Polonius to Laertes on his 21st birthday

Laertes and Ophelia

I was taken out of the moment two summers ago, watching Shakespeare by the Bay’s production of "Hamlet": As Polonius advises Laertes before he leaves to study abroad, I could see the day coming when I would be Polonius. What would I say? This, for starters:

Your car: Don’t fiddle with the CD player when you’re driving in heavy traffic. Don’t talk on the cell. Always buckle up. Don’t follow too close or drive too fast. Clean it out. Wash it. Check the oil and other fluids. Don’t lose your key. No hitchhikers. Use that GPS Mom bought you.

Hygiene: Bathe. Wash your hair. Brush and floss your teeth. Shave. Wear clean underpants. Wash your hands. Flush. Use that deodorant your Mom bought you.

Apartment: Don’t leave stuff scattered on the floor. Never light a fire indoors (trust me). Wash your dishes. Take out the trash. Use the vacuum Mom bought you. Clean up spills. Don’t open the door for a stranger, and know who you invite over.

Health: Don’t eat much junk food, and don’t skip meals. Use that microwave Mom bought. Water is good for you. Alcohol isn’t. Wear a raincoat when you know you ought to. Get outside and keep active — toss a Frisbee or jog at the track. If you start smoking, I’ll break your fingers.

People: Be friendly, but know not everyone wants to be a friend. Don’t let it bug you. Be slow to anger and slower to fight, but don’t let anyone wipe their feet on you. Respect yourself. Respect women and old folks unless they show you they don’t deserve it.

Religion: There’s more than this. Don’t get hoodwinked by anyone, and don’t fool yourself that you know it all. Remember what Hamlet told Horatio. Don’t scoff at believers, but don’t believe everything you’re told.

School: Go to class. Once you start skipping, you’ll never recover the semester. Visit professors during office hours. Make sure they know who you are. Don’t fade into the woodwork — participate. Take notes. Do homework. Write papers early and in the right format. Keep up with important dates. Always have a pen and paper.

Work: Hard work is good for you, but don’t let yourself be badly used. Don’t let work interfere with school right now. Later, find something you enjoy. Don’t get stuck in a bad job just to pay the bills.

Things: Don’t borrow unless you give it back in the same shape as when you borrowed it. Don’t loan anything you can’t live without. Watch your money; it spends faster than it grows.

In general: Don’t do much you don’t want your Mom to know about. Be yourself. Enjoy being young. Have fun. Sing and dance. Laugh. Play. Create art. Whatever you do, don’t follow my example — learn from my mistakes.

Finally, Laertes: Remember Ophelia, who loved you for you. What would she expect? Do that. What would she want for you? Chase that.

You won’t go wrong.

Peace.

Sayonara

Is it wrong of me that I'm thinking of a conversation between Farrah, Michael, Ed and David? That's what I'm imagining, anyway: Fawcett, Jackson, McMahon and Carradine, in a waiting room or hotel lobby bar, waiting for separate appointments, and shooting the afterlife breeze.

The four of them, talking about fate and the nature of being a celebrity, and the unfairness of it all.

Is it odd that when we walked into the bowling alley this morning, the video playing on the big screen was "Thriller?" (Followed by "Rocking the Casbah," but that's not the point.)

Or that when I read a friend's tweet earlier this morning, in which he mentioned his feathered 'do in a childhood photo, I thought about Farrah Fawcett?

Probably not that odd. Only a coincidence or two. But you already know I don't believe in coincidence.

I bet one of those four could give us an insight about all that.

So long, strangers. Good journey.

Peace.

Tapping

Tapping at the window.

When I was a kid, I was traumatized by the TV miniseries production of Stephen King's "Salem's Lot." Watching it in recent years, it didn't have quite the same effect, but in 1970-something, it left me huddling under the covers every night, sweating, barely breathing, clutching a cross and listening to every noise, as my rational mind argued with my fear.

And I promised myself one thing I never would do: If anyone came to my window in the middle of the night and tapped or scratched, I would not let them in. In fact, I wouldn't even pull aside the curtain to see who it was. Didn't want to fall under some hypnotic spell.

And then ...

Thirty-some years later, it's sometime around midnight, and there's a tapping at the window.

I tell myself as I go to the window, "Didn't you swear you'd never do this?"

I pull aside the curtain, and my 19-year-old son is on the other side of the glass. He's been out with friends, and has a midnight curfew. He's gesturing toward the front of the house.

"Can you open the door for me? I left my keys on the table."

Behind him, a car is backing out of the driveway. A friend has dropped him off. I think I'll tell him to sleep on the bench on the front porch. I'll let him in when the sun rises. After the sun rises, actually.

But no, I know better now. I'm not a kid any more. I know there are real horrors in the night, and my son is not one of them.

I go to the front door and open it.

He leans in to hug me and apologize for disturbing me and say thank you, and I feel the teeth in my throat.

Tap, tap, tap.

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(c) 2009 by Tony Simmons

If we were robots

If we were robots:
I'm hacked, rebuilt, obsolete.
You're a slick new gadget.

No hard-drive jokes here.
Incompatability
Is a state of mind.

----
(c) 2009 by Tony Simmons
T-minus-36
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Tunesday's Pick: Watch this Sometime Around Midnight.
Check'em out here. Official-like.
Read it.
The short: From moody synth to new-age punk, with not a verse or chorus to be found in songs that tell stories, or perhaps short stories set to rock music. My new favorite band this month. Airborne Toxic Event. Buy it:



Peace.

Manic Monday: Rise of the Lycans

No story today. Lots of busy-ness throughout the day. Workworkworkwork.
Watched this:


Which is Today's Pick. If you've seen the first movie, then you know how this one (a prequel) ends. It's the low-budget Lord of the Rings edition of the series, which is about the war between the Vampires and the Werewolves. Lots of blood and scenery chewing. Pop some popcorn. Meanwhile, I think every movie should make a prequel and call it "Rise of the Lycans." Rainman: Rise of the Lycans. Legally Blonde: Rise of the Lycans. Werewolves make everything better. Imagine how much better the first Star Wars prequel would have been with added werewolves ... Star Wars: Episode I: The Phantom Menace: Rise of the Lycans.

ALSO TODAY:
Listening to a new CD my son bought me for Dad's day. I'll write about it tomorrow, which as you know is "Tunesday."

Peace.

Joe the Lion

He slithered down a greasy pipe, smelling of iron, bricks and old leather. His nails left scratches on the metal and the brick wall. He let go and dropped the last 20 feet to the sidewalk, landing on all fours, then froze in place, listening to the night and sniffing the air.

So far, so good. No one had seen him as he loped across the rooftops and above the freeway, where the iron beasts roamed. Even here, deep within the old city, he could hear vehicles on their concrete streets, smell their exhaust, but more than that, he could scent the strange creatures driving them.

He stayed low to the ground and padded deeper into a night-dark alleyway, away from the iron beasts and their controllers. He looked for a metal ring, the manhole cover in the alley. Watching over his shoulders, he shifted it out of his way, clambered down the ladder it exposed, and slid the cover shut above him. He waited for his big green eyes to adjust to the near total darkness.

Pale lights glowed far down in the tunnel. He moved silently toward them and the aroma of food, the stink of sweat and dirty hair, the sounds of creatures in conversation.

Outside the old man-built chamber that Max the Gorilla had refashioned as an inn, a heap of cloth shifted and stretched. Sharp claws scratched on the walkway and red eyes blinked at him.

"Joe," the watcher rat hissed. "Back again?"

"It's Monday," Joe growled.

Drinks on the house, as they both knew. Ever since a Monday night four years ago when Joe had cleared a nest of vipers for Max, the innkeeper had promised him a free drink on Mondays. With food in short supply, Joe tried not to miss this free weekly repast.

Joe ordered his regular drink and a can of whatever meat product Max had tonight. Max put the dishes on the bar and stepped back while Joe ate. One of the inn cats sidled up to him and purred. He let her stroke herself against his leg, but when she reached for a scrap from his dish, he warned her away with a low growl and a flash of teeth.

Max shewed her aside and asked Joe what it was like upstairs these days.

"Wind blows on your cheek," he said. "Makes you forget. You get clumsy. The day laughs in your face. The steel catches you hobbling over the freeway, nails you to their car. Reminds you who we are."

Max sighed. You live longer down in the dark, where the iron and steel preferred not to venture, but he could still remember wind on his cheek. He could recall who he was in the world above, in the time before so many began to walk upright and developed opposable thumbs, before the steel took over the freeways and world of human beings ended.

"Find anything this time?" Max asked.

Joe fumbled in the pocket of his jacket. He looked around the room, but few of the creatures even cared that he was here. None were paying attention. He took the artifact out of his pocket and placed it on the bar. Max whistled and scratched his whiskers.

"Does it work?" Max asked.

Joe fit his clumsy fingers around the handle, one finger inside the trigger guard. With the pads of his other front paw, he spun the chamber. He pointed the gun at the watcher by the door and pulled the trigger.

The hammer rose and fell with a click. The chamber advanced.

"It works," Joe said. "It just needs the right seeds."

"Seeds?" Max said.

Joe thumbed the chamber release, showed Max the empty seed pods. "Seeds go here. When the hammer strikes them, they blossom in fire and fly to wound or kill."

"Will they kill the iron and steel?"

Joe put the gun back in his pocket and shook his head.

"Not this little one. But there are big ones out there, with great big seeds ripe for blossom, and I will find them one day."

Max smiled and poured Joe another can of milk. He watched the big cat lap it up from the dish, and he wondered at Joe's imagination. He was a dreamer. A fortune teller. A brave beast, to be sure, having walked the world above and returned to tell of it. But still just a beast hiding in the dark.

Joe knew what Max thought of him. Didn't matter. Joe had seen too many creatures nailed to cars in the old city. He knew who he was. And though the jungle was little more than a legend among his kind, he recalled who was its king and dreamed of a day when wind and sun would play freely on his face.

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(c) 2009 by Tony Simmons
T-minus-37
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Today's Pick: Joe the Lion. Inspiration for the imagery in the story. Also inspired by one of my all-time favorite comic heroes during the 1970s, Kamandi, who guest starred on Friday's Brave and Bold

Skip night

Nothing to see here. Move along.

Just another frantic Friday...

Peace.