Insane Earthlings

On September 2, 1999, a tropical wave exited the coast of Africa. Far away to the Northwest a young man and his wife were visiting a Doctor that specialized in high risk pregnancies. The mother-to-be was a petite woman and had stayed petite throughout the thirty-six weeks of carrying a developing child in her womb. This concerned the Doctors. Tummies are supposed to grow big when you are this far along on the course to reach the 40 weeks of a full-term pregnancy. The Doctors had suggested a milkshake each night. The father-to-be greatly enjoyed this suggestion, and eagerly joined his wife in this nightly ritual as an act of solidarity. His tummy grew, but the woman’s belly barely changed. The soon-to-be first time parents were a little nervous, but somehow knew everything would be OK. They supported each other and were deeply in love. Meanwhile, the tropical wave made its way across the Atlantic Ocean. Two other strong forces of nature were plotting a devious plan as they awa...

I started my first job with one goal in mind. Save enough money to buy a car when I turned sixteen. I was twelve at the time. I worked at a campground/marina on a large lake in North Carolina. I cleaned bathhouses, drove the garbage truck, mowed grass and slung weeds. For three summers, I spent all day Saturday and Sunday manning the gas dock. I started out at $1.85/hour and worked my way up to $2.85/hour. Several weeks before my sixteenth birthday I started shopping for a car. It was 1981 and I had saved $2,250. I would check out the classifieds every Sunday to find a cool car that I could buy with my savings. Every car that I liked was a little out of my price range. At the rate I made per hour, it would take months to have enough money to get the car I wanted.   I watched as my friends showed up at school in Barracudas, Mustangs, Camaros, and Trans Ams.   Their parents were footing the bill. My Dad had promised that if I saved enough to buy a car, he would cover the...

I was ten years old and I had captured the silver ball with my left flipper.   I held it firmly as I surveyed the surface of the table below the glass. I checked to see if the “special” light was on. It was. I could let the ball roll to just the right point near the middle of the flipper and then tap the button hard hooking it left and down the drain that crossed the trigger for the “special.” It meant sacrificing my last ball to get a new game and five more balls to play. Suspended, I weighed my options. Free game or keep the ball in play, go for the spinners, rack up some points, and go for a new high score. I was addicted to pinball. I wasn’t a pinball wizard; I was a pinball junkie. The owners of The Game-room were my pushers. I remember the first marked quarters handed out like candy. I felt a rush of adrenaline the first time I drew back the spring-loaded launcher and sent the ball rocketing up ramps, through spinners, and bouncing off light-up bumpers. Ding-ding...