Why Geico Hates Election Season

**Disclaimer** Don’t run away in fear: this will not be a political blog entry. There are enough people doing that already who are far more qualified to offer an opinion than I am. However, since there are also enough people doing that who are far LESS qualified than I am (or than your average bottle opener for that matter), don’t think that it might not happen one day....

The 2012 Presidential Primaries are a staggering 8 months away. Granted, in my mind any time is far too soon, but 8 months still a respectable distance out. Especially considering the Republican contenders are still circling the wagons and vying for the best position to see who can throw their hat the farthest into the ring. In fact, it’s early enough yet that I still feel a certain margin of safety in turning on the television or opening the newspaper without being bombarded with highly contrived political ads. (Yes, for all wiki-wizards out there I am aware of the bias inherent in that statement)

So imagine my surprise this morning on my way to work when I saw a proud member of one of the parties walking to the front of his lawn with a presidential yard sign in one hand and a mallet in the other. There was even a sort of smug bounce to his step as though his proactive turf side campaigning were something that his neighbors would surely envy, much as they might a new garden gnome or set of pink flamingoes.

What I also noticed as I passed was that he was on his way to give it pride of placement; in other words, that sweet spot on a lawn next to a driveway that A) makes it impossible to miss and B) makes it impossible to miss the driver backing out of said driveway who couldn’t see you coming down the road because of said yard sign.

Apparently, there is a science to yard sign placement and getting the most attention drawn to your sign instead of your neighbor’s sign who, although otherwise being mostly an alright kinda chap, seems to want to vote for that other guy. The truly successful have learned that the most effective placement is to plaster them like a political flood wall on corner lots and near as many road merges, driveways, and parking lots as humanly possible. That way when the ensuing wrecks occur due to the philosophical blind spots, drivers will have LOTS of time to sit and absorb the cardboard political debate while awaiting the tow truck, police and/or ambulance.

Every time you hear sirens in your neighborhood this election season, go ahead and chalk another one up for the lawn-chair politico next door.

Charlize Theron = The Devil?

While searching for yet another way to avoid writing a synopsis for my latest novel (I could write a thesis on this if I wouldn't keep putting it off), I turned to my faithful friend in times of such need: Netflix. I've powered through all of the classic "Invader Zim" episodes but I was still in the mood for a quirky cartoon. So, I decided to search for "Lucy: Daughter of the Devil."  For anyone who hasn't seen it, this is a great cartoon from Adult Swim that is essentially MTV's "Daria" meets "Good Omens" by Neil Gaiman/Terry Pratchett. Unfortunately, Netflix was a big fat bust on this one.

Still, the eager-to-please search engine didn't want to appear completely unhelpful. Unwilling to accept failure, it offered me the following suggestions based on the search in this order:
1. "I Saw the Devil"
2. "The House of the Devil"
3. Charlize Theron

Does Netflix know something we don't know? No wonder she was able to lose all of that weight so quickly after "Monster."

Novel Excerpt - "Alice Will"

This is a section from my latest young adult fantasy - "Alice Will". In this scene, teenage demi-goddess Trotter is fighting a new foe: boredom. With Prowler, an enchanted cat that is both her friend and guardian, she roams the docks of Sarano.

There is a universal law which naturalists and scientists have yet to discover that supplies that anywhere people gather or pass through, someone will arrive to sell them food. It is due in large part to the tremendous attractive force between the street creature known as a vendor and the gold residing in the pockets of anyone who isn’t them. This is why within a fifty foot walk along the bay Trotter and Prowler were able to purchase and devour two fresh steamed cods, a sampling of shrimp, fried caramel snaps, banana pastries, and a very large syrupy fruit drink made with fizzy water. Trotter was just finishing off a deliciously sticky taffy dainty when they reached the foot of Poorbetters St. and a new sign caught her eye.

“Hey, look! The boys have a new store.”

“I heard about that. Apparently a child in the west side started asking too many questions about one of the gadgets and the parents got suspicious. So, they packed up shop, changed the name a little, and here they are. Good choice, too. People around here aren’t into asking questions.”

The store ahead of them had a sign that advertised “Pratt, Pratts, Potts, and Pot: Items of Technific Wonder.” Though the quartet had moved around quite a bit they were always simple to find by those who knew them. The store in the illustrious west end of Sarano had been called “Pat, Pratt, Pots, and Potter,” and the store before that had been of another similar variation. The reason for their constant moving was that after a while people would catch on to who they really were and chunks of brick would invariably be hurled through their window at best or, at worst, flaming bottles would be thrown in the night. Yet this didn’t deter the young men whose names were actually Pratt, Pratt, Pratt, and Pratt.

Pratt was, or Pratts were, if you will, a mage. Early in his life he discovered that he had a natural aptitude for magical inventions and also discovered that he had far too many ideas and inventions to create than he could do alone in one life time. His solution was as simple as it was impossibly insane. Rather than attempt to find another mage to work with he decided that he worked better by himself, so that is exactly what he chose to do. Using a little-known loophole in Scatcatter’s Infundibulum Dispersal he cast a small net in time and caught himself from one second in the future. With the help of his slightly future self, he repeated the process two more times until Pratt was certain he had enough help for his creations. The only drawback was that he tended to fall into a four second loop in his conversations with other people. Therefore, only two Pratts worked in the front of the store at any time while the other two worked feverishly in the workshop constructing toys that were part magical and part mechanical.

It was generally held among the public that yes, magic existed and yes, it’s quite handy to have around when someone gets ill or the dragons get frisky again, but it’s not really proper, is it? And so it was that they tended to become uncomfortable around practitioners of magic. When groups of uncomfortable people gather together they typically become a group of angry people quite quickly if for no other reason than that it seems to be fashionable at the time.

Magic was never fashionable in the trendy and modern city of Sarano. It signaled a time when people, chiefly people with money, were not in control and put them largely in mind of pitch forks and torches. It was tolerated, however, in the same way that mice are tolerated to exist so long as they did not appear in one’s kitchen.

The Pratts made beautiful toys and time-saving inventions that could practically prepare and cook an entire meal if the buyer had enough gold to spend. However, in order to entice an affluent citizen to purchase one of their magical goods they’d had to be creative, and even a little devious. Pratt, one or all of them, came up with the name technifical to describe the creations and called himself, themselves, an engineer. Since everyone knew that nobody could understand an engineer anyway they seldom asked them what technifical meant. If a brave or morbidly curious soul did ask then they would be ambushed with terms like reversible inverse momentum, floppy circuits, limited infinite quantities, and quantifiable unknowns until the listener gave up and went away pale, shaken, and confused.

Still, from time to time an enterprising mind would dissect one of their wonders and discover that where they’d expected to find clockwork was nothing but seemingly sparkly air or sometimes even a flapping butterfly. Then the Pratts would have to pack up their store and move yet again. It no longer bothered them, actually. It was a matter of pride to them that they were never in one place long enough for the property tax bill to arrive.

The newest incarnation of their store stood in front of Trotter with the promise of at least one thing: it would alleviate an entire morning’s worth of boredom in one stop.

“Let’s go in for a visit,” she said, swallowing the last of her taffy.

“Not this time. We need to get back and wait for Miro.”

“Oh, come on, it’s right on the way! It won’t take long.” She started heading toward the door.

“You promised!” Prowler called behind her indignantly.

“What? I can’t hear you. You should speak up when you’re so far away,” she taunted back as the door to the shop began to close behind her. Prowler darted through the door before it could shut on his tail.

“Five minutes. Then we really have to go. I’m getting bad feeling right down to my whiskers now.”

“Don’t be such a fraidy cat.” As soon as she stepped through the door the buzzing of toys and gizmos filled her ears. As she wandered down an aisle a small rodent sized toy zipped in front of her, pausing only long enough to squeak a tinny apology before hurrying along. In the corner a toy bird was flapping from wall to wall while a life-like toy frog hopped into her hands. It had a small key turning in its back, but she knew it was only for show. That key turned nothing at all and never needed winding. But it made it look less magical and therefore more acceptable to the parents of proper children with the pockets full of gold.

The Terror of the Untoasted Sub

It's not often that I get to blog about fast food experiences (actually, it's a first) but my Quizno's experience from yesterday wasn't singular which makes it even funnier to me now.

First, let me preface this by saying that I have a total hang-up about eating in public. Watching (and hearing sometimes, yuck) the multitudes of bad table manners, messy eaters, and "see-food" enthusiasts totally kills my appetite, so far be it from me to join the messy masses and get crumbs on my face while enjoying my small classic italian on white. Those "Mmm, mmm, toasty" subs fall apart at every bite leaving it's sated consumer with crumbles all over the place.

So, to solve this problem I always order an (inserted dramatic tension building music here) untoasted sub. When doing this in an establishment famous for its toasted subs I apparently throw a wrench into the machine and cause the entire line to break down into pandemonium. This is how it usually goes:

I innocently approach the counter and place my order (small untoasted italian) causing the prep station man's eyes to widen in fear. "Untoasted? Are you sure?" After assuring him that I am indeed strong enough to handle this decision he turns to another co-worker for support and begins piling the soft bread with the care of a nuclear technician handling an explosive device. I watch his obvious internal turmoil while he walks past the oven without passing the sub through and hands it to the next man on the line for fresh veggies. Now the Veggie Man looks at the Meat Man like he's an idiot and heads toward the front of the oven to toast the sub. Meat Man sees this and stops him behind the oven and in hushed tones quickly discuss my unorthodox order and Veggie Man obligingly returns to his station with my still untoasted sub looking a bit shaken. I decide to give the poor guy a break and just get a little lettuce and vinegar and I even think about asking him to toast the pickles to make him feel better. My untoasted small classic italian is now a completed work of art and I follow Veggie Man to the register where he passes the sub to the cashier, making sure he knows it's an untoasted italian because that apparently makes all the difference in the price. Oh wait, no it doesn't.

And thus ends my reign of terror at Quizno's... until the next time. Same sub-time, same sub-channel.

Novel Excerpt - "Of War and Taters"

This excerpt is from my second novel, "Of War and Taters." It is a satire for young adults or the young at heart. Think of this town as Mayberry with a little bit of South Park thrown in for giggles. In this scene, Isabelle - Sheriff Stanley's slightly homicidal wife - is extending her reign of terror over the stray that wandered into her yard that morning.  

Not terribly far across town was a dog that was having second thoughts, or would be, if dogs could have second thoughts. They would have been big ones, too. Just this morning he’d been the king of his domain; he knew where the best trash could be found, he knew he could find cold water at the fountain in the park anytime he was thirsty, and he had the whole world to play in if he wanted it. All of that withstanding, it was a very good thing dogs have such a short memory because now Mr. Cuddle Face’s only concern in the world was with getting his new blue collar off before someone saw him wearing rhinestones.

“Oh, look at oo, Mr. Cuddle Face! What did ums do?” A new concern was firmly etched into the animal’s short term memory as the big loud face showed up again with, he was certain, some new horror for him. As it was, he’d managed to slip his back paw up underneath the collar and was now struggling to both extract his paw and push off his collar at the same time while rotating on his free legs. The result was something that resembled a dog losing a ferret fight on top of a tripod.

Isabelle leaned over the pup, pulled his paw from the offending collar and brought him up nose to nose with her. This, small dog owners everywhere should know, is far more terrifying for the average dog than one would imagine. Another positive deficiency here for Mr. Cuddle Face is the fact that he could not see color; if he could he’d have been rather more alarmed by the bright red lipstick puckered up at the end of his snout which matched the curly mass of red hair that kept tickling his ears.

Already today he’d been tossed into a bathtub and scrubbed no less than three times with a tropical bubble bath despite his howls and hopeless growls. The end product was that he now smelled less like a sewer and more like a trash bin behind a daiquiri bar. It was a marked improvement as far as Isabelle was concerned, but the only response it provoked from the dog was that his tail now smelled far more interesting than it used to when he chased it. After the baths he had been left in the bathroom floor a wet soppy mess while she ran out to find him the perfect leash and collar. On her return, Isabelle also had the unkind idea to use the blow-dryer and a comb to hurry things along in the drying department. That caused no small amount of uncustomary fluffiness to his coat. Then, as if the humiliation hadn’t been laid on thickly enough already, he’d been paraded around the street at the end of his shiny new leash and collar. He’d spent the entire time being mostly dragged as he was too busy gnawing at the leash attached to him to pay attention to unfamiliar commands like stay, heel, and don’t poo there.

Isabelle carried the cowed creature with her into the kitchen where she’d begun preparing Stanley’s dinner. She couldn’t stand meatloaf, but she knew he was expecting to come home and find his traditional Tuesday meatloaf with his favorite dish of green bean casserole next to it. She set Mr. Cuddle Face down in the corner of the kitchen nearest the door where she’d already placed his food dishes. Fortunately for him, the speed with which Isabelle had managed to get personalized dishes with his new name on them was a miracle that was lost to Mr. Cuddle Face. At any rate, he was certainly not grateful for the brown lumps of high fiber diet dog food he found therein. He turned his nose up at the dishes and sauntered over to her side at the stove where he could smell the signs of some certainly non-high fiber activity going on. He affected his best hungry puppy whine to get her attention.

“No, Mr. Cuddle Face, this is people food. You go back over to your bowl and eat your yummy beef and gravy.”  His look as he walked back to the bowl said that he was certainly not willing to concede that the gray gelatinous matter in the bowl was indeed gravy.

“That’s a good baby boy, yes you are!” Isabelle turned back to the meatloaf which she was heavily salting, as was her habit. A second look at the white canister she’d been shaking liberally over the meatloaf had a picture of a smiling puppy, which she didn’t remember seeing on the salt shaker before. She turned it over in her hands and read the words “Mr. Scratchy’s Flea Powder, For Contented Canines!” Another turn revealed a skull and cross bones design indicating that it should under no circumstances be consumed. A small smile danced across her lips.

“Silly me! I must have set it right next to the salt and didn’t realize it.” She accidentally knocked a little more into the mixture with a minor exclamation of “Oops!” and set the flea powder down and picked up the similar salt canister next to it. “Well, Mr. Cuddle Face, I’ll bet if we put enough salt in here he’ll never notice it. You won’t tell on me, will you sweetums?” Her smile swirled with a mixture of innocent sweetness and slightly homicidal intent as she hummed happily to herself.

Somewhere in the vicinity of her feet Mr. Cuddle Face was busy expressing his feelings about the beef lumps and gravy paste in his bowl by piddling on the kitchen rug.

Short Story - "The Cloak"

Tara crinkled her nose again and again as she clung to her mother’s dress. The smell in the subway was awful; it made her think of the dirty children who urinated on themselves at the shelter where her mother volunteered. When the children smelled too terrible to endure she could walk away, but in here the stench was everywhere and it made her eyes water.

                

Her father had never allowed her mother to take her into the subway before and now she could see why. When she’d heard her parents arguing about whether or not her mother would be allowed to take her this time the idea of the subway he kept bringing up sounded somehow exciting. “Dangerous” to her was not a word to invoke fear, but was instead an incitement to her ample curiosity. Standing here amid the silent Sunday crowds she still did not feel afraid, and as her nose adjusted to the initial onslaught of odors she looked around herself for the first time.

Her first thought was that there were too many people there for it to be so quiet. The crowd was scattered into small silent groups across the grimy brown tiles, and if they spoke amongst themselves at all it was in the lowest whispers. Those who were there alone stood in any empty patch they could find with their eyes cast down to the ground or at the tattered posters on the walls, ostensibly unaware, or at least uncaring, that anyone else was near them. Tara wondered why they weren’t all talking and making friends. She wanted to ask her mother if it was supposed to be quiet like church, but she was afraid that she’d be hushed.

To the side of everyone was an older shabby woman wearing a dingy feather cloak. Tara could see spots on the cloak where the feathers seemed to almost shine when the light hit them and thought it might have been white at one time, but it was now just as filthy as the lady herself. She studied the old woman’s face and was surprised to see that the skin itself didn’t seem wrinkled so much as dirty, yet she couldn’t shake the impression that standing here was a very, very old woman. The woman caught Tara’s eye and her mouth spread into an attractive grin, despite the grime that had to rearrange itself to make way for her smile.

“Don’t stare, sweetie,” her mother quietly admonished her from above, pulling Tara closer to her side. 

Where there had been overwhelming silence before there was now an overwhelming noise approaching from the tunnel in front of them. The breeze that accompanied it stirred up the smell again and Tara frowned as she found herself disappointed yet again when the train slid into view.  Her imagination had polished the reality of what was now on the platform in front of them; this graffiti-covered and tarnished beast was nothing like what she had pictured when her mother told her the subway was like a train, only underground. Tara had been anxious to hear her first real train whistle, but the only sound that greeted them was the shrill whine of the brakes screeching to a stop. She didn’t want to ride in this twisted betrayal of her imagination.

Sensing her reluctance to move, her mother picked her up into her arms and carried her onto the train. She hurried into a seat in the very back of the car where she could hold her daughter on her lap and from here Tara could see everyone as they entered. The people on the platform pushed their way wordlessly into the car. A priest took his seat on the left just a few feet away from them and her mother instinctively put her hands to the crucifix around her neck and smiled.

“We’re almost home, honey. This wasn’t so bad, was it?” Feeling cheered, she kissed the top of Tara’s head.

Almost as soon as she’d spoken her words of comfort Tara felt her mother tense again. Rushing through the quickly closing doors were two teenagers dressed in a way that did not actually frighten her but caused her to feel sure that they were not what her mother would have called “good children.” The taller of the two teens wore his hair in long, purple-streaked braids with what looked to Tara like a spiked dog collar similar to the ones worn on the bull dogs in her cartoons. The smaller one was completely bald with the exception of long bangs which he let hang down over his face. Their dark clothes were paired with jeans that were full of rips and they wore many piercings in their faces as well as their ears. There were no places left to sit and the taller of the boys scanned the car and let his eyes fall on the priest with an impish grin. He nudged his friend in the ribs and they deliberately went to stand at the hand holds directly in front of the priest, bringing them closer to Tara. Her mother quickly repeated her earlier admonishment about staring with more urgency.

Obediently, Tara turned her gaze to the right side of the car and met the eyes of the old woman from the platform again. The people nearest the woman had moved to the edges of their seats to reduce to possibility of coming in contact with her dingy feathered cloak. She felt herself smiling at the woman despite her mother’s warnings. There was something comforting about her gentle face. It was her eyes, she realized. The woman had perfectly gray eyes with no color of their own, but they reflected a bit of whatever shade crossed her sight. At this moment her gaze was upon Tara and her deep indigo coat, giving a sparkle of blue to her eyes. It was not surprising to Tara when the woman’s gaze flicked to the teens across from her that her eyes were suddenly tinged with the darkness from the boys’ clothing.

“Sad, ain’t it?” The taller boy was telling his friend loudly, gesturing toward the priest less than a foot away from him. “You know this guy probably ain’t never been laid.” The priest did not look up at the two.

“Just ‘cuz he’s a priest? Nah, man, that don’t stop ‘em.” The shorter boy leaned closer to the priest to force him to look into his face as he spoke again. “You been suckin’ some little boys dick, right? Or maybe all you priests get together somewhere and jerk off to each other in your skirts.” He laughed harshly, the priest flinching in the onslaught of the teen’s breath.

The other passengers tried to ignore the conversation but Tara heard her mother gasp.

“Son, I don’t care what you say to me, but please don’t talk like that in front of children,” the priest pleaded with the boys.

“Dude!” The taller boy elbowed his friend. “That fag just called you ‘son.’ Don’t that piss you off?"

“Shit, yeah, it does. If what I said is so bad,” he continued with the priest, “why don’t your God just shut me up right now?"

“Because he gave us a choice! You didn’t have to choose to act this way any more than I had to choose a life of service. You can always make new choices, too,” the priest pressed more softly with him. “He always welcomes back his children."

The boy was still smiling malevolently at the priest. “Tell you what, Padre. I’ll make a deal with you.”

“I’m not interested in any deals,” the priest replied.

The train was slowing for the next stop now and the gray-eyed woman was gathering her cloak about her to take her leave. She cast her gaze to Tara one last time and nodded once sadly as she turned to leave. Only a few people got off the train with her. Tara turned on her mother’s lap so she could still see the platform through the window as the doors began to close. Everyone else, including her mother, had their attention glued to the teenagers and the priest.

“You’ll like this one, man. I’ll shut up and I won’t say anything else you don’t like if I’m wrong."

On the platform those who’d exited the train made their way hastily up the stairs, eager to return to the open air. Only the old woman lingered. She turned slowly and faced Tara, her smile returning.

“I’m gonna give your God a chance to prove himself.” The boy stood back and spread his arms dramatically, his faced lifted to the roof.

Tara smiled back at the woman, noticing that she suddenly seemed younger and cleaner, as if the dirt and filth were falling away from her feather cloak as she watched. Slowly, her cloak began to open.

The boy grabbed for the hand hold as the doors shut. He cupped his free hand around his mouth and called out, “Hey up there, God? Look man, if you’re up there why don’t you just give us a sign? Obviously, you didn’t have time to keep my mom from dyin’ of cancer and it’s probably been too much trouble for you to keep my dad from drinking a bottle of gin every night and beatin’ the shit out of me, so how ‘bout somethin’ simple? Like strike me down with lightening, that should be fun for you. Come on!"

Her cloak kept opening, each feather now a pristine white, until each side stood straight away from her slender, strong body. Her white gown underneath held the same immaculate radiance. Tara gasped as the train began to pull away from the platform.

“See?” The boy dropped his arm angrily, but also a little sadly. “There’s nothin’ there. Nothing. You can spend your whole life believing in a lie, but I ain’t. No way."

Tara returned her attention to the priest as the platform slid out of sight. He looked worn suddenly with the heat of the boy’s rage. “Son, faith just doesn’t work that way. You’ll never see God if you’re only looking for miracles."

“It’s all just bullshit anyway, man,” the taller of the two boys interjected, less passionately than before. He took his friend and they moved away toward the opposite end of the car.

Her mother kissed the top of her head again. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s almost all over. We’ll get home and I’ll fix us a nice dinner, OK?"

“It’s OK, Mommy.” Tara didn’t know why her Mommy was so upset, but she wished she’d thought to show her the angel before it flew away.

It would have made her so happy.

Flash Fiction - Short Post-Apocalyptic Noir

As she watched the cab meter slowly tick upward in increments of forty cents, she reached into her coat pocket and lovingly thumbed over the paltry heap of change that remained.

$4.40… $4.80...

The loose bills were few and had been saved only by her decision to exchange her dinner for a few minutes of warmth.  Only a bit more and I’ll have to tell him to stop, she thought bitterly.

$7.20… $7.60…

She shuddered at the thought of going back out into the bitter cold that had the city in its deadly grasp, but she had no choice. She would have to fight with the other women who had been driven to similar desperation for the few dollars that their “clients” could afford to spend on such temporary distractions from the dying world around them.  She shuddered even harder.

$9.60… $10.00…

“You wanna tell me where yer goin’, lady?”

“Just head toward the center of the city.  I’ll tell you when to stop.”

The cabby looked into his mirror and saw her eyes focused on the meter as he spoke and smiled grimly.  This was not the first time one of the girls had sought out his cab for relief from the ever-present winter.  Suppressing a sneer he flipped down his visor pretending to search for an elusive piece of paper while intentionally showing her the wad of cash he stored there.  He always kept a large amount on hand for the occasions when he would need bribe money.  He watched his mirror for the moment her eyes would register the stash and betray the cold mask she wore for the look of pain that was always underneath.

$11.20… $11.60…

His battle with the sneer was lost as her eyes were torn from the meter and to the visor with a look of helpless rage and despair.  Before the war he’d never have be able to imagine that such an expression would become a common greeting for the eyes that passed one another on the streets.  As for now, the only thing left was to take advantage of it where he could.

She dropped her head as she blinked back the tears.  What he had tucked into his visor had to have been less than $100, but to her now it seemed a fortune.  So many memories of her life before the war had been washed away like a dream she clung to as she awoke, but she could still remember a time when she’d carried purses worth more than that without a second thought.   Suddenly, she felt more desperate than ever and a secret resolve in her flared into life.  Had this strength always been there, hiding deep within instincts civilization had buried with laws and etiquette?

$12.40… $12.80

Feeling that he’d seen his opening the cabby shut his visor and clicked his tongue, feigning sympathy.  “Now don’t you worry about it, little lady.  I’ll bet we can work out something to keep you warm in here for a while, and maybe even get you a little something extra for yer trouble, if you know what I mean.”

Unable to hold a straight face, his sneer widened into a chubby grin.  Until he smiled, the dirt might have been mistaken for an unshaven chin, but the grisly leer he wore forced the filth into the crevices and was now unmistakable.  She said nothing in response but felt herself steeling her reserve, being careful not to question it lest it left her when she needed it most.  Would she really be able to?

He started pulling over to the curb and patted the seat beside him, believing he had made her an offer she was in no position to refuse.  “Why don’t you come sit up here by me an’ we can make a deal, huh?”

She heard her own voice agree but all she could think of was the tiny blade she wore in the ankle of her worn out boots for her own protection.  Sudden panic gripped her as she thought about what she had planned to do.  Justification came no less quickly. 

I have to have that money, I’ll die without it! 

As she gathered her strength she deftly slid her hand across her blade to reaffirm its presence, drawing strength from its cold steel as she left the back seat of the cab.  She stole a quick glimpse of her reflection in the passenger window of the front seat before she opened it and smoothed down her matted and graying hair.  It was a reflection she could no longer recognize.  So this is what a murderer looks like, she thought grimly.  Heaving one last sigh she climbed in.

Alexandra had been beautiful once.

Short Story - "Debt Collection"

It’s a common assumption that in the absence of light there are no shadows.  As with many common assumptions, this is simply not true.

 In the absence of light are the deepest and darkest of shadows, obscured from sight by the darkness itself, thankfully hiding from sight the things which we would prefer to commonly assume don’t exist. Still, despite our very human certainty that there are no terrors that lurk in dark corners and underneath beds, we find ourselves casting second glances toward darkened doorways and wondering if it’s just our imagination that a certain shadow seems darker than it ought to be.

On this wet night, in the alley across from 198B Pindale Drive, one such shadow among the many suddenly deepened. There had been no other sound in the alley except for the rain, but the stillness was now broken by a breath, and now by the striking of a match. The flare died quickly, suffocated in the darkness, but it was replaced by a small glow and a satisfied sigh.

“Finally,” said a gruff voice as a man emerged from the darkness, leaving the shadows behind him a bit lighter than they were before. He drew heavily from his cigarette and peered up at the windows of the impressive townhouse in front of him. There were two of them in there; he could hear their heartbeats. Especially hers.

From his pocket he pulled an unusual timepiece. It was not for telling time, but for subtracting it, and it was nearing zero. Still, he was early enough that he could wait until she was alone. He stamped the remains of his cigarette into the wet gravel under his feet and headed into the street for the all-night convenience store halfway down the block.

He entered behind an expensively dressed man in his late fifties accompanied by a young lady in her twenties equally well dressed and decorated with expensive jewelry. The Shadow Man knew the type; the only thing cosmetic surgery could never erase was the pout of childish petulance that preceded the frequent tantrums feeding a never-sated desire for more. More of what, he’d learned, didn’t seem to matter. He listened with amused interest to the beginning of one of these now.

“Bobby! Stop turning your back on me!” She followed him from the liquor shelf to the counter with his large bottle of whiskey. “Why can’t I go? I don’t see why you have to treat me like a child!” Her bottom lip protruded with practiced ease.

The man she’d called “Bobby” turned to look at her. This was the first time the Shadow Man had fully seen his face. It was ashen and weary, lined thickly with years of heavy drinking and depression.

“Why should I let you go? So you can be one of two women on a boat with ten other men? Stop this nonsense, Shana. Make a fool of yourself if you want to, but quit making one of me!”

In line behind them, the Shadow Man snorted almost sympathetically. This further enraged Bobby.

“Do I know you, buddy?”

Casting a glance down at the faint red glow over Bobby’s heart that only the Shadow Man could see, he replied simply, “Not yet,” and smiled bitterly.

Flustered, Bobby paid quickly and dragged a still whining Shana behind him. The Shadow Man stepped up to the counter.

“Menthols, please. Two packs.”

The clerk grabbed the packs, making small talk. “Man, it’s really comin’ down out there. How come you ain’t drenched? You ain’t got no umbrella wid ya.”

“I guess the rain must’ve missed me,” he said honestly.

He opened his mouth to speak again, words no human ear could understand. The clerk looked dazed for a moment, then responded, “I’m sorry, what’d you say?”

“I just said ‘Thanks.’” He took the packs and walked out. He could have walked out with the cash register if he’d wanted to, but what was the point when you could just as easily make people forget to charge you? Besides, he wouldn’t have any use for cash when he returned Down There.

He stepped back into the rain and lit his first cigarette. The match flickered in the downpour, but no drop would ever touch him. He would never feel the cool rain, a cool drink, nor even the slightest cool breeze during his penance, and he had lifetimes yet to serve. Menthol was as close as he could get to something truly refreshing, and he was still afraid someday He would catch on to it and take even that away.

He heard one heartbeat from the townhouse rising and moving away from the other. It was time.

He quickly finished his cigarette and lit yet another as he walked up to and opened the door to his night’s quarry. The locks fell open under his touch and he shut the door behind him without giving worry to the noise. If he didn’t want to be heard or seen, it was as simple as a thought.

As he walked up the luxuriant stairs, the Shadow Man noticed photographs lining the walls. A curious touch revealed the stories. Here was a daughter who’d left home at 17 swearing she’d never speak to either parent again. She’d returned at 24 a drug addict dying with AIDS and a child so damaged by her mother’s heroin use that she wouldn’t survive her first 2 years.

Another photo showed two boys; one was a son who now sat in prison for the reckless manslaughter of a family while he was driving drunk. The other had moved away years ago and supposedly had a family of his own. No one knew how to reach him and this was how he preferred it.

Finally, there hung at the top of the stairs a photo of a loving husband and devoted wife. It was amazing what miracles of deceit photographers could accomplish with the right lighting. What there might have been of love, he knew with a touch, had dried into something bitter and resentful many years before this picture was even taken. 

He continued up the stairs to the bedroom and opened the door, purposefully treading loudly into the room.

Virginia Dawes, 72, sat up in her bed and looked at the intruder appraisingly. "I know why you're here. It's been 50 years exactly; I realized it this morning. Are you Him?" She asked with only a slight tremor of fear in her voice.

"No, but I work for Him."

He pulled out the timepiece and passed it to her. There was a glowing line of letters on the back in a feminine hand.

“That’s my signature. Is this my contract?”

“Yes. I’m here to collect it.”

She nodded slowly and looked toward the bathroom door. "What if he comes out?"

"He'll stay in there until I'm ready for him to come out. No one will know I was here."

"Will it hurt?"

"No," he began, "not the part I do. Afterwards, yes."

Virginia looked away and sighed. "Thank you for being honest."

"Did you get everything you wanted?"  

"No," she replied sadly. "But I did get everything I asked for."

"That's usually how it goes. It’s time," he added as the glow of the timepiece faded away at last. The red glow over her heart that marked her as His grew brighter as the Shadow Man placed his hand over it and drew the life from her as easily as the smoke from his cigarette. 

It was over very simply. She dropped gently back against her pillow with her eyes closed looking peacefully asleep, though he knew all too well that she would find no peace where she was now. He headed back down the stairs as Mr. Dawes came out of the bathroom to return to bed. He may not even realize that his wife was dead until sometime in the morning.

As he left the townhouse he felt the familiar weight of another timepiece tugging in his pocket that meant there was another soul to collect soon. Then there would be another, then yet another. Sometimes they cried, sometimes they pleaded for an extension to the lives they hated out of fear of what came next. All too often they went easily, thinking that they had already been living in Hell.

They would quickly find they had been so very wrong.

REVIEW: "V for Vendetta"

I LOVE movies. Anybody who knows me can tell you that I narrate my life cinematically. But even with as much as I rave about the ones I love and those that intrigued me I don't usually engage in writing a movie review. However, I think I'm going to have to finally make an exception and show my true appreciation for the Wachowski brothers.

I watched "V for Vendetta" for possibly the 6th or 7th time and I am still amazed that I find new subtleties that give me an increased appreciation with each viewing. This movie combined a phenomenal screen writing team that was perfectly devoted to detail with a cast that superbly defined the characters they assumed. I have never seen Natalie Portman give a better performance, and Hugo Weaving What more can I say? He's Hugo Weaving! His eloquent voice is so colorful and expressive that he gives his masked character a face you can hear and feel. It would be easy to imagine him in an Elizabethan theater delivering a brand new Shakespearean monologue.

- - - - - Beware: Spoilers ahead! - - - - -

Hugo Weaving plays V, a vigilante who has been irreversibly affected by his government in the course of a medical experiment in the height of war. A new government was rising to power which mimicked Orwell's Oceania in 1984. The Chancellor had commissioned a "Black List" of items in art, music, literature, etc that would have been considered unchristian or subversive similar to Hitler's actions in Nazi controlled Germany. They also controlled the flow of information to the citizens entirely and ensured that the news reported served their purpose only, without regard to accuracy. Just as with Orwell's Ministry of Truth the government realized that propaganda was a means to controlling the population. When a brave few did speak out, however, a darker organization run by Creedy, the Chancellor's right hand muscle, would abduct, torture, and kill those responsible.

Natalie Portman plays Evey Hammond, the femme counterpart to V, who has also been irreparably scarred by the government's actions. Her entire family had been killed and she lived in constant fear of taking the wrong steps, of saying the wrong things. Her desire for change is finally revealed when she aides V in escaping from the police, thereby unintentionally throwing in her lot with the man people had called "terrorist." One of the scenes that most moved me in the film was the scene following Evey's breaking by V where it so beautifully parallels V's fiery rebirth with Evey's baptism by rain. It was in this moment that they truly became kindred spirits.

Another very important character was Inspector Finch, played by Stephen Rea. He would be most comparable to the character of Winston Smith in 1984. He was a higher ranking member of the controlling party, however, but he was feeling an increasing disdain for his government as he discovered more shady and criminal actions carried out by its members. The coup de grace was when it became clear to him that the horrible viral attacks on the people of London hadn't been carried out by enemies after all, but by those within trying to rise to power through instilling fear in the people.

Now, my obvious moral issues with vigilantism aside, the Wachowski Brothers did a phenomenal job of portraying the constant and terrible vigilance of Big Brother and every tiny detail in the movie was in support of this theme. From the street level eavesdropping on phone calls and personal conversation to the use of a thumb print to sign for packages they created a believable world for the viewer in which no word, action, or even thought seemed safe from observation and possible retribution. They are able to weave suggestions and plant seeds into the movie and allow the viewer to develop them without simply giving them everything down to the last detail. Its so rare to find a screenplay which shows this kind of control and ingenuity. For instance, when the detectives first discover the staff names at Larkhill Detention Center they note that the highest paid individual on staff was a priest. They do nothing to expound on this yet, leaving the viewer to wonder why and form theories. Much later when the diary of one of the staff is discovered it describes how on the priest's tour of the facility looking for violations one of the high party officials guaranteed the doctors that "everything would be fine." Without them saying it directly, the perceptive viewer learns that the priest was being paid for his silence while they continued their deadly experiments.

Many people have felt that the Wachowski Brothers are suggesting sympathy to the cause of the terrorists and are outright criticizing our own government for tyrannical actions in the middle east. For them, this is strengthened by the frequent anti-Muslim remarks. Despite the timing of the film's release the screenplay was actually written in the mid-90's, before the creation of "The Matrix," even. Though the material may resound loudly with the current political themes I truly don't feel this is anything more than coincidence. This is not the first time that a sympathetic villain has been drawn so well that the audience cheered for his success.

- - - - - Spoilers are over - - - - -

For anyone who has not yet seen this movie I would strongly urge you to buy it and watch it again and again as I have. It contains every element that a perfect screenplay should have and will always provide you with more surprises when you think you've finally mastered it.

Frog Legs, and other tasty analogies...

"You're only fooling yourself." This is an old admonishment but I believe it holds true for every last one of us whether we want to admit it or not. Whether it's denial of an emotion, a weakness, or a problem at some point each of us has in some way lied to the world in an attempt to convince ourselves that a situation was anything other than what it appeared to be.

There are a number of possible reasons that we aren't honest with ourselves, but in my opinion many of these tie back to self preservation. This is one of the few true Darwinian characteristics left to us and, boy, do we know how to embrace it. First and foremost, it helps us maintain the illusion of control. For instance, it's not uncommon to find that comfort and routine have led you into a situation that has progressed beyond what you may have chosen at a different time. This is the old frog boiling analogy: if you dump a frog into a pot of boiling water he'll jump right out because he gets to assess the entire situation at once (because frogs are smart like that) and realizes that its not an ideal position for him to be in. But if you put him into room temperature water and slowly increase the temperature he'll chill out and enjoy the spa until we all have frog legs for dinner. The same is true for us in situational dilemmas (because we are apparently as smart as frogs). When we have the ability to look in from the outside and see all of the factors at once things are much clearer for us. But when we slowly put ourselves into the "pot", we have the ability to keep convincing ourselves that it's not getting too hot even when it starts to burn. The situation is clearly not out of our control by this point but for some reason staying in the pot sometimes seems less painful than getting out and trying to heal.

Another common self-preserving lie is the barrier we build around ourselves to guard from certain emotions. We can hide behind so many things; humor, distance, cruelty, sex, and even chastity. The method we use to keep people at arm's distance from us isn't so important as the why, but unfortunately once we've built that wall we're better at keeping ourselves out than the supposed enemy.

In a lot of ways, what keeps us from being the person that we want to be is the package of lies we've sold ourselves about who we already are and what we think we should be feeling. We all have an ideal of who and what we want to be and go to great strides to paint ourselves in that image. All it takes just once in a while is an honest mirror in front of us, whether it's someone we love or a total stranger that sees right through our bullshit, to shake something loose in us and help us better ourselves. Yet that confrontation doesn't come nearly as often as it should. It may not always feel good to hear, more likely it will never feel good, but I know I want that chance to become a better person, to be challenged and called on my own personal bullshit.

Sometimes I think we've just got to be knocked out of our own way to get back on track.

Looking for a catalyst

Is there anything we can ever do anymore to really feel alive? We've so shaped the environment around us that being outside no longer really feels like outside, but an extension of the underlying bubble in which we've encased ourselves. I find that the older I get the more the world around me loses some of its sharpness much the way the picture will begin to fade from an older television set. The edges seem less clear, the lines less defined, and the color becomes more and more muted until everything is painted in its own surreal hue. Routine and complacency with the paths we fall into bring us closer to being machines with no real sense of value or lust for anything we do in life. The world told us, "This is how you should be," and so we are.

So do we accept this situation and fall into line fulfilling our daily duties, whatever they may be? I have for so long, and every day that I have has brought me to question why to greater depths. If I'm to continue in this mundane pursuit for the rest of my life I'm going to need to revitalize my perspective on society and life and I really dont know where to turn. Many people look to religion or philosophy to find a higher sense of purpose and be able to turn down the volume on the so-called rat race. I'm enormously envious of those who can because my own participation in the rat race has served only to mute all other facets of my life, leaving little room for real growth at a time when I'm most looking for it.

I have tried to immerse myself in religion, though I find I always end up studying the subject as a fiction despite my earnest wish to believe in something. I have a truly spiritual side, but my difficulties with dogma make it impossible in effect for me to find any true solace there as to the questions of why that we all raise from time to time. Nevertheless, the pieces that I feel are missing seem to be questions only tackled by theologists and philosophers; not by ordinary people who have fallen into line and perform their societal duties every day. If these were the people seeking the answers would they turn the question inward and not look up to the heavens for purpose? Modern society has already effectively replaced God as the Moral Commander, but is the perpetuation of society also becoming our purpose? If this is the case then were no better than a colony of ants.

I believe that to take back any part of this experience of life we should be looking inward and to each other on the individual level for meaning. The human experience should be a sharp and vivid one, punctuated with great joys and great sorrows, but never ignored. Perhaps the world around me has lost its sharpness because life has anesthetized me with responsibilities, or perhaps it is because I simply did not heed the signs. Either way it is up to me to put the purpose back in my life and stop waiting for change to simply happen. I don't know what catalyst I will choose yet, but this will be the one I'll have to see through to the end.

All-Purpose Relationship Cleanser - Extra Strength, 10% More Free!

Consider this your all purpose guide for relationships.  This is not an article about dating, marriage, parenting, or friendship.  This is about simply relating successfully with the many people in your life.  Any relationship with no regard to its particular nature has a general set of very important needs and understandings to be met in order to grow healthily and successfully.  Disregarding these needs leads to compounding problems, from disrespect and contempt to an inability to rehabilitate a maltreated relationship.  In order to keep it balanced and mutual each person should feel a responsibility to the other in this way.

1. Needs are Necessities.  Though “needs” and “wants” are linked in the thesaurus don’t be fooled into thinking that they mean the same thing.  Too often when we hear from someone in our lives that they need something from us we translate that “need” as “want” and don’t treat it with the significance that it carries for them.   Discarding these needs as unimportant tips the scale to an unhealthy balance with a one-sided benefit and will eventually breed contempt in the relationship.  An “I need ___” can range from a simple need for punctuality from us to a plea for us to take them more seriously, but don’t try to rank their importance to the other person concerned without discussing them openly first.  Most importantly, if you commit to making a change stick to it!  By taking their needs seriously you encourage a healthy balance where your needs are more likely to be equally met.
2. Honesty is Respect.  This is equally true when said the other way around.  Lying, selective truths and lies of omission are all indications that you don’t respect the other party in your relationship and raise a huge warning flag.  If this is the norm in your relationship then it is past time to reevaluate what you hope to gain by continuing.  Show your mate, friend, or child that you respect them by being honest and trusting them to accept you and what you have to say without casting harsh judgments and you will earn their trust and respect in return.
3. Listen, don’t react!  Once you have earned their trust and have attained a completely open level of communication maintain it by not reacting badly to what they have to share with you.  Even if it feels like a direct accusation of misbehavior on your part hear them out and find out why they feel as they do.  Once you have an understanding then calmly discuss the situation without acting defensive whenever possible but still explain to them why their reaction or accusation offends or hurts you without making any accusations of your own.  Understand that not every situation can always be resolved through discussion, but far too many never make the attempt and throw potentially good relationships away.
4. Do the little things.  Never take it for granted that people know that you respect and value the relationship you have.  Colleagues, friends, and family members alike will appreciate you for taking a little effort to show you care.  Stop to put gas in your mate’s car; offer to help a co-worker catch up on a project when you have room in your schedule; help a family member with chores they usually do to show them you appreciate it and don’t just expect it;  send your friends a get well card when they have a cold.  Try spending 5 minutes a day to show someone in your life that they mean something to you and they’ll be feeling the effects for days.

Pandora's Box

I had the absolute strangest dream last night during one of the few fitful moments of sleep I was allowed. Now this is not to say that my dreams are usually anything other than strange, but this one stuck with me vividly for some reason when the others tend to float away from my waking grasp.



I won't even speculate as to what brought this about, but in this dream we had discovered a way to unlock the unused majority of our brains and study the full potential we possess. I wasn't reading neurological manuals before I went to bed so don't even think about asking me how we managed this. What's important to me here is that we found in each expanded capability of the human mind a greater capacity for evil than in the previous. It was a veritable Pandoras Box; the more we opened, the greater the potential for destruction.



My first thought about this dream was that it was as nonsensical as all of my others. But then it started feeling like a marriage of two different allegories: Pandoras Box, and the biblical Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden. Emphasis on the abstract here, but it began to seem like a metaphor for the path that we have been on. We have gained so much intelligence and command over ourselves and our environment in our time here, but so much of that knowledge has been to the detriment of both humanity and nature. Lessons of morality and cooperation are learned through conflict; societies have been forged by war and unmade by genocide; the need for tolerance is bred by acts of terror. For every stride we take in science a new weapon is spawned that worsens the depth of the damage dealt in past strife.



Evolution is naturally leading us to unlocking more and more of our capabilities. In fact, just this May geneticists announced that they had finally completed the entire map of the human genome which will give biological research new momentum in all areas. In some ways I fear that this in itself will be a dangerous fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. If we push forward and unlock this box, will we be able to survive what we become?

New Orleans Saints 2006 Season Summary

So they didn’t bring home the prize, and they didn’t play up to their full potential on the snowy Soldier Field.  But the fact remains that Sean Payton, Drew Brees, and a full cast of talented and versatile players took the New Orleans Saints to the NFC Championships for the first time since the ball club went pro in 1966 under the coaching hand of Tom Fears.  Most notable about this triumphant season is that they burst forth from the low expectations established by their previous season’s record of 3-13 and their mixture of fresh and untested faces.

Drew Brees captained the top-ranked offense in the NFL to a regular season record of 10-6 to win the NFC South Divisional Championship and the #2 spot in the NFC for a 1^st week bye during the play-offs which allowed them to meet the Eagles fresh in their first play-off attempt since 2000.  This team began the 2006 season with an unimpressive pre-season and with all eyes on Reggie Bush, the #2 draft pick of 2006, to be the star of their season.  Bush didn’t fail to please and impress his supporters despite a slow start and a learning curve.  He even dazzled Saints and Bears fans alike when his fancy footwork set the record for the longest touchdown ever in a Championship game at 88 yards.  However, the true rookie surprise in New Orleans was the 7^th round pick for wide receiver in Marques Colston.  He solidified his position in the Rookie of the Year discussions early in the season with his Week 3 trumping of Atlanta with 97 receiving yards and went on to finish the regular season with an impressive 1038 receiving yards. 

Among the impressive fresh faces was rookie Head Coach Sean Payton whose uber-understanding of the science of football lead to owner Tom Benson placing a great deal of faith in Payton when they shook up the roster beginning early in 2006.  During his experience as an offensive coordinator and quarterback coach he refined the games of players such as Drew Bledsoe, Vinny Testaverde, and Quincy Carter.  He has an eye for talent, which was evidenced by the Saints’ aggressive move for Drew Brees even as he was coming off of an intensive shoulder surgery, but he also has an innate ability to foster development in both young and experienced players.  Serving as Assistant Head Coach under Bill Parcells in Dallas before he made his New Orleans Debut gave him the opportunity to learn from an experienced and talented Head Coach.  He brought with him Gary Gibbs, former Dallas linebacker coach as his Defensive Coordinator in hopes to start building a defense threat in New Orleans which the club hasn’t been able to boast since the days of defensive madman Jim Mora Sr..  While the Saints were still largely dependent on an outscoring race with their opponents this season they still allowed the fewest points since 1992.

Now enough trumpeting the new faces, what about some of the seasoned veterans?  34-year old veteran Joe Horn was injured for the last 3 game of the regular season and was still unable to make a post season appearance.  But don’t discount his contributions based on that – in his 10 active games he garnered 679 receiving yards and averaged 18.4 yards per carry.  That’s a career high as a starter for Horn, whose stand-out game this year was his 110 yard game against the Eagles in Week 6.  3 year veteran Devery Henderson showed everyone he wasn’t afraid to step up to the plate this season with 6 total touchdowns, 745 receiving yards, and an average carry of 23.3 yards for only starting in 7 of his 13 total games.  Last, but not least, Deuce McAllister showed that he was still a big part of the heart and soul of New Orleans offense with a stellar return this year after missing most of last season with an injury.  In his 6^th season with the Saints Deuce had a total of 1255 yards; not a career best, but an striking way to hush those who doubted his post-injury ability.

Now that they’ve stunned the NFL, what lies ahead for this team?  Look for the Saints to continue to hone their offensive power in 2007, but expect their personnel choices to focus on beefing up their defense to help support Scott Shanle and Scott Fujita while they head into a consecutive play-off season for only the second time since the ball club was formed.  The city of New Orleans still has a lot to celebrate; the Saints were contenders for Super Bowl XLI for the first time ever.  In Super Bowl XLII, they may well be competitors.  

Of Football and Fairy Tales - The Saints Return to the Superdome

A city still recovering from devastation, where some residents still don't even have potable drinking water, was given new life last night when all of its hopes, dreams and sorrows were channeled into a spectacular game of football.  Last night, whether they won or lost, the Saints stepped onto the field as an emotional conduit for the entire city of New Orleans and it could not have had a better ending if it had been written by Disney. 

The tone of the game was set by the blocked punt and end zone recovery by the Saints for an early touchdown that surely had some Falcons conjuring images of voodoo queens.  Call it voodoo, call it mojo, or call it Sean Payton, NO fully suppressed ATL and leapt to the head of their NFC South division while joining only 5 other teams who remain undefeated.  The Bears and the Seahawks also went 3-0 in the NFC as did the Bengals, Colts, and Ravens in the AFC.

While skeptics still credit a great deal of last night's superior NO performance to emotion, the fact of the matter is this: The New Orleans Saints are actually contenders this season. I can't say that I believe we'll see the same level of defense in the coming weeks that we did last night, but the combination our offensive stack and head coach who can out-think any defensive coordinator in the league will definitely lead to some high-scoring and high-energy games.

Sean Payton and Tom Benson went to work early this year beefing up an offensive line the likes of which Jim Haslett dared not even dream.  Drew Brees has an army of playmakers allowing for the varied battery of attacks we saw last night.  Having the selection of McAllister, Horn, Bush, and Colston in addition to other dependables like Karney and Henderson makes full coverage a nightmare and constant guessing game for any defense.

Last night was not a matter of when but of how the Saints came marching in, and this diehard New Orleans fan could not have been more pleased.  After such an emotional game the presentation of the game ball to the city itself was a gesture that touched the hearts of all of the fans who were dressed to the teeth in black and gold and had so needed a reason to celebrate again.  While it's still just a sporting event, the sentiment carried out of the Superdome last night made it a game that transcended any other.

Yes, they still have a long way to go, and yes, I will still probably be the only Saints fan at Shamrock on Sundays yelling my fool head off, but keep your eyes on this ball club.  They aren't finished surprising us yet. 

My predictions for the upcoming weeks: I firmly believe NO will be undefeated until week 6 when they face off with the Eagles after what should be an easy victory over Tampa Bay.  The experienced vets of the team will need to focus on keeping the egos and confidence level of the rookies at bay if they go into that game 5-0.  If they can keep their act together (unlike their undefeated streak in 2002 that fell apart after week 6) they should have a good chance at home against the Eagles to extend that stretch to 6-0. However, weeks 7 and 8 are a bye followed by a match-up with the Ravens which may well prove to be their first loss at home. 

Final season prediction: 11-5 and 1 playoff win.