The Last Jet I Flew...and some thoughts looking toward a new year

Here we are. The new year stretches like an immense scroll of blank paper before us, clean and untouched, disappearing into the ether, awaiting the ink and smudges of our daily struggle. The past year stretches out behind us, bearing the print of our thoughts and actions, stained with spills, strikethroughs, blackouts, tears (and tears), rips, beautiful prose, memories (good and bad), pages upon which we would dwell fondly in our thoughts, and pages we would like to forget. Each day is really such spot upon the great scroll of life; we just give it special significance with the turn of the new year. 

The new year is full of promise; we will be better than we have been; we will improve. January begins pregnant with hope and resolution. Before February, most of the hope and all of the resolution expire, stillborn in the face of winter's grim and frigid reality, and our recognition that we would rather embrace our weaknesses than fearlessly forge them into strengths. 

We imagine this:

We discover that it's really going to be like this:

Like water, we choose the path of least resistance. Having followed that path so many times before, the way is worn and easy, with sides too steep and slick to easily overcome. But this year might just be different. Small goals are still goals. Gradual achievement by small increments builds eventually to lofty attainment. Of course, procrastination can be very satisfying in the short term. You decide.

The conclusion of the travelogue
The last jet I flew in was from San Francisco to Boise. I can't remember much about the flight. I think maybe I had the cranapple juice. We arrived at night, several hours later than the original itinerary had promised. My son picked us up. He drove us to my parents' house where we had left our car. We had a nice visit; we shared some of the high points of the trip before loading up and heading home. 

That drive was the last leg of the trip; it was the most difficult. We had risen before 7:00 a.m in France. That was 11:00 p.m. in Boise (of the day before). We arrived back home after midnight. We were awake for over 25 hours (or I was; I'm pretty sure my wife slept on the plane from France). That's not something that I haven't done before (or more plainly stated: I have stayed awake longer than that before). I don't know if it was the travel or what, but I was completely exhausted. So a good nap during the drive would have done me a world of good...except that I was the one driving. I think I did sleep for a millisecond during the drive; I'm pretty sure I had a dream during that minute foray into the twilight zone of consciousness. I've never understood how people can fall asleep while driving...now I understand.

What a great year!

A unifying moment, and an abbreviated movie review

I attended another girls' basketball game--two in fact, the JV and the varsity. Once again, the JV game proved to be the more exciting of the two. The game was in the second quarter when we arrived. The home team trailed 20-9. Things looked grim.

Shortly after sitting down, we realized that most of the folks around us were supporters of the visiting team. I wasn't worried; they were well-behaved. Besides, I'm well-trained in the manly arts of dodging, diving, and running away. But seriously, my whole body is a weapon...and just as effective as the body of the fictional deputy who originally said that. 

The girls on the home team eventually scraped a game plan together; they completely dominated the rest of the game, making up the deficit and winning by about five points. It was quite inspirational for the home crowd.

The most remarkable part of the evening was the prelude to the varsity game. There is a time at these events when the divisions of teams and towns fall away; all of the spectators and participants are unified in a vision that transcends mere athletic competition. It begins before the starting players are introduced. The announcer says a few things; the cheerleaders move to the floor; the band prepares to play. A flag slowly unfurls from a case hidden in the ceiling; the audience rises. As the announcer completes his recitation, the cheerleaders, on command of one of their own, turn in unison away from the audience to face the red, white, and blue of the great banner descended. A moment later, the band bursts forth with the strains of the national anthem. For a few minutes, the audience and players, home and away, are united in reverence and respect for the sacrifices of those who brought forth a new nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal, for the brave whose sacrifices have hallowed the cause; we add our devotion to the proposition, with knowledge of past imperfections, but with a desire to preserve this more perfect union. 

At The Movies
If our family goes to a movie during the year, it will probably be at Christmas time. My daughter has three of the movies currently playing on her wish list. My list has only one movie. If our lists were set in a Venn Diagram, it would look like a pair of spectacles--the circles did not overlap. Naturally, since I was paying, and driving...we saw one from daughter's list. Wife didn't care which we saw.

The first fifteen minutes of the movie provided an excellent illustration of how modern youth have become largely divorced from reality. Three of the four previews of coming attractions played upon that virtual--as opposed to real--reality connection. I could make additional comment upon that, but I know that nobody wants to read that...and I don't want to go to the trouble of writing it. I already write enough stuff that nobody wants to read.

As for the movie itself, Jumanji, you know what you're getting when you walk into the theater. If you've seen the 1995 film, or the 2005 Zathura, you shouldn't be surprised by this 2017 film. The only twist is that the game becomes a video game that pulls the players into it as the game avatars; instead of bringing the jungle to the players, the players are brought to the jungle. So there's not much that's new here. 

You know where this movie is going, and how it's going to get there. Nevertheless, it's an awful lot of fun. The Rock, and Kevin Hart are particularly entertaining. At times, it was laugh-out-loud funny. I have to admit that I was a little disappointed with Jack Black's role; he plays the self-absorbed girl in the body of the male avatar. He just wasn't very funny. The predictable jokes about male anatomy didn't do the film any favors; they were the lowest of the lowbrow moments in the film. 

On  a ST:TOS scale, with "The Enterprise Incident," "The Omega Glory," and "Balance of Terror" being at the top of the scale; and "The Alternative Factor," "Let That Be Your Last Battlefield," and "Plato's Stepchildren" being at the bottom of the scale, 2017 Jumanji ranks in the middle of the upper half of the scale, just below "A Piece of the Action."

Combat - Escape to Nowhere - recap and review

Combat!

Season 1 Episode 7: "Escape to Nowhere"

Once upon a time there was a lieutenant. Something very bad happened. We don’t know what the very bad thing was. We only see that he is in a village littered with dead American soldiers. The lieutenant is face down in front of a cart; he has had a very bad day. 

He raises his head and calls for the captain; the lieutenant is our friend Hanley. There is no movement or sound from the body of the captain. Instead, a wolf pack lopes in to town, as wolf packs do. Hanley is very frightened; he puts his head back down; he plays dead (but is he grateful? And will he survive? He seems to have more than just a “Touch of Grey” (but I think that’s just dirt in his hair). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wOaXTg3nAuY (one of the few Dead songs that I recognize)).

It doesn’t look like Hanley will get by. The wolves begin looting the bodies. One of the wolves brings Hanley around with a well-placed fang.

Cut to the opening credits

Hanley is our only regular in this episode written by Malvin Wald, and directed by Robert Altman. Our guests include Albert Paulsen playing the part of General Von Strelitz, Joyce Vanderveen as Maria, and Sasha Harden as Colonel Kliest.

We next see Hanley being lightly grilled (with a hint of smoke, cigarette smoke that is) by a big bad wolf. Hanley responds with his name, rank, and serial number. The wolf wants to know whether the road to grandma's house goes through Falaise, or Argentan. (Falaise is 25 to 30 miles south of Caen. Argentan is about 20 miles south of Falaise—based on a quick look at a map. They are still in Normandy).

Hanley’s placement in the shot at the large desk, trapped between the German officer’s hat and a rocket-ship-like decanter of brandy is interesting. Perhaps it is an interesting bit of foreshadowing. (I usually write these as I watch; I watched this one before I started writing, capturing a shot here and there). Anyway, the light barbeque continues until General Von Strelitz enters the room, and wolf jumps to his feet as fast as his little legs will carry him (like he has been stabbed in the behind with a red hot poker). Von Strelitz soon gets called away to the phone.

He doesn’t seem happy about the call. After the call, Von Strelitz, like the woodcutter, takes Hanley away from the wolf.

Our little lost lieutenant finds himself, all Little Red Riding Hoodishly, traveling through a forest. He’s in the general’s car. The general instructs the driver to pull away from the main route. When they stop, Von Strelitz has the driver hand give him a map. The driver seems reluctant to provide the map. We soon learn the reason; the map is extremely dangerous. When the general opens it, a large hole erupts in the map (the Falaise Gap, I believe).

This rift in the wood pulp-based representational continuum proves fatal to the driver. The general, using the time-honored and highly persuasive technique of the Luger behind the ear (Hanley’s ear, not the general’s), convinces Hanley to take the driver’s place. We next see a body roll into water. The view moves to a pair of black boots, and rises to reveal Hanley doing his best Wehrmacht cosplay.

Hanley becomes the general’s new driver. We can bet he won’t be handing the general any maps. Night has fallen (but it took no damage as a result, and will eventually get back up), and Hanley and his handler are approaching a fancy French estate. Hanley reminds the general that if he is caught in the German uniform, he’ll be shot. The general reminds him that he could’ve been shot in his own uniform. Hanley doesn’t have a good response to that.

Von Strelitz introduces Hanley into a glorified officer’s club within the chateau (perhaps it's a club for glorified officers). Maria comes down the stairs singing (in a scene rather similar to the entrance of the character Harmony Rivers in my exciting novel, Justice in Season). She obviously has some kind of relationship with Von Strelitz.

Here we see her failing in an attempt to perform the Vulcan salute as part of her song.

We also get to meet Colonel Kliest (who wins the coveted “Best Hair” award).

Things look dicey for Hanley when Von Strelitz sends him with a note for Maria. As he walks up the stairs, he bumps into a German officer at a table on the landing. Maria, rather than Von Strelitz, rescues him by calming the officer and sitting him back down.

Best Hair, who had been sitting at Von Strelitz’ table is called away to a phone call. When he returns, Von Strelitz and Hanley are gone. We rediscover these two as they drive up to a cemetery and church.

Inside, in a bedroom with a leaky roof, the general reveals that Best Hair is an SS man, and that the driver Von Strelitz killed, was one of his agents. The general plans to use Hanley to escape to the allied lines; Von Strelitz participated in a close-but-no-cigar assassination attempt on Hitler. But he can’t leave Maria behind; they will meet at the train station. The rain begins. The lone candle in the room sputters under the drips from the leaky roof…and Maria is his daughter.

In the morning, they leave, or attempt to. As they leave the building in pouring rain, they’re intercepted by Madame Dubois’ fourth grade class for heavily armed orphans.

The kids are highly disgruntled about the deaths of their parents. Fortunately for Little Red Hanleyhood and General Woodcutter, a clergyman arrives to stop the children. “Stop” is not quite accurate. He reminds the kids of the Ten Commandments, specifically the prohibition against killing. He takes a rifle from one kid and throws it away. Another kid has a crisis of faith, or at least decides that he has a markedly different interpretation on the previously mentioned prescription; he aims and fires as the cleric steps between him and general. Not having had time that morning to prepare any clerical spells against high velocity minerals, cleric responds by assuming a kneeling, bleeding, and praying position.

He soon follows with the “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” a mound of dirt, and dying position. Most of the kids run away. Hanley and Strelitz leave. As they pull away in the general’s car, the camera moves to an elevated position to show a couple of the kids and the dying cleric in the rain through the fork of a blackened tree.

In the sunshine, the two adventurers wash up, and find time to discuss death, the children, and the priest: Everyone does the dying thing; it’s just a question of how. When the general asks if Hanley believes in God, he responds, “The children did.” What a certain child believes will turn out to be important for the general.

Cut to a train station at night. They board the train. Maria finds them. Von Strelitz tells her about his escape plan, and his involvement in the failed assassination attempt. He wants to "Begin Again" elsewhere, bidding her to "Come Sail Away." She doesn’t take it well; she instead goes all "Cold as Ice," treating him like he's just a "Dirty White Boy." At the next stop, where Best Hair and his men are waiting, she leaves the train and tells them where her father is. Hanley clues Von Strelitz into the fact that the sauerkraut is about to hit the fan. When Best Hair and his man get to the cabin in the train, they have gone.

After some stealthy maneuvering among the trains, Hanley eliminates Best Hair’s first man. He takes out another with a nifty reverse defenestration move among the train yard buildings. They make their way back to Best Hair’s car where Hanley punches the express passage ticket to the next world for the guard there. Von Strelitz calls to Maria. He's like "Don't Be Cruel," but she is all, "We Are Never, Ever Getting Back Together." As Hanley and the general drive away, Best Hair conjures a series of magic missiles from his Luger toward the car. Von Strelitz, definitely not singing "Hit Me with Your Best Shot," takes a bullet to the torso. 

Hanley eventually stops to bind the general’s wound. General Von Strelitz suddenly changes into the wolf in grandma’s clothing; he wants Hanley to drive him back to the German lines. Von Strelitz again places his Luger to the back of Hanley’s head, reminding him that it is all the better to shoot him with. 

Hanley channels Boston and decides it’s “More Than a Feeling;” he takes the “Don’t Look Back” attitude, refusing the general’s kind request. Von Strelitz squeezes the trigger, but not enough to make the pistol fire. He relents, opting to go with the Eagles’ “Take It Easy” and to lighten up while he still can. Hanley, humming "Free Bird," drives to the allied lines, finally stopping in front of a vehicle loaded with British soldiers.

Both Hanley and Von Strelitz made their escape, although the general’s destination remains in question, that shot from Best Hair having drained his life away during the drive.

There was only a little French in this episode, but I liked it. It seemed a lot like a cold war defection movie trimmed down from two hours to 45 minutes. There was some interesting commentary about war, and what it does to the people who aren’t soldiers. It’s worth trying to imagine the constant stress of Hanley’s position in pretending to be the general’s aide, all while not speaking German.

There were some things about it that remind me a little bit of the “Missing in Action” episode. Both had women who were willing to sacrifice everything for their cause. Crazy eyes’ cause was her new boyfriend; Maria’s cause was her loyalty to the Fuhrer and to the war. Both of them ended up contributing to the deaths of people for whom they had cared.

Once more I found the C’s that seem to be Altman’s favorites: candles, clergy, and churches. He ended with the dead guest in the final shot. 

Moria Security

We had escaped unscathed through Customs, or so we thought.

We followed the path that left Customs. It led us between a wall or barrier, and a huge luggage claim area. At the end of the path was Gandalf. He had cleverly concealed his true identity with an official uniform of some sort. He sat at a lofty desk as if it were some regal tribunal. 

Before the incognito Gandalf stood an older couple. They both seemed quite tall, or maybe we just seemed small. He asked them if they had any luggage. They said that they did, but that it was not with them. He said, "You shall not pass!" Or words to that effect. 

The tall ones responded that their luggage was being transferred to the domestic flight, and they did not need to get their luggage.

He said, "Without your luggage, you shall not fly, you fools!"

They said the airline had told them that they would not have to pick up their luggage from the international flight; it would be transferred automatically.

He said, "You shall not pass!"

After watching this little scenario play out about three times in succession, with Gandalf refusing to let them pass, and the oversize travelers insisting that they did not need to retrieve their luggage, all the while watching time tick away, knowing that our flight was supposed to board soon, but not knowing how far we would have to go to find it, I asked if we could pass. He asked if we had any luggage. I said that we didn't. He let us pass.

As far as I know, the lofty voyagers are still there today insisting that they do not need to get their luggage, while Gandalf refuses to let them pass without it. 

From there, we passed through the cavernous wasteland that is the San Francisco Airport. It seemed like many nights and days that we traveled in our search for the portal that would take us from this strange land. Eventually, after much trial and hardship, our faces suffering from the fierce breeze of the air conditioning, and our legs and feet numbed by the endless yards of smooth and level tile broken only by great moving sidewalks, we arrived. 

We had to go through security again. This caught us by surprise. We still had full water bottles that we had filled at the Paris airport. This discovery drew groans from the people in line behind us. Everyone knows that you can't take liquids on the plane--except you can if you fill them after you get through security. My wife had purchased these water bottles specifically for the trip so that we could do just that: take them empty through security and then fill them so we would have water on the flight. I took the time to empty my bottle into the garbage can at the suggestion of the security guard (drawing more groans from the people in line behind us). My wife just tossed her bottle into the trash. Of course, she regretted it. Probably, she mostly regretted me telling her that she should've done that...

We made our gate just in time...just in time to find out that our flight would be delayed for a couple hours. Every flight that we had had into or out of SFO had been delayed; it was a perfect record.

Next time: The Last Jet I...

Bogey, Bacall, Books, and Basketball

A humorous observation occurred to me this afternoon. Thinking of it made me smile. I knew that I would have to include it with my post tonight.

I would...if I could remember it. Trust me. It was very funny. 

The other thing that made me laugh recently was watching To Have and Have Not when Lauren Bacall's character Slim says, "I'll don't think I'll ever be angry again at anything you say." I think the smile we see from Bogey's character Harry is genuine, not mere acting. Her mockery of the other pretty woman in the movie is very good. I laughed out loud.

I will have more to say about that very enjoyable movie at a later day. For now, I liked it. I was reminded not only of Casa Blanca, but also of The Maltese Falcon, and Beat the Devil.

Some corrections to Justice in Season have finally been posted to Amazon. There were a number of minor-but-annoying errors in the book, including one in the very first paragraph. What was the cause of such stupidity? How were egregious errors tolerated and posted in the original? I have a theory about that. A good friend did proof read the manuscript for me. I implemented the proof reading corrections indicated. Unfortunately, I had a couple copies of the manuscript on the computer. The copy that I had originally posted to Amazon was not the one that I had corrected. I believe that I deleted the corrected version right after I posted the Amazon version. I finally went back through the manuscript and corrected most, if not all of those errors.

You can get your copy of Justice in Season here: Justice in Season 

Here's an excerpt from the beginning of chapter XIV:

Upton’s gunshot boomed.

Both horses leaped forward. Fredericksburg, with McBride hanging on his side, bucked and leaped forward again. McBride held to the reins and front of the saddle. When the horse leaped the second time, McBride bounced himself up from the ground with his free leg, grabbed the saddle with his right hand and swung onto the back of the bay. Immediately the horse began swerving to the side. Fool’s Gold already led by two lengths. Quickly, McBride righted himself in the saddle, leaning forward. Fredericksburg straightened out and maintained Fool’s Gold lead at three lengths.

The James Blossom Store, specializing in boots, shoes, hats, clothing, dry goods, groceries, hardware, and mining equipment at low cash prices passed by quickly on McBride’s right as he left Main Street behind him. He could hear the spectators roaring and cursing. His attention remained fixed upon the actions of the locomotive between his knees; here was pure power and McBride could sense the horse’s strength and vigor from his toes right up to his teeth. ...

Text copyright © 2013 Stanley Wheeler

All Rights Reserved

The exciting sequel, Justice Resurgent, remains incomplete pending the completion of my humorous mystery novel, Smoke. The latter is nearly complete; it currently stands at over eighty-thousand words. I had anticipated completion at that number of words, but it looks like another three or four thousand will be required to bring this very fun story to its conclusion. It will be available in early 2018.

For a little light fantasy that both young and old can appreciate, try Finding Jack - Book One - The Orb. 

Finally, I watched a great basketball game on Tuesday night. It was the girls' JV game. Some may disagree, but I think the girls' games at this level are much more entertaining than the boys' games. The shooting is about 15-30% from the field. You never know what's going to happen next, or even where the ball is going...and the players don't seem to know either. It's pure fun: like roller skaters on ice, with unicorns, balloons, pandas, sloths, a swarm of wasps, and a self-aware ball all playing a different game in the same location.

The home team had fallen behind, but were gradually making up the deficit as the last two minutes bled from the clock. They finally tied it up, then fell behind by three. Finally, with about a second and a half left on the clock, the home team, down by three points, had the ball out of bounds at their own basket. After the timeout, they threw the ball in-bounds to a player who usually held the ball for 6-8 seconds before doing anything with it. This time, she turned and then quickly turned back to pass the ball to the girl who had just come in bounds. This girl, who I believe was the leading scorer, immediately shot from the corner outside of the three-point line as time expired. The shot, the only three-pointer attempted that night, arced high before coming down to pass through the basket. The game went to overtime. 

I wish I could say that the home team triumphed in the overtime... 

Return - and my wife finds a husband

Our flight was scheduled to leave at 9:00 a.m. We planned to be at the airport by 7:00 a.m.

I received a notification before the chickens (or us either for that matter) were up, that the flight from Paris to San Francisco would be delayed... A little later, another notification...and then another...and then another...Anyway, the flight wasn't leaving until sometime in the afternoon. So, we no longer had to hurry. Instead we got to the airport, where we learned the flight wouldn't leave until even later. We spent 5 hours at the airport waiting for the flight.

I think my wife took this picture at the airport.

When the time to board our flight finally did arrive, my wife and I were pulled from the line and grilled about our backgrounds, jobs, purpose of our trip, etc. I thought there were several other individuals who appeared more deserving of a hasty interrogation...but we were the lucky ones. 

I don't know if our answers mattered, or if the procedure was just to ask the questions and, absent some confession of planned wrongdoing, to let us go on our way. So we never got to be strip searched, or grilled beneath a bright light in a room that smelled of coffee, stale cigarette smoke and fear by a guy with a moustache and an eye-patch, reeking of Brute cologne. (Which makes me wonder, if he were really tough, would his moustache have its own eye-patch, or would his eye-patch have its own moustache? No his cologne would be so strong that it had its own moustache and eye-patch!)

We break now for something completely different:

Just a moment ago, my wife sang our excitedly, "I found a husband!"
For a brief instance I was nonplussed (and I wasn't doing any other exercises in arithmetic either), before I asked hopefully, "Can he support us both?"
She explained that the discovery wasn't for herself; she was doing some family history research, and had found the elusive information on a husband to one of her ancestors. 
No gravy train there. Oh well. Maybe next time.

Back to the regularly scheduled tedious travelogue:

The flight was exactly that for which one hopes when flying over an ocean, or over anything else for that matter: uneventful. Thinking about that, I was about to write that it was both long and monotonous, which recalled to mind Verlaine's Chanson d'automne, which seems fitting (but not because we were hitting the beaches of Normandy):

Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
Monotone.

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure

Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.

Our arrival at SF was more eventful. First we had to do the customs thing. We rushed. I especially rushed to get in front of two ladies dragging suitcases. I just knew that they were going to delay us; it was just a feeling I had. We had another flight to catch that was leaving in less than an hour. I really didn't want to miss it. 

We had to deal with a machine that demanded to scan our passports, which had to be held just so; and it also had to scan our faces; one had to stand just so. The first time I did it, I got the scanning of the passports and faces switched (mine for my wife's), and had to do it over. It went much more smoothly the second time. We did that, and answered a few questions about the purpose of our trip and what we had brought back. It seems like they asked something like, "During your stay abroad, did you abscond with any children or historical artifacts? If so, does the value exceed $200.00?" 

Then we got to wait in line again to see an actual human who would review the answers given to the machine. Can you guess who was immediately in front of us in the line? The two ladies with the big suitcases. They were very nice. I joked that I had seen them earlier and had made a special effort to get ahead of them; apparently they were much faster on the machine, not having had to scan everything twice. They were very nice. When they learned that we were trying to catch a connecting flight set to depart soon, they insisted that we go ahead of them in the line. 

After we got through customs, we met Gandalf. 


Next time: Gandalf at the bridge, and more airport fun

An Agony of Pleasurable Suffering

I'm continuing my slow enjoyment of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. This chapter is best savored slowly. Twain explains the triumphs and sorrows of a boy. I suspect he remembered much of this from his own childhood...with appropriate embellishment. I'm sure that I appreciate his description much more now than I did when I was a kid. We get to see Tom as a martyr, or when he believes himself to be a martyr.

Chapter 3 follows Tom's immediate success in the field of graft and corruption (completing the whitewash job). He presents himself to Polly. As one might suspect, she is skeptical...and very surprised. She is so surprised at his successful completion of the task that she gives him a choice apple, and a lecture on the added value of a treat earned through virtuous effort. Tom steals a doughnut as Polly ends the lecture. As he makes his escape, Tom pelts Sid with a hail of dirt clods for getting him in trouble the night before.

He is off. We have a final triumph to witness before a crucial event in Tom's life.

Tom finds his friend Joe Harper, the opposing general, in the public square. Each of the two has an army of boys that they pit against one another. Tom's force wins the victory after a hard-fought battle, and they agree upon the terms for the next disagreement. Tom heads toward home, flush with a day of victories. Pride goeth before a fall. 

A lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow hair, wearing a summer frock, fells him without firing a shot. He immediately forgets the girl with whom he had imagined that he was in love. He begins his courtship by absurd boyish stunts, including sorts of gymnastics. They don't exchange words, or even a direct glance, but she tosses a flower over the fence. Tom works his way around, balancing a straw upon his nose, until he can pick up the flower with his toes. Once out of sight, he places the flower inside his shirt before returning to hang around the fence "showing off" until nightfall. 

Back at home, nothing bothers Tom, not even a rap across the knuckles from Polly when he tries to steal sugar. It is only when Sid breaks the sugar bowl, and Polly smacks Tom for it, that he sulks. I can't help but wonder if Jean Shepherd wasn't influenced in his A Christmas Story's description of Ralphie (dreaming of his parents' sorrow for blinding him by making him hold soap in his mouth) by Twain's description of Tom sulking as the martyr. Tom "exalted in his woes. He knew that in her heart his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the consciousness of it." He pictured himself sick and dying, his aunt looking for a single word of forgiveness, and he turning away to die. He continued to dwell upon the thought, picturing himself brought home from the river dead, a poor wet corpse, his suffering over. He so enjoyed this "petting of his sorrows" that he left when his cousin Mary came in full of joy and sunshine. 

Tom wanders. He remembers the flower and gets it out. "[I]t mightily increased his dismal felicity." He begins to wonder if "she" would pity and comfort him if she knew. Finally, he wanders to her house and lies beneath a second story window where he can see a lit candle. He lies there, nursing his woe like Achilles in his tent...until a maid-servant opens the window and drenches him with water. 

Back home, Tom turned in "without the vexation of prayers."

Surprises, pleasant and otherwise

We left the Louvre, but I wasn't sure about our next move. One part of me wanted to find a nice restaurant in Paris where my last remaining wad of euros might be exchanged for a delicious dinner and memorable evening with my bride. I explained my dilemma. She didn't want to find a restaurant. We took the public transit back to the hotel. We arrived in a blustery storm --if that's not the name of an automobile, it should be. The tempest--which is a car name-- lashed us with the wet and windy fury of a thousand scourges. 

We made out way via the bureaucratic elevator back to our room. We had a brief rest, and perused the area for restaurants; it looked like we would have to take a taxi. The storm had ceased, but there didn't seem to be anything other than hotel restaurants within walking distance. We both agreed that we didn't want to eat at our hotel again. The rather bad experience associated with the meal from the previous evening stuck in our memories like a burr in a horse's tail. A short while later, we found ourselves, reluctantly, seated at our hotel restaurant--all of the other options involved more time and energy than we possessed. After traipsing around Paris all day, being taken in ambuscade, intimidating other would-be ambuscaders, repeatedly surmounting insurmountable stairs, wandering through museums, strolling down the Champs-Elysees, and otherwise rollicking and rolling in the history and scenic glory of Paris like dogs in a rotting deer carcass, our search for adventure had been sated; our get up and go had got up and went; our exhaustion rating exceeded our desire for more experience points.

We sat at a different table than we had the previous night. We were next to a window. Of course, it was dark enough outside that we saw little in the glass other than our own reflection. I don't remember now what I had to drink--I know that it was not Orangina. Our waiter was very nice; he was more comfortable speaking French than English. He helped me remember that the word for the bill was l'addition; by which I mean that I asked him and he told me. 

I had steak; I think my wife had the same. We really enjoyed the meal. Our expectations were guarded; by which I mean that we were just hoping not to be sick. It was really quite good. We were glad that we hadn't tried to go elsewhere. Was it overpriced? Certainly. Was it a great meal? Certainly. 

The most interesting part for me was when I took the bill to the register. A woman with whom I had spoken before was working at the register, and took my bill. Another woman who worked there walked up beside her and whispered in French, "Is this the guy you were telling me about?" I guess she either thought that that my French was so poor that I wouldn't understand, or that her whisper would not reach me. The first woman then whispered back, "Oui. C'est lui." I didn't have the nerve to ask what it was about me that they had found worthy of prior conversation. I'm pretending that it was my remarkable rugged good looks coupled with my boyish charm. I wasn't wearing the hat; so it couldn't have been that.

The meal had proved to be a pleasant surprise. The unpleasant surprise came in the dead of the night, ripping me from the comfortable and loving arms of that most pleasant of mistresses, Sleep. My bank called to see if I would like to take a survey about the kind of service that I had received in depositing a check the week before. I had the presence of mind to let the person know that I was in a foreign country, it was the middle of the night, and I did not want to take a survey. 

(Rant Notice: Pointless angry blather with no redeeming qualities follows). Of all the things that irritate me about the bank in question, the calls wanting to ask me questions about the service I have received are the worst. If I want to talk about the service, I'll call them. The calls always come at the most inopportune of times. If I could call the idiot who thought of that stupid survey idea at his/her most inconvenient time and badger him with a bunch of useless questions, I would gladly do it. I would love to have him drag himself from bed, stub his toe, bump his knee, and step on a LEGO on his way to the phone. I would ask if he would mind taking a survey about the interaction during my latest bank visit. Are the tellers able to read my signature without difficulty? Would they prefer that I turn to the left or the right as I lean on the counter while conversing with the teller? Are the camera's catching my best side? Is blue ink a problem for their scanners? On a scale of 1-10, how much would they mind never calling me again to inquire about my willingness to take a survey? 1 being, "Consider it done. It was a colossally moronic idea. We're sorry to have bothered you. It won't happen again." 10 being, "We're only in the banking business to cause you misery. We would like to shoot you in the eye with a staple gun and break your teeth out with an ashtray, but the lawsuits have forced us to settle for bothering you by telephone...forever."