May 26: When You Walk Through the Storm, Graduation Sunday, Incredible Hulk

How to escape a nuclear missile strike . . .

It was of course more of less at this moment the one of the crew sustained a nasty bruise to the upper arm.  This should be emphasized because, as has already been revealed, they escape otherwise completely unharmed and the deadly nuclear missiles do not eventually hit the ship.  The safety of the crew is absolutely assured.

"Impact minus twenty seconds, guys . . ." said the computer.

"Then turn the bloody engines back on!" bawled Zaphod.

"Oh, sure thing, guys," said the computer.  With a subtle roar the engines cut back in, the ship smoothly flattened out of its dive and headed back toward the missiles again.

The computer started to sing.

"'. . . When you walk through the storm . . . '" it whined nasally, "'hold you head up high . . .'"

Zaphod screamed at it to shut up, but his voice was lost in the din of what they quite naturally assumed was approaching destruction.  

"'And don't . . . be afraid . . . of the dark!'" Eddie wailed.

The ship, in flattening out, had in fact flattened out upside down and lying on the ceiling as they were it was now totally impossible for any of the crew to reach the guidance systems.

"'At the end of the storm . . .'" crooned Eddie.

The two missiles loomed massively on the screens as they thundered toward the ship.

"'. . . is a golden sky . . .'"

But by an extraordinarily lucky chance they had not yet fully corrected their flight paths to that of the erratically weaving ship, and they passed right under it.

"'And the sweet silver song of the lark.'  Revised impact time fifteen seconds, fellas . . . 'Walk on through the wind . . ."

The missiles banked round in a screeching arc and plunged back in pursuit.

"This is it," said Arthur, watching them.  "We are now quite definitely going to die, aren't we?"

"I wish you'd stop saying that," shouted Ford.

"Well, we are, aren't we?"

"Yes."

"'Walk on through the rain . . .'" sang Eddie.

A thought struck Arthur.  He struggled to his feet.

"Why doesn't anyone turn on this Improbability Drive thing?" he said.  "We could probably reach that."

"What are you, crazy?" said Zaphod.  "Without proper programming anything could happen."

"Does that matter at this stage?" shouted Arthur.

"'Though your dreams be tossed and blown . . ." sang Eddie.

Arthur scrambled up on to one of the excitingly chunky pieces of molded contouring where the curve of the wall met the ceiling.

"'Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart . . . '"

"Does anyone know why Arthur can't turn on the Improbability Drive?" shouted Trillian.

"'And you'll never walk alone.' . . .  Impact minus five seconds, it's been great knowing you guys.  God  bless . . .'You'll ne . . .ver . . . walk . . . alone!'"

"I said," yelled Trillian, "does anyone know . . ."

The next thing that happened was a mind-mangling explosion of noise and light.

So, that's how to avoid a nuclear warhead strike in outer space.  You have to own an Improbability Drive and a computer that sings Broadway standards.

Today was graduation Sunday at my wife's church.  We sang, dedicated the graduates, raised our hands in prayer over them, and--as my daughter used to say in her Head Start class for absent students--we wished them well.  Of course, it was difficult and emotional.  But I'm sort of getting used to that.

I've spent most of the afternoon preparing my house for the members of my Book Club, who will be showing up in about an hour-and-a-half.  I cleaned off couches and chairs.  Set up tables for snacks.  Put some Swedish meatballs in my crock pot.  Slipped the pop and wine coolers into the refrigerator to chill.  Now, the house is quiet.  My daughter is off to a classmate's graduation party, and my wife is asleep.  (She woke up this morning, thinking she has strep throat.  Went to the walk-in clinic and got some antibiotics. )

So, where are the nuclear missiles in all this busyness?  Well, I have to say that I think I'm the nuclear missile today.  You see, when I have a lot to do in a short period of time (clean the house, visit a sick friend in the hospital, cook, and prepare my mind for a book discussion), I get a little crazy in the overwhelming-ness of it all.  I start swearing and muttering to myself about piled shoes, unmade beds, and the like.  I am the Incredible Hulk of Book Club.  I allow anger to overtake me, and I see green.  Literally.

Now that I'm all prepared and the Swedish meatballs are bubbling away, I'm back to being Bruce Banner, mild-mannered professor of writing. 

It's strange, but, when I'm not directly involved in a crisis, I have an ability to remain calm and objective.  For example, this afternoon, I had to deal with a disagreement between two people whom I love.  I was stuck in the middle of it.  It was a matter of two passive aggressive wills clashing.  It felt very . . . middle schoolish.

I have reached a point in my life where I don't deal well with passive aggression.  It makes my Hulk/nuclear warhead side appear.  I can't stand it when adults don't behave like adults.  I expect this kind of behavior from my ten-year-old, not grown-ass people.  It drives me crazy.

I guess what I'm saying is that I need to engage my Improbability Drive.  Make this crazy afternoon turn out positively.  That is my goal, anyway.  If it doesn't work out, I always have wine coolers and meatballs to feed me after the nuclear holocaust. 

Sing it with Saint Marty:  "When you walk through the storm . . . hold your head up high . . ."

April 5: This Ain't Bad, Difficult Day, Really Special Hot Chocolate

Billy Pilgrim's train, the longest train of all, did not move for two days.

"This ain't bad," the hobo told Billy on the second day.  "This ain't nothing at all."

Billy looked out through the ventilator.  The railroad yard was a desert now, except for a hospital train marked with red crosses--on a siding far, far away.  Its locomotive whistled.  The locomotive of Billy Pilgrim's train whistled back.  They were saying, "Hello."

My favorite character is this little passage is the hobo.  I appreciate his attitude.  Sitting in a boxcar, waiting to be hauled off to some prisoner of war camp, the hobo doesn't get pissed or depressed or bereft.  Nope.  The hobo just sits there, like he's eating a cheese sandwich at a lunch counter with Billy.  Basically, he's saying, "Well, it ain't prime rib, but it's filling."

It has been a difficult day.  My best friend, Wonder Twin, has taken another job.  I won't be working with her anymore.  We had a going-away potluck for her this afternoon.  Swedish meatballs.  Fruit pizza.  Crescent weenies.  Cake.  It was really good.  It was also really sad.  I've worked with my friend for almost twenty years.  She was also best friends with my sister who died.  When Wonder Twin walks out the door tomorrow after work for the last time, a part of my sister will be walking out the door with her, too.

I know that doesn't make a whole lot of sense.  But the fact that Wonder Twin knew my sister really well--loved my sister--was always really comforting to me.  I could share memories of my sister, quote her, and Wonder Twin immediately got it.  There's very few people who know almost everything about me.  Wonder Twin is one of those people.

I do not endorse drinking as a coping mechanism for anything.  However, I am probably going to have a really special hot chocolate tonight.  Maybe two.  It won't change the fact that Wonder Twin is cleaning out her locker at work tomorrow, or that I am probably going to cry.  Yes, I am going to be a mess.  But I will be happy tonight.

For 20 great years, Saint Marty got to work with his best friend.  For that, he is very thankful.

October 10: Hot Spell, Ingmar Bergman, Ernest Hemingway

The creek's water was still warm from the hot spell . . .

It's September at Tinker Creek, and summer is still holding on.  Warming the creek water and driving nature crazy.  Ants swarm.  Dillard notes that the woods are "restless as birds."  Like all early autumn warm snaps, it will soon pass.  Ants will go underground.  Birds will wing south.  Killing frost will appear.

It was close to 70 degrees in my neck of the woods today.  I drove around all day with my windows down and sunroof open.  Even now, 9:30 at night, it hasn't cooled down all that much.  I'm sitting in my living room, watching Psycho with my daughter.  Another entry in our private film appreciation class.

The Swedish Academy announced this morning that the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature will be announced early Thursday.  I'm not sure what the weather's like in Sweden these days.  Maybe it's just as warm.  Swans gliding down a river.  People sitting in outside cafes, sipping strong coffee and eating meatballs with tiny forks.  Maybe talking about Ingmar Bergman movies.  Or Hitchcock.

At least, that's what I imagine.  Stockholm just a Scandinavian version of my home town, with some snooty academics thrown in to keep things interesting.  I watched a video biography about Ernest Hemingway this morning.  Hemingway's publisher said in an interview that the Nobel Prize is the closest a writer can come to canonization.  When Hemingway won it, he climbed into bed with his wife and said, "I won it.  The Swedish thing."

Canonization.  Saint Marty knows a few things about that.  And he loves Swedish meatballs, too.  It's fate.

Ernie becoming a saint