no.49 - The Jeep Jerk

As I returned from picking up cold medicine and coffee for my wife this morning, I crossed the street and the path of an idiot. The walk signal was with me but despite this, a thin, weasel-like jerk in a jeep decided to drive around the first stopped car and try to run through the red light. No doubt he had an Very Important Day.

Unfortunately I was in his way. He glared at me. I glared back. Then, of course, he said what men like him always say:

"You got a problem?"

I did have a problem and the problem was him and his ilk. (His ilk irk me). But I failed to solve this problem. My lizard brain took over and I informed him he was an asshole. This headed us down an inevitable and unproductive path.

He opened his thin jeep door, perhaps so I could get a better look at his sour face and cheap tie.

"You want to start something?"

*sigh* Apparently I already had started something by walking across the street. I explained to him that he was being a dick.

"I should shoot you," he hissed.

"Go ahead," I answered, assuming he did not have a gun. I kicked his door closed. It was a good, solid kick. It felt satisfying. I kicked the door again for good measure, but I was failing to make any point because my behavior was as pointless as his.

He scrambled to respond but I did not see what happened next because I turned and walked away, pretending to be casual.

My macho brain and my lizard brain were now at odds, because the lizard wanted me to look back and macho brain insisted I pretend not to be concerned in the least. In an effort to compromise, my lizard brain suggested that if Jeep Douche did come after me, I should throw the hot coffee in his face. (Good plan, brain!)

But the Jeep creep did not exit his vehicle. His light turned green and he just sat there, neither exiting nor driving. I suspect he was paralyzed between his desire to keep being a douchebag and his fear of abandoning his Jeep and his Very Important Briefcase.

It is doubtful I could have spoken any words that would have made him understand what sort of a person he is — but I did not choose to try. This was not the better path. Instead we were just two men, raging at each other, accomplishing nothing.

no.48 - Renedudes

A few weeks ago, just after dark, my daughter and I were playing when her ball rolled into the kitchen. The kitchen lights were off. She stopped short, fear in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She pointed into the shadows, took a cautious step backwards and said; "Renedudes."

It gave me a chill.

"What's a Renedude?"

"They live in the kitchen. When it's dark." She said, taking up a position behind my leg. She pointed to her ball. "Will you get it please?"

In the weeks since, Renedudes have come up quite a few times. They are in the kitchen and they are mean. They like to scratch. A picture of them grew in my mind - these small blobby creatures with little black eyes — a cute nuisance like you might see on an old Scooby Doo. It turns out this picture is entirely wrong.

Yesterday I asked my daughter to describe them and she did. The Renedude is not pretty.

"They have big hands that end in long nails for scratching. And teeth. That have big, sharp fangs for biting. They are shaped like people but they aren't a people. They are crusty and bald. They walk on their toes."

"Do they have eyes?"

"They have big eyes that are tiny. Their toe is as big as my whole foot and they are so small you can't even see them."

This last part is obviously a bit of a contradiction, but she is only 3. I can remember a strange, horrible feeling when I was a child and things seemed to be big and tiny all at once — usually when I was having a fever dream. The Renedude, it appears, embodies this idea of small and large at once.

I don't have any clue how she came up with this name. It's both funny and a little ominous. But the real question is; where did the idea come from?

It is possible the creature she described is something primal to our subconscious. But I think it is more likely she somewhere, sometime, somehow caught a glimpse of one of those awful horror film commercials with a bald, fanged ghoul. I hate those things. Because she doesn't watch much TV, or any commercials, it could only have happened in a public space, like Best Buy or the Sandwich shop around the corner.

I curse you, unidentified horror ad. Now I am living with Renedudes.

Artist's concept

no.47 - The Demon Electric

Each night as I turn out the lights and head off to bed, I look across my living room and see a small constellation of LED lights. A camera, laptop and cell-phone are charging here. The TV, DVD-recorder, and cable box are sparkling there. My printer, scanner, speakers, and a half dozen hard drives storing my photography all glitter in the dark.

How much electricity is wasted this way? It might make a beautiful sight if the colors were not all garish reds and greens.

If I can, I cut them off at the source, flipping off the surge protectors that supply life to my electronics in groups of six, and eight and twelve.

The trouble is, if even a single item needs to stay on — to download podcasts, back up drives or record a late night movie — everything else on the little electric tree either must remain on too, or be unplugged by hand.

I never unplug them. Neither do you. All across America a small, slow seeping of energy trickles out into the ether through our microwaves, televisions and other devices, which wait for our morning return.

A composite of LED's in my home.

no.46 - Siamese Cat

Perhaps, like me, you recall that feeling of being in a darkened theater, watching Lady and the Tramp, when suddenly, to the borderline racist sound of a gong, two evil Siamese Cat's appear.

It gave me an awful, slow, sinking feeling, telegraphed by the none too subtle evil eyes and house full of shadows. Those cats were going to be awful. I would not travel to Siam!

I had seen far worse in films - shootings, exploding cars, vampires with crooked teeth, but even at four or five years old I was able to surmise two creepy cats seemed much more like something I might run across than Christopher Lee.

My father always had a distinct dislike of cats and these cartoon twins seemed to reveal that there might be more to it than itchy eyes. (Some of us wondered if those allergies were even real.)

"We are Siamese if you don't please."

That's confidence. Those two cats don't care. Watch them closely and you will see they lack all empathy. They are sociopaths, prepared to ruin Lady's life because it is fun and it serves them.

In the years since I first saw Lady and the Tramp I have met many cats with many different types of mental illnesses. (Though all of them seem to me to be at least a little mentally ill.) But Disney has left me with a subtle but distinct prejudice against this sleek little breed.

I know this is a trifle. It hardly matters. How often does one come across a Siamese cat? But it does give me pause, wondering what effect other portrayals might have had, not only on myself, but on others. There are far worse prejudices than those against a sleek cat and there have been portrayals both subtle and not that may be working back there to poison us. Like the flavor of a bad mango they do not go easily away.

no.45 - The Ungoogleable

I went to school with Leslie Nielsen. She was neither a star of goofball police comedies, nor was she a man. She was small, tough and unbelievably fast.

I knew her, but not well. I have no recollection of spending time with her outside of school, but the photo left shows that, at least once, I did. (she's the one on the right making a kissy face)

The other girl in the photo (left), is Amy, my good friend for many, many years. Somehow, after college, we fell out of touch. From time to time I would think about her, and wonder where she was and how she was doing. I tried to Google her a few times, but never with any luck.

Then, one day, Google's links seemed to reach further into the ether. Through some Googley detective work, I was able to locate a band she had been in, contact one of its current members, and get Amy's e-mail.

It was gratifying to learn she is well, happy and still involved in music. I was lucky there was only one musically inclined Amy Mackey on the internet.

Leslie Nielson
Originally uploaded by blinkofaneye

As for Leslie Nielsen, I have no idea what became of her and, if I wanted to find out, she is completely unGoogleable, obscured in cyberspace by the star of Naked Gun and Forbidden Planet.

She is not alone. The world is full of unGoogleable people whose identity is obscured by the famous or the infamous; who can't be found because their accomplishments are not listed online, or because their name is so common that they are buried in an avalanche of others. The googleSphere is a mixed up place.

Take Elizabeth Mitchell, singer in the band Ida, whose album You are my Little Bird my daughter adores. We were once briefly friends, too. She shares a Google search with the perpetually smirking actress on Lost, another singer who was part of a European disco cult band of the 70's and 80's, one of New Zealand's leading clothes designers and a fascinating paper and book artist. It's a good thing she has a picture on her site, and is one of the top five Elizabeth Mitchells in the world, or she too would be unGoogleable.

But of all the unGoogleable people in the world, the one I would most like to find is Mosley. (pictured right)

My wife and I are - or were - once her good friends. She helped my wife get her first job in Boston, and then disappeared to London. There were rumors and stories about the things she was doing there, including affecting an English accent, but as someone who starts to drawl after three minutes of thinking about Barbeque, I can tell you that such criticisms were both unfair, and unfounded.

Somehow on our honeymoon a few years later, (when the internet was but a digital embryo) we were able to find her again, have tea and reconnect.

She hosted us on our next trip to London and seeing her again was easy, comfortable and great fun. Then, without a word, she disappeared from our lives again, perhaps forever.

She was not, and is not missing, but I think she does not wish to be found. I don't know why this would be. Maybe she changed in some way that embarrassed her, like becoming a staunch conservative, or maybe she decided I'm only half as smart as I think I am. I am begining doubt we will ever know.

She is unGoogleable, cloaked between the inventor of Quality Circle Time, and a fictional character on a tween oriented Nickelodeon show that was canceled last year. She is unGoogleable, no matter how you spell or mispell her name, or what you know about her father and Tron or her Cafe, Aurora.

Perhaps she likes it this way.

Jennifer DeSola Mosely is unGoogleable, no matter how you spell it, but I am not. If you Google Greg Katsoulis, I am easy to find.

So, to take a page from Lynda Barry's book, 100 Demons: Jennifer Desola Moseley, if you're reading this, "Hello, it's me."