biff and iguana man come back for more

"Eating forks is not allowed," I told my aged aunt.
She looked at me with longing eyes; her face was pale and gaunt.
I gripped her knobby shoulder (when she winced I let it go);
I really did feel bad for her, and tried to tell her so.
"I know you're used to eating things that normal people don't,
And family can forgive you, but, well, other folks just won't.
I only wish to save you from a life of scorn and shame,
Besides which, I'm in favor of untarnished family names."
My aunt's blue eyes grew piercing bright; her finger smote my nose.
"How little you discern," she said, "your silly words just show.
This 'normal' that you speak of -- I can't fathom what it means --
But it strikes me awfully funny, and I'd rather you came clean.
You've never cared for family names -- just look at your career!
Now come here, sonny, don't be shy. What do you really fear?"
My aunt's an awfully sharp old bird (I've said it oft before),
And this, her latest insight, only made me like her more.
"I ought not, Aunt, deceive you." ("Cuz you can't," she pointed out.)
"So now I will desist, and tell you what it's all about.
We're going to a picnic, as you know, this afternoon,
Among whose guests I fear will be a certain ghastly goon.
He's never very kindly, but I've heard his latest trick
Involves a homemade poison that has made bald eagles sick.
He likes to lace it into things like silverware and rum,
And forks will be his target, if he knows that you have come.
Now, what he's got against you is a question for the wise;
But Biff and I will both be there, to take him down to size.
Fear not, my aged relative, though Biff you have not met--
He's not extremely lovely, but of sidekicks he's the best."
"Well, thank you, boy," she said, "but here is what I can't quite see:
You said he poisons eagles -- what's that got to do with me?"
I pondered this a moment, how to speak the truth with tact;
I said, "Well, that you're an old bird is a well-established fact;
And, honestly, your tresses have been looking rather thin;
So I figure, what bald eagles kills, could also do you in."
"Your logic is impeccable, and I'm touched by your concern;
I'll eat no forks today," she said, in tones both brave and firm.
If you knew as well as I how very much my aunt loves forks,
You, too, would shed a tear and choke out, "Thanks, you're such a sport."
That's what I did, I tell you, and I'm not a bit ashamed;
Iguana Man has feelings too, in spite of world-wide fame.
My aunt licked off her finger, then she wiped my tear away.
I must confess this grossed me out, and prodded me to say,
"Dear aunt, let's have an end to all this touchy-feely stuff;
Let's venture forth to picnic, though the going may get rough.
Though bologna may be gummy, though jell-o may be goo,
Though forks be laced with poison, we will see this mission through."
The aunt was so excited by this optimistic chant
That she took off down the sidewalk toward the park in nothing flat.
"Hey, aunt, I thought we'd take the car!" I yelled, but all in vain;
Her steps were quick, her hearing bad -- she strode on just the same.
I shrugged and took off after her, and soon we reached the park,
A strangely cheery setting for such dreadful deeds and dark.
We pulled up, panting, leaning on some tables for support,
Upon which lay, I saw too late, a great array of forks.
My aunt did gasp, and I gasped, too. This fiend would stoop so low!
We heard a cough; we whipped around, and saw we weren't alone.
A single boy stood by himself, the picnic's lonely host;
A can of Raid was in his hand; his shirt said, "Flies, You're Toast."
The right words quite escaped me, but the boy spoke up instead.
"You're rather late, I cannot lie," the young fly hunter said,
"The other guests have been and gone, but I s'pose they'll all be back;
They're only at the soccer fields across the railroad track.
My father put this picnic on, but he left me here in charge,
To 'splain about the food and stuff, and welcome dear Aunt Marge."
He gave us each a plate and walked us past the pans of food;
A lot of it was gone, but what was left looked pretty good.
"And here's the beans, and there's the cake," the Splainin' Boy declared,
And set us at our places, and brought drinks and silverware.
He sat across the table, and a fly sat next to him.
It must have been a dumb fly. A spritz of Raid soon did it in.
With pride I saw Aunt Marge consume her lettuce with a spoon;
Her resolve was strong, but wouldn't last; I must relieve her soon.
Oh, where was Biff when need was near? I knew he'd planned to come;
He forgot, I thought with sadness. I was deserted by my chum.
"Now, look here, boy," I said, "I need your help, and that's a fact,
For you possess the info that my stunning brain still lacks.
Have any of your party seemed the ghastly, goony type?
The type that poisons eagles, just to hear them moan and gripe?"
"Why, yes!" the Splainin' Boy cried out. "I know of whom you speak.
He looks quite harmless, nibbles plums, and sometimes talks in Greek,
But underneath his charming shell lurk innards rank and grim;
Come, follow me, across these tracks! I'll take you straight to him!"
He yodeled in a manner which I thought I knew quite well,
But other things had filled my mind, and I hadn't time to tell.
A hectic kind of soccer game was coming to its close;
The checkered ball made one last bump off someone's skillful toes,
And hurtled past the goalie, who, enraged, thrashed on the ground--
And cursed in Greek, I noticed, as he waved his arms around.
"Aha!" I said, and saw just then that, much to my surprise,
Another guy had tackled him: a guy with muddy eyes;
A guy with hair like moldy straw, a guy whose nose was big--
I saw now just how wrong I'd been, to accuse him as I did.
'It's Biff!" I yelled, "You've saved the day! I knew you would! Ahoy!"
"Hey, Dad! I brought Iguana Man," cried out the Splainin' Boy.
I jumped and sharply looked at him. "Did you just call Biff, 'Dad'?
And how'd you know my name, you frightful insect-killing lad?"
"I did just call him Dad, because he is," he said with pride.
"If it weren't for him and you, Aunt Marge would probably have died.
I stayed behind to warn you (I was told that you'd wear green),
While Dad kept track of Goony here, who's on his soccer team.
A lot of forks were poisoned, but not one of them was ate."
My heart swelled as I looked at him, and said, "Your dad's sure great."
"I know," the boy said rapturously, and did a happy dance;
It was a joyous scene that only hugging could enhance.
Then Biff strolled up; I hugged him, and the scene was made complete.
The goon, now tied up tightly, growled and gurgled near our feet.
We made quite sure this crook would never plague our town again:
The cops soon came and shipped him off to serve his time in Spain.
(Apparently he grew up there; all that Greek was just for show.
But his eagle/aunt vendetta was for real, I'll have you know.)
That night we had a picnic -- Biff, his son, my aunt, and me;
We ate banana salad while we lounged beneath a tree.
Biff and I were glad, for we could safely now behold
My aunt consuming forks, for she was odd, but she was old;
And family names are worthless if they cause such needless stress.
An aunt can have weird habits. We don't love her any less.

my advice to you is this.

I was thinking about some of the things I've recently enjoyed, some of them on the internet and some of them off of it, and I thought I'd share them with the world at large, in case anyone is interested. Whether or not you take my advice on any of this is, obviously, entirely up to you. I refuse to be held responsible for any death, injury, or emotional damage sustained as a result of actions taken in response to this post. Understood? Not responsible. Okay.

First, I recommend eating mint ice cream while driving down the highway at sunset. It's slightly dangerous and usually results in a sticky shirt front, but is well worth the extra laundry soap.

I also recommend that you watch "The Butterfly Circus" It's really good, and it'll only take about twenty minutes of your life (exactly twenty minutes if you watch all the credits).

"Validation" is another short film worth spending sixteen and a half minutes on, with the following disclaimer. The film contains about equal parts fluff, self-esteem-booster, and sappy romance; in spite of which, I find it a touching tale, and a poignant reminder to look for the good in others, and to tell them when we see it.

While I'm on YouTube, "Spin" is entertaining.

"The Hitchhiker's Trilogy" (a book) (which is not a trilogy) is a rollicking good time. Read it, however, at your own peril; the chances of your sanity surviving the experience are pretty slim.

I recommend having a six-year-old little brother who memorizes Men At Work songs and sings them at the dinner table, and a three-year-old brother who tells you that you are the "perfect lady" who he found laying down on a cliff by the garden and subsequently married, and who knows "the perfect way to walk".

I recommend playing with little boys named Landon who laugh at you when you do silly things and love to see you no matter what. Their cheerful demeanor in the face of difficulty and their ability to brighten the glummest day will inspire you every time, I guarantee it.

I don't know that I necessarily advise throwing eighty bales of hay off a flatbed and stacking them in the barn, but if you're going to do it, I do recommend doing it happily and with two small boys trying to help. This makes it much more exciting, and keeps you occupied with trying to keep people from falling onto the concrete, instead of obsessively counting bales.

If you're trying to learn to play the cello, I recommend practicing between lessons.

If you're trying to learn to knit, I recommend patience in astronomical quantities.

I strongly advise you to wear fuzzy socks and skate around on the kitchen floor.

It strikes me as a very good idea to pull out your large appliances (like fridges and stoves, for example) and clean behind them, at regular intervals shorter than five years.

I recommend singing loudly, whether anyone's listening or not.

I advise you to watch the sunset, go to bed on time, stay up late, visit friends, keep a journal, allow mistakes to keep you humble, and drink plenty of apple cider.

And while you're at it, get me some, too.

I die to live: how strange a thing:
And blood can set me free;
My lifeless tongue will learn to sing,
Glad slave of liberty.

I live to die: how great the cost:
Two natures war within;
How long the road, how dark the cross,
How fiercely clings my sin.

Through fire gold is purified:
In pain must healing start;
And so to suffering now, my Lord,
I yield my trembling heart.

the pencil had a point, but this doesn't

Here is something dumb. There’s this pencil, it’s white and seems to be from both Cimarron Insurance Company, Inc., in Kansas, and the Akron Loan Company in Colorado. It has a little orange logo thing on one side, and has a sort of chewed-up look to it. I accidentally stole it the last time I made Anton, CO, my very temporary home.

I guess I got kind of attached to it. It lay on my dresser for a long time, sprawled out across the book manuscript I’d been using it on when the accidental theft was perpetrated. Every time I saw it there (or almost every time), I thought about sitting in the Herrons’ dining room, reading that manuscript and taking notes on it, and twisting that pencil around and around while I tried to think of what I was thinking about. I also thought what a burglar I was, and how funny it was that I should give thought to the burgling of a pencil, and how I’d better return it to its rightful masters anyway. I meant to send it home with Luke when he ventured into the northern reaches of Iowa in August; but I forgot.

I remembered it when I came back to Colorado a week and a half ago, and laid it safely to rest in the drawer where it belongs. One would think that ought to be the end of the story (although inordinate levels of boringness may prevent this tale from actually qualifying as a “story”).

Today, though, in the absence of other immediate activity, I decided to get that manuscript back out and see about finishing with it. I realized that I would need a pencil. I went to the drawer where the pencils are and looked inside. Pens and pencils there were in abundance, but I was seized suddenly with an intense desire to find my old stolen pencil back, and use it as I had in days of yore. I was seized also by a lost sense of panic at the thought that, having returned my old stolen pencil to its proper place of residence, it might easily (and perfectly lawfully, which made it worse) have begun once again to be used by its true owners; and might have been relocated to another region of the house; and might never again be gazed upon by my longing eyes.

I dug through the basket of writing utensils, forward and backward, scrabbling, alarmed at my alarm. I did not want an orange pencil. I wanted my pencil. My precious? Nah.

At any rate, I dug and scrabbled away, and started getting really sad about the whole business, when at last I found my pencil. Except it’s still not really mine, and if I take it home with me again it will be a double burglary, which might be punishable by death.

In other news, my hands smell like grilled hamburger, and my left leg is falling asleep from me sitting on it for too long.

Biff and Iguana Man Strike Again

"Don't smash the exit signs," he said as I came in;
He wore a slick tuxedo and an ample double chin.
I eyed him for a moment, and I raised one eyebrow high;
I straightened out my shoulders and my nifty new bow-tie.
"What makes you think I'd want to, sir?" I asked with some disdain.
His features wrinkled grossly, as though seized with mortal pain;
At length I saw that this must be his version of a smirk,
And I thought he ought, perhaps, to seek a different line of work;
For a butler ought to be a thing that strikes you as serene:
A shimmer in the atmosphere, commanding, meek, and clean.
He ought to keep his feelings hid beneath a marble brow;
He must always answer calmly; he must never have a cow;
And a smirk is such a thing that, in his wildest, fear-filled dreams,
He must run from it in terror, and awake from it with screams.
These thoughts traversed my brain cells with the speed of lightning, greased,
And when I looked again, I saw his smirking fit had ceased.
He was gazing past my earlobe at a thing set just beyond,
With a look of grave suspicion, like a poodle near a pond.
I looked around behind me, but the only thing I saw
Was my trusty pal (his name is Biff), with hair like moldy straw.
I was gripped with understanding for the butler’s glassy stare:
This Biff’s a dandy sidekick, but he’s anything but fair.
Admittedly, his suit was nice, but this could not disguise
His toad-like face, his lumpy nose, his muddy, greenish eyes.
To the butler I addressed myself: “Of Biff be not afraid!
I know he looks the vandal type, but that’s just how he’s made.
He’d sooner die a martyr’s death than smash an exit sign;
Now please just let us in, for we’ve been beckoned here to dine.”
He pondered this a moment, then he bobbed his balding head.
“Alright, you guys, but watch your backs,” the aging butler said.
I wondered what he meant, but I was not allowed to ask,
For Biff had shoved me in the door before three seconds passed.
“Hey, what’s the deal?” I queried in a slightly wrathful tone,
“That butler might have news we would prove better to have known.
He said to watch our backs, and if I’m right that often means
That someone near at hand is cooking up a deadly scheme.
If we die tonight, I’m blaming it exclusively on you.”
Biff glowered, then he said, “That’s fine. I kind of hope we do.”
“Oh, come now Biff,” I cried, “What is the matter with your head?
This party’s not so awful that you’d rather turn up dead!”
“That’s easy,” quoth Biff glumly, “for the likes of you to say.
But you have no idea what I’ll suffer here this day:
I’m used to wearing blue jeans, chugging Pepsi from a can,
And chatting ‘bout the races, or whatever comes to hand.
But these folks, they’ve got their manners and their high-filootin’ gems;
They’ll stare at me and whisper, ‘What the world’s the deal with him?’”
I tried to reassure him; I advised him to relax.
I thumped his chest and then applied a wallop to his back.
He didn’t seem much cheered, but with reluctance still he came.
I led him to our host, whom I informed of both our names.
He welcomed us politely, then forgot that we were there,
For a pretty girl had walked past, and he had to smooth his hair.
After that, Biff tried to vanish, but his efforts were in vain:
In all that polished glamour, he stuck out with vivid pain.
There were satins, silks, and diamonds; there was gold, and all things fine;
There were botox-altered faces; there was caviar and wine.
And out there in the midst stood Biff, his crooked mouth agape;
I couldn’t help but pity him, he looked so like an ape.
At last the dinner chime was rung; we all filed in to feed
(For however fine our outsides, we’ve the same internal greed).
The cooking was exquisite, and the conversation bland;
Entertainment was provided by an aged crooner’s band.
Then suddenly the lights died, and a honking wail rang out;
The guests all shrieked in fear and stumbled aimlessly about.
“A red alert!” a voice boomed. “All you fruitcakes form a line!
You’ll be searched and questioned shortly: someone’s smashed an exit sign!”
I looked around for Biff, who in the crush had disappeared;
I saw him near the punch bowl, and his face looked awfully queer,
So I strode up to his side; I grabbed his hand and stroked its palm.
“It’s gonna be ok, Biff,” I declared, to make him calm.
He quivered like a jelly, and his face showed grief and rage
As he pointed at two men in matching suits up on the stage.
“They’re watching me,” he rattled, “And I know exactly why:
They’re sure that I’m the culprit, and they long to see me die.
It’s all because I’m ugly, man!” And sharply he exhaled.
“They won’t kill you, Biff,” I told him, “At the worst, you’ll go to jail.
And prison, though unpleasant, is a better fate than most—
Just think! You could be sliced up, fried, and eaten cold with toast.”
Biff looked at me, and I could see his eyes fill up with tears;
“You’re right,” he choked, “And now I must be master of my fears.
If a life in jail is what awaits, to such I’m now resigned;
But still, the fact remains – I didn’t smash that exit sign.”
I started, for this revelation caught me by surprise;
And, grieved by my disloyalty, I knuckled both my eyes.
“Oh Biff,” I whispered hoarsely, “By this injustice be not vexed.
We’ll find the rightful crook and wrap our fingers round his neck.
That butler, you remember, seemed to know this would occur –
Let’s see if we can find and quiz the noble, portly sir.”
We traipsed around the ballroom, and peered into every face;
There were humans in abundance, but the butler? Not a trace.
Then we saw a sign marked “Stairs” beside a door left just ajar;
We thought we’d take a peek. We wouldn’t wander very far.
But just inside the door there was this yellow “Caution” tape,
And in the act of sneaking past, the butler, mouth agape.
Above his head an exit sign (or one that once had been)
Was dangling by some wiring; and he gripped a rolling pin.
Befuddlement had seized me, but it didn’t keep me long,
For Biff leapt past and yodeled, “Hey! I knew those blokes were wrong!
I didn’t smash no exit sign – this butler did the deed,
And now he must be captured, and my reputation freed!”
A chase ensued that would have made an epic poet proud,
The butler’s speed defied his girth, and frankly, I was wowed.
But Biff cannot be shaken, once he fixes on his prey;
He kept up with his quarry, and at last he got his way.
In chains and brought to justice, still the butler’s eyes shot sparks,
But his bite had all been wasted; he could now but feebly bark.
As the cop car pulled away, and all the guests went back inside,
I looked across at Biff, and didn’t try to squelch my pride.
The lamplight on his features made me think of heroes bold,
Who, ugliness aside, have wills of steel and hearts of gold.
A better sidekick can’t be found, for snagging errant knaves,
Than Biff, who spends his life in making sure the world stays saved.
We crossed the street together, to where Kum n’ Go still stands;
I bought us each a Pepsi, and we drank it from the can.

nostalgia does not induce good poetry

My life is a memory.

Ahead is only fog.
A perfect light marks the end,
But the path I must take there is unclear.
What I think I see
May be something else,
Or perhaps it isn't there at all.

For an instant
I am in the present,
Then it flashes past into history.
Instant upon instant,
Always in the present,
But only an instant at a time.

Behind me is the story,
The one God's been telling all along.
It's frozen, and in a way it's gone:
I can't change it
And I can't have it back.
Time is a one-way street.

Sometimes when I stand where I used to stand,
And everything is changed,
Longing sweeps over me;
In a way I suppose I want it back,
But mostly I wish I'd known at the time
How soon it would be gone.

I spend so much time
Waiting for the future;
I don't understand that when it gets here,
It will turn into the present,
And by the time I realize it's happened,
It'll be over.

I'm always in yesterday's future.
I'm always in tomorrow's past.
This instant,
This little instant right now,
That's all I'm ever going to get,
This side of glory.

What am I doing with it?

tread softly

Believe me,
every man has his secret sorrows,
which the world knows not;
and oftimes we call a man cold,
when he is only sad.
(H.W. Longfellow)


I like stories. Pretty often, when my mind fails to find more productive ways of entertaining itself, I find myself making up stories about the people I see. Whether I'm walking through Wal-Mart, driving down the road, sitting in a restaurant, or waiting for a concert to start, interesting people almost never fail to show up, and once they show up, I can hardly help but think about them. I imagine who they are, where they came from, where they're going, what's going on in their lives, what awaits them in the future. Sometimes I wonder if this is an entirely ethical pastime, but I've reached the tentative conclusion that it's fairly harmless, since I don't actually believe any of the things I'm making up are anywhere near true. I just use the impressions people give me as a launching pad for fictions constructed entirely out of thin air (and generally forgotten more or less immediately). All the same, I suppose it's kind of a silly thing to do.

The thing, though, is that people really do have stories -- true stories that I know nothing about. Every single person you or I will ever meet has a life, and it's just as real to them as mine is to me. My existence is so self-centered, I often forget that. Think of all the cars you pass on the highway on a given day. I don't suppose most of us take the time to actually think it through very often, but isn't there kind of a subconscious assumption that once a vehicle has whooshed past you and vanished from sight, it and its occupants (because it does have humans inside, believe it or not) cease to exist? Well, the fact is that they don't. To them, you are the flash of speeding metal, barely noticed and immediately forgotten. Every single person in every one of those cars, everyone living in all the houses and apartments you pass, everyone walking down the sidewalk, everyone at the store -- every single one has had moments of joy, moments of pain, moments of suffering, moments of refreshment -- all these moments making up a life. And every single one has a soul that cannot die.

It really struck me today, a year after my sister's death, how little most of us really know about each other. In some ways, that's just as things must be -- each of us can only live one life, and we can't share equally in the suffering of all those around us, or I suppose it would kill us. It isn't required of us to remember all the birthdays and anniversaries of loved ones people have lost, or to keep up with everyone's struggles and heartaches, sharing acutely in all their pain. It just isn't possible. Yet I was convicted, on the other hand, of keeping too much to myself, of not reaching out to others when I can, or at least thinking and behaving selflessly when that's all I can do.

You see, we just don't know. We don't know what other people have been through, or what they're going through now; and even if we do have some idea what's going on, we can't understand what it's like until we've been there. Sometimes as I'm driving to Spencer, I remember May 4 of last year, when we drove that same route, trailing a distant ambulance, and nobody else knew where we were headed; nobody knew our lives had just been shattered. Sometimes, then, I look at the car ahead of me and wonder where they're going: is it an ordinary errand, or are they staggering through tragedy? Who am I to know? If someone flies by me going twenty over the speed limit, maybe he's just late for a dentist appointment; or maybe his wife is about to give birth to their first child; or maybe his child is dying. If the car just ahead of me is poking along at a maddening pace, I wonder if I could take a deep breath and be patient, instead of tapping on the wheel and growling under my breath. It could well be that the driver just can't see the road through her tears.

Death touches more people than you might think. Sometimes I stop at the cemetery where Addy is buried on my way home from work, or when I'm driving by, and there's almost always a fresh grave, or one that the grass has yet to grow over. Every time, someone's world fell apart. And it doesn't end there; the grass is green over Addy's grave, but our hearts still ache. Life goes on; the world forgets, but we never will.

So when the lady ahead of you in the checkout lane can't find the right change; when there's a tired, screaming toddler at the next table; when the gas station attendant all but snaps at you about your purchases; when the cars ahead of you take half the morning to make their left turns ... consider carefully before you assume anything, because there is much that you don't know.

The painful truth is that you're not the center of the universe, and neither am I. None of us is the main character, and most of us probably aren't even in the supporting cast. We're props and makeup artists and piccolo players in the band -- each of us has a part, to be sure, but frankly, it's not about any of us. God made every single one of us in His image, and the sole purpose of that was so that we could glorify Him and enjoy Him forever. For those of us who have been redeemed, it's all "about" our Heavenly Father, and loving Him by obeying Him, which means loving each other. That's the only reason any of this matters.

And for those of you who suffer, for those of you who grieve, for those of you who feel alone in your pain -- take comfort and remember that you're not. "For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin." (Hebrews 4:15) He was forsaken, the Heidelberg catechism assures us, so that God might never forsake us. In fact, Hebrews 13:5 says the same thing: "For He Himself has said, "I will never leave you nor forsake you." And in Isaiah 61:1, ""The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon Me, Because the LORD has anointed Me To preach good tidings to the poor; He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted, To proclaim liberty to the captives, And the opening of the prison to those who are bound."

We may be many things, but when we belong to Christ, we are never alone.


Tread softly, for you know not what an ill-feigned smile conceals;
Be patient: think how far away a troubled mind may be;
Speak kindly, for you cannot know the pain another feels;
And love -- for there is always more to life than you can see.

they knew

What is the militia? It is the whole people. To disarm the people is the best and most effectual way to enslave them
- George Mason


Laws that forbid the carrying of arms...disarm only those who are neither inclined nor determined to commit crimes...Such laws make things worse for the assaulted and better for the assailants; they serve rather to encourage than to prevent homicides, for an unarmed man may be attacked with greater confidence than an armed man.
- Thomas Jefferson, quoting Cesare Beccaria's "On Crimes and Punishment"


The constitution supposes, what the History of all Governments demonstrates, that the Executive is the branch of power most interested in war, and most prone to it. It has accordingly with studied care vested the question of war in the Legislature.
- James Madison, writing to Thomas Jefferson


If Congress can employ money indefinitely to the general welfare, and are the sole and supreme judges of the general welfare, they may take the care of religioin into their own hands; they may appoint teachers in every state, county, and parish, and pay them out of their public treasury; they may take into their own hands the education of children establishing in like manner schools throughout the Union; they may assume the provision for the poor; they may undertake the regulation of all roads other than post roads; in short, everything, from the highest object of state legislation down to the most minute object of police, would be thrown under the power of Congress.
- James Madison


It is working like gravity by night and by day, gaining a little today and a little tomorrow, and advancing its noiseless step like a thief over the field of jurisdiction, until all shall be usurped from the states, and the government of all be consolidated into one.
- Thomas Jefferson, on the federal judiciary

Arwen, Undomiel, Evenstar, Whatever

How comest thy part in this tale?
And who dared enlarge it so far
That, bloated, thou staggerest onward,
And thy role doth so hopelessly mar?

The footsteps thou strivest to follow
Are truly so small and so light,
That any attempt that thou makest
Goes blundering into the night.

Thou ought to be small, unoffensive,
And not go out wandering so much,
Chasing Gondorian Rangers,
Whose hearts thou so gropingly clutch.

Hypnosis by brain-waves thou sendest
To a gullible soul far away.
Thy necklace, a chain ever-clanking,
Obsesseth him day after day.

Thou seest how low is thy standing
In the favor of one, which is me.
I think that thou long ago should have
Been drowned on thy way o’er the sea.

Thou askest now why I am speaking
To thee, whom I esteemest so low?
I’m done now, but why did I bother?
Ask not, because nobody knows.


~Tierney Erwin



p.s. Since my reputation is worth so much, and hangs already on a thread so fine, I feel compelled to point out that 1) I wrote this years ago (I forget how many), and 2) even then, the formal English (thee, thou, -est, etc....what is that called, anyway?) was bad on purpose.
There. Now I feel better.

The Adventures of Biff and Iguana Man

"No throwing babies," the sign in the window said.
I stopped to gawk and wonder, and then to scratch my head.
I stood there for a moment, then I turned myself around;
I watched, with grave suspicion, the goings-on in town.
A woman swept the sidewalk while the grocer stacked his wares;
Some boys were playing freeze tag, and a girl sat on some stairs;
A teen, complete with ipod, with great effort parked his car,
And near a blowout sale rack, two young moms played tug-of-war;
A new car passed an old one, and a moped passed them both;
A couple lovebirds waltzed on air, apparently betrothed.
Upon this scene of normalcy I gazed with some alarm--
What dreadful secrets lay beneath this fair facade of charm?
What possibly could spur the drawing up of such a sign?
Were babies really being thrown? A shiver smote my spine.
For a time I stood there frozen, then my Inner Hero stirred;
“Well, don’t just sit and slobber! Get your cape, you lousy bird!”
To my face these words were spoken! I could scarce believe the spite,
But I didn’t pause to answer, for I knew that he was right.
And, besides, my Inner Hero (though heroic to a fault)
Is known to lean toward rudeness. Indeed, perfect he is not.
So I thundered to my pickup with my nostrils bravely flared;
A cape is in my trunk, you see. I always come prepared.
I flung it round my neck, and in its blueish-green embrace
A new Me took the spotlight, though I kept the same round face.
My hat was pulled down to my eyes; my collar touched my ears;
I was, as has been wisely said, among evil’s darkest fears.
I tore across the pavement, kicking sparks up in my wake;
My heart was pounding wildly, but I swear it didn’t quake.
When I reached the storefront window, with that awful sign inside,
I paused to shake my fist, and then I flung the front door wide.
The splendor of my coming would have scared a warlord stiff,
But the freckled kid inside just laughed (his name was likely Biff).
He had braces and bifocals, and he laughed like choking cats;
I couldn’t help but loathe him, but I stalked to where he sat.
“Tell me now where I must venture,” were my words to that young bloke,
“To avenge these hard-tossed infants.” And I gave his face a poke.
With the benefit of hindsight, that last gesture was not wise,
For immediately upon it, greenish flames flicked in his eyes.
“Did you just poke my face?” he rasped. What could I say but “yes”?
And what precisely happened next is anybody’s guess.
I tried to keep my balance, but that kid was quick and fierce;
The strength with which he kicked me quite defied his tender years.
We tumbled on the floor then, getting jabs in when we could;
Of this art I am a master, but this Biff guy sure was good.
At last I broke his hold and stood and grabbed a whiteish flag;
“Oh say,” I said, “Why not be pals? This fighting’s such a drag.”
He gave an awful gurgle and made three more well-aimed kicks,
Then he grinned a silly grin and said, “Ok. Let’s call it quits.”
With relief my soul was flooded now; I wrung his sweaty paw;
Then, “You must be Iguana Man,” he said in startled awe.
I smiled and blushed a little bit, for what he said was true;
Then, out of common courtesy, I asked, “And who are you?”
“My name is Biff,” quoth he, to which I said, “I thought as much.”
(A face like his, I thought, no other name could justly touch.)
“Are you looking for a job, Biff? For your wallop’s got pizzazz,
And a sidekick’s something I’ve not got, but really ought to have.”
Such radiance seized Biff’s features that it rather hurt my eyes,
And he gave a harsh, elated squeak, in affirmative reply.
“Come on now, Biff,” I said then, “There are babies to be saved.
Someone has been throwing them; let’s crush the errant knaves!”
Biff yodeled, and he set off down the street at such a pace
That I had to rent a scooter just to keep up with the chase.
For many blocks we sped thus, till we reached the edge of town,
Then Biff pulled up so sharply that I nearly mowed him down.
“This is it,” he whispered hoarsely, “This is where they toss the babes,
But they tranquilize the infants, so their cries don’t wake the nabes.”
“The fiends,” I darkly muttered, and with stealth we crept inside.
Then Biff got really nervous, and he said we’d better hide.
“They meet here every Tuesday right at seven, and that’s soon.
Let’s hide here in the closet, then we’ll snag the wretched goons.”
A first-rate plan I thought it, so we hid among the coats—
The reek of must and mothballs was so strong it hurt my throat.
We didn’t suffer long, though, for there soon arose a din,
So we crowded to the keyhole to peek outside from within.
There was padding on the floor, and there was padding on the walls;
There were men in padded jumpsuits (some were short and some were tall).
There were cradles in the corners. There were babies all about
(They were wrapped up snug in blankets, with their faces poking out).
Then a great and solemn silence swept the chatter off its feet,
And there rose a muffled humming, and a soft but steady beat.
Then a man strode to the infants and he gently picked one up,
And with fluid, swift dexterity he slung the helpless pup;
Another silent man reached out and snatched it from the air.
I didn’t scream, but this I did: I pulled out half my hair.
As one body, Biff and I leapt out; we cried, “Lay down your arms!
Place the babies in the cradles, or you’ll certainly be harmed.
We are trained in Russian boxing, and we know a hundred tricks;
We have written epic poems, and we sometimes swallow bricks.”
Now, I cannot say with certainty that all of this is true,
But things were looking desperate, and, well, what else could we do?
It did the trick, at any rate—those brutes spun out and fled,
And we chased them round in circles till we all were almost dead.
At last the fiends surrendered, and they hung their heads in shame;
I told them that, if I were them, I would surely do the same.
Then Biff scooped up the babies, while I dragged the crooks to jail;
By sunset we were satisfied that one more case was nailed.
I was pleased with my new sidekick, who, though ugly as a toad,
Was very good at boxing, and with valor was bestowed.
We stood out on a hilltop then, my partner Biff and I.
We didn’t have to say a word—the same glints were in our eyes.
The world was now a safer place; our day’s good deed was done,
So we kicked back, had a beer, and watched the setting of the sun.

The End.

my flitting thoughts light briefly hereon...

...in other words, here are a few things I've been thinking about lately. This is my excuse for a blog post when I lack the motivation or subject matter to write anything of my own.


Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.
-Job 13:15

Oh Master, grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
Or to be loved as to love with all my soul.
-a song

I cannot think well of a man who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of.
-Jane Austen


And Jesus answered and said to her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things."
-Luke 10:41

It takes no courage whatsoever to type alone in my study. Especially when I'm typing for a safe audience.
-Andree Seu

For mad scientists who keep brains in jars, here's a tip: why not add a slice of lemon to each jar, for freshness?
-Jack Handey

Time sneaks up on you like a windshield on a bug.
-John Lithgow

I blame Dorothy Sayers

Imagine a man--not a terribly honorable man (guilty, in fact, of murder; though only two people know it yet)--who has become entangled in a deadly drug-smuggling ring. At the beginning, he didn't know what he was getting into, but he needed money; and even when he did find out what it was all about, he stuck with it. Imagine that such a man, under the growing suspicion that you (who are obviously a British lord who moonlights as a self-directed private detective of sorts) are on to his trick, comes to your flat one night to confess. After exchanging tales and getting the whole thing sorted out, making it quite evident that his game is up, suppose the man confides that, though he himself is strangely relieved that it's over, his one great distress is that his past deeds will cause his wife and child such pain and public disgrace.
The role the man played in the drug-trafficking was inconspicuous, though vital. Its revelation, besides shocking and shaming his family, would also ruin the reputation of the advertising firm for which he worked, and through which he secretly worked his mischief.
The murder he committed was related to the drug business, and was rather ingeniously constructed to look like an unfortunate accident, and has been credited as such by all the world, apart from yourself and one discerning young lady.
Suppose you are well aware, as you talk together this evening, that another member of the drug ring has trailed your man here, and is waiting somewhere in the shadows outside, fully intent on doing him in as he makes his way home again.
You are also aware that if your man stays a few hours in your flat, he will be safe, for your friends at Scotland Yard will by then have sprung their trap on the rest of the gang elsewhere in the city, and the would-be assassin will have fled for his own life.
The man contemplates suicide, to save his wife and child from the scandal (provided you hold your tongue, of course).

Knowing all this, could it be justifiable to suggest something else to the man? What if you said,

"Listen! I think there is one other way out. It won't help you, but it may make all the difference to your wife and child."
"How?"
"They need never know anything about all this. Nothing. Nobody need ever know anything, if you do as I tell you."
"What do you mean? Tell me quickly. I'll do anything."
"It won't save you."
"That doesn't matter. Tell me."
"Go home now. Go on foot, and not too fast. And don't look behind you."

What if the blood drained from his face as he said, "I think I know what you mean. . .very well."

And what if he did it?

conversations with a five-year-old superhero

Tierney is walking through her parents’ bedroom.
Enter Eli (wearing a cape with the collar turned up, a belt with a pistol holster bearing a wooden sword, and Tierney’s graduation cap) and Sam (dressed in long johns, a baby bib, and a too-small knitted cap of some kind).

Tierney: Oh, look, it’s a graduated superhero.
Eli: No, it’s actually a helmet. It only looks like a graduation hat.
Tierney: I see.
Sam: Hi, Middis Bott.
Tierney: Mrs. Potts? Why do I always have to be Mrs. Potts? Can’t I be someone else this time?
Sam: No. Middis Bott.
Tierney: Oh, fine. Who are you, again?
Eli: Mr. Beeda. Or maybe Baby Mayne.
Sam: Yeah. Baby Mayne.
Tierney: Oh. Hi, Baby Mayne.
Sam: Hi…
Eli: My name is Jack. I’m actually a guard at the hotel.
Tierney: The hotel?
Eli: This is the hotel.
Tierney: I see. Do all the hotel guards wear helmets like that?
Eli: Yeah, it has armor underneath. I have two chain mail shirts, too. And this is my sword.
Tierney: At least your sword looks like a sword.
Eli: Yeah.
Tierney: Do you get a lot of armed robbers at this hotel?
Eli: No, I’ve got two chain mail shirts.
Tierney: I know, but why do you need all that armor? Do you get attacked a lot?
Eli: Not really. Sometimes I wear a suit coat.
Tierney: Oh. Do you wear your chain mail underneath?
Eli: No, just a white shirt.
Tierney: I see. Do people call you Agent 86 when you wear your suit coat?
Eli: Yeah, but I’m really a guard.
Tierney: Disguised as Agent 86?
Eli: Yeah.
Tierney: Very tricky.
Sam: Daddoo, beez! Daddoo, beez!
Tierney: What?
Sam: Daddoo, beez!
Tierney: Tractor please?
Sam: No, daddoo, beez!
Eli: Oh, you want your gun?
Sam: No…
(A trek is made to Sam’s dresser, wherefrom Eli pulls a largeish “number one” birthday candle.)
Tierney: Oh…I see. Candle please.
Eli: That’s his gun.
Tierney: Oh. It looks like a candle.
Eli: It’s a gun.
Tierney: Disguised as a candle?
Eli: Yeah.
Sam: Yeah. Daddoo.
Tierney: So then you can tell all the bad guys, ‘No, I just carry a candle around with me for fun,’ and then you can shoot them.
Eli (laughing): Yeah, like, pshew! Pshew!
Tierney: Oh, that was fun.
Sam: Yeah. Dun. Bad duys. Oh!
Tierney: Oh man...
Sam: Oh man!
Tierney: What is it?
Sam: Dood duys! Winnow!
Tierney: The good guys are coming in the window?
Sam: Yeah. Dood duys.
Tierney: Good guys should really come in the door.
Sam: Yeah. Bad duys.
Tierney: Oh, there are bad guys, too?
Sam: Yeah, winnow.
Tierney: Well you’d better get them!
Sam: Pshew! Pshew! There.
Tierney: How do you tell which ones are the bad guys that you can shoot?
Eli: The bad guys all wear white, and the good guys all wear black.
Tierney: Sam’s wearing white.
Eli: No, he has a blue bib, and this blue hat, and a tractor on his jammies.
Tierney: Oh. So the bad guys just wear all white with nothing on it. Are you a good guy, Sam?
Sam: No. Dood baby.
Eli: All the good babies wear white pajamas with this little tractor on them, and a light blue hat, and a blue bib with a brown dog on it, and above the dog it says ‘woof’, and no socks.
Tierney: I see. That’s quite a uniform.
Sam: Oh! Bad duys!
Tierney: Bad guys over there, too? Good grief, they’re coming out of the woodwork tonight.
Sam: Dood duys!
Tierney: Bad guys and good guys? Oh dear. Are they fighting?
Sam: Yeah.
Tierney: Who’s winning, the bad guys or the good guys?
Sam: Um…bad duys.
Tierney: Oh no! You’d better go help. You can’t let the bad guys win!
Sam: Dun?
Eli: Yeah, here, shoot my helmet.
Tierney: You want a hole in your helmet?
Eli: No, it’s got armor under it.
Tierney: Oh, it’s bullet-proof?
Eli (scornfully): No, it’s sword-proof.
Tierney: So if someone shot your helmet, the bullet would go through and kill you?
Eli: No, it’s armor.
Tierney: Well, that’s what bullet-proof means. Bullets can’t get through it.
Eli: Oh. Yeah. It is.
Tierney: That’s good.
Eli: I’m actually one of them, over there.
Tierney: One of the good guys?
Eli: Yeah. I’m a guard.
Tierney: So I hear.
Eli: All the guards wear black pants and a grey shirt, and white socks, and a black cape, and a sword, and a helmet.
Tierney: Goodness. Who designed your uniform, anyway?
Eli: The hotel, of course!

Exit Eli and Sam. Finis.