Outer Solar System, Milky Way, 2003: The Cassini spacecraft, being in the neighborhood, has taken 27 snapshots of Jupiter, and NASA folk have assembled them into a very detailed portrait of Jupiter, shown here.

Our solar system’s largest planet is eleven times the diameter of Earth, and may be made entirely of gas so it has no solid surface. In other words, nobody walking around, looking up at the beautiful 62 moons.

Walking would be tough anyway — the gravity would crush you into a teacup — and you’d be short of breath, as the air is made up of water (damp for breathing), ammonia (stings your eyes), and hydrogen sulfide (stink gas). It’s windy, too. Little breezes up to 300 miles per hour are common.

The detailed patterns are actually huge clouds. Near the lower middle of the picture is the Great Red Spot. It’s a swirling vortex of gas, large enough to swallow our entire planet of Earth.

The Cassini space probe also recently recorded the sound of a solar flare. More information about Cassini’s mission, and more photographs of Jupiter are available .

Kind of makes you stop and consider the size of things.

No? Well, that’s about the size of it.

Henrietta, Texas, 1961: It was a problem. I was a high-school senior, and the Code of the West said I had to do something. Here is the problem in your nutcase:

Robert Bell, a year my junior, had insulted my girlfriend Carolyn, publicly in the hall, stating that she was just a bitch. People had heard him.

“What are you going to do?” asked Molly Gill.

Well, simple. Honor dictated that I would have to go beat him up. However, that was kind of a problem, seeing as how he was tough, known to be scrappy, larger than me, stronger than me, and was certainly able to beat me silly. There was no doubt: I would lose such a fight. And, I was afraid, deeply afraid, it would be painful.

“What are you going to do?” asked Molly Gill.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Somehow, I had to brace him for it. Saying nothing was unthinkable. My memory still stung from a comment from Eddy Frank, two years previous.

One day, while loafing around, he’d asked me to spread my fingers wide. I did. They didn’t spread very wide, compared to his. He looked surprised.

“Why that’s a weakling sign!” he said.

Sourly, I said nothing. I already thought I weak, a sissy, a coward. I was afraid of lots of things. I was afraid of fights, having lost most of them. I was afraid of girls. I was afraid of what others thought, being sure that others thought poorly of me. It was only years later that I realized that others didn’t spend much thinking about me one way or another.

And now, if I didn’t attack Robert Bell, my girlfriend Carolyn, along with everybody in the entire world, would think poorly of me. A horrible thing. I asked her if Robert Bell had said that. She nodded.

“Yes,” she said, then put her hand on my arm. “Let it be. Leave him alone. He’s crazy.”

She was a wiser person than myself. And she knew he’d kill me in a fight. She didn’t want me hurt. I dithered.

“I don’t know,” I said.

But somehow an idea was coming to me.

Robert’s father was Leon Bell, the plumber. A large, wise, slow-talking man of kindness who’d somehow spawned a hellion. Robert’s mother was a woman remarkable for frazzled red hair, always looking somehow electrified.

Their family were creatures of habit, and somehow I knew, or possibly heard, that they always sat down to dinner at six o’clock. So at six, I was parked just up the block from their old, two-story house.

At 6:05, I knocked on their back door, which somehow I knew would open onto the kitchen, where sure enough they were all sitting around the table, the father, the mother, Robert the dangerous, and his little brother. I stood beside the table, and they all looked at me with curiousity. I nodded to the parents, looked my hardest look at Robert.

“You called Carolyn a name,” I said. “Don’t do that ever again.” Robert made as to get up.

“Let’s talk about this outside,” he said. His father gave him a withering glance.

“Robert!” he said. “Sit down.” I pressed my advantage.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said to the father, again turned to Robert. “Don’t do it again.” The look in his eyes was growing worse.

“Let’s talk about this outside,” he said.

I nodded to the father, to the mother. They said so long. I left.

That night, I slept poorly. Because it was likely that, the next day, I’d be beaten up.

All during the next day, I tried to avoid Robert Bell. I fetched one black look from him in a hallway, and in the early afternoon, getting my books from my locker, I couldn’t avoid him as he walked up to me.

“Don’t ever come to my house,” he said.

“Don’t call my girlfriend names,” I said. He thought for a moment.

“OK,” he said.

If you’re wondering about these phrases, they’re anagrams of my name, “Bloggard”.

I also ran my full name (“Arthur Cronos”), and came up with 21,000 lines of anagrams, mostly awful, but lots of good ones, like “Our Car’s Thorn”, “Roast or Churn”, “Short Rancour”, “Torn Cars Hour”, “Oars Torch Urn”, “Raunch Rotors”, and “Honor Car Rust.”

In fact, I’ve made a little poem. Each line is an anagram of “Arthur Cronos,” kind of a testament to narcissism, and having too much time on one’s hands. Hope you like it …

CORN ART HOURS
A CRUST OR HORN
RAN TO CHURROS
OR HURT AS CORN

NO CHURROS ART
CURT SHORN OAR
ORTHO CAR RUNS
CARS HORN TOUR

CUR OR RAT NOSH
RAT SCORN HOUR
RANT OH CURSOR
ARCH TORN SOUR

SUN CAT HORROR
TRASH OUR CORN
ORATORS CHURN
SOUR CAR THORN

CORN HUTS ROAR
CAR HOUR SNORT
CASH RUN ROTOR
OH RUN CAR SORT

A CHURROS TORN
OR CARS RUN HOT
OUR SHORT NARC
CAN RUSH OR ROT

TORN HOUR SCAR
CARS HONOR RUT
NO CARROT RUSH
CANT HORROR US

ROT ON RASH CUR
ROAR CUTS HORN
RANCOR HURT SO
CURATOR SHORN

There, now. I did it, and I’m not sorry. Every single line an anagram of “Arthur Cronos”, haw!

Probably now you want to see what anagrams are lurking in your name, hmmmm?

OK, ok, I’ll spill all.

Go to the Anagram Server, at WordSmith.Org.

Honolulu Harbor, 1980: The fishing boats were tied to the dock, ready to set out, but the men aboard sat on boxes and watched the very young woman as she climbed the stairs of the elevated scaffolding on the dock. Her skirt fluttered as the clerk of the Teamsters Local handed her the microphone.

“Hello,” she said.

Three hundred fishermen looked up at her. They were Hawaiian, Japanese, Samoan, Philipino, and Chinese, and they spoke many different languages, though generally not English. She was here promoting a blood drive for the blood bank.

This was Adrienne, when she was very young, but already with a girl-child and a toddler at home.

Up on the scaffolding above the boats, she spoke into the microphone, her voice booming around the dock buildings, and the men shifted and fidgeted. They had no idea what she said. They were anxious to put to sea. She spoke of how their contribution would save lives, and how important it was.

The trade wind picked up. Her pretty skirt began to whip around her legs. She tried to hold the fluttering skirt down as she spoke, and she had to speak bent over into the microphone.

The fishermen watched, impassive.

The talk was over. There was a scattering of applause, and then the crews made ready the boats, and with horns and churning waters the boats put out to sea. She watched them go.

The Teamsters clerk thanked her. She left.

The next week, at the blood drive, the hall was packed. The blood bank had to bring in some special beds, because the Samoans were very, very large. Adrienne discovered that all 300 fishermen had signed up.

Just another day in paradise.

North Beach, San Francisco, 1978: Adrienne found the black cockapoo on Christmas, and so the little dog was named Holly. Found abandoned on the freeway, Holly lived out her life with Adrienne.

Holly led a charmed life. The night she dug out of the back yard to investigate the neighbor’s swimming pool, first she tumbled in, and then was unable to climb up the pool’s lip, so she paddled through the night. In the morning, when Adrienne followed the tracks, Holly, now very feeble but still paddling, was pulled from the water. Holly tried to shake off the water, but stumbled and fell. But soon, after a few hours wrapped in a blankey, she was chipper as ever. That gal!

The Beach Blanket Babylon chapter of Holly’s story came later …

Adrienne was dating an actor named Jay, and when she heard of the auditions for Toto the Dog, for the upcoming Beach Blanket Babylon version of The Wiz, she figured Holly had an inside, because Holly looked like Toto. Adrienne signed Holly for an audition, and Jay was suitably impressed.

Beach Blanket Babylon, now the longest-running musical revue in America, had begun its run in 1974. Now located at the Club Fugazi dinner theatre (across from the Green Street Mortuary, the home of the famous marching band), the Beach Blanket troupe produces parodies of current happenings, and is famous for gargantuan and peculiar hats.

In 1978, based on the Broadway smash hit, a movie called The Wiz appeared, starring Diana Ross and Michael Jackson, with a Quincy Jones soundtrack. This was a natch for Club Fugazi!

At the Saturday morning auditions, the line of dogs and owners stretched out the front door. The theatre was dark, smelling musty of last-night’s alcohol. Holly patiently waited her turn. Adrienne was nervous.

Finally, it was Holly’s turn. She jumped up the steps, looked back smiling as Adrienne followed. Adrienne introduced Holly to the audience and to Mr. Silver, the guy in charge. “Go ahead, dear,” he said. Adrienne turned to Holly.

“Are you ready?” Adrienne asked. Holly looked ready.

“Sit,” Adrienne said. Holly lay down.

“Shake,” said Adrienne. Holly sat.

“Speak,” said Adrienne. Holly held out a paw to be shaken.

“Lie down,” said Adrienne. Holly barked.

Adrienne couldn’t help laughing, along with the audience. First one, then another of the audience, rose to their feet, clapping wildly. Holly was a hit. Tears running down his face, Mr. Silver said, “Thank you, dear,” but the audience kept clapping.

It was Holly’s standing ovation.

South of Market, San Francisco, 1975: Back in my Simple Simon days, I got a call from a fellow one day who said his name was Will Stone. His voice was precise and somber; I pictured him tall and thin, something perhaps like the House of Usher.

Thin he was, as it turned out, though no taller than myself. He’d started an art gallery in a warehouse cum arty-mall, and he needed a bookkeeper. Somehow he felt that Simple Simon was the guy.

He hired me. I grew to enjoy him tremendously as a friend, perhaps partly because he was as strange as the artwork.

He only sold art of the “Fantastic, Surreal, and Visionary” type.

It was wonderful stuff. To this day, I own an Arthur Bell painting called “Little Red House over Yonder.” (Bell’s work has been featured in Heavy Metal magazine, or as the French say, le magazine Metal Hurlant.)

I also have two Schroeder lithographs, one of a Lion with paw raised in greeting, and one called Tiger Ship featuring a tiger face in the sky with eyes of crescent moons above a ship sailing a black night sea, all with a border of oroboros clasping his tail.

I like these things. There is something both wonderous and somehow disturbing about them, and the fact is, in artwork that’s something I like a lot. Or rather, perhaps I should say I don’t know what I like, but I do know Art, having hung out so long together.

Alas! Will Stone, of the Will Stone Collection, was never satisfied with my bookkeeping work, and somehow it always led to my charging him less. After a while I began to see a pattern there. These days, I’ve come to believe this may be a pattern of guys from New York, because when I listen to Michael Savage on the evening radio, darned if he doesn’t sound like Will Stone!

So this one late afternoon Will and I were going to dinner. There was a humble place south of market called Communion. For $1.99 you could eat dinner there. It was always brown rice, indian vegetable dishes, and warm fresh pan (bread), served with lhassi (yogurt drink) and tea.

The only catch was that nobody was allowed to speak at Communion restaurant.

It was some sort of commune. These abounded at the time. Once, a commune that ran another restaurant off Mission Street wanted to hire Simple Simon to fix up their books, but they wanted to pay me with marijuana, because apparently their restaurant was really a front for a pot-growing business. I passed on that one.

I guess these things were not so rare at that time. My first bookkeeping client, Phil Groves (Raskin-Flakkers Ice Cream Store), had moved to a nice second-floor apartment out in the Richmond district, way out by Mamounia restaurant. One morning Phil came downstairs to find cop cars surrounding the place. The business downstairs, named “Grandad’s Original Sourdough”, turned out to be a cocaine-smuggling operation. They shipped the cocaine in plastic bags stuck down inside cans of sourdough starter. Hah! San Francisco sourdough!

But getting back to Communion restaurant. This was a really swell restaurant, except that you couldn’t talk. I enjoyed Will’s company, but as he talked incessantly, having a break over dinner wasn’t so bad, and since he said he liked the place, that’s where we went.

The first half of the dinner went fine.

The problem was when the lady came in with a child. They sat at a table across the room, and then the child began to fuss. Will glared. The child fussed. Will glared at the woman. The woman didn’t notice. Will glared at the child. The child fussed some more.

Therefore, there in the non-speaking restaurant, Will walked over to their table and said sternly, “Lady, this is a non-speaking restaurant. Please make your child be quiet.”

When he came back to our table, he clearly felt righteous, but I was embarassed as hell that he’d broken the Rule of Communion Restaurant! Even the virtuous fact that I was the only one who had not spoken failed to cheer me.

The pattern repeated. In North Beach, he was the only person I’ve ever known to send a dish back to the kitchen twice. Another time, when we went to brunch downtown, he wore a bathrobe, pretending it was a dinner jacket, and then gave the cook hell over a bagel. Slowly it became clear that he was always dissatisfied at restaurants just as he was always dissatisfied with my bookkeeping. It bugged me.

So finally, when I saw this clearly, that he would never be satisfied with any provider, I resigned as his bookkeeper, and just enjoyed being a friend.

But, somehow, we never went out to dinner any more.

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!