Thhip. One of one.

Thunk. One of two.

Knees. Ball resting perfectly in the right hand. Rise up onto the toes, balanced. Elbow points ahead. Ball rolls off hand, thumb falls away, fifth finger pushing in slightly, three middle fingers rolling the ball up and away, spinning it.

Thump… Tthhip. Two of three. Bounce, bounce, turn, again.

Over and over, bit by bit, the logjam of memory and thought was cleared with every shot. The ones that had hurt and the ones he’d hurt rolling off his hands like the ball arcing to the hoop. Words spoken to him and words he spoke finally quieter than the swish of a make or the thudding clang of a miss. Just the ball, trying to trace the same arc over and over again, hundreds of times. Every shot made, a tiny but satisfying victory, one more towards “better.” Every miss something to shake off.

It’s hard not to fight the missing, not to struggle with oneself, over-think the motion, over control the muscles, over-analyze the distance and spin. Better to shoot each shot as its own, separate from all the hits and misses before.

Thunk. Thirty-eight of sixty. The difference between keeping count and letting it rule you, run you down, is a very fine one.

The mist continued to drift down, the sun continued to slide unseen above, the temperature continued to drop. On the painted line at his feet, though, tiny lakes of sweat, rippling faintly with each dribble.

Knees, raise, elbow, hand, fingers, toes, roll. Thhipt. The now-damp net would slap against the spinning ball as it spun through. Like the crack of a hard ball off a well-swung wood bat, or the soft but solid smack of pigskin hitting a receiver’s hands, the swish of a ball through a net was a goal in itself. Do things right, and you were rewarded with a satisfying sound.

It was only in these moments, alone here, in the sounds of net and ball and rim, that his mind would go, finally, quiet.

Growing up in Texas, on a 52-acre plot of land his parents leased for a pittance, as caretakers until it would be sold for the inevitable expressway and Target Greatland, basketball was an oddity, an orange ball seen at sporting goods stores. His father never watched it, and he himself could never recall being aware of it for most of his life. Growing up alone, basketball would have made much more sense than his sad efforts to learn baseball and football on his own. Punting footballs over power lines entertained him for awhile, but just as quickly lost its appeal. The same with tennis on the uneven yard against the unpredictable brick wall of the house, and throwing the baseball against the side of the barn.

He had known of but never really known the sport or its sounds until adolescence had faded. The equivalent of knowing of the legend of Marvin Gaye, hearing the words of others in tribute, seeing his picture, but never actually sitting quietly and hearing that clear voice of pain and redemption. He was finally blessed to know the beauty of basketball when he was 22, when he was made to sit quietly and hear what the game had to say to him.

Not until that time, on days like this, alone with a basketball goal, did he understand the leaning and rusting hoops in dirt driveways, the sole vertical aspect of vast empty expanses of farmland he would drive through on the way to Dallas, to Houston, to Lubbock. They were like crosses rising from the flat and dull earth, marking a point that humans had decided to distinguish as a haven, as a place where the holy and secular converged. But shooting to him was more like prayer than anything else he’d known. Here, there were no words, just the individual alone with a simple, mantra-like purpose. Put the ball in the hoop. It was his time with God. God was there in the sun, the wind, the leather of the ball, the dust that grimed his fingers.

And just as he knew God in this way, he knew himself. For here, no pretense, no book learning, no prestige, no money, no professed beliefs – none of that could buy you the sound of the ball slipping through the net. Here, there was only what he earned and what God gave – his body, the feel of his legs underneath him, the spectacular ability of hundreds of muscles to remember what they had done before, and his concentration, and the time he gave to practice.

Rise from the knees to the ball of the foot. Sweep the ball smoothly through the air. Hand follows through, ending fingers-down, as if placing the ball in the basket.

Thhip.

At eight fifty-four every night, the timer would shut the lights out on the court, thinking it was nine. He would often continue shooting there in the moonlight or in the faint glow of the nearby apartments, guided only by shadows and the memory in his body and mind of the three hundred shots before.

Eventually, though, he would have to leave the court. On his phone would be messages from her. There on the counter, the bills and letters from impatient creditors. In the bathroom, the bottle of pills. In the closet, wrinkled white shirts that needed to be pressed for the next day. As he fell asleep, he could feel the tiredness in his arms and legs, and when he closed his eyes, he could see the ball and its arc through cold air, the sound of a make or even a miss more treasured than anything else he would hear through the next day.

If gyms are the temples of the sport, outdoor courts were the deserts to be endured, where faith was tested, strengthened, reborn.

He knew it gave him an edge to appreciate this. The other nine players on the court peered up from time to time at the sun’s relentless eye pouring forth what to them seemed some wrathful ire, to him seemed a benediction.

His man was backing him in, now, trying to power closer to the goal. He held his forearm firmly against the small of his opponent’s back, and through that slender contact, they each tried to figure out the next move for themselves and the other guy. In this case, the other guy turned, hooking him slightly with his elbow to get to the basket. The ball rolled lazily along the rim and off, and he slipped back in between his opponent and the basket before leaping for the rebound.

He was nothing in the world of this sport. Not a pro out on a playground lark, certainly. Not a college or high school player. Not even a kid in the driveway with hopes realistic or otherwise – he was 31, already past the point of making many choices, much less of playing basketball for a living.

As he pivoted on one foot, the hands were all over him, batting and grabbing at the ball. He knew these guys were just feeling challenged – they knew he would never let a ball go so easily. Through a momentary gap, he put the ball hard to the court and dribbled out, looking up to find and jettison the ball to a teammate streaking downcourt.

Regardless of where he played, in the gym at his old high school, or here in the park in his neighborhood, he was always playing away, always the visitor. He treated the court as if it were his home – replaced the nets himself, kept the rocks and leaves and dirt clear, fixed the fence where kids had pulled the poles down. It was his sanctuary, but when the ball was in his hands, he was the interloper, facing a team more comfortable at home, facing a crowd set against him.

It was the same crowd that he felt and heard throughout his life. They followed him, booing him, heckling, applauding his fumbles, his fear. They did not respect his effort, his intensity or desire. They knew only winning, they could never be quieted by anything but being beaten.

He pushed off hard and began sprinting downcourt. His opponents, suddenly finding themselves on the defensive, were pounding alongside him, struggling to beat him back. His teammate was slowing his dribble, pulling the ball back to the perimeter to let his own players get down. He sprinted to the top of the perimeter, then slowed as well, hesitating.

Only a few who truly knew him, knew of the battles he felt he fought both without and within, could understand what the game meant to him. For that short time on the court, he could give everything of himself. No matter what seemed to hold true off the court, no matter what hopelessness appeared to riddle the future, when he was running on the court, diving for the ball, pushing himself harder, that was all there was in the world. There was only the doing, only that moment of doing and doing it right.

It was not mere distraction, though. He pushed himself so hard. He sprinted down the court against hamstring pulls, continued cutting though his knees shot pain up his legs. He destroyed his feet to keep up with the smaller, quicker players. He so badly needed to win, to stun that crowd into silence.

Out here, on the playground, the wins came in short moments. Moments when the doubt and hesitation fell away, when he trusted his body to get him past the defenders to the goal, or to fight inside for a rebound against taller and more skilled players, or pick the ball away from a point guard abruptly but gently, like picking a berry ready to fall.

He saw the defense fail to build along the baseline, and he moved, sweeping behind his teammate, who turned and handed him the ball. He cut hard, running parallel to the baseline, saw a defender begin to turn to step to him. He’d be too late. He picked the ball up, his body coiled as he stepped right, then pushed hard off his left, extending his body up to the goal.

Most of the time, sitting at a desk, in line at the store, his body just felt like mere matter, without its own soul. But in these rare moments when hands and feet and ambition found harmony, and his body moved swiftly and lightly to the basket, he felt as if he had borrowed all that beauty is for a moment, piercing himself to find a glimmer of light inside. It was a split-second sneak preview of some moment in which he might move so effortlessly and gracefully to some greater goal.

He never told anyone how these few moments made him want to cry. That would be a little too much.

He pulled back, watching the ball slip through the net, falling past close with his own falling body. And while he heard the low sounds of praise from his teammates, he heard the crowd, finally, just for the moment, grow quiet.

He sat on the bench, watching the teams run, watching the tide turn from minute to minute, offense to defense, the conflict of effort and resistance. He had lived hundreds, probably thousands of lives here. Win or lose, each game was a new life, a new universe, a beginning and end, with a certainty of struggle and result, victory or defeat, that real life doesn't always offer to its participants.

Now he was the old man, a spectator. Now he sat and watched, and waited, for the nod that would never come, that he could never again answer if it did. That final day, that final game, had come like an inescapable first death, after years of feeling and playing through the ever-increasing stiffness and pain, seeing the move and struggling to spark his muscles to respond, as if he were mired in a nightmare, helpless. Playing fewer and fewer games on each outing, he came home, took ibuprofen, rubbed his knees, still eerily cold from the ice packs, quietly begging them to give him one more day on the court. But the day did come that he knew he couldn't go, and he sat quietly by himself all that evening, feeling the ending, the feel of finality, of a journey's end.

In the days that followed, he realized it was difficult to feel the urgency of time with no shot clock, and only the deceptively long measures of life and youth that would one day surprise him with the buzzer and the end of the game.

He held the ball in his hands, pebbled grain on tired, wrinkled skin. He pulled it close to his chest, and once again, life and game intertwined, and there for him were all the things shared in the game. A child, hugging the new ball as he falls asleep, feeling its solidness and breathing in the scent of leather on Christmas night. A young girl cradling the ball after the rebound, the static electricity of youth and enthusiasm and hope crackling and sparking all around her and through her. Even the greatest to ever play the game, falling to the floor, clutching the ball to his chest after the game- and championship-winning shot, weeping for his joy and his pain, for everything gained and lost.

The old man smiled through tears, awash in twilight's promising glow, soaking through the fabric of space and time, still alive in the game.

American soldiers in Iraq this week captured a facility near Nasiriyah filled with a ghastly discovery. Military analysts discovered evidence that Iraqi scientists have developed a retrovirus that is capable of modifying behavior, specifically targeting its carrier's moral judgment and self-protective instincts. Further review of what little information was not destroyed by the Iraqi scientists has revealed that the virus only works on certain rodents, primarily squirrels, and possibly shrews and voles.

After failed attempts to get the virus to work on Iraqi Boy Scout troops, the scientists retooled their efforts as part of a complex plan to disrupt the earth's ecosystem by altering certain vital links in the food chain, and just generally creating varmint-based chaos and confusion.

"Well, there's your smokin' gun, right there, your weapons of, of... massive destructioning. By conditioning squirrels, and possibly shrews and voles, to behave like those guys in that movie, Saddam Hussein has crossed a whole new line of bisexual transexuality," declared an enraged President Bush. The White House later clarified the president's comments, substituting the words "bioethical transgressions" into the statement.

Hours after the story was broken by an embedded reporter for Animal Planet's 24-hour coverage of the war, PETA and the Sierra Club, apparently previously unmoved by Amnesty International's long and extensive documentation of the torture, rape and murder of Iraqi people by their own government, suddenly announced their partial support for the war effort.

Drunk and aggressive squirrels, and possibly shrews and voles, smuggled into major urban areas could cause nasty-looking bites on thousands. Projected automobile and scooter accidents caused by drunken squirrels in the United States could have a multi hundred dollar impact on the nation's economy, at a time when every billion dollars counts. Homeland Security Director Tom Ridge offered a terse assessment, "Let's pray to God they're peacefully stoned and not belligerently drunk."

The tobacco and alcohol industries argue, however, that the introduction of the rodent market could quickly introduce a new dominant demographic. "The marketing possibilities are endless, though we have had little success at this point getting the rodents into bikinis."

ABC and Nickelodeon will co-host a special Town Hall happy hour discussion of this startling discovery and its implications tonight at Trudy's Central, at about 5:00PM. "This is an unprecedented topic of discussion for what have been a very enlightening series of Town Hall meetings," said ABC Nightline's venerable Ted Koppel. "Plus, I gots to get my drink on."

Unfortunately, the nuances of the human worker animal require a new set of rules for the modern-day Concentrated Human Worker Facility. Like swine and pullet hens, people are going to be annoying, and people will complain, regardless of attempts at politeness. In these potentially ugly situations, its often more effective to be David Banner than Miss Manners. A few helpful tips:

Respect for cube space is important, and communication is key. A thin, almost invisible strand of piano wire strung across your cube entrance will leave a clean but nasty cut across the windpipe, and will send a clear message regarding your personal boundaries.

"Good fences make good neighbors," but an open display of personal armament only improves the situation. Like maintaining a mutual nuclear deterrent, the credible threat of immediate and effective violence, together with the credible threat of swift and equally effective retribution, will stave off many a cubicle quibble. Flashing a bit of gunmetal when you say "Good Morning," will often insure at least several hours of peaceful coexistence.

Loiterers -- No one likes to hang out where there's a strong, foul, organic odor. You figure out the rest.

Know your audio. It's instinctive for us to deal with our neighbor's questionable musical choices by turning up our own selection du jour, but first, take a moment to calm down, gather yourself, and consider what you're about to do. Are you fighting Creed with Puddle of Mudd? Indistinguishable, it'll never work. Reba with Alan Jackson? Neither of you deserve to live, much less win your stupid little battle. You must always take taste as well as aural physics into account. Nothing says "screw you" to a Barry Manilow-playing neighbor than a selection from Ice-T's magnum opus, "Body Count."

Finally, while innovation is required by our changing environment, don't forget some of the old stand-by's: tire slashing, planting gay porn, prank calls, email bombs, and urinating in plants. Someday, Big Business will find ways to sort of safely and legally remove our higher brain functions, solving these problems once and for all, and insuring peace and productivity for all proles and plebes. But until then, with a little thought and effort, and a little help from the innumerable, voices in your head that keep getting louder and louder and won't stop talking about the kittens, the horrible, horrible kittens of doom, oh God make it stop, we can all find a way to live and work together in mutual harmony and respect on a firm foundation of fear.

The Man

Essentially, anyone who's spent a significant amount of time in Austin, which generally means anything more than eight months, claims Amy's as the superior ice cream store. However, Austin is infiltrated by an ever-growing number of people fleeing the humidity, mosquitos, traffic, and complete lack of sensical zoning in Houston, including many who believe that Marble Slab is, in fact, far superior. These are people that turn their nose up at Amy, and would stone her, if they could.

It seems innocent enough - worship the gargantuan corporate purveyor of frozen butterfat, and demonize good, wholesome local institutions like Amy's. But those who do so, while motivated by what passes for refined taste, are actually unwitting pawns of the Slabpire and its unholy crusade. Recently, noted and respected Oliver Stone-wanna-be filmmaker Michael Moore produced a short film uncovering the insidious, weblike web of insidiousness linking Marble Slab, tobacco giant Phillip Morris, the Bush and Hoover administrations, Osama Bin Laden's backup dry cleaner, and Aaron Spelling.

The filmmaker interviews several former employees of the company who
worked in secrecy at the so-called "Slab Lab", hidden deep within a
mountain, just off of a dusty rocky road in Puerto Rico, where the company maintains several vanilla-only locations. These former employees all report that for decades, they had actually been paid by a research affiliate of Phillip Morris to study the possible cross-application of certain chemical additives, many of them known carcinogens, between cigarette and ice cream production.

"We tried lots of things in those days. The sky was the limit, and our
budget was endless," says one former researcher, who would only be
identified as "Doug". "We tried chocolate chips in cigarettes, cyanide
ascorbate in ice cream cakes. We were told by the company to look at the ice cream cup or cone simply as a 'nicotine-cream delivery device'. It was horrible. And no one knew. I mean, there's a reason The Slab has locations in almost every state on the East Coast, except for Virginia, where Phillip Morris is based. Plausible deniability. Deceit and obfuscation. Sixty Minutes refused to air my interview 10 years ago because, well, actually, I couldn't find their phone number, and the Internet was sorta sketchy back then."

"Doug" was found on a tin roof, Sunday, bludgeoned to death with a small, metal club-like object that some observers agreed could have been a really heavy, extraordinarily large, lead ice cream scoop. Local authorities, however, all of whom smoke and eat ice cream, declined to label the death a homicide, instead classifying it only as, "kinda weird".

Hippie Vermontian ice cream Communists Ben and Jerry released a statement the next afternoon, decrying the apparent murder. "This is not surprising. We've lived in fear for 20 years, except, like, when we're really stoned and don't care. But you cannot keep the truth from the American people, man. That, like, sucks." Leaving the press conference, an enraged Ben added, "If you're gonna pick on someone, butter pecan me, you fascist freaks!"

Moore's film also reveals ties to Vice President Dick Cheney, and the
company he once helped run, Halliburton. Halliburton is currently the
contractor responsible for constructing 32 Marble Slab franchises across Iraq. Earlier this week, feeling left out of recent journalism, ABC claimed to be in possession of photographs showing ice-cream related abuse of the Iraqi populace. The images are chilling, to say the least: a child, no more than 9, crying, an empty cone in hand, the improperly-secured ice cream scoop it once held melting on the desert sand at his feet. Another shows a woman screaming, clutching her forehead in agony, as nearby U.S. and British soldiers laugh and point at what some G.I's jokingly call a "brain freeze."

Tuesday night, Moore took the opportunity at the recent Ted Nugent
Bowhunting Video Awards show to grandstand for the cause, as he accepted the award for Cleanest Marmoset Kill With Compound Bow, Over 50 Yards - "Stand up against the irresponsible extension of the mili-dairy industrial complex. Start by voting! Ice cream change begins at home!"

The shadow creeped, unsuccessfully trying to edge out the sun. He glanced up, and in the eerie midday almost-twilight he saw her, crouched herself before a white piece of paper, watching the shadow move across the light. And in that moment, he did not know, but only felt; did not think, but only saw.

Past the hand that held the hair from her eyes, he saw her smile slightly, smiling alone in recognition of this odd combat in the heavens. The smile was knowing, of genuine appreciation awash in an undoubtable sadness. She hefted her bag higher on her shoulder, stood, and began to walk away.

Something spoke in him. He shoved the paper and pinholed word of God in his pack, glanced quickly up at the waning sun, and followed her.

He fell into the mass of students crossing the street, wary eyes kept to the skies as if something primitive in their hearts prodded at them to do so. He himself did not look, but saw the shadows soften as he watched her, felt the growing coolness in the air, and remembered the first time he had felt this pull, the first time he had had the vision and was frightened that it would disappear forever.

Years ago, before Her, he was unanchored on a vast expanse of loneliness, the confusion of late youth and early adulthood compounded and exaggerated by emptiness, the apparent isolation. He took solace in the music he listened to so intently and in the only talent he felt he really had -- he could write. It always came easy, the paper soaking the pain from him, holding it in its fibers so that someday someone else might understand, might know what he felt. And then, at least, he would not be so alone.

A love that only his soul knew, a miracle yet to be, found a voice and a ready, if uncertain prophet in his pen on those days. For when his eyes closed and the world fell silent and destiny spoke, it was waves of dark hair he saw, a warm, soft darkness that he did not fear. She was never the tawdry, tawny-skinned idols of beer-commercial adolescence, not a woman beautiful by the reflected radiance of the day, but a woman that glowed from within, all things to him even as he watched her sleep in the hours of a more significant dawn -- the dawn of happiness, of love, of dreams realised, of a newfound communion with God.

When he opened his eyes, he would look at what he had written. Even through awkward lines, it still held a strange power, the eloquence and realism of unknowing certainty.

It was not until years later that that dawn had come, casting light across Her dark hair and sleeping face, across his heart. In a world that seemed filled with so much meaninglessness, Her eyes held the promise of at least one truth strong enough to rise above it all. And in love, he finally found faith in himself and the world.

And there was something more. He remembered his grandmother’s last days, after the stroke, eyes staring sadly without recognition, fear the only other emotion fighting its way to expression. Sitting beside her, he could not help but wonder if he, too, would one day feel so alone, and it was in those times that he realized what She meant to him. When all the things that weighed so heavily on him now finally revealed themselves to be so trivial, when the cold began to creep into his mind, he wanted to know that at some time, somewhere, his soul had not gone to waste. That even for a split second of his life, another soul had brushed against his, had recognized him, understood and knew who he was. It was the only way he knew of not to die alone.

They were blocks from campus now, moving to the heart of the city. Stopped at a corner, they waited, awash in the music, the dull throbs and the chorus of voices from the cars that creeped before them, a few resolving themselves more clearly as the procession was halted by the traffic light. Whether in his mind or through the air, one found its way through all the others, and he heard the guitar and voice once again, the notes subtly bent, the words a simple declaration of love and appreciation, cutting through all the noise as if nothing could silence it. He looked at her, and though her eyes were closed, he could see the music moving through her as well, and then she smiled.

Clapton played, and She smiled. Sometimes, with the car full of people, with Her so far away from him in the back seat, he would pop the tape in, play “Wonderful Tonight,” and She would be there in the rear view mirror, smiling at him, smiling “Yes, I know; yes I remember; yes, I do, too.”

Sometimes he would play it when he drove Her home at night, and they would ride in silence, letting this man they did not know and his guitar speak volumes of their love as he spoke of his own. He could always feel Her there next to him, could sometimes hear Her voice singing faintly, weaving gently through the music. He could remember driving home late at night, with Her curled up in the seat beside him, how he would drive so slowly and carefully, afraid to disturb Her, wishing that he could drive through every light and intersection, down some smoother highway to some place where they could fall asleep together and never awake.

They never got there. There was an ever after, unhappily, bringing a new and harsher emptiness, the universe seemingly uncreated around him, despite his efforts to deny it with other women and nights he couldn’t quite remember.

And all that time, he was conscious that failure was taking over his life, like a man falling from thousands of feet up, hearing the growing roar of wind, wondering if he would hear the thud when he hit, if he would feel his bones pulverize, if he would, in that final nanosecond, be able to reach out and feel the cool comforting familiarity of the earth before it crushed the life out of him.

Time had not healed, only numbed. No rage anymore, no longing, no bitterness, no more of the self-inflicted desire to be, finally, alone. Just a waiting. And the hint of resignation tugging at the corners of his pride, quietly mocking the voice that had always said he would never change, that he would hold tight to those visions no matter what he had to face. But the four years had been so much. Rage and fear and sorrow had torn at his heart, pounded at his soul so that now, he staggered dazed like an aging prize fighter, not ready to fall, not trapped on the ropes, but becoming less and less able to fend off the blows. He just waited, either for his second wind, or maybe just for the bell.

A clock flashed the time, and he realized he had followed her for the better part of an hour, watching the way she moved, wondering what she saw in the world around her. The crowd had thickened, and he realized the distance between them had grown. He tried at first to be polite, but found himself becoming frantic as she slipped further away, people flowing in between them, and this he seemed to remember. He could not call to her, and this he seemed to remember. He felt the fear, and this, too, he seemed to remember.

And suddenly, he became aware that perhaps it was not Her that he had always seen, but something else. But just as quickly as the seeming revelation returned the doubt -- how many times can the love of a lifetime come along? How many matches for a single soul? He had wanted so badly to feel it all again, to feel something in his world beyond simple cause and effect -- was it just resignation prodding him to desperation, to be with anyone in the fear of simply being alone?. Suddenly, the faith in his vision, his feelings for Her, and his intuition all changed inflections, becoming questions. His beliefs shattered, he could trust nothing anymore.

He felt the pressure of the present and future demanding he try, demanding release, but felt also the pressure of the past telling him, No, this cannot be.

But if not this, then what? If not now, then when?

She reached the corner just as the bus did, and he stepped out of the last of the crowd into the opening between them. He hesitated.

To live, to sleep, to dream, to love. The choices were so simple, but so clouded by logic and voices and doubt, that it was too hard to know what was right anymore, so hard to trust his heart, or, for that matter, his mind.

She turned, as if hearing him. Vague recollection seemed to sweep across her, and she shifted her weight uneasily, still gripping the door of the bus.

He heard the driver, polite, cutting across the brief, insistent current, the connection that seemed to hum in his mind, louder than all else; the cars, a distant siren, the rhythm of leather-soled purposeful steps around him, all fading out one by one.

She waited. Somewhere she knew, but in this world, she wasn't sure. Here there was only that curious twinge that sometimes drives us to step across a crowded room, to clear our throats with uncertainty, to reach out timidly to touch a shoulder, driven by souls that know, not wanting to waste this now, to say Here I am.

He began to move, to call out. His hand moved uselessly, his lips sought to mouth a name he did not know. His soul was straining against its bonds, straining to exist in this time, in this life, for him, for her.

He needed her.
He wanted her.
He wanted....
He wanted Her.

The bus driver again, more insistent. She shook her head as if to clear it, and whatever it was that had passed between them fell away as she turned and stepped aboard the bus.

A hiss and a groan, and the bus rolled on, carrying her away.

He swallowed, thought for a moment he felt once again the warm intrusion of tears. He watched the bus fade over the next hill. He looked down at the sidewalk, his eyes closed. He saw the faint afterimage of the bus rolling away, revealing the impression of Her that lingered yet. Then, She, too, was gone, and he felt himself pulling away, his soul spiraling upward, towards no heaven, but rather towards the hell of perspective, seeing himself, and ten more people, and a hundred, a thousand, a city, a land, a world, teeming with life that winked on and off, some blessed with flames that ever burned, bright even in the full strength of the noonday light.

But in himself, there was only the cold, and the darkness of the deepest shadow from an unforgiving, unobscured sun.

It’s with a mixed sense of pride, accomplishment, and embarrassment that I admit to being one of the three or so non-institutionalized people in Austin that were actually born here, and who have never lived elsewhere. Most people react with the same sort of shock reserved for, say, walking up on a healthy Californian condor buying lottery tickets and a Schlitz at 7-11. There are those people, though, the type that would more likely frown on the fact that the condor plays the lottery, that apparently feel I’m an incomplete and intractably dull human being for having stayed here all my life.

Fortunately, I don’t really hang out with people like that, and they don’t hang with me. In 34 years, Austin has yet to exhaust itself as a character in my life. I feel I’ve lived multiple lifetimes here. Scenery and people tend to repeat and recycle themselves. And, because of my mother’s experiences, I’ve always had the sense of being fortunate to even be here.

My mother had come to the United States from Korea in 1967, armed only with a 3-pound bag of peanut M&M’s, that she purchased in Hawaii, clutching it and metering out the security it held as she soared over the Pacific. In Seattle, she disembarked, then realized she had left the bag on board. Her frantic efforts to re-board the plane were thwarted by burly stewardesses. She had, like so many, reached America, and was now completely alone.

Somehow, for reasons I now realize I’ve never adequately explored, she came to Austin, which hardly seems like it would have been the shining city on the hill beckoning to people abroad in 1967. At any rate, she started over, without money or any safety net within several thousand miles. She went to school, worked at Burger King, worked at the old Texas theatre on the Drag, which has since metamorphosed into an Eckerd’s, like a caterpillar changing into something far less interesting. She worked as a janitor, bookkeeper, whatever would keep me fed, all while maintaining a 4.0 at the University of Texas. In 1975, she applied for a job as a file clerk for a state agency, offering to work for free to prove herself.

She got the job. She worked hard, as did my dad. She moved up and on. She made enough money to eventually become a Republican with strong views on limiting immigration. Last year, Mom was able to slap down cash for a Hummer H2, having seen one on a magazine cover. I’m at once proud of her, and fearful for everyone else. If you see a Hummer bearing down on you, with just a straw hat and huge, Miami retiree sunglasses barely glinting over the steering wheel, remain calm, pull onto the shoulder, and let her pass.

I know that my mother was so driven all these years largely because she remembers the pain of not being able to give me more. I remember walking with her in the long-gone KMart off of Anderson Lane. It was Christmastime, somewhere back in the very early Seventies, back when the blue-light special meant something, and Martha Stewart was knee-high to Michael Milken. I remember the Icee sign, the feeling of safety, amazed at the wonder of the tall shelves of food and things. And I remember Whoppers.

I know mom fears I remember hunger and hopelessness and wanting. She fears I knew she couldn’t afford to give me much that Christmas. But all I remember is her reaching for and handing me a cardboard carton of Whoppers. I remember walking back across the street to our apartment, the cool feel of the chocolate giving way slowly to the malted milk center melting on my tongue, and the sure feel of her hand around mine.

A decade later, the Kim Family exodus continued. Korean aunts, uncles, and grandparents who had never seen Austin on a map moved here, no doubt encouraged by my mother’s growing success and the sophisticated and dignified Texan culture as seen on “Dallas” in the early 80’s.

Watching the city change has been both exciting and painful. As a child, I remember riding down 360, looking at the small patch of light to the East. I asked my Dad every time if Austin would ever get bigger. Clearly, it would be one of the dumbest questions I ever asked. Over the years, I saw the light begin to creep outward, saw little fuzzy patches of it pop up to the north and south. Then, about 10 to 15 years ago, it’s like the earth just belched forth halogen lamps and mercury-vapor streetlights. Buildings erupted upward like shoots in the cool time-lapse movies they showed in elementary school to try to interest us in science.

My life changed in pace with the city. From 1975 through 1981, I lived on 52 acres my family leased from a friend of my dad’s for some ridiculously small pittance. I had a barn, an endless flow of stray dogs, and exposure to people who were the templates for characters on “King of the Hill”. One day, I will successfully steal from my mother’s photo albums and destroy a picture of me at about 10 years old. I’m in blue gym shorts, an orange shirt with Bevo’s caricatured buttocks on the front, and cowboy boots, holding a .22 rifle in one hand and the unfortunate grackle that flew within its range in the other.

In the last decade or so, Barnes and Nobles, Chili’ses, Bed Baths and Beyonds, Best Buys, and other stores were cloned in secret corporate labs in Montana, airlifted in by flying saucers, and dropped like cluster bombs, cratering the Austin landscape. Cars multiplied. Bold new road expansions were begun, their completion carefully timed to coincide with the points at which the traffic growth made them inadequate.

Today, I eye the Target Greatland at Mopac and Southwest Parkway warily. Late one night in the 1990’s, it was quietly airlifted in and unceremoniously dumped precisely on top of my childhood country home. I’ve stopped there and tried to find the tremendous oaks I used to clamber around in and chase my dog around. I enjoy stomping through the lingerie department, glaring at the customers and asking them to get out of my room.

Later, I would move to Westlake, where I went from learning to avoid rattlesnakes to learning about Polo shirts, Porsche’s, and white flight. For the sake of brevity and taste, that period of time will not be discussed.

I went to UT for undergrad and law school, considering no other schools. Actually, I had my SAT scores sent to UT and the University of Tel Aviv, but I never got an admissions catalogue or letter of invitation from the latter. I thought my scores were pretty good, but I guess they’re picky.

I’ve worked a number of jobs in the years since I got my law degree. A year with an entertainment lawyer that was one of the founders of the Armadillo World Headquarters. A year with the Commission on Human Rights. Today, I work as a hearing officer in a state agency, in a division that amounts to a penal colony for lawyers.

Only a couple of my friends actually hail from Austin. By and large, the people that infuse and shape my life and who I am today came from Beaumont, Dallas, Houston, El Paso, Corpus Christi. As many came from oddball places like New York, Wisconsin, Long Beach, and Buffalo. Many came, only intending to go to school here or work here awhile, and most have stayed.

Like my own mother, enough of the rest of the world seems to have found reasons to flow through Austin, and therefore my life. Clearly, there’s a diverse world out there with a lot to teach me. But the world has been kind enough and intrigued enough by this town to come to me, to give me the lessons and materials to grow, to learn, to figure out who I am and what my best destiny is. A dead guy named Emerson said, “He who travels to be amused or to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels away from himself… He carries ruins to ruins.” The sense of this home, of being a part of this home, is what I carry with me when I travel, through the world, and through life.

And if none of this logically or emotionally justifies being an Austinite for life, I can always say, “Hey, at least it’s not Waco.”

NASA officials at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory made startling revelations at a hastily-called Monday afternoon press conference regarding the current mission to Mars.

"We've got enough going on here at NASA, and we're not taking the fall for this. There was a reason besides territorial coverage and redundancy that we sent two rovers to Mars. The original rover, Spirit, was added at the last minute in response to a specific Presidential directive," said Petere Theisinger, Spirit's Rover Project Manager.

"Originally, we were looking for traces of water on Mars that might prove important to future manned missions to Mars," said Team Leader . "However, the President personally made a call to us weeks before launch. He... well, we have the conversation recorded, you should hear it for yourselves."

The director then played a recording of a January 3, 2003 conversation
between President Bush and a NASA official identified as "Robert Reed":

Bush: "Look, we got lots of water right here on Earth. Four-thirds of our planet is covered with water. But what about beer? The French government has informed me that their operatives at Texas A&M have confirmed that there's definitely beer, possibly in a, in a... frozenized state, on Mars. I want you to find it, with that probe you're sending to that, um, moon."
NASA: "Planet."
Bush: "Hell, yeah, you gotta plan it. It's rocket science, and it ain't cheap. We have a saying in Texas, maybe you have it there in Houston. If you don't plan, if you don't fail to pla... you can't... you can't fool or fail a plan, and so, shame on you. I mean, me."
Reed: "Um. What?"
Bush: "You can send that tall guy, that Tom Robbins fella. He went to Mars in that picture movie. He was pretty good."
Reed: "Uh... you mean Tim Robbins, Susan Sarandon's husband. You know
they're rabid Democrats. Plus, he's not really an astronaut."
Bush: "Oh, screw that, then. Look, here's my point: beer makes people
happy, not water. Unless you're in Africa, where there's not as much of it. But Africa is a troubled nation. You can take water to a horse, I mean, if he's guarding the henhouse. Been there, done that. Not my problem."
Reed: "Um. What?"
Bush: "And between you and me, we're going to invade a certain Iraqi
country real soon, but I can't tell ya which one. Folks are gonna be happy about that. But we gotta look ahead to the election year - I need people to be happier. And drunk wouldn't hurt, either. So, I am issuing a Presidential orderation - I am hereby directing NASA to find beer on Mars. Do what you got to do."
Reed: "Yes, sir."

The director broke the stunned silence that followed the end of the tape by saying, "So, we did what he, um, 'orderated'. We even let him put together some of the electronics on the Spirit Rover, and today we can tell you no, there's no beer on Mars. Thank God we sent a second lander."

At approximately 3:48 PM CST, B-2 stealth fighters delivered ordinance payloads to downtown Houston. Ground troops from nearby Fort Hood were also called in, but "had stopped for a restroom break, then hit some really nasty traffic on I-10," according to one Pentagon spokesman.

Sources in the White House report that the president was watching "Pokemon" when network news reported the indictment of Lay at approximately 3:25 PM CST. After sitting in shocked silence for several minutes, the president was heard to exclaim, "Oh, my God! They indicted Kenny! You bastards!" In a tense meeting with advisors, Bush reportedly said, "I'll tell you what it is. Al Qaida. Osama Bin Laden is using that, using some kind of Nation of Islamic mind control to manipulify and gain control of our courts. They've gotta be stopped."

British Prime Minister Tony Blair and other world leaders called Bush to offer their conditional moral support, and the mayors of Austin, Dallas, and Corpus Christi called to thank him for his swift and decisive action.

Other key sites in Houston were also hit in the strike, including several Marble Slab ice cream stores.

The President is expected to address the nation tonight, right after "Simple Life 2" airs on Fox. "I respect the integligence of those two young American womens," said Bush.

(AP) In an early taping for the Jerry Springer Show this morning, One-Time Transvestite Turned Preacher Who Ran Off With My Sister's Mother Rob Hill announced his candidacy for the upcoming California gubernatorial race.

"Screw it, I'll do it. I'll run for governor, why the hell not. My job sucks, and you know governors get chicks for real. And simply put, I'm the best guber for the job," said Hill, who sported a jaunty mullet and an "I'm With Stupid" T-shirt.

Later, following several arguments and nursing a swollen lip from a small fight that ensued, Hill released the following statement:

"It is not without a lack of pride that I announce my candidacy for the governorship of the grand state of California. I have been to California before, and it is a grand state. Just grand. There are lots of people there. People that work. People that don't. People that need representation. People that need people. And I believe that I am that people.

But California, like Africa, is a troubled nation. The state of the state is sagging like the butt of a 70 year-old woman that lost 182 pounds doing crystal meth. That's why I have put a lot of time and effort, and bought beer for a number of advisors, to come up with my Support Garment Platform. Here's a few highlights:

1. Electricity - I understand the state has had blackouts and brownouts and mauveouts due to an inability to pay its electricity bills. I would bring to this office a common-man sensibility, using common sense, tried-and-true methods that have stood me well in my own life. For example, if you can't pay the whole bill, just pay them something. Five bucks. Make promises to pay to keep the power going as long as possible, then send them a check with the routing number scratched out. It'll take forever to clear, or bounce as the case may be.

Also, gophers are great, as yet-untapped natural sources of energy. They're generally clean burning, and plentiful.

2. Education - Overrated. Under my regime, or rather, leadership, the state will take over the cable franchises, by force if necessary, and every child will get full cable, under an exclusive voucher system. Between the Discovery Channel, the History Channel, Sesame Street, and Skinamax, there's nothing else today's youth needs to know or will ever learn.

I would also mandate a more equitable school tax distribution plan similar to the Robin Hood Plan in my home state, which will go unnamed. In my version, rich white school districts will choose between academic funding, or funding their football teams. Basketball will remain untouched.

3. Economics - Instead of letting any of them run the state, I will write and direct a new string of movies starring Gary Coleman, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Ariana Huffington. They'll be the new Brat Pack of the Millenium - the "Crap Pack", if you will. A movie will be released every year, with all proceeds going to supplement the state's coffers. Furthermore, I will advocate the annexation of Canada and the enslavement of all Canadians. Canadian tax dollars will finally pay for something more than wolverine control, a military force that will never get used, and subsidizing further Bryan Adams albums.

4. Reparations - Fans of the Clippers, the Warriors, and the Dodgers shall receive official apologies and reparations. Dozens of years of systematic, institutionalized repression will finally be redressed.

Finally, I will have the most skilled, yet hot group of advisors, commissioners, press secretaries, and henchwomen ever assembled since the 1985 film "Octopussy."

In this brief, two-month race, I will be competing against some great individuals, though they're all a bunch of opportunistic jerks and sideshow freaks. Schwarzenegger has taken the populist approach, claiming to appeal to the "man in the street". Well, today I say to you, "Who cares? What the hell is the man doing in the street, anyway? Get out of the street, you idiot. Geez."

Then there's Ariana Huffington. Woof. I mean, really. Come on.

So, let the word go out from this time and place today. Ask not what you can do for your state, but ask what you can do for me. I have, or have had, a dream. But it's not relevant right now. I call on all Californians today, tomorrow, even yesterday, to step up and make a choice for their future. I'm making the call. Granted, it's collect, but the phone's ringing. Will you answer it? Or will you screen it? Answer the damn phone, people - it's your new Governor calling.

Thank you.

"Make no mistake, when the president says go -- look out, it's hammer time," Vice Adm. Timothy J. Keating said aboard the USS Constellation. "It is hammer time. We are going to make the world safer for our children and our grandchildren."

Attending troops, wearing huge, baggy black and gold-lame hazmat suits, applauded and woofed loudly. Wolf Blitzer completely missed the cultural reference, though Peter Jennings nodded thoughtfully and muttered, "Word." MC Hammer could not be reached to confirm whether or not he had personally decreed the onset of Hammer Time, though Emmanuel Lewis took a message.

Other military and political leaders on both sides quickly followed the Vice Admiral's lead, in an apparent effort to raise support among the powerful MTV demographic.

In a statement early Wednesday morning, Defense Secretary Colin Powell pointed out that the US has maintained an active and aware presence in the region, and was prepared for anything the environment might offer. "Don't call it a comeback, we've been here for years. It is getting hot in herre, but if there's a problem, yo, we will solve it," Secretary Powell said. "I am personally rolling in a different capacity then I was during Desert Storm, but I still expect to provide considerable input. I am, essentially, still Colin from the block."

In Baghdad, Saddam Hussein reviewed his elite Republic Guard, saying, "When I look upon the fine and noble fighting force prepared to defend the proud sovereignty of Iraq, I get sprung. For reals. Our cause is legitimate, completely, in the eyes of God. We are too legit to quit." When asked where he would be awaiting the attack, Hussein declined to be specific. "Hotel, motel, Holiday Inn... I cannot say. I will not, however, be bullied into leaving my peeps by American-puppet UN Security Council resolutions. The UNSC won't let me be or let me be me so let me see, they tried to shut me down in the UNSC, but it feels so empty without me..."

Meanwhile, Iraqi Foreign Minister and Bride of Frankenstein look-alike Tariq Aziz will be appearing later today on MTV's Total Request Live, introducing the inclusion of Justin Timberlake into the very exclusive Axis of Evil.