The Time Machine Got Me a Domme

Earlier this month I watched the 1960 movie "The Time Machine," based on H.G. Wells' novel. Maybe you remember it. The guy goes far into the future, all the way to the year 802701, farther than anyone's ever gone before, to my knowledge.

Well, it just so happens that the H.G. Wells Museum is only 35 miles from me, the pride of Silage City. And to add one more incredible coincidence, they've had his actual time machine on display the last couple of months. To get right to the point, I messed with it, accidentally taking it back before the museum was built. But Grandma's house has been around forever, so I hauled it home. Then when I realized no one would be looking for it, I started carting it around in the back of my pickup. And had no good reason to use it ... until the other night.

My current lady was a meek and mild gal, delighted with any little thing I might do for her. I asked where she wanted to go for her birthday. At first she said I should just save my money and not bother, but I'm saying, "No, I want to treat you right, kitten. C'mon, let's go, you're worth it." So I took her to the nicest place in town, steak, potato, salad, endless bread, the works, and desserts to die for.

After we ate, I suggested one of the desserts. In her meekness, she was very reticent, until I convinced her it'd be OK. "It's only money." "OK, darling," she said, "If you think it's best." So meek. The guy brings us the most delicious looking apple caramel cake sticky ice cream mountain plate thing and two spoons. I can see this will be bad for me, because now I wanted it all for myself and not to share it.

So I excused myself and ran out to the time machine. I had a plan. I would go back to the time and place of her birth, across town, thinking that if I could just delay her birth 10 minutes, it'd give me time to get back and eat the dessert. Then 10 minutes later, likely, she'd appear across from me. So that's exactly what I did. I'm at the hospital, 1953, and pulled the fire alarm. It put her parents in a panic and her mom's contractions completely stopped.

I get back to the present and my lady's not there, just the dessert, which I'm able to eat in peace. Success! But then I'm waiting, waiting, waiting, and she never shows up. I'm thinking, Crap, maybe there was a problem with her not being born. At this rate I'm not even going to have a lady! And I'd hate to walk out of here alone, always a bad look for a guy. OK for losers, not me.

So what other choice did I have but to fix things? I told a waitress I'm going to the can. Then out I went again, through the restroom window.

I get back to 1953, this time two minutes before I would arrive the first time. I hid around the corner, saw myself going toward the alarm and killed "me." I looked down at my body and dragged it away. Always one of my greatest fears, to be dumped in a janitor's closet. But there was no time for anything better. Now I'm heading down the hall to the birth chambers, when what do I see but the waiting room is actually on fire. I pull the fire alarm again and hurry down to counsel anyone having fits.

But this time I see her father pumping up her mom with confidence. The only difference apparently was the first time there wasn't a fire but this time there was. The first time uncertainty led to anxiety but this time certainty gave them confidence. I made a note of it, a great self-help point to tweet in the future.

Before I could get into the delivery room I heard her mother doing some extremely loud pushing, out of her confidence, then the cry of my future lady, a very bold cry for a baby, like something from Wagner. One of those big gals with the winged helmets. A real take-charge sound!

I rushed back to the present as fast as I could, and found my lady already at the table. Not only that, but her whole new life had been one of boldness, daring, and confidence -- all these years -- meaning that in this present continuum she's always the boss. She demanded to know where I'd been. I said the restroom and she called me a wimp. "You can't hold it 10 minutes?" I sat down and saw that she had not only eaten the entire dessert, but heard her setting down a new rule, that since I am hopelessly out of shape and a constant disappointment, I must never eat any dessert without her permission.

And that's the way it's been the last few days. She went from Zero to Hero. I now have to ask her permission to do anything, get up, take a nap, go for coffee, spend a nickel, etc. All of it's kind of kinky, if you know what I mean, but the micromanaging has a huge downside too. I mean, so what if I want an occasional beer with a friend? I can't get the permission! A friend calls and I'm like, "Brunhilde says no, and for you to never call again." I'm her slave!

All because of H.G. Wells and his stinking time machine, which I also had to ask her permission to destroy. So embarrassing crawling in. "Mistress, I know this is an odd request." I looked up at her, just narrowly not breaking the rule against eye contact, and saw her look of imperial impatience and disdain. "But I have a time machine I have to destroy. May I use the crowbar, just this once, Ma'am?" She kicked my ass and sent me on my way, which I took as a reluctant "Yes."

Before I destroyed it, the temptation occurred to me, I could still fix this.

Going Back in Time -- 1948

Too bad I can't actually go back in time. I promise I wouldn't mess up anyone's life. Of course if I stumbled in the street and the guy who would've been your father swerved to miss me and accidentally got killed, I'm wouldn't be able to help that.

As for my own parents -- both passed on now -- it'd be great to see them as younger teens. Let's see, my parents in 1948 were around 14-15. And Elvis Presley was 13. I'm a big Elvis fan.

That'd be wild, in my opinion, to show up and make Elvis' acquaintance before he was ever famous. It was possible for people, once upon a time. For people actually alive in 1948, the key thing being if they'd only known. Just like for us, we don't know which unknown kid now will be a superstar 8-10 years from now. Although, who cares? Whoever they are, they're no Elvis!

The Jumpatron -- Nothing Gets the Jump on Me

I know, it doesn't look like a 9000.
A guy modified it for me with parts
from a 9100. I like the added
horsepower of the second large gauge.

I've long been known as a trendsetter, even though I hate that word. Still, it's descriptive, and that's what counts. Other kids were doing the Twist, I did the Time Warp. In the days of tie-dye, I had a preppie look. When backpacks were the rage in the '70s, I carried a briefcase. Other kids carried their books one hand on the side, I held mine two hands. They tried to clear up acne, I went au naturel. They dated girls, I was stubbornly celibate.

I've taken some pride in all that only because a positive self-image means fewer expensive prescriptions. But what it really comes down to is a fear of someone or something getting the jump on me. The reason I've always anticipated trends -- what's hot and what's passe -- is that I've always studied the angles. Completely out of fear. Always looking behind me. Checking under the bed. Counting my pennies 10 times.

When it comes to the normal everyday things of life, I'm always thinking, "Yeah, it's cool-looking on one level, but what will it look like in 10 years?" So the future itself doesn't get a jump on me, I'm very judgmental of things.

You hear people do it all the time, but most of them are late. Like portable, mobile phones. One of my uncles had a car phone in the late '50s. He beamed with pride when he showed it to me. But it was like one of those old crank phones, about three foot tall, a horn you talked into, another piece you put to your ear, with a weird cloth cord. I hated to tell him, "Not good. You think it's cool, but this is about the dorkiest antique I've ever seen." I was five years old, so I couldn't hold back.

It wasn't till the '80s that the big monster cell phones, mobile phones, became a mass market item. But remember them? It was like a suitcase with an antenna. We had a youth pastor at church, around 1989, and he had a fake toy phone. He told the kids he thought he looked cool when he was driving around pretending to talk on it. "Look cool?" I thought, "please, that's so old -- even though it's new -- it's ridiculous!"

When you're this way, as I've always been, you're hard to impress. But, again, it's all fear. I realize that, this damned obsession with everything getting the jump on me. So what do I own? I'm a little embarrassed to say, I have an iPhone. I was real reluctant to get it, knowing how it's going to seem someday, but I've never had the talent to build my own phone of the future. And even if I did, I'd get in trouble trying to independently build an infrastructure to handle it.

That's also how I've been with music. The various decades stations on the radio never impress me. They're so excited to be living in the past. While, in the past, I had my eyes on the horizon. Have you ever listened to the '60s channel on Sirius XM? If it's the same as it was last time I was a captive audience and had to hear it -- while getting my oil changed -- you have DJs pretending it's 1966 or 1968, saying passe things like "Sock it to me!" and "You bet your sweet bippy." I remember that at the time. And I was sitting there silently, not allowing momentary catchphrases to get the jump on me. If I was going to say anything, it'd be something from the '70s, the Fonz going, "Aaaaaa!" Which didn't make sense, so I was silent.

You might think, "Wow! Let's follow this guy around. He'll point us to the next big thing, and we'll make a fortune." But it doesn't work that way, because even though I know a lot about what's cool, speaking of the future, even to tell someone is in essence the future getting a jump on me. I can tell you this much, the future's pathetic.

I've done some serious study of the past, as an aid to keeping ahead of the present and to anticipate the future. Looking at the old radios and old cars is a real blast. There's an interesting fact about radios from the 1920s. They look almost identical to modern radios/iPod/Bluetooth players, horizontal with two small speakers in front. Quite a bit different from the radio monstrosities of the '40s. I was always aghast at those big things. To think, we could've had a second garage. Or room for a Jumpatron, a time-traveling, time-shifting, trend-discerning piece of hardware. I just checked my 9000. It says that everything except itself is nearing obsolescence.

And as for cars of the past -- all of them being horrendous, very ugly -- the cars of the 1920s are so old-fashioned looking, it's pathetic. Those big square corners, looking like something out of a gangster movie. One, they should've totally avoided the gangster look. And, two, they should have realized, these SOBs just look old. I can see me now, if I were suddenly back in the '20s: "Is this the best you can do, or are you pulling my leg?" Sheesh!

The basic rule of thumb to remember is this: If it looks cool today, it's passe junk tomorrow. Get a jump on the future before it gets a jump on you. Essentially, don't do or own anything.

Get Back The Last Two Minutes Of Your Life

As a long time observer of internet culture, I can report that the number one snarky comment made in response to cultural news is some variation of this, "I wish I had the last two minutes of my life back." For all those who have said this, or have been tempted, I have good news: "You've got it!" You can have it back, two minutes, four, six, seven, whatever it was ... yours ... and good as new!

It's my theory, anyway, if I'm trying to be objective, but more than that, it's my own subjective fact. It's based on two related truths: 1) Time in sleep is obviously variable; and, 2) It's God's will. And you can't get higher than God, unless, of course, you discover a way.

Maybe one of the greatest benefits of this fact -- that you can have your two minutes back -- is that it takes the sting out of the snark and renders it even more ridiculous than it already seemed. It's ridiculous for this reason alone, that if you've already wasted two minutes, you're wasting at least two more minutes bitching about it; you should've moved on. But you need your little parting shot. I see this trite comment and what else can I say but, "I wish I had the last 10 seconds of my life back." Fortunately, 10 seconds is no problem.

But if you think you're not going to get it back, then you ought to be more discriminating in the stories you click on. I see this snark at Huffington Post all the time, so let's think about it. If you see a link that tells you Rihanna discovered a new bruise, simply don't click it! Just tell yourself, "So what!," and move on. I know it's hard. Because you think it could be a bruise in a personal place and whatever picture they have could show the surrounding flesh, leading you to something more interesting.

So you yield to temptation, then inevitably the picture disappoints, and you just have to pay them back. What do you do now? You simply must hit the comment button, go to the trouble of typing your password in again, since HuffPost can never seem to retain this information, and say, "I want the last two minutes of my life back!"

OK, I promised you could have your two minutes. And here's how it works: The Universe (Existence, Consciousness, Bliss) -- God, for short, has your best interests at heart, thanks to the Oneness of it all. But just so everything doesn't get screwed up for people around the world, having to reset their clocks every time you click on a stupid link, it's all taken care of while you sleep. A world of sorrow is made right in sleep. Sleep is like a big mandated health care program. Everyone's covered but they don't complain about it.* The Supreme Court, so far, hasn't gotten involved.

In addition to taking care of your lost minutes, there's no judgment. We really could imagine that God might calculate the time you wasted and match it to the genuineness of your regret, and just dribble out a few minutes, leaving the others a permanent loss. But it doesn't work that way. God takes care of every minute you wasted at Huffington Post -- whether reading about the guy who ate off someone's face, the guy who ate someone's intestines, the mother who ate her baby, or the latest diet tips for cannibals.

It can happen simply by grace, with nothing for you to do. But if you want to appreciate it more, think to yourself before falling asleep, "I wish I had back the eight minutes I wasted through the day reading this shit. And, Lord, if I should die before I wake, I pray no one will eat me." And just like that, as you sleep, time contracts, ever so imperceptibly, ten seconds here, five seconds there, and when you wake up, you're caught back up, where you should have been!

One ironic possibility, which I hesitate to publish because it might be abused, is that the more time you waste at Huffington Post, the sounder your sleep might be and the longer your night. So in that weird sense, lingering there might be just what the doctor ordered, although to my way of thinking it's a temptation to be resisted; it violates the spirit of the injunction, "Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God," and such a big chunk of catching up might mess up the time stream for whoever you're currently sleeping with. Who knows, you might be cast into the bottomless pit, where there's no internet connection, and you'd miss out on the maniac who eventually eats Rihanna, bruise and all.

* Not applicable in New York and Las Vegas

Before Bugs Had Cement To Crawl On

I had the interesting opportunity today to observe bugs crawling on cement. It's an educational experience, to say the least. One I will gladly avail myself of again in the future if I ever have the chance...

The photos were taken by me, and obviously show two bugs. The top one looks a tick and the bottom one is something more like a spider. Each of them was doing OK on speed, making me think that the convenience of cement isn't just a convenience for us, but all manner of creatures. Isn't that interesting? That we, of all the species, pour cement, but the other species are right there to use it!

It's something to think about. It made me wonder about the first bug ever to discover cement. This would have to go way back. Up till then, all they had was rock, dirt, grass, weeds, etc., and that could pose something of an obstacle course for speedy travel. From their point of view, a rock would be like a mountain. Grass and weeds like a jungle. But then someone comes in and paves the path, and they're getting around pretty fast.

So that goes back to the first bug to discover it. Then generations pass, which in their time might only be a year or so. And suddenly we have bugs who've never known a world without cement. Naturally, they take it for granted, never even imagining what their parents and grandparents did, taking a week to get from their hole to the creek, whereas now the journey takes only 20 minutes. No longer do they have to tote water back to cut down on trips. It's all right there at hand. If you're thirsty and you've got 20 minutes, hey, get on the cement and buzz over, of course assuming you can't fly.

If you can fly, cement would still come in pretty handy. It gives you a much nicer place to land. However, and this is important, from the point of view of bugs, the cement can look fairly rough. To us, being substantially bigger, we don't notice much variation in the surface. But for them there's all those crags, not even mentioning the huge cracks between sections. See the edge of picture 2? That's a section line, looking pretty big if you're less than a quarter inch long!

Even the cracks, though, as big as they are, can come in very handy for bugs. Because when seeds and grain blow anywhere, if they're going to get stuck, it's going to be in the cracks. Making the cracks of a pathway a great place to find free food. And it's more or less lined up, ready and waiting for you! So they eat more on the way to the creek, making them thirsty enough to justify every trip.

It'd be great, knowing what we know now, if we could somehow construct (or otherwise procure) a time machine, and set its coordinates for some time in the past before we had cement, and travel back to observe what bugs had to do. It's likely we'd be sitting at the creek waiting quite a while before any showed up. Because the trip there would be a killer, unless they had thought of the obvious solution of living closer to it.

I can picture us back in time, crouched in the weeds, lost in our observations, then we suddenly look up, startled to be looking into the faces of curious Native Americans. We make fearful and hasty, confused sign language to the effect that we come in peace -- pointing to our camera and notepad. They don't believe us and carry us back to the camp, a trip that we note would have gone so much faster if only they had cement paths.