The Very Inspiring Blogger Award

We've got a winner!

Carrie Bailey is perhaps the most inspiring person I've never met.

That is, never met in person. 

I know Carrie Bailey through the Internet, Facebook, and Twitter. In her 30 plus years of life she has lived on multiple continents, raised a son to adulthood, authored short stories and poems, become a painter, and earned a graduate degree in New Zealand. During that same period of time, what I have done is put down the clicker, stand up, and go from the den to the kitchen for snacks.

Carrie has been kind enough to tag me for the highly coveted Very Inspiring Blogger Award, and I must say that I am truly delighted to walk off with an award this year that even Michael Keaton didn't get. Thank you, Carrie.

As part of the gestalt of winning this award, it is now incumbent upon me to share seven facts about myself.  Some of what follows may not be suitable for children or for that matter, suitable for anyone.

1) I was born and raised a Buddhist and went to Buddhist School until I was 13 to prepare for the Coming-of-Age Buddhist Ritual, in which you get a lot of presents. To this day, older Buddhist women are constantly coming up to me and saying "Have I got a nice Buddhist girl for you!"

2) I regularly fill in for Bruce Wayne as Batman on weekends and holidays, but mainly I just hand out parking tickets and pose for pictures with Cameron Diaz. 

3) I did successfully get though law school many years ago (there were far fewer laws back then) but my legal career began its rapid downhill slide when I identified "jurisprudence" on the Bar Exam as "some chick who came over on the Mayflower."

4) I am deathly afraid of spiders.  Many people say I should appreciate spiders because they eat other bugs. Well, I'm rooting for the other bugs!

5) I have always wanted to be referred to as "The Lovely and Talented Perry Block."

6)  I am terrified of sharp knives. I have spent the better part of the last twenty years attempting to develop food with zippers.

7) I have scoliosis (curvature of the spine). But on the bright side I charge Zorro a ton of money to use my back for practicing the "Sign of the Z." 

Bonus Fact: I'm not particularly good at parallel parking.  I have been known to be unable to pull into spaces Godzilla has just vacated.

As I begin the glorious year ahead as A Very Inspiring Blogger, I will keep in mind that if I cannot complete my duties for any reason whatsoever --- and not just the ones that involve people pointing at me and giggling --- the first runner up will take over the responsibilities of my crown. Therefore I am designating the entire list of folks below as first runner-ups.

They are also not coincidentally those folks I am personally tagging as Very Inspiring Bloggers.  They need feel no obligation to designate other people as inspiring bloggers if they prefer not to, because I have that power!

Russell Gayer - Very funny & that's why I hate him
Janet Webb -  Sensitive & poetic 
Alicia Jamtass - Unique takes on life
Amy Reese - Quirky & original

I might have named many more, especially among the flash fiction group known as the Friday Fictioneers, but I must begin my reign. I plan to do some major league inspiring later today.

But first, I'm gonna get me a nap.

This is where Carrie Bailey comes from.  
I'll be posting a picture of where I come from with the
 above ground pool and clothesline soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Break Up

I knew it was time. 

It had to end. I had to face it, and I had to act.

I called Carrie Bailey, the hot 32 year old woman I'd now known for two years,  and asked her to meet me in that favorite corner cafe we both loved so much.

"Perry, lunch was such a nice surprise," said Carrie.  "Is there something on your mind?"

"Dearest Carrie," I began nervously, 'I need to tell you something."

"Yes, Perry?" Carrie asked sympathetically.

"For quite some time now, I've ... umm, err ...  been having fantasies in which you and me have sex.  Wild passionate uninhibited sex. "

"Gosh, Perry," Carrie fumbled,  a bit embarrassed, "I'm ... I'm kind of flattered, I guess. But you don't have to tell me this."  

"Yes, I do, Carrie," I said.  "Because the thing is ....  I'm breaking up with your fantasy!" 

"I ... I  beg your pardon?" 

"I'm breaking up with your fantasy.  Thinking about sex with you just doesn't do it for me anymore."

"What?  Why?" 

"Well, frankly you're starting to look a little older to me.  I'm seeing wrinkles, you're not as fresh faced as you used to be, and honestly Carrie, you could afford to drop a few pounds."

"Wait a minute! Are you trying to tell me that ..."

"That's right:  It's not me, it's you."  

"But why don't you have me doing something new to you? I could give you one hell of a fantasy ...." 

"It's no use, you've done that!  You and me have done just about anything and everything, and still there's nothing happening down below!"

"I can't believe it!  You  can't mean it!"

"Carrie, I'm sorry but I have to break up with your fantasy."

"Well, I'm not accepting this fantasy breakup!  You call me here and tell me you're not going to fantasize sex with me anymore and I'm supposed to take it?!!  No way, mister!!!" 

"But, Carrie, be reasonable ..." 

"Are you fantasizing about someone else?  Who the hell is she, the bitch!  Are you thinking about boffing her right now?!!"

"That doesn't matter, Carrie, the thing is ...."

"How could you, you two-timing bastard?! Your fantasy breakup has ruined my life!!!"

For days after, Carrie was furious and wouldn't speak to me.  Then one day she showed up at my doorstep.

"Perry, there's only one answer," she said. "We need to have actual sex."

And we did.  And it was wonderful!

The only thing is, this last part didn't happen; it's my new Carrie Bailey fantasy.  And it works great!

Breaking up is hard to do. 

And fortunately for me and Fantasy Carrie Bailey, we didn't have to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fare thee well, Fantasy Carrie ...

If you liked this post, you might also like Like Sex for Chocolate, Pulling a Willard, and Directress of My Dreams.

If you hated this post, I hope your fantasy girlfriend dumps you and runs off with your fantasy best friend, and I hope he's me!
  

You Can Drink All the Liquor, Part III

Are you ready for the country?

Just one more day and I'm off with son Brandon to the Central American nation paradise known as Costa Rica!

Am I ready in body, mind, and spirit? Well,  frankly I'm about as ready as Snooki is to star in a West End production of Coriolanus. 

I've not been on vacation for five years.  My bathing suits have cuffs.  My suitcase is so old it doesn't even have wheels despite the fact that wheels had already been invented when I bought it.  I haven't been on a plane since the movie they were showing was National Treasure.   Even Nicholas Cage makes fun of that.

So it's time at last to get my act together because I'm taking it on the road. And it's a  pretty long road, with a stopover in Charlotte North Carolina to boot.

First, I need to attend to my toiletries. I require medication for nausea, constipation, diarrhea, malaria, weltschmerz,  performance anxiety (in my case, anxiety that I'll never get the opportunity to perform), and fear of being seated next to Ted Nugent. 

I must also pack an extra pair of contact lenses and all the various shampoos, conditioners,  root lifters, and other Hair Helper products I use to create the illusion of hair in gullible people. Through a mix of prescription and over-the-counter drugs and various and sundry sundries, I will become a flying Rite-Aid.  All that's missing is a flying pharmacist. 

Then, there's the matter of clothing.  Virtually everything you wear has to be sprayed with something called DEET to protect it from being dive-bombed by Costa Rican insects the size of Kirstie Alley.  It is important to follow the instructions on the can label which warn you to never EVER let the spray contact your skin or you will rapidly dissolve like Nosferatu touched by the first rays of early morning sunlight.  Curiously enough, nothing on the label promises that it will work half as well on the big ass bugs seeking to establish military beachheads on your butt.

To protect the top of my head from burning like the most resolute and unrepentant  sinner in a painting by Hieronymous Bosch, I'll also need a floppy broad-brimmed hat and a boldly colorful bandanna. Coupled with the new sunglasses I bought several weeks ago, I'm sure to strike the image of the far and away least cool 60 plus year old rock star ever to be written up in Wikipedia.

Finally there's the experience of a Central America sojourn itself.  Just imagine:  Me - someone who feels like he's returned to the state of nature whenever I have to fetch a wiffle ball out of the neighbor's azaleas - communing with over 10,000 indigenous species of flora and fauna  in the rain forests of Costa Rica.

I'm actually pretty cool with respect to virtually all of that flora and fauna except for two types of fauna you may have heard something less than favorable about over the years known as crocodiles and snakes.  Fortunately the guidebooks all say that visitors to Costa Rica should be just fine as long as they avoid those areas in Costa Rica in which crocodiles and snakes are known to congregate, those areas being more specifically described as Costa Rica.

Luckily my friend Carrie Bailey,  a wise and experienced world traveler, has been helping me to overcome these anxieties. Carrie provides the kind of tough love that makes me want to work diligently to oust my fears despite the fact that my efforts to use our time together towards maneuvering her into bed have proven totally fruitless. Thanks to Carrie's wise ministrations, crocodiles and snakes will not give me to dread just as long as screaming aloud remains prominent on the itinerary.

And so, I bid adieu to my loyal readership (I believe your name is George) for just a little while.

One more thing:  I'd very much like to bring you all something back from Costa Rica.   If you think of it, please tweet me your T-shirt size.  I probably won't buy you one,  but I'll be very excited thinking about the T-shirt sizes of my women followers when I'm on the plane.

Okay, have a good couple of weeks.

I guess I'm ready ....    

 Yep!  I'm ready!

Man Up, Perry!

It's kind of hard for me to believe, but in slightly over a month I'll be in Costa Rica with my 17 year old son Brandon.

Ah, Costa Rica!  Land of  lush rain forests, beautiful beaches, exotic waterfalls,  ferocious alligators, venomous snakes, and spiders the size of Toby Maguire and Andrew Garfield!

Who am I kidding?  I wasn't designed for the gusto life.  I don't even watch the National Geographic Channel unless the lights are on.  And how am I going to keep up with a 17 year old? When I was 17 years old, Lyndon Johnson was in the White House and I was still wearing orthopedic shoes. 

One of the toughest people I know is writer Carrie Bailey (who tweets as @PeevishPenman),  so I decided to call her for some close-to-the-last minute inspiration and advice. 

"First thing you have to do is believe in yourself,"  said Carrie.

"What's the second thing?"

"The second thing is to stop thinking about yourself as a wimp!"

"But, Carrie, it's on my resume."

"You have to overcome this negativity!" said Carrie. "Build yourself up by focusing on something courageous you actually have done in your lifetime." 

That was easy for Carrie to say.  Less than half my age, Carrie had lived on three continents, single-handedly raised a child to near adulthood, and was now attending graduate school in New Zealand. Descended from a hardy Native American stock known as the Metis, Carrie was a'huntin' and a'fishin' and a'trappin' kind of person. 

By contrast, the only kind of person I am that begins with an apostrophe is a'kvetchin'. 

"I'm waiting," said Carrie. "Surely you've done one courageous thing in your life." 

"I'm flipping through my lifetime.  I'm up to where I'm getting beaten up by the fifth grade girls." 

"Aren't you forgetting something important?" 

"What?" 

"That time we were together in Paris,  you ... uh ... helped save the world." 

"Oh, that?  Everybody gets lucky once in a while."

"Perry, you can change your basic nature if you want to!  Haven't you ever read any existentialism?"

"Yes, but I was predestined not to believe in it." 

Carrie was clearly becoming a bit exasperated.

"Look, Perry," she went on, "I know there is more strength in you than you realize.  Whatever was in your past doesn't have to be your future.  Do one thing each day that scares you."

"I'll try," I said, "as long as it doesn't involve women with facial hair."  

"And don't tell me you're too old!  It's not too late.  It's never too late."

Carrie's words had finally gotten through.  It's good to have a friend who has faith in you even when you don't have it in yourself.  Maybe I can handle the gusto life.  Maybe --- given enough time and a bit of work on myself --- I can handle just about anything!

"Carrie ... thank you!"

"Don't mention it. It's what friends are for."

"Carrie?  One more thing?"

"Sure."

"If I truly do Man Up!, the next time the two of us get together, how 'bout you and me ...." 

"Then again maybe you are just a wimp!  Gotta go, enjoy your trip!"

 Y'know what?

 It's also good to have a friend who sees through your shit too!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Man Up, Perry!"
Carrie Bailey on the Beaches
 of New Zealand

Return of The Versatile Blogger Catch-All Category Award

It’s incredible! I still don’t believe it!

I want to pinch myself, but I’m not going to do that because I don’t want to give myself the wrong impression. I don’t even like me, let alone want to come on to me!

Several months back, I had the honor of winning the coveted Versatile Blogger ‘Non-Vampiric/Non-Ain’t our Family Wacky?' Catch-All Category Award presented to me by none other than master thesbian Meryl Streep at Santa Monica's Eggland's Best Eggs Center.*

It was indeed a magical moment when the two of us were together: America’s foremost actress and me, America’s second most foremost actress!

Following the presentation, Ms. Streep took me under her wing and --- except for the disgusting smell emanating from under that 6 foot feathery appendage growing above her left armpit --- I was enraptured and beguiled as we walked back stage hand in hand where she proceeded to beat me about the face and neck and make off with the Versatile Blogger statuette, surrendering it only after being felled by a flying tackle from fellow acting great Robert De Niro!

My trophy secured, I headed straight to the after party where I imbibed so much alcohol that fellow attendee Nucky Thompson of Boardwalk Empire hollered “temperance, man, temperance!” Next thing I knew I awoke in a circus trailer in Kansas City MI in full clown make-up and regalia, having apparently traveled throughout the Midwest for the past three and a half weeks under the name “Squiggles.”

As the scotch and soda haze subsided, however, I realized that I had sadly failed to complete my official duties as winner of this most coveted award and now must make amends. However, being Jewish and not handy, I had to hire an Italian man to make my amends for me.

So herewith I offer those amends --- thank you, Tony! --- and execute in full my remaining Versatile Blogwinning duties:

1. Share seven things about yourself. I fear this may be kind of boring because my life is so mundane my superego regularly falls asleep when it's supposed to be minding my id.  Nonetheless:

1) I have somewhat of an unusual hobby for a Jewish person. Weekends I’m a Catholic Priest.

2) I am deathly afraid of spiders. Whenever I find a spider in my house, I immediately call my realtor and put the house on the market. In the last ten years, I’ve moved 37 times!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Make that 38!

3) Warning: I brake for animists.

4) I have always wanted to be referred to as The Lovely and Talented Perry Block.

5) I believe we have been visited by super intelligent extraterrestrials. But, believe it or not,
they didn’t even bring a bottle of wine, and after five centuries they still haven’t left!

6) I think you’re cute!

7) They threw me out of the University of Heidelberg! They called me mad!

2. Give the award out to other bloggers that you think are fabulous, interesting and deserving. Here's where I ran into a little bit of trouble. I've met many great bloggers that I really enjoy and respect out there on the http://www/, and I didn't want to piss any of them off so they'd unfollow me!

So to everyone else I know and love that I didn’t pick, you are all first runners-up! If any of the winners should be unable to fulfill their official duties over the coming year, you will all be elevated to Miss Versatile Blogger Catch-all Category Award America!
 

And Now The Winners, and Everybody Hold Your Applause Until The End:

1) Out of Order Alice.

Make no mistake, folks, Marisa Birns --- Out of Order Alice herself --- is such a good writer, you won’t even want to get the Cliff’s Notes. Depth of character, rich atmospherics, and endings to make O. Henry smack his forehead that he didn’t think of them – Marisa masters it all and usually in 500 words or less.

Just read one of her stories; it’s like a Lay’s Potato Chip, you can’t read just one. And if I’m dating myself with that reference, you get the point anyway, Nimrod. This chick rocks!

If I had her talent and could write like her, you better believe I wouldn’t even talk to the likes of you. So c’mon and start reading Marisa before she decides not to talk to you either!

2) Peevish Penman. 

Peevish Penman is a compendium of short fiction, commentary, insights about writing, author interviews, and lots of other stuff that’s neat-o and groovy. In the words of site ringmaster Ms. Penman herself (Carrie Bailey), Peevish is an exercise in and about “futility, charming, international league of antiquarian booksellers, kumquat, mature, and octagon.” I couldn’t agree more.

A representative offering from the Pen of Peevish is The Nine Parts of Speech, an invaluable guide on optimal usage of the English language for writing excellence, which will simultaneously impart in you an intense appreciation for the talents of its inventive writer along with an equally intense longing to wash her mouth out with soap.

3) K.D. McCrite, Author.
K.D. McCrite, Author features the words of Kathaleen McCrite (a/k/a kd McCrite), a talented novelist and short story writer who has given birth (well, not literally, you idiot!) to one of the internet’s more intriguing characters in Mae B, the writer who doesn’t write.

That’s not oxymoronic. Mae B is a procrastinator and ditherer who knows she’ll achieve great things if only she could get around to stop procrastinating and dithering.

In other words, she’s just like every one of us, if a bit more colorful and acerbic. One of these days, Mae B. will shock the world and actually take pen in hand. Who knows what will come out? The tripe we expect? Or a masterpiece? Either way she’ll hopefully inspire us to sit down and do the same. Really good stuff, kd!

4) Gonepausal.
Gonepausal, with Gail Maria Forrest as major domo, is not so much a blog site as a full-scale cottage industry tending to the needs of those generations of women (and men) who would like to shave a year or two off their ages. (I need to shave an entire Zach Galifianakis off mine!)

Gail has a deep understanding of the hopes, dreams, and generally thwarted desires of those of us who’ve been coming around the mountain ever since the mountain first formed from volcanic rock. Whether serving up relationship insights for the gray-haired or clueing us in on the sex life of a post Ward-June Cleaver, Gonepausal should be required reading for any one of us who's ever looked in the mirror and wished we hadn’t.

It’s hard to fathom how Gail --- who is only 27 herself --- understands all us Boomers and other post 30-ites so well!

5) Melinda Roos --- Understanding the Human Condition.
Melinda Roos is a writer’s writer. I was going to say she is a writer’s writer’s writer, but you know what? That doesn’t make any sense!

What does make sense, however, is Melinda’s gift for inviting us to join her in reflections on the human condition and the simple yet energizing life experiences most of us seem to miss. Whether she’s writing about the intricacies of modern marriage or contemplating the miracle of riding a horse on a gray country morning, it’s difficult not to be transported into Melinda’s world, if only for a moment.

There’s one other thing you ought to know about Melinda. She loves the “rock group” ABBA! But before you gasp too loudly, maybe it’s just part of her overall love for life. And you don’t have to like ABBA to like and appreciate Understanding the Human Condition.

Congratulations to each and every one of you guys on winning The Versatile Blogger Award!

 Now, think there's any booze left at that after party?  

I hope so, because my superego's sound asleep and my id is in the clear!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* Not really. The Versatile Blogger Award, as it is in fact named, was actually given to me by author Julie Musil in her blog Writing and Blogging Between Carpools. Thank you again, Julie, for your kindness and your incredible lapse in judgment bordering on temporary insanity.

Coffee with Perry

Charmante, n'est-ce pas?

A lovely corner cafe, situated in the romantic and enchanting city of Paris France. What's more, the prospect of, ahem, coffee with me.

What could be better?

What's that? The only thing that wrecks the mood is that thing about coffee with ..... That's not nice!

How did all of this come about?

“Let’s pull a swap,” my friend Carrie Bailey, a very good writer, tweeted me one unsuspecting Sunday afternoon.
 

“Whatever could she mean?” I wondered. Oh, how I had longed to hear those words 20 years ago or so from at least a half dozen of my male friends!

But that was not her meaning, that much was clear. My life could never be that hot and kinky!

“What are we swapping?" I tweeted back. "Or are you still in the fur-trading business?"

Carrie had a hunter-trapper background, being a United Nations of ethnicities, most prominently Metis (an indigenous Canadian people) and Jewish (a highly indigenous to me people).

Bet you’re just waiting for a Jewish/Metis joke here, aren’t you, dude? Well, I’m sorry, in the time I allotted, I couldn’t think of one. Write your own damn joke!

“We are swapping stories,” Carrie tweeted back. “On our blogs. You write a story to post on my blog, I write a story for yours.”

"Oh," I typed, making sure to spell it correctly. "But what do we write about? Do I write about Metis stuff? Do you write about being un-athletic and insecure?"

“We pick a common topic and both write about it from our own perspectives. Any ideas?”

A common topic? Aside from our modest ethnic linkage, about all that Carrie and I have in common is that we are both carbon-based life forms.

"I’ve got it,” tweeted Carrie. “You and I are each in Paris.”

So far, so good.

“And we decide to meet for coffee….”

Hmm, provocative!

“And then we save the world!”

“Umm, Carrie?” I tweeted back. “I don’t even save string, let alone the world."

“Perry,” Carrie tweeted firmly, “it’s fiction and you’re a writer. You can do it!”

And so, Carrie and I have done it.

What follows below is Carrie’s unique take on the story entitled “Coffee with Perry.” I know you’ll enjoy. And if you want to read the version from the guy what brought you to the dance, my story "Paris France" is on Peevish Penman, the blog that Carrie edits and writes for.

If it's still there. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Writer Carrie Bailey on the streets of Santiago Chile, 2009

Coffee with Perry

by Carrie Bailey

On one of my trips to Paris I had the opportunity to meet Perry Block, a friend and fellow writer. A month ago he had misdialed the number for some take-out and won a free weekend vacation to the City of Lights. That’s right, Paris. As I was in France too on an academic assignment, he agreed to meet me for coffee.

Perry chose a café close to Notre Dame. The Eau de Paris catered to the American tourist breed of awkward and frightened travelers who generally don berets in an attempt to “fit in,” yet fail to notice they are the only ones wearing them. Beneath the gaudy cathedral, I quickly identified the awkward Jewish baby boomer amongst the veritable sea of striped shirts.

Perry had emailed me this picture:

Yes, it wasn’t hard to pick out the only late middle-aged guy in the bunch lame enough to try to pass himself off with such an obviously bogus picture!

Perry shouted “Howdy!”

“Is that how you think Oregonians speak?” I asked. I went to shake his hand and missed, hitting him mid-chest.

“You done touched my breast!” he said.

I ignored his dazed and shocked expression and pointed to a group comprised of angry looking Koreans, Saudis, and Bolivians that were entering the café. As soon as they entered all the dumpy beret-wearing American tourists vanished, and the café was almost as empty as that one social networking site, what was it called? Oh yeah, MySpace.

“Baby-boomers,” I sighed under my breath so Perry wouldn’t hear me.

“Have you caught anything here in Paris yet, Carrie?”

Confused for a moment, I didn’t know what to say, “Nothing, aside from a case of airborne mono.”

“And your traps made it alright through the metal detectors?”

My traps. Of course! I’d told him that the French Canadian fur trade was responsible for the formation of my ancestor's language. As a linguist and expert on the dying language, I was asked to give a speech on the subject at a local college there in France.

As our coffee arrived, Perry began to regale me with the highlights of his career in Human Resources. I reached for a second dose of my Adult ADHD medication.

In a way, he was very charming, though every element of this man was wrong. An East Coaster through and through, he was able to punctuate his speech with vowel sounds I couldn’t even begin to attempt to reproduce. That kept me entertained at least. And there was something sweet about how he thought I was interested in every minute detail of his life. After all, we were both writers, and I suppose he felt some sort of common interest or bond even...

“You gettin’ this down?” he asked, apparently in another attempt to use proper Oregonian dialect.

“Huh, what are you TAWLKING about?” I asked to my embarrassment. I covered my mouth. Since childhood, I had often been afflicted by the compulsive need to imitate other people’s accents. Perry didn’t seem to notice. He handed me a pen. Then, I remembered I was incapable of making the 15th vowel sound, the “AW” of “CAWFEE” that East coasters take for granted.

Listening to Perry continue his soliloquy of things-he-purchased-from-a-catalog-when-he-was-36-years-old, I nearly snorted coffee through my nose when he asked if I’d like to “rustle up some grub” with the Daniel Boone meets Wild Bill Hickok accent he was using to put me at ease. “East coasters,” I muttered under my breath.

But things only worsened as Perry soon slipped into his natural speech pattern. I now had to hold in the giggles with one hand and prevent my body from convulsing with hysterics by gripping the edge of the table with the other. This was the worst sort of liability for a linguist...

“...yes, I have always regretted not having ordered the red staplers,” said Perry, continuing unaware of my difficulties.

I excused myself so I could hide in the restroom for a giggle fit. On my way back through the café one of the Saudis pinched me and then flicked the ash from his cigarette directly onto the hardwood floor. Back at our table, I saw Perry had ordered for us.

“Perry, at least take your beret off while we’re eating,” I requested kindly before I noticed that in front of me sat a spoonful of pâté wrapped in prosciutto and coated with sausage gravy made from the milk of a hand fed sow.

“I’m not eating that,” I said.

“I thought you said your mother’s family had a ranch in Washington?” Perry replied, sounding a little wounded.

“I also said they were Jews, Perry.”

“You told me that they homesteaded!”

“For six months in 1881! At which point they hired ranch hands and moved to the cities. That was six generations ago. You do know we have cities in the Northwest, right? And listen to me talk. Yes, I quilt. I organic garden. I cook from scratch. I know a lot about farm animals, but I’ve not touched one...well not many. "

"I spent my summers in the general store of my grandfather’s ghost town generating business documents on an old jeweled key typewriter. And on that ranch I was never allowed outside because of rattlesnakes. I had a dull childhood, a dull, drab dreary, despicably uninteresting childhood! THAT is why I… ”

Overwhelmed with my repressed-childhood frustrations, I hadn’t immediately noticed that Perry wasn’t listening. He was staring off across the street. I pulled out my iPod and did a quick search for rattlesnakes+habitat+Okanogan County to show him how perilous it would have been to leave the ghost town. But the entry read:

No rattlesnakes have ever been observed on the Eastern side of Washington and especially not in the turn of the century mining boomtown, Nighthawk… not ever.

I screamed. Perry was nearest to me so I tossed my water in his face. He appeared mildly puzzled like a man who was used to being drenched. Horrified by my own impulsivity, I immediately started to clean it up. Then, I thought, was it really Paris if you didn’t throw water in somebody’s face? Or, as in Perry's case, get a little water tossed at you? Or was this a classic instance of what my therapist would call “transference?”

I reached over with a napkin and attempted to dry Perry's shirt. Unintentionally, I touched his “boob” for a second time that day.

“I get these muscle spasms in my arm… ” I tried to explain, but just then the sound of a thousand angry voices erupted from a hotel across the street. “DIE OBAMA DIE. DEATH TO AMERICA! DEATH TO ISRAEL! KILL THE COWBOYS!” The maniacal laughter peeled through the streets.

“What is THAT?” Perry asked Gaston, our stereotypical French waiter.

“Why she is but a small gathering of ze members of the International Coalition of Anti-Americans. It is a sort of, how du you zay ‘pep rally’ for ze next attacks on your vile country.” They toasted the demise of America. Perry looked green, but I knew what we had to do, so I grabbed him by the shirt.

“Come on.”

“I’d love to go” said Perry, looking at his wrist as though there was a watch on it,”but I have an appointment with some people. Uh, they’re doing a trailer for my book. Yes, I’m sure it won’t last long.”

“Here, stick your hands in the avocado tree pot,” I offered.

“What?” Perry and Gaston said in unison.

“It’s a disguise. They’ll never know you’re an American Jew if your fingernails are dirty.”

“What about you?” asked Perry reaching toward the plastic fern.

“I am a tribally enrolled Native American as well as a Jew, Perry." I said. "It’s practically written in international law that you have to love me and buy my handcrafts."

I dragged Perry from the café after prying his hands from the doorknob.

In the hotel’s lobby, the speaker’s face contorted and spit flew from his jagged American-hating teeth. I had no idea an Englishman could emote with such raw passion. He was followed by three African Bushmen who clicked away in their native tongue while a tiny Yemeni translated. I muscled my way on stage after him. It wasn’t difficult since they left the Kuwaiti students in charge of security.

“Friends,” I said, "while some Americans are evil, we cannot condemn an entire population based on the actions of a few.”

Perry passed straight out.

“She’s an American!” one screamed.

“Want fire water now!” I cried.

A hushed awe descended upon the room full of angry men and women, obviously familiar with old TV sitcom stereotypes. I continued speaking.

“Many moons ago my father had vision to kill white man. But other tribe was too strong. At Wounded Knee they were surrounded by FBI agents. Many warriors died.”

“Can I touch you?” asked an Asian Kiwi.

“No.”

“I’m blind and I was wondering if…” asked a Pakistani man.

“No,” I said more firmly. I knew my grandma wasn’t just rolling over in her grave as I spoke, she had undoubtedly grabbed a shovel and was digging herself in deeper to hide from this embarrassment. On the floorboards beside the podium, Perry stirred, took a look around, and passed out again.

“Good, this is good dialogue," said what appeared to be Hugo Chavez. "Then we will leave the white Americans up to you. Good luck! Now this specimen …. he’s ours!”

After that, I walked through the hushed crowd, shook a few hands, kissed a baby’s forehead, and dragged "the specimen" protectively back to the café and tossed more water on him until he woke up. I filled him in on a few of the details of the coalition meeting that he had missed.

Before we parted, he asked me when I would have his biography ready to edit.

“What are you TAWLKING about?” I asked.

I couldn’t believe it. Perry must have thought I’d invited him for coffee in order to interview him and write a biography about his career in Human Resources. Gaston appeared with the check in hand.

“Aren’t you going to pay?” Perry asked.

“You… after I just saved… you want me to pay for our meal?”

“Saved? I'm thinking you're going to scalp me before I make my return flight to Philly!”

I took his cold damp hand and told him calmly, “Perry, Indians have never given up trying to back the country.” I shook my head and smiled at his naiveté.

“The indigenous native American population comprises only 0.5% of the total U.S. population. Between organizing AA meetings and placating people who want to find out about distant Cherokee Princesses they believe they’re descended from, we don’t have the time or the resources to organize to take back a gift to Walmart, let alone take the whole country …. ”

And it was at that very moment, a metaphorical light bulb appeared only five or so inches above.

“So, Perry, Human Resources, huh? That’s very interesting… Retirement must be boring for you… Have you thought about volunteering? I know a few reservations desperately seeking the kind of skills you have to offer… ”

And that was how Perry Block and I saved America.

The End