Short Story: Take a Trip To The Temple Of The Great Tomato

Jimmy Jenkins Jr. is not an adventurer, traveler, or pioneer. Far from it, Jimmy has had the same job, in the same office for 15 years. He's got about 2 years of holiday time built up because he never, and I mean never, goes anywhere, not even to the Coast for a day in the sun. He works very hard, is an amicable fellow, but is single, 39 years old, and boring. Boring is this guy's middle name. I don't think he has any hobbies and he never has anything interesting to say, just small talk, and the obligatory work speeches. I wanted to crack this man's shell of monotony and blandness, but how?

You see I'm the complete opposite to Jimmy, his antithesis, and yin to his yang, black to his white. I live for excitement. I live to travel. Beaches, festivals, treks, foreign food, culture, nature, historic sites, and shopping in unfamiliar lands are what make my blood run, my spirit fly, and my heart beat faster than the speed of light. I just had to wake up this man from his static, stagnant existence. I mean there could be nothing unknown about this guy; everything was right in your face, out in the open.

Well, before I began my "Crack Jimmy's shell challenge", I had more important things to do, like get the hell out of there. The famous La Tomatino Festival in Spain was about to happen and I had rigorously organized my trip on the Internet. It's truly amazing the amount of information and help you can get from all the traveling web sites. I like to be organized and prepared for all eventualities that might happen. My air tickets and hotel were booked in advance, and I got all the 'juice' on visas, currency, and transportation (train from Valencia to Bunol-$3.00!) from the Net. I've printed off maps of the city and town, got lists of all the famous attractions, nightspots, and the best restaurants for that authentic paella experience.

So anyway, the weekly festivals were in full motion and I was having the time of my life. A feeling of impending excitement was pervading the air as everyone was getting ready for the culmination of the festival- the biggest food fight in the world. 125 tonnes of tomatoes to be turned into human ketchup in just two hours! No one knows exactly why the tradition began back in the 1950's, but it has become a bit of a religious occasion for those who worship the Temple of the Great Tomato, nah, it's actually Christian. Doesn't matter much to me, I just wanted to be part of the chaos-I even wore a white suit. People say this is a metaphorical attempt at suicide, but I'm always up for a challenge!

Here we go! The battle began. The air turned red, people going berserk at the height of excitement. It seems the white suit wasn't the best idea. I got hammered. Total pulverization. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me as the tomato integrated itself into my soul. I lay on the ground, people running all around me yelling and screaming in Spanish. I looked up through the ketchup dripping thickly off of my eyelids. That's when my mind was totally blown away into oblivion, never to be the same again. Standing in front of me smiling, throwing handfuls of squished tomatoes was none other than Jimmy Jenkins Jr. He bent over, looked me straight in the eye and said,

"Richard Woodward, fancy meeting you here."

I stuttered in astonishment, but no comprehensible words came out. Either the shock or the tomatoes in my mouth were creating the problem. Jimmy spoke again, his smile as wide as a tomato-mad maniac,

" Let me let you in on a bit of secret Richard. I know you won't give me away. You see buddy, I've got an identical brother. We make it look like we're always working for the company, always on time, always there. But in reality we're sharing one man's life and when the other man is at work, the other is traveling the world having huge vacations and partying like mad. It really is hard when it's my turn to go to the office and act so incredibly boring and predictable. Pretty cool eh?"

He then lifted a giant (what looked like a genetically altered) tomato and screaming a tribal yell, smashed it into my face. He then laughed and ran into the tomato-red sunset leaving me 'bloody' and bewildered.

About The Author

Jesse S. Somer

<a href="http://M6.Net" target="_new">M6.Net</a>

<a href="http://www.m6.net" target="_new">http://www.m6.net</a>

Jesse S. Somer is a space-traveling human hoping to show his fellow Earth-dwellers the hidden opportunities found in the Internet.

New Orleans First to Experience Housing Bubble Burst

Are we starting to see the Housing Bubble Burst in the wake of Hurricane Katrina? In New Orleans many homeowner's had their equity literally washed away. They are upside down in negative equity and basically underwater. It appears that the New Orleans Housing marker has gone down the drain. New Orleans experienced significant growth in the past year, prices had increased; many had taken out second loans to pay off credit car debt, which helped fuel the economy there. Relatively few need their credit cards for recent shopping sprees, as they just broke in with a little help from their friends and took those few items they needed for survival. You know like a; Surround-A-Sound System, with HDTV, 64&quot; Flat Panel Display to watch your favorite local team the Saints.

Yes the market is flooded with homes for sale in the City New Orleans indeed. Some of these fine homes are not only very cheap now, but they come with the former residents still inside. The local economic development association director issues a recent statement that he and his staff are very optimistic about the future of the New Orleans real estate and that they do not see a dry period in the housing market there. In addition they indicated that New Orleans has a lot going for it; water rates are cheap with an abundant supply and sewage is not a problem also quite abundant. But that is not all. They touted their many shopping districts with rock bottom prices, so low in fact it was almost like stealing and the city at this point is not even charging sales tax, almost like a duty free shopping spree. Crime and community services are also not a problem and are both abundant and non-existent. Transportation is not a problem there is virtually no traffic at all. Think about the New Orleans housing market, get in on the ground floor while prices are cheap.

"Lance Winslow" - If you have innovative thoughts and unique perspectives, come think with Lance; <a target="_new" href="http://www.WorldThinkTank.net/wttbbs">http://www.WorldThinkTank.net/wttbbs</a>

Bed Bugs Bite

I just turned on the news a minute ago and wondered why there weren't news flashes regarding when -- and perhaps where -- people are turning on the news. Sometimes it is a slow news week, and there's not much to read in Newsweek, so maybe this could take up some space. I think that's how Neptune got there...

What I am really wondering, though, is how bed bugs got their reputation. Don't worry, there is no need to inspect your bed spread, although I heard the spread does improve the taste of toast. But I've been thinking for at least 32 seconds about the history of bed bugs and why they are among the most feared creatures in the world, and possibly in the universe, assuming that other worlds have beds. Think about it. We don't tell people, "Don't let the rabid dogs bite" or "Don't let the spiders bite" unless we're in the White House, in which case all warnings are figurative anyway. Everywhere else the line a person hears before sleeping is "Don't let the bed bugs bite," as if bed bugs are worse than the nightmare the person will likely have anyway...

I feel sorry for that sucker who was actually bitten by a bed bug, because he can't shrug off the warning like the rest of us can. In fact, he's the reason we use the statement to begin with:

Victim: Well, I'm tired. I'm going to bed.

Victim's Acquaintance: Be careful in there. You remember what happened the last time you went to bed, right?

Victim: Yeah, yeah, I remember.

Victim's Acquaintance: Well, don't let the bed bugs bite. Not again.

I just hope there's no worldwide phenomenon of people being bitten by all kinds of animals while sleeping, because that's just too many things to list while wishing someone a good night. And just imagine if a person was bitten by a sheep while sleeping. That would throw the whole sleeping process for such a complete loop that we'd all probably just stay awake forever. Think about how stale the Fruit Loops would get...

In between the previous paragraph and this one I decided to take a few minutes to do some research. After all, research can save lives, and the typical reader checks out this column to have his or her life saved -- or maybe it's to read about lime Life Savers. Regardless, I've read that bed bugs are commonly found in homes that have bats in the attic. Now, I know what you're thinking: "That's good to know. I'll go to the attic right away to get rid of those darn bats." But don't act so quickly! Remember: those bats are protecting your old boxes, including your Yahtzee game. So slow down and think before you do something you'll regret in a day or two...

It is said that a room with bed bugs typically has a distinct odor. Furthermore, black spots may be found on sheets, or there may even be small blood stains that are evident. So before you blame your crazy aunt for coming over to your house and leaving a trail of her own blood, understand that she probably never made it past the attic after her entrance through the chimney. The same applies to Santa Claus, I'd imagine...

Since bed bugs are nocturnal, they hide in dark places during the day before feeding at night. Placing glow-sticks all over your house, so that there is no dark crevice, will assure that these creatures will seek a house more conducive to their ways, although this other house is probably not nearly as well-decorated. Realize that bed bugs feed on wild birds, in addition to domestic animals, bats, and humans. So pretending to be a wild bird all day isn't your best escape, unless you are a wild bird, in which case it's good you aren't afraid to be yourself. And I thank you, wild bird, for reading...

Bed bugs are most commonly found in old rooms and hotels, as well as in places which are considered unsanitary. Something tells me, though, that if you are living somewhere unsanitary, you have other issues besides bed bugs, such as the fact that you are sleeping in your own filth. This aside, the best way to not let the bed bugs bite, wherever you live, seems to be ignoring their existence. When they hear, "Don't let the bed bugs bite," their obvious reaction will be one of the following:

a) Hey, they're acknowledging us, but in a negative way. Let's go do some serious biting.

b) I hope no one has caught on to our Yahtzee fetish in the attic, especially those darn bats.

So by not giving the warning, and using some other bedtime greeting instead, you're saving yourself in the process. You see, the purpose of this column is not to stop you from getting a good night's sleep, because we all know that's what fire trucks and crickets are for. Instead, please take this column as a warning that bed bugs do exist, and you know what? They're a lot like news flashes. That's right -- they come when you're watching late-night television, and they leave you with an empty feeling after they take some of your blood. Yes, exactly like news flashes, yes...

But I digress.

Greg Gagliardi is a teacher and writer. His stream-of-consciousness weekly humor column, "Progressive Revelations," has been ongoing since 1998. (<a target="_new" href="http://www.ProgressiveRevelations.com"http://www.ProgressiveRevelations.com/a>)

Playing Go-Between in the Digital Age

NOTE: This article was originally published in May 2000 at *spark-online.com when my grandmother was alive. I came across the link from my Web site and, after debating whether or not to change anything, decided to leave it. As Jadzia Dax said in STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE, "If you want to know who you are, it's important to know who you've been." Of course, Edna Mode in THE INCREDIBLES SAYS, "I never look back, dahling. It distracts from the now." So I won't look back, i.e. revise, and will present this essay as it originally appeared.

* * *

April 2000

"Anyone home?" My neighbor Nancy's yellow inner tube enters the house before she does. She holds up her bottle of iced tea in silent response to my offer of a cool drink. No one in 80-degree California desert weather would be without iced tea. Except for me. I still have my fourth cup of coffee in hand, waiting to burn my tongue the way the sidewalk outside does bare feet.

"I'm off to the pool to do my exercises," Nancy says. "But before I go, do I have any messages?"

I smile apologetically. "None of the grandkids have written."

Nancy stands there, face puckered in an oddly stoic expression. "None of them? Didn't they get my e-mails?"

"There's no way to tell."

"They did before. They wrote me back."

I nod. "They're probably just busy." Nancy has at least seven grandchildren scattered across North America. One of the girls is reportedly backpacking in Europe right now. The rest of them are all in college.

She shakes her head slowly. "So much for 'If you had e-mail, we'd write you more often.'"

"Do you want to send them anything?"

"Nah. I have to go do my exercises." Nancy maneuvers around with the inner tube. She pats me on the shoulder. "Thanks anyway."

"I'll come get you if there's anything in my mailbox," I say before I head back to my home office. Sitting down at my keyboard, I ignore the sun shining off the palm trees and once again check Outlook Express. E-mail from my mother. Offers from Amazon.com. The e-mail newsletters I tell myself I don't have time to read.

Nothing from Nancy's grandchildren. I call up their addresses, cut and paste them into the TO line, then proceed to type: "Dear Kids, Your grandmother really wants to hear from you. She would be so tickled if you would write. Stay in school, have fun in Europe, nurse that ankle (whichever one of you is playing football), and keep warm! Love ya, Kristin."

I click Send, and get back to whatever I was doing before Nancy's visit. Hours later, I'm still checking my e-mail for Nancy, eager to tell her the new most-anticipated three words: "You've Got Mail!" I feel like the old switchboard operator in a small town, listening to everyone's business. An odd image, that, considering the vast computing power of the Internet.

Or maybe not. After all, hackers can get into your AOL or Microsoft Outlook Inbox and read all about your last fight with your mother, your latest campaign finance blunders (you know who you are), that you hate your boss, or your wild fantasies about Harrison Ford. Heck, your company and the government can read the same things, and I guarantee you they'll have less fun than the hackers.

Voyeurism: the final frontier. I could make a case for The Need for Connectedness in this Information Society. After all, E.M. Forster put it best: "Only connect." And e-mail is allowing us to reach people we wouldn't spend 33 cents, or a nickel a minute for the latest long distance plan, to talk to. It's easy, it's convenient, and as my neighbor says, "It's fun!" It allows us to feel the thrill of anticipation we used to feel when the mail carrier arrived. But that was before we became adults. The anticipation dulls when you know the mail will bring the electric bill, a solicitation for the Policeman's Ball, or a flyer titled "Have You Seen Me? Missing Children." All important, but not satisfying.

Think of writing a letter in ancient times, the thought in the act of writing. We still enjoy the passionate love letters of Napoleon and Josephine, Abelard and Heloise. It is a glimpse into someone's life we never knew.

There is something appealing about connecting this woman, who volunteers for the Red Cross and hesitates to buy a computer, with her grandkids. I am not just the letter-writer or the secretary. I am part of the connection.

Days later, still no word from the kids. I write them another letter: "Dear Kids, Your grandmother needs you! If you're worrying about her bothering me, don't. Please write to her. Only a few minutes of your time and I won't tell your parents all the things she's told me, things she would never tell your folks. What can I say, she's an incredible woman."

I'm not bluffing. I know how to find their parents. And I think they know I know. The next day, I get an answer from one of the girls: "Dear Kristin, How many things have you done that you didn't want your parents to know about?" (More than she has.) "Get on with your life and let us get on with ours. Some of us have midterms. I don't mean to sound rude. I love my grandmother. Sometimes I just get?busy. Tell her I'll call her."

I'll call. And that reminds me: When was the last time I called someone instead of just writing an e-mail? Or actually sent a card? In my memories box are two dozen typewritten letters, liberally splashed with White-Out and full of mistakes, many crossed out with X's. Several of these are writing critiques. The writer, my master's thesis final project advisor Ben Masselink -- former Marine, novelist, screenwriter, columnist and teacher -- died in January. If my house caught on fire and I had to save one item, it wouldn't be my Gateway laptop. It would be those letters, as well as every card I've ever received. Some of them are from people I rarely see. And yes, all the printed e-mails I saved.

E-mail is great, e-mail is wonderful. But it's what's behind e-mail that makes it great.

Nancy knocks on the door with her inner tube. "Anyone home?"

I smile and say, "You've got mail."

Movie reviewer/screenwriter Kristin Johnson composes personalized poems, speeches, toasts, vows, and family memories. Visit <a target="_new" href="http://www.poemsforyou.com">http://www.poemsforyou.com</a> to order your personalized memories. She is also co-author of the Midwest Book Review "enthusiastically recommended" pick Christmas Cookies Are For Giving: Stories, Recipes and Tips for Making Heartwarming Gifts (ISBN: 0-9723473-9-9). A downloadablemedia kit is available at our Web site, <a target="_new" href="http://www.christmascookiesareforgiving.com">http://www.christmascookiesareforgiving.com</a>, or e-mail the publisher (info@tyrpublishing.com) to receive a printed media kit and sample copy of the book. More articles available at <a target="_new" href="http://www.bakingchristmascookies.com">http://www.bakingchristmascookies.com</a>

Wanted: Treadmill for an Elephant

Maggie, the 22 year-old African elephant, has been a resident of the Alaska Zoo since 1983. The Zoo recently decided that Maggie needs nicer quarters, more attention, and a treadmill. She weighs 9,100 pounds and does not get enough exercise, especially during the long Alaskan winter months.

Alaska Zoo officials debated this past year about whether to keep Maggie. She has been the only elephant in the zoo since 1997 when her companion of 14 years, Annabelle, died. Some experts believe that in order to be healthy and happy a zoo elephant should be part of a small herd of 3 or more.

The Zoo's elephant committee decided that the risks of moving Maggie out of state and of totally changing her life were too great. Besides, she seems happy here and she has a familiar &quot;herd&quot; in Alaska already. Numerous Zoo officials, animal handlers and exercisers, and familiar frequent visitors spend many hours a day with her.

In order to increase Maggie's comfort and health, zoo officials decided to give Maggie's living quarters softer flooring and better ventilation. Zoo staff will also increase the number of hours that they spend with Maggie from 8 hours daily to 12 to 16 hours daily.

Finally, the Zoo will help Maggie get more year-round exercise and lose weight. They will purchase an elephant-sized treadmill. However, nobody has ever designed or built an elephant treadmill. Designs are being developed now, but if you have any good ideas bring them forward.

Then stand in line behind me to watch Maggie work out on her new treadmill.

Can you imagine the elephant-sized headphones and iPod that she'll need?

*****************************

Garry Gamber is a public school teacher and entrepreneur. He writes articles about real estate, health and nutrition, and internet dating services. He is the owner of <a target="_new" href="http://www.Anchorage-Homes.com">http://www.Anchorage-Homes.com</a> and <a target="_new" href="http://www.TheDatingAdvisor.com">http://www.TheDatingAdvisor.com</a>.

Not Your Average Sunday Morning

Just recently my ex-husband stopped in to visit during his vacation. In the course of small talk, a few old memories usually crop up in the conversation. One that instantly came to mind was the day our second son was born.

It was early Sunday morning on a crisp day in the middle of May when I was awakened from my sleep by what I knew to be labor pains. Since it was my second pregnancy I was not alarmed. I already had one child so I felt like an old pro. I knew it was early labor and I had plenty of time before heading off to the hospital. I decided to let my husband, Jim, sleep a little longer. After all, there was no need to awaken him yet.

I slipped quietly out of bed and went to the bathroom to relieve the pressure from my heavily burdened bladder. After washing my hands and face, I brushed my teeth then went into the kitchen to make the morning coffee. I poured myself a steaming cup, retrieved the newspaper from the side porch, then sat down at the kitchen table to look over the headlines. After glancing at the morning news, I poured myself a second cup of coffee and slipped quietly back into the bedroom to get dressed. Jim was still sleeping soundly. I took my already packed overnight bag from the closet and carried it to the living room. I placed it beside the door so that we could just grab it when we were ready to leave. Then I returned to the kitchen to make breakfast for Jim.

My sixteen month old son was spending the weekend with my husband's mother and stepfather. My mother-in-law, Eileen, had insisted on keeping him since she just knew I would go into labor during the weekend. She calculated this prediction due to the fact that I was six days past my due date. After placing the scrambled eggs and sausage links on the plate, I went into the bedroom to wake Jim up, who was still snoring peacefully.

"Morning honey," I said as I kissed him on the forehead. "Get up. Breakfast is ready."

"Morning babe," Jim replied. He sat up, ran his hand through his dishwater blonde hair then stumbled to the kitchen table. He didn't bother to get dressed and since it was only the two of us, I figured it was okay for him to eat in his underwear.

The contractions were getting stronger. My husband gobbled down his food then headed for the bathroom. (No. It wasn't the effects of my cooking!) As I cleaned off the table, I felt the grasp of a contraction, then a sudden warmth of fluid. I leaned against the sink. Jim came out of the bathroom looking relieved but that only lasted momentarily. Glancing over at him, I said, "It's time. My water broke."

"Oh God!," he said. "I have to find a ride. I have to get you to the hospital. (Our car was in the shop for repairs at the time.)

"Calm down," I said. "We have time."

"Time!," my husband shouted. "What time is it? Oh God! I have to catch Lisa before she goes to church." And with that said, he took off out the side door and down the steps. I followed him to the porch. "Honey," I called. "Jim," I yelled, but he was already gone. All I could do was laugh and hope that none of the neighbors called the police on the tall, slender man running down the street in his white Fruit of the Loom briefs!

Lisa was my husband's cousin. She and her husband lived down at the end of our street. I've never been quite sure why Jim ran to her house instead of calling her. It must have just been his first reaction. Although the contractions were stronger now I couldn't hold back from laughing when Jim returned. He was wearing a pair of pants that were entirely too short and he had to hold them tightly around his waist to keep them from falling down. He looked hysterical! It reminded me of the episode from the old Dick Van Dyke show when Laura went in labor! I insisted he change pants before we left for the hospital. Lisa had given Jim the keys to her car and told him to drive carefully. We had two stops to make before going to the hospital - to pick up our mothers. They both wanted to be there and I figured my husband could use their support.

We arrived at my mother's house first. She jumped in the car so quickly I wasn't really sure the vehicle had come to a complete stop. It wasn't until we reached my mother-in-law's home that we realized my mother was still in her nightgown! We all exited the car and went into the house in hopes that my mother-in-law could provide my mother with something more appropriate to wear. While I was in the kitchen talking with my husband's stepfather, we heard a car going down the driveway. Looking out the window, we realized that Jim and his passengers had left for the hospital - without me! My mother had grabbed a bathrobe from a hook on the inside of the bathroom door to cover her nightgown. My mother-in-law left with one side of her head still rolled in foam curlers and the other side displaying loose, bouncy curls. And the three of them were off!

They actually didn't realize they had forgotten me until they arrived at the hospital. Luckily for me, the hospital was only a few minutes away. Yes, they did return, pick me up and deliver me safely to the hospital. Shortly afterward, I delivered a healthy seven pound fourteen ounce son. Mother and child were fine. But I think my husband and our mothers were a little worse for wear!

Darlene Zagata is a freelance writer and columnist for the print publication Moon Shadows Magazine. She is also the author of "Aftertaste: A Collection of Poems" and "The Choosing." Her work has been published extensively both online and in print. For more information visit her website at <a target="_new" href="http://darlenezagata.tripod.com">http://darlenezagata.tripod.com</a> or contact Darlene at <a href="mailto:darzagata@yahoo.com">darzagata@yahoo.com</a>

Sell [Your] Phones

Today while driving I saw a young girl, probably around 11 years old, on a cell phone. She was walking along the side of the street talking to someone, and I couldn't help but think that maybe she was talking to someone across the street because she wasn't allowed to cross it. Whatever the reason, though, there is something about an 11-year-old on a cell phone that legitimately scares me, and it has nothing to do with the fact that she is probably getting more calls than I am...

I always (for the past five minutes) thought it would be interesting if the transmissions from cell phones could be visible, so that I could look out the window right now and see all the words that are being passed from one phone to another. Another added plus of the words being visible is that I could reach into the air and take away the ones that I don't like, therefore completely changing people's conversations. With me controlling the airwaves, people would never use cell phones again, and we would no longer have to worry about walking down the street and being hit with a &quot;hello,&quot; or a &quot;goodbye,&quot; or a &quot;he needs to stop messing with my mother's wounded llama,&quot; the latter of which would be a sentence that I formed based on stealing certain key words from zookeepers' conversations...

I always wondered - as has everyone - what it is like when two zookeepers got together. Do they act like party animals? Maybe go ape? If two zookeepers are reading this column simultaneously, I think an e-mail is in order. But I will only read this correspondence if both zookeepers have equal say in the wording...

Back to my complaints about cell phones, though. If I am unable to control the words soaring through the air, I would at least like to take a visit to a central satellite which serves as the basis for cellular conversations. I am thinking that if I point the satellite in a different direction, this would cause each person to call people they normally would never call, like the kid in homeroom who said he'll &quot;keep in touch,&quot; or that telemarketer you said you'd get back to at some point. Better yet, perhaps I can point the satellite in the direction that forces each person to only call his or her own phone, which would be a useful concept in the Dakotas, where there aren't a lot of people to converse with anyway...

With this accomplished, I'd also like to set up a pen pal system amongst the residents of North and South Dakota. I don't necessarily think they should send letters to each other, but I believe they should trade pens on a weekly basis. This kind of sharing will prove valuable in the unity of the states, as well in the general maintenance of ink and the management thereof...

Such a program will be coordinated by an 11-year-old on a cell phone...

But I digress.

Greg Gagliardi is a teacher and writer. His stream-of-consciousness weekly humor column, "Progressive Revelations," has been ongoing since 1998. (<a target="_new" href="http://www.ProgressiveRevelations.com">http://www.ProgressiveRevelations.com</a>)