Great Caesar's Ghost

PROLOGUE: Lend me your eyes. Look at that picture, man. Isn't that a thing of beauty? I'll say it is, since I worked on it and am in some degree responsible for it. (I didn't make the original, of course, since I can't draw flies.) Looks like Julius Caesar, too, doesn't it? In a chariot being pulled by a couple brute animals, bred back then for that purpose. I really like the trees, how they stand out, evocative of entire trees but only a few random limbs or trunks.

NON-PROLOGUE: I'm making my way through The Adventures of Superman TV show again. And as I already well know from childhood, Daily Planet editor Perry White's go-to expression of outburst -- astonishment or disbelief -- is "Great Caesar's Ghost!" At some point in the first 8 or 10 episodes, he says it a time or two. It stands out more for me now as an old man than it did years ago when I was a kid. Because people just don't say things like that anymore. No more than we'd say a similar phrase that old people (on TV anyway) used to use, "Land of Goshen!" Now they just say "What the hell" or worse.

Later in the series there's even an episode in which some guys gaslight Perry White, with one guy dressing as Caesar and showing up at Perry's home, etc. He's got the weird helmet they used in Roman times, a kind of mini-skirt of mail, the strap-em laces and boots, legs a'showin', the whole bit. Perry is of course taken in and doesn't know what to think, how to overcome the nauseating effects of the whole scheme. Superman flies in and tidies it up, sending the faux Caesar down the Appian Way to the closest clink.

Perry White and the '50s aren't so terribly far away. Kind of a while back. I was born then -- how about that? -- so even though I'm getting older all the time, I'm not exactly ancient history. Yet when's the last time you heard someone use the expression "Great Caesar's Ghost"? It has to have been a while. Anything else sounds better. What the hell? What the fuck? What in Sam Hell? Goddammit to a Christless Hell is one I use from time to time, which is very interesting, isn't it? I am very invested in the Lord, let me put it that way ... He's building for me a cabin in the corner of Gloryland, and some glad morning I'll wake up there, arrange my things, take a shower, and go out to see what it's all about. Now, if there were a Hell in the traditional sense of the word, isn't it damned awful that it would somehow be entirely apart from Christ, Logos, and even an ounce of good or light? I shudder... I used to dream of it as a kid, brought up in the church when Hell was the main attraction week after week.

But no one in the show ever offers up (in my memory) surprise at "Great Caesar's Ghost!" Not Jimmy, Lois, Clark, or even Superman. They put up with Perry's brusqueness and just chalk up the expression to "Everyone's gotta say something, we guess." It's a personality device, his catchphrase, and that's all there is to it. It makes me wonder when they were doing the writing that someone actually pitched the "Great Caesar's Ghost" episode, since it assumes a guy who says a phrase would be especially susceptible to it being literally true. I don't see that. We're usually able to separate blank expressions from daily reality very easily.

I should read up on Julius Caesar a little more. Maybe I'd dream of him. Maybe I will now, having written this. "You summoned me, here I am! None of those other people can see me, only you." Etcetera, etc., and so forth... I know I'll be terrified -- maybe that's true. It could be one of my patron saints, George Reeves, will swoop in and save me. Let's hope, shall we? that George Reeves, whatever happened to him long ago, also has a corner in Gloryland. And that he and I get to be fast friends. My so-called friends from long ago used to (not often) taunt me that Superman killed himself, etc.

That's it! I get to Heaven, I immediately find George Reeves. Then we get together with the whole Superman gang, and go find John Hamilton (Perry White), and Julius Caesar -- say he somehow makes it -- and we have a damned ball? How about that?! I'll take that over a Christless Hell any day of the week.

Newsletter -- Mother Whistled For Me

Friends, I'm sorry to report, this is going to be bad news. I've lost -- I'll repeat that -- I've lost all control of the newsletter. It is now in the hands of my former staff lady, Myra Kula Electra.

This is a disaster of the most gigantic proportions, not to be equaled (in my opinion) by anything in all of recorded history. I'm thinking of the time I fell through the ice when I was about 12 and almost froze to death. This is worse. Because I loved my newsletter, I gave birth to it, I expected to grow old with it. If you were lucky enough to get a subscription, I'm sorry, it's gone, finito.

I've been out of touch on the blog -- and I know you've been wondering what's going on -- but it was through no fault of my own. I was more or less unconscious (in a hypnotic stupor) for the last few days. Yes, I have had scattered moments of normal consciousness, which I have had to use wisely, leaving no extra time for blogging. In a stupor of this sort you lose control of certain bodily functions, which means extended periods of unpleasant clean-up. Made worse in this case by having to go out for baby wipes and not making it home till the next day.

Here's what happened. One, Myra Kula Electra is one duplicitous so-and-so. I suppose I should've seen it coming when she was willing to have sex in public with four prisoners on July 4. I don't know what I chalked that up to entirely, although I saw the prisoners as the aggressors. It looks now like she wanted me to get mad at them, as I did, and send them back to the work release farm, as I did, leaving the field to steal the newsletter wide open for her.

With the prisoners gone, she and I had a good couple of days, growing in a tender friendship, I thought. Once I have a relationship like that, I'm very open; it's a family weakness. I want to make a good impression and I see total honesty as the way. So I went on and on, sharing the stories of my life. Not even once thinking she might ever use it against me.

What an idiot I am! This was Myra Kula Electra I was dealing with! THE Myra Kula Electra! Who writes the famous scandal stories in the Daily News, front page stuff. Teachers seducing students, treasurers embezzling millions, deals made through bribery, penis pictures in the legislature, children cheating in the spelling bee, sordid, lascivious, disgusting, terrible stuff, you name it. Why would a guy in his right mind -- me -- feel comfortable telling someone like her his weaknesses? He'd have to be an idiot!

I told her how easy it is to hypnotize me, which was my biggest mistake. Because who better to misuse that information than a strong scandal-mongering woman like her. We're not talking about a fainting violet in Myra Kula Electra! No, she's as tough as they come and she knows it -- compared to her nails are spaghetti. So I'm easy to hypnotize. And then I gave away the whole store, revealing that "Whistler's Mother" is my Kryptonite. If I just glance at "Whistler's Mother" I feel faint, but I still have the power to turn away. But if it's right in my face, let's say, I'm a goner, open to anything that ... say ... someone with an evil agenda might suggest.

Thank goodness I didn't tell her the one thing that brings me out of it! Because that's what saved me. And I'm only glad I even got hungry, because the short periods of consciousness were getting fewer and farther between. Mostly taken up, as I said, by personal hygiene. But after a few days of it I was mostly cleaned out, and feeling hungry again. When I instinctively opened the freezer and caught a glimpse of freezer-burnt round steak, and that was it -- I completely snapped out of it! That's the only antidote I know of.

The whole thing was now instantly clear to me. Like the guy on Queensrÿche's Operation: Mindcrime album, "I remember now..."

Myra had gone out on errands, I was in the house. I saw her pull in later and go into the garage. She messaged me to come out. And when I did there were large copies of "Whistler's Mother" hung everywhere, with Myra blocking the door. Then when I was in a stupor, she directed me, "Sign here," etc. Which were legally binding contracts, signed unwillingly, yes, but I can't prove it! I'm stymied! I'm looking at my copy right now. Fortunately she stopped at just the newsletter or I wouldn't have a place to sit my butt, as I am now doing, to cry.

I know I let everyone down. You were expecting a newsletter, and now what? It's gone! She even thought of a non-competition clause, that I can't start a new newsletter or serve on the staff of one till my death, at which time, face it, it'll be moot.

I hate, despise, loathe, and curse the name of Myra Kula Electra. She disgusts me like few things do. But I won't allow her to get the last word. I'm cancelling my subscription to the Daily News. Putting a dagger in that puppy right now...

THE END.

Jor-el, Stun Gun Ablaze, Protects Billionaire

Tons of people have been milling around my half-acre. Proving billionaires also have groupies. Not so much for me, but the billionaire. Although when they learn the details of my own fortune -- $2.1 billion ain't chickenfeed -- I'll be in for it, too.

How well I remember how Elvis had these problems, so he had a big fence and gates around his place. And he, in all his awesomeness, was only a multimillionaire. I can see a huge expense in my future, not just for a fence, but dogs, a moat, flaming buckets of pitch, the works. Let every casualty be a warning to others!

So I was at home all day. I called the police to come clear the property. I could tell he was holding his hand over the phone and talking to someone. He came back on and said they were busy. I asked when would they be free? He said they're always busy. Lesson: Don't piss off the police, like I did when I said I could play them like a cheap fiddle.

I kept looking out because I was waiting for a friend, Garrett Al. The billionaire wanted a local assistant and asked if I knew anyone. I thought right away of Garrett Al, because we go way back. Not that we haven't had our moments. He was "all hands" and violent a few years ago, which freaked me out. But he got his head on straight, underwent a cosmic conversion, renamed himself, and has been a great guy.

I went to the door and motioned him to come in quickly, then I about shut the door on some other guy's hand. These people were out there with big handfuls of overdue bills, looking for help. Seeking an audience with the great ones. If someone doesn't talk me out of it, I will get a stun gun! Do not try me!

The billionaire took my word for Garrett Al, and was intrigued by the cosmic conversion stuff. We call him Garrett Al, of course; that's his name. My own playful name for him over the years has been Geritol, which sounds similar. Then, in 2010, Garrett Al was channeling Kryptonian energy (he's in a Superman reenactors club), and realized that "Garrett Al" sounds also like "Jor-el," Superman's father. He took on that persona and started having more of a mind for the stars, the energy of the heavens, and the movement of the planets. It was touch and go for a while, but we found if we could keep him away from Cape Canaveral he was OK.

I remember an amazing time when Jor-el took the robes of a prophet, and as a sign gargled for 30 minutes straight, a dramatic warning, one we could not ignore, of "rumblings of troubles" for the future. Later, he cooked a piece of toast to warn that our cause was "toast," followed by unzipping his pants under his prophetic robe to give this message, "We're screwed." So you can see, this is a serious guy, the perfect guy to have as your assistant.

We sat around the table -- Garrett Al, the billionaire, and me -- and were laughing about those days and Garrett Al's glory. I gave him some faux complaints, like, "Why didn't you just come right out and say there were 'rumblings of troubles'?" He laughed and joked, "Get me a glass of water and I'll tell you." Then he turned serious and said, "I had some weird interplay of the left and right brains. They were doing a dance and I was gripped by a force. I simply gave the message I got." I said, "Yeah, but prophets are supposed to have control over themselves." He pointed, "Touché, so true, but not newbies." The billionaire was lucky to get a guy with so much understanding.

The billionaire said, "For your first task, do you think you can clear the yard so we can get the hell out of here?" Instead of answering, Garrett Al went into a trance. We sat there for several moments that seemed like eons. Then I watched Geritol, a man transfixed by a force not of this world. And in a flash, Jor-el was to his feet and bolted for his car. Also in a flash, he brandished a stun gun, like a gunslinger from the old west. Hangers-on were falling everywhere, with others raising their hands, screaming and begging to be spared. Feverishly they motioned for him to let them remove the stunned victims, and, showing such extraordinary mercy, Garrett Al allowed it.

It might've been too much. I'm sure we'll face charges. But whatever, at least they won't be charges like Geritol pumped into that crowd! Whew! Finally, we were able to get out and go for dinner, the three of us sharing a lovely evening.

Great Caesar's Ghost

Was Julius Caesar evil? I'm asking. For once in my life I'm not trying to conceal my ignorance. I know virtually nothing about him. I tried to read him in Latin one time. But not knowing Latin it was a tough go, and I made it up to about page 4. I know he traveled around doing stuff, to England, building walls, etc., but that's about it. And I read Shakespeare, the play where he got killed midway through.

My other exposure was the Adventures of Superman episode where he (apparently) comes back from the dead and appears to Perry White, who has a catchphrase, "Great Caesar's ghost!" The way that episode goes, if memory serves, is that it's just more Adventures of Superman two-bit thugs out to swindle Perry for a few bucks. I love the old Superman show, but there was never much there.

For my purposes today, Great Caesar is very evil, and his ghost, being him, is also very evil. And that's me saying it, who basically doesn't believe in ghosts. Well, I've had some scary moments in my life where I've imagined there were ghosts, like when I was a little kid. The last thing I wanted to be dealing with -- and my main Superman days were when I was little -- would've been Great Caesar's ghost!

It's easy to imagine the ghosts of the great -- the infamous great -- was being around. They were larger than life, therefore they're larger than death. They did their mean crap when they were alive, and now that they're dead, they still have the moxy-on-the-ball to get out there and do mean crap. I could probably toss out Hitler, since he always comes to mind when it comes to evil. And Julius Caesar, whose evil I'm not even sure about.

Whatever the reason, he's back with a vengeance, no doubt because he's dead and wants to share his misery with us. He's a ghost, that's one word for it, but he's also a shade, a somewhat freakier ghost. You see him when the light's right, and before you can get a handle on what you're seeing, he's gone!

What precisely he's sharing of his misery, I haven't had personal experience. Except I know it can't be good. Likely much of it's passive, afflicting the vulnerable. Like Perry White, who was very vulnerable in that episode. Tired, dragged-out, listless, with very little resistance. He needed Jimmy Olsen and Jimmy's pal, Superman, to help.

All evil must be dealt with. Please vote Democratic.

The Reluctant Hero

This is the kind of hero I like, a reluctant one, who has to realize his potential heroism. He got bit by a spider, nothing happened. He fell into a vat of nuclear waste, nothing happened. And he took a course on the history of comic book superheroes, which bored him to tears, all the cliches. But when the subject came up, What about you? he said meekly, "Who? Me?"

All this happened in Mediapolis, where he was born, and where someday they'll erect a statue to him. As for now, the police are chasing him, with all their expensive gear bought with Homeland Security largesse. When the whole terrorism scare of the 2000s took place -- when we were so terrified we even renamed French fries -- H.S. was delivering gigantic amounts of money to small police stations in large unmarked suitcases in large unmarked trucks. So they ended up with a lot of unnecessary command units -- mostly used to monitor unsuspicious activity at the July 4th parade, kids taking pieces of their brother's cotton candy, etc. -- and stun guns, poison darts, tasers, lasers, and a few smart guns that hit their target but cannot kill, grazers.

What they didn't have was a super hero. Till this guy -- whose secret identity is so secret that even I, the omniscient narrator, don't know it -- said to himself, not repeating it anyone, "What about me?" I get that feeling once in a while. There's no reason it couldn't be me, although in this case it was him, since I don't live in Mediapolis. He accepted the call and came charging on the scene. Please don't get bored to tears, I'm hoping this gets better...

Now, the Reluctant Hero has a close ally, who presumably know his secret identity, his mother. She's in on all the local gossip, and flashes his sign in the sky, the insignia seen above. A question mark, indicating his reluctance, and a lightning bolt, showing his later determination. If it's night, he pops up out of bed, going, "What? At this hour? Am I supposed to be watching the sky all night? What kind of life is that? And if the crime happens in broad daylight, what then? If it's not a cloudy day, how am I ever going to see it?"

All right, he has the Reluctant Heromobile, nothing like the fancy stuff the Mediapolis police have, just a typical junker, an old Ford Taurus, reluctant to start, outfitted with a few tools, various extinguishers, grappling hooks, and a cotton candy machine for the kids. And whereas the police are stymied -- they have so much fancy Homeland Security equipment they barely know how to use -- the Reluctant Hero puts the pedal to the metal and gets the job done.

His super powers are: 1. Force of personality by virtue of his determination, and, 2. Miracles. Thinks what he wants to happen. A quick pose as a question mark, followed by thrusting his arms, one up, one down, like lightning. The sound of thunder rumbles through the town. He nods his head and it's done.

He rushes in, clunks the crooks' heads together and ties them up. He leaves them in a pile by the road. He breaks up domestic disputes, and leaves the perpetrator, sometimes a woman, usually a man, but sometimes a woman, tied up in a pile by the road. He rushes into schools where there's a fight going on, ties up the perpetrators and leaves them tied up in a pile by the road, then makes cotton candy for the innocent.

What are the police doing all this time? They eventually show up to collect the piles of human rubbish. But most of the time they have their wives on their mind, or their girlfriends -- sexual stuff -- and they want to get back to them quickly, so they're not very dedicated. That particular area needs single, fearless guys, to set aside the Homeland Security gadgetry and simply charge in with a sword. Anyone can handle a sword. You slice and dice, nothing to it.

As of right now -- and the police think he's a criminal himself, which is what also happened to both the Lone Ranger and Superman when they started out --  the Reluctant Hero has bested the police every time. May they someday say the same thing of all of us, or something equally glorious.

It's A Bird!

Must has been written about birds, everything from what they have in the encyclopedia to whole books exclusively about them. One of our most famous bird experts was Audubon, who wouldn't have had anything to do if it weren't for birds. We have birdwatchers, bird cameras, and birdbaths. I personally own a birdbath, and it might actually have water in it.

Even with so much being written about birds, I sincerely believe the world can stand one more article. And so this is it.

My interest in birds today has to do with the famous opening to the "Adventures of Superman" show from the '50s, starring George Reeves. A crowd is gathered below, all looking up, and a kid yells, "It's a bird!" It strikes me as funny that he would be so excited about seeing a bird that he would yell out in a crowd and point at it with so much urgency. Hadn't he ever personally seen a bird before?

It could be that Superman was flying by so fast, so the kid thought he saw a very fast flying bird. Or that Superman, being the size of a man, would have made a spectacularly large bird. And instead of describing the possible bird as large or fast, which would have required some time, he just yelled out the shorter version, "It's a bird!"

But is it reasonable that there would be a bird the size of a man flying above, or a bird flying that fast? It could be that they hadn't seen Superman that much, except the last voice gets it right, "It's Superman!" So Superman isn't a stranger to these people over the skies of Metropolis. Making the original bird comment sound kind of dumb.

What other times was he mistaken? At Christmas when he had a package holding a wristwatch and he thought it might be a bicycle? "It's a bike!" "No, Billy, it's a watch, it's a little small to be a bike."

Birds. I see them everyday and it's not that exciting. Yet, think of it, these are flying creatures, without a flying machine! They just know how to fly. It's amazing. And it's really amazing when you consider where birds came from, according to what scientists say. DINOSAURS! That's some pretty tough genes birds have.

The dinosaurs, some of them anyway, started flapping whatever appendages they had. Maybe they were near a cliff and some of them actually glided to safety. These ones kept reproducing, showing their young by example how to jump off a cliff, with the very adaptable ones landing, meaning these would be the ones to reproduce. And guess what? It was the smaller dinosaurs that generally landed, meaning birds would progressively be smaller than their dinosaur ancestors. Once they took to the sky, there were no rules to hold them back. So that is exciting.

Naturally, the whole business with dinosaurs and this progression from dinosaur to bird took ages to be accomplished. By the time we got to Bible times, then, relatively not that long ago, birds were already old enough to be considered a particularly created species. So they fooled everybody, even Moses, perhaps. Maybe Moses knew; I don't want to dis Moses. If he wasn't ignorant of the whole matter, maybe he simply felt the time wasn't right to spring it on the world that birds came from dinosaurs.

Superman turned out definitely to not be a bird. Let's look back way before the TV show and earlier serial films. If you go way back, Superman didn't even fly, he just made big leaps. He was subject to gravity. This fact of leaping carried over to the phrase, "Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound."

The Bottled City Of Heaven

I don't know the whole story of the bottled city of Kandor, from Superman comics. The last time I remember reading about it was in the '60s, so I guess I forgot this panel about Brainiac having shrunk it to microscopic size. Of course, if your city is suddenly microscopic, it had to get that way somehow.

But I do remember Superman having custody of Kandor. Presumably he drops in an occasional gram of food, like we used to feed Sea Monkeys, and everyone there lives happily ever after. If you need someone to look after you, Superman would be a good guy to do it. Superman as I remember him, that is. Now that he's renouncing his American citizenship after all these years, it sounds like he's changed.

Maybe Superman's no longer an American for some greater good. I hate to question his motives when I have no idea what they are. It's not like I'm a Republican or something.

The only thing I know about Superman anymore is what I read in the papers. Just going by some of the pictures they show of him from the comics, he looks a lot tougher and grittier than he used to be. It probably has to do with a more jaded society, where we (not me) like more ambiguity than good versus evil in our super heroes. If I had my way, I would've shrunk him and kept him in my own miniature Kandor, still in his '60s incarnation. But two things would kill Superman, kryptonite, and not being allowed to change with the times.

That's enough about Superman.

I've been thinking about spiritual matters lately, and a couple weeks ago I was thinking, What if Heaven's like the bottled city of Kandor somewhere? Let's say the souls of everyone are microscopic or not even material, just very subtle, indiscernibly small to even the most powerful electron microscope. You could have billions of them in a square inch. Like billions of bacteria under your fingernail. And so, with a regular bottle, about the size of Kandor in relation to Superman, you'd have quite an expansive place for us to romp, roam, and explore. You would travel a million years just to reach the side of the bottle.

Or the bottle could be about the size around of a sequoia tree. That'd give a microscopic soul virtually endless room for venturing into vast uncharted territory. Every time a piece of Sea Monkey food fell in, which is very small stuff, it'd be like the size of the moon crashing around us. Each little quadrant would be provided for like that, plus some other goodies, like a granule of sugar (to us the size of Mt. Everest) every few days, scratch that, every couple thousand years.

I'd be happy in there. Look at it this way, it'd be like what we have now. We're more or less restricted to the ground and don't have infinite room to roam. If there were a big bottle enclosing us, that'd be reality, we wouldn't have known anything different, and we'd be happy. Conserving the environment would be keeping our bottle clean. If Heaven's just a big bottle, and let's say we still have our 'trashing the environment' ways, God could just use a transporter to move us to a new bottle. If God had a big roomful of spare bottles, we could easily live there forever. A bottle, Sea Monkey food, and sugar, I'm happy.

The fact is, God could be microscopic, and big things just one of God's jokes. That'd be relatively funny.

Your Basic Standard Twin Ice Machine

First, the bad news: I'm not going to be writing about ice machines everyday, as popular as I know that'd be. The idea appeals to me, too, but it'd be such a monumental task, all the traveling, the research, etc. It's a lot easier to just make a few incidental remarks about ice machines in general than it is to have to really know a lot about them, their specs, information on the manufacturers, the history of them, and so forth.

Still, if I'm going to be the kind of fanatic and expert on them that will get me a sure booking on the Travel Channel, it wouldn't hurt occasionally to look like I'm at least going through the motions. So I'll be doing a post every once in a while on the subject, and, just between you and me, I'll probably be inflating some of this stuff, like the number of ice machines I've actually visited. At first I was thinking I'd need to visit 12,000 of them to be a qualified expert. But now I'm thinking I can just count each one as 100, because there's so many of the same kind.

So guess what ... yesterday I visited 200 ice machines, and I have pictures from both of them! That's a lot of driving to get to 200 ice machines, believe me. You get out of the car, go over and check it out, get back in the car and rush off to the next one. And since you see them everywhere, every convenience store, every liquor store, and lots of grocery stores, there's a lot of stop and go driving. It's kind of boring really.

I got a pretty good picture of one of them, seen above. (Let me say, I'm referring to these as "ice machines," but that might be an inaccurate term. I really don't know what's going on inside. But they're more or less just big freezers storing ice that some guy put in them, aren't they? The machine part, if that's the right term, would just be the mechanical apparatus keeping the freezer working. But I'm going to keep calling them ice machines, since I've already started.)

The picture shows an ice machine model that seems to be pretty common, a double whammy, and I saw 200 of them just today alone, so that's an awesome statistic. All this time, having been a guy who hasn't paid attention to ice machines, I thought they were all single whammies, like the one they discovered on Mars a couple years back. Single whammies are what I seem to recall from when I was a kid. But, clearly, these days they're going for the double wides.

The big advantage, I'm guessing, to the double wides is that they can stock twice as much ice, meaning it won't run out until the delivery guy gets back, who now shows up only half as often. I was wondering today what they call the double wide machines -- I've been calling them double wides, double whammies, the twins, or just a double. When they break down, I was guessing they're probably called double trouble or terrible twins...

As is seen in the picture, the machine makes a nice presentation. The white color is very clean. This particular design goes way back, so it's built up a lot of goodwill among the buying public. Everyone knows this machine is going to have ice that you won't be ashamed to use. Again, personally I would prefer the single, since that's what I grew up with. The doubles have about twice the size of what I'd like to see. But I don't object to the double on any moral grounds, nor would I have any big objection to buying ice from one, if I bought ice, which I don't usually. I bought some for a picnic years ago, but that's it. Even so, I'd rather buy it from a single, but that's just me. I'm wondering if the demand is really that great, or could it be the ice man is simply greedy?

Be that as it may, at least it's not a triple or a quadruple, so we can be thankful it's only a double.

I'm glad I took the picture of this machine when I did. Because, you might not believe this, my phone went on the fritz soon afterward. For the last few months my camera has been adding a green, weird effect to all pictures. But a week or so ago it started working right again. Then today, a little while after I took the picture above of the first 100 machines, it quit working again.

Evening came and I was out, and I thought I may as well get another 100 under my belt, so I took this closeup of a machine. I wanted to just get the ICE part from the top as a closeup. It wasn't till I got home, then, that I noticed the camera had crapped out again. Those aren't the true colors of the sign. I didn't check it while I was there, because I was worried that the store manager might be wondering why a guy was taking pictures of his ice machine. That's what I thought about the first one I took, too. Since video cameras are extensively in use, there's videos of me taking pictures of ice machines 200 times today alone! After a while, you'd think they'll start wondering what's up with this guy? And maybe the police will set me down for some very earnest questioning.


AN ICE FANTASY:

While I was driving today looking at ice machines, I had a fantasy about some characters from the original Adventures of Superman show from the '50s.

In this fantasy scene, Herb Vigran is of course the boss and John Doucette is the underling, and they're breaking into someone's home to steal a bunch of jewels.

Herb Vigran, in his stern, hard voice says, "I wonder where they keep the ice." John Doucette, in his goofiest voice, replies, "Uh, I think they keep it in the freezer, boss." Herb: "Not that ice, Stupid!" John suddenly remembers why they're there and says, "Oh yeah, the ice!"

Jor-el -- Residential Industrialism's Unwelcome Prophet

This, I can't believe. It's too far out there. Not with how good things have been going. It doesn't gibe. Common sense says no. This takes the wind out of me.

Can't anything go right? Where's this guy get off? Did he have to show up? Of all people, now supposedly with a prophetic perspective on things? All doom and gloom, like anyone wants to hear that. I don't want to hear that. All these things, I was thinking.

We were at the school. Some of the neighbor companies rented the gym for a nice ceremony, so they could present me my "Super Brain" plaque and bouquet of roses. What's his face -- Ted Spooner -- was giving a talk and I was looking at my watch, thinking of lost production time. When this guy shows up -- Garrett Al -- and the conclave parts like the Red Sea to let him through.

He was accompanied by some neighbor kids who set off a half dozen firecrackers, and that got our attention; the acoustics in the gym are brutal. I looked down from the stage and saw what looked like a prophetic figure in a robe, like a Halloween costume but way too real. He had the robe (check), the beard (check), right down to the bony pointing finger, meaning there was something unworldly about him. The others didn't know him, but even in the mysterious garb, I still recognized my old nemesis, Garrett Al (also known as Geritol.) (Most of you will remember him as the guy who showed up and allegedly tried to force himself on me for sexual favors during my long hiatus. When we were friends, I gave him the nickname Geritol as a play on his actual name.)

"I am Jor-el," he announced loudly, his bony, quivering finger still pointing at me. I immediately thought of the name, Superman's dad on Krypton, and not a half bad progression from Garrett Al to Geritol to Jor-el!

"Speak your piece, Garrett!" I commanded, "Then get out!" At that point, I still had three tires back home I wanted to finish before watching "Baggage" and going to bed.

Garrett, or Jor-el, to be respectful, told the assembled group, local representatives of the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), of fearful things, including the massing of armies and authorities against us, and the coming swift and final victory of the Major Industrial Powers (MIP). As he spoke, somehow there was a sign obvious to everyone -- possibly left over from the firecrackers -- the smell of sulfur, that gave Jor-el's words credence.

His words -- delivered with a lot of tremelo in his voice and a stare, almost like you'd see in a blind guy -- cut us to the quick. He claimed to foresee foundations falling, death and despair, children orphaned, fires raging, and a modest increase in prices for consumer goods. It was strictly "Four Horsemen" stuff, presented with a lot of gusto. Garrett's a natural orator, speaking without notes the entire time.

Maybe you can tell, I was wavering between belief and disbelief. His whole style was one that demanded belief, yet, remember, I'm Super Brain -- if any of this was true, wouldn't I know it? Who, after all, is Garrett Al? He lives out near the scrap metal mountains on the north side of town. Where he would spend his day ... seeing the sun constantly reflected ... off pieces of metal haphazardly arranged ... hmm, possibly an actual way to stimulate a mystical experience ... and tap into omniscience ...

I wanted to disbelieve, and still I'm not sure. I remember Garrett Al as that pervert in my yard, and the police hauling his sorry butt away. I wanted to ridicule him so badly. I wanted to tear him down, then bring the ceremony back to its senses. What about his name? The syllables are nuts. Gar-ret-Al, like Uni, Roy, and Al. You've got AL, OL, and EL, almost like AL-CO-HOL -- is he drunk? But, d--- it to h---! There is indeed a strange, cryptic progression from Garrett Al to Geritol to Jor-el, the very guy who prophetically warned Krypton of impending doom. And haven't I always reviled the elders of Krypton for failing to see the mountains erupting right through the very windows of their council room?!

But what about the others of our RIM assembly? They were trying to shout him down, just like the elders of Krypton, "He's mad! A madman!" Something about it pierced me through. I started to shiver as I saw the others guffawing and backslapping, their big gaping maws replacing normal human mouths, their bad teeth looking like big horse teeth, and the terrible bad breath you could taste from here. They were waving their arms and making threatening gestures toward him. Someone might've pulled a folding chair at any minute! Garrett was in danger of his life! But he was standing there like the suffering servant, or a dumbwaiter.

I called out to the crowd, holding up my Super Brain plaque, now worthless in my eyes, and finally got them quieted down. Among my consoling remarks, I said, "Gentlemen, gentlemen! In view of Jor-el's words, I suggest that we all retreat to our several hearths and family altars, holding close our children and womenfolk and comforting them, and crying out for mercy to whatever god it is you worship, hopefully including widely among our number the one true and living God."