Here be giants

I was walking home from the Moon late at night when I spotted a hulking shape moving rapidly down the road towards me. It was too big to be human and too small to be a car. I stopped in the middle of the road to see if I could figure out what it was in the darkness.

Turns out, it was a human -- a giant human riding along in one of those little electric wheel chairs or scooters or whatever you call them. He was so big, his body dwarfed the actual machine that was moving him, so at first glance it looked like he was just kind of levitating down the street in a sitting position, belly first.

Satisfied with my discovery, I continued to cross the street.

"Hey, man!" he called out.

Normally in these situations I would pretend to be deaf and run home to hide. But, I had just had a very good time at the Moon, so I was in a good mood.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Do you smoke?" he asked.

I held up my empty hands. "Sorry, I don't have any," I said.

"No," the guy said, continuing to roll towards me. "I didn't ask if you have any cigarettes. I asked if you smoke."

"Oh, no, sorry, I don't smoke," I said.

"Aw man," the guy said, sighing heavily, "I've got these two packs I was hoping to trade for a beer."

"Sorry," I said again, shrugging.

"Oh well," the guy said. "I've already had enough beer tonight, anyway."

"Me too," I said.

Then I went home and drank a beer.

I wonder what I was doing 9 years ago today?

Sometimes I think to myself, "I wonder what I was doing 9 years ago today?"

And, when I think that, I get out my old college journal and find out.

So, here's the entry from 7/20/2001. It's about me and Rob at the coffee shop. To the left, you'll see a picture of me and Rob at the coffee shop. Though, in the interest of full disclosure, you should know that it's from 2002 and therefore not 100% authentic. The beard gives it away.

I used to name the entries as a way of keeping myself interested in writing them. For some reason I named this one, "Skeleton Song." I think I was being pretentious. Me being pretentious also explains the rest of it.

Okay, here goes:

Skeleton Song -- 7/20/2001

So, here I am bankrupt on the inside again.

I went to Powell's today, the biggest book store in the country or maybe even the world. Not sure about the status. Just know it is famous and happens to be in Portland and is about the size of a city block and something like four or five stories worth of books.

I got "Crime and Punishment" because it is about time I read it, and I got a book of poetry by one of my professors. I've been meaning to buy it for a long time, but never had the money.

Today my dad was buying. I was afraid he invited me to Powell's merely as an excuse to get me alone and then talk to me about something important, but it didn't happen. Just a nice little trip.

There's this bakery a couple blocks from Powell's and they have these really good pistolets, which I guess are just rolls, but they taste all European. They remind me of Europe. Such a nice little bakery.

I went down town and read earlier today with Rob. We like to sit there at the coffee shop and read. Something happened to me that's never happened before. Someone literally made fun of us for reading. It's not often these days, being out of junior high and all, that a complete stranger will just up and make fun of me out of nowhere. And for reading?

I looked over at Rob today and said, "I think I'll just up and leave for school tomorrow."

"You hate it here?" he asked.

I thought for a moment.

"Yeah," I said.

"Why?" he asked.

I thought for another moment and this is what I came up with:

"Everyone here is mad all the time."

He thought for a moment.

"True," he said.

And for a little while I felt all right because someone else had noticed the same thing I did.

I'm a genius

Really good ideas I've had lately:

1.) They should have made KICK-ASS in 1989 and it should have starred Fred Savage as Kick-Ass, Danica McKellar as Hit Girl, Josh Saviano as Red Mist and Dan Lauria as Big Daddy. Daniel Stern could have narrated it.

2.) They should cancel the Olympics for all eternity and just have the World Cup be the Olympics instead.

3.) Me and Levi should start a band called "2 At Wolfe's Door."

4.) If Luke wants to join it can be "3 At Wolfe's Door."

5.) Now that they fired Megan Fox, they should hire Sasha Grey for "Transformers 3."

6.) They should make a series of movies about the Ice Cube character from "Ghosts of Mars," Desolation Williams. They'd be like "Desolation Williams and the Vortex of Eternity" or "Desolation Williams vs. the Vampires of Andromeda," or "Desolation Williams' Big Score."

7.) George Lucas' next "Star Wars" TV series should be about all the "Star Wars" characters falling into an interdimensional time portal and arriving in 1980s Los Angeles where they're forced to work at a high powered law firm.

8.) In a daring move, Oliver Stone should make the main character of WALL STREET: MONEY NEVER SLEEPS the robot waiter from the first WALL STREET. The robot waiter should dutifully (yet misguidedly) bust Gordon Gekko out of prison. Then they should go on a road trip. At first Gekko will hate the Robot because it will take everything he says super literally, like he'll be all, "Go fuck yourself!" and the Robot will be like, "Negative. Does not computer. Cannot calculate 'fuck yourself.'" But then they'll grow to love each other. Gekko will nickname the Robot after his other love, Money, and since he's a robot, he'll never sleep. So, the title will be like a play on words, see?

Thank you for your time.

The Curious Case of Mini-Skirt Girl

My freshman year of college in Southern California, I spent a lot of time adjusting to the differences between my new home and my old one, Oregon.

In California they had stuff like styrofoam cups and buildings with many rooms that could only be accessed from the outside. Everyone owned an umbrella and would carry it with them at the slightest hint of clouds. Convenience stores were called Liquor Stores and anyone of any age could just walk right in. Grocery stores also sold liquor and clerks only carded the person actually making the purchase, as opposed to everyone else in line with them.

Oh, and there were lots of hot chicks.

There was one hot chick in particular I kept seeing around campus who was notable for the fact that she always wore a mini-skirt. No matter what. And, it wasn't like the approved 1999 fashionably correct version of a mini-skirt. It was like a music video from 1985 mini-skirt. It always looked like the same skirt, so I was never sure if she just wore the same mini-skirt every day or if she had a closet full of identical mini-skirts. Even among the sea of hot chicks who were often not wearing very much at all, mini-skirt girl stood out. Her skirt was shorter than the rest and her legs were longer. It was hard not to stare when she walked by, or, if you were lucky, sat opposite you and crossed her legs.

Now, Southern California is a magical land where the natives will gladly sit in below room temperature air conditioning in shorts and a t-shirt but then bundle up if they have to step out into a 75 degree evening. So, as the summer turned to fall and fall turned to winter, everyone on campus stopped showing so much skin. Eventually, since we were in the middle of the desert, we got evenings that were actually chilly and not just fake Southern California chilly. I thought to myself, even Mini-Skirt Girl, as I had named her, couldn't put up with this change in climate and it would only be a matter of time before I saw her in jeans, like a normal person.

One evening I walked to the computer lab to do some work, since our campus must have been one of the last ones on the planet to embrace the Internet. As I worked at my computer, I looked across the room and saw Mini-Skirt Girl sitting across from me. Finally, I had my answer: even she, who had worn her mini-skirt every day I had ever seen her, was now bundled up in a big, fluffy white furry jacket. I didn't know whether to be happy or sad. On one hand, it proved she was human. On the other, there would be a certain kind of victory if she had proudly stuck to her mini-skirt ways in the face of adversity.

Then, something amazing happened. She finished her work and stood up to leave the lab, and as she walked by I realized I hadn't been able to see the bottom half of her body in her sitting position. Sure, she had on a big fluffy white fur coat, but below that there was nothing but her bare, tanned, statuesque, legs. I caught a glimpse of her mini-skirt, but the fluffy coat was long enough that if you just glanced in her direction it looked like she was wearing the coat and nothing else, except a pair of boots.

So, it was a victory, after all. Mini-Skirt Girl had earned her name. I don't know if she was from Southern California or not. If not, she had out Southern California'd the Southern Californians. If so, she was the ultimate native.

I only spoke to Mini-Skirt Girl once or twice. Once, a friend of mine was being all boastful at dinner in the cafeteria as we admired her from afar.

"Pff," he said. "She's not all that. I'd totally ask her out."

"Yeah right," I said. "You'd be too scared to talk to her."

"No way, she's just a chick like anyone else," he said.

"Well, then go talk to her," I said.

"Oh," he said. "Uh, not right now. I'm eating."

"Convenient," I said.

"Well, you wouldn't ask her out either," he said.

It was beside the point, but my need to be right about everything outweighed my fear of women, so I said, "I'll do it right now."

"Yeah, right," he said.

That was all I needed. I got up and walked right over to her.

"Hey," I said, while she dumped her tray in the trash.

"Oh, hey," she said.

"What are you up to this weekend?" I asked.

"Oh, hanging out with some friends, why?" she asked.

"I was wondering if you wanted to do something," I said.

"Oh, sorry, I can't," she said. "What's your name?"

"Paul," I said.

"Oh, I'm -- ," and then she told me, but I forgot. All I know is it wasn't Mini-Skirt Girl.

Anyway, she was surprisingly nice and smiled a lot, which is more than I would have done if a stranger would have come up to me and asked if I wanted to hang out. It wasn't one of those rejections that was terrible and embarrassing. It was more like meeting a celebrity and being surprised that they gave you the time of day at all.

I returned to the table, romantically defeated but personally victorious for having proven my balls to my boastful friend.

"Yeah, right," my friend said. "You probably asked her what time it was, or something."

But, I knew the truth.

After that, she always made sure to smile and say "hi" to me every time I happened to walk by her, which I thought was nice. Eventually, she disappeared, before the year was over -- either dropping out, or transferring to another school, or who knows what.

I wonder if she looks back on her mini-skirt days and laughs at herself for obsessively wearing them. I prefer to picture the rest of her life going by, mini-skirt always present. Getting married in a tiny white mini-skirt version of a wedding dress, giving birth in a mini-hospital gown, risking frost-bite in Antarctica where she's moved to study seismic activity with a group of equally eccentric scientists. Eventually she'll die, and she'll have an open casket funeral, only it'll be the bottom half of the casket that'll be open instead of the top half.

To prove to everyone she's still got it.

The Difference Between Boyhood and Manhood

When I was a boy, I had a subscription to NINTENDO POWER. I couldn't bring myself to throw them away once I was done with them. So, they stacked up in my closet.

Years later, in my teens, still a boy, I came into possession of a couple issues of PLAYBOY from various black market sources. I decided the best way to hide them was simply to slip them into my stack of NINTENDO POWERS. It just looked like a normal stack of magazines. And, there was no reason for anyone to go looking for them. It didn't look suspicious and didn't stick out unlike, say, if I had placed all of them under my mattress. One peek under the mattress during a sheet change and I'd be finished.

Years later, after graduating college, living on my own, I ended up with a subscription to PLAYBOY. I think a lot of people ended up with PLAYBOY subscriptions who happened to be in their mid-twenties in the early 21st century. Thanks to the drastic drop in circulation amidst the growth of the Internet, PLAYBOY was suddenly available for like $4.99 for 12 issues or something insane like that, and what 20-something guy living in his first apartment could resist that? Not me.

Anyway, like most magazines I'd ever subscribed to, I instantly lost interest in PLAYBOY as soon as the subscription kicked in. I'd glance through the magazine on day one, then leave it in a stack and forget about it. Each year I'd mean to cancel it until they'd offer me some amazing deal including a free DVD or something and I'd shrug and think, "All right, one more year." Finally, after a few years of this, even the free DVD couldn't entice me anymore and I called it quits on the worthless subscription.

Before I knew it I had a stack of about 3 years worth of PLAYBOYS that I had barely looked at. The stack just sat there for years until finally it was time for me to move into a new apartment. I thought, this is the perfect time to get rid of my PLAYBOYS. But then I thought, how do you get rid of PLAYBOYS?

If I had tossed each one as I had received it, it would have been inconspicuous, but I was a little afraid to dump a stack of 3 years worth of PLAYBOYS. On one hand, someone might find the treasure trove and it might be the best day of their lives. On the other, I didn't know the legal responsibility of leaving restricted material in a dumpster for anyone to scrounge up. I knew some people collected PLAYBOYS so I thought about dumping them online but was much too lazy for that.

Eventually I was almost entirely moved into my new place and decided I might as well just bring the stack of PLAYBOYS along. I stuck them in the closet and figured they'd sit there for another several years, completely ignored. Except a strange thing happened: since they had been fresh in my mind for the first time in a long time, I decided to get them out and look at them.

So, I sorted through the stack, got a few issues in, and suddenly was stunned and shocked to see an issue of CLUB INTERNATIONAL sitting there in the pile. Now, in case you're a respectable member of society and don't dabble in merchandise you can only get from BEHIND the counter at the convenience store, I'll explain that CLUB INTERNATIONAL is a much dirtier magazine than PLAYBOY. When you're in college or just out of college, you can leave a PLAYBOY sitting around your living room and most people your age won't raise an eye brow. Sure, girls might come over, look through the magazine, and ruthlessly judge all the models, but that's about the extent of the criticism you'll receive. But you can't just leave a copy of CLUB INTERNATIONAL laying around without looking like a pervert.

To give an example, an issue of PLAYBOY might advertise articles like, "God Vs. Free Speech by Gore Vidal" on the cover while the cover of CLUB INTERNATIONAL might say say something more like "Sarah gives Victoria a hot sex surprise!"

I had forgotten I even had this magazine, but it occurred to me that the way I had apparently discreetly hidden it among my PLAYBOYS was similar to the way the PLAYBOYS used to hide between my NINTENDO POWERS.

So, the difference between boyhood and manhood:

When you're a boy, you hide harmless pornography among NINTENDO POWERS.

When you're a man, you hide disgusting pornography among slightly less disgusting pornography.

Ghost Writer - Ghost Story, Part I or "Don't you know what corn flakes are?"

FINALLY.

GHOST WRITER, the best television show in the history of the Children's Television Workshop, is on DVD. I never thought the day would come, but season 1 is here.

In case you were lucky enough to have cable in 1992, let me fill you in:

GHOST WRITER was a half hour mystery series that aired on PBS in the early '90s. It was developed by the Children's Television Workshop (the geniuses behind SESAME STREET) as an educational (but entertaining) reading and writing show for older elementary school kids and middle schoolers. The plot: a gang of kids from varying cultural backgrounds solve mysteries on the streets of Brooklyn.

I did NOT have cable, so besides reruns of BAYWATCH, there wasn't much else to check out on Sunday afternoons.

As a kid, I was quickly won over by GHOST WRITER's unique blend of low production values, stilted but well-meaning teenage actors, heavy handed liberal agenda and overly obvious mysteries. Granted, the show was on public television, hence the low budget, and the actors were real teenagers, hence the bad acting, and the mysteries had to be obvious because they were aimed at 11 and 12 year olds who still needed to work on their literacy skills.

Anyway, I watched the first episode today and here's a blow by blow:

GHOST STORY -- PART I

(All the mysteries were multi-part mini-series that moved from cliff hanger to cliff hanger.)

The first episode opens with Jamal and his father looking for a trunk in the basement. Jamal, we quickly realize, is the black member of the Ghost Writer team. You can tell by his giant, primary colored clothes. Three of him could fit in his shirt.

But wait! Who's that next to 12-year-old Jamal, playing his father? SAMUEL L. JACKSON, MOTHERFUCKER! Before PULP FICTION, before SNAKES ON A PLANE, before other things Samuel L. Jackson was famous for he was -- in Spike Lee and Martin Scorsese movies. But he was also in GHOST WRITER! Still, don't get your hopes up -- he disappears after a couple episodes.

They finally find the trunk, dragging it out from under a shelf and knocking a book to the ground in the process. As the book flops open on the floor, a weird animated effect comes out of it. It looks kind of like a neon flying semi-colon. It's Ghost Writer!

They also knock a trophy off the shelf in the process and notice how threatening Jackson sounds when he says:

"Could you pick up the trophy, son?"

Jesus, Sam, this isn't a Spike Lee joint.

Cut to opening credits.

Man, I love these opening credits. It's one of those sequences where quotes from the show tell the story to catch the viewer up with the action. But. . . wait. There aren't any quotes in this one. Oh yeah. It's the first episode. None of the quotes have been said yet. We don't need to be caught up on the origin when the origin is happening in the body of the episode. Duh. I guess I'll have to wait a few episodes before the "classic" and endlessly quotable GHOST WRITER credits kick in.

Anyway, after the credits we see how Jamal spends his spare time: practicing shitty ninja moves on the streets of Brooklyn after dark. Carrying groceries in one hand and karate chopping the shadows with the other, Jamal makes his way through the park in his gigantic tennis shoes with tongues reminiscent of Gene Simmons'.

Alarmingly, Jamal spots a bunch of weirdoes with flashlights and monster masks dancing around a modern art installation in the park. After observing them in horror, he ducks out of frame -- only to hilariously duck back in again for a second look. Oh, Jamal.

Cut to: interior Huxtable residence. Just kidding. It's just the Jenkins residence. Jamal's sister Denitra (hehe) is running around, packing for college, and everyone's sassing everyone. Seems like Grandma Jenkins is the only really cool member of the family until she announces she's making a special caramel cake and Jamal can't have any. Cunt.

Retreating to his bedroom, Jamal seeks solace in the computer his sister has left him by randomly typing words into an empty blue screen.

"Hello computer. My name is Jamal," he types as if he's Scotty visiting from the 23rd century. Then he adds, "Ready for one dynamite dude?"

"Fuck me," the computer thinks to itself, lamenting its sudden life change from residing in the room of a fairly attractive 18-year-old girl to suddenly becoming the best friend of a gawky 12-year-old nerd with signs on his wall that say stuff like, "Don't fool with the cool."

Incidentally, the "Don't fool with the cool" sign becomes possessed by Ghost Writer and starts flashing, thus scaring the shit out of Jamal. Where are your kung fu moves now, Jamal?

Creepily, Ghost Writer jumps into the computer, possesses it, and types:

"HELP! HELP! HELP! HELP! Where are the children? Are they all right?"

Weird.

Jamal dutifully reads this out loud and here we have one of the classic hallmarks of the show -- stuff being slowly typed or written out in giant, easy to read letters, and then other characters reading what has been typed or written slowly, loudly and clearly. This is the part that's supposed to teach you to read and write. Or, improve your literacy, anyway. The poor bastards on the show have to go super slow just in case anyone who is really learning is watching, but 99% of the audience can read, write and comprehend faster than any character on the show, causing the show's characters to appear very. . . dull and slow-witted. But, that's part of the charm! The Ghost Writer team is so cute with their innocence and naivete, always three steps behind the audience, treating each minor revelation as if it was the most amazing thing they've ever witnessed.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

For now, Jamal just yells at the computer, wrestles it, and then whines for his sister who writes him off as insane. Finally he unplugs the computer. Genius.

"This has got to be one of her tricks!" Jamal says to himself, clenching his fist like Robin in the 1960s Batman series. He says it with such spite, you begin to wonder what kind of tricks Denitra has played on Jamal in the past. Sleeping hand in warm water, maybe? Saran wrap on toilet seat? You get the impression if Denitra had balls, she'd tea bag Jamal.

Cut to: a couple kids walking to school. It's Gaby and Alex Fernandez, brother and sister! In case you're wondering, they're eventually going to become the Hispanic members of the Ghost Writer team! Black: check. Hispanic: check. What's next?

Gaby's whining about the weather and spouting dumb facts about St. Petersburg, Florida and Alex is shooting hoops with trash. Gaby has to tie her shoe, so big brother Alex promptly ditches her.

On the streets of Brooklyn.

What's the worst that could happen?

Kidnapping?

Rape?

Murder?

Suddenly a dude in one of those creepy masks from before runs by and snatches Gaby's backpack!

"Fuck," she says.

Just kidding. She says, "Shoot."

Meanwhile, Jamal is also on his way to school and he stops by the modern art installation in the park where he saw all the creepy dudes with masks and flashlights dancing around the night before. We're treated to a flashback to remind us of the earlier scene even though it only happened like two minutes before. I guess the producers figure if you're 11 or 12 and you still can't read or write, you need simple plot elements spelled out for you also. Stupid.

Jamal is interrupted from his flashback by a white chick dressed as Blossom Russo who rudely runs right into him, backpacks flying everywhere. Jamal's Jamaican themed black-green-yellow-and red striped back hits the pavement right next to the white chick's army surplus bag covered in puff paint peace signs and words like "Imagine."

Who is this long-haired Blossom rip-off with more fringe on her jacket than Roger Daltrey circa 1969?

It's Lenni Frazier!

Turns out Jamal and Lenni have seen each other around school, as they stammer to each other awkwardly. Seems like the writers might be trying to hint at a future romance between these two but if I remember correctly it never develops, thank Christ. I'd hate to imagine Jamal or Lenni getting freaky with anyone, but hooking up with each other? Excuse me while I violently dry heave.

While the two would be love birds share pleasantries, Ghost Writer suddenly pops out of Jamal's bag and sneaks into Lenni's. Lenni loudly announces she's going to go "work on a new song" and Jamal goes to investigate the scene of the weirdos with masks -- he does so by caressing the modern art installation and two things spring to mind:

1.) Why is Jamal even investigating? Sure the dudes in masks were weird, but it's not like Jamal actually saw them doing anything illegal or untoward. They were just fucking around with flashlights in a public place with masks on. They weren't mugging anyone (like Gaby).

2.) How is he going to find anything by simply caressing the art installation?

Well, turns out Jamal stumbles across a button that says "THABTO" on it and a piece of paper with a neatly written code on it. Everyone in the GHOST WRITER universe has really neat handwriting so the illiterate kids at home can follow along. Instead of immediately realizing it's gibberish, Jamal amuses us by attempting to sound out the words.

Back on the park bench, fringe drenched Lenni works out her latest socially conscious rap. Here, we get a glimpse into what I like to call:

LENNI'S SONG WRITING PROCESS

Thanks to her huge, neat hand writing, we get a clear view of the evolution of this sweet rhyme. It goes like this:

"People always say. . ."

But then she crosses out say.

That's not good enough. Not street enough! What's another word for say?

"People always TALKIN'. . ."

Yeah, that's more like it.

"People always talkin' 'bout

how th. . ."

She crosses out "th" and writes "the". . .

"how the world needs

to change.

But not when it's th. . ."

She crosses out "th" again and writes "their." Seems like this chick has some issues with "th" words.

"But not when it's their life

they've got to rearrange.

So, knock wood for the kids

in the hood

who'll take up the slack

leadin' the pack

on the right track."

Right track. Needs something more. Oh yeah, an exclamation point. Yeah, that's it!

But suddenly Ghost Writer flies out of Lenni's bag, rearranging the words in her notebook to read, "Where are you dynamite dude Jamal?"

Awkward. That was between Jamal and you, Ghost Writer. "Dynamite dude" is not to be shared with just any white chick who busts a rhyme. Incidentally, if you haven't caught on yet, Lenni is going to be the white member of the Ghost Writer team. Black, Hispanic, White. What else? There was an Asian chick in the opening credits but I haven't seen her yet. Hmm.

Anyway, Lenni's horrified, jumpes off the bench and pokes her notebook with a large stick. Ghost Writer attempts to suck up to her by writing out, "Lenni fights for what is right," but judging by the disgusted look on Lenni's face his ploys are not working. Then again, Lenni has a disgusted look on her face most of the time, so maybe that's just the way she was born.

Cut to Zora Neal Hurston Middle School! Jamal finds a note in his locker. A love note. From a secret admirer!

No, just kidding. Jamal doesn't get love notes. He gets hate notes. And this one says:

"Near the park

after dark

you were there

so beware!"

THABTO

Lenni better watch her back. Looks like there's a new MC in town. A new MC with huge, impeccably neat hand writing.

Lenni runs up to Jamal and accuses him of somehow rigging the Ghost Writer shit that went down in her notebook. Jamal points out that SHE is the one who has been incessantly sneaking up on HIM all day, then goes on to accuse her of sneaking the threatening note into his locker, which seems fair to me since it's the same dumb handwriting and the same dumb rhyme scheme.

Still, Lenni claims innocence and Jamal fills her in on the weird shit he saw going on in the park. Then, Ghost Writer shows up and blows both of their minds simultaneously by writing the following creepy message on the bulletin board in the hall:

"Careful after dark, my children!"

Then, in an effort to out-creep GHOST WRITER, Jamal says to Lenni:

"Can you come over to my house after school? I think I've got something really weird to show you."

Look, Jamal, I don't doubt your private area is "really weird" but you don't have to go showing it to Lenni. She has her own really weird area to worry about. Better to suffer silently and alone in shame the way God intended.

Later, at the corner store, or Bodega (see? I'm learning!) Gaby and Alex tell their shop-keeper parents about the backpack theft. They slip fluently between English and Spanish like the regulars at the Crossroads Cafe. According to Gaby, this is just one in a series of backpack thefts.

Turns out Lenni and her dad live right above the Bodega in a giant loft apartment that's laid out kind of like Seinfeld's. But, in Lenni's world, the sitcom that springs most readily to mind is the afore-mentioned BLOSSOM. Not only is Lenni herself a clear Blossom rip off, but her dad looks a lot like Blossom's dad, and happens to be a struggling musician, just like Blossom's dad.

You can tell how cool Lenni and her dad are by the way they throw groceries at each other in a relay -- Dad to Lenni, then Lenni into fridge. Bam. What a fun family!

Back at the poor-man's Huxtable residence, AKA the Jenkin's household, Sam Jackson and wife are taking Denitra off to college. There's so much extraneous talk about Denitra going off to school it's almost like they're trying to set up a spin-off. You know, Jamal stays behind solving mysteries, meanwhile Denitra goes and finds herself at college where she meets all kinds of colorful characters. Denitra will find that college is kind of a. . . I don't know, DIFFERENT WORLD, I guess, from where she comes from.

In a stunning lack of judgment, Grandma Jenkins not only allows Jamal and Lenni to go up to Jamal's room WITH THE DOOR CLOSED, but then she goes shopping, leaving them alone! Does Grandma Jenkins want a grandkid THAT badly?

Jamal attempts to get his computer to type to Lenni, the way it typed to him the night before, but nothing doing. So they try to figure out the code Jamal found in the mean time. Genius Leni says it looks like a foreign language, than suggests looking at it in a mirror. Good job Lenni. Now it's backwards.

In a rare moment of critical thinking, Jamal realizes the note might be a secret code. Lenni, in an attempt to escape Jamal's room, suggests they show the secret code to the much cuter Alex Fernandez, who is merely blocks away in the Bodega and LOVES mysteries.

Meanwhile, Ghost Writer has been reading Grandma Jenkins' grocery list and is baffled. He types on the computer screen:

"What in the world are corn flakes?"

This blows Lenni and Jamal's minds and they begin shouting questions at the computer like, "Who are you?"

Jamal throws in the slightly redundant, "Don't you know what corn flakes are?" but then makes up for it with some lateral thinking, demanding, "Is your name THABTO?"

Ghost Writer creepily writes, "Why are you not answering me?" and then repeats, "ANSWER ME!" a bunch of times.

"What do we do now?" Lenni asks, the first time of many times she'll be asking that in this series.

"I don't know," Jamal admits, the first time of many times he'll be admitting that in this series.

THE END

So, how long you think it's going to take these retards to realize they need to TYPE to Ghost Writer?

Ghost Writer. What a trip.

Citizen Gwynne

When I was a teenager, I found out that my late great uncle was a famous magician. His name was Jack Gwynne. That's a picture of him to the left. My Dad got a box of memorabilia out of the garage and we looked through it. There were old magazines featuring him, ranging from obscure magician's magazines all the way to a feature story in "Life" magazine. There was even an old magic book, written in Sanskrit, personally autographed by Thurston, one of the most famous magicians ever.

Of course these days most people don't know the names Thurston or Gwynne. They do know the name Houdini, though, and one of my Uncle Jack's early jobs was building magic tricks for none other than Houdini. Because of this, and other jobs, he became known as "the magician's magician" -- respected among famous magicians for his ingenuity in the nuts and bolts of producing illusions.

After that, he had his own fair share of fame on the vaudeville circuit, using his entire family, including my grandpa, in his act and becoming known as the "First Family of Magic." After prohibition when floor shows at night clubs became popular, Uncle Jack was the first magician to move his show from the stage to the night club floor. Before this it was considered almost impossible for a magician to perform surrounded by his audience. With the audience able to view from all angles, it stood to reason that it should be more difficult for a magician to hide his tricks, so Uncle Jack's illusions just became that much more amazing.

He appeared in some movies and television shows and toured the world with the USO, bringing a lot of Asian influence back to the states with him to help add mystery and an exotic flair to his show. He wore a dark pointed beard and pencil mustache and slightly resembled popular ideas of what the Devil himself must look like, earning him one of his many nicknames, "The Devilish Deceptionist." This image eventually became kind of a generic magician image, but it started with Uncle Jack.

Uncle Jack died a little over 10 years before I was born, but I remember his influence throughout my childhood. My Dad would occasionally pull out some old magic tricks to entertain at birthday parties or talent shows, sometimes enlisting me as an assistant. Once, we were looking at one of my monster books and the actress Anne Gwynne was listed as the female lead in "House of Frankenstein." My dad speculated that that might be my Great Aunt, Uncle Jack's wife, since the First Family of Magic had some connections with Hollywood. It turned out to be a different Anne Gwynne, but the idea that someone in my family had connections to classic Hollywood fascinated me.

When I was about 15, I had an assignment in school to create a family tree and research my family history. Part of the assignment was to write an in depth essay on one particular ancestor I either identified with or who fascinated me, so of course I chose to write about Uncle Jack. I got most of the information about him from that box in the garage, and was a little disappointed to find that there wasn't much information to be found about him at the library or even on the web, such as it was at the time.

Over the years I've occasionally checked the web to see if more mentions of Uncle Jack have popped up. For years, information was scant, until finally within the last couple years or so I started to find short video clips of his performances. Eventually I found a full Wikipedia article and noticed that information about him on the Internet Movie Database had started to fill out a little bit.

Anyway, my Dad is back east visiting his brother and he gave me a call the other night to tell me he had found out something amazing about Uncle Jack. As soon as he said it, I remembered something amazing I had read, recently, too, and then kind of forgotten about.

"Wait," I said. "I think I already know what you're going to say. But go ahead."

"Jack Gwynne was in CITIZEN KANE!" my Dad said.

Yep, that's exactly what I thought he was going to say. In my lazy research, about a year ago, I had noticed that out of nowhere a credit for CITIZEN KANE had been added to Uncle Jack's IMDB page. He was listed as "Man on Hospital Roof (Uncredited)." It seemed plausible enough -- I mean, back then, none of the extras were ever listed in the credits. And, being involved in magic and vaudeville and all that stuff, it would stand to reason that Jack Gwynne and Orson Welles would cross paths at some point. Still, I had to wonder, how does anyone know that's him? Where's the proof? I made a mental note to re-watch the film and see if I could find him, but then never got around to it.

Anyway, after talking to my Dad, who said my cousin had checked out the factoid and somehow confirmed it, I decided to watch the movie again and see if I could pick out Uncle Jack. The scene in question is the one in which the reporter (William Alland) goes to visit Kane's college buddy, Leland (Joseph Cotten), who has gone to live in a hospital in his old age. He's sunning himself in his wheel chair on the hospital roof when the reporter conducts his interview, and there are two other patients in the far background getting some fresh air as well. As I watched the scene I thought that had to be it, but I checked IMDB just in case to make sure there were "uncredited" credits for two different "man on hospital roof." And, there were. So that had to be it.

Unfortunately, even though Welles and his cinematographer Gregg Toland, pioneered the concept of deep focus in which the foreground, middle ground and background are all equally in focus to create a greater sense of depth and three dimensions in an otherwise two dimensional medium, this shot happens to have the foreground in focus and the background out of focus. So, it's impossible to tell which "man on hospital roof" is Jack Gwynne, or, indeed, if either of them are him at all.

It's not that I think it's far fetched -- I'm just wondering where the info comes from. The two sources I have are Wikipedia and IMDB. Both sources are useful for casual research, but both sources feature user-generated content. That means basically anyone can edit the information on those sites. Wikipedia says the information for their article comes from a 1986 book about Gwynne that's currently out of print and a 1968 magician's magazine.

Here's a picture of the scene in question:

The guy in the foreground on the left of the frame is Joseph Cotten. The guy in the right foreground of the frame is William Alland. I'd guess Uncle Jack is the guy in the background on the right side of the frame. The other one looks a little too big. But, who knows?

Anyway, it's not every day you find out one of your relatives was in the film that many consider to be the greatest movie of all time. As if having Jack Gwynne as a Great Uncle wasn't already cool enough, it just got a little cooler.