In Alaska, for some reason, snowmobiles are called “snowmachines.”  This confuses Californians, who think that’s a machine that makes snow.

Snowmachines are a convenient mode of transportation between September and May, especially for kids too young to drive, or when you’re going somewhere the roads don’t go, or where the roads don’t get plowed.

Personally, I just liked to go fast.  I’d take our family snowmachine out to the neighbor’s barley field and open her up.  It was probably close to a half-mile of clean, wide, flat land without any hint of obstacle.  Go straight, and go fast — upwards of 80 mph.  I’d roar up and down that field for hours at a time.

One day, presumably after it had been a little windy, I accidentally discovered a snowdrift on the first run.  Drifts can be rock hard, and though it was probably only 2 feet high, it made a heck of a ramp at the speed I was going.  The snowmachine leapt under me, and we flew into the air, which came as quite a surprise to me.

If you find yourself accidentally jumping a snowmachine at high speed, let me give you a word of advice:  Don’t let off the gas.

That’s what I did.  The big rear treads stopped while I was in the air, so when the snowmachine landed, they acted like a giant brake.  My body, having taken off slightly later than the snowmachine, had gone a bit higher and was taking longer coming down, so when the machine came down my ass was still up, and I was tossed ham over tea kettle over the windshield at high velocity.  Whee!

I was wearing a helmet (mostly as a windbreak; I wasn’t planning to hit my head) and a considerable amount of cold weather gear that made excellent padding.  As I was flying through the air, my top thought was, “Please, please don’t let the snowmachine run over me.”  Of course, since it slowed much faster than I did, that wasn’t a problem.  I tumbled and tumbled through the snow for perhaps 75 feet before coming to a bruised and sore stop.

I lay there for a few moments evaluating my body, and once I determined nothing was broken, I crawled back on the still-idling snowmachine and crept home at a leisurely pace.  Every part of my body was sore for a week.

I learned to scout thoroughly before going all out.  And that wrecks can hurt.

Anguish (1987) is a bad horror flick about some crazed optometrist who cuts out people’s eyes and collects them in jars. When I saw this movie in the theatre, I was getting bored (and repulsed), and I whispered to my companion, “If this doesn’t get better in ten minutes, let’s leave.” Just then, the camera pulled back to reveal a theatre, and a girl onscreen whispered to her friend, “This movie sucks. Let’s leave.” I was hooked. (What perfect timing!)

The plot went back and forth between the optometrist movie and the girl in the theatre movie (there was a crazed killer who had watched the optometrist movie hundreds of times), and of course the finale is in a theatre, so I’m looking over at rows of seats to the screen, which had girls looking over rows of seats to a screen, which had other people looking over rows of seats to a screen… Beautiful. Had me looking behind me a lot. Shitty movie, anyway, and it wouldn’t work on video, but delicious in its way.

This movie is unusual in that I could just as easily rate it *1/2.  And it’s not even in the “so bad it’s good” category.

Chapter III
Coral and Myrtle

For now, we must leave the Snore and return to what is happening to Coral. Or, rather, what is happening inside her head.

Coral had awoken from her nap, and was preparing herself for the long school day ahead. She had no idea just how long and hard a day she was in for.

Inside Coral’s head, Brother Yawn was waking up from his nap. Or, rather, he was awoken by the sound of a Snore screaming in terror. You see, Yawns have excellent hearing. And Yawns are closely related to Snores, and thus on very friendly terms with them. This Yawn was no different from the rest of them. As soon as he heard the scream, he rushed out of Coral’s ear and headed towards the sound of the Snore’s voice. But, while Brother Yawn flies off to rescue the Snore, I must tell you more about Coral and Myrtle.

Coral Mithendril was an 11 year old girl who at that time had no knowledge of the abnormal. She was born in Europe and moved to America when she was 2 years old. She spoke both French and English and was best friends with Myrtle Mithendril. However, she was nothing like Myrtle, which you will realize in a moment.

Myrtle Willowflew was also an 11 year old girl. She was born in California and had nothing about her that made her seem very different from anyone else. But she was different. Very different. Because Myrtle Willowflew was a cyborg.

Now, I don’t mean that half of her limbs are made of steel or anything. When she was 9 years old, she was outside in her garden. Suddenly, a giant shadow covered the garden, and the next thing she knew she was in a  room full of strange things. There were tables covered with strange colored chemicals, and machines of unimaginable technology and size. She got up and walked over to the door, which looked like and was made of steel and definitely secure. There was a complicated looking combination lock by the door. By focusing on it hard, she was able to crack the code that opened the door. How did she do this? She had a computer in her brain.

My friend Greg had an interesting observation:  When we’re in our college years, all of our peers are so ridiculously good looking that half of us are pretty much doomed to fall in the “below average” category.  But when we’re in our forties, so many of us have failed to take care of our bodies that with just a little effort it’s pretty easy to become hotter than the average schlub.

We can ignore all our genetics and hit the gym, and getting into the top ten percent is a great possibility.

Sweet.

Is it possible to get laser hair removal on one’s ears?  I feel like I’m turning into a blippin’ werewolf.  If I had as much hair on my chest as I do in my ears, I’d unbutton my shirt and get some gold medallions.

My friend Howard has a good term for a common relationship problem:  Impedance Mismatch.

In electronics, that’s when the input load and the output load aren’t balanced, so there are electrical reflections, inefficiency, waste heat, and all sorts of problems.

When people have differing expectations from their relationship, you get pretty much the same thing.  One person thinks they should meet once a week, while the other thinks once a day would be better.  One thinks marriage and children, one thinks weekend fun.  One thinks the day is best spent playing solitaire and surfing the web, the other thinks, you know, maybe some work should be done.

Impedance mismatch.

Recognizing that there’s a mismatch is the most important step to reducing it.

Three years ago I did a spreadsheet of my stock market returns since I started my IRA in 1997 and Mary’s in 1999, and found we had annual returns of over 20%.  Whoohoo!  I’m smart.

Alas, three years later, I’m less of a genius.  My annualized returns are around 2.5%, while Mary’s are negative 1%.  Ouch!  Our prospects of having zillions in the bank at age 70 seem much dimmer.

On the plus side, we have no mortgage, we have cash in the bank, and everybody’s healthy.  Life is good.

Lyra Meadow (9) was feeling left out, so she made her own list of complaints about her mom.

Everybody knows that Mary is a much better parent than I am, and that no mother loves or is loved as much, so the irony that she gets these lists while useless Dad escapes scot-free eludes no one.

Ignoring duplicates, here’s Lyra’s list:

2. Mom says she’s tired when I want to play.
8. Mom won’t get us a kitten.
9. Mom takes me to stores without buying anything.
12. Mom almost never tucks me in at night.
15. One night, TV OK at 8:40.  The next night, no TV at 8:30.
16. Mom feels for the raccoon that KILLED BIPPY!
21. Mom buys too much broccoli and never enough apples or cucumbers.
24. Mom laughs at me.

All in all, though, she’s the best mom I could have.

(Written by Mira, my 11 year old daughter.)

1. Mom never makes promises because she always breaks them.
2. Mom hates driving more than 10 minutes for me.
3. Mom likes driving 2 hours to boring grown-up places.
4. Mom never wants to go to fun parties.
5. Mom makes us play with annoying toddlers.
6. Mom has grown-ups over that stay up too late.
7. Mom hates chatting with my friends’ parents.
8. Mom flakes on all my playdates.
9. Mom makes up bad excuses, then uses them over and over again.
10. Mom talks on the phone way too much.
11. Mom always helps Lyra with homework, but not me.
12. Mom’s soul has been consumed by Facebook, Tetris, and wine.
13. Mom gets mad when I make fun of Lyra.
14. Mom makes fun of me.
15. Mom blames my being grumpy on being tired or hungry.
16. Mom gets angry and then denies it.
17. Mom has a curse that makes her farty.
18. Mom never pays my allowance.
19. Mom never goes shopping when and where I want to.
20. Mom always wants to shop for pants and shoes.
21. Mom tie-dyes everything.
22. Mom never does the laundry anymore.
23. Mom never buys anything computery and says it’s “Dad stuff.”
24. Mom always clips corners in the car.
25. Mom promised to pay me a dollar for this list, but I know she won’t.

I don’t have any real phobias, but I do have an unusual aversion to touching used food.

Stacking dirty plates on top of each other gives me the willies.  The thought of putting my fingers in other people’s used food is something I find unpleasant.

Ironically, this means I do dishes a lot, even though this comes perilously close to the thing I hate most.  When the meal is done, I tend to be the first to jump up and clear the table, because then I can do it without stacking the dishes, which would lead to me thinking about sticking my fingers between them to pry them apart.

Eww.

I have a dog largely so I can set the dishes on the floor and have them licked thoroughly clean before I have to handle them.

I always empty the dishwasher of clean dishes, so that dirty dishes can go directly in there, without being stacked in the sink.  I hate that.

I have no idea where this quirk comes from.  I don’t mind eating with my hands — I’m always the first to pick up those barbecued pork chops, and I don’t mind licking my fingers of K-Fry grease, and anyone will tell you that my “five second rule” stretches as long as it needs to.  I am not a neatnik by any stretch, and I’m a total food swashbuckler.

Just don’t squish food between two dishes.