What To Do With All That Leftover Easter Candy

Does this make me a creative genius, incredibly fat, or both?

Ignoring My Own Advice

One of my favorite pieces of advice to give people is pretty simple: "don't listen to me, listen to you." I find that about 90% of the time when I talk to someone about a problem, they seem to already know what the best way to handle it is and all I end up saying is "yes, I think you're right". And it never ceases to amaze me when the same person who just told me what the best solution was then goes out and immediately does the exact opposite.

Well, this time it's me doing it as I didn't listen to my own advice: I went and saw Van Halen again.

I am one of the biggest Van Halen fans that ever walked the Earth. I've now seen them 9 times since 1994 (and that doesn't even include the 3 times I've seen Sammy Hagar solo and the one time I saw Sammy and DLR solo on tour together). I also own every studio album on CD (yep, even the brand new one) and I still remember going around to ARC Record Conventions in the pre-internet days scouring dealer booths for bootleg cassettes, VHS tapes, and even the occasional $60 CD. Nevertheless, back in 2007 about midway through my 8th time seeing them (which also happened to be my 2nd time seeing them that week) I suddenly knew beyond all doubt that I never needed to see them again. And yet I did. And how appropriate that the show was a week ago Sunday. Yep, April Fool's Day.

It isn't that the show was truly bad and was torture to sit through. It's just that I found myself completely unable to get excited about it. David Lee Roth has always been a terrible singer live - even when he actually tries to "sing" instead of just talking his way through he still makes absolutely no effort to stay within the rhyme and meter of the way the song was recorded. He was able to get away with it back in the day due to his undeniable raw charisma. Well, what's original and charismatic in your 20s and early 30s just looks lazy and tired when you're in your late 50s.

And then there's Eddie. God bless him, he's still one of the greatest rock guitarists out there. The trouble is that even though that's true, he's a mere shadow of his former self. I used to go to a Van Halen show and hang on his every note; I'd strain to hear each note of every solo and actually hoping that somewhere along the way he would screw up. Because it was like hearing God make a mistake - that tiny trace of an imperfection which offered the reassurance that he was human after all. Since seeing him in 2004 when he was quite, shall we say, chemically unbalanced, that perspective has flipped. Now as each solo approaches I think "please don't screw this up Eddie". And for the most part he does just fine, but this is Eddie F'n Van Halen we're talking about here - "just fine" does not cut it. I wish I could look and listen to him while comparing him to the rest of the guitarists out there but I can't. I can only compare him to himself, and he just doesn't measure up anymore.

Really, it's not his fault. The guy's 57 years old and to compare him to his 20 and 30-year-old self is admittedly unfair. But just like it was sad to see Michael Jordan those last few years on the Wizards, it's sad to see EVH now. But here's the thing - that's when Michael Jordan retired, and that's what I think it's time for Van Halen to do.

I don't think this is specific to Van Halen though. The more I've thought about it over the last week, I think I've decided that all rock musicians should stop when they hit 40. Really, can you think of a single rock musician where, if they had stopped at age 40, the world would have been denied some of there best work? *Maybe* U2, but that's about it. Everyone else I can think of has released albums that are either downright awful or merely decent, but nothing great. Hell, I actually think that the latest Van Halen album is pretty good, but that's because 75% of it are unreleased songs that Eddie wrote 25-35 years ago.

This is a problem that's specific to rock music, I think, because rock is the music of conflict. Whether it's a political struggle or resisting conformity or just wanting the right to get high and/or drunk and/or have sex all day and not give a shit about anything else - it is predominantly about fighting for something. Thus rock is by definition the music of the young and energetic. So I think that there is just something inherently sad about seeing aging, decrepit rock stars up there singing the rock anthems of their youth. It's not that I don't think they have the right to do it, or that people don't want to see them do it, it's just that somewhere along the line I wish they'd realize "alright, that's enough already" and stop, even though I know they won't.

At least stop making new music. I think they should hit 40 and take 10 years off. Then at 50 you can come back out and play your old hits if your fans still want to pay to hear them. Just do it with the full knowledge of what you are at that point - a nostalgia act. Realize that, whether you like it or not, no matter how good you were in your glory days your contribution to the pantheon of rock music is done. You're not "still going strong" or "still rocking after all these years" - you've basically been reduced to being your own tribute band.

Taken in that context, I think that was my real problem with the Van Halen show. They still think they're a current rock band, and I was hanging onto that too. Instead, if I had gone to the show with the mindset of "oh, I just wanna get drunk and sing 'Panama' with 15,000 people one more time" I probably would have enjoyed it a lot more. Hey, maybe I will go see them one more time after all . . .

Just kidding.

I think.

Bye Bye Prius

Yesterday was a bit of a bittersweet day as we finally said goodbye to our beloved Prius. It gave us over 67,000 miles without once breaking down on us or needing any work whatsoever other than regular maintenance and a new set of tires. It was also our first new car. Yep, for four and a half years it was pretty much perfect for us.

Thus, it was sad to see it go but it was just time. The catalyst was a few weeks ago when Christy went out looking at double-strollers and realized that none of them would fit in the back. That led to a realization of just how often we have used the space in the backseat next to Anabelle for cargo, space which is of course now permanently occupied by Charlotte. We tried to see if Charlotte would be open to having the occasional grocery bag or box of litter on her lap but found her surprisingly unreceptive (such a prima donna). And then I just started imagining a day not too far off in the future when my wife would call me from the Sam's Club parking lot in hysterics because she bought too much stuff and has no room for it and Charlotte and Anabelle are both screaming and now she has to try to drive home with a bag of cat food in her lap and rolls of toilet paper strapped to the roof.

Incidentally, I was relaying this concern of mine to a co-worker (who also has two kids) when he informed me that a few years ago they went to Costco and bought so much that they ran out of space and he and the kids had to walk home while his wife drove the car. They live less than a mile away so it wasn't too bad, but still. As you can imagine, now every time he pulls up to Costco with them he gets to hear "are we gonna have to walk home again dad?" Can you put a price on that? More to the point, can you put a price on avoiding that?

So we definitely needed to get something bigger. We toyed with the idea of keeping the Prius and maybe just getting a big, cheap, used 2nd car that we'd only use for big shops and long road trips. But we had to face the fact that at 67,000+ miles the Prius was not going to last forever and this was probably our last chance to trade it in and still get decent value for it.

My first choice was to get one of the smaller SUVs but we took a look at a Rav4 and, even though we liked it, didn't feel like it offered all that much more storage space for the money (especially considering the dramatic reduction in fuel efficiency). Plus Christy really wanted a 3rd row of seats, something that I didn't view as absolutely essential but that would be nice to have. Trouble is that most vehicles offering a 3rd row are either extremely expensive ($35k+), extreme gas guzzlers (less then 20 MPG), or both. Christy was also adamant that she did not want a minivan.

So we pretty much needed a new car for less than $25k that averaged aroun 25 MPG, had a 3rd row of seats, and that wasn't a minivan. Does anything like that exist? The answer is yes, sort of. There's pretty much one (and only one) option - the Mazda5, so that's what we got. The "sort-of" part about it is that, yes, it is technically a minivan. It's actually a "mini-minivan" that is low to the ground and looks and drives like a wagon, but has the sliding doors and folding seats that are hallmarks of the minivan. At first glance, most people would not think of it as a minivan (which is of course the point) but once you look at it for a while it slowly morphs into one.

Thus, I suppose the transition into suburban parenthood is now complete. I would be more upset about the final death blow to my coolness except that I had very very little coolness to begin with. Still, it's a strange experience because until now I have always been very excited to buy my next car, secure in the knowledge that what I was getting was much better (in at least some ways) than what I was giving up. Not the case here. The best I can say is that we didn't give up much - we have almost all the same features but gave up a lot of fuel efficiency and a paid-off car in exchange for more space, a sunroof, and 60 months of payments (albeit fairly low payments). Ah yes, the joy and excitement of responsibility and compromise. Woo hoo!

Anybody Seen February Anywhere?

It seems like I lost it. Just don't know where it went. Oh well, I'm sure it will turn up somewhere.

So . . . since last I blogged my family grew by exactly one-third. How many times do you get to say that? Just once, I think. Well, unless we decide to have 5 more kids and then have triplets, but I'd classify that as somewhat less than likely so we won't worry about that for now.

Charlotte was born exactly 2 weeks ago today. She was much more considerate than her sister in that she sent Christy into labor at 6:00 A.M. as opposed to 12:30 A.M., so everyone in the house was at least moderately well-rested. Christy and Charlotte came home that Sunday and we have been busy adjusting to the "new normal" ever since.

They say that with a 2nd child the one thing you're not supposed to do is make comparisons to the first. I say that if you happen to be an actual human, on this planet, occupying this particular plane of reality, it's inevitable.

Here's what's the same. First, no matter how prepared you are, when you hear your wife say "I think my water just broke" it still seems sudden and unexpected. I don't know how many kids you'd have to have before the whole experience of running around and getting ready to leave, getting to and checking into the hospital, and going through the whole labor and delivery process seems routine. It's a lot more than 2 though. Maybe once you get into Duggar territory. It definitely was less hectic and anxiety-inducing than last time, but only incrementally so. Secondly, the moment you see your child for the first time is just as amazing. The phenomenon of seeing someone for the first time but literally in an instant being struck with such an intense feeling of love and a fierce desire to protect them is just as overwhelming the 2nd time as it is the first.

What's different? Well, pretty much everything else. For one thing, there is an expression that "once something is known it cannot be unknown." In other words, in some instances naivety and ignorance are a blessing. Leading up to Anabelle, I knew that it would be a challenge and that there would be sleepless nights but it all just seemed so surreal and mysterious that I really had no solid conception of what our life would be like with a newborn. That is no longer the case with Charlotte. I remember exactly what it felt like to hold a tiny little creature in my hands who screamed at me for 2 hours straight with complete and utter disregard to the 100 things I did to try to placate her and I knew that at some point in the next couple months that was going to happen again, probably multiple times. I also found myself pretty much assuming that all of the difficulties we had with Anabelle would be repeated, while also being convinced that everything that was easy and went well with her will not happen again. And this is not imagined in some vague, hypothetical scenario - now that I have had some real world experience to draw from, I can vividly picture it. I don't mean to indicate that I live in a constant state of mortal terror, just that I no longer have the luxury of being clueless. In reality, so far I'd actually say that Charlotte's habits and temperament have been remarkably similar to Anabelle's.

Then there is the matter of attention to detail. With Anabelle I found myself obsessed with her every move and facial expression. Was she looking at me? Was she trying to grab that toy? Did she see the cat and does she realize what it is? Was that a smile or just gas? I read all my daddy books to find out when to expect the myriad of milestones (rolling over, crawling, etc) and then always silently but consistently marked her progress against the "norms". It is only in hindsight that I realized that it wasn't till somewhere in the 3-6 month range that Anabelle's personality really began to emerge and that, well, that's pretty much the case with all babies. So with Charlotte I just find myself being a lot more patient about this whole process. I realize that right now her body is busy developing, um, pretty much everything, and that what we are mainly seeing at this point are reflex actions. Soon enough all of those reflexes will be replaced by deliberate thoughts and actions and we'll really get to meet her.

From a logistical standpoint, it certainly is crazier with two (and through 2 weeks neither Christy or I have spent more than a couple hours alone with both Anabelle and Charlotte) but somehow there is just something much more clarifying about it. With Anabelle, I find that we got ourselves in trouble a lot easier. By this I mean that we'd get Anabelle to sleep and then we'd both go about doing our normal activities (i.e. watching TV, playing video games, shopping, etc). So then Anabelle would decide to have one of her bad, stay-up-all-night episodes and neither one of us would be in any condition to handle it. Now, with very few exceptions, when Anabelle is asleep (whether it's a nap or for the night) then either Christy or I need to be asleep too. Period. Otherwise we're just setting ourselves up for disaster. We also just completely accepted the fact that until probably the one-month mark we will never be sleeping in our bed at the same time.

Overall, I think that we have been adjusting pretty well. It's certainly more of a challenge with two kids, but it's not twice as hard. By comparison, going from 0 to 1 is the one that's twice as hard.

Or maybe it just means that my wife is doing all the work this time . . .

I Am Having Trouble Counting the Number of Ways This Article Bothers Me

This one here. If you don't feel like clicking through, I'll summarize. On this week's episode of Modern Family, it is going to appear that a toddler drops an f-bomb, and this is apparently causing a controversy amongst anti-profanity advocates.

Did you ever see that Simpsons episode where Mr. Burns goes to the doctor for a check-up? They tell him that he's actually the sickest man alive, but that it's as-if all of the germs are trying to squeeze through a doorway at once and none can get through. That's kind of how I feel about this article. I have so many objections and they're all trying to get through at once it's such that I'm having trouble expressing them. But I'll try.

First of all just the idea of an "anti-profanity" group is comically ridiculous. Now, I guess in my logical mind I was aware that people and groups like this existed. I mean, as the world approaches a population of 7 billion you can be almost positive that if your mind can conceive of anything that could be remotely considered a cause, someone somewhere has decided to make it their key issue to devote blood, sweat, and tears to. Yet my mind still reels when I have to conceive of a person who looks at the problems of this world (war, hunger, homelessness, cancer, AIDS, child labor, Michael Bay) and has decided "gee, someone really needs to stop all these people from swearing." But if you've seen this Penn & Teller episode, you know that these people are dead serious about this "cause". I believe that the argument runs somewhere along the lines of what NYC did in the early 90s - i.e. stop small crimes which will help change the culture and people's perception which will then stop larger crimes - but it doesn't matter. They're wrong and they're wasting their lives. Now let me waste no more of my own life talking about them.

Now we come to the 2nd problem - no actual profanity is occurring. Not only is ABC bleeping out the word and pixelating the mouth, the toddler actress herself didn't even swear - she said "fudge". So now we are not protesting profanity, we are protesting the appearance of profanity. This is the equivalent of a parent grounding a child for talking back one time, and then the next time the child doesn't talk back but still gets grounded anyway because he gave them "a look". You know what? That's giving this group too much credit. It's more like two small children fighting in the back seat: "Moooooommmmmm, Billy's poking me!"; "Stop poking your brother Billy" followed a few minutes later by, inevitably, "Mooooooommmmmm, Billy's looking at me!"

Then there's problem number 3, and that's the fact that this is even being reported on. When a "sane" person (like a political candidate, celebrity, or CEO) says something crazy, I understand how that's news. It's a person of influence who has a reputation making a statement that alters or destroys that public perception, so I can see how it qualifies for widespread public distribution. But when crazy people and/or people with very extremist views say crazy things, that's not news. And yes I do realize the giant irony of me writing about and therefore bringing attention to something which I am arguing deserves absolutely no attention. If this were the only problem that I had with this story, I would have remained silent.

So now we come to my fourth, and biggest problem, with this story. And that's the fact that it really isn't true. Yes, I do believe that there is an "organization" called the "No Cussing Club" and that the founder of this organization really does want this show pulled off the air. But that's irrelevant. The point is that there is absolutely no controversy. I'd call it a manufactured controversy but nothing's really been manufactured. It's a manufactured appearance of a controversy.

Think about this for a second. Imagine me saying the craziest thing you can think of in this space. Something really controversial and just completely crazy like that there were no planes that hit the WTC on 9/11. Wait, what? Some people actually have said that? Seriously? WTF is wrong with people? Anyway, the point is that no matter what I say on this blog (and for the sake of agument let's pretend that I have an audience of greater than 6 people) I guarantee you that it will not get picked up by the AP.

So why is it that this story was picked up? Because it's a commercial masquerading as news. It's an ad for Modern Family that Disney/ABC didn't have to pay for. Obviously this is only my opinion, and I realize that I am veering dangerously close to conspiracy theorist territory here, but I think a little bit of thought makes it not only plausible, but likely. I don't have empirical proof of course, but I'd be willing to bet that there are many, many groups that have a problem with Modern Family purely on the basis of it depicting two gay parents raising a child. There's probably also an anti-gay group that also is anti-profanity too but you wouldn't hear from them. Why? Because that's too close to an actual controversy, and that wouldn't be good press. But this? This is just free air time and ad space! Disney and ABC can feed this story to the wire services, this "advocate" can think he's getting more attention to his cause, and people will click on it so they can look at fun, distracting "news" and feel superior to this person. But the truth is that we are all just being used by Network Executives. They thought "how can we capitalize on the recent Emmy win and get more people to notice us?" and this is what they came up with. Ask yourself how is it that this is being protested before it has even aired? Was there an advance copy made available? And how is it that it comes out of the AP wire at 11:00 E.T. on Wednesday, which is coincidentally the night that Modern Family airs. It's all just so transparent.

Look, I have nothing against Modern Family. I don't think it's a phenomenal show, but I find it entertaining and definitely better than 90% of what else is on TV (though that may not be saying much). But I don't like being manipulated, and I especially don't like being given an ad that I'm told is news. We have media that is separate from the government because our founders realized the inherent danger of having the government completely control the flow of information. Well, it's pretty dangerous when the message is purely corporate-controlled too. And this, while a fairly minor betrayal, is a good example of why.

Politics - Where Logic is Checked at the Door

Just a brief foray back into politics. I watched the Iowa results sparingly last night even though I wasn't all that interested - hey, something had to fill the time during the Sugar Bowl commercials after the Bulls game ended.

With Romney's narrow win last night, commanding lead in New Hampshire, and an endorsement by John McCain it looks like only a mammoth scandal is going to keep him from the nomination at this point. Gingrich is a long way back right now in New Hampshire and I just don't think he can overcome the momentum if he loses the first two states. My recollection may be wrong, but it seems to me that when the first two states split (as in Obama/Clinton and Huckabee/McCain in 2008) then the race is still open but when one candidate sweeps both (as Gore and Kerry did in 2000 and 2004) it's pretty much over.

So it would seem like Gingrich is the big loser last night. Had Santorum won, a victory by Romney next week would signal a split and keep the race open because, despite what various political cable news shows may say to fill their around-the-clock programming, no one believes Santorum has any kind of real chance to be the nominee.

It appears that Gingrich knows this as well; as he is now out trying like hell to spin the results in his favor. To that effect, he unleashed this gem earlier today in reference to Romney:"The fact is three out of four Republicans rejected him." I'm not sure what it takes more of - balls or stupidity - to say that. Doesn't that statement just beg the question: hey Newt; where'd you finish last night? Oh, 13%? Hmm, doesn't that mean that 7 out of 8 Republicans rejected you? It's the kind of thing you say from the stump to your fervent but dejected supporters. People that aren't really going to critically assess your statement and are just looking for a reason to keep believing. Perhaps he didn't notice that in addition to those individuals there are these other people with cameras and microphones there too, and they are more than willing and able to print this nonsense and show it in the harsh light of day.

Anyway, so it's Romney. You excited about that Republicans? I've said it before and I'll say it again: this is 1996 all over again. I remember that one well because I was in the midst of interning for a Republican state rep and also was a card-carrying member of the Young Republicans. I remember being so excited after the landslide Congressional victory in 2004 and salivating as Clinton's approval numbers just continued to tank. There was blood in the water, and the Republicans were poised to strike. And then: Dole. Dole? Yes, Dole. No, surely we can come up with someone better than Dole. Nope, we can't; it's Dole. The results were predictable from there. Hell, 2004 was the exact same thing on the other side with Kerry. The fact is that a campaign that is strictly an anti-incumbency one doesn't work; if you don't excite, motivate, and mobilize the masses you will lose. End of story. Because while the answer to "do you want this guy or someone else?" is usually "someone else", the answer to "do you want this guy or that guy?" is an entirely different matter.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Just a token post to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and to let it be known that I still have not officially declared this blog dead and that I plan to continue letting it slowly wither on the vine until I literally do not have a single reader left. (and I'm oh so tantalizingly close now . . .) Basically, I'm in search of the day where I can write an eloquent post intimating that I have discovered the truth about myself - that I am actually a small colony of meerkats in a man costume - and not get one post or comment indicating anything out of the norm.

Not a whole lot going on right now. The Holidays were of course eventful and hectic as they always are. And as expected no one enjoyed Christmas more than Anabelle, but I'll let Christy take care of those details on her blog. On Christmas Eve I had victory within my grasp but fell a few rolls short in the annual Risk game. Damn those Alaskans and their pesky defenses!

In semi-intellectual pursuits I am currently reading Republic Lost, a new book about corruption in politics and the need for campaign finance reform. Here's one quote that I've found particularly interesting so far:

"The Republican party is now facing a great crisis. It is to decide whether it will be, as in the days of Lincoln, the party of the plain people, the party of progress, the party of social and industrial justice; or whether it will be the party of privilege and of special interests, the heir to those who were Lincoln's most bitter opponents, and the party that represents the great interests within and without Wall Street which desire through their control over the servants of the public to be kept immune from punishment when they do wrong and to be given privileges to which they are not entitled."

I think that sounds like a pretty apt description and criticism of the Republican party today, except that this quote was said by Teddy Roosevelt almost 100 years ago (April 1912). The more things change . . .

Sweetness

I just finished reading Sweetness, the new biography on Walter Payton. It's become somewhat controversial because, as you would expect from the first truly definitive biography, it dares to show Walter Payton as (gasp) an actual human being and not some larger than life persona who could do no wrong.

As a beloved figure in the sports world and particularly in Chicago, I suppose that this is inevitable. People do not like to have their idols torn down. And there definitely is something special about Payton. If you go to the Bears game this weekend you will still see a lot of people wearing Walter Payton jerseys. There will be a smattering of Singletary, Ditka, Butkus, and maybe even Sayers jerseys but I suspect that after Urlacher, Cutler, and Hester (all current players) that far and away the most popular jersey you'll see is Payton, despite the fact that he played his last game nearly 24 years ago.

So does the book really tarnish his image? I would say that it does. While the positives outweigh the negatives by an unbelievably wide margin, a couple of the negatives are pretty damning. Supposedly, Payton popped painkillers like they were candy. That's not terribly surprising given the amount of punishment his body took. He also suffered from terrible bouts of depression after he retired. Also not surprising, given that many athletes suffer through similar issues and what we now know about the damage caused by repetitive blows to the head. Then there is the philandering. Supposedly Payton could rival Wilt Chamberlain in that category. But of course as a professional athlete, that type of behavior is certainly not out of the norm. So all of those are revelatory, but not altogether shocking. The big bombshell (at least as far as I'm concerned) is that he fathered an illegitimate child and then completely ignored him. Literally never saw him once, despite the fact that until Payton's death he never lived more than 30 miles away from him. He did financially support him and the mother whenever they asked for it, but I view that more as self-interest since he wanted to make sure she didn't run to the press about it.

I have found the reaction to these revelations to be very interesting. Mike Ditka said (about the author) that he would "spit on him" if he ever saw him, despite the fact that he cooperated on the book. And Ron Rivera (his former teammate) has said "It’s unfortunate somebody wrote a book and throws that kind of light on somebody who's not here to defend himself." So keep in mind that neither of these people are suggesting that what is revealed in the book isn't true, just that it shouldn't be written about. That's a head-scratcher to me. So if we wish to write something negative about someone, we are limited to only doing it while they are alive? Once they are gone, we should limit ourselves only to a person's positive aspects? If so, I'd be very interested to read the Ron Rivera version of Hitler's life.

I have always been of the belief that it is never wrong to speak the truth. There are times when, in the interests of politeness or conflict avoidance, it may be better to lie, but I still would never fault anyone for telling the truth. I've always thought that one of the big motivators to leading a good and moral life was so that the memory of that would live on in the people that you affected. But if everyone's going to remember you in a good light anyway after you die, I guess you might as well just act like a selfish jackass.

Really though, I do understand the reaction. It reminds me of a Simpsons episode. Lisa uncovers some terrible truths about the town's founder, Jebediah Springfield. In the end, she decides not to reveal what she found to the townspeople because she says that the memory and legacy of Jebediah Springfield has value too, and she didn't want to take that away from people even though Jebediah himself didn't deserve to be beloved. I suppose it is the same here. Walter Payton wronged some people, and he deserved to have those truths exposed. But the people who admired and respected him probably didn't deserve to have that taken from them.

As I said, on the other side of these revelations are all the things that were truly incredible about Payton's life. His work ethic was unbelievable - it literally would be impossible to overstate his commitment to keeping himself in peak shape. There are also dozens of stories (and, according to the author, literally hundreds more that were didn't make it into the book) about Payton going out of his for one of his fans. It's not just that he would agree to meet a sick child that happened to be on the same airplane with him, he'd sit down and talk to him for half an hour. He's agree to make an appearance somewhere and speak for 10 minutes, and then he'd stick around for 4 hours and just talk to everyone. In an age of diva star athletes, that's really refreshing. And of course the way that he approached the end of his life can only be described as extremely courageous. Once he made the decision to go public about his disease, he didn't hide from it or from anyone. He just continued to go about his business, giving speeches, meeting his fans, catching up with old friends and teammates - all the way until he no longer physically could.

In the end, I still have a lot of great memories of watching Sweetness play for the Bears. He's one of the main reasons I became a Bears fan in the first place. I have even more respect for him as a football player than I ever have, and I truly believe that, taken as a whole, he was the greatest running back of all time. After reading this, though, I'd have to say that I won't think of him in quite the same way ever again. But you know what, that's ok. I'd rather have the truth.

Happy Halloween

Baseball finally, mercifully, ends tonight. Which means that after tonight I can finally start thinking about . . . the next baseball season. The baseball season is dead; long live the baseball season! Oh, and have I mentioned before that I hate the Cardinals? The kind of burning, searing hatred that you could really cook a nice steak on.

Even though Halloween isn't till Monday, this is still the official honorary Halloween party weekend. Come to think of it, what's so sacred about October 31st? Can't we just say that Halloween is the last Saturday in October? I mean, if we can do it for Easter, Thanksgiving, Labor Day, Memorial Day, and MLK Day why can't we do it here? This sounds like the kind of pointless and trivial endeavor that I could really get behind. What cities and/or streets do I have to occupy to get this done?

This year the Delaney household isn't too geared up for Halloween. It's kind of an odd age for Anabelle. She's not yet old enough to really get into the idea of dressing up as something (well, for more than 30 seconds at a time) but she's old enough to rebel against anything we try to dress her up as. She has a cow costume and she tolerates that well, with the exception that she won't wear the bell and isn't too keen on the hood either. In any case, Christy and I will be off to Phil and Liz's 2nd annual Halloween Party tomorrow night. We're trying to come up with a coordinated outfit that incorporates her pregnancy; so far the best we've come up with is Christy being an 8-ball and me being a pool cue. Not sure if that's what we're going to end up with though.

I have been lamenting the lack of good scary movies this Halloween season. For the last 6 years we've always at least had a Saw film. Even though they haven't been any good since 2 it was at least something dependable. Now we're getting annual Paranormal Activity movies and they're just not doing it for me. I saw the first one and thought it was decent but that it was really just an extension of the Blair Witch concept and there's a definite "been there, done that" vibe for me. Even though it's not really horror (more horror spoof) I would like to give a very hearty recommendation to Dale and Tucker vs. Evil. It's a really funny and interesting take on the whole "college kids go to a cabin in the woods and run into a couple rednecks" horror cliche. The studio did this really awkward release with it where it was available on-demand before it got a limited release in theatres. It's still available On-Demand and at Amazon, or you can wait till it's released on DVD/Blu at the end of November. I would urge you not to watch the trailer though; it gives away way too much. And for any of you Serenity/Firefly fans out there, all you really need to know is that it stars Alan Tudyk (aka Wash).

And finally, on Monday this blog will officially be 5-years-old! Wow, it seems like just yesterday I was bringing it home from the blogosphere and it was typing its first words. How time flies! Pretty much the only thing that hasn't changed since then is my place of employment, but I'm working on that.

My New Children's Book: Curious Hank and the Bad Simile

This story is going to be remembered this way: Hank Williams Jr. compared Obama to Hitler and ESPN fired him for it. It's a perfect microcosm of our news media today: succinct, sensationalized, and completely inaccurate.

First of all I'll put my linguistics/grammar hat on and analyze what HW Jr actually said. He said that Obama and Boehner playing golf together "would be like Hitler playing golf with Netanyahu." So let's parse this down. Suppose that instead of using this poorly conceived wording, he had instead opted to say "Obama and Boehner is like oil and water." Would we then expect the headline to read "HW Jr. Calls Obama Oil". No; that would be nonsensical. But it's just as nonsensical here. The "point" he was trying to make is that Obama and Biden are the enemy and "our guy" (Boehner) should not be fraternizing with the enemy.

The reason it is important to draw this distinction is that when this becomes a "dumb celebrity says dumb thing" story, it completely buries the real issue here. And that's the fact that we have a large contingent of people in this country who believe what HW Jr believes: that Obama and Biden are not political adversaries that need to be engaged, persuaded, and/or voted out, but that they are enemies that need to be alienated and eradicated. Such is the political climate in this country right now. It was not created by the media but they have certainly done their best to stoke the flames. Thus, I did not want to see an apology from HW Jr. for the Hitler comment; I could care less about that. I want an acknowledgement that people on the other side of the political spectrum are not "enemies".

Shockingly, I'm going to make a sports analogy here. My team is the Bears. Every Sunday I want them to beat the living crap out of their opponents. I will get angry when my team loses, and in the middle of the game I don't have fond feelings for the other team. But once the game is over I don't balk when I see players from both teams shake hands and maybe hug in the middle of the field. The game's over, there are winners and losers, and you move on. So it should be in politics. You fight, you win/lose, you shake hands and move on. Opponents today may be allies the next and vice versa. You're not enemies; just on different teams.

The "HW Jr" mentality isn't like that though; it's more akin to gang warfare. You're wearing the wrong colors and therefore you're my enemy and I hope you die. It's sad because politicians generally DO have the NFL and not the gang mentality. You would hope that when the public sees politicians on different sides of the aisle socializing together that it would dawn on them that "hey, they just disagree; they don't actually hate each other." Sadly, that doesn't happen. Politicians could do a lot to help their own cause by placing a lot more emphasis on stating that they are attacking a position and not a person. Yeah, I don't see that happening either.

Now we come to the 2nd part of the story, which is that HW Jr got fired from ESPN as a result of his comments. I've already written about this kind of thing numerous times on here so I won't harp too much. But it's absolutely ridiculous that someone loses their job over something like this. He wasn't on the air representing ESPN, or the NFL, or anyone other than himself. Yeah, it's not technically a violation of his free speech rights since the government isn't doing anything to him, but it's still a croc. It's becoming a de facto law that what you say in public cannot contradict the position of your employer. That's just very dangerous, especially considering that the definition of "in public" is expanding by the day.

A Revelation

I had an epiphany the other day. Not one of those life-changing, re-evaluate the value of your existence kind of things. More along the lines of a random observation of something quite trivial that nonetheless immediately struck me as true.

You know how disco music is instantly recognizable as "disco"? There is just something about the drum and bass lines that scream the mid-70s. Even if you've never heard the song before and know nothing about it, you'd instantly know when it was from within a margin of error of 2-3 years. Similarly, when you hear those horrible synthesizers masquerading as real instruments you instantly know that it's from the 80s. And with both of those, there is always this question (at least in my mind) of "did people ever really think this sounded good?" Don't get me wrong, I enjoy 80s pop songs, but it's almost all on a level akin to bad movie enjoyment. It's like, "wow this sounds so ridiculous that it makes me smile so I like listening to it." But even though I lived through it (the 80s at least) it's still hard for me to fathom that there was a time where everybody took that sound seriously. A time when million-dollar artists and producers spent hours in the studio looking to perfect their sound and said "yes, this is what I'm going for. This will announce to the world that I can make good, high quality music."

So what's my point? Everything that I've just said above - that's auto-tune in 5 years. We will look back on these dance/pop songs and will instantly know "oh, that's a song from 2008-2012" and that will instantly be followed by "why did we ever think that sounded good? Why did we think that making a human voice sound like a robot stuck in a paint mixer was a good idea?"

So that's my pointless epiphany. If only I could find a way to make money off of it.

And I'm Back

And so ends the grand experiment. Anybody make it to the end with me? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Regardless of the answer (which I'm going to guess is pretty much nobody except maybe Becky) I'm declaring victory. I had only written 40 pages over the previous 4 and a half years and this process did indeed give me the push I needed to write another 60-plus pages and, most importantly, finish the damn thing. Regardless of whether it's any good or not (and my honest appraisal is that it's both) at least it's finally finished. Ever since I had this idea 5 years ago and had my wife and friends telling me that I definitely needed to write it and not let it be one of those ideas that I just don't do anything with, this whole project has hung over my head like the Sword of Damocles. Every time I was sitting around with free time there was this ever-present voice in the back of my head constantly saying "you know, instead of just sitting here you really should be working on your story." To which I would Homerically respond "Shut up brain or I'll stab you with a q-tip!" But now that little nagging voice has been silenced. Final tally, after I tweaked a bit more and added a title page, is 101 pages in Word. I really have no idea what that translates into as far as an actual published book goes (since those are obviously not 8.5 by 11) but I'd guess about 120-130 pages. Using this definition, at 21,983 words I fit squarely into the "novella" category, so from this point forward we're going to go with that.

In any case, if anybody did in fact make it all the way from beginning to end I would love to hear your thoughts! Not so much in the grammatical areas (i.e. all the typos and punctuation that I no doubt screwed up), but more from an overall story perspective. I'm interested to know which parts dragged and which parts felt rushed, if the overall narrative made sense (in as much as a superhero/supervillain story ever does) and wasn't confusing, where the humor was good and where it fell flat, and finally (and most importantly) if it was entertaining. I welcome any and all criticism because (even though I certainly also welcome praise) that's ultimately what will be most helpful to me going forward. As should be apparent, I am under no illusions that I wrote a masterpiece, so please let 'er rip!

So now of course the operative question is "what now?". And that applies on a couple different levels. What do I do with this completed novella? Christy, of course, thinks I should start submitting it to publishers. God bless her supportive little head, but I am not so deluded to think that it really has much of a chance. Frankly I think I'd be lucky if I could get a publisher to read it all the way through before rejecting it. Really, I try and see the finished product for what it is: a really valuable learning experience and a good first effort. Ultimately, if sometime in the next year or two our finances allow it, I will probably end-up self-publishing a really small run of 10 copies or so (which will cost about $300 if I do a hardcover) just so that I have something to throw up on my bookshelf as a conversation piece.

The next "what now?" pertains to my next big writing endeavor, and frankly right now I have no idea what that will be. I have a couple of different ideas bubbling around inside my head, but nothing that's really formed enough so far to get me excited. I definitely want to start again on something pretty soon. I really felt like I picked up steam as I went along and I'd hate to completely lose that momentum.

And finally, the last "what now?" has to do with this, my beloved blog. Again, I have no idea. I really have only been passively paying attention to politics (in fact I even just let my Economist subscription expire) but I imagine that will start to change in the next 6 months as we really start to ramp up into the 2012 election. Until then, I will probably go back to my semi-regular (but hopefully more regular) updates of randomness and inanity.

Evil Genius (Conclusion)

Part 5: The End

Ivan sat in the conference room and fantasized about killing everyone else in the room in the most grotesque and obscene ways possible. And even though he was out of practice, he could still think of some pretty obscene ways.

He sat at the oak conference table in the penthouse suite of the Four Seasons. He was surrounded by representatives from every corner of the globe. They were here for the same reason that they were always here. They were utterly incapable of solving even the pettiest of disagreements amongst themselves, and so had come to him to have their problems solved for them. It isn’t that he made better decisions than anything they could have come up with themselves - it’s that his was the voice of ultimate authority. There was no higher court or anyone else to appeal to after him; his was the final word. As such every representative could feel free to return to their constituency and tell them, with a clear conscience, that they had done all they could but the decision had been made and that was that.

He used to be The Destructor, now he was The Mediator. From Ivan, the most powerful man who ever lived, to Ivan, great arbiter of the Andean water usage rights. It was enough to make him want to weep.

How many hundreds of times had he thought of just putting an end to everything and going back to the way things used to be? But in the end, what would that accomplishment? A return to the days of cold canned beans, bucket plumbing, and a stench that would bring a tear to a skunk’s eye.

6 months ago, he thought that he had found a way out. The plan had been perfect. He would swallow all the bile welling up inside of him in preparation for an epic acting performance. One that would have made him worthy of his own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame if it still existed. He would play the part of the benevolent dictator and tell them that now that he had set the world on its correct course, that as his last act he would give them a choice. He would allow them to choose their own ruler.

And he played his part to perfection. Sure it went against all of his natural impulses to try and act like he was doing anything altruistically, but it was still his decision. Thus, although he’d no longer be the ruler of Earth, he’d still be able to claim victory. But most importantly, it would all be over. No more meetings, no more forms, no more whiny diplomats with their inane, tedious chatter and trivial problems.

As it turned out though, he had played his part far too well. Because what had the bastards gone and done? They had elected him! He wasn’t sure if it had been rigged or done fairly, and frankly he didn’t care. None of his opponents even bothered to contest the results. They all just cheerfully called to concede and congratulate him within hours of the polls closing.

His victory speech was historic in its brevity. He just stood in front of thousands of his supporters and said simply “What the fuck is wrong with you people?” and then walked off the stage shaking his head, rubbing his temples, and cursing loudly.

So now here he was, resigned to this fate. He realized that all eyes were looking at him, waiting for a decision. As he often did, he had either forgotten or never bothered to listen to half of the facts of the case. It didn’t matter. He could have used a dartboard.

“OK, here’s what we’re going to do. Everyone between latitude 0 and 15 will irrigate on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays and everyone above latitude 15 will have Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Sundays will alternate according to a calendar that we’ll have drawn up. Now in the event of a leap year that falls on a Sunday. . .”

Ivan suddenly stopped. He was aware of a deep pounding sound. It took him a minute to realize that it wasn’t just his head, though that throbbed as well. It was faint at first, but steadily grew louder. Boom! Then silence. A few seconds later there it was again. Boom! The others were reacting to it as well. Boom! It was getting closer for sure. Crash! And now it was unmistakably the sound of wood bursting, over and over again. And just as this realization took hold, the door to the conference room exploded inward. As Ivan scrambled to his feet and the dust settled, he realized he was staring at a ghost. Captain Invincible looked back at him.

And just as Meg had instructed him, he wasted no time with introductions. There were no grand speeches with denouncements and promises of comeuppance. No - Captain Invincible simply moved like a bullet to cross the distance between them, gently picked the Doctor up, and politely threw him out of the 13th floor window.

Ivan wasn’t afraid, and he didn’t scream. Apart from the couple pieces of jagged glass in his back, there wasn’t really any pain either. The emotion he felt most, as he plunged to his death, was pride. He was proud of the Courtland girl, even if she was a little slow in figuring out what the hell she was supposed to do. And Dr. Richter too. In the end, they hadn’t let him down. Most of all, he felt a deep sense of pride in himself. That he was finally finished with all this tedium and monotony and, perhaps most importantly, he was leaving all of it for that asshole Invincible to deal with. ‘Enjoy your moment now you prick’, he thought, ‘because 6 months from now when you’re sorting through geographic territories for cheese retailers in France you’re going to wish you’d never been brought back.’

And with that most pleasant thought in his head, Doctor Ivan Destructo’s body hit the pavement with a soft plop. And it was left to everyone to forever wonder why it was that in his last second of life, he had such a large grin on his face.

Epilogue: The Beginning

The preacher made his to the podium and surveyed the crowd. The church was packed today. As it should be. It was a very special day. He straddled the podium with his arms, looked out at his flock, and began.

“Welcome my friends, and may I say to all of you ‘Happy Birthday’! As all of you know, it was one year ago today that our great leader and savior was struck down. Struck down by the hands of those who are small-minded and weak. Deluded by a misguided feeling of righteousness, every word out of their mouths is blasphemous, every action a sin. They feel no remorse for their actions, so far gone are their minds from the truth.”

He grabbed the mic from its stand and started pacing across the stage, passing by the 15-foot tall statue of Doctor Desctructo at the head of the church.

“But my friends, today is not a day to drown ourselves in sorrow. Today is a day of great joy. Because one year ago today, Ivan the Great died so that we might be born. He gave unto us the life that he had, so that we would know him and have the courage to walk the true path. Because the truth is that he left us because we were not worthy of him. He tried to purge the world of all of its wickedness. All the greed and lust in our hearts. But no matter what he did it wasn’t enough because as fast as he tore it down our impure hearts built it up again. We took it for granted that we could turn to him to solve our problems, now and always.”

Now he paused both his speech and his walk. He stared at the crowd intently.

“Brothers and sisters, we failed him.”

He let this thought sink in and then he resumed his pacing.

“But we must not despair. We were destined to fail him. He knew that we would. But he loves all of us so much that he was willing to die so that we could see it. So that we would know the truth.”

He could hear sobs from the crowd now. He was stifling back tears himself.

“So let us prepare ourselves for him. Let us make ourselves worthy. The enemy has a name, and that name is Captain Invincible. He and all of his followers must see the folly and error of their ways. And if they will not see the truth on their own, we will make them see it. And if we cannot make them see the truth, well” he paused again and shook his head sardonically, “our savior taught us what must be done in the face of unrepentant evil. If we cannot make them see the truth, they will be destroyed!”

He had reached the podium again and he slammed his fists on the hard wooden surface as punctuation before he continued.

“And then my brothers and sisters, and only then, when we have purged heaven and earth of all that is unrighteous, when we have cleansed the world of impurity and prepared our hearts and our souls; my brothers and sisters, that is when He shall return to us. And he will smile upon us, and welcome us unto him. And with Him we will know no more pain, and we will know only joy and peace in his arms until the end of days, Amen!”

The crowd roared back an “Amen” in return, and with great fervor they began chanting “Ivan the Great” and “Ivan the Holy”; the echoes of which could be heard for miles and miles across the night sky.

Evil Genius (Part 15)

Chapter 3

The note arrived just as Meg was finally getting settled.

After stepping out of the Four Seasons, Meg had spent the next couple of hours just wandering around the city. It didn’t take long for her to realize that the suspicions she had had from inside her luxury prison were indeed true. The world seemed to have woken up again. Down each street she passed groups of pedestrians engaged in trivial chatter, bustling shops where customers waited patiently and impatiently for their turn, and the air was filled with the familiar engine revs, honking horns, and exhaust fumes. It was almost enough to make you forget that you were living under the authoritarian rule of the most evil man that ever lived.

Once the general joy and exuberance of being free started to wear off, Meg started to realize that she hadn’t the slightest idea where she should go or what she should do. A funny thing happens when you think each day is going to be your last – your long-term planning tends to suffer. So, short of any better idea, she decided to go home. Or at least the place that had been her home up until her impromptu vacation almost 2 years ago.

She approached the high-rise condo building and went inside. Before the end of everything there had been a 24-hour doorman but now there was no one, so she encountered no resistance when she walked in the front door and went to the elevators. As she emerged from the elevator and walked down the 11th floor hallway, she really didn’t know what to expect. Most likely the door would simply be locked. Would she knock? What if it was open and she walked in only to find the place redecorated and an extremely surprised couple asking her who the hell she was? Meg didn’t have the answers to any of these questions, but that didn’t stop her. She walked straight up to the door and turned the handle. Just like at the Four Seasons, it turned easily in her hands. As she pushed the door inwards she felt that she was prepared for whatever she might see. Only she wasn’t prepared for this.

It was dark and it was dusty, but it was unmistakable. All of her possessions, exactly as she had left them.

With all of today’s good fortune, she started to think that she must be dreaming but no; dreams didn’t have dust. She plopped herself down on the living room couch and was momentarily enveloped by a thick dustcloud. She tried to make sense out of all that had happened to her today, quickly decided with complete certainty that it made absolutely no sense whatsoever and thus determined to waste no more time thinking about it.

She now turned her mind to more practical matters. She had no food in the house – at least nothing edible. Fortunately, she still had valuables in the wall safe behind the picture in the bedroom. Again she registered no surprise when it was still there and the combination hadn’t been changed. Inside was a bag that contained a small collection of diamonds. Terry had liked to impress her by taking lumps of coal and squeezing them into diamonds. It was the superhero version of winning the giant stuffed panda at the Ring Toss.

She pocketed a few of the diamonds, returned the bag to the safe, and headed out again. If the world had really gone back to normal – or at least a new normal – then the row of jewelry shops on Connecticut Ave should be open again. And unless women were suddenly no longer interested in very shiny jewels, she should be able to get a decent price for them. She turned out to be right on both counts, though she just about had a seizure when the jeweler paid her. 50 crisp $100 bills, all with the giant visage of Doctor Destructo smack in the middle of them. But since this didn’t even remotely qualify as the strangest thing that had happened to her today, she simply sighed, shrugged, and pocketed her bounty.

On her way back home she stopped in at the grocery store and bought some fresh fruit, bread, and cleaning supplies. She half-expected the clerk to laugh at her when she tried to pay with her ridiculous currency, but he just took it without looking at her and handed her back her change – bills with smaller denominations but the same obscene image of the Doctor.

As she walked back into her building, she spotted John McDonald coming out of the elevator. John had been the condo association president. He spotted her and jumped back momentarily, then he smiled broadly as he ran forward and hugged her.

“Oh my god, Meg!”

“Hi John, good to see you too.” She had officially lost the capacity to be surprised anymore today.

John pulled back but was still beaming.

“I knew you’d be back. Somehow I just knew. We’ve been renting out the units left and right. Most of the owners being, um, gone. But I saved yours; wasn’t going to let that one go till I absolutely had to.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“It was the least I could do.” And now he whispered. “I heard how you snuck in and almost killed him. Everyone did. A lot of people didn’t believe it but I knew you and knew that if anyone could do it it’d be you. Then I heard that someone spotted you getting led into the Four Seasons by the Doctor’s goons and I thought to myself ‘I don’t know how she’s still alive but I bet if she ever gets outta there she’s going to wanna come on back home’ and now here you are!”

John continued to smile at her and for the first time since she could remember Meg smiled back.

“I don’t what to say John, it’s . . . I just . . .thank you. Listen, I just got back and need to get settled in . . .”

“Of course, of course. I’ll make sure you’ve got electricity by the end of the night and I’ll get you all set up with all the rest of the essentials – gas, phone, whatnot – by the end of the week. Um, and I’m sure you know that the rules have all changed since, well . . . anyway we can talk about that later.”

They hugged again and then Meg headed towards the elevator. As the doors opened and she headed inside, John called out to her again.

“Meg.” She turned. “Welcome home.”

She got back to her condo and got down to work. Everything that could be cleaned was and what couldn’t be was thrown out and replaced. John was true to his word and within a few days Meg was set up again with all her pre-Apocalyptic luxuries – electricity, gas, phone, and even cable TV. Along with that he also explained that she no longer owned her condo, since Doctor Destructo now owned everything. So she’d be paying rent again. But that didn’t bother her. Eventually more diamonds would have to come out of the bag but no worries, there were still plenty more. And now that television was back on the air she was even thinking that she might be able to resume her career as a journalist.

She woke up one morning with that thought in her mind when she noticed a note had been slid under her door. It said simply “Call Dr. Richter. Ask him about his work.” Printed underneath was a phone number.

She sat down on the couch and regarded the note curiously. The world had just started to make a small amount of sense again and now this. She started contemplating what to do, but knew almost immediately that not calling wasn’t going to be an option. Curiosity doesn’t kill the cat every time, but it does eventually because the cat is always curious. She picked up the phone and dialed. He answered on the third ring.

“Hello”

“Hello, is this Dr. Richter?”

He hesitated for a second. “Yes”

“Dr. Richter, my name is Meg Courtland and this is probably going to sound crazy but I . . .”

“You got a note that told you to call me.”

“Yes; is it from you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then how did you know?”

“I received one as well. It said ‘You will be contacted by Meg Courtland. Tell her about your work.’ I thought that maybe it was from you but I could already hear in your voice that you were as surprised as me. So what did your note say?”

“The same thing essentially. That I was to call you and ask you about your work. So what can you tell me?”

She heard Dr. Richter exhale audibly.

“I’m really not sure. At the present time I’m not doing anything that most people would consider to be cutting edge or even very interesting. Certainly nothing that warrants these kind of cryptic messages.”

Meg bit on her thumbnail and thought for a minute. This didn’t seem to add up. She sighed.

“Well, we certainly can’t rule out the possibility that somebody’s just decided to screw with us. But maybe you should tell me more about your current work anyway and we’ll just see where it takes us.”

“Mostly I’m doing basic genetic research, which might sound high-tech and glamorous but in reality it’s a lot of repetition and crunching numbers. Mainly we’re trying to work out genetic markers that will tell us which people are at greater risk for certain illnesses so we can give them an early warning sign.”

Meg started to pace.

“Well, I’m a journalist. Or at least I was one before . . .before. Maybe somebody wants me to publicize your work more. Are you close to any breakthroughs?”

Dr. Richter laughed.

“If I am that’s news to me. I can’t imagine the headline ‘14th chromose linked to additional 2% risk of irritable bowel syndrome’ moving too many papers off shelves. In all honesty, I can’t say that I’ve been a part of anything very interesting in the last 10 years. Not since my time with the Captain, God rest his soul.”

Meg froze and her heart suddenly shot down into the pit of her stomach.

“What?!?!”

Dr. Richter could tell he’d hit on something.

“Captain Invincible. He volunteered to do some tests for us about 10 years ago.”

“What do you mean? Tell me everything” Her voice took on a little bit of a desperate tone and her hand started shaking involuntarily.

Dr. Richter could sense it and he started to get a little excited too.

“Oh . . .well, I, uh, didn’t think that you meant that. I mean it was reported on very heavily at the time. At least in the scientific journals. But I suppose it never got as much mainstream coverage as we thought it deserved, probably because everything that we found just led us to have more questions. In any case, obviously everyone always wondered what it was that gave him all those incredible powers. Well, it turns out that no one wondered more than the Captain himself. I was doing research for John Hopkins Medical School when he contacted us one day. Would we be interested in running some tests on him to see if we could formulate any theories on why he was the way he was? I don’t think I need to tell you how quick we jumped to say yes to that question. The man – if you can call him that – was a scientific marvel. The ultimate research specimen.”

Meg cringed to hear Terry dehumanized in this way but decided not to speak up.

“So the whole staff pretty much instantly dropped everything else they were doing to concentrate on him full-time. We ran him through every test and medical examination we could think of. He gave us so much data that my grandchildren will still be sorting through it.”

Meg sat down on the couch and frowned slightly.

“You said that the whole staff was involved in examining him?”

“That’s right. About 50 of us.”

“Were you in charge of the whole project.”

“Oh no! That’s for the bureaucrats – the ones who have put in their time in the lab and don’t feel like getting their hands dirty anymore. No, I was only a few years out of school then so I was down on the front lines.”

“Well the note wanted me to contact you specifically. Who knows, maybe you’re the only one that whoever wrote it knew how to get a hold of. On the other hand, maybe it has to do with your specific role in the experiments on Ter . . . er Captain Invincible. What exactly did you do with him?”

“Oh that.” And now Dr. Richter’s voice swelled up a bit and Meg could hear the pride in it. “At that time my principle concentration was on the mind and memory. We had an ambitious goal – to completely map out the mind and record all the memories of one person. We knew that the technology was there but there had always been one thing that stood in our way – funding. No one wants to pay money to completely record the entire life of your average Joe Sixpack, but this was our perfect chance. Everyone would be interested in having a record of the most powerful man in the world for all eternity.”

“So what happened?”

“What happened was that we succeeded! I’ve still got the complete mind and memories of Captain Invincible captured on 192 DVDs at my research facility in Baltimore.”

Meg’s jaw almost hit the floor.

“My god! How is it that no one ever heard of this?”

“Well, it was classified for a while. For obvious reasons the government decided it wasn’t a great idea for everyone to know that the most intimate secrets and inner workings of our savior and protector were available for anyone to peruse. Then there was the problem that apart from scientific curiosity, there wasn’t a whole lot we could do with it for a while.”

“What do you mean ‘for a while’?”

“Well, the mind is certainly the most important thing but without the body it’s not all that useful. Sure we could have tried to hook it into some computer program and develop an advanced AI, but that’s not really my field. So we were a bit stuck. That is, until we heard about Dolly.”

Meg tried to remember where she had heard that name before. Then it hit her.

“The cloned sheep?”

“Exactly.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Once we knew for sure that it was possible to clone based purely on a DNA sample, that opened up a world of possibilities for us. We could now reproduce the body that we didn’t have before. Now the data that made up our mind had a destination! All that remained was to figure out a way to implant the data into it.”

“So what happened? Did you do it?” Meg was almost getting delirious. Was there a possibility that there was another Captain Invincible out there somewhere? Another Terry?

“Unfortunately not.” Meg’s heart sank. “For one thing we never solved the problem of transferring the data onto a real mind. But that’s a problem that could have been overcome. No, the real problem was both a practical and ethical one: getting Captain Invincible’s DNA. Sure we could have invited him over and scoured the floors for a few hair follicles after he left, but that wouldn’t have been right. So we told him about our research and asked him and he said no. Can’t say that I blame him. Not sure I’d want another one of me walking around somewhere either while I was still around.”

“So wait a minute, are you telling me that it’s still possible? That if you somehow had his permission that you could still do it?”

Dr. Richter waivered.

“In theory yes, but practically speaking it’s just not possible. It’s not a problem that he died; the problem is how he died. He was vaporized in a nuclear blast. Any DNA that survived would have been scattered over a 200-mile radius.”

Meg shot up off the couch, her eyes wide.

“But if you had an intact sample; something that was pure and undoubtedly his . . .”

“If I had that and a few million dollars to get my lab up and running again, I could make you another Captain Invincible in less than 6 months.”

“I can do that.”

“What? How?”

But Meg had already hung up the phone. She raced into her bedroom and to the wall safe. She knew just what she was after. She reached in and grabbed the jewelry bag. Who knew that something much more valuable than diamonds was inside? Certainly even a superhero, in the act of crushing a lump of coal into a diamond, would shed a few skin flakes, right? Meg removed the bag gingerly and walked over to the table. She dug out a magnifying glass and began her search. Somewhere in this bag she would find a piece of Terry to bring to Dr. Richter. It was hard to imagine that something so tiny could have the power to change the world forever.

The next day she called Dr. Richter to tell him she thought that she had what he needed. He told her that he woke up this morning and discovered another envelope slipped under his door. In it was a check for $5 million.

Evil Genius (Part 14)

Chapter 2

If Ivan was forced to sign one more form or hold one more meeting today, he was convinced that the fury which was welling up within him was such that his head would explode. He did not mean this metaphorically either. He truly believed that with just one more slight nudge over the edge there would be one final primal scream and then the walls in the Oval office would suddenly be covered in his blood and gray matter. But what bothered him most about that thought was that it was actually accompanied by a sense of relief.

Almost as if on cue, the door opened and his chief assistant Walters walked in. Sure enough, he was carrying another one of those god-damned, motherfucking, triplicated spawns of Satan in his hands.

“Sir, we need authorization for the new highway bypass through Cleveland. And we’ve been in contact with Rio and they need permission to expand the oil pipeline another couple of miles . . .”

Walters stopped short because he noticed a look that could cut diamonds coming from the face of the Doctor. Ivan had been somewhat tamed but he would never be fully domesticated. The Mall no longer held thousands of disembodied heads but he was still very capable of making a man disappear without a trace. Walters decided to retreat from the precipice.

“…but of course that can wait till tomorrow. Just wanted to give you a heads up, your Excellency.”

Ivan knew he was being patronized, but at least that meant his temper was still something to be feared. He might only be a neutered shell of his former self, but he still had teeth. He sighed and relented, something that was becoming more and more of a habit lately.

“No, give them to me. I’ll take care of them.” He read through the forms, signed them, and Walters was on his way.

He had to appreciate the irony. He was the undisputed ruler of the Earth. As such, no major decision was made without his consent. But because of that, he spent almost all of his waking hours being bombarded with what amounted to low-level bureaucratic decisions to the point where he felt like little more than a secretary. Why the hell did he care that a new nuclear plant needed to be commissioned in Moscow, or that the fisheries were being overfished in Nova Scotia, or that a crippling bacon shortage had broken out in Nashville(6)? But ceding power was not in his nature, so he insisted on remaining at the center of it all.

His bribery plan had been brilliant. In fact it had succeeded beyond his or anyone else’s wildest dreams. It turned out that utterly destroying the world’s technology and economy was just what everyone needed. People had a new appreciation for the simple things like electricity, hot water, Perfect Brownie pans, and electric nose hair trimmers.

During the downward spiral, all manner of feisty individuals had seen fit to challenge the Doctor. Whether they fancied themselves new super-heroes, ideological or theological soldiers, or just plain anarchists the Doctor had taken on all comers and emerged victorious. The result was that the greater population of Earth was now more passive than at any other point in human history, and were only too happy to be led back into the light of outlet malls and all-u-can eat sushi bars.

Truth be told, in a lot of ways things were better than they had ever been. With the religious zealots gone, half of the reason for major conflicts no longer existed. And the fact that there were no more territorial borders to fight over - now that everything was under the rule of Doctor Destructo - pretty much eliminated the reason for the other 50% of major conflicts. Sure there was still petty crime to be dealt with, but since the Doctor was also the ultimate head of the judicial system, very few people were willing to act up enough to land on his radar.

And so Ivan sat, day after day, signing forms authorizing new construction projects, building renovations, wildlife refuges, hunting licenses, eel hatcheries, moose crossings – the list went on and on. When he finally got a request to approve construction for the Norman Rockwell Commemorative Dinner Plate Museum, he was convinced that they were making this shit up. He flew out to the proposed dig site just so he could catch the lying bastards trying to take advantage of him. But it turns out that the people of Dayton, Ohio just really, really like Norman Rockwell and his related fine china. He approved it with the sole intent of blowing it up on the day of its grand opening.

A few minutes passed and Walters was in the office again, this time with a stack of forms.

“Sir, would you like to be briefed on these now or shall I save them for tomorrow?”

Ivan had had enough. Not just for today, not for tomorrow; he had had enough period.

“You know what Walters? You handle them. I’m going for a walk”

And with that the Doctor was out of the office, out the back door of Skull Manor, and across the back lawn.

(6) - Actually, when this one had occurred he had instantly given it top priority.

Evil Genius (Part 13)

Update: It's 9:41 P.M. and less than 2 minutes ago I just finished the book/novel/novella/story/whatever the hell it is. The important thing is that it's done (or at least the first draft of it is). Yay me! Probably about another 4 or 5 parts to post. I might put them up quicker than once a week now that I don't need the time to write it any more. We'll see. Alright, back to our regularly scheduled program.

Part 4: One year later

Chapter 1

Meg still did not understand why she was still alive, but she had long stopped wondering about it.

After the visit from the Doctor on what was to be her last night amongst the living, she had been moved over to the Four Seasons along with everyone else. The Doctor had not visited her again, and no one else bothered to enlighten her as to why she had been granted this stay of execution. She was escorted to her room and the door was locked behind her.

And there she sat, day after day, week after week. Each day she had 3 meals delivered to her room, and once per week she was handcuffed to the bed while a maid changed all her sheets. All in all, except for the mind-numbing boredom, it wasn’t a bad existence. Especially taking into account that she was supposed to be dead.

From the view out her window, she could see the city starting to come back to life. Where in the beginning only roving bands of gangs and looters could be heard milling the streets, slowly but surely the idle chatter of pedestrians began to replace it. Soon after, traffic resumed with all its telltale sounds and smells. Then one day Meg looked out and realized that Pennsylvania Ave. looked and sounded pretty much as she had remembered it 2 years ago.

She still hadn’t seen or heard from the Doctor, nor was she getting any information from her guards. Confused at what was responsible for this turnaround and frustrated at the complete absence of information, she finally decided to take matters into her own hands. She set her mind to escaping.

She estimated that she was on the 5th or 6th floor, not an automatically lethal distance but certainly far enough to not want to chance it. She began by calculating the length of rope she could make by employing the various towels and linens in the room and found they only afforded her about 25 feet. That still left her with 25 to 35 feet to drop – still too far. She leaned out the window and calculated how thick the ledge was (9 inches) and how far it was to the corner of the building (about 13 feet). She thought that if she could maybe get to the corner, which involved transversing a stone gargoyle directly in her path, she could possibly shimmy up the corner piping up to the next floor. At that point she’d either hope for an open window on the next floor or, in the worst case scenario, continue floor by floor till she got to the roof. At that point she was fairly confident that she could find a staircase, stealthily make her way down to the ground floor, find a back door – either through the kitchen or garage – and gain her freedom.

In the end, she abandoned that plan for a slightly simpler one. She walked to the door of her room and turned the handle. It turned effortlessly and the door opened with no resistance. She slowly peeked her head out of the door just in case a guard was stationed nearby, but somehow she knew there wouldn’t be. Sure enough, the hallway was empty. She shook her head slowly and softly asked herself, “who’s a stupid girl now?”.

When she was a child, the Courtland family had a dog named Cupcake. A little black labradoodle. Rather than ruin the detailed landscaping that they meticulously tended with a mesh or picket fence, Meg’s dad opted for the invisible electric fence instead. One of those where the dog wore a special collar and if they wandered too far from the house they’d get a little shock. After a couple of weeks and more than a few gentle jolts, Cupcake learned with great precision exactly where she could and could not tread. A couple years passed, and one day Meg took off the collar to give Cupcake a bath. Only she forgot to put it back on again. When she finally realized this a couple of days later, the entire family was astonished to see that Cupcake was still respecting the boundaries of the fence, even though there was now absolutely nothing containing her. She had simply learned that those were the limits of her territory and saw no further reason to test it. So from that day forward they simply left the collar off. Meg found all of this so humorous that she delighted in telling all her friends and neighbors about what a sweet, dumb dog they had. Cupcake would hear Meg talking about her and come running over with her tail wagging all the way. And Meg would playfully grab her snout and put her face next to hers while cooing in a high-pitched babytalk, “Who’s a stupid girl? You are; yes you are! You’re our stupid little girl!”

There was no doubt who the stupid girl was now. Cupcake’s revenge.

It could have all been an accident, but Meg didn’t think so. She had the feeling that she’d simply been trivialized, and that although the idea of the Doctor actually pardoning someone was completely unthinkable, this was his way of doing it without doing it. The equivalent of the teacher “accidentally” leaving the world map up on the board during the geography test. She still had no idea what she’d done to help him and the thought of it still haunted her, but this was one gift she was not going to refuse.

Having decided this with certainty within a few seconds of appearing in the hallway, she saw no reason not to test it. Instead of the back stairs, she walked confidently towards the elevator and pressed the down arrow. After a few seconds she heard the familiar ding, saw the button light blip off and the doors slowly opened. It was empty, and Meg couldn’t decide if she felt relief or disappointment. She pressed the button and 10 seconds later was standing in the lobby. Here about a dozen people, a mix of employees and customers, were milling about. If any were members of Destructo’s personal security detail, they showed no outward sign of it. None gave her a second glance as she covered the 30 feet from the elevator bank to the front door. With a push and a whoosh she was through the revolving door and out onto the street. And just like that, for the first time in more than 18 months Meg Courtland was free.

Evil Genius (Part 12)

Chapter 4

The next day, Ivan gathered all of his henchmen into the press briefing room. Just 100 muscle-bound, thick-necked Neanderthals standing shoulder to shoulder in the tiny space. Very few of them spoke; they were excited and more than a little nervous. A gathering like this could only mean very good or very bad news. Very bad news meant anything up to and including all of their deaths. And with very good news, the only benefit might be relief that it wasn’t very bad news.

The small amount of chatter immediately ceased as Doctor Destructo walked regally into the room and up to the podium. He sensed the undertone of anxiety in the room. As usual, he reveled in it. On most days, he would do all he could to heighten this tension and unease, but today did not call for that. Today called for exactly the opposite.

“My loyal servants and, dare I say, friends – thank you for coming here today.”

Now there was a great deal of confusion in the crowd. They had rarely ever been thanked, and had certainly never been called friends.

“I’ve asked you all here today because while we have achieved everything that we sat out to do lo those many years ago, it is now time to embark upon a new era. With your help, I have proven to the whole world that they are powerless against me and that mine is the only will that matters. And in my hands I have taken this world and all that the pathetic masses of peasants hold dear and broken it as if it was nothing more than a twig. This world now lies in ruin.”

Few in the audience would disagree with that. But what was so puzzling was the fact that the Doctor seemed so please about it. Though they would never have dared to say it out loud, the Doctor had seemed increasingly despondent over the world’s slow decay. It seemed as though his plan, at least in as much as he had ever shared it with them, had been to take his place atop the power food chain and preside over the Earth as it was. But had this been the plan all along? To install himself at the seat of power and then destroy it all? Yes, they seemed to all reach the same conclusion almost at once. That had to have been the plan, because why else would the Doctor stand before them now and seem so pleased about it?

“My friends, now that we have forever proven our strength and conviction so that no one could ever doubt either, now is the time to rebuild this world. To make it greater than it ever was; to prove that my power is only exceeded by my intelligence and leadership.”

Now heads were nodding, and some applause broke out. This was good, very good. Only the most perceptive of the bunch bothered to wonder the obvious question: how? But Ivan was just getting warmed up.

“This will not be accomplished overnight, and it will certainly not be easy. But make no mistake that it will happen. Just as my ascension to this position was inevitable, so too is this. I promise that you will all live(4) to see this world rise and stand tall on the wings of my dreams. I have seen the mountaintop, and I promise you that we will get there. Because when the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

Now the crowd was really going. Soft murmurs of assent had turned into wild cheering, clapping, hooting, and hollering. If he had asked, right now they would have all gladly gouged their own eyes out for him without a second thought. Such is the persuasive combination of hackneyed clichés, groupthink, and single-digit IQs. Now that Ivan had them, it was time to mobilize them.

“Tonight we will celebrate the grand reopening of the Four Seasons hotel. We will get the basement generator fired up there and tonight we will all sleep in luxurious air conditioning and have a great feast. Furthermore, I want you to send the word out that anyone who has experience in hotel service, be it concierge, maid, cook, or waiter is welcome to come as well. In exchange for a day’s work, they and their families can also sleep in the hotel and share the feast. This is only the beginning. This will be our lives from now on – a life of luxury and comfort. Now go; go forth my friends, and let the Destructofication of the world begin!”

A great roar went up from the crowd as they charged out of the room. Within 30 seconds, it was just Ivan and the podium in the room. He gathered his notes, smiled to the empty room, and began to laugh.

He hated to give credit, but some was definitely due here. That Courtland woman, through all her bile and insolence, had hit upon an inescapable truth. To this point in his life and career as a master criminal he had accomplished everything through intimidation. In fact there was no one more fearsome or intimidating than he. He had built everything upon a foundation which assumed that everyone valued a life, whether it was their own or someone else’s. Therefore he could achieve success by taking or threatening to take that life. But, as much as it pained him to admit it, take away that threat and he was a piss poor motivator. He was all stick and no carrot. But it wasn’t until she had spelled it out for him that he had understood it with such clarity.

So now, through necessity, he would reinvent himself. He would introduce the carrot. He started with a new foundation – that what people now valued was a return to the meaningless and vacuous lives they had led before he had come to power. He could give them that, and in the process restore the luxury and meaning to his own life that he had imagined for himself.

That first night at the Four Seasons had gone well. Very well in fact. Morale was higher than it had been in months. The initial response for hotel staff had been lukewarm. After all, who wants to work for an employer who is a slave-driver, considers you easily replaceable, and will never appreciate or value who you are or anything you do. However, this was quickly overcome once everyone remembered that this pretty much described every boss and company they’d ever worked for, so what was the difference? Within a week the hotel was fully staffed.

Following that, Ivan sent out word that anyone who had worked at the electric company was welcome to stay in the Four Seasons as well if they returned to work immediately. The response was so overwhelming that within 2 days he had to provide another generator and open up the Ritz-Carlton as well. Within two weeks power was restored to the entire city.

Now the domino effect started to work in reverse. Within a month, Ivan had fired up the presses at the U.S. mint and the Destructo dollar was born. Ivan set the first prices for all the major goods. This allowed the rural farming communities to start coming in from the city to trade their surplus crops and meat. Very slowly a sense of normalcy started to return to the area.

Next, Ivan tackled the oil pipelines. Since this was an interstate job he used some of the dwindling fuel supply to fly Air Force One into all the major cities between DC and the Gulf. In each one he used the same model as DC – first giving a small group of people a taste of luxury, then slowly broadening it once some trust was obtained, and finally introducing a supply of the new currency and letting the economy take off on its own power. Within 3 months the entire East coast was living in a manner which, to the outside observer, looked almost indistinguishable from the lifestyle they had lived before the collapse.

Once again, the Doctor held a meeting in the Skull Manor press room. But this time, it was a meeting comprised of the most highly skilled and intelligent lieutenants he had acquired over the previous months. He told them that they’d all be boarding private jets in the coming days and weeks. It was time to bring the plan that had revived Destructopolis(5) to the rest of the country and then the world.

Yes, he definitely had to hand it to Meg Courtland. Bribery was definitely the way to get things done.

(4) - He assumed that it went without saying that he didn’t mean this literally.

(5) - Washington D.C.’s new name

Evil Genius (Part 11)

Chapter 3

Meg sat on the cot in the bedroom that was her prison and carefully rewrapped her wrist in the ace bandage. The idiot guards weren’t much for medical care. In fact they weren’t much for anything except following orders, preferably those involving putting their meaty, oversized fists into some poor sap’s nether regions or dragging some even more unfortunate soul by the hair out to the chopping block.

That thought made her pause mid-wrap. Tomorrow that unfortunate soul was going to be her.

She had made peace with that fact, but that didn’t make her indifferent to it. Even if this was hell on Earth and each day was agony, who knew what the alternative was? Then, of course, there was the anxiety involving the actual procedure itself. They say that decapitation is quick and painless. But they were also the same geniuses who at one time had decided that the Earth was flat, that leeches could cure diseases, and that the best thing for those nagging headaches was a simple frontal lobotomy. There was no getting around the fact that quite often, they ended up being completely full of shit.

But best now to put all that out of her head. She had made up her mind and that was the end of it. All she could do now was make herself as comfortable as possible and maybe try to think of one final way to slit Ivan’s wretched throat as she was led to her execution. And with that pleasant thought in her head, she resumed wrapping her aching wrist and finished just as her door opened and The Doctor stepped into the room.

Instantly her pulse quickened and her blood started to boil with revulsion, but she remained silent. She loathed his presence with every fiber of her being. The only thing that helped her maintain even a fraction of her composure was constantly picturing that stupid smug face of his drenched in a pool of his own blood.

But as he approached her, she saw that there was something different about him tonight. The walk, a mixture of pride and cockiness, was the same. The steely gaze was as piercing as ever. Yet, there seemed to be something else just behind it. If she didn’t already know that it wasn’t possible, she’d have sworn that Ivan the Destructor was actually scared.

He stopped a few feet from her and looked down at her.

“I’ve come tonight because, even though it goes against every impulse in my body, I’m willing to be merciful and grant you another opportunity to recant your previous refusal and carry on with our prior arrangement.”

Meg leaned back and rested on her good hand and looked up at him somewhat inquisitively. Definitely something different about him.

“Is that so?”

“Yes”

Meg laughed out loud, surprising both of them.

“This really bothers you doesn’t it? You destroyed the most powerful man on the planet and brought the world to its knees, but you just can’t stand the idea that someone actually said ‘no’ to you and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Meg was sure that this outburst was going to get her slapped, if not executed right here on the spot. Or at the very least that he was going to cut her off abruptly or walk out of the room. Instead he just stood their silently with a puzzled look on his face. So she continued, gathering steam as she went.

“God, you’re like a toddler being told to put the candy down. This is your version of a temper tantrum isn’t it? You just haven’t the first idea what makes people tick. I’m not talking about heroes like Terry, or ego-maniacs like Presidents and CEOs. I mean regular ordinary people that get up every morning and go to work not because they want to or because they think it’ll bring them riches or glamour but because there are people that love them and depend on them and that’s what they have to do to make sure that those people don’t starve and have someplace warm and dry to sleep. It’s called altruism you sad, miserable excuse for a man. But you wouldn’t know the meaning of the word if someone painted it on the side of a 100-foot cruise missile and shoved it up your ass. Oh no; if you can’t blow-up, maim, poison, rape, pillage, or stab it you’re just completely clueless. Other than actually doing one of those the only other arrow in your quiver is threatening to do one of those. Well, I’ve got news for you jackass. Threats only work on people who have something to lose, and you’ve already taken everything from me. My friends, family, career, Terry - they’re all gone thanks to you. The last thing you can take from me is my life, and I’ll gladly give it to you rather than have to endure that pompous smug look on your face for one more day! So that’s it Doctor, this is one round you don’t win because your arsenal is empty.”

She hadn’t so much said the words as chewed on them and spat them out. By the time she was finished she was out of breath and trembling, but she felt incredible. Whatever happened to her now, she would know that she had looked pure evil in the face, laughed at it, and told it how small it really was. There was some small morsel of triumph in that.

Now Ivan, still silent, slowly turned and walked over to the chair on the far side of the room and sat down. He leaned his head against the wall and fixed his gaze on her. No - not on her, Meg decided – through her. There was a vacant and distant look in his eyes, like he was somewhere else, and suddenly Meg was reminded of the night she had snuck up behind him in the Oval office and almost slit his throat. Now, with a tilt of his head and a slight adjustment to his gaze, he was back and looking at her.

“What about bribery?” He asked, simply.

Meg almost laughed again.

“Bribery?!?! Are you joking, or just terminally stupid? Have you not listened to a word I’ve said? You have taken everything that I care about in this world from me, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. What is it that you think you could possibly offer me that I would care about, short of your own head on a stick on the Mall?”

But instead of taking it in the mocking and insulting manner in which she had meant it, he seemed to have found her remark rather amusing. He smiled that famous icy half-sneer and slowly shook his head.

“Nothing, I suppose. To you, I can’t offer anything at all.”

And with that he stood up and made his way to the door and opened it. Without turning, he said, “Thank you Ms. Cortland, you’ve earned the right to keep your head for at least another night.”

As the door closed and bolted behind him, a feeling of dread washed over her. She had no idea how it had happened, but somehow in all that had just transpired she felt that she had someohow managed to help out Dr. Destructo. She immediately ran into the bathroom and threw up.