San Anselmo, February 15, 2002: Joseph called me on the phone. I didn’t recognize his voice. His father, Paul, my brother, was dead.

Paul was very big, a very fat man. He edited one of the Sams books about dBase, once upon a time. A computer whiz, he graduated from the University of Texas in Austin, took up Scientology, married, had children, and on that day he was very happy because he’d landed a new consulting contract, and for the first time in his life, he had bought a new car.

Yesterday on Valentine’s Day, driving from his consulting meeting, exiting a car lot, he pulled out in front of a truck.

The truck, hell-bent for leather, barrelling along at high speed, and the driver admiring the shiny new cars parked along the side, crushed Paul’s new car, killed Paul.

There was nothing to be done.

Sally, his wife, got a call from the trucking company owner, the driver’s father, whining and crying and feeling so sorry, he said. And he also mentioned that they’d be suing Paul’s insurance for the damage to their truck. I suppose I could have arranged to shoot the negligent trucker, but it wouldn’t bring back Paul. The police called it an accident.

I wasn’t there. I want it to be somebody’s fault. My intuition says it was the trucker’s fault. But let it go.

Paul is gone, and the ceremony, as he’d have wished, is being held at the Church of Scientology in Austin, across from the university, on a very wide street. Everyone is very nice. My brother George, Paul’s older brother, and my younger, will be speaking. He’s minister at a ritzy church in Dallas.

Beforehand, sitting on the veranda at Paul’s house, I see that George has a tiny piece of paper. I nod at the paper.

“What is it?” I ask him. He holds it up, smiles. There are a few tiny words written there.

“My cheat-sheet,” he says. “To help me remember what to say.” I thought this was a good idea, and made some tiny notes for myself.

At the ceremony, no body lying around, no coffin, some flowers, and a woman minister speaking. She reads a ceremony written by L. Ron Hubbard. The mighty L. Ron is gone, too. He died a few years ago, as I read in the San Francisco Chronicle, just after I’d moved back from Texas. I felt so sad, reading it. Toward the end he’d lived, in hiding, on a ranch with white fences for horses, and a helicopter pad. I remembered how I’d seen him on a boat in the harbor in Valencia, Spain. He was eating a steak, and smoking Kool cigarettes. He was so full of life, wearing his Commodore uniform. Gone. Gone.

In the ceremony, the minister spoke of Paul as “our vedette”. A vedette is a scout who ventures far in advance of an army, to find out what’s there. That would be Paul all right. Gone.

My brother George spoke.

Then it was my time. I stood behind the podium. The room was packed. So many people, who knew my brother, people who cared. So many. Who were they? An entire life I’d not known.

“I was not a very good brother to Paul,” I said. I spoke loudly. “We only talked now and then. Sometimes a year or more would go by, and then I’d call him. When he answered I would say, Pabolo Stricklando? and he would say, Yes! This is Pabolo Stricklando! and I would say This is your brother, Arturo Cronoso, do you remember me? and he would say Why, yes, yes I do remember you! and then we would talk, for a while. I know it was goofy, but we liked it.

“I’ve heard it said that healthy families have a lot of jokes. I don’t know how true it is, but the bunch of us had a lot of jokes. For example, George there (nodding toward my brother George) he once saw a Danny Kaye movie where they had an elaborate plot about some poison in a chalice and all through that movie Danny Kaye would say to somebody: Get it? And then they would say: Got it! And then he’d say: Good!

“Except you have to say it real quick: Get it? Got it! Good. See? Or rather perhaps I should say: Get it? Got it! Good!

“I know it’s dumb. But that’s not all. At one point my brothers and I all learned to repeat the entire record of Daffy Duck Flies South. The record wasn’t really made for adolescents, but it was fun. I can’t remember the whole thing now, so you’ll be spared, but Paul thought it was great. We had fun. That was a good time.

“And now, when I think back, about my brother Paul, what I’ll remember is the fun times we had … and one more thing.

“He had a tiny red spot, right here, in the corner of his eye. I don’t remember whether he did it in his chemistry experiment, or the time he blew up the stove, but he did it, and it marked him. Our errors, and our pain, they become a part of who we are. And so it became a part of Paul, of who he was. And for the rest of my life, whenever I think of Paul, what I’ll remember … is that tiny red spot, just there, in his eye.

“You know, we hear people talk about ‘The Gift of Life.’ But that’s not quite right. It’s not a gift.

“It’s a loan. And, no matter how wonderful this life is, no matter who you are, how good you are, whether you’re good or bad, someday you come to the end. And you must give it up.

“There’s no use complaining. That’s the deal. That’s how it is. Life is only a loan, just for a time. Just the wink of an eye, sometime it seems.

“Paul would have understood that. And if he was here, he would be so happy to see you all, all of you today. He would be so happy to see you. But Paul, he came to the end.

“Right, Paul?” And here I turned, and looked up, looked up through the ceiling, up through the building, up into the sky. “Right, Paul?” I said, louder.

“Get it?” I yelled.

Pausing, we could all hear, faintly in the mind: Got it!

“Good!“

News Flash! Now you too can have a custom beer label. So easy! So meaningful! Now persons such as Ray Ashley (citizen of New Jersey) can instantly create lables for the many and varied brews of his devising. And so can you!

Just visit The Beer Lable Site.

(A tip of the Hatlo Hat to J-Walk Blog for this item. J-Walk is my favorite weblog; I read it daily.)

The Secret Laboratory, somewhere in the Cascade mountain range: Initial results of my experiments, having reassembled the Megatar Laboratory, look good.

With my new factotum, Dallas by name, the first run of instruments — two TrueTapper Dragons — is proceding apace. I am cautiously optimistic that the new facility will provide enhanced production and speed of delivery to a world crying out for Mobius Megatar Touch-Style Basses.

And as my grandmother used to say, “Well, we’ll see.”

Mount Shasta: Adrienne is puttering around the house, singing her new song “Lizzie, Come Home.” Adrienne is a prodigous song-writer, though usually writing only one or two lines of each song. It’s interesting to hear her sing those lines over and over. Tickles me.

But this time, she’s got a whole verse and chorus, and a sweet melody. It’s about our new bowser named Lizzie. Lizzie’s an Aussie (Australian Shepherd), normally long of hair but we’ve shorn her and she looks like a hound on the front half, and a rotweiler on the back half.

Sweet disposition, and loud voice, she’s devoted to Adrienne, and follows her like a little shadow. Sleeps on her bed at night. Guards her diligently against the cat, and sometimes me.

It wasn’t always this way for Lizzie. She’s had a hard life, poor little rich girl.

Lizzie is pure-blooded, with papers somewhere, originally bought from the breeder by a very wealthy man as a gift to his wife. When I say wealthy, I really and truly mean wealthy. For example, Marin county is the most expensive county in northern California, andthis guy lives in one of the most expensive homes in Marin. It’s up for sale, just now, for ten million. So, you know, wealthy. Let’s just call him “Richie Rich”.

Lizzie was a sweet gift, I suppose, but unfortunately, neither the man nor the wife know bupkis about dogs. Dogs aren’t trinkets for setting on the shelf. A dog needs to be a member of a pack. And Lizzie was largely abandoned, spending the nights locked in the laundry room, left alone for weeks at a time as Richie and Mrs. Rich journeyed to their home in New York, their home in London, their home in Malibu, or their home in Tokyo.

Other than being imprisoned and having to wait 12 hours to pee, Lizzie had some care, from the housekeeper. And that’s where Adrienne, formerly of Adrienne’s All-Weather Dog-Walking business, came in. Adrienne dog-walked Lizzie daily, and did pet-sitting for weeks at a time. Adrienne is Lizzie’s best pal.

When Adrienne announced our departure to move to Mount Shasta, all her clients said, “Oh, no!” except for Richie Rich. He said, “Can you adopt Lizzie? I’ll pay you.”

And when we moved, Mrs. Rich asked Adrienne to come and pet-sit, though it was a five-hour drive. Skipping over a lot of hassle and driving, Lizzie came to pet-sit with us, pending an adoption agreement. At the last minute, on Adrienne’s voicemail, Mrs. Rich left the message, “Oh, and can you take Kittie too?”

As it happened, on that day, Adrienne had driven to Marin with a raging flu. She was weak and hallucinating, and overlooked the wise response which would have been to turn down the Kittie deal, since we had no place to stash Kittie. Alas, she had no energy for debate, and hallucinating with fever, brought Kittie to Mount Shasta.

Thus it was that we stored Kittie and catbox underfoot in my tiny office. It was less than a joy forever, though Kittie was a sweet cat. Big guy. They’d pretty much abandoned him as well, sometimes left for weeks without food, so Kittie had learned to stalk and kill moles in the woods behind the mansion. A rugged individual.

And thus it was that Kittie, confused after escaping the office one night, bit rescuing Adrienne’s hand and put Adrienne into the hospital for six days over Christmas, gave her an infection which brought her close to death, and required her to take medicines which made her sick as hell for weeks. Come to find out, Richie and the Mrs. had never bothered to get Kittie his shots.

In the meantime, during these three months, Richie and Mrs. Rich were “too busy” to talk with us regarding the adoption. Lizzie had come into our home, and for the first time in her life, found herself a member of a proper pack. She slept in the same den, she had her sister Tulip (our border collie) to help guard the house and sniff out the yard, and she had company round the clock. Alone no more, it was heaven for Lizzie.

During this time, Adrienne didn’t know whether the adoption was on or off. Richie Rich had claimed he’d pay her, but how much were we talking about? We couldn’t reach him to discuss it.

Should we just take on her expense? Was I a cheapskate to request our expected cash out of pocket like food, clipping, and vet costs?

Hard to say. On a spreadsheet, for Lizzie’s expected lifespan, these costs total a surprising $25,000, but this shouldn’t be difficult for a guy that spent $170,000 on a fence, and contributed a cool million to a recent political campaign.

We sent this off to the Riches. But heard nothing. I guess they were “too busy“, and they were away to London.

When Adrienne last saw her, Mrs. Rich had deferred discussion to Mr. Rich, and Adrienne now deferred to me, and so, man to man, or rather, voicemail to fax-machine, me and Richie went over the figures. At the end of this baloney, Mr. Rich claimed that “they just missed Lizzie too much”. By this time, Adrienne is in love with Lizzie, and Lizzie is a member of our household. Send her back? Unthinkable.

Adrienne asks, angrily, “What kind of people would consider giving up their family dog?”

I have to agree. What kind of people are these? And I didn’t believe they wanted her back. I suspected the guy loved his money more than the dog, and was just looking for a cheaper way to get rid of it. And while we have no mansion in Ross, we can afford to feed the dog.

After more delays, I trapped Richie on the phone. It soon became clear that it was all about the money, and nothing to do with love. I asked what he’d meant when offering to pay for Lizzie’s adoption. He paused.

“That’s a fair question,” he said. “I guess I thought I’d just send her off with a small check, perhaps $3000.”

“Done,” I said.

Lizzie is now ours. The guy’s a lawyer, did I mention that? He faxed a document, call it a bill of sale, or a release of liability. We signed it. He sent a check.

I’m happy for Lizzie, I like her. I’m happy for Adrienne. Lizzie is a great addition to our pack. It’s a good deal.

But you know, dealing with these people left me less than impressed. It would appear that, just because you sit near the front of the airplane, it really can’t make you a first class person.

Gotto fast connection? Take the submarine for a spin. Mind the rocks.

Mount Shasta, April 8, 2004: Where do these stories come from? I mean, mostly they’re true, except for a lie or two. But what makes this story or that story emerge into memory? What makes this memory or that memory form itself into a little story?

Sometimes something seen, or other people’s stories, will trigger my own, though there seems little (conscious) connection between stories, not that I’m too proud to steal!

Will steal for food!

My commonest way to get stories is from when I’m yakking with Adrienne. We tend to smooze at the table around breakfast-time and supper-time. Perhaps this reveals that I’m a food-smoozer, but I don’t care!

For some reason, any wandering conversation tends to trigger certain memories for me. I grew up being a show-off, obnoxious, insecure kid, and I still have the impulse to react, “Oh, yeah! Lemme tell you what happened to me!” This ignoble passion then brings memories to mind.

And the memories are surprising, and often trigger wondering. For example, in our conversation last night I recalled that lots of our high school girls used to take classes called “Charm School.” The girls learned to walk like models, for example. Yet I’ve heard of no such thing since that time. So it raises the curious question: What has happened to the charm schools?

A few nights ago, Adrienne and I were talking about something back in San Anselmo, and that made me think of Ram Das, who was living up the same street, and that made me remember Kit Thorn and I meeting Ram Das, back then called Richard Aplert.

It’s all basically the Proust mechanism, I think. The little scent of a madelaine cookie brings back a rush of memory, and within that memory, threads of others, and they expand away from you even as you pursue. They are growing, away from you, and the faster you chase, the behinder you get. Just like Alice. You think?

The trick of storying, then, is not the triggering of memories, but rather of grabbing them as they flit lightly through the mind, as they dissolve away from us, hurtling gently toward oblivion.

That’s my theory, and I’m sticking to it.