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Saturday, September 06, 2003
Ah, the weekend! There's nothing like a sunny Saturday in September! You leap out of bed, throw on your most comfortable clothes and head outside with a song in your heart, ready to wrap your arms around a dewy new morning. Look out, world! It's 2 PM, and I'm ready for anything!
2 PM? Aw, crap.
That was roughly the scene at my house this afternoon, although with less "song in my heart" and more "drool on my pillow". I went out with some friends last night to a great little bar in Pike Place called Shea's Lounge, where I made great progress with an exceedingly cute waitress who completely failed to not have a boyfriend. It was a scene straight out of a movie: she spilled vodka on my pants while handing a martini to feng and then proceeded to carefully sponge it out by hand with a wet towel.
"This is the second time I've been sponged off today," I said charmingly.
"That's a good day," she replied, a wink in her voice.
Our flirtatious repartee was going so well that I nearly missed the part where she pointedly mentioned that she “does this for her boyfriend all the time”. God damn it! What does a guy have to do to get a drink spilled on him by an available waitress?
In spite of this we stayed there until well past midnight, after which we hiked up the hill to the W, where we attempted to chat over the blaring music and pick-up lines of the over-40 crowd. I think it was about 1:45 or so when I finally made it to bed. I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow.
I stayed that way until about 11 AM, when a telemarketer called me. I must have sounded horrible, because she didn't put up a fight when I told her that I wasn't interested in winning a vacation, and would she please take me off her list. "Okay," she said immediately, defeated. I put the phone back in the cradle, and the next thing I remember is looking at my alarm clock and seeing the following: 1:07.
I staggered out of bed, eager to get my day started. I ate a quick breakfast of orange juice and a Balance bar and immediately went to work dozing on the couch and watching TV. After snoozing through a couple of half-hour shows, my brain was sufficiently rested to put together a plan of action. I made a phone call, took a shower, and stumbled out the door, ready to wrap my arms around a dewy new afternoon.
I dropped off some clothes at the dry cleaner, and then headed for my first major task of the day: eating lunch. My cell phone rang as I was waiting for my food at Jack in the Box. It was my friend Kyle calling from D.C.
"Hey man, what are you doing?" he said.
"Eating lunch," I said.
"You're three hours behind, right?" A pause while he does the math. "Wait, what the hell time is it?"
"Uh..." I checked the time. "About 3:30."
Damn. Another sunny Seattle day down the tubes. Well, if I was going to waste the day I might as well waste some money at the same time, right? It sounded like a good day to go shopping.
After finishing my lunch I headed to my overpriced hair salon where I got a stylish new haircut, or at least as stylish a haircut as is possible when you only have hair on 50% of the non-face portion of your head. I started the spending festivities by paying for the haircut, tipping the woman $8, and purchasing a $20 tube of hair product. I can't tell you anything about the product except that a) the tube came in a sort of jewelry box, and b) it's made of herbs, flowers, and possibly bees. The label is in French, and one of the words looks like it might mean "bees". Or maybe it's "boys". What will those godless heathens think of next?
I then proceeded to Bellevue Square mall, where I went shopping for a new suit. Let me be perfectly clear about one thing: I do not need a new suit. The only dress code at my workplace is their strict no-underwear-on-the-outside policy, which affords me the ability to wear pretty much whatever I want. I therefore only wear a suit when I go to weddings, which isn't too often. Also, I already have a perfectly serviceable suit that I purchased a mere two years ago and which is still relatively in style. Finally, I do not need to spend any more money, since the last three months have seen me burn through more cash than many small countries, like, say, Ecuador.
These are all valid arguments, but none of them stopped me from buying a new suit. What stopped me was not finding a suit that I liked or, more specifically, not finding a suit that met my completely contradictory requirements.
"I'm looking for a casual suit," I told the salesman at Nordstrom. "Like maybe something in gray."
He blinked confusedly. "Uh…gray is your more traditional color in a suit," he explained patiently. "This suit here is a nice and casual, a great honey brown. You can dress it up with a shirt and tie, or dress it down with a sweater or a nice t-shirt."
"Oh, I see. That's nice. Do you have it in gray?"
He then proceeded to show me seven suits, all of which were stylish, casual suits that fit my description perfectly, but which I summarily rejected on the basis of their not being gray.
Needless to say, I didn’t buy anything. "I need to think about it," I said. He gave me his card, but I can only assume that he expects me never to return, or at least to stay away until square is round, 1 equals 2, and gray is casual.
Next I went to The Bon, or "BonMacys", as they apparently like to be called now. (Why the sudden name change? The Bon has been owned by Macy's for years. Did they just renew their vows or something?) They had a nice gray Calvin Klein suit that miraculously seemed to meet my needs, in spite of the many physical laws this must have broken. I assume that the integrity of the universe was only maintained due to the fact that they did not have it in my size. Strike two.
After that I went to Banana Republic, where the contradictions continued to flow like wine going uphill. I tried on their "modern suit". It was the required gray color, but with subtle red and blue pinstripes, and it had flat-front pants. It had everything that I wanted, but there was one problem: it didn't really fit.
I tried on the jacket in my usual size, 38R. "It seems a little tight through here," I said, indicating the strained button across my chest. "Should I try the next size up?"
"No, I think this is fine. See, look at the sleeves. Those sleeves are the right length. The modern suit is cut a little differently. Also, we're out of the next size up. This fits perfectly."
"Yeah," I protested weakly, "but it seems a little tight."
Being a non-confrontational coward, I proceeded to a dressing room to try on the entire suit. Actually, I tried it on four times. Each time the saleswoman brought me another piece of clothing to make the test more official - a dress shirt, a tie, a pair of shoes. Each time I found myself in the same position: standing in front of the mirror in a suit which fit me perfectly, except for the fact that it didn't. It was like standing on the Statue of Liberty but being assured by everyone in the vicinity that you are actually in Cleveland.
I didn't buy the suit, offering the standard lame excuse that I had to think about it. I told her that I might come back tomorrow, but I think we both knew the truth.
I'd struck out on suits at three different stores, and the only thing I'd purchased was hair product. My only choice was to go back to BonMacys Johnson-Smith and buy some Kenneth Cole clothing that I didn't need.
I'm a bit of a sucker for Kenneth Cole. I'm sure that truly stylish people consider it lame yuppie pseudo-fashion, but I like it. His clothes make me feel cool - cool enough to not mind paying $78,000 for a shirt that I have to wash by hand. The rule of thumb with Kenneth Cole is that the cooler the garment, the more of a pain in the ass it is to clean.
Further evidence to support this conclusion was presented when I decided to buy a pair of $90 jeans. I could barely even believe that I was capable of something so outrageous. My mother would have passed out if she'd been there. I am a product of Midwestern upbringing, and my childhood was peppered with derisive comments from my mother regarding expensive clothes. "What is it, gold-plated?" she would say when I asked to buy a $40 shirt. "I don't even have pants that cost that much!" she exclaimed when, as a newly fashion-conscious sixth-grader, I asked if I could get a pair of $60 parachute pants. We were pretty well off, and I nearly always got everything I wanted, but for some reason my mother had a thing about expensive clothing.
This thing has apparently been transferred to me when it comes to pants. Mere days ago, I nearly choked on my own saliva when I caught sight of a pair of jeans that cost $68. "68 dollars!" I said to myself. "What are they, gold-plated?" Today, however, there was something in the air. Something different. I would be daring. I would live on the edge. I would give BonMacys Rodham-Clinton $89.90 plus tax for a pair of jeans that are probably too hip for me.
“Your total is $172.68,” AJ said. AJ was my cashier. His name tag indicated that he was a “Specialist”, but I did not inquire what his specialty was. (If I had to guess based on the information at hand, I’d say it was “Being Swarthy”.)
I gave him my credit card with no questions asked and signed the little electronic screen, which whisked my signature away into the ether, no doubt into a database that is being hacked at this very moment. He handed me my bag of too-expensive demi-fashions, which I happy accepted. I took it to the bookstore, where I read part of a British rally racing magazine and the foreword to James Joyce’s Ulysses (which, interestingly, contains the entire ruling written by the judge in the Federal obscenity trial in which the government attempted unsuccessfully to prevent the book’s publication and sale in the United States. This was a very well-read judge.) I then left the mall and drove around for a while, enjoying my car and listening to old-school rap music. When I got home I hung up my new clothes and inspected my The Bon receipt. This is what it said, in part:
Yep, there was a mistake, all right – the mistake was that they only charged me $11.06 for jeans that were supposed to cost $90. There was some stuff on sale, but I’m positive that these jeans were not among them.
Is this a sign from above? Is this the universe giving me the green light to buy expensive jeans from now on? “Don’t worry about it,” the universe seems to be saying. “You buy whatever you want, and I’ll figure something out. I know a few people.”
My Midwestern roots prevent me from going that far, but I’ve been corrupted enough to keep this particular pair and take the discount I was given. I’m not going to offer you any lame justification. I know that the honest thing to do is to take them back, but it wasn’t my fault, and I’m not about to pay an additional $78 for the hassle of going all the way back to the store to try and explain the situation to AJ. I’m accepting it as karmic remuneration for not getting a date with that waitress. If Kenneth Cole wants the rest of his money, I’ll be happy to give it to him in exchange for a phone number and some of that holy Incan river water.
So that was my Saturday. I've now stayed up late in order to post this, thus ensuring another groggy day starting at noon or later. I'm truly sucking the marrow out of life, aren't I?
2 PM? Aw, crap.
That was roughly the scene at my house this afternoon, although with less "song in my heart" and more "drool on my pillow". I went out with some friends last night to a great little bar in Pike Place called Shea's Lounge, where I made great progress with an exceedingly cute waitress who completely failed to not have a boyfriend. It was a scene straight out of a movie: she spilled vodka on my pants while handing a martini to feng and then proceeded to carefully sponge it out by hand with a wet towel.
"This is the second time I've been sponged off today," I said charmingly.
"That's a good day," she replied, a wink in her voice.
Our flirtatious repartee was going so well that I nearly missed the part where she pointedly mentioned that she “does this for her boyfriend all the time”. God damn it! What does a guy have to do to get a drink spilled on him by an available waitress?
In spite of this we stayed there until well past midnight, after which we hiked up the hill to the W, where we attempted to chat over the blaring music and pick-up lines of the over-40 crowd. I think it was about 1:45 or so when I finally made it to bed. I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow.
I stayed that way until about 11 AM, when a telemarketer called me. I must have sounded horrible, because she didn't put up a fight when I told her that I wasn't interested in winning a vacation, and would she please take me off her list. "Okay," she said immediately, defeated. I put the phone back in the cradle, and the next thing I remember is looking at my alarm clock and seeing the following: 1:07.
I staggered out of bed, eager to get my day started. I ate a quick breakfast of orange juice and a Balance bar and immediately went to work dozing on the couch and watching TV. After snoozing through a couple of half-hour shows, my brain was sufficiently rested to put together a plan of action. I made a phone call, took a shower, and stumbled out the door, ready to wrap my arms around a dewy new afternoon.
I dropped off some clothes at the dry cleaner, and then headed for my first major task of the day: eating lunch. My cell phone rang as I was waiting for my food at Jack in the Box. It was my friend Kyle calling from D.C.
"Hey man, what are you doing?" he said.
"Eating lunch," I said.
"You're three hours behind, right?" A pause while he does the math. "Wait, what the hell time is it?"
"Uh..." I checked the time. "About 3:30."
Damn. Another sunny Seattle day down the tubes. Well, if I was going to waste the day I might as well waste some money at the same time, right? It sounded like a good day to go shopping.
After finishing my lunch I headed to my overpriced hair salon where I got a stylish new haircut, or at least as stylish a haircut as is possible when you only have hair on 50% of the non-face portion of your head. I started the spending festivities by paying for the haircut, tipping the woman $8, and purchasing a $20 tube of hair product. I can't tell you anything about the product except that a) the tube came in a sort of jewelry box, and b) it's made of herbs, flowers, and possibly bees. The label is in French, and one of the words looks like it might mean "bees". Or maybe it's "boys". What will those godless heathens think of next?
I then proceeded to Bellevue Square mall, where I went shopping for a new suit. Let me be perfectly clear about one thing: I do not need a new suit. The only dress code at my workplace is their strict no-underwear-on-the-outside policy, which affords me the ability to wear pretty much whatever I want. I therefore only wear a suit when I go to weddings, which isn't too often. Also, I already have a perfectly serviceable suit that I purchased a mere two years ago and which is still relatively in style. Finally, I do not need to spend any more money, since the last three months have seen me burn through more cash than many small countries, like, say, Ecuador.
These are all valid arguments, but none of them stopped me from buying a new suit. What stopped me was not finding a suit that I liked or, more specifically, not finding a suit that met my completely contradictory requirements.
"I'm looking for a casual suit," I told the salesman at Nordstrom. "Like maybe something in gray."
He blinked confusedly. "Uh…gray is your more traditional color in a suit," he explained patiently. "This suit here is a nice and casual, a great honey brown. You can dress it up with a shirt and tie, or dress it down with a sweater or a nice t-shirt."
"Oh, I see. That's nice. Do you have it in gray?"
He then proceeded to show me seven suits, all of which were stylish, casual suits that fit my description perfectly, but which I summarily rejected on the basis of their not being gray.
Needless to say, I didn’t buy anything. "I need to think about it," I said. He gave me his card, but I can only assume that he expects me never to return, or at least to stay away until square is round, 1 equals 2, and gray is casual.
Next I went to The Bon, or "BonMacys", as they apparently like to be called now. (Why the sudden name change? The Bon has been owned by Macy's for years. Did they just renew their vows or something?) They had a nice gray Calvin Klein suit that miraculously seemed to meet my needs, in spite of the many physical laws this must have broken. I assume that the integrity of the universe was only maintained due to the fact that they did not have it in my size. Strike two.
After that I went to Banana Republic, where the contradictions continued to flow like wine going uphill. I tried on their "modern suit". It was the required gray color, but with subtle red and blue pinstripes, and it had flat-front pants. It had everything that I wanted, but there was one problem: it didn't really fit.
I tried on the jacket in my usual size, 38R. "It seems a little tight through here," I said, indicating the strained button across my chest. "Should I try the next size up?"
"No, I think this is fine. See, look at the sleeves. Those sleeves are the right length. The modern suit is cut a little differently. Also, we're out of the next size up. This fits perfectly."
"Yeah," I protested weakly, "but it seems a little tight."
Being a non-confrontational coward, I proceeded to a dressing room to try on the entire suit. Actually, I tried it on four times. Each time the saleswoman brought me another piece of clothing to make the test more official - a dress shirt, a tie, a pair of shoes. Each time I found myself in the same position: standing in front of the mirror in a suit which fit me perfectly, except for the fact that it didn't. It was like standing on the Statue of Liberty but being assured by everyone in the vicinity that you are actually in Cleveland.
I didn't buy the suit, offering the standard lame excuse that I had to think about it. I told her that I might come back tomorrow, but I think we both knew the truth.
I'd struck out on suits at three different stores, and the only thing I'd purchased was hair product. My only choice was to go back to BonMacys Johnson-Smith and buy some Kenneth Cole clothing that I didn't need.
I'm a bit of a sucker for Kenneth Cole. I'm sure that truly stylish people consider it lame yuppie pseudo-fashion, but I like it. His clothes make me feel cool - cool enough to not mind paying $78,000 for a shirt that I have to wash by hand. The rule of thumb with Kenneth Cole is that the cooler the garment, the more of a pain in the ass it is to clean.
MACHINE WASH COLD-WARM WITH LIKE COLORS. TUMBLE DRY MEDIUM-LOW. NO BLEACH. DO NOT DRY CLEAN.I can't even remember to do laundry often enough to have clean socks for work - many's the day that I've been forced to wear sandals due to a sock shortage - and yet I convinced myself to purchase two shirts that will require 20 minutes of hand scrubbing to clean. I am not very smart.
HAND WASH SEPARATELY IN LUKEWARM-COOL WATER. AGITATE LIGHTLY WITH INDEX FINGERS. DRY FLAT. COOL IRON ONLY. DO NOT DRY CLEAN.
REMOVE GARMENT TO REMOTE ANDEAN PEAK. RINSE LIGHTLY IN WATER FROM FROM SACRED INCAN RIVER. COAX WATER FROM GARMENT WITH WINGS OF RARE SWALLOWTAIL BUTTERFLY (Papilio machaon). DRY FLAT UNDER THIN, EVEN LAYER OF UNCUT DIAMONDS. DO NOT DRY CLEAN.
Further evidence to support this conclusion was presented when I decided to buy a pair of $90 jeans. I could barely even believe that I was capable of something so outrageous. My mother would have passed out if she'd been there. I am a product of Midwestern upbringing, and my childhood was peppered with derisive comments from my mother regarding expensive clothes. "What is it, gold-plated?" she would say when I asked to buy a $40 shirt. "I don't even have pants that cost that much!" she exclaimed when, as a newly fashion-conscious sixth-grader, I asked if I could get a pair of $60 parachute pants. We were pretty well off, and I nearly always got everything I wanted, but for some reason my mother had a thing about expensive clothing.
This thing has apparently been transferred to me when it comes to pants. Mere days ago, I nearly choked on my own saliva when I caught sight of a pair of jeans that cost $68. "68 dollars!" I said to myself. "What are they, gold-plated?" Today, however, there was something in the air. Something different. I would be daring. I would live on the edge. I would give BonMacys Rodham-Clinton $89.90 plus tax for a pair of jeans that are probably too hip for me.
“Your total is $172.68,” AJ said. AJ was my cashier. His name tag indicated that he was a “Specialist”, but I did not inquire what his specialty was. (If I had to guess based on the information at hand, I’d say it was “Being Swarthy”.)
I gave him my credit card with no questions asked and signed the little electronic screen, which whisked my signature away into the ether, no doubt into a database that is being hacked at this very moment. He handed me my bag of too-expensive demi-fashions, which I happy accepted. I took it to the bookstore, where I read part of a British rally racing magazine and the foreword to James Joyce’s Ulysses (which, interestingly, contains the entire ruling written by the judge in the Federal obscenity trial in which the government attempted unsuccessfully to prevent the book’s publication and sale in the United States. This was a very well-read judge.) I then left the mall and drove around for a while, enjoying my car and listening to old-school rap music. When I got home I hung up my new clothes and inspected my The Bon receipt. This is what it said, in part:
MEN CON DENIM QTY 1 11.06Huh? Those jeans were supposed to be $90. Surely there must be some mistake. I checked the receipt two more times and matched up each line with the appropriate garment.
Yep, there was a mistake, all right – the mistake was that they only charged me $11.06 for jeans that were supposed to cost $90. There was some stuff on sale, but I’m positive that these jeans were not among them.
Is this a sign from above? Is this the universe giving me the green light to buy expensive jeans from now on? “Don’t worry about it,” the universe seems to be saying. “You buy whatever you want, and I’ll figure something out. I know a few people.”
My Midwestern roots prevent me from going that far, but I’ve been corrupted enough to keep this particular pair and take the discount I was given. I’m not going to offer you any lame justification. I know that the honest thing to do is to take them back, but it wasn’t my fault, and I’m not about to pay an additional $78 for the hassle of going all the way back to the store to try and explain the situation to AJ. I’m accepting it as karmic remuneration for not getting a date with that waitress. If Kenneth Cole wants the rest of his money, I’ll be happy to give it to him in exchange for a phone number and some of that holy Incan river water.
So that was my Saturday. I've now stayed up late in order to post this, thus ensuring another groggy day starting at noon or later. I'm truly sucking the marrow out of life, aren't I?
Thursday, September 04, 2003
More details about the Firefly movie. According to this, Joss Whedon is going to direct.
Monday, September 01, 2003
Issue 12 of McSweeney's, everyone's favorite literary journal, is going to feature 20-Minute Stories - stories written in 20 minutes. I'm always in search of gimmicky creative experiments, so I decided to try it myself. The McSweeney's site doesn't mention any rules, so I made up my own:
It took me four tries to actually complete a story. I got out my stopwatch, set it for 20 minutes, and started writing. The first one was roughly 10% complete when the timer went off. I was so surprised when the buzzer sounded that I actually yelled. (I think my exact words were "BLEARGHHolyJesus!", which I now realize would be a great name for a band.) The second one was even worse; I wasn't even done setting the scene after 20 minutes. For the third attempt I tried redoing the second story, and this time I managed to get halfway finished. For my fourth attempt I got serious; I came up with a new idea and pared it down to the bare essentials, trying to leave out excess characterization, environmental detail, and motivation. Anything that might distract me from the story was eliminated. This one I managed to finish, but I was really stretching. (I had to invent the computer freak-out rule and the sentence-finishing rule in order to complete it.)
At any rate, it was quite an interesting exercise. I think it will be a great planning tool for NaNoWriMo this year. My novels never have endings, so I think I'm going to use this experiment to audition complete stories before I start this year.
Oh, and here's the fourth story, the one I completed. It's nothing spectacular, but hey, it only took me 20 minutes. As you can tell, I was still pretty verbose when I started out, and the details get fewer and fewer as I start to run out of time. There also wasn't a whole lot of time for editing, so there is some rather awkward wording in places. I'm trying not to let it bother me.
1. All work on the story, including planning and writing, must be done in 20 minutes.As I quickly learned, it's harder than it sounds. It's kind of like an upside-down version of NaNoWriMo. The latter is all about words, but in the former, words are your enemy. I can only type 550-750 words in 20 minutes, which means that efficiency is paramount. If my story isn't half done after ~300 words, it means that I'm probably not going to finish in time.
2. The story must be complete, e.g., have a beginning, middle, and end, in order to count.
3. If you're in the middle of a sentence when the timer goes off, you're allowed to finish it.
4. If your computer freaks out while you're writing, you can add extra time to compensate.
It took me four tries to actually complete a story. I got out my stopwatch, set it for 20 minutes, and started writing. The first one was roughly 10% complete when the timer went off. I was so surprised when the buzzer sounded that I actually yelled. (I think my exact words were "BLEARGHHolyJesus!", which I now realize would be a great name for a band.) The second one was even worse; I wasn't even done setting the scene after 20 minutes. For the third attempt I tried redoing the second story, and this time I managed to get halfway finished. For my fourth attempt I got serious; I came up with a new idea and pared it down to the bare essentials, trying to leave out excess characterization, environmental detail, and motivation. Anything that might distract me from the story was eliminated. This one I managed to finish, but I was really stretching. (I had to invent the computer freak-out rule and the sentence-finishing rule in order to complete it.)
At any rate, it was quite an interesting exercise. I think it will be a great planning tool for NaNoWriMo this year. My novels never have endings, so I think I'm going to use this experiment to audition complete stories before I start this year.
Oh, and here's the fourth story, the one I completed. It's nothing spectacular, but hey, it only took me 20 minutes. As you can tell, I was still pretty verbose when I started out, and the details get fewer and fewer as I start to run out of time. There also wasn't a whole lot of time for editing, so there is some rather awkward wording in places. I'm trying not to let it bother me.
8/30/2003, 11:26 - 11:46 PM
Near a green glade, just on the sunny side of the mountain, by a bend in the road, there was a pond. In this pond, near a ripply bit of water by a rock, was a lily pad. On this lily pad lived a frog. The frog was happy. He sat on his lily pad every day and watched the ripply bit of water ripple back and forth against the rock. He saw his friend the bird, who flew by every morning to look for worms, and he spoke with the alligator who swam by lazily every day at 3:00 on his way to the warm sunny patch at the other end of the pond. They didn’t speak the same language, so neither one knew what the other one was saying, but it was a friendly conversation nonetheless. Every night he looked up at the stars and fell asleep dreaming of a fairy who lived in the sky.
One morning, a little while after the bird had departed for the day, the frog decided it was time to see the world. He’d never wanted to see the world before, and he didn’t know why he felt this way now, but he knew it was time. He tried to hop off of his lily pad onto the grass nearby, but it was just a little too far. He tried several times and fell into the water with a sploosh! each time. Just then, the alligator swam by.
“Excuse me, Robert,” for that is what he imagined the alligator’s name to be, “Could you swing your tail in my direction and knock me onto the grass, so that I can begin my journey to see the world?”
The alligator shrugged his lack of comprehension, as much as an alligator can shrug, that is, since they don’t really have shoulders. The frog tried speaking more slowly, but that didn’t seem to help. Finally the frog tried a bit of pantomime and was able to convey his general idea to the alligator, who narrowed his eyes, as alligators are wont to do. Robert swished his tail and swung it in the frog’s direction, smacking the frog squarely on the backside.
It worked perfectly. The frog flew through the air and landed on the grass with all four feet.
“Thank you, Robert,” said the frog, saluting grandly. “Now I must leave. You will never see me again, for I am off to see the world, and I shall not return.”
Robert regarded him evenly and went swimming on his way.
With that, the frog hopped down the road into the bright morning, to see the world and what awaited him there.
---
He traveled for a long, long time.
He went by motorcycle and motorcar, by bus and by train, in a man’s briefcase and in a woman’s hat. He saw cities and towns, valleys and fields, oceans and rivers. He even crossed to the shady side of the mountain, and saw things there that he’d never dared imagine. Along the way he acquired a coat of fine silk and an accent of indeterminate origin, the one common to all world travelers. He was wise, and all the young frogs gathered around him at the inns to listen to his many wonderful stories.
Then one day, despite his earlier promise, he happened by the old glade. He hitched a ride with a horse he knew, who dropped him right in the pond by the lily pad, where he landed with a sploosh! Robert the alligator swam by just then, and the frog greeted him (for the frog had learned to speak alligator during his travels). It turned out that Robert’s name was actually Fred, and he couldn’t stop to talk just then because he was in a hurry to get to the sunny patch before it was no longer sunny. He didn’t seem to recognize his old friend the frog. The frog saluted, and Fred went swimming on his way.
So the frog settled onto his old lily pad, which was much smaller than he remembered, and he stared at the ripply bit of water he’d loved so much as a child. As he watched it ripple back and forth against the rock, he realized that it reminded him of his mother. The sun went down and the frog looked at the stars, as he used to do. He fell asleep dreaming his old dream, and the fairy in the sky had his mother’s face.
He woke up early in the morning, which was warm and bright. He hopped onto the grass (having learned a thing or two about hopping in the intervening years) and set off down the road, whistling a tune. This time he went in the opposite direction, and this time he kept his promise.