Did BUZZ ALDRIN really ignite the LEM engine by putting a felt tip marker in the rocker switch? As a kid in The Loo I was outraged by the ROCKWELL deal in California, and now I'm outraged about California. Where are the old Apollo guys? They're just like the Thousand Oaks cops—never around when you need them.
Given all of the tinkers, tailors, soldiers, spies, and scummy deefense contractors staying at the Maf-IA La Quinta [I just went outside to holler at military helicopters—why all of the noise?] are just sitting around waiting for a Neo-Nazi's black German built car to hit me, let's hit below the RICHARD HELMS BURNBAG belt as I seek 72 hours of detention on the real cuckoos—kind of like poor O.J.'s “real killers.”
Once upon a time, a man was on a bus. He sat in a seat facing the front of the bus. On a seat facing toward the center aisle of the bus sat a pretty young woman with a few pimples on her face and a gap in her teeth like David Letterman's. The man knew this because the girl smiled right away. Cornell kids of the 1980's called this “facetime.” “Good morning,” said the man in response to a rare for Thousand Oaks smile. “I was going to cash the cans in,” said the girl, “but they aren't open yet.” “You can just ride the bus around, I like to do that,” said the man. Then a strange thing happened. When the man thought, “I wonder if she is spying on me, and the can collecting bit is because of the character in my short story I sent to Harper Collins.” With that thought, the girl turned and smiled.
The man thought, “That's strange, it's like she knows what I'm thinking without the delay of the devices.” The man then looked up at the mind reading devices on the ceiling of the bus. This caused the girl to giggle a bit. “Oh my God, can this one read my mind without the devices?,” the man wondered. The girl turned and smiled. After some chitchat with the bus driver, the man thought, “Okay let's test this...girl, you can flat-out read my mind, can't you?” And yes, she turned, and smiled again.
“Wow! Don't do anything bad with that skill,” thought the man. At that moment she smiled another near-angelic smile and giggled once more. At the Trans Center, the bus driver got off, and predictably sleazy guys were everywhere. The man thought, “Oh great, this is where he goes in the office and gets his little signal on whether I die or not for figuring out what this girl can do. During the wait, the man and girl said nothing, as if awaiting the outcome of a contest.
The man could not help sourly reviewing the fact that the mind reading devices and satellites they bounce data off of are made with technologies he owns, and may have gathered all of his thoughts and those of the young woman, so this “stranger” was no longer a stranger, since, as is said in the world of sports, they were “On the bubble” together. While the man couldn't read minds, he was sure the woman felt the same way.
When the driver returned, he passed the “code” by simply asking the girl, “Where do you want to go?” “To the high school,” she said. To spies, “high school” is some sort of code. And I don't have a job? No, not yet, but I am the man in the story, and I am running for president.
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