CoffeeHouse Diary 10: Death to all Sequels

From the Diaries a few years back..obviously, but no less true today.

I hate sequels. I assume they are fun for the reunited cast and lucrative for the producers, but they are generally awful for the audience.

Just mentioning City Slickers 2 or Highlander 2: The Quickening, evokes that sickening feeling of being duped by a dreadful second production.

The problem with sequels is that there is usually no more story to tell. The original film had a beginning, a middle and a definitive end. But as quick as you can say "box office grosses," writers are being hired to resurrect dead characters and figure out ways of doing the same successful story over again...yet...um...differently.

Where will it end? Can we be saved from Gump 2: Forrest Through the Trees and Notre Dame 2: Return of the Hump?

We can.

It seems George Lucas has figured out how to give people more of what originally delighted them. We now have Star Wars: The Special Edition. Opening on January 31, this re-mastered version of the 20 year-old hit has added scenes, improved visual effects and better sound. Scenes with Jabba the Hut, Boba Fett and a more "scummy and tyrannical" Mos Eisley space port promise to greatly enhance the ground-breaking original. What fun!

We need a new cinematic saying: "What goes around comes around in the director's digital re-master with additional scenes," (DDRAS). The rule should be: If the story isn't truly over, do the sequel; but if it's over, do a DDRAS.

And who says it has to stop with just one re-mastering of the original? The Star Wars trilogy invites a host of possible "alternate versions" for re-release. Next are just a few I've come up with.

CoffeeHouse Diary 10: DDRAS

The Renegade Droid version
Flashback scenes show that C3PO was originally a hairstylist (R2-D2 was 3PO's professional styling caddie). In the Renegade Droid Version, C3PO is publicly ridiculed for his participation in the Princess' "Horns 'O Plenty" hairstyle debacle. When no one proves able to disassemble her braided pastry-like structures, the droids are arrested and scheduled for exile to the spice mines of Kesstle. The droids escape during the confusion of Vader's attack on their ship and plan to open a beautician's school in Mos Eisley. When 3PO and R2 discover rampant droid racism amidst the scum and tyranny of the space port, they hire mysterious stranger Han Solo to bust up the locals and restore order and commerce.

At the end of the film we see R2-D2, bitter and despairing over his lot in life, drinking himself to disassembly with gallons of WD-40 in his own private version of Leaving Mos Eisley.

The Mythopoetic version
George Lucas' own studies with Joseph Campbell aided in this classical re-casting of the male myth of Iron Obi-Wan. Young Luke discovers the "hairy man" (Chewbacca) at the bottom of a Sarlac pit and enlists his help. Chewie leads him to his "male mother," Iron Obi-Wan, who reveals that Luke's father, Darth Vader, and controlling twin sister, Leia, are responsible for abandoned him on the planet Tattoinne (which means "never-ending ball of dust").

After Luke, Han and Chewie have captured Leia from her father's death star and she says, "Will someone get this big walking carpet out of my way," Chewie demonstrates the "Rite of the Hairy Man" by ripping off one of Leia's horns 'o plenty. Luke follows suit, thus enacting the breaking-away ritual from his controlling twin sister. True spiritual masculinity is re-established when Iron Obi-Wan defeats Lord Vader in battle and Luke self-publishes his first chapbook of poetry, Stories my Father Never Told Me.

Next...er more foolishness...

CoffeeHouse Diary 10: Death to all Sequels 3

"ah that feels better..."

The Original Face versions
Star Wars remains the same, but The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi are completely re mastered with actor Mark Hamill's original "before-the-crash" face morphed onto his character's body. These versions will not only replace the "pug-faced Luke" that Hamill's plastic surgeon created after his car crash, but may answer the question, "How come Harrison Ford gets $5 million a picture while Mark Hamill is doing voice-overs for Batman cartoons?"

The Realist Version
Normal movie conventions are set aside in the Realist Version. For example, could aged Obi-wan really fight Darth Vader long enough to cause a diversion? The Realist Version goes like this:

Vader: I've been waiting for you Obi-wan

Obi-wan: You can't win Darth, If you strike me down I shall...

PAPHHHHHISSSSSSTTTTT! With a flash of Vader's lightsaber Obi-wan is disintegrated.

There is no diversion, and as Vader steps down on Obi-wan's empty cloak the rest of the rebel party are quickly arrested. Han gets shipped off to Jabba in an overnight bag, the Droids packed off to the spice mines of Kesstle, Luke joins the Dark side and leads a rout of the rebellion forces (in exchange for 18 years of back allowance his father has neglected to pay), and Chewbacca becomes a throw-rug under the Emperor's mantle.

The only problem with the Realist Version is the outcome. With no one left to fight and conquer, the Evil Empire has nothing left to do.

Vader: What is thy bidding my Master?

Emperor: I want you to wax the Shuttle.

Vader: It shall be done as you command, my Master.

Two days later.

Vader: I have finished waxing the Shuttle. What is thy bidding, my Master?

Emperor: I want you to clean all the windows of the Death Star!

Vader: You are indeed evil, my Master.

In the final scenes we find Darth in his boxer shorts, popping Hoth-filtered Tuscan Pale Ale, and channel-surfing through the 37,000 channels on the Death Star's satellite array while muttering about the good old days of the Clone Wars.

While some of these DDRAS versions may be questionable, every one of them is better than a typical sequel. And if you still doubt me, rent Highlander 2: The Quickening, and watch it (and Christopher Lambert and his new and immortal extra 30 pounds) alongside the new 10th Anniversary DDRAS of the original Highlander.

I don't know. You tell me.

James Bondage Part 1

The reason for this picture will become clear shortly.
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Recently, I was sitting at the cafe thinking about Wittgenstein, language and the matrix of questions which surround being human. Let's face it, for all of our cultural diversity, we share some pretty common issues: the meaning of life, the nature of relationships, the fear of death, the desire for love, the pangs of lust and the inevitability of taxes.

Well I was really on a roll that morning...something big. My mind was cutting the peripheral issues like a hot razor through custard (as opposed to the usual wooden spatula through a honey-baked ham). Most unusual was the new way how I was thinking.

I have a very "Greek" mind. I tend to look at things as a yes-no, left-right, on-off, 1-2 situation with varying degrees in between. . But that morning, sipping on a double white-mocha and with the espresso kicking in I began to see things differently and a new model began to emerge - a multi-faceted model - a web of interconnected relationships between scientific disciplines (see below) that would by-pass the overly rationalistic, stiff and competitive model the modern university uses. I began to see complete inter-relationships and my mind was now racing at top speed.

At that moment, I reached down to take a swig of my mocha and BAAAM! My brain was suddenly turned into guacamole.

I swear, all I did was look up from my notepad. Had I known she was there, I would never have looked up. But I did and my eyes met hers and was returned unaverting. The moment stood a little outside of time until she smiled, and I smiled and we both blushed. Then she turned and walked away.

I returned to my notebook but it was futile, my brainpan filled with a quivering pile of mush.

I had been reaching for Einstein's shoelaces and now was a stricken adolescent whose body was in complete hormonal imbalance without possibility of recovery.

Life can be so cruel.

Not mysteriously, suddenly I cared less about Wittgenstein and the meaning of life. All I wanted to do was find her, walk with her, joke and laugh, smell her light perfume, wrap my arm around her waist and feel her soft lips.

Game over, at least that day.

_____________________
Part two: James Bond makes us espresso

James Bondage Part 2

When I saw my first espresso machine I was enchanted. It was a large brass monster with a high-handled plunger which a man approached and brought down extracting a small cup of delicious nectar. Then the man steamed some milk and combined the two, placing a silver spoon onto the saucer before handing it to M who asked, "Is that all it does?"

This man knew how to do things right, and was, of course, Bond, James Bond.

I was sitting in the theater with four friends watching Live and Let Die, Roger Moore's first attempt to fill Sean Connery's not-so-saintly shoes.

And we were taking notes on everything because our fathers were basically slobs who wouldn't know espresso from Sanka, an Austin Martin from an Opel GT, or a Guiness Stout from a Coors Light.

No, we were taking notes because Bond women were hot, and Bond was our only teacher.

But there was more than that.

________________________

I think it is widely understood that Sean Connery was the quintessential Bond, and as such has been a dominant definition of masculinity over the last forty years (no matter what Barbara Walters says).

But what is the meaning of James Bond? What is the essence?

________________________

Load torpedo bay three.

James Bondage Part 3

Ruggedly handsome, well equipped (in all senses apparently); buxom women are drawn immediately to his charisma; and he can fight (see above) underwater without head gear and still look handsome.

He is also licensed to kill, travel at will to exotic locations, boink whomever he pleases, eat and drink as he sees fit and, er...save the world in the meantime.

Then he has all those wonderful toys. Cars that spray oil slicks, dive underwater as subs, have submachine guns or just turn invisible.

Watches that explode, deflect bullets, track bad-guys and still tell time. Jet-packs, Little Nellie, high-powered scuba gear, boats with missiles, etc...surely this is also the appeal.

Nope.

It helps...they all enhance the persona, the Bond Ethos. But that isn't it. It's deeper if you can believe that anything is deep in a Bond film besides regular penetration of women or the bad guys secret lair.

_____________________
Next Bond:The Unalienated Man.

James Bondage Part 4

International politics, the most seductive women, deadly enemies both male and female, death and split-second decisions at every turn 24/7.

Yet Bond moves with a self-confidence and wholeness that is unshakeable. Everyone responds to Bond, enemies, femme fatales and lovers alike. In fact, it's the villains that seems most hard-pressed to impress this man.

So whether Bond is at the roulette wheel, playing baccarat, holding a dangerous woman, or behind the wheel of a Lotus underwater, it really does not matter.

He does what he pleases in the moment like a savvy Zen Master (with a raised eyebrow) because the universe seems to bend to his style and will.

And what is more appealing than that?

__________________________

Which brings me back to the beauty who made such obvious contact not 20 minutes ago.

She lingers outside at a table. When I look over she is not looking, but I feel her doing the same.

It's a game, a slightly ticklish dance that can go either way. It could end abruptly by one withdrawing, or it could be lightly played, or I could go and just be funny and see what happens.

But Bond would know just what to do. Me? I'm not so sure.

See I am 35 and I have been in love many times. I have been married twice to very beautiful and smart women. So one thing I know is that the universe does not bend to our every whim and desire for comfort and completeness. If it did, mosquitoes would not exist, or if so, at least not most of the Republican party.

And if I an honest about my own abilities to sustain a relationship with a woman I would have to rate myself up there with the captain of the Titanic and his ability with icebergs.

No. If the world we lived in was not heavily alienated there would not be terrorists, mosquitoes, meter-maids, gas-powered blowers, 6,000 pieces of spam in your email box, pop-ups, the Dallas Cowboys, and the Los Angeles Dodgers.
_______________________
Part Five: Women

James Bondage Part 5

My grandmother took me one the bus to my first Bond film. I;m not sure she knew what she was getting into, but she never let on.

Loved that woman.

So I felt the first stirrings as a young boy of what it looked like for a man to seduce a woman, and for a woman to seduce a man.

It seemed beautiful to me at the time. Almost holy. Maybe it really is.

But we all know Bond, with the rare exception of Tracy (his only wife) really only uses women as it suits him. Some part of his heart is dead and has been all along.

He describes some as like "caviar" to be tasted, others he ruthlesslessly fucks then uses them for advantge. A few he cares a bit about. He is slightly sad when they die. But let's face it, with the exception of Tracy (On Her Majesty's Secret Service) he never allows himsefl to fall in love, not to mention actually learning how to love and care.

No, in this regard, many an average Joe is a lot more man than James Bond could ever be. He is a beautiful shimmering pool 18 feet wide and 300 feet long, but still a baby pool at best.

The deep end is only 27 inches deep.
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Conclusion...

James Bondage Part finale

We are so shaped by movies and the expectation they shape, or the hopes they give us.

Sometimes they workout, because it is a dual deception. They are viewing you like a film as you are doing the same.

Later the re-runs get boring and you find out other films may be more interesting.

Anyway, I had given up on my immediate desire to re-orient/re-structure the modern university in a way that would be coherent and helpful rather than asinine and competitive.

The guacomole sliding around in my brianpan had not yet begun to leak out my ears, so I was safe for a bit.

She was still outside. It was cool and I had the long dark cashmere coat, which is an advantage when you are tall and lean as I am.

I wondered what Bond would do. He would know exactly what to say and do. But then he is just a fiction.

I immediately reminded myself that I am just a fiction as well.

Which really helped me get my courage up.

I wrapped up my leather journal and stuffed it into the down inside pocket of the long coat.

(I admit, in the coat I look a bit menacing, especially with my long flowing hair down the collars.)

I walked out in the smoky air knowing she was watching me.

So I came straight over with my head slightly down. Then looked up as she studied her book.

"You left something inside" I said.

"Excuse me?" she said looking mock-surprised.

"You left your blush," I said, "which I picked up alongside mine." I smiled.

"My blush?"

"Yes, they both dropped to the floor at the same moment and they scampered off together...didn't you see that?"

"no I must have missed that" she smiled widely.

"Well they did...they ran off together and are partying at Old Ironsides right now."

"Hmnnn."

"Care to go for a walk?"

"With you? It's late how do I know I can trust you?"

"ER, my Blush is off with yours," I said looking off.

"I mean they are the ones who have to be protected...we are just guardians, right?"

She laughed and her eyes crinkled up like a kinda of long-wanted release.

"Okay..where do you wanna walk?"

"The capitol? It's a nice night?"

"I have a better idea," she said. "Follow me".

______________________

So I did. I mean I was bigger than her so I was only slightly afraid (hell I am bigger than everyone who is not in football or basketball).

So we walked and talked and laughed a lot. And both our blushings caught up with us after a few blocks and they started to do a dance around us and even make fun.

At this point I parted company with Bond. Confidence and intelligence are one thing, but it is not reality. No. I am better than Bond, even if I am a fiction.

We did not make love that night, nor did we fuck. We listened to old LPs and lighted candles and found some disgusting old chinese food in the freezer. I smelled her raven-colored hair and felt the bone-curve with my hand...that exquisite place that every woman has between her ribcage and her hips.

And I woke up with my head clear and looked at the hair across her face and saw the line of her jaw and her eyebrows and I felt a joy James Bond will never know.

Just one fiction to another. Get a life dude.

Weird Science Part One

Have you ever been sitting around when suddenly your mind always a little time capsule to bubble up to the surface and you a remember a whole "time" that you had essentially forgotten about?

That what happened this morning as I sat in the Chez Malraux courtyard sipping a spicy cup of Dark French Roast (DFR) with the spirit of Hemingway upon me, saying, "It is good to sit in the courtyard of a villa with the woman you love, drinking strong coffee in the cool of the morning."

I almost said "sipping" but Hemingways never sip.

I had just finished looking at the current edition of The Psychic Reader, and I was wondering why they bother printing the thing out. Why not just, you know, just psychically project it out into the ether?

Oh yeah, the ads. Gotta make bank somehow.

Anyway, as I put the magazine down a sudden detailed memory or series of memories came over me in a sudden Proustian rush as the DFR did that nice bittersweet thing at the back of my palate.

I remembered the old Weatherstone cafe which, at the time, was the only place you could get a cup of DFR in downtown Sacramento. I had been spoiled in San Francisco where cafes have always existed. There were no Java's City's, Starbucks, Cup O'Joes etc... anywhere in the city (if at that time you could call it that. Downtown back then looked like deserted movie set).

Remembering the old dark and dusty Weatherstone, and learning the science of brewing the perfect cup of DFR, I suddenly remembered what had brought me to Sacramento in the first place. I came to study psychology.

The more I sat there the more memories led to other memories and I suddenly began to remember why I had repressed the whole mess.

But I had the morning off so I started to jot them all down and I'll share them with you now
____________________
Part Two is coming.

Weird Science Part Two: Lab Rats

I entered the field of psychology with the sort of enthusiasm reserved for only the few, the proud, and the truly naive. Four years later I would realize and describe the earning of my degree in psychology as less like science and more like reading Wilhelm Reich while being torn to pieces by wolverines.

I charged into my first psychology class with my tape recorder, fresh binder, paper, three different fine-line pens all ordered in front of me.

My professor, a grey-haired woman in her forties leapt into an impassioned lecture.

"Zee amount of fatty tissue which has been found around zee frontal lobes of many laboratory animals has direct linkage to traumatic infant psychosis."

Did I say leapt? It was more like slept, or the movement of a lab rat recovering from brain surgery.

In my next class, Psychotherapy in a Post Freudian World, the professor had no use for rats, fat, or infants; and ended the class by telling us "Of course we all know that we are living in a Post-Freudian age. The Behaviorists act as if they do not know this, but deep down inside they do. The Existentialists choose to disbelieve it as well." he said.

"And as for Freud!" he said dramatically, "It is now commonly accepted that he is just not Freudian enough."

As I was leaving some students had clustered around him and he was pointing at diagrams of several behavioral models and giggling.

_________________
Part three on the way.

Weird Science Part Two: Col. Kurtz

The late Marlon Brando as Col. Kurtz in Apocalypse Now.
_________________________________

I entered my next class, Basic Principles of Behavior Modification hoping for something more down to earth. As class begun a wild-eyed Veteran tore into the room replete with combat pants and a USMC t-shirt. Before we could alert building security he informed us he was the instructor.

He had a crazed look that brought Col. Kurtz immediately to mind. He showed up every class time with a juice bottled filled with some dark, thick Agent Orange-like substance which he would swig before spewing fresh curses at whoever had the audacity to ask him a question.

And yes, I checked it out later...he had tenure.

One day he entered into intellectual combat with a young Creationist, which is generally pretty entertaining to watch. The professor had just finished showing a movie about moths in England. The white moths survived at first because of the proliferation of white elm trees in the area, rendering them invisible to predators. But when a factory was built and the soot from the factory started to turn the white elms a dark charcoal shade the birds swept down and ate the white moths like candy. At that point the naturally darker moths became the dominant moths of Hampstead heath as they were now camoflaged.

This was conclusive proof of the proces of Natural Selection, a major tenent of Evolutionary theory.

After the film the conversation went something like this:

Creationist: Professor?
Kurtz: Yeah WHAT!?
C: I understand what happened in the film and have no qualms about Natural Selection...
Kurtz: (rolling eyes in the back of his head and taking a swig)
C: ...that seems easily demonstratible within each species, but what evidence do you have for one species evolving into a whol enew one? Should we have millions of intermediary fossils?
Kurtz: Didn't you watch the fucking movie!!?
C: Yeah, I saw the movie and I agree that Natural Selection occurs. But you didn;t answer my question. Another one is how does emotion, self-consciousness, personality and reason evolve from primal slime?
Kurtz: (taking a hefty swig) What are you fucking blind!!? The MOTHS! The MOTHS! WHADDABOUT THE GODDAMN MUTHA_FUCKING MOTHS!!?

_________________
Part Four next.

Weird Science Part Four: Play us a song

From Col. Kurtz's class I walked, somewhat stunned to my car to retrieve my cheap vinyl yoga mat for my next psychology class where I was quickly introduced in the ecstasy that is Hindu meditation. or if not Hindu meditation, at least, the latest flowery, bastardized American reincarnation of it.

Years later I now wish that it had been a serious version of Yoga so that I too could look 15 years younger, be limber enough to put my underwear on in the morning without falling over, and have an hour-long Tantric orgasm like Sting routinely has.

So if when I left I was not ecstatic with universal bliss, I was, at least grateful that it was the second easiest class I ever had since I did not have to take notes or doing anything but sit in the Lotus position.

From there I aumed my way in to my upper division psychology class where I was greeted by a professor who looked so aged, scholarly, and wise that I knew I had finally arrived at a real psychology class.

He started his articulate opening remarks, then stooped over and retrieved an accordion, which he proceeded to strap on, He started to sing an old fraternity song - a song which roughly mirrored the old polka tune I Don't Want Her, You Can Have Her, She's too Fat for Me...which left me slumping in my chair.

I wanted a degree in psychology to help me understand what it means to be human and to explore that with others. Instead I suddenly seemed doomed to become a singing neurologist, toting a copy of Jung's Interpretation of Dreams under one arm, a cheap yoga map under the other, and the deep desire to drink during my classes.

_______________________
Conclusion on the way...





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Weird Science Part Finale: Final Grades

Psychic Jean Grey being, er...not being torn apart by Wolverine.
________________________________

So over 100 years after its birth, modern psychology had lapsed into a state of dismemberment. Each "school" of psychology approached human nature from a divisive and myopic angle, applying only it's own hermeneutic, diagnostics and treatments. Since each school's perspective was universal, there was no need to give place to other theories or practices. Lacking any unifying core, the various schools of psychology became increasingly obsessed with the trivial.

In short, as Kierkegaard once said of Hegel, "You have answered all the questions except what it means to be born, live, and die as a human being."

It's deeply ironic that while these psychology programs were growing they lacked one thing: a head.

********

Now it is 1996 and things are better, at least in theory. It seems there is more diversity and a growing cross pollenation of ideas.

Which makes me wonder what it would have been like to study just ten years later. Maybe I would never have given up and become a writer. It makes me wonder what happened to the Fatty-Rat-Brain Lady, the Accordion Guy, and most of all the Agent-Orange Behaviorist who use to abuse his students.

They are probably all on Prozac.

So what was the easiest class I ever took there?

That's easy. It was my Psychic class. My professor tried to give me an F because she said I never showed up to a single class (which is true).

"I was there every class period," I told her. "I was there psychically."

I got an A.

CoffeeHouse Diary #6 Maughamus Interruptus

I've been interrupted for the last damned time today!

But before I tell you why I am so frustrated I have to interrupt myself and give you some personal information as background.

Some people have dogs, other cats, hamsters, rats, mice, iguana's that never move, and fish.

I have a goldfish, a crayfish and a parakeet named Nichaolas Birdayyev. The crayfish also has a name. When my sons cought him at the park pond I asked what they wanted to name him.

"Mr. Go-Go Head" ws the immediate reply, so Mr. Go-Go Head it was.

He lived in peace in our flat until 4:15 a.m. this morning when my sound sleep was interrupted by a high-pitched whine. The whine came from my fish tank filter because it was not longer able to reach down into the water. I could not longer reach down into the water because the water level had dropped dramatically by at least ten inches.

Any guesses as to where the water went?

I spent the next two hours trying to save my goldfish who I had raised from tiny "feeder fish" to near trout-like proportions. My living room was a marsh and at one point I looked over just in time to see Mr. Go-Go Head about to engage Mr. Birdyayev in moratl combat. The parakeet was trying to shout down the crustacean with a series of threats involving him flying into the kitchen and preparing a ramikin of butter suace, but Mr. Go-Go Head was not impressed and continued his laborious assault to get his claw around Mr. Birdyayev's beak.

______________________

To be continued.

CoffeeHouse Diary #6 Maughamus Interruptus 2

Part two
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I turned off the boiling water (how did the bird do that?) and locked him in the cupboard with only a flashlight and a worn copy of Gulliver's Travels.

Next I scooped up Mr. Go-Go Head who tried to pinch me. Idiot.

I put my finger out to his half dehydrated body..."go ahead asshole, you wanna pinch me or get back in the water?"

"Water" he gasped.

"Okay, but next time you molt I'm gonna grab your little yellow ass by mistake and leave your husk on display."

(He cursed me under his mantles).

Twenty minutes later I feel back to sleep but was once again interrupted by one of those high-powered gas leaf-blowers outside my bedroom window; then the phone started to ring (about five times way before 7:30 a.m. which is the opening time for calls) and my neighbor knocked on my door wanting to borrow tools, and at 5:13 every morning the "Cheap Bird" wakes up and makes the most loud and obnoxious bird calls ever heard just outside my window.

"Cheap...Cheap...CHEAP!!"

Fuck. I am gonna get one of those wide Tennis rackets and go out there some morning at 5:13 a.m...no 5:10 a.m. so I can warm up and get limber. And when that damned bird comes swooping by screaming "Cheap" I am gonna hit him into the cheap seats in deep right center.

*******

CoffeeHouse Diary #6 Maughamus Interruptus 3

Part Three.

_________________

I unplugged the phone, turned up the stereo, grabbed the newspaper and settled in for a relaxing Saturday morning.

SPLAT!! SPEW! SPLASH!

"The HAND" burst through the mail slot and shot a huge wad of bills, ads, junk mail and magazines across the floor in three full waves of postal spew.

Unnerved by the events of the last ten hours (towels still on the floor, the bird screeching profanities from inside the cupboard, Mr. Go-Go Head pacing and snapping at the fish that use to be able to hover way above him) I decide that it is useless to resist.

*******

CoffeeHouse Diary #6 Maughamus Interruptus 4

Part Four
__________________

T.S. Eliot wrote a poem called Choruses From the Rock, where he suggests that history itself was interrupted, or "bi-sected" as he would say, buy God.

Other famous interruptions include presidents and dignitaries being interrupted by assassins, countries interrupting other countries, coitus interruptus to avoid freedom interruptus, and news reports interrupting prime time televison.

Beyond that, we are all constantly interrupting each other in conversation or other ways. Chances you will not finish this article without being interrupted by the phone, a family member, a knock on the door or an Instant Message.

*******

CoffeeHouse Diary #6 Maughamus Interruptus 5

Part Five
_________________

Now back to today. My girlfriend is in Las Vegas on a well-deserved company junket.

There, losing your money slowly is occasionally interrupted by a win or two which, in turn, encourages you to bet more and lose more. Your few moments of winning are a brief interruption in the Casino's taking all your money.

They are very patient. They do not mind an interruption or two.

While she is gone I have been reading Hemingway's Men Without Women, since that is what I am. It is a collection of short stories and I am reading the last one entitled, Now I lay Me, which is about a man who has trouble sleeping at night, so he thinks about fishing or he prays for everyone he has ever known.

I do the latter, most every insomniac night. If that doesn't work I think about women.

I had just gotten to the part of the story where he is having trouble remembering the Lord's Prayer. All he can remember is "On Earth as it is in Heaven."

Suddenly, as I read I was interrupted by an argument between an aging matador and his picador.

Something is very wrong.

I look at the bottom of the page and see that it is numbered 17 where it should naturally say 225.

The book has been misbound and mangled. So the conversation I am reading would normally occur on pages 17-18 of The Undefeated, which it does, except that in my misbound copy these two pages are now nestled between pages 224 and 227 instead of their natural nesting place.

CoffeeHouse Diary #6 Maughamus Interruptus 6

Part Six
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Of course, you could guess my next move. I went back to The Undefeated and sure enough, there were pages 225-226 of Now I Lay Me inbetween pages 16 and 19 of The Undefeated.

Just Mis-bound.

But the thing that kinda disturbs me most about this latest interruption is that I read The Undefeated yesterday and I found the matador's meditiation on the Lord's Prayer to be the best part of the whole story. In fact, I interrupted my friend Bob's watching of the Giants/Red game (which was interrupting some Reality Show) to tell him how much I enjoyed that particular part of The Undefeated where the aging matador, faced with the possibility of one bullfight too many, thinks about the Lord's prayer and about praying for all those he has known in the past by name.

I do not pray very often, but when I do it's pretty naked and honest.

In this case here is my prayer:

"God. I should very much like to be with you, so long as it is not at all in Heaven as it is here on Earth.. Amen."

Hopefully no one will interrupt me as I try and pray this.