This morning I saw a transformer blow. I had just parked behind the coffee shop when I looked across the street and noticed a bright blue light glowing near the top of a utility pole. It was amazing—I'd never actually seen blue fire before (which is probably for the best, seeing as how blue fire is VERY VERY HOT). The flame got larger and larger, and it was blazing out from the box in a corona of ethereal blue tendrils. It really was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. In fact, I was so fascinated that I didn't even think to move; I just stood there, mesmerized. I do remember having the presence of mind to estimate the distance between myself and the pole, determining that I was at minimal safe distance if it should happen to fall in my direction. I also considered taking a picture with my cellphone for posterity's sake. All at once there was a tremendously loud pop, like when you're too close to the place where they set off the fireworks, and the transformer went KA-BLAMM-O. I hunkered down by the car, and my right ear (the one turned toward the explosion) began to ache a little bit. Ouchie.

Nick and Paul pointed out that this sort of delayed reaction might not serve me well in the event of a zombie apocalypse. If you're being charged by a throng of ravenous zombies, they said, it's probably best not to stand in awe of the spectacle. Here's how that scenario would go down:

Me: Well, would you look at that! I don't think I've ever seen anything like that before. Those guys running toward me look like zombies. But they can't be. Zombies aren't real...unless they are? I wonder if they're virus zombies or radiation zombies. Man, those guys can run! And look at their shredded clothes, just like in all the movies. That one kind of reminds me of Lou Ferrigno as the Incredible...arrrrggggggh!!!....

Zombies: Nom nom! Nom nom nom!

Sigh.

What can I say? Guess I've got some training to do.

So this was my idea. Hey, maybe I could be the next Survivorman! I could teach myself to survive in the wilderness and then make an awesome show based on my efforts. Wouldn't that be cool? Except I don't really like camping, and I tend to get irritable when the creepy crawlies refuse to respect my personal space. But whatever. Those are obstacles that can be overcome, right?

Chapter One in any survival manual is always the making of fire, so I figured I'd start there. I snagged Nick's old Boy Scout handbook and got to work. Tools needed: fireboard, bow, stick, shoelace, tinder, and some sort of rock thingie to place atop the stick so that your hands don't get rubbed raw.

Here's the stuff.

And here it is all prepared.

So I followed the instructions. I used the stick and the bow.

I kept it up for a long time...twisting...twisting...twisting some more, until I began to hear the sweet chorus of angels in my ear, alerting me to my impending loss of sanity. And yet, the result was the same. The stick and fireboard were slightly warmer, but nowhere near the smoldering coals they needed to be.

Alas, I was driven to do what anyone would have done in my place.

So the lesson I learned was this. Fire-making—with sticks at least—is for people who have nothing else scheduled for the remainder of their lives. If you believe in reincarnation, that's a bonus, because it might take more than one lifetime to get it done.

Oh yeah, and I have four chigger bites to show for my time spent communing with the wilderness. Thanks so much, Mother Nature. I'm a big fan of yours, too.

Man, there's a lot of construction downtown. Oh, the right lane is closed ahead; it's a good thing I'm in the left lane. I wonder what that van is going to do. I don't think he's seen the signs yet, even though they're bright orange and the size of Sherman tanks. Oh, you don't say—he's cutting me off, because he just now noticed his lane was ending. That's a surprise. Wait, what's this? He stopped! Halfway into my lane he stopped. Look, Mr. Van, there's no point pulling your vehicle halfway into my lane and then stopping. Just go! For the love of all that is holy, just go. I couldn't get past you anyway. It's not like I can use a shrink ray on my car and just speed around you. Believe me, if I could turn my car into a Hot Wheels car I totally would (because that would be awesome), but I can't, so you should just go. What happened, anyway? Why would you start to cut me off and then stop halfway? Did your rudeness fail you? Did you suddenly have an attack of human decency? Not only am I being cut off, but now you're waiting there, blocking me, and asking for my blessing to go ahead. Well you know what? No blessing for you. You can just go about your day without a blessing. In fact, I'm going to give this blessing to that construction guy instead of you. Look at that, I just blessed the construction guy and you're still sitting there with your head craned around, waiting for me to wave you ahead. Well you can wait all day because I'm not going to. My philosophy is this: if you're going to be rude, you should do it with as much enthusiasm as possible. You should give your rudeness the full force of your personality. I mean, if it's your destiny to be a schmuck, then you should be the best schmuck you can be, right? I can at least respect that. At least you're being true to yourself. But this mealy-mouthed halfway thing is craven and shameful, and I feel nothing but disdain for you. Do you hear that? Nothing but disdain. Now move along and get your Astro out of my way.

I was mightily amused to read this morning that the young damsel in distress who claimed to have found a finger in her bowl of Wendy's chili has been arrested. Aside from the shameful schadenfreude that inevitably accompanies reading of the misfortunes of others, I was struck by the peculiarities of the episode and its similarity to the tale of Medea and the daughters of Pelias. At any rate, it would seem that the young finder of said finger has quite a checkered, litigious past, and investigators are examining the possibility that she planted the finger in the chili of her own accord. Zounds! I'm chortling in my leather chair just thinking of such diabolical cleverness. At least, this is the reigning theory, which was arrived at after an extensive inquiry into the digitude of the Wendy's employees. The inquiry went something like this:

Q. Hello, there. Is this thing on? Hello, employees of the Wendy's corporation. Is anyone in any of our franchises perhaps missing a finger?

A. Well, yes, in fact. Several of us are missing fingers.

Q. Let me be more specific. Has anyone lost a finger in a setting other than high school shop class?

A. Well, no. Once we graduated or got our GEDs, we tended to keep better track of our digits.

Q. I guess that about does it then. We'll let you know what we find out.

I have it on the best authority that Wendy's has set up a telephonic hotline, and that they are offering a $100,000 reward for anyone able to offer information leading to the finger's source. Well, I have some information that you might find illuminating. Did I ever mention that I lost a finger not long ago while dining at one of your restaurants? It's true. I was up at the counter ordering my mechanically separated chicken pieces when the extra value menu that was hanging like the sword of Damocles over me unloosed itself from the ceiling. (Why are these crafted out of sharpened, serrated steel, anyway?) I jumped back, but alas, I was not nimble enough. My finger was sliced off as cleanly as with a guillotine. I could even see an old woman knitting in a nearby booth, like some Dickensian joke perpetrated by my cosmic nemeses. And I was fortunate. The abominable marker of savings might have severed an entire arm, and then I would have buried the restaurants in litigation.

Why haven't I spoken up at this until now? Well, out of shame and embarrassment, naturally. It's a dreadfully lowbrow anecdote, and when I'm out at the martini bar, trying to be persuasive with a lovely lady, I have found that a thrilling shark attack story sparks more interest on her part than a truthful account of the event. I have almost come to believe this version myself—Freud be praised!—until I heard from some smirking anchorman that my lost digit had concluded its hapless peregrination in a bowl of chili. Only then did I realize the gravity of the situation. I knew then that the time had come for me to speak out about this harrowing (and banal) experience. It is my burden to confront the unpleasant truth of my visit to Wendy's, or the event will come to dominate my life.

So, might I trouble you for that generous bounty promised for those who proffer relevant information?

Please?

1. Shout "aha!," swish your cape around you, and vanish.
2. If you are Optimus Prime, transform into tractor-trailer form and pull off to the side of the road. Robots in disguise.
3. Tell the Hells Angel to please calm down. All you want to do is listen to the music.
4. "And now for my next impression...Jesse Owens!"
5. Stay very, very still. The T-Rex's vision is based on movement.
6. Tell the other members of the Donner Party you'd like to go out to eat for once. Hike to safety.
7. Suggest to Aaron Burr that paper-rock-scissors is a better choice for resolving your conflict.
8. Shout "brains! brains!" until the zombies leave you alone. Try to look undead.
9. Use the stargate.
10. Inform Tom Jones that you're a lesbian. If he persists, set his leopard-print sofa on fire.
11. Tell Andrew McCarthy you'd prefer to stay a mannequin, if it's all the same to him.
12. Gnaw through the straps.

I saw a dog driving a car yesterday.

Okay, so I didn't actually see it driving, but I did see it sitting in the driver's seat of a Jeep Cherokee outside a convenience store. It was a big old Great Dane, and I could tell from the ears that it was pretty alert, which is a good quality when you're driving. In fact, that dog probably drives better than most people in town.

I have to confess. Before yesterday, I never thought much about this topic. And my perception of their abilities may have been hampered by witnessing the disastrous mishaps of Toonces the Driving Cat. But really, what's to stop them?

There are, of course, good and bad points to dogs getting behind the wheel.

Pros:

1. Most dogs have already been to obedience school, so taking turns at a four-way stop is no problem.
2. Because they can't separate the digits on their paws, they're much less likely to flip you the bird.
3. Great peripheral vision makes them naturals at negotiating roundabouts.
4. They can jump into the car through the window, just like Bo and Luke Duke.
5. They know better than to chew on a rawhide bone while driving.
6. Through the power of eugenics, we can raise more of the good drivers and weed out the bad ones. Too bad there isn't a comparable system for humans.
7. They can smell an accident a mile away. Literally.

Caveats:

1. Smaller dogs will need a booster seat. Old English Sheepdogs will have to wear barrettes to keep the fur out of their eyes.
2. Dogs may initiate a game of fetch whenever someone throws a piece of litter from the window of another car. This could be problematic during rush hour.
3. Dogs are red-green color blind. Oops.
4. A dog's view of the road may be impaired by his insistence on driving with his head hanging out the window.
5. They do not have the kind of swagger and attitude needed to become NASCAR drivers.
6. Genetic memory may remind dogs what it was like for their Great Uncle Bowser to ride an elephant in the circus, and the resulting nostalgia could make them too emotional to drive.
7. Sudden licking of the groin area may cause a wreck.

My recent flight to Atlanta was an uneventful one. However, when I reached my destination, threw off my pants, and exhaustedly opened my suitcase to retrieve my jammies, there was a small innocuous-looking piece of paper on top. It was a note from the Transportation Security Administration telling me they'd just been looking through all my personal belongings. And laughing. "Man, I didn't know anyone used conditioner anymore," they were saying. "And what is up with that sweater? Could she be any more of a fashion victim?" I've never gotten one of these notices before, so I read it thoroughly and tried to figure out what they had moved around. (Honestly, they did a good job of replacing things as they had been.)

I don't really have a problem with this procedure, even though it's kind of an annoyance. After all, I've been to the airport at Tel Aviv (which I've heard has the tightest security in the world), and believe me, they search everything. They go through your stuff slowly and deliberately, asking you about the intended use of all sorts everyday items. They take out your toothpaste and manipulate the tube to see if you've hidden anything inside. They ask if there's anything in the bag you don't recognize. Leaving the airport in Tel Aviv, you feel pretty sure that nothing bad could get through. Ever. (By the way, don't even think of smuggling oranges from Jaffa.) I don't so much get that warm, confident feeling at American airports, though. Mostly, it seems that the screeners are focusing on the wrong sorts of things, inconveniencing ordinary people without providing any real payoff in terms of security. But whatever. I'm glad they do it, I guess.

Below, I have written out the text (and subtext) of this friendly message from the TSA, who are making us all safer, one diaper bag at a time.

NOTICE OF BAGGAGE INSPECTION

"To protect you and your fellow passengers, the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) is required by law to inspect all checked baggage. [Where 'inspect' is defined as funneling the bag through an x-ray machine while flipping through an old copy of Maxim.] As part of this process, some bags are opened and physically inspected. [As opposed to that mental inspection process, which is much trickier and more time consuming.] Your bag was among those selected for physical inspection. [Maybe next time you won't plaster a huge skull-and-crossbones patch onto your luggage. Idiot.]

"During the inspection, your bag and its contents may have been searched for prohibited items. [Like flame throwers, machetes, cocaine, Twinkies, carburetors, books by Noam Chomsky, and anything Art Deco.] At the completion of the inspection, the contents were returned to your bag. [Your electric ear cleaner was placed neatly inside your shoe, just the way we found it.]

"If the TSA screener was unable to open your bag for inspection because it was locked, the screener may have been forced to break the locks on your bag. [This caused us a great deal of mental anguish at first, but then we summoned the cold-blooded apathy that served us so well in our previous career as bank robber. After a while, we began to enjoy breaking the locks. Sounds sick, doesn't it? Our therapists certainly think so. But we believe sometimes people who hold certain jobs have to have a little moral flexibility in order to be good at what they do. If our perverse pleasure in looking at your belongings results in greater safety for all the passengers on an aircraft, then it's worth it, don't you think? Well, don't you?] TSA sincerely regrets having to do this [that is, we regret that we weren't able to break your locks more than once], however TSA is not liable for damage to your locks resulting from this necessary security precaution. [Just like we're not liable for fashioning a big happy face out of shaving cream on your best trousers. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!]

"We appreciate your understanding and cooperation. If you have questions, comments, or concerns, please feel free to contact the TSA Contact Center. [At which point we will laugh until we choke, and then promptly enter you into the database of terrorists. You will never fly again. Buh-bye now.]

Last week I scratched my eye somehow, meaning I couldn't wear my contacts for several days. For nearly four days I was stuck with my dissident glasses, which make me look all radical but make me feel totally helpless and weak. You see, when I'm wearing my glasses, I am reminded how terrible my eyesight really is and how easy it would be for someone to just grab them off my face and stomp on them. It makes me feel like Piggy from Lord of the Flies. If I were stranded somewhere and my glasses broke—well, let's just say the other little kids could paint their faces and come after me in the night, and I couldn't do much about it. "Wait, there's a shape coming toward me! A bunch of shapes! Oh, it may be, yes, I think maybe they're people, and they're holding something that looks sharp, and ... arrrrrrggggghhhhh!" (Perhaps I was dictating.)

Wearing my glasses makes me feel like an evolutionary reject.

I've considered the option of Lasik surgery, but I don't know anyone who's had this done, and anyway I can't help but be a little wary of a procedure in which they use a frickin' laser beam to cut a flap in your cornea. I'd almost rather get a couple of eyeball transplants, like in Minority Report. That's another thing. Remember when Tom Cruise had his eyes bandaged and went stumbling toward the refrigerator, looking for the food the doctor guy had left for him, only to grab the wrong carton? Wearing my glasses reminds me that I, too, am just a lens away from drinking extremely curdled milk. No sir, I don't like it.

I had my yearly eye exam today. They put the puffs of air in my eyes, which I hate, because it's very difficult to keep your eyes open when you know what's coming. I also got to look in that machine that shows you the pretty cartoon picture of the barn with the phosphorescent grass and the white picket fence. I love that picture. Someday I'm going to steal that machine and put it in my living room. And then there's the visual field test, where they take you out to a field and make you find your way home without your glasses. I like that even less than the eye puffs, and it's hell trying to get those cockleburs out of your socks. What's that you say? That's not what a visual field test is? Oh, sorry—I must be thinking of when I pledged that fraternity.

Anyway, the optometrist says my scratched eye has healed, so hopefully it will be another year before my next ocular neurosis occurs. You see, last winter my right eye was attacked by an angora sweater, and it got all pink and inflamed. Every night I had to put drops in it and give it a motivational speech about teamwork. Once again, I had to wear the glasses, except that they were an old prescription so I was getting frequent headaches. Best of all, I had to endure this partial blindness for almost two weeks because, apparently, my lenses were handcrafted in a small South American village by a little old woman whose family has been making contact lenses using the same techniques since the days of the Incans.

There is really no point to any of this, except to say that I understand now why Harold Pinter was so fixated on eyeballs and that those of you with perfect vision make me ill. In fact, here's a little gift for you to enjoy with your flawless sight. (WARNING: not for the faint of heart) Just tab down until you get to Figure 7. Love ya.

Friday night, I got a sign from the kitchen gods.

As you may know, I've been doing a lot of cooking lately. This is not something that comes to me naturally, so I've been working my way up from scrambled eggs to chicken casseroles and the like. Quiches and souffles are still far in the future for me, but my progress has been good. And finicky Nick has eaten everything I prepared, so it can't have been too bad. Overall, I've been pleased with my new skills.

That is, until the stove caught on fire.

I was going to make pasta, you see. I had put some water on to boil, and I was retrieving the pesto sauce from the refrigerator when I smelled something I shouldn't have. Looking over my shoulder, I noticed a single wisp of smoke snaking up from the saucepan. This was worrisome, but I decided it was probably just a few crumbs smoldering in the drip tray, and that it would stop momentarily.

It didn't stop. Instead, there was an audible gust of air, and flames shot out of the side of the pan.

Oops.

Time stood still, and I stared at the fire in disbelief. Then, in the span of a single moment, I had a point-counterpoint session with my second, more pragmatic personality:

Me: This can't be happening. Am I in a movie, or something?

Me II: No, stupid. This is a real fire. Put it out.

Me: Okay. I'll just get some water from the sink and ...

Me II: No! No, no, no! You can't use water on this kind of stove. There's a fire extinguisher right there. It uses a kind of foam, and it won't exacerbate the fire. Go. Get it. NOW.

Me: Oh, but that seems so drastic. Surely I don't need to use that.

Me II: Fine. Then take those dish towels and drape them over the pan to suffocate the fire. You might want to moisten them first....

(Karen starts to drape the towels over the saucepan without moistening them, then backs away from the stove.)

Me II: (irritably) Or don't moisten them, I guess. Obviously you know best.

Me: It's not going to work. This is probably some new evolved kind of fire that doesn't require oxygen to perpetuate itself. We're so screwed.

Me II: Do you hear yourself, for god's sake?

Well, the smothering thing did the trick, and when I removed the dish towels there was nothing but a tattoo of ash on the sides of the saucepan to show the fire had ever been there. Oh, and the air had a slightly mesquite smell to it for a couple of hours. But no big deal. The smoke alarm didn't even go off. I just opened the window, and let the freezing cold air in (it was snowing at the time), so that when Nick got home from work our apartment felt like a meat locker. But nothing can burn in a meat locker, so everything was copacetic.

In retrospect, this whole incident is quite funny, and for two reasons in particular. 1) the idea of a pan full of water going up in flames is pretty bizarre, in and of itself, and 2) boiling water is the single simplest thing you can do in cooking. That's right, I botched the single simplest thing you can do in cooking. Let the blonde jokes commence. I'll read your mocking e-mails as soon as I get this Wite-Out scraped off my computer screen.

In the mean time, I will persevere. I'll consider myself hazed and move on to the next dish (with a fresh drip tray). Hear me, you mischievous kitchen gods! You will not discourage me so easily!

1. Privacy issues. Recently, two peepholes were drilled into the bathroom of my favorite coffee shop. The holes were about a quarter inch in diameter, and I first noticed them when I leaned down to pick up a tube of lipstick. One of the holes went all the way through to the main room, and for some reason, had a stir stick inserted into it (who knows what this was about). Upon emerging from the bathroom, I took a good look at the wall from the other side and saw exactly where the holes had been drilled. They were about an inch and a half apart, as if a strapping young vampire had bitten the wall. Naturally, I alerted the barista at once, and he filled the holes in with caulking. But it made me wonder: a) how long they had been there (I am famously unobservant); and b) how many other times my privacy may have been invaded without my knowledge. What with omnipresent security cameras and the myriad tiny surveillance cameras on the market, our personal privacy is more of a fiction than ever. Add to that the low-tech peeping Tom stuff, and you've got a first-rate panopticon situation. Creepy.

If I allowed myself, I could dwell on this until I was so paranoid I couldn't leave the house anymore. But, like Bartleby the scrivener, I would prefer not to. The illusion of privacy is one worth preserving.

2. The cleanliness of the foods I eat. The other day, a friend and I were having a conversation about food cleanliness. We decided that, given the number of times we had gone out to eat in our lifetimes, at some point we had almost certainly eaten something that somebody had spit on—or worse. We exchanged anecdotes from our own experiences with restaurant service and those of our friends, and concluded that several of the things we eat in public places are easy targets for tampering. I'll spare you the specifics, but suffice it to say, I'll never have salad dressing from an open salad bar again. Everyone knows the urban mythology about severed fingers being found in tacos, and my parents know of a case in which someone at a chicken restaurant was served a deep-fried rat. What else has fallen into the fryers over the years? What other abominations have found their way between our hamburger buns?

It's enough to turn you to Jainism.

Well, you say, the solution to this problem is easy. All you have to do is stop going out to eat. Just prepare everything yourself, and you'll be free of contaminants forever! Ha ha! Wrong again. You see, many years ago I read a book about the sanitation standards for the plants that process and package the foods we find in the grocery store. The standards are pretty rigorous, but don't kid yourself into believing that they guarantee your food will have no nasties in it. (For our purposes, "nasties" means stuff like fly larvae and bits of rat scat.) What the standards do guarantee is that the number of nasties in your food will fall below a certain threshold. That's all. You can have 0.44% rat scat in a given product, but not 0.5%. Thanks FDA! Oh, and wait. As if this information was not enough to sour your experience at the local Piggly Wiggly for the rest of your life (or until you are rescued at last by senility), there's more. According to the book, the two types of food that contain the most nasties are—wait for it—tomato sauce and chocolate. So, yeah. Those are only the two most commonly consumed foods in America, both of which I eat on an almost daily basis. No big deal.

Shall we purchase fresh vegetables then? Well, yes, you could. But there are all sorts of pesticides (nasties) that fresh fruits and vegetables marinate in before making their long hegira to the produce section of your local grocery store. Your only shot is to get organic goods from the farmer's market, and even then you have to take their word for it.

I'm sorry to say it, but you just can't get food without nasties. It's a myth, a fantasy. It's like the Fountain of Youth. It's like that story about the businessman who ends up in a tub full of ice, missing a kidney. Maybe the Amish have got it right on this point. If you grow everything, raise your own livestock, grind Hansel and Gretel's bones to make your bread, and you do it all yourself, then, and only then, is there a guarantee of relative food safety. Not that I would have the first idea how to go about growing my own food. I can barely keep my cyclamen plant alive. Even living in the Midwest, in the bread basket of America no less, I am so far removed from the agricultural system that I sometimes think crop rotation refers to the varying lengths of capri pants.

I think it's safe to say that if we truly meditated on what we put into our bodies, we wouldn't eat anything at all.

So tell me, Gentle Reader, what things would you prefer not to think about?

Some construction worker in Littleton, Colorado went to the dentist and complained about a persistent toothache. Turns out, the man had been using a nail gun six days earlier and had fired a four-inch nail into his mouth without noticing. Get this. The x-ray showed that the nail had gone one and a half inches into his brain, and had just missed his right eye.

Okay, first thing. How do you not notice this? I could kind of see it if he had just injured himself somewhere else on his body, and he was in so much pain and cognitive distress that he couldn't tell a second injury had occurred in his head. Pain messes you up pretty fiercely, you know? He might even have started to fade out of consciousness when the nail gun fired. But see, there was no other injury to distract this guy from the incident at hand. Just a misfire of the nail gun that shot a nail into a nearby piece of wood and then another one into the roof of his mouth. And here's the other thing. IT WENT INTO HIS BRAIN. The brain just isn't one of those throwaway organs, like the appendix—this is the organ that regulates your body from top to bottom. But maybe that in itself is the problem. Consider this: the nail hits the brain, piercing the part that had recorded the injury. From what I can tell from the x-ray, the nail bored its merry little self into a place not too far from the hippocampus, which is the center of human memory. So that's possible, I suppose. Also, he was working on a ski resort in Colorado in January. Maybe his face was too numb to sense the impact. Then again, maybe Grady, the dead caretaker, told him to do it.

The neurosurgeon in the Denver hospital told reporters that this was the second time someone had fired a nail gun into his skull without realizing it. I'm wondering if it isn't something in the Denver water. Like lysergic acid diethylamide, for instance.

Here's how I imagine the scene when the hospital nurse took this guy's history:

Nurse: You didn't notice anything unusual at the time the accident occurred?

Nail Head: No. Like I said, I just remember the misfire into the beam. Then the toothache a few days later. I kept eating ice cream to numb the pain.

Nurse: Were you drinking heavily at the time of the accident, sir?

Nail Head: Of course not.

Nurse: Are you perhaps a cyborg sent from the future to wreak havoc and kill the woman who is going to give birth to a son who will defeat your massive robot armies?

I don't mean to make light of this. Really I don't. It's just that I'm pretty sure I'd notice something like a four-inch long foreign object discharging into my brain.

A few nights ago I had a flat tire. My co-worker and I had just left our place of employment and had made it about three blocks when . . . k-thud, k-thud, k-thud, k-THUD. "Crap," I said (edited for content). There's no mistaking the sound of a flat tire—it's like a jet engine coming in for a landing on your head or something. Anyway, I pulled into some corporate parking lot and stopped. My co-worker and I were starting to get out of the car—to check on the damage—when this guy hopped out of his truck and eagerly shuffled over.

"Do you have a spare and a phone?" he asked, cheerfully. He was short, bald, and looked like the Commish.

"Um, yeah." I said, bewildered that anyone had even noticed our predicament already. I had not even had time to panic, and believe me, I would have. Changing tires by yourself is one thing, but when I have an audience, I tend to choke up a little.

"Okay," the guy said, smiling. "I'll change it for you."

So I opened the trunk for him. He withdrew the spare from the pool of water in the bottom and started to work. After a second, he turned to me. "You guys should get in the car," he said. "You'll be warmer in the car."

It was cold, so we didn't argue. We climbed back in, then sat talking quietly and giggling while he jacked up the car. It was like being on one of those kiddie rides at the zoo. The whole time I kept my foot jammed down on the brake, so the car wouldn't fall and crush our good Samaritan like a freakin' Muppet. After about three minutes, the guy finished up the car and handed me the lug nut that had broken off. The post was still in it.

The spare was just a donut, so it would have been rough going anyway (we have a forty-five minute commute, and most of it is on a 70 mph highway). And with the lug nut and post missing, there was no way we were going to chance driving back home. So Nick—dear, loyal, handsome, lovable Nick—drove from Lawrence and picked us up, after which we caravanned to a tire store.

When we got inside, he turned to me in disbelief. "I can't believe you let that guy change your tire when you know how to do it. Why didn't you just do it yourself?"

I practically snorted. "Yeah, like I'm going to change it myself if someone is willing to do it for me. Besides, it was cold and rainy."

"Whatever," he said, shaking his head. "He wouldn't have stopped if it'd been two guys."

(a beat)

I couldn't let this go, of course. "Oh come on," I protested. "He was just being chivalrous. A lot of guys are like that. It's the way their mothers taught them to behave. It may be a little archaic, but it doesn't mean he had lascivious intent."

"No, it's because he saw two young women in need and thought he could scam a phone number."

"Well, he didn't ask for my phone number."

"That's cause he saw the ring on your finger."

"So what? I'm a girl with a flat tire and suddenly—BAM—instant auto club?"

He didn't answer. He'd already made his point, and deep down I knew it could be true. And it started me thinking. I was pulled over not long ago, and the policeman let me off with a warning. Do I care what the reason was? Do I care if it was my intoxicating, girl-geek pheromones, or his deferential attitude toward women in general, or just that he'd already written enough tickets that day and didn't want to bother with it? Besides, if I'm truly the beneficiary of outmoded paternalistic kindnesses, what should I do to prevent it? Should I say, "I'm sorry, officer, I feel I deserve that ticket"? Should I say, "No, thanks, my good man. I'll be changing that tire myself, thank you very much. Good day, sir. I said good day, sir!" No way in Hades is that going to happen. Not when it's cold and rainy and I'm lazy like I am. After all, I would have let a woman change my tire, too. I'm an equal opportunity slacker.

So there it is. Some may call me a hypocrite. But I'm really just incredibly lazy.

Car update: Today my car is making a sound like a theremon when I hit the accelerator at highway speeds. WHEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEE. It's like a science fiction movie is being filmed under my hood. Will the fun never end?

1. If you are a vampire who is craving blood badly, keep a flask of it in your suit pocket and discreetly take a sip or two when no one else is looking. It's extremely bad form to latch onto your mother-in-law and drink a couple pints before the pumpkin pie is served.

2. There is no such thing as a low-carb Thanksgiving. A low-carb Thanksgiving would consist of turkey and nothing else. Do you really want to eat a tiny sliver of turkey while your family puts away barrels and barrels of stuffing? Not a chance. So shut up about it, already.

3. Be sure to give thanks for the great state our country is in. We're a place of tolerance, where no one is discriminated against and . . . ha ha ha ha! I'm sorry, that was just too funny to finish. Wiping the tears from my eyes now.

4. Remember all those reports of people who were injured attempting to deep-fat-fry their turkeys last year? Put them out of your mind. Give it a go in your own living room, and see what happens! If a fire results, let it flicker for awhile before calling the fire department. They love a challenge. If they are delayed for more than an hour and your home has becoming a raging inferno, you should probably turn off the Thanksgiving Day parade and go outside. You can always catch that Garfield balloon next year.

5. If someone at the table is choking, try the Heimlich maneuver to free the obstruction from their throat. If that doesn't work, invoke the blessing of whatever god you pray to and go through their pockets for loose change.

6. A First Thanksgiving pageant is always fun for the kids. This requires some advance planning, however. You'll have to buy or make their costumes, and erect some sort of pyre for them to toss witches on. What? That was the Puritans?

7. When carving the turkey, make the "eee eee eee eee" stabbing noise from Psycho. Then during the prayer, you can include a word of solemn thanks to Alfred Hitchcock, who's been making our holidays better since 1960.

8. Many of the turkeys eaten this year will have been genetically engineered. Yours may have freakishly long wings, or a second head that resembles Peter Frampton. Your turkey also may have magical self-restorative powers; if your bird comes back to life before it's carved, just stab it quickly and dig in while it's still warm. Zombie turkeys are good eatin'.

Enjoy. Be safe. And don't let the turkeys keep you down.

1. If a man at a haunted house runs at you with a chain saw, it's best to assume that he is an escaped mental patient who has chosen the perfect setting for his murder and mayhem. Push someone else in front of him.
2. You may say "Bloody Mary" twice in front of a mirror, but not three times. (Same with Betelgeuse, Candyman, etc.)
3. If an old woman with an eye patch puts an apple in your Trick-or-Treat sack, leave it there till you get home, then use one of those bomb squad robots to blow it up from a safe distance.
4. Do not put dry ice down your brother's pants.
5. If you are making out with your boyfriend by the lake and you see someone approach wearing a hockey mask and wielding a long, serrated knife, listen for the tell-tale "ch-ch-ch-ah-ah-ah" noise on the soundtrack. If you don't hear it, you're in the clear. He'll probably just kill the couple next to you.
6. Make sure your second head gets plenty of candy, or it might turn against you.
7. Don't conjure up a demon unless you have the means of returning it to hell (i.e., a priest, some holy water, and a splatter-proof Bible).
8. Convert to Wicca until the season is over. Witches won't destroy their own. (Actually, they don't destroy anyone. Wicca is a peaceful earth religion, as everyone should know. Shame on you for thinking otherwise.)
9. Whatever you do, don't fall asleep.

This weekend, a car caught on fire outside the Yello Sub shop in town. This struck me as a strange bit of coincidence, because the very same thing happened to me about eight years ago. At the time, I had a K-car (you know, that scrappy species of car that includes the Dodge Aries and the Plymouth Reliant). I'd been having problems with it, naturally, and it had just gotten out of the shop that morning. As I started the car up to drive it home, a thin trickle of smoke crept out from beneath the hood. The mechanic swore this was normal. "That's cause we just worked on it," he said. "It'll taper off here pretty soon."

"Oh, okay," I said, and happily drove away—the most naive girl in the world.

I picked up my friend Thomas, and we decided sub sandwiches sounded just dandy. So we pulled up to Yello Sub, parked right in front, and went inside. We had just started perusing the menu, when the customer behind us made a panicked announcement.

"Oh my God, someone's car is on fire!"

And I knew it was mine. I knew it without turning around. There's a sixth sense you develop when your car is always on the verge of abyss, when it's so far gone that total meltdown is never more than a tenth of a mile away. This holds true whether your problem is a capricious battery or having to pour a quart of oil into the engine every few blocks. You become superstitious, chanting "just a few more blocks" every time you take a trip, and you breathe a little sigh of relief every time you reach your destination. So right away I knew it was mine. I had played fast and loose for too long, and now Retribution was hulking at my door.

The customer had jumped the gun—it wasn't exactly on fire. But the delicate plume of smoke had multiplied, becoming several much thicker plumes and, finally, one huge curtain of white-gray smoke. It was like the machinations of an enormous barbecue grill, like someone was cooking steaks on the manifold. (Incidentally, there's a cookbook about how to do this very thing, called Manifold Destiny.) As I watched in horror, there was a single, abstract moment where I drifted into an alternate world, where I imagined myself going outside with a blanket and making smoke signals. I imagined that I was alone on some tropical island, and that my only opportunity for escape was to create a pattern of smoke billows that would be spotted by a low-flying plane piloted by Harrison Ford.

About that time, the car erupted into flames. The guy behind the counter made quite a show of calling the fire department. He described the situation, and because the entire front of the store was glass (remember: my car was right in front), the fire department told the employee that he had to evacuate the restaurant right away. The announcement was made. The twenty or so customers grabbed their sandwiches and children and bolted outside, their faces registering confusion and fear. A baby was crying. We all had to stand behind this large brick partition on the west side of the building, so that if my car exploded, we wouldn't get hit with K-car shrapnel. I just sort of huddled there and tried very hard not to make eye contact with anyone—even Thomas. A few people were crouching and shielding their heads, waiting for the inevitable blast. (The thing about Kansans is that we adopt the "tornado posture" whenever there is any sort of danger around, whether it be a bank robbery, a flood, or an impending car explosion.) So there we all were in a predicament of my making. It felt like we were soldiers in a trench, waiting for the enemy to crest the hill.

Finally, the fire truck arrived. With their industrial hoses pumping untold gallons of water on my little junker, the fire eventually subsided. The K-car did not explode, and the head fireman announced that everyone could go about their business. Unfortunately, Thomas and I had to go back into the lion's den to use the phone. While we waited for the tow truck, the staff gave me the meanest looks they could muster. But they were hippies, so the most they managed was mild irritation.

It was a good four years before I went back to that place. But go back I did, because: a) their subs are the best, and b) I had to face my demon. Entering the Yello Sub now, I approach it with a sense of solemnity and respect, as if planning a picnic on a Civil War battle site.

Oh, and someone else has to drive.

Every year, tornadoes ravage the Midwest. Although these meteorological temper tantrums cannot be prevented, there are a few things you can do to protect yourself from them. Here are a few tips gleaned from a lifetime spent in lovely Tornado Alley.

The best thing you can do to protect yourself during a tornado is to go to the basement or cellar. Go to the basement if: a) you hear the tornado sirens; b) you hear your local weatherman shrieking at you to take shelter; c) you hear the sound of four seals being broken, followed by eight pairs of hooves; or d) you need one of your power drills. If your home does not have a basement, flee to a neighbor's basement and introduce yourself at once. Be sure to bring your host a small gift, such as a bottle of wine or a generator. Engage in some pleasant conversation, then duck and cover.

Every home should have a first-aid kit. Also, in the event that you are injured and require a tourniquet, a pillowcase tied with Twizzlers will do nicely. That way, when the bones have set and healed, you will not need to make an expensive trip to the doctor. You can simply gnaw through the bonds, all the while enjoying tangy fruit flavor.

A flashlight is a good idea during a tornado, but proper storage is crucial for your family's safety. When the flashlight is not in use, make sure to store the shell of the flashlight in a locked cabinet or drawer, and keep the batteries locked up in a different part of the house. Explain to children that flashlights are not toys, and that if at any time they see a flashlight sitting out unattended, they should tell an adult at once.

If your home experiences a blackout, and you are suffering from technology withdrawal, engage in some creative visualization. Sit quietly in front of the dark television screen and pretend it's tuned to . . . say . . . the Olympics. "Will you look at that? Paul Hamm sure is a trooper. Did you know he's from Wisconsin?" If the withdrawal worsens, you will need to seek treatment. As soon as the storm passes, have a friend drop you off at Best Buy, where you can endure sensory assaults until your bodily systems have stabilized.

If you are in your vehicle when a tornado is coming, seek shelter at immediately. Underpasses are bad because trolls live there. Trolls will demand you pay a toll, even if your life is in danger, and they will not hesitate to give you to the tornado if provoked. Do not stay in your car, either, because when the pressure gradients are in an intense state of opposition—as they are during a tornado—the polarity of the metal in your car will likely become reversed. This will be extremely bad on a subatomic level for whoever happens to be in the car. Ditches are your best bet. These are actually little creases in space-time, and they will briefly transport you to the past should a tornado cross your path.

Remember, a tornado watch is when the conditions are right for a tornado to form.

A tornado warning is when the tornado is actually sitting on your stoop, smoking a stogie, and throwing rocks at passing cars.

Happy hiding!

A year after the fact, I finally feel I am brave enough to tell the story of Lollapalooza 2003, Bonner Springs stop. The show was held at the amphitheater formerly known as Sandstone, and the musical line-up included the Donnas, Incubus, Jurassic Five, Audioslave, and Jane's Addiction. I was excited about the Donnas, but my raison d'etre that day was to hear Audioslave (I loved their musical ancestors, Soundgarden and Rage Against the Machine) and Jane's Addiction (I've been crazy about them for more than half my life).

There is no shade at the amphitheater formerly known as Sandstone. No shade at all. The structure is built at the bottom of a hill, so there is no breeze either. What there is—and in great abundance—is profiteering. Cheap t-shirts were selling for $50. Hats were going for even more. Most spectacularly, bottles of water were $4, and if you wanted a cup of ice, you had to pay an additional $4 (the price of a soda). Keep in mind that this was all occurring on a hundred-degree day in July, and that the bands started playing at noon.

And so the fun began.

My friend and I sat and listened to the Donnas while the sun scorched down on us. Some nearby frat boys heckled them, indicating they should stop playing and remove their clothing at once. They were just intimidated, though, because the Donnas rocked. Anyway, other groups came and went. It got hotter and hotter and hotter.

I had not eaten much since we'd been there, mostly because the typical concert venue fare (e.g., pizza, pretzels, nachos) did not sound digestible. At six o'clock I had a Mr. Goodcents sandwich, which I suspected had been thawed and refrozen multiple times.* My friend and I sat on a grassy knoll, looked for Kennedy, and fell into a weird, overwhelming lethargy. After a while, I noticed that my fingers and toes had plumped up like Ball Park hot dogs. I also had a headache that began as a dull ache and progressed to a discomfort akin to having a scorpion crawling around inside my forehead. And then, the nausea set in.

I sought out the first-aid station, which was a little encampment attached like a barnacle to the amphitheater fence. When I described my symptoms to the EMTs, they were convinced that I was simply dehydrated. I kept telling them this wasn't possible. I had consumed a great deal of water in the past eight hours, and when I tried to drink any more I wasn't able to keep it down. But instead of acknowledging this, they ushered me over to the little revival tent beside some industrial fans, a mister, and an orange cooler of water. Every few minutes, I rushed over to a large trash can and expelled a portion of my insides. It was not pretty. Not only did I lose my lunch that day, I lost my lunches from the previous two or three weeks as well. I came to know that trash can intimately—the peculiar pattern of wear on the rubber handle; the strange way the bag rose up into a plume in the back, like a little wisp of white smoke. And this was the extremely unenviable position I found myself in when I realized that Audioslave had taken the stage. They sounded amazing, but I don't think I'll ever be able to rid myself of an intense, visceral reaction to "Show Me How to Live." Every time I hear Chris Cornell's voice, I think of vomit.

Eventually, one of the EMTs actually started listening to me. He asked what I'd had to drink (one margarita at noon-thirty; eight bottled waters since then) and eat (a pretzel and that frost-bitten Goodcents sandwich). He asked about the headache, the lethargy, and the swelling, and then he told me that my problem was hyponatremia. Hyponatremia occurs when you lose too much of the salt and nutrients in your body, either by extreme exercise (happens to marathoners) or by excessive fluid intake (happened to me). He said I should leave immediately, and that I should stop somewhere where I could get a jug of Gatorade.

"How much should I drink?" I asked, weakly lifting my head off the picnic table.

"Drink it until you feel better."

I did, and it worked. Half an hour after I chugged as much red sports drink as I could get down, I felt almost entirely better. Except, of course, that I missed Jane's Addiction. To this day I have not heard them in concert. I have not stood in a sweaty crowd and let the high, keening voice of Perry Farrell drift over me like a hallucinogenic breeze. And it's all because of hyponatremia, the Silent Stupefier. So let this be a lesson to anyone attending outdoor concerts this summer. Sometimes alcohol really is better for you than water. Bottoms up.

FOOTNOTE:

* While we waited in line for the sandwiches, a pseudo-Goth girl glanced at my cowboy hat and made a little tally sign to her friend. "That's twenty-seven," she said smugly. If I had felt a little less like a lobster being boiled slowly in a saucepan, I might have pointed out that wearing a hat that shaded my face was a damn sight smarter than wearing a long-sleeved black shirt and pants when it was a hundred degrees outside. That's not social protest—that's just stupidity. I mean, what was she doing, protesting the sun? Oh, look at me, I'm attending an extremely commercialized music event, but I'm going to demonstrate my superiority over all earthly creatures by protesting the sun!

Idiot.

Check out my brand-spanking new 404 page! Now, in glorious Technicolor! With croutons!

It's the Fourth of July today, and you know what that means—illegal fireworks for every man, woman, and child! Lawrence banned the use of fireworks several years ago, but there has been no appreciable decrease in their usage since that time. Driving down the street at night means you'll have to pass through the gauntlet of bottle rockets and Roman candles that shoot past your car like debris in an asteroid field. With this in mind, I've compiled a short list of reminders for those hoping to enjoy this important holiday in the safest fashion possible.

1. Fireworks are seldom dangerous. Mostly what happens when they explode near you is that your face gets covered in black soot like Yosemite Sam. Afterward, you should snarl menacingly and pledge to get "that blasted varmint" if it's the last thing you do.
2. Always make your children light the largest fireworks, as well as those fireworks that are of indeterminate age or origin. It quickens their reflexes.
3. Before lighting each firework, take a few moments to remember what this holiday is about. Here are a few examples. On the Fourth of July, America celebrates:
   • Freedom from occupation by the British. Or was it the French and Indians?
   • Taxation without representation
   • Fighting the commie pinko hippies
   • Ending women's suffrage (they've suffered enough)
   • Hot dogs, potato salad, and an imperialist foreign policy
   • A day off work at the plant (hell yeah, bro! Bust open a can of Hamm's!)
4. It's best not to play "save your buddy from the grenade" by screaming "Nooooo!" and throwing your body over an industrial pack of Black Cats.
5. While out with your friends, repeatedly sing that Nirvana song about where bad folks go when they die, mumble along with the words you don't understand, and then shout "till the Fourth of July" with a clever grin every time it comes around.
6. Don't cry when your fingers are blown off. Lee Greenwood wouldn't cry, would he? Would he? Answer me, Jimmy!
7. Remind paramedics that the sixth amendment guarantees you the right to a speedy surgery.
8. Be sure to keep saluting the flag while the doctors are reattaching your other arm.

Have a happy and safe Fourth, suckers!