[From Bankrate.com:] Further responses for your telemarketer-calling pleasure —

TRIXIE’S
Assuming that you have caller-ID, and know it’s not your friends or your mom, you answer: “Trixie’s Call Girl Service. Press ‘one’ for an appointment. Press ‘two’ if you are seeking employment. Press ‘three’ if you are a law enforcement officer.”

Then, no matter what they say, or what touch-tones they press, repeat the above.

QUALITY CONTROL
After they’ve started, you say, “This is good! Hang on!” Make a clicking sound, then say, “The rest of this call is being recorded for quality assurance.”

If they stumble or say anything, jump on it suspiciously. Interrupt more and more, and begin to ask for their name and callback number and the name of their supervisor. If you wish, pretend to yell to someone offline, saying, “Joyce! Pick up line six. It’s one of our guys. You won’t believe this!”

THE FEDS
Interrupt them and demand to know how they got this number. Before they can reply, tell them to be quiet and listen, because there’s not much time.

Tell them federal agents are en route to their location, and to follow your instructions to the letter if they want to avoid being shot. Tell them to shut down their computer and all other devices in their office, hang up and unplug the phone, then to kneel down in the middle of the room. They are then to cross their ankles and place their hands on their head and stay that way until the agents arrive. Then hang up.

[From Bankrate.com:] More responses for your telemarketer-calling pleasure —

CHARLES THE POET
Answer with: “I am so glad you called, I just finished some poetry that I wanted to try out. I will be glad to listen to the rest of your call if you’ll listen to my poem.”

“Sometimes, in life, you find, that if you try, as you will and have before, you may be …”

Now fill in the rest with rambling nonsense for about a minute; then stop. When the telemarketer starts to talk, cut him off and start rambling again for another few minutes. Continue this as many times as is necessary until he hangs up.

If the telemarketer is persistent, you ask:

“Did you like the poem?”

If he says yes, ask which part he liked the best. Demand specifics, and then comment at length on the emotional angst and spiritual juxtaposition of the part he has chosen.

NO PHONE
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have a telephone.”

SANTALAND
Answer: “One moment.” Make pausing and clicking sounds. Then answer: “This is Buddy the Elf.” Then talk very very fast about a shipment and some problems in the workshop, so that they don’t understand you when you then say, “Loser says what?” Repeat as needed.

RADIO STATION
You answer: “Caller number nine, you’re on the air. What song would you like to hear?”

Fort Mason, San Francisco, 1989: It was late night, and the air cool in the parking lot beside the bay. Over the murmer of the movie set, I could just hear the gentle sound of the water, lapping beneath the wharf.

I’d just emerged from Blue Bear School of Music, where I played touch-style bass in a “learn how to play” band, and outside I suddenly found a movie being made. I wandered among the movie folk, striking up a conversation with the sound man, who was bundled up heavy but shifting from foot to foot from the cool air. Hah! Tenderfoot to San Francisco!

As we spoke, Sigourney Weaver walked around a corner, and stood waiting a few feet away.

If, since that night, you’ve seen the movie “Copycat”, you’ll remember that she’s not made up super-glamorous, and in fact she looked like any pleasant-looking woman you might know, a neighbor, a friend, a co-worker.

Though I’m inquisitive and not very shy, something in the abstracted way she stood seemed to say she’d not welcome conversation, neither from fans nor movie-folks. Maybe she’s a method actor. The movie people didn’t speak to her, and I didn’t either.

But the startling thing was my sudden realization how much she and my once-wife Lori resembled each other.

Perhaps it was the makeup or the moment. Or perhaps it’s the surprising way that seeing someone from television or the movies, often they look different in person. Some years previous, in a bowling alley downtown, I’d seen Clint Eastwood enter the door as Dirty Harry in the making, and it was odd. He was strikingly handsome in real-life where on screen he always just looked grim.

So Sigorney, looking like Lori in a long black coat, stood pensive and waiting. Nothing happened for a long time. Everybody was quiet, except for a small group huddling over some paperwork. The sound man shifted in the cool breeze.

Then there was some calling out, and Ms. Weaver went inside to be filmed above the street on a balcony. More standing around ensued. Finally something seemed to happen, though I didn’t actually see anything happen.

“Does this just take forever?” I asked the sound man. He bade me to silence with a wave, listening to his headphones, then turned some knobs on the small console.

“Yeah,” he said. “Forever. Paul Newman once described making a movie as the Ten-Yard Dash.”

The ten-yard dash.

I don’t think I’d like it. Acting is not for me. I’d rather watch apple slices turn brown.

Perhaps it’s just as well I’m not Paul Newman.

Mount Shasta Milestone: Today, her majesty my darling and I ran around a bit, just for fun.

In the later afternoon, we drove through a snowstorm to McCloud (scenic mill town around the side of the mountain) to visit her mailbox there. We returned to Mando’s for spicy enchiladas de camarones (shrimp). We browsed the great cowboy art at Mount Shasta Gallery. But earlier, at lunchtime, something happened.

At the new Stage Door Cabaret and Cafe, we tried the chili and soup and cornbread. (Absolutely great!) And while Adrienne sat and I waited by the ordering counter, I struck up a conversation with Doug York, a local promoter who’s producing and acting in a Murder Mystery called “Murder on the Rails” tonight, up the road in Montague at the Corner Cafe.

And then, as we were souping and cornbreading, our neighbors Roy and Ashley came in, finding seats across the room, and they waved.

We waved back.

That was the magic moment.

For this was the first time we’ve been out, and we came across someone we knew. Oh, of course we know tradespeople. And Roy and Ashley we see in the driveway all the time.

But this was the first time we’ve seen people that we know, at the same place as us.

This may seem like a little thing. And it is.

But there it is.

Maybe we’re part of this place. We know people.

[From “Random Robert”:] A man had won the lottery, several millions, and so the press beseiged his house, and when he came home from the bar, they caught him.

They ask him what he is going to do with all the money.

“Well,” he said, “I guess the first thing I’ll do is go and pay a few bills.”

“And what about the rest?” the reporter asks.

The lucky winner shrugs. “Well, I guess they’ll just have to wait.”

Henrietta, Texas, 1952: Back when I was six years old, in September one morning my mother took me to school. I was excited and afraid, but after a few days I liked it, and then, the weather being mild the following spring, my mother showed me how to walk to school.

The first few days, we drove in our 1951 Chevrolet, and she pointed out the window to show me this and that landmark. Then one morning we walked. Down to the highway, watching the cars, and then across for another block. A right turn and fourteen blocks in a row, and by golly there was the school!

So it wasn’t long before I wanted a bicycle.

Some of the other boys had a bicycle. Linda Brown had a bicycle. I wanted a bicycle.

This year, one showed up at Christmas. There was only one problem. I couldn’t ride it.

I tried a few times. Fell over. Fell off. My mother tried to help me, to no avail. Fell over. Fell off.

Bicycle sat. Bummer.

Now about that time, my mother found a boyfriend named Pete. She was raising me alone, my father being long gone, and so in a way I was happy for her, even though it meant getting dressed up on Sundays and driving all the way to Bowie. Yes, Bowie is named after Jim Bowie, with the Bowie knife, that fought and died at the Alamo. And it’s way up the road from Henrietta. We had to drive for a long time, like a half an hour. Tedious it was.

His house sat beside a busy street, with a mulberry tree and a yellow dog to look at. His mother lived there, too. They had a television with Milton Berle and western movies and wrestling. My mother liked Milton Berle. I didn’t understand Milton Berle at all.

My mother was very happy to go and visit Pete. He didn’t generally know what to say to me, didn’t take much interest. I suppose he had other things to think about. I realize now that going to Bowie was better from my mother’s point of view, because if they disappeared from view for an hour, there were no Henrietta neighbors to start talking.

But now and then Pete visited us in Henrietta, too. And he saw the bicycle. “Do you ride it a lot?” Embarassed, I shook my head.

“I can’t ride it,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t know why I couldn’t ride it. Other boys could, but I couldn’t. “I just fall off,” I said.

He looked at me. “Well, that might not be so difficult,” he said, “Do you want to be able to ride it?”

“Sure!” I said.

So he promised that he’d show me, next visit.

The following week, he came to see us in the morning. As promised, he showed me a trick he’d once used to learn to ride. We went out front, to the sidewalk and Uncle Doc’s lawn.

The trick was to place the right-side pedal forward and high, in the 2 o’clock position, looking from the right. Then you hold the handle bars and place your right foot on that pedal. You stand on that pedal while throwing your left leg over the seat.

Your weight on that pedal makes the bike move forward, and as you know it’s easier to balance on the bicycle once it’s moving. Only later did I figure out that it’s because the front wheel is mounted at an angle, so that when the bike tilts to the right, the wheel tends to turn slightly to the right because of the angle, meaning that the bike tends to move underneath you, which is helpful.

Pete held the back tire upright for the first couple of times. I fell off a little, but within a half-dozen attempts, I didn’t fall off! Not right away, anyway.

Pete laughed and laughed. Although I’d begun with worry and trepidation, now I laughed, too.

Ha ha ha ha ha!

Henrietta, Texas 1953: Being 9 years old, I was walking home from school. It was quite safe then. Ricky Moyer walked along with me, and Bradley, the high school kid, stopped his 1948 black Mercury, to let us pass.

“Give us a ride!” called out Ricky.

“Get on the hood!” yelled Bradley.

So we did.

The black Mercury had a long, rounded hood. You couldn’t really sit on it, so Ricky perched on the right fender, and I sat on the left fender, legs dangling by the front tire.

Bradley drove slowly. It was all very funny.

In the next block, a car was coming the other direction, and prudently stopped. Bradley drove on, very close to the other car. Very, very close to the other car, I saw, and swung my legs up out of the way, to avoid being crushed. As I tottered there on the front of Bradley’s car, with nothing to hold, and no purchase, he passed the other car with two inches to spare. The other driver gaped at the window.

Looking back, I saw Bradley’s jaw drop.

He slowed the car to a stop. Ricky and I scrambled off.

By then, Bradley was out of the car, as was the other driver, an older man. And was that man furious! He called Bradley an idiot, asked didn’t Bradley see him stopped there? In dumb embarassment, eyes downcast, Bradley shook his head.

Ricky and I looked at each other. Bradley hadn’t even seen the other car. It was luck, nothing more, that eased us past with no collision. Had he struck the car, of course, we’d have tumbled in front of Bradley’s moving car. Ricky might have escaped, to the side. Probably I’d not.

Yet here I am. Fifty years later. Because that’s just the way it happened, that day.

When the man left off his shouting and drove away, Bradley was in turn furious with us. He yelled at us and told us to beat it.

We beat it.

I didn’t tell my mother about it. I wasn’t quite certain, but figured it a bad idea. Late at night, I suddenly wondered if Ricky told his mom, because if he did, then my mother would probably find out. Early next day at school, I asked Ricky if he’d told his mom.

“Nope,” he said.

Whew!