Driving a car too fast...

My parents bought a new Oldsmobile in 1952; it had automatic drive and it moved fast. One night I was out driving it with two friends--Toly and Frank. They were curious how fast the Olds could go. I drove out to a road outside Bartlesville and floored it. Before long the car was shaking on her frame and the speedometer showed 110.

Then one of the guys, we were all in the front seat, said there's a car. We saw its lights driving perpendicular to our highway and I said, "It's a curve in the road." But it wasn't; the car was backing out of the parking lot for a beer joint and was only moments away.

I slammed the brakes and my hands froze on the wheel, and our car screeched toward the other car, ready to hit it broadside. Then a hand, I suspect divine intervention, turned the wheel a bit to the left and our car squealed past its back end--the driver had finally stopped--and we ran backwards into the ditch on the opposite side of the road, having just missed another oncoming car.

We sat in silence for awhile, letting our breathing return and our minds stop shrieking. I finally re-started the motor and slowly pulled out. We couldn't talk much.

Toly later became a race car driver and had many more harrowing incidents and accidents.

And that, dear grandkids, is why Grumpy doesn't drive fast and why you shouldn't either.

I dunno, how about you?

I used to have lots of opinions, some of them even reasonable.

Now, however, the plethora of opinions on the Web and in all the media simply render my opinions null.

I don't care what the "experts" think. All my reading has convinced me that experts know their opinions and find enough "facts" to bolster them, as compared to those of us who have opinions without facts.

Screw em.

What can we do about this situation? The world is not becoming a better place for all these battling opinions. Do you see a solution?

The Monks' Secret

A man is driving down the road and his car breaks down near a monastery. He goes to

the monastery, knocks on the door and says, "My car broke down. Do you think

I could stay the night?"

The monks graciously accept him, feed him dinner, even fix his car. As the

man tries to fall asleep he hears a strange sound. The next morning he asks the

monks what the sound was; but they say, "We can't tell you. You're not a

monk."

The man is disappointed but thanks them anyway and goes about his merry way.

Some years later, the same man breaks down in front of the same monastery.

The monks accept him, feed him, even fix his car. That night, he hears the same

strange noise that he had heard years earlier.

The next morning, he asks what it is; but the monks reply, "We can't tell

you. You're not a monk."

The man says, "All right, all right. I'm *dying* to know. If the only way I

can find out what that sound was is to become a monk, how do I become a monk?"

The monks reply, "You must travel the earth and tell us how many blades of

grass there are and the exact number of sand pebbles. When you find these

numbers, you will become a monk."

The man sets about his task. Forty-five years later, he returns and knocks

on the door of the monastery. He says, "I have traveled the earth and have

found what you have asked for. There are 145,236,284,232 blades of grass and

231,281,219,999,129,382 sand pebbles on the earth."

The monks reply, "Congratulations. You are now a monk. We shall now show you

the way to the sound."

The monks lead the man to a wooden door where the head monk says, "The sound

is right behind that door."

The man reaches for the knob, but the door is locked. He says, "Real funny.

May I have the key?" The monks give him the key, and he opens the door. Behind

the wooden door is another door made of stone. The man demands the key to the

stone door. The monks give him the key, and he opens it only to find a door made

of ruby. He demands another key from the monks, who provide it. Behind that

door is *another* door, this one made of sapphire. So it went until the man had

gone through doors of emerald, silver, topaz, amethyst...

Finally, the monks say, "This is the last key to the last door."

The man is relieved to no end. He unlocks the door, turns the knob and

behind that door he is amazed to find the source of that strange sound.

But I can't tell you what it is because you're not a monk.

Hemingway's Computer

HEMINGWAY'S COMPUTER

That was the winter they put in the computer at Harry's Bar.

It was not a big computer for the crunching of numbers. It was a little computer for the crunching of words. It had a big disk, that little computer. Most of the words we put in were little and some were big. But the computer crunched all of them very clean and black on the yellow backs of the racing forms we did our printing on in those days when we had not much except words.

They did not put it so near the door that when little Scott F. Itzgerald hurried in the door it would bang its brass knob against the printer's backside. Nor did they put it on the rug of the color of whipped grass under the back tables where little Normal Maler scuffed his feet as he plotted campaigns against lady generals.

Normal heated to a fine sweat when he planned his seductions. Sometimes he would jab a finger at the aged telephone which he used to breathe obscenities into his opponent's ear. At such times, if it was winter and if he was standing on the green rug, sharp sparks liked to jump out of Normal's fingers.

"I'm hot today, boys," he would giggle.

If they had let Normal's fingers touch the keys of that lovely little computer there is no telling what kind of words may have come out. Unprintable, perhaps.

So Harry who owned and ran the bar, when they put in the computer told Normal to take off his shoes. Just in case.

We said how very nice it was of Harry to have the computer installed. First we would stand at the bar and rip off a few drinks and then sit at the computer and rip off a few pages.

The keys felt soft against our fingertips like little pony hooves running truly and with gentle accuracy on the fine green turf.

"It's a nice way to work," John O'Hair said.

He was a big man but the thing about not having the college education was sad for him and Scott F. never let him forget it.

O'Hair typed his college correspondence lessons on the computer. The thing we didn't like about O'Hair was when he ripped off too many pops and tried to sing the correspondence college's song.

But the arm wrestling was good with O'Hair and of course it was good to see little Scott go to his knees and beg the computer not to lose his words.

Scott thought he had more good words than the rest of us. We shrugged and grinned. We knew about the software and of course Scott did not know that. There were many things we knew that Scott did not know.

We knew that Scott liked to write when he had a load on.

What we would do with the software was while Scott was leaning on the bar and talking with his pretty mouth and gesturing with his little white hands about how the very drunk are different from the rest of us, we performed some delicate sabotage on the software.

And when Scott would write something very beautiful and very tender, the software would consider his words for awhile and then disappear the words, and the screen would tell Scott, "GARBAGE IN/ GARBAGE OUT."

After that, in what came later, in the time of the big troubles that obscured all our little ones, the little computer got shot in its big disk.

We looked at Scott F. standing there with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a smoking pistol in the other

We watched our words leak into the fine sawdust that covered Harry's floor.

LEft Behind, a really moral tale for your betterment.

“LEFT BEHIND”

copyright 2010 by Donald Henry Hinkle

812 words

Pepi had a family: mommy, daddy, and Fritz and Hans and Little Bethie. Pepi was a good dog with all of them, but especially he loved and took care of Little Bethie because she never pulled his tail or poked his eyes like the boys did. He slept in her bed.

One day, Pepi was walking Bethie to the school bus. He had stopped to sniff at a butterfly. Suddenly he felt a tug on his leash and he heard Bethie cry: “O no, Pepi!”

He looked up. Bethie was floating up in the sky, being carried by a big angel.

The angel looked at Pepi with gentle eyes as he disengaged Bethie’s hand from the leash.

“I want Pepi to go with me!” Bethie cried.

“I’m sorry, Bethie,” the big angel said. “No dogs allowed where you’re going.”

Her tears dropped down on Pepi’s nose. Pepi barked and barked to be taken along, but the angel carried Bethie up and up until she disappeared in a fluffy cloud.

Then Pepi saw that other people too were being carried up by angels.

He galloped back home and saw that Daddy was being carried up, while Mommy and Hans and Fritz were stood on the ground shouting at him.

“I’m sorry!” Daddy shouted back. “I’ll miss you all in heaven. But I warned you that if you didn’t do good this might happen!”

“I know!” wailed Mommy. “But I thought the Rapture wouldn’t happen until the next generation!”

“Goodbye, kids,” Daddy shouted from higher up. “Try to be good even though it’s too late now before the Apocalypse!”

The boys cried and wept and beat their breasts, but no angel would pick them up.

Hans said to Fritz: “OK, he was good, but not that good!”

Fritz said: “I wonder how he got the fix in?”

All over town, indeed, all over the world, similar scenes happened, as some people were carried up to heaven and many others were left behind. Including all the dogs and cats and elephants and lions. And horses.

Pepi saw a neighbor being carried up. He was a fat man and the angel was very small. The fat man’s mother wouldn’t let go of his hand.

Pepi barked sharply at the angel.

The angel, of course, understood what Pepi was saying.

“I’m sorry,” the angel said to Pepi, “but those are my orders from the Angel In Charge.”

“Who is he?” barked Pepi. “Please let me talk to him?”

The little angel stopped struggling with the fat man for a minute and pulled out a heavenly cellphone, which was pink and blue. He, or maybe it was a she, spoke into the phone.

“Okay,” the angel said to Pepi. “He’ll be down, but I don’t think he’ll change his mind. He’s very strict.”

Soon, a large ugly angel descended and stood facing Pepi.

Pepi barked out a long story about how he had always been a good dog and a loving dog and had never done anything more wrong than mere puppyish mischief, and how Little Bethie loved him and wouldn’t be consoled without him.

The big angel snarled, “No dogs in heaven!” and flew away.

The little angel had finally loosed the mother’s hands from the fat man and had him ten or twelve feet in the air. The angel sighed loudly and said to Pepi: “I’ll talk to the Big Guy and see if anything can be done.”

Then quickly he or she and the fat man soared out of sight.

Pepi sat patiently and waited, his tongue lolling. He watched all the other people being separated from each other. “Like sorting out bad treats from good treats,” Pepi thought, being a dog who liked analogies.

Suddenly the sky darkened dramatically and a heavenly bright light descended.

From its midst, a quiet voice spoke to Pepi. “I see what has gone wrong. The wrong angel was put in charge. He is Quentin Tarantino, a director of savage moving pictures. My people were misled by idolaters who called him, ‘a god among men.’ He doesn’t belong in this Exodus at all. He selected many of the wrong people, so we have a lot of returns.”

As Pepi listened, he noticed a loud wailing and saw a body falling from an unimaginable height, at the end of a trail of feathers, until it disappeared into a boggy swamp.

The bright light spoke once more and said, “Come, good dog!” to Pepi. Pepi felt himself rising.

He rose higher and higher until Earth was far below, and he saw Bethie waiting for him, with a big bone!

The End.

How I learned to eat

Dinner time. My mother had “slaved” in the kitchen and was hot and not pleased. Vegetables were steamed soft, meat overcooked in the pan or oven. She did not have the touch. However, we ate it. My father’s cooking wasn’t much better. I was about 30 years old before I learned that cooked liver could be deliciously tender and juicy.

Mom’s best dish was a tuna casserole that included a can or so of tuna, and mushroom soup out of a Campbell’s can, poured over alternating layers of Fritos; she gave me the recipe and I made it for myself when I was a working bachelor. Fritos were one of my favorite food groups. I could buy some new comics or science fiction magazines, get a cold Pepsi and a bag of Fritos and sit on the porch in an afternoon and have a grand time.

The college fraternity cooks were okay. I was usually hungry. Plus there were all the hamburgers and French fries and fried chickens and chicken-fried steaks in between. And late night in the dorm, the hamburger and milkshake guy would come through. He sold hamburgers made of some kind of ground meat, greasy in the bun, and frozen milkshakes.

The military cooks had the license to keep us fueled. It was fuel, you couldn’t care too much how it tasted. Could a car complain about Cities’ Service gasoline instead of Phillips? Was Gulf too rich, did (Conoco betray its dirty origins?

So--later in life--when I was assigned to a fancy series of books about food... I required extensive and rapid education.

The Adventurer

There are, it seems, so many things I haven't done and places I haven't visited. Things, perhaps, I should have done; places I should have visited.

"You've never been to Paris? Oh, you must --"

"Downhill skiing in Colorado with the wide slopes and the deep fresh spring snow--."

"The Louvre--"

"The catacombs--"

"We got tickets for --"

"..this hidden hotel in--"

"Cancun--"

"..sailed our schooner into the port at --"

"..the chute opened at 1200 feet--"

Not that I blame friends and acquaintances for telling me of places they've been, things they've done. Half the fun of adventure is sharing the stories afterward.

It's just that it seems that I've never done anything worth talking about. Nothing unusual. "Just an ordinary life"--that could be my epitaph.

I did go to Iceland, once. My only trip beyond the confines of the United States. Went to Hawaii. But not Alaska.

Not just travel but other places I haven't been as well. I never took an acid trip. This didn't bother me until, years after the Sixties when I might have tripped, I learned that the CEO of a hip company customarily inquired of new hires when they'd tripped. So I never applied.

Climbing a ladder to the roofline of our second floor to clean out the gutters makes me week-kneed. So I haven't scrambled up mountains, dived from planes, jumped with bungee cords tied to my ankles.

I learned to live a vicarious life. I wrote a theme in freshman English about riding a bucking horse that threw me off. It never happened but I got an "A" and the instructor read it aloud to other classes. I learned to live a vicarious life and write about the adventures in my thoughts. This kept me at home with my dog and family while my imagination roamed into weird places on Earth and in far galaxies.

I'm a quiet-looking guy. You can look at me and see nothing unusual. Indeed, you could sit next to me at dinner and not hear of anything I've done. But I could show you things I've written and pictures I've drawn, of extraordinary things and places and people--I've been there; I've done that.

Blessing the Skunk

BLESSING THE SKUNK

by donald hinkle

On my daily walk, a week ago, I passed a large house on a bluff overlooking the Vineyard Sound, and saw a feline shape moving erratically under the two vehicles in the driveway. I paused and watched. It was a small skunk, possibly not mature because the white patch on the back of its neck did not extend down the back to its tail. It was daylight, time for skunks to be in their holes.

Then I saw: Its head was stuck in a yogurt cup, on the small end rather than the large. I watched it bump into tires and the garage door and, like one of those vacuuming robots, turn and go in an opposite direction until it bumped into something else.

I was the only person around. I was scared of getting zapped by skunk stuff, but realized that it was my duty to free him. After I thought that, and briefly asked God for help, the skunk left being under the vehicles and headed for the end of the driveway and the street. I wondered if I would have to chase it back onto the grass, but it turned around and moved in my direction.

Moving around me erratically, it got close but not quite close enough. I was certain that if I did remove the cup, I'd get sprayed (quick vision of my wife having to bathe me in tomato juice). I stiffened my resolve, and made a hesitant grab; my fingers hit the end of the cup and the skunk startled, ran away.

I looked around, hoping someone else would appear to help, perhaps by limiting the skunk’s running space. A jogger went by, watching me and the skunk, without offering aid.

Of the 350 odd degrees that surrounded me, the skunk seemed to try each for a few steps, then turn back and try another. I thought again, God, help that skunk come close so I can get the cup. The skunk moved randomly for a few more minutes, almost retreated into some shrubbery, but turned and came back again toward my feet. Closer. Closer.

I grabbed faster than I realized I could move, got the cup and lifted...and both cup and skunk left the ground. Then the skunk popped out of the cup five feet in the air and I was staring into his small face. He dropped to the grass and faced me. Shook his head, squared off at me.

I said, “I'm a friend, I took that cup off.” He turned and his tail went up and

it seemed I was due for a squirt, but, tail high, he bustled off into a cluster of bushes on the other side of the road.

I think he was grateful, but evolution and skunk society don’t provide many ways for a skunk to say thanks.

SNOW DAY BREAKFAST, YAY!

SNOW DAY HOLIDAY BREAKFAST

by Don Hinkle

"Goodnight, Wheels," Mom said.

Wheels looked out the dark window. Big white spots dropped slowly past.

"Tomorrow will be a Snow Day. No school!" Wheels said.

"Maybe, but I don't think so." Mom said. She got his school clothes and put them on the chair for the morning.

"Bet you two billion dollars."

"Wheels," Mom said. "I don't bet. And neither do you."

"Well... it WILL be a Snow Day."

"So... pretend. If it is a Snow Day, what will you do?" Mom asked.

"First I'll eat breakfast, then I'll build a snowman, then..."

"Wait! Stop! Say again, please... IF it's a snow day you're going to eat breakfast?"

"A BIG breakfast. So I don't have to stop to eat lunch."

"That's good news, Wheels. Very good,"Mom said. "If it is a snow day, I'll fix you the biggest breakfast you ever saw."

She kissed him. She turned out the light. Wheels looked out the black window. With the light off, he couldn't see the snow. But, when he held his breath he could hear the snow falling.

In the morning, the air smelled clean and cold.

Snow piled on the panes of his window. He rubbed the window and looked through the clear spots his fingers made. Everything was white.

From the kitchen, Mom called to him: "Wheels? Get hungry for the biggest breakfast of your life."

"Awright!" Wheels said.

Wheels threw his school clothes back into the closet. He put on old jeans and a sweatshirt with a hood. He went to the warm kitchen and sat at the table. He smelled hot food and heard sizzling and bubbling sounds.

"I'm hungry," he said.

Mom gave him a mug of hot cocoa and a plate of scrambled eggs with two slices of bacon and a piece of toast. Wheels folded the bacon inside the toast and took a big bite.

After Wheels ate that, she brought a plate with two pancakes. Wheels poured on maple syrup and ate them both.

Mom looked worried: "Are you chewing everything?" she asked.

"What's next?" he asked.

Next he had a bowl of oatmeal with butter melted on it.

Then he had a piece of apple pie with cheddar cheese melted on it.

"What a great breakfast!" Wheels said.

"There's more," Mom said. "Can you eat it?"

He started to say, "You bet!" but he just said "Sure!"

She popped two pieces of toast out of the toaster. One was white, with a suntan. The other was dark like chocolate.

"What's this?" Wheels said, holding up the dark toast.

"Pumpernickel bread."

"I'll put strawberry jam on it," he decided. He put peach preserves on the white bread. First he took a bite of white, then he took a bite of the black. Then he drank some cocoa. He reached for the telephone.

"I'm gonna call Jason," Wheels said.

"Don't go yet," Mom said. "There's more."

"Hey Jason!"

"Wheels! Let's go sledding!"

"I'm eating breakfast." He put the last bite of black toast in his mouth so Jason could hear the crunch.

"You NEVER eat breakfast!"

"You want to come over and eat with me?"

"What're you having?"

"Everything."

Mom put a waffle in front of him.

He ate the waffle with a big scoop of honey. "Jason's coming," he told Mom. "He wants to eat breakfast too."

"He'll have a tough time catching up with you, but there's plenty to eat," Mom said. She set down a dish of strawberries with milk.

Jason came in, stomping snow. Mom gave him strawberries.

"I don't like strawberries," Jason whispered to Wheels.

"I'm eating everything," Wheels said.

Jason ate the strawberries.

Then Mom brought hamburgers and french fried potatoes. Jason said, "I didn't know you could eat hamburger for breakfast."

"What's next?" Wheels asked.

"You want more?" Mom said, wiping her face with a towel.

Jason said, "No thanks." Wheels winked at Jason and said "Sure."

She opened the oven and brought out a roast chicken.

Wheels and Jason ate the drumsticks.

Mom opened the oven again and brought out a pecan pie. She cut two slices and put vanilla ice cream on top.

"Let's go sledding," Jason said.

Mom said, "What about the pudding? And the ham? And the souffle? And the chilidogs?"

"Dad can have the rest," Wheels said. Jason laughed and jumped up from his seat. "Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Wheeler."

Wheels slowly got off his chair. He waddled over to Mom and shook her hand. "Thanks very much, Mrs. Mom."

"You're welcome, Mister Jason and Mister Wheels," Mom said. "It was hot work to cook but lots of fun watching you eat."

Wheels and Jason took the sled to the top of the hill.

Wheels went down the hill much faster than Jason.

the end

Movie Fantasy

HINKLE IN HOLLYWOOD
12/28/10

theme: the net made me do it.

Genre: horror, noir, adventure, thriller, romance, family

a treatment

fade in...

EXT. NIGHT. LAX
United Air's plane lands, roaring over two drug dealers on "easy rider" motorcycles exchanging a sizable amount of white powder with a haggard guy in a dark limo.

Off the plane into the humid air steps DON HINKLE. He's an average American: tall, dark, full head of hair, broad-shouldered; a twinkle in his eyes is so pronounced it can be seen even through the dark sunglasses.

FEMALE FLIGHT ATTENDANT
Have a nice visit in LA, Mr. Hinkle. Hope all your dreams come true... whatever they are.

DON
...thanks, ma'am. You too. I mean, yours true. (flustered) Shucks, thanks! I'll just be glad to see the sights. I mean, I don't really expect to sell a script on my first visit.

FEMALE FLIGHT ATTENDANT
Well, this is Hollywood. You never can tell!

Behind, a large woman with a small poodle is trying to shush the dog's incessant yipping.

FEMALE FLIGHT ATTENDANT
Would you like me to have that dog put to sleep, Mrs. Gotbux?

LARGE WOMAN
No thank you. My husband the producer will attend to it as soon as he picks me up.

DON reaches out. The little dog gratefully LEAPS into his arms.

LARGE WOMAN
Sheba! Come back to Momma!

DON scratches the dog behind its ears. The dog purrs loudly.

They are descending the ramp.

LARGE WOMAN
Goodness. I've never seen Sheba behave this way!

DON at bottom of ramp, hands Sheba back.

DON
Just show her you love her. She'll be fine.

LARGE WOMAN
(to dog)
Is that true, Little Sheba? You know Momma loves you, don't you?

WOMAN AND DOG go off.

INT. TERMINAL BAGGAGE COUNTER (CONT)
Don watches bags rotate around.
He sees his battered duffle.
He starts to move through crowd to get it.

BUT a small blonde female dashes forward and grabs his duffle.

DON
Hey! Uh, miss!

BLONDE glances at his voice, turns aside, disappears in crowd.

Don rushes outside, sees Blonde get into taxi and speed off.

DON
Damn! That had my script in it!

DISSOLVE TO...

EXT. STREET.
Taxi stops in front of club.
Sign on front reads: "INT. WRITERS' HANGOUT. NIGHT".
Don pays cabbie and enters club.

INT. WRITERS' HANGOUT
Decor is mid-Forties Noir. Black-and-white with lots of shadows and highlights. Every face is seen in partial shadow. On walls are first pages of 80 years' worth of scripts.

In booths and at tables sit prominent writers. Some scribble on paper, most work at laptop computers, some just talk-- intensely, lackadaisacally, with or without brio, humor, anger, fear, disgust, etc.

Don moves through room, meeting various members. All are tall, casually-but-expensively dressed, well-haired and handsome and/or beautiful.

At one table in the back sit two men: one, MILIUS, is large, hulking; the other, QUENTIN, is skinny and pale. They are arm wrestling. Just to make the game interesting, two shiny blades stuck into the table threaten their bare arms: the loser will shed blood.

MILIUS
(straining, with effort)
Say it!

QUENTIN
(gasping)
Fuck you!

Milius forces harder and has Quentin's arm only centimeters from the sharp blade, then...

BLONDE slides into a spare seat between them, and drops Don's duffle onto the table, knocking the blades aside.

BLONDE
Here it is, you jerks.

Quentin and Milius both grab for the bag, unzip it, and pull out The Script.
Milius tugs it away and opens it.

CLOSEUP
shows the title page: "INHERIT THE SCREEN, an original screenplay by Don Hinkle"

MILIUS snorts, hands script to Quentin.

Quentin reads, slaps self on head.

QUENTIN
Shit! This is good shit! What are we gonna do?

MILIUS pulls dead-black automatic pistol from under his sweating armpit.

MILIUS
This town belongs to me. No fuckin outsider comes in and shows off his shit.

QUENTIN
Good fuckin' idea!

Quentin dislodges a sawed-off shotgun from beneath the table.

Both men turn and look across room at Don...

Don sips a cup of herbal tea, but some movement catches his eye.
He looks, sees the Blonde, then sees..
..his duffle, then sees...
...his script on the table, then sees...
...the guys and their guns.

DON slowly puts down his cup and turns to a lovely woman in black.

DON
Is there a back way outta here?

WOMAN points to rear of club.

SUDDENLY a commotion, strange sounds.

The Large Woman is sprawled across the table where Milius and Quentin sit. Her poodle strains at the leash, its teeth embedded in Milius' calf muscle.

LARGE WOMAN
Sheba! Stop that! Stop that right now! I love you!

Quentin threatens the dog with his shotgun, then points it at the Large Woman, then back to the dog. Indecision makes sweat pop out of his pale face.

MILIUS
(in agony)
Shoot! Shoot!

SUDDENLY, a distinguished-looking gentleman (AGENT) at the bar turns and shouts...

AGENT
Stop!

The noise stops.

AGENT waves the script.

AGENT
This is good! What am I bid?

PRODUCER
I'll take it, if you say it's good.

AGENT pulls out a contract, signals barkeep to open a bottle of Champagne, and he and PRODUCER huddle.

DON
separates poodle's teeth from Milius' calf.

Milius clasps Don's hand with both his paws.

MILIUS
Thank you! You came in here a nobody from the sticks...

QUENTIN
..and you're going out feet first!

His shotgun barrels are pushing Don's nose sideways.

SUDDENLY
Other writers rise and begin singing and dancing:

CHORUS
We got a dream,
A dream of the screen.
Fillum.
It's all about fillum.
We put our dreams on fillum.
It'ss on the screen.
IT's the MOVIES,
the MOVIES,
Movie dreamin on the LA side..
(etc.)

Quentin, Milius, the Blonde, the Large Woman, and Don join in and all sing as..

FADE OUT

THE END

Gender Jedi, by Don Hinkle

WHEN a woman takes an animal into her bed in the fourth quarter of
the third moon of Mondor, I am assigned.
This is considered a normal assignment.
The New Republic Republic is governed by Senators who are allied
with the Church of the Force, Good Side. While the trade interests rule
the galaxy with unmitigated greed, now we knights of virtue must enforce
personal virtue in others.
It is an assignment I find distasteful. Nevertheless, because I am
a Jedi, I take ship to Mondor. My ship for this mission is an unarmed
personal issue Sitz--a 4-seater with Web controls built in.
My partner for this mission is HelPen Macnew. She is my third protege.
The woman met us at our landing site, just outside the village of
Hutsuoma. She is a member of the Ustoo? tribe, which translates (my
droid tells me) as “Are We not also people?” She bows, sweeping her
robes aside to show a nice pair of legs. I nod, with Jedi gravity.
“I am Hin Don Dilbar,” I say and gesture to my companion. “This is
my protege, HelPen.”
“Someday I too shall be a Jedi,” HelPen says. I frown. HelPen is
just learning the ways of the Force.
The woman breathes and colors emerge from her mouth, “I am tho
pleathed to welcome you. My monicker ith Lipo al Luvvlee.”
“We are informed that you sleep with an animal,” speaks out
HelPen.
I scowl and try to smooth it over. “My protege is sometimes too
forward. I realize that yours is a gracious culture.”
Lipo breathes again and the colors are darker. “I am aware of your
reathon for this vithit. Please--follow to my humble abode.”
The animal is hairy. Large and hairy. It moos at us as we enter
Lipo’s hut. It is taking its ease on a round mattress.
Lipo bows to the animal and breathes colors at it. “HelPen and Hin
Don are here,” Lipo says.
The animal moos again. It seems disinterested in our arrival.
Lipo turns to HelPen. “I have been tho alone for yearth. No member
of our tribe would couple with me.”
“Talk to Hin Don, he’s the Jedi Master,” HelPen says. “I’m just
along to observe.”
Lipo breaths again. “I athumed you would underthand becauth are
you not a female altho?”
HelPen draws near and whispers an aside to me, “When I am a Jedi
they will not treat me so.”
I stand straight. “Lipo, allow me to speak without embellishments.
The Republic Republic has new laws not generous to its citizens who
choose bedmates other than members of their own species.”
Lipo sighs. The colors of her breath are sad.
“But I am tho alone!”
I am led by the Force to glance to HelPen. I gesture her aside and
speak quietly. “You are, after all, of her gender. Perhaps you can
discuss this intimate issue more intimately.”
HelPen bows. “I shall attempt it, Master.”
I tell Lipo that we are in need of some items. I would shop for
them in the village.
Lipo breaths: “The village ith athleep, thir.”
“No shops are open?”
“You may make purchathes, thir, but be ware that everyone ith
athleep.”
Uh-huh, I think. Ah well. It’s a big universe. It takes all kinds.
The villagers bustle about through their marketplace. It is
extremely colorful with all of their talking. I move through rainbows of
sound. Soon caught up in the general enthusiasm, I find myself
bargaining for items that I do not need. A spare printer and fax
machine, a hyperspace modem that brews tea, a lovely lava lamp.
As I attempt to purchase an attractive undergarment for HelPen, I
realize that I have misplaced my other purchases. I look around the
shop. They are not there.
“Excuse me,” I interrupt the shopkeeper, who is demonstrating the
undergarment. “Did I enter here with some packages in my arms?”
Doubt colored the shopkeeper’s breath. “I...don’t..remember. Sorry.”
I hurry out and attempt to retrace my steps. The village has
changed its geography. The street seems strange to my eyes. I recognize
no landmarks. I am, it seems, lost! And now I cannot find the shop from
which I just exited!!
My cloak flapping, I hurry around the village-- much larger and
more complex than when I entered. In fact, I can no longer find my way
back to Lipo’s hut. Nor, indeed, do I know where I parked the Sitz.
I ask strangers on the street but they are curiously unhelpful,
pointing me in contrary directions or feigning ignorance. Faster and
faster I scurry. Ah! I enter a shop and there is my lava lamp. Someone
else has picked it up and is watching its slow melding.
“Excuse me, but that is mine,” I say. To emphasize the point, I
activate my lightsaber. It groans slightly, needing a recharge, but the
effect is instantaneous and I have the lava lamp.
Thus encouraged, I scurry to another shop. There is my printer,
still in its carrying bag.
Now I feel that I am late returning to Lipo and HelPen but, as I
hurry in search of the modem, I encounter HelPen.
I say. “You and Lipo have spoken and reached an agreement?”
HelPen bites her lip. “Lipo has agreed that the animal is hairy
and that she deserves better...”
“Good. Excellent! Now, if we can just find the--”
“I promised that you would couple with her,” HelPen says, backing
off a few steps.
My lightsaber groans and flashes, even tho I am encumbered with
purchases. “What!? Is this treachery?!”
HelPen activates her lightsaber and we assume the first posture of mutual respect.
Our sabers cross, sparks fly and catch fire on the awning of a nearby stall.
We silence our sabers and extinguish the fire.
After the commotion quiets, I realize that I have once again,
misplaced my purchases. This is frustrating. I begin to run in circles.
HelPen follows, “Master? Where is our Sitz?”
“Where is Lipo’s hut?” I demand.
HelPen seems puzzled. “Who is Lipo?” she asks.
I stop running. A brief moment of clarity penetrates the fog about
me. “We are caught in a dreamworld,” I whisper.
“How long have we been here?” HelPen inquires.
I shrug. “Let us move to the edge of the village.”
We find ourselves on a dusty path. In the distance I discern
Lipo’s lonely hut.
“I believe we have escaped the dreamworld, Master,” HelPen says.
“Yes, but my purchases--”
“Your what?”
“Never mind. Let us conclude our business with Lipo and return home.”
Lipo is at the door, sadly watching her hairy animal lope off to
some low hills in the distance. “It wath never really happy here with
me,” she sighs in dark colors. But she brightens. “Mathter!” she cries.
“Lipo, I am a Jedi Knight. I travel the galaxy to battle
corruption. There is no place I call home. I have no family, no human
entanglements.”
“But HelPen said...”
“HelPen speaks without authority. She is young in the Force.”
“But I am now without a companion! Alone! I will be captured by
thleep!”
We stride backward, facing her, as she weeps and moans, and step
into our Sitz. HelPen quickly activates the controls and lifts us off
the planet.
After a long silence, I conclude the adventure by telling HelPen:
“It is not always such an exciting life. Sometimes there is paperwork.”

photography

I used to be a photographer--a real one, one who had three Nikons around his neck--all containing real film--and each with a different focal length lens on it. I shot a lot of film, and developed and printed it too. I have boxes full right now, stored in our attic where--this winter for sure!--I'll sort them out, scan the best and Photoshop them for eternity.

Back when I was beginning, in the Fifties and Sixties, my heroes were the Great Ones: guys named W. Eugene Smith, Bruce Davidson, Eisenstadt, etc.

These guys lived with 35mm cameras, and they shot Real Life without filters. I emulated them and discovered that I too was a good photojournalist.

But by that time, there seemed to be no demand for real photojournalism, that which could capture and depict real life.

My first boss in NYC, Bobbie Ashley, at This Week Magazine, for instance. She lectured me about being a photographer, because to her photographers were small guys named Marty who tried to get sneaky shots of celebrities--the guys who later became papparazzi. Bobbie was a sweetheart but she seemed to have no room in her life for my kind of photography. Neither did anyone else, as I discovered.

I made the baby-spy photo above in about 1964, soon after my oldest daughter, Deborah, was born in Brooklyn.

NARROW escape!

I love this that I found this morning...


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That should gif a great start on your day!

And here's another one, related...in a way.

2, no 3, dolphins:


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Jealousy

This must have occurred in the 10th or 11th grade high school. It came back to me today.
I had a small motorbike, an English James, that could barely hit 45 mph, and I loved it. Often would go out for rides just to enjoy the feeling.
And I was in Verian Chaney's drama group — which my mother had signed me up for because I was too shy to talk to girls. One day Ms. Chaney ordered spontaneous acting: we were divided into groups and given an assignment to act out. I was with Ed Turner and his then-girlfriend, and an older girl who was fulsomely built... stacked like an outhouse, as we almost said. She was a year older than me, but went along with the stunt with good humor.
Ed designed the skit: we were two couples in a car parked on a dirt road somewhere. I was in the "back seat" with, let's call her Patsy, she of the impressive build. Ed and his girl were in the "front seat". They pretended to be smooching. Patsy snuggled against me and put my arm around her shoulders.
Blushing, I stared at the ceiling of the auditorium and said, "Hey, there's the Big Dipper....and...and...the North Star," and grew increasingly embarrassed as Patsy snuggled more insistently and Ed and his girl made loud smooching noises.
When Ms. Chaney finally released us, I went outdoors to ride my 'cycle home and discovered it gone.
Patsy's boyfriend Charlie — also a year older and much larger — had taken it for a joyride.
My Dad drove me around until we found the 'cycle, abandoned in the middle of a suburban street, the motor smoking because I'd had it locked in first gear and he drove it til it froze up.
Dad insisted we go talk to Charlie's father. I resisted but he insisted. At the front door, the man said hello, didn't invite us in, and said we had no proof that his son was involved. We retreated.
It cost a few bucks to get the 'cycle repaired, and I made a point after that of not befriending girls who already had boyfriends.