Thinking Things Through And Through

Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. They can't help it. They're stories. That's what stories do. They start. They entertain. They finish.

Try to leave a story unended and see what happens.

You'll get clobbered. You'll have stuff thrown at you.

People won't talk to you with the same ease they once did.

You are trying to cheat the genre. You are trying to cheat the recipient of your tale. You are cheating yourself.

There are only a handful of things more satisfying than ending a tale properly.

Most of these, are primal.

After primal, comes the tale.

We humans have been telling these tales for as long as there has been time to kill-- between hunting, eating, and screwing. It is what we do. It is what we've always done. It is what life is. It is how we live.

Don't believe me? Try going a day without retelling.

Go on. Try it.

"How was your day?"

"mphpmphmpmhphmhhhmmm..."

"You're trying not to retell, aren't you?"

"mmmhmmm..."

"Who've you been talking to? Not that guy with the dogs with the funny names?"

"mphmphmphmmphmphmphmmmmphmm..."

See what I mean?

You might as well load your mouth up with Bazooka Bubble Gum and blow bubbles so big they pop in your hair. I mean, what else ya gonna do?

Sometimes, stories can be very short. I like these kind of stories. They're... well... short.

They don't dilly around. They don't dally. They don't tarry. They don't stretch out like this thought into something irrelevant and ill-concieved.

I sat and watched a drunk being thrown from an outdoor bar in Tulumn, Mexico, by the seat of his pants. He was not much bigger than a midget and a big guy was tossing him out into the sand like one. He kept getting up, and yelling and cursing in Spanish. He would head back in, and they would toss him back out. I was sitting in a truck,watching this, with a Mexican Architect.

"Who is that?" I asked, not too clear on the situation in Spanish.

"The owner."said the Architect. "He's the owner of the bar..."

Badda badda bing.....

I sat in a movie theatre in Singapore with a low IQ Englishman whose laugh was loud and comical. I mean really loud. And really comical. Watching Ghost Busters.

"Hooh Haaa Hoo Haa Haa Haa!"

The usher came up to us and asked us to leave. That kind of laughter at a movie was unacceptable.

A man approached me on Waikiki beach. He was from Korea, and his English was broken.

"You take picture... uh... with mother and wife?"

"Sure," I said, thinking he'd hand me the camera and I'd take their picture. Not so. He handed his mother a very colorful umbrella and the mother and wife both sat down next to where I was sitting,( and struck some pretty provocative poses.) The husband just kept clicking away...

I went to a Hollywood party at Burt Lancaster's daughter's house. I was wearing Burkenstock Sandels that I took off at the door and left by a white fireplace. Upon leaving, a young aspiring starlet saw the sandals and asked --

"I wonder what movie Burt wore those in?" assuming the sandals were souvenirs.

"That Burt," I said, "could never fill my shoes." I picked up the sandals and walked away.

My sister used to hate the San Francisco 49'ers. She is a Dallas fan because she was born in Texas. I invited her to a 49er and pasta party at a pub in Occidental, California. This was back when the Niners were good. Six minutes into the game, the 49er's had scored three touchdowns and a field goal. Not even halfway into the first quarter, the score was 24 to zero. My sister was a few minutes late, and walked in wearing Dallas everything. Hat. Jersey. Jacket. Pin on hat. Scarf. She came in with a swagger. My sister is like that. She was going to get people's goat. It took her twenty feet and a look from me for her to realize the score and her position in life.

She actually WAS the goat. Of this I do not ever let her forget.

I was sitting in the outfield at a Giants game, telling the girl I was with not to worry, because nobody hits homers out this far, when a homer off the bat of Andres Gallaragha (sp) sailed twenty feet over our heads. As far as I know, it is still the longest homer hit at the new ballpark in San Francisco. 5oo and something feet...

I drank two cups of coffee too many at a truck stop cafe in LA one winter on my way back up north. There was a storm passing through and I was waiting it out. Tired of waiting, I tried to drive over the Grapevine on Interstate 5 during a rare snow storm. The highway patrol had pulled everybody over and made us wait on the side of the freeway for the storm to lighten or pass. While sitting there, of course I had to pee. I waited an hour while contemplating containers that I did not possess. I was the second car behind the highway patrol guys, so I didn't just hop out and go. Once escorted over the worst of the pass, the highway patrol guy pulled off on an off ramp and I pulled over to the side of the freeway. It was now or die, I decided. I jumped out of the van. I ran over to the passenger wheel. I started to pee. The fifty mile an hour wind drove the pee right back at me. I was peeing on myself. There was nothing to do but turn. I was now peeing across five lanes of freeway, hitting every car that passed by. And there were many. I had no way to stop this nonsense. I was peeing on some very nice cars. There was nothing I could do. This nonsense had to have an ending. The ending was an empty bladder and a change of both clothes and scenery.

The ending, as we all know, is what comes last...

Got any short stories in your repertoire? Tell us...

Looks like the Peeping has started again... I could sure use a click...


1) My youngest son, Eric was 5 years old (this was a couple years back) He had just volunteered to help his older brother clean his room. I wanted to let Eric know that I noticed how nice that was. When I commented to the boy about such a nice gesture, he looked up at me, very solemn and serious and said-- "Yeah, I'm a giver" and walked off...

--Just-Nik