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Yet another reason why I'll probably never make it in the greeting card business:

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I’m Free! I’m Free!

Free from employment! Free from the drudge of a 12-hour shift! Free from being a slave to 3 meals a day and gas heat!

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Given the distressing state of the global economy I feel a bit bad about having to lay off my employer, though I’m confident that in due course they’ll find another Pinhole, or at least a more agreeable substitute.

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I have a bone to pick with whoever is in charge of the distribution of ideas. All of my shipments are arriving in random spurts instead of the sequence in which they were ordered.

Okay, not all of them. I can still construct an acceptable meatloaf sandwich with most of the ingredients inside the slices of bread, and rarely, anymore, are my undergarments on display outside my Levi’s®.

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Decisions, decisions.

For all of the fact gathering, and cud chewing, in an attempt to arrive at a reasonable judgment, it is my experience that these elusive creatures are born rather than made. What I imagined to be a seriously considered independent personal choice, I recently traced, through a series of events, to circumstances that occurred at least 17 years ago. A lengthy gestation by any standard, yet I assure you I could have tracked its origins much further.

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If extreme beige is considered a color then the walls of the conference room were a shade long forgotten by the Crayola® company. Given the soft lighting, the rhythmic rocking of my unbalanced chair and the subject matter of the meeting, I was a little surprised to still be awake.

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Dear Mr. Prine (If I may be so bold),


Though I consider myself fortunate to be conspicuously lacking in heroes, as such, I do regret having missed countless opportunities for acknowledging the influence of certain individuals that I admire, or with whom I may share an interest.

For years it was my fondest wish to meet Red Skelton, however, unless my condition worsens his untimely demise has left little chance for introductions. Rumors persist that Dick Van Dyke, another favorite, has also deceased yet remains sufficiently animated to perform at least 1 more year of series television.

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Today, I’d like to say a few words in defense of a much maligned and little understood material...Felt.

Much more than the past tense of the verb “feel”, felt is actually the 26th element in the Periodic Table. Even in this, the 21st Century, there are those who believe the symbol “Fe” represents iron. You’d think everyone would know that there is no “e” in iron; and the “F” is silent.

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Immediately following a supposed routine doctors visit when I was in second grade, I was hospitalized for what the learned physician had determined was "colon" trouble. This was my first introduction to evidence of the importance of punctuation. Imagine the sheer terror, approximately 2 weeks after my release, at being asked by Mrs. Driscoll to step up to the blackboard and diagram an entire sentence. Beads of perspiration emerged from my forehead as I approached the front of the room, feeling certain that misplacing anything so vital as a predicate would involve, at the very least, a lengthy stay in a nursing home.

Language can be a funny thing. Unless you're seven years old. And of all modern word systems ENGLISH has to be one of the most perplexing. Obscure spellings with "silent letters"; words with 2, 3, sometimes 4 or more meanings; several different words with the same meaning; and, as far as I can tell, commas are just up for grabs.

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The premise for today's lecture is based on personal observation. Whether it really happened, or, was simply the consequence of one too many naps during THE JERRY SPRINGER SHOW is completely irrelevant to anyone but my therapist. The important thing is that some of what I believe I might remember stands at least a slight chance of seeming plausible.

I'm pretty sure this first part was a dream because it was rather abstract, surreal, and all fuzzy around the edges like when Rob Petrie used to dream about Laura and Richie on the old "Dick Van Dyke Show".

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