Laura and Jeff had a baby.  This is one of our Chief residents and a great friend through residency.  Ironically she and I had our OB/Gyn months together (look in past bloggings, perhaps I wrote about it?).

Don’t you love it when people say “they” had a baby.  Actually, from what I hear, Laura did most of the work (lazy Jeff!).

Last time I checked, both mom and baby were doing well.

Enough ramblings, more pictures…

This is their beautiful baby boy:

Nathan J. Millimon

Isn’t he beautiful.  He looks just like his father!  Oh wait, that’s the placenta, sorry.

Here’s Nathan

I try to keep the nudity limited on my blog, otherwise I’m sure to get busted for child pornography.  Hopefully homeland security will let this one slide.  Doesn’t that look like a “Harry Potter” lightning bolt scar right there on his side?  Did evil Voldemort come and try to zap Nathan?  Is he predestined for greatness?  Perhaps he will be insanely fast, powered by his lightning.  I think its safe to say… yes.

Here’s mom and Nathan… and random gloved hand.  MUST… STAY… STERILE…

Ever have one of “those days.”  When you wake up at 6am, write a quick blog entry, then realize that you’re going to be working continuously till tomorrow at about 12:30 am?

The crappy part is, I can’t even whine to my wife, since she’s often on call, so she’ll be at the hospital over night. 

“Suck it up!” I can hear her saying, even though she actually already left for work
“Shut your pie-hole” I hear myself answering, mornings still suck.
“No, you shut up,” imaginary not-here wife answers in my head
“Don’t make me go in there,” I say to my brain, who has been playing the part of wife,
“Fine,” says brain, releasing endorphins.  Mmm, that’s better.

Bah, stupid 6am.

They have arrived.  At last, at last, victory is mine.  Now, in your little peanut shell of a brain, I can hear you screaming

“What, Rob, I’m as excited as a Chihuahua peeing on an electric fence.”  Oh, it’s only the coolest thing ever!  In fact, they are so cool, that I actually forgot that I even won them in the first place!  How cool is that.  I’ll tell you how cool.  It’s mega-cool.  Just like in the movie Tron, where things were pretty cool.  Then the Transformers decided that they also wanted something really cool for a Bad-Guy character.  What did they decide to name him?  Yeah, that’s right, Mega-Tron.  It’s the next level of badassity, just put a mega in front of it.

Anyways, along with getting some cash for the story contest I won (believe me, when that gets here, I’ll have another entry celebrating that victory), I also get a publishing package (the guy already contacted me, pretty mega-awesome).  However, I now have the first concrete prize, literally in my hands, that arrived via Fed-Express 2 minutes ago.  This blog was open, and I was staring at it blankly as to what random meandering I would put in it to amuse myself today, and then the doorbell rang.  Correction, the mega-doorbell rang.  See how much better the word mega makes things.  I know, it rules.  In fact, I’m going to go put mega in todays title.  There, now that’s better too.

Ok, enough build up I won these:

   
Yay.  I forgot that I even got these as part of the winning package.

Both of these books are solid gold for any budding writer.  Seriously.  They are mega-worth it.  In mega-fact, they should be the first thing any mega-writer gets who has a story/novel/drivel they are interested getting published.  Oh, speaking of drivel, here’s the next from me.  Correction, mega-drivel, ahh, much better.

Chapter 10.

“You don’t
get anything more till I see the plant.”

Potty
paused, then slowly took out the bulge under his shirt that Marcus had
seen.  Marcus examined the plant
carefully while Potty still held it out for him to take.  It looked like a common house plant, nothing extraordinary.  The dirt and roots were in a plastic bag, and
the broad leaves were damaged from the trip inside Potty’s clothes.  Marcus walked to a drawer and took out a
thick magnifying glass.  He stared for a
full 20 seconds at a single leaf, then he saw it.  Through the thick glass a faint shimmer of
silver and purple pulsed in the veins of the leaf.  He took the plant and carried it as if he was
holding a bomb, daintily removed the plastic bag, and potted the plant into a
pot that he had prepared earlier that day. 
Marcus’ deep brown hands nursed the soil and pushed the plant into the
hole he had made.  He then poured on
another thin layer of dirt over the top of the plant.

He poured a
violet liquid from a container he had waiting next to the pot.  At first nothing happened.  Then the scrunched leaves of the plant began
to straighten, then smooth themselves out as if pressed by an imaginary
iron.  The veins in the plant began to be
slightly visible.  It seemed as if the
plant was pulsating.  The veins darkened
more, releasing a brighter silvery light through the stems.  The movement became more obvious as the fluid
could be seen moving with the constant throbbing, like a heartbeat pushing the
fluid through its veins.  Then the light
from the stem sputtered out and the plant looked as innocent and normal as a
weed on the side of a road.

“Told you
it was the plant, where my money?” Potty said, as if what had just happened did
not phase him.  In fact, he was confused
and quite scared.  He just wanted his
money and to get out of there.

“Take it,”
Marcus said as he tossed him a pack of one hundreds.  He knew Potty would take it and then try to
hold him up for more.  And, predictable
as migrating geese, he saw the signal to the goons to hold him up.

“Alright
now Marcus, let’s have the rest of it too. 
You would not want things to get nasty,” Potty said with a
self-important sneer.  While he did this,
his two brainless thugs slowly pulled out their bludgeons.  Marcus knew he could most likely take out
these three if all they had was their clubs, but why waste the effort.

Ok, I had a brief trip down memory lane.  After I picked myself up off the ground from tripping, I dusted off the remaining braincells and thought I should enlighten you.

That’s right, I’m taking time out of my busy day to help you, the stupid people of America, to enjoy a more fulfilled and prosperous life. 

Now, this trip down memory lane was jogged by Ink_Blot, who is someone on cyberspace who randomly came across my site.  I think he’s in high-school, interested in writing, and has killed 3 polar bears with his bare hands while being raised by his Inuit father Jutyuk.  More importantly he just received a very bad haircut, in which his head looked like a penis.  Now, the more insensitive of you out there may like to poke fun of other people’s misery, however, I prefer to take the high road.  I will instead give you advice on how to get an excellent haircut at a bargain price.  Don’t worry about dickheads problems, he got it fixed.  Here’s a picture of Ink_Blot

  Lookin’ nice, Ink_Blot,  Lookin’ nice.

So, there I was, 3rd year of medical school, poor, pathetic, and shaggy as all get out since I hadn’t had a haircut in several months.  It was time.  That’s right, time for a trip to BA-BA-BA- BORICKS.

Usually, advertising the
cheapest price around should indicate that they are not necessarily the
best qualified.  I, however, was not interested in quality.  I was
interested in a $6.99 haircut.  I needed to lose the mop head and get to Q-doba, the source of delicious treats in Royal Oak.

So, I told the lady what I tell every barber (or stylist, or professional hair artist, or whatever the hell made up name you want to call yourself, but you are still a barber),  I
want my hair short on the sides and in the back.  Please blend it in.  On top it has to stay long, otherwise it gets colicky.  For example, here’s a picture of me when I got my hair cut a little to short when I was 3 years old.

The directions seem perfect.  Very clear, infact… I thought.  Please insert the Emperor’s voice here “oh, young fool.  Only now at the end do you realize the power of the Dark Side!”

So she got out the buzzer.  BZZZZ.  She buzzed on the sides a bit, then the other
side a bit.  BZZZZ.  She then did the back.  Hmm, a little high, but ok.  BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ… “WHOA WHOA WHOA!”  She buzzed a  stripe right down the center.  Starting at my forehead.  By the time I stopped her, it was too late.  My hair was
cut.  I looked somewhat like this (really)

The manager came right over.  He was quite flamboyant.  He liked people to look fabulous.  I did not look fabulous.  Tangent time…

I have to be openly honest here.  I am (deep breath, gotta come clean, let’s get it out in the open) not gay.  I have a few gay friends and they are very nice.  The only gay people I really know are actually pretty darn cool people.  However, I have been informed from several women that the best hair dressers (stylists, foliculologists, cranial de-lengtheners, etc) are all gay.  Bar none.  I had heard this rumor before, but since I am a cheap bastard I really did not know this to be true.  I had never had a gay barber (scalp artist, weave specialist, skull therapist, etc).  Is it possible to be sexist in a positive way?  Or, um, gayist?  For example, if you are prejudice against non-gays?  Thus, you say “What?  He’s not gay?  Oh, then I can’t let him do my hair!”  It’s kind of like reverse discrimination, where the straight people are at a major disadvantage.  Perhaps some gene deeply rooted inside our brain becomes unlocked when you become gay the opens the door to fantastic taste and hair styling ability, I don’t know.  All I know is that Yoda and others swear that being gay gives you super-styling super-powers.  I learned this at the Pirate party yesterday (which ruled, you Limey Bastard!).  This threatens my previous thoughts about how everyone has at least 1 super-power (I know I have 3 and counting, but you can peruse back for that if you want to see those).  Thus, if I become gay, will I be able to style like the best?  I don’t know.  Interesting thought though.  Ok, end tangent.

So he comes over, and I told the story of what just happened.  Then I told him about the cut I
asked for.  His response was,
“yeah, sort of like my haircut right now?”  Exactly, I responded,
exactly.  However, the damage had been done, so the only option at this time
was the military buzz cut.  Sweet.  So he took over for the hair butchering wench, and proceeded to give me a quarter of an inch hair, all the way around.  I was only semi-traumatized, but I
definitely was not planning on that cut.  I’ll be honest, I was kind of sad.  My hair had not been that short since I had shaved myself bald for swimming.  At that time I had an excuse, this time, hmm, well, not so much.  So I went home, feeling somewhat violated and frustrated.  I felt somewhat crappy and depressed.  Fortunately for me, I was married (or maybe just dating at that time) to a loving, caring female.  Gwen, the love and treasure and most important person in my life, responded to this
traumatic situation by asking

“Hah, what happened, lose a bet?”

Ah, true love.  I would expect no less from her.  I did get free haircuts for the next 6 months, so that was good.  And I suppose it could always be worse, right?  I mean, at least I didn’t have a penis on my head.

Trying to get into the pirate spirit for the party.  However, I don’t have a pirate costume… thus, I’ll have to make one up.  Yar!  Where I lack in pirating I’ll make up in booty!  I mean stealing stuff, not, like, booty booty.  Not like

Hey nice booty! 

But more like

Yar! Get’s me some pirate booty!  Yar!  And then I grab her butt.

Chapter 9

Waiting.

            Waiting.

            Marcus
continued to pretend to read a paper, while John squinted at the monitor from
the rafters.  Finally, three figures
materialized out of the hot streets of Stonetown.  All of them wore dark clothing, which was
quite stupid of them to do.  Not only did
they stick out in the crowd like a drunk in an art exhibit, but also the dark
colors sucked up the heat from the sun. 
They must be soaked in sweat under their “clever” disguises, John
thought. 

John knew
very little about these men.  He did know
that they were stupid and armed (not a good combination).  Also, he knew that they had somehow acquired
some ancient relic or mystical whoosa-whatsit Marcus had been trying to find
for years.  John thought about all the
stakeouts the two of them had been sent to over the years.  Sometimes deep undercover, highly trained
assassins hunted them.  Now, they found
themselves in the middle of an odds and ends shop buying trash from trash.  How had Marcus talked him into this crap?

Marcus had
told him about the only member of the group that he knew anything about.  He used to be Marcus’ associate back when
lifting wallets paid the bills.  His name
was Manx Pattay, though everyone called him Potty.  He was a weasel of a man, and looked exactly
like what he was, a whiny little thief. 
Marcus had taught Potty everything he knew about stealing, a fact that
Marcus did not like.  But, time and time
again, these three conniving losers managed to dig up some tidbit that they
knew Marcus wanted.  Then they would
schedule these secret meetings, as if some other people really cared about what
they did.  However, every time Marcus and
Potty met, Potty always managed to prove himself worthy of the time it
took.  John’s purpose was to prevent the
three cutthroats from getting away with doing anything stupid, which,
predictably, they were certainly going to try.

“Salutations,
Potty,” Marcus said.

“Shh!  Marcus!” Potty whispered venomously, “you
sure ‘dis place ‘ess safe?”

“As safe as
I need it to be.  What you got for me?”

Potty
glanced around the shop, seeing no one he went inside and instructed the two
henchmen to shut the large door that swung down from the ceiling which came
down and encased all the men inside. 
Marcus sighed to himself, why not put out a sign that says “sneaky
business happening inside.”  The three
men took off their black cloaks, which revealed them as three normal looking
Africans.  If they had come into the shop
without the cloaks, they would have never raised an eye, but coming “in secret”
like they did, nearly all the locals knew something was going down.  Fortunately, all the locals also knew Marcus
and also knew Potty, so most thought little of Potty’s high opinion of
himself.  They all knew Potty would not
steal from any of the locals, Marcus had drilled that much into his head
(though even that took a great deal of convincing.  Repeatedly Marcus told him that stealing from
those you hope to sell to was not a brilliant tactic…). 

A long
pause stilled the room.

“So do you
have it, or do you just waste more of my time Potty?” Marcus asked.

“I have it,
but do you have what I want?” Potty said.

“How the
hell should I know?  You never told me
what you wanted.  You just told me that
you found my plant.  What do you want?”

“I want ten
grand.  And don’t try to haggle with me
Marcus, this is not an opening number, it is the only number,” Potty snapped.

“Let me see
it,” Marcus replied, and threw a 10,000 shilling note at Potty.

“Ha-ha,”
Potty sneered, “dollars man, dollars.”

“You don’t
get anything more till I see the plant,” Marcus said.

Today is the day of paperwork.  Let me rephrase that.  Since I’m in residency everyday is the day of paperwork.  That reminds me of a Steven Wright joke.

“I got a paper-cut while writing my suicide note.  Well, it’s a start.”

Chapter 8:

“Yeah, I thought so, I have an eye
for thing like this.  But don’t you think
50,000 is a little steep?”

            This
woman was not even trying to be coy. 
Marcus paused to seem as if he was contemplating what she was
implying.  50,000 shillings was about 70
US dollars for a product which cost him next to nothing; he could get more of
for about a 500 shillings a piece.  I did
not think it was possible, Marcus thought, she is as dumb as she looks.

            “This
one was actually used in the ceremony.” He lied, “Maasai don’t separate from
these easily.  It was only after the
festival of the ‘simba’ that I was able to convince them of my worth,” he went
on.  He loved throwing in words he was
sure tourist would have picked up. 
“Simba” is Swahili for lion, as any safari guide will tell you about 500
times before the end of any tour.  The
“festival of the simba,” however, Marcus had just created for the plumb-lady.

            “Yeah,
I guess not, but still…” she let it linger, this time trying to be somewhat
sly, Marcus tried not to laugh.

            “I
tell you what,” Marcus said, “since you know so much about the Maasai, I give
you a deal, how about 45,000?” he knew she would go lower on any offer he gave
her at first, so you can’t drop it too low to start.

            The
Plum gave her husband a look as if to say, I got him on the run now, time to
close in for the kill.

            “I’ll
give you 40,000 for it.” She said as if that was her final offer.

            Marcus
paused again, more to stifle a chuckle than to imply he was getting ripped
off.  Though he knew his part well

            “I
have to make a profit on it.  If I give
it to you for 40, I don’t make anything.” 
Hardly at all he thought sardonically, though it costs me more to buy
toilet paper than those masks.

            “Take
it or leave it,” she said somewhat snidely, giving her husband a look to show
she had the upper hand.

            Marcus
paused again, as if considering it.  Then
he put up his hands in a gesture of defeat.

            “Alright,
alright.  Anything else that Marcus can
get for you…?”

            And
the pair of shenzi’s left to go back to wherever group they came with to brag
about what incredible deals and tell their friends about their authentic
African wear.  Marcus smiled at the four
10,000 Tanzanian shilling notes he had received.  Someday, he thought, he might even make this
a full time job.

            “Marcus,”
a quiet hiss of a voice sparked out from above.

            “Yeah,
John?” he responded without looking up, making sure not to show he was talking
to anyone.

            “Time?”

            “Ten
minutes max.  Any time now the trio of
trash should come walking in, now stay still and shut up.”

            “Yes
sir,” John replied with a laugh.

Well, Saturday is a party at Yodas.  Yoda occasionally reads this blog,
which is a miracle in and of itself, being the wise jedi-master, so I
am honored, however, this means that I must get a pirate costume.  Did
any of that make sense?  No?  Well it doesn’t have to. 

Yoda is having a Parrots and Pirates party (or something with similar
alliteration).  I was to be the Poker-bitch for the party, for which I
am excited.  As per Lisa, a fellow resident, “I just can’t wait to say
LIMEY-BASTARD all night.”  Me either Lisa, me either. 

So what other news do I have for you limey bastards?  I just signed a
mortgage.  Never done that before.  But that is boring, so let me make
something fun up for you. Oh, I just came up with a new story idea. 
However, you already are started on one story already, so you’ll have
to wait to hear about Jonathan and Jenny Vanvandersma.  Foreshadowing
the future (is that redundant?)?  Maybe.  We’ll see.  It all depends on
if big fat Cory will hurry his butt up and write the next chapter. 
Speaking of next chapter…

Chapter 7

Marcus stood only five feet seven
inches tall, but his sturdy frame made up for his lack of height.  When thieving bored him as a kid, Marcus
worked the docks.  This provided a place
to stay at night, food to eat in the day, and a strong stocky body. 

This also worked
to his advantage while growing up, since he was rarely the type to be suspected
of thieving.  He appeared the type that
might hold you up and beat money out of you, not the type that could take a
watch from a rich tourist wrist and have it sold before the tourist could buy
another cheap “Zanzibar’s ZanziFUN” T-shirt. 
He had a round, plain face, which caused people who did not know him to
think he was simple, which was fine by him. 
If people wanted to think he was dumb, he would play the part; it
usually worked much better when the tourist thought they were smarter. 

            Marcus
had noticed a pair of “shenzi’s” at the front of the store talking about what
shenzi’s always talk about, they were sure that Marcus could not hear them, or
at least that he was not paying any attention to them.  He had already evaluated them and saw what
they were trying to do. He saw that the man had a thick wallet that could
easily be stolen, a watch that he could get a hundred dollars for and also a
stash of hundreds in the “secret” compartment in the fat ladies purse.  Marcus saw the two tourists as perfect
suckers, if only he had not given up his former thieving trade.

            “You
have to haggle with them,” the plump white woman said while idly handling a
mask.  She was an over-ripe plum dressed
in her purple “authentic African” garb, which was closer to authentic African
garbage.

            “Trust
me, I’ve went to Jamaica when I was growing up and it’s the same thing, just
let me do the talking…” the little man she was with he assumed to be her
husband.  She said all of this loud
enough to be heard five shops over, yet Marcus acted as if he had not heard a
word.  They likely had gone on safari and
StoneTown had been part of their trip package. 
They seemed like a pair out of a cartoon.  The only thing missing was a miniature poodle
barking annoyingly.

            “Is
‘dare anyt’ing Marcus can help you find? 
If Marcus can’t help you, nooobahdy can.”  Marcus said, pouring out his African accent
that he always laid on thick for the tourists.

            “Um,
yes, I was interested in this Mask,” she started.  Marcus began the show.  His eye concentrated on the mask, as if
looking at a cherished heirloom.

            “’Dat
good mask, used by ‘dah Maasai warriors in rituals.”  He knew it was always good to reference the
Maasai, all the tourists had seen them when they went on Safari (though Maasai
would never even think of using a ridiculous feather covered mask).  The mask looked like the remains of an
exploded multicolor chicken, but the Plum lady nodded knowingly as if she had
heard of this ritual that Marcus was making up.

Here’s what I got when I googled “multicolored chicken”

I’m not sure what Super chicken needs a Paramedic for… but I’m pretty sure I need to find out what this ame is and play it.  Anyone know what this is?

You know what really really rocks?  It’s beating the living crap out of an 82 year old grandma.  That’s right, lucky me!  I got to pummel her senseless over and over, then I got to zap her silly with electricity.  TAKE THAT YOU ‘OLE COOT!  Then I got to pronounce her dead.  Woohoo!

What other fun did I have today… Let’s see.  I got to do (counting)… actually only 2 rectal exams today.  Poop.  Also, I got to do a pelvic exam in some wonderfully stinky nethers.  Mmm, anyone for some bad yogurt?  Let’s see, what else, got to wallow through some ladies puke, but that’s just bread and butter. 

Ok, you sick of me whining yet?  No?  Good.  Waaaaaaaaaa!  Waaaaaah!  Here comes the Wahmbulance!  Waaaaahawwwwaaaahaawww.  Ahh, that’s much better.  Now quit bitchin’ about your work, everyone else sucks too.

Chapter 6 (Marcus in Stonetown)

Marcus stood only five feet seven
inches tall, but his sturdy frame made up for his lack of height.  When thieving bored him as a kid, Marcus
worked the docks.  This provided a place
to stay at night, food to eat in the day, and a strong stocky body. 

This also worked
to his advantage while growing up, since he was rarely the type to be suspected
of thieving.  He appeared the type that
might hold you up and beat money out of you, not the type that could take a
watch from a rich tourist wrist and have it sold before the tourist could buy
another cheap “Zanzibar’s ZanziFUN” T-shirt. 
He had a round, plain face, which caused people who did not know him to
think he was simple, which was fine by him. 
If people wanted to think he was dumb, he would play the part; it
usually worked much better when the tourist thought they were smarter. 

            Marcus
had noticed a pair of “shenzi’s” at the front of the store talking about what
shenzi’s always talk about, they were sure that Marcus could not hear them, or
at least that he was not paying any attention to them.  He had already evaluated them and saw what
they were trying to do. He saw that the man had a thick wallet that could
easily be stolen, a watch that he could get a hundred dollars for and also a
stash of hundreds in the “secret” compartment in the fat ladies purse.  Marcus saw the two tourists as perfect
suckers, if only he had not given up his former thieving trade.

            “You
have to haggle with them,” the plump white woman said while idly handling a
mask.  She was an over-ripe plum dressed
in her purple “authentic African” garb, which was closer to authentic African
garbage.

            “Trust
me, I’ve went to Jamaica when I was growing up and it’s the same thing, just
let me do the talking…” the little man she was with he assumed to be her
husband.  She said all of this loud
enough to be heard five shops over, yet Marcus acted as if he had not heard a
word.  They likely had gone on safari and
StoneTown had been part of their trip package. 
They seemed like a pair out of a cartoon.  The only thing missing was a miniature poodle
barking annoyingly.

Here’s a picture of Bruce Lee.  I found it by Googling “kick ass,” 2nd page, just thought I would share.

Now, I know I’ve been called weird.  I guess, if I’m honest, I have to admit to myself that I am a little eclectic.  However, am I crazy to think that having an infestation of parasites growing within you is kinda gross?  Furthermore, if you knew about this, and there was an easy, inexpensive treatment, wouldn’t you go get that?  I mean, hypothetically, if your stomach is causing agonizing pain secondary to maggots crawling all through your duodenum, and someone said, “hey, go to the store and buy some spinach dip, that’ll clear it right up,” since that’s roughly what the treatment would cost, wouldn’t you go?  Unless you had worms like Fry from Futurama that made you super smart, I’d have to call that one obvious.  But hey, what to I know, I’m the weird one.

Next chapter, Done with Walter for a bit, let’s find about about a few other peeps

Walter was near apoplectic with
sweaty faced joy.  Being constantly
immersed in the magic and intrigue of the video gaming world, he had always
been fascinated with magic.  Even as a
small boy, Walter had been amazed with magicians and their tricks. This was
until he had watched “Magician’s magic revelations” on TV and saw how many of
the tricks were done, but the level of intrigue here seemed overwhelming.  He had immersed himself at a young age to
learn about real magic, but the more he learned, the less he liked it.  Everything came down to simple parlor
tricks.  Even the giant stage magic was
nothing more than glorified parlor tricks. 
This, however, seemed downright interesting.  He could hardly wait till the next email went
back to Dale asking for more details.  In
the meantime, he was hungry.  He decided
that he would go to Taco Bell since they had air-conditioning.  It was hotter than Africa in his room.  On his way out the door he even checked his
thermostat.  It read 82 degrees
Fahrenheit.

Capper (1)

StoneTown, Zanzibar Island, Africa: 4:40 p.m. (97 degrees Fahrenheit)

The mud-thick
heat bore down on Capper.  Though he was
used to it, the feeling of a clinging sweat soaked T-shirt and the annoyance of
staying motionless for an extended period can get to anyone.  Listening. 
Watching the display screen.  Listening
some more.  He shifted his position
silently to give the other side of his body the pleasure of going numb from
waiting.  His long, gangly body sprawled
out as he lay on his stomach between boxes stored in the rafters.  He had a lean body, deceptively strong,
quick, and agile, though it was his mind that was his greatest asset.  His body was supported on three 2×4 cross-beams,
digging into his chest, stomach and shins as he waited.  John Capp was a patient man.  He peered down into the shop, then back into
the street.  His partner, Marcus, sat in
a chair on the floor, never giving a hint that he knew John was up in the
rafters, waiting patiently.

            It
would be unfair to say that the streets of Stonetown had raised Marcus, but
then again, life is not fair.  He had a
quick smile, a quicker tongue, but it was his hands that were the
quickest.  Not that he did much stealing
anymore, just when he found it “appropriate.” 
This set-up required him to work in a shop selling various nick-nacks to
the hoards of tourists or anyone interested enough to want what he had to
offer.  He had a great location in a busy
part of the streets of downtown Zanzibar, an island off the coast of East
Africa, Tanzania to be more specific. 
This was of course a front, but he actually enjoyed the irony of him
owning a legitimate sales job on the streets where he had grown up stealing his
whole youth.

            The
shop was one of hundreds, lined up next to each other in one of the allies of
StoneTown.  The ally was a result of the
buildings.  Each building was
interconnected to the next so that it formed one long passageway of
interconnected shops.  StoneTown, true to
its name, had building connected to building connected to building all made of
hard, odd shaped stones.  The narrow ally
between the shops twisted and turned and split and came together in a confusing
and ill-organized fashion.  Many shops
had been handed down generation after generation.  Every type of necessity could be found within
those narrow roads, from food and shelter, to computers and drugs, every need,
desire, oddity and addiction, if one knew where to look.  Today was no different, only this time,
Marcus desired to buy, not to sell.

Most of the
locals considered themselves to be separate from the mainlanders.  His usual clientele ranged from every race
and ethnic diversity under the beaming sun. 
Fortunately for Marcus, so did his merchandise.  And, if he did not have it, he could get it
for you before you could spit.  He had
connections everywhere in StoneTown. 
This worked to his advantage of course, and sooner or later seemed to
work to the advantage of everyone who knew him. 
Well, that is not entirely true, it worked to the advantage of everyone
who he knew and liked.  

Family Chaplain.

Yep, that’s right.  I have become the family chaplain.

How the hell did this happen?  I mean, seriously.  Two nights ago, at the dinner after my grandpa memorial service (thanks for not showing up, now I hate you), I was sitting around eating eggrolls.  They were delicious eggrolls and I also had 2 whiskey sours which made them even better.  It’s synergy, or harmony, I don’t know.  Maybe harmnogy.  Yah, something like that.  Anyways.  I’m happily eating and chatting with my brothers, when my dad rushes over and says something like “Grob you gonna, wait, will it be alright if you do the…”  This is then interrupted by my wonderful uncle, who then lets the entire large ensemble know that I was to lead us all in prayer.
Now, to be honest, I am a big fan of prayer.  However, my brutally honest head on pillow prayers are pretty different than the whole praying in front of a large group of people prayers.  Thank goodness for my improv training (yes, I did have it!  It was with second city… you’ll hear about it in the June 23 2008 blog post).  So I actually had quite a nice prayer.  Then my brother informed me that I’m the family chaplain from now on.  Haha, oh Joel, you jokester.

So, then next day at the luncheon after his daughter got baptized… “And Rob would like to lead us in prayer…”

SON OF A BITCH!

Well, not that I really minded that much.  But give me at least 10 minutes for me to organize my thoughts. 

Walter (cont)

Walter had
just finished chatting with some guy who had bought some really nice equipment,
but really didn’t know how to set it up. 
Capper (the guys screen-name) just wanted to be able to see people that
were coming and going into and out of a shop. 
The difficult part was that the camera had to be invisible (not hard) he
had to be in an isolated area with a wireless video screen (also not hard) but
the light outside was very bright, while his location inside of the shop was
very dark.  Walter helped out Capper, got
all of his monitors working, and the guy was delighted.  Walter always had a paypal account at the bottom
of his instant messaging window.  He
thought it was a good idea when someone asked “how much do you charge” for his
advice.  Walter had never really thought
about that.  He just liked it when people
looked to him for advice.  He had spent
most of his life being looked down upon since he was an overweight, visually
displeasing blob.  Now people actually
sought him out.

CAPPER:
“Thanks man!  This stuff is a pain in the
ass if you haven’t used it before, you know?”

DOODLES:
“No sweat, got it all workin’???”

CAPPER:
“Like a charm.  What do I owe ya for the
help?”

DOODLES:
“Same thing I charge everyone else, whatever you can spare.  If you don’t have anything, it’s cool.  Lemme know if you got any problems”

CAPPER: “K,
thx again!”

DOODLES
“peace”

Hah, “no sweat”
Walter thought, well, that was not the complete truth.  His air conditioner still wasn’t
working.  But before going downstairs to
get a fan, his screen popped up that he had a new email.

He checked
the email.  It was an autodeposit into
his Paypal account… of 1000 dollars from J. Capp.  Holy crap. 
That was worth the time of advice. 
300 bags of doodles for 2 hours work, not bad. 

With the
excitement of payment, Walter thought he’d check in on a few emails that he was
trailing from some interesting people at Colorado State before getting out of
the heat of his room.  The most
interesting had been from some gothed out punk, who kept talking about “the
auction.”  This guy, Dale, kept trying to
be dark and withdrawn and acted more like a spoiled teenager then the angst
riddled youth he tried to portray.

An email
from Dale to one of his friends (Cyrus) explained in an urgent tone how his
father was going to this “oddities” auction. 
These underground auctions usually sold various goods that were
confiscated, stolen, or just up for sale for people of a different sort.  The attendees at such auctions, according to
Cyrus, were people like gypsies, Occult members, and your normal crowd of weird
people you never want to meet in a dark ally (or a lit one for that
matter).  What made Walter snort in
hippo-like glee was that no one was ever supposed to know where or when these
auctions occurred.  The email went on to
explain how journals of Voodoo were sold and how potions with magical results
were provided.  The note went on and on
but nowhere in the note did it say where the auction was to take place, only
that Dale’s father found out when, and that he was going to get to go along.