Potluck Passion

Powdered Sugar Donuts

"I promise no new taxes and we'll have a balanced budget!" His words, sailing out over the crowd, catapulted to the ground in lumps of dead black rhetoric before the sound even dissipated in the air. Not well received. The chunky politician in a blue suit felt his face flush as red as his tie. The blush rushed all the way to his balding head, up, up, up like a flooding river running in the wrong direction. A man can never feel more vulnerable than when his bald head is unprotected and exposed.

You stinkin' Republican! You just want to get richer!

You're saying you won't tax us, but you will!

You bastards are all alike!

Bill Brandy leaned down to talk to his second-in-command. That fine fellow sat in the first row, hunched down in his seat under the barrage of angry voices. Bill mouthed the words at him.

"Who the hell let these people in here? I thought you screened the audience!"

Jim Jenson got up and went to his boss. "We did. Looks like the Demmies pulled a fast one on us!"

"Filthy Bastards!" Bill loosened his tie and glared out at the mob. "What'll I do?"

"You can't cut and run. It'll look bad."

Brandy wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a clean white handkerchief. He took a deep breath. "Okay, but my blood sugar is low. You gotta go get me some donuts. I need donuts, powdered ones. I need them now or I can't go on."

Jim Jenson stared back, his jaw dropped. Donuts! At a time like this he wants donuts!

He headed for the lobby. If you saw the middle-aged clerk, you wouldn't think he would be campaign manager for a big time politician. He stood only 5'7" tall, thin light brown hair, a face overrun by huge brown shell glasses, and a sheepish demeanor with a nervous little mouth and tiny evasive blue eyes. But when it came to politics, he grew horns. He was a Party animal to be reckoned with.

Finally, he spied a coffee shop. A colorful array of donuts were stacked on the counter under a glass dome. As he rushed in, the scent of sugar lined his nostrils with its sickening stench. Donuts! Yuck! Even as a child he hated their heavy grease and tons of lightweight sugar powder and gooey icing. He'd rather have a nice thick satisfying Snickers any day. Donuts were for wimps.

"Can I help you?" The tiny clerk tapped her finger on the counter as she waited. The noise, along with her face with its crooked lines and her big hair fighting to free itself from a hair net, spun off an overall feeling of a war in progress.

"I need two powdered sugar donuts."

"We're out of powdered sugar. How about glazed?"

BAM! The plan had slammed into a brick wall.

"I don't know! Do you have anything like powdered sugar?"

"Eh?"

"You know, something that looks or tastes like it?"

"What? Donuts are donuts. They're all good!"

"No. I want powdered sugar. If you don't have powdered sugar, perhaps I should look elsewhere." That should do it. Whenever you threaten to shop elsewhere, the stubborn clerk always finds what you want underneath. They always have one of the good stuff stashed underneath that they're holding for someone else.

"I told you! I don't have any!"

"Yes, you do. Now pony up with the donuts, sister!"

"Are you crazy? ...SECURITY!"

For such a tiny woman, she had a loud voice. Short people are like that, voices shrieky like little Chihuahua dogs. Her cry thrashed out into the lobby like a banshee on the run. Security guards ran in from all directions. In a matter of minutes, they had Jim Jenson cuffed and transported to the office for questioning.

Back at the lecture hall, Bill Brandy sat on the edge of the stage, bawling like a baby. "Where are my donuts? Powdered sugar ones? W-a-a-a-a-ah!" He didn't win the election.

Copyright 2007 JO Janoski

New Prompt 11/4 - The Write like Bob Challenge

Unwelcome Guest

Daybreak

Anyone out there? New Prompt 11/4 Words & Picture Challenge

Lurking Just Inside

Lurking Just Inside…

I’ve received a request. A young writer wrote and asked me to reveal why I write “like that”. Strangely, I understood the request and even stranger, I felt compelled to respond. I'm sure you'll be disappointed to hear that my mother did not drop me on my head, although I did spend more than a little time playing football without a helmet; however neither situation adequately answers the question. ‘You’ are basically nosy, I think; interested in knowing why I would be content with writing stories that contain little by way of socially redeeming value, why I seem to lack the desire to force my prose into tightly structured little boxes. I sense you sitting there in your chairs, expecting me to write something you might be interested in reading… it’s always about you, isn’t it? It isn’t enough for me to merely make some statements about some innocuous event, person or situation and expect you to assign value to it without some credible context because you have needs, man; you don’t want to waste your valuable time on tomfoolery, no matter how well-expressed it might be, am I right?

I’m aware that most of you consider quasi-versification outside the realm of ‘poetry’ heretical; and the presentation of alliterative or other roughly structured prosodic elements in the context of ‘prose’ unfit for the heterodoxy of thematic composition, except when it occurs as the result of bona fide attempts at poesy as a sub-text or stand-alone quote.

Rubbish, I say… for there exists within the beating heart of any prosemeister the occasional desire to cling tighter to his reins and challenge his inner steed to run with the wind, caring not whether the work calls for caution of enterprise or circumspection of intent, but riding closer to the edge and leaning over his flanks for a closer look at the abyss before returning to the safety of convention. Only then, nostrils flaring and hot blood coursing through expanded envelopes of pseudo-reality, can unfettered art find a home on its canvas.

So chide me if you will—mock me if you must—but somewhere within, you know I’m right. If you’re interested, I have one piece of advice for any writer: Leave the safety of acceptance and you will find a new world so complex, so appealing, so goddamn interesting… that you won’t want to leave. Never again will you be satisfied to tell someone else’s story in someone else’s terms; never again will you accept normality as a hallmark nor universal acceptability as a precept. Don’t describe a character’s life or actions, but help me experience his dreams. I promise your writing will fly like never before—with or without a few extra illusory similes.

More Chain Fiction

An Interview and a Great Magazine

Chain Saw Chuckle

I own a cat I named Cinnamon. I should probably explain, at this point, that Cinnamon’s name has nothing to do with her color… she is solid black. Neither does she receive her name from any perceived association with the spice derived from either odor or piquancy; in fact, she is quite clean and odor-free, choosing to spend inordinate amounts of time either bathing or sleeping, without exhibiting any of the behaviors known to most kitties such as attacking suspended strings, clawing the drapes or just being a general pain in the ass. I named her Cinnamon because that’s how I hope she’ll taste if I ever have to eat her. With the benefit of hindsight, I now realize that if her demise at my hands were ever to become reality, with respect for my health, maybe I should have named her Waldorf, Cobb or Caesar.

However, if McDonalds continues to stay open twenty-four hours a day, the point should remain moot. But, enough... it's time for me to go polish my statue of W.C. Fields.

Last Gig at Lookout Point

Crystal Brodnax felt her heart beat in her ears with each foot placed in front of the other, the park’s running course kicking her ass this afternoon. But, if advancing years were to be kept at bay, she must keep running—if indeed her current pace could really be construed to be ‘running’. She recalled two little boys on skateboards who had passed her with no problem whatsoever, the little bastards barely slowing down to give her a sideways glance, as though she were but another park statue (without the benefit of decades of pigeon shit or cascading fountain to establish her presence). The breeze, still too warm to reward her rapid exhalations with prominence, nevertheless foretold the rapidly approaching autumnal season with a bite that seared her lungs a little. Soon, she would need to replace her silk warm-up jacket with more suitable woolen attire if she were to continue her early evening regimens, but with dusk fast approaching, her immediate goal included only getting back to Woodshire Boulevard without getting raped and/or murdered.

Like any large urban park in the northeast, the expanses of trees, hills and undergrowth of Lookout Park provided ample opportunities for mayhem, should the unwary runner fail to exercise due vigilance, especially when the sun shone less brightly. Crystal’s daily ritual included the full four-mile course that required her to negotiate several laborious uphill sections of twists and turns in the path that led to the park’s namesake, Lookout Point. Fortunately, several years back an anonymous benefactor bequeathed the funding necessary to erect emergency telephone call boxes every half mile and pave the path, thus rendering the surface smooth and nearly free of unseen bumps or holes that could turn an ankle and leave a runner at the mercy of the elements… or whatever else might lurk under the veneer of the surrounding glade. It was a nice enough place, she figured, and her safety was not in question so long as she didn’t wander off the course. Three years had come and gone since she’d first set foot on the Lookout Park Running Path, and Crystal Broadnax’s experiences on the course had all been positive, sore muscles or hours spent recuperating from the debilitating effects of coming down from the so-called ‘runner’s high’ notwithstanding. Yes, she did feel the euphoria of endorphins cascading into her bloodstream, but like the concept of orgasms (which she’d never experienced), any pleasure derived was likely of short duration and intensity. Plus, she didn’t enjoy the sweating or the rash produced by her abundant thighs, the female equivalent of jock itch, or so she supposed.

But, run she did, if for no other reason than habit demanded it. Crystal Broadnax, full-time EMT and part-time theater arts student, displayed all the anal retentive characteristics worthy of her undergraduate nickname, Sphincter. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right… every time. Her reputation as a ball buster earned her a good deal of time alone, which was fine with her. Most of the men she knew were gay, married or both, and the few guys for whom she felt any attraction whatsoever were either unsophisticated, cheap-feel skirt chasers or self-indulged narcissists. It wasn’t that she didn’t like men, it was just that she had neither time nor inclination to finish raising any of the juveniles she’d experienced in her social life… she didn’t want to become anyone’s Mommy. In Crystal’s opinion, if you get close enough to any man to lead him to believe you’re willing to spend more than one night at his apartment, he’ll have you doing his laundry before the week is out. So she ran… and she ran… and she ran some more, even if she could be timed with a sundial.

Stoner’s Ridge marked the start of the ascent up to the Point. Not so much a promontory as a line of demarcation, it served to define the beginning of a constant uphill journey, the point of no return for slackers where many stopped and turned around or simply paused to watch the sun set over the hills in the background. Tempted as she might be to stop, Crystal pressed on past her inadequacies, intent on her objective, the summit. Certainly, the area had earned its name, the glens offering easy access to teenagers hoping for enough privacy to light up a joint or cop a feel… or both. The line of trees at the juncture of the two adjoining side hills formed a notch accentuated by a rock outcropping at the bottom, an area that looked out of place with its neighbors, as though someone had merely placed the boulders there to give the runners something to distract their view from the path—and the dopers in the woods. The picnic table atop the ridge sat alone today, its gray top and benches lusterless and uninviting, the perfect place for a quick pit stop to pull her socks up and catch her breath.

A thin sliver of sun peeked over the hilltop, its refractory powers painting the sky an orangeish-purple and causing Crystal Brodnax to sit down on the bench as she reflected upon the scene with what little romance she still harbored for nature’s majesty. She would not allow herself the luxury of recognizing the romance of the colors or lamenting her perpetual single status, as hard as her subconscious might try. Ethan had used her ‘til he used her up, she figured, and no amount of sentimentality could alter her reality, so why give in to maudlin bullshit and let someone see her cry? Still, that sky was gorgeous and she felt the urge to—what the hell? At the base of the boulders in the notch of the valley, Crystal saw him.

The man’s figure rested between two large round rocks, his head and lower legs visible but torso obscured by the boulders on either side, as though he’d crawled into the crevice and couldn’t get out. The man appeared to be youngish, with a full head of curly brown hair, but she couldn’t see his clothing. A quick scan of the area around him gave no clues as to his situation. He wasn’t looking at her. In fact, he didn’t appear to be looking at anything in particular, if indeed his eyes were open at all. Only one thing was sure, he appeared to be in trouble, and Crystal’s inner EMT compelled her to investigate. Reaching inside her left jacket pocket, she took her whistle out and looped the cord around her neck. Then, discovering the aerosol can of pepper spray in its usual spot in the right pocket, she walked down the hill. Near the bottom, she jumped up on the rocks above the man’s head and looked down at him. Surprisingly, he didn’t move or acknowledge her presence. Truly, he was stuck there, although she couldn’t understand how he could have possibly arranged himself in that position, unless— there she stopped, noticing the blood stain on the rocks on either side. Someone had stuffed him in there, just a little more garbage to dispose of in the woods.

The words seemed to revive him a little, and he craned his neck in his unsuccessful attempt to look up at her. Then, resuming his stare straight ahead, he muttered, “Oh, yea… what could possibly be wrong?”

His voice sounded resolute to Crystal… perky, even, as though absolutely nothing was peculiar about his dilemma. High? Demented? Crystal’s internal computer accessed memory banks of retained knowledge gained from twenty years of dealing with emergency situations in every conceivable scenario and decided to investigate further before deciding on a course of action for his rescue.

Jumping down from the rocks, she assumed a position where she could make direct eye contact with him, although the girth of the boulders prevented her from getting within three feet of his head. His arms still weren’t visible, although she could see the soles of his brown boots sticking out from between the two hunks of granite. Quickly, she tried to move the boulders, even jackknifing her body between them and trying to force them off him, all to no avail. Whoever put him here must have thought he was already dead.

“Listen, I’m going to get you out, I’m a paramedic. What’s your name?”

The question seemed to perplex him a bit. “Will my name have an effect on your efforts? Would you approach the task differently if my name were Alfonzo than you would if it were Jeremiah?”

“What?” The question made Crystal angry, although she didn’t know why. Why do I always get the drunks?

“Do you need me to repeat the question? Oh, wait… maybe English isn’t your language of choice. Sprechen sie Deutsch? Parlez vous Francais? Habla Espan—“

“You don’t need to mock me, dude. I’m just trying to help you.” Crystal snapped.

This caused the head to close its eyes and try to laugh, ending in a coughing, hacking expression of dismay. “You want to help me… how nice. Where were you when I needed help in Toledo or Scranton? Where were you when things got ugly during my second set in Springfield and the broad in the third row kept calling me a Communist? Now you want to help me? Well, there’s no helping me, lady, get used to it.” Again, a few haggard coughs escaped, causing his eyes to bulge.

“Bull!” Crystal roared at him. “I’ll call and have ten paramedics swarming this place in fifteen minutes.”

“Honey, you can get a thousand paramedics out here and a hundred doctors, too… but there ain’t a damn thing that can be done for me, except humor me for a few minutes. How about turning on your best Clara Barton charm and show me that bedside manner you folks have become so famous for. I could use a friendly audience as much as anything right now,” and his voice trailed off, as though he were finishing an insignificant thought.

“Be quiet for a second,” she cooed, all the fight gone from her voice. Reaching over the boulder, Crystal gently pressed the tips of her fingers to his neck, feeling for a carotid pulse, and was rewarded for her effort with a slow, thready beat. I need to get him flat on the ground as soon as possible. “Let’s start over, Sweetie, what would you like for me to call you?” Not waiting for his answer, she crawled down and started to examine his feet, pulling off one boot and revealing a nightmarish blood-soaked sock. Slipping it off carefully, she revealed a cold purple foot. Obviously, he had an injury to his leg that had cut off all circulation. Crystal slid her hand under the boot as far as she could, noticing that the earth gave way underneath, and the soil felt wet… he’d lost a lot of blood.

“Call me… Ishmael.” Then the man started to laugh; a natural, unforced chortle that caused his lips to quiver. His eyes opened and he looked for her. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I figured you’d enjoy the Melville reference. You are a woman of letters, are you not?”

Maybe if she could dig out from under his legs, she could force his release by pulling him out the bottom if his upper body wasn’t stuck. Since she couldn’t see his arms, there was no need in even trying to pull him out the top. Hurrying now, she began to scoop the dirt out from under his legs, sickened as she was by the red, sodden debris sticking to her hands.

In the waning light, a passerby might have confused her for a large dog digging for a bone as dirt flew behind her from between her legs. As her digging progressed further and further toward his butt, the dirt became firmer and harder to scoop, but the area directly under him stayed open, and she realized his upper body was lodged. Crystal reached around his leg from underneath and tried to pull down with all her might, hoping that she could feel some movement or some reaction from him. Nothing.

For the first time in her adult life, Crystal Broadnax felt totally out of control. Breathing deeply to keep panic from overtaking her, she stood up and looked at his face. Incredibly, a pale pinkness remained and his expression held no question. He seemed quite comfortable. “Who did this to you?” Crystal asked him.

Ignoring her question, he continued. “See? I told you there’s nothing you can do. If you’d listened, who knows what level of understanding we could already have reached, what plane of existence we could even now be sharing. It’s not as if we have a lot of time, you know. Would you answer a question for me?” His eyes were open again, and they implored her not to look away.

A meaningful pause ensued, then, with snot flying out her nose, Crystal gasped and put her hands over her face, laughter engulfing her. After a few seconds, she looked up and he was smiling, too. “Larry,” she offered, “definitely Larry.” Then, she turned her head away, feeling tears starting to well. He’s going to die, and I’m powerless to stop it… and he’s trying to make me feel better. I can’t let him see me cry.

With a few quick steps, Crystal scaled the boulder and placed her head close to his, staring directly into his eyes. “But, I think you’re much more handsome than Larry, and obviously better educated.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure, butter up the guy who can’t move. Roll these boulders off me and I’ll show you just how mistaken first impressions can be. When the time comes, would you please be sure to tell the coroner that I’m leaving my body to science fiction?” Both sides of his mouth moved slowly upward into a small, sickly grin.

Smiling back at him, she drew her legs up underneath her and sat Indian-style in an area where she knew he could see her. It’s my turn to talk now. “Who are you? Please tell me. If you do die here tonight, I need to be able to tell someone who you are. Don’t you want your family to know what’s become of you?”

The question seemed to confuse him momentarily. “Ah, yes… who am I… the eternal question, isn’t it? Who is any one of us, really? We come, we go, and if we’re lucky, we have a little fun in the interim. Let’s talk about you, anyone who’d bother to stop for a stranded comic enjoying his last non-paying gig has to be much more interesting, and probably funnier. Besides, I don’t have any family.”

“Okay, have it your way, but I warn you, I’m high-maintenance.” Noticing that his eyes were now only about half-open, she gently stroked his cheek with the back of her hand.

“My name is Crystal Broadnax. I’m originally from Parkersburg, West Virginia, I’m a 41-year-old paramedic and I’ve never had an orgasm.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph… you’re beginning to sound like every woman I’ve ever known, not that the list is lengthy. I think I liked you better when you were threatening me with paramedics. But, since you’ve taken the time and effort to stop by my clinic, I suppose you’d like to hear some psychobabble about human sexual response—but I’m required by law to warn you, any reproduction of the details, pictures and accounts of this game without the expressed written consent of the American Medical Association is strictly prohibited.”

Crystal grinned at him. “Is there a man on the face of the earth who doesn’t have that damned disclaimer memorized?”

“Yea, there are a few. In fact, one of them probably cuts your hair, but I doubt he’d be too interested in your little problem. Let’s press on, shall we?”

“Hey, pallie, I never said it was a problem— it was more a statement of fact. You know, a little tidbit of information about me that I thought might interest you, might make you more likely to relate to me on a closer basis.”

This caused the man to think for a few seconds before responding. “Oh, I see… you want to get close to me, I should have realized that. What lady jogger who comes across a gut-shot comic while she’s taking her afternoon run, doesn’t automatically start spilling her guts to the poor bastard? You start by telling me that you’ve never had an orgasm, then I tell you that I’d spend three weeks of non-stop foreplay with you trying to make it happen, then you tell me that you’d like to but you don’t know me that well, then I’d explain that the chemistry that we would have would just make not knowing each other all the more exciting. Then, you’d look into my eyes and say that, indeed, we could probably make all that happen… if only you knew my name, address, blood type, any chronic diseases and last, but not least, the location of my next-of-kin, then I’d tell you that my name doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference to anyone, and we’d be right back at square one staring at each other, with you still trying to find a way to make it all better.”

The man shook his head a little. “No, it isn’t. I’m sorry… but there’s nothing you can do, Crystal. Do you mind if I call you Crystal? You’re the last person I’ll ever talk to, and I don’t want to argue. My vision is starting to fade, but I do want to let you know that I consider you very pretty. I’d also like you to know that if I had more time, I’d make a serious run at you. Honestly, I can’t understand how any man who’s ever seen you would ever let you run by yourself.”

Overwhelmed by the honesty and nearly overcome by her own emotion, Crystal summoned all the courage she could muster. Stroking his hair, she softly cooed, “If I’d found you, I wouldn’t be running at all.”

The man tilted his head toward her, obviously enjoying her tenderness. “My name is Chuck, but you can call me…” He blinked his eyes and turned his head to the side, making eye contact with her one last time. “…Larry.”

Crystal once again checked his carotid artery for a pulse. Finding none, she jumped down from the rocks and walked up the path to find a call box. By now, darkness had overtaken the landscape and her mood. Isn’t this just my luck? Finally I find someone I think I might be compatible with and the bastard dies without me lifting a finger to help him. Irony, thy name is Larry.

Suddenly feeling tired and old, Crystal Broadnax sat down on a rock to wait for the coroner; and she longed for the days when she was but a simple Sphincter, who neither knew nor cared about orgasms… or sad, dying comics. Then, she wept.

Clang-a-Bang

Halloween again! New Prompt! 10/28/07

A Difficult Letter

Flat Tire On His Inner Journey

I can only see him from the back. He’s little more than a shadow silhouette against a backdrop of falls rising three stories or so, but standing there with his fly rod poised and an invisible line preparing to deliver a fly into one of the pools that engulfed his waders nearly to his waist, I know he’s a fraud. First, he’s no more than thirty feet from my vantage point on the highway, and his LandRover^TM, faithful lapdog to the rich and famous, stands at the ready, waiting to whisk him away should he suddenly tire of the exercise. Second, he’s fishing in a spot accessible by anyone at any time. Had I driven by here earlier in the day, there is little doubt that I’d have witnessed a bait fisherman sitting on the bank watching his pole and drinking a beer—with the same lack of success, given the fact that the trout have finished their spawn and moved out of the river into the adjoining reservoir where they’d spend the winter. Third, and most important, his casting technique is amateurish at best, the resultant of too much money and too little dedication. He’s a dabbler… a doctor from Gillette or real estate developer from Casper perhaps, coming out to spend one whole afternoon in the wild, making sure he can be back to The Long Branch before Happy Hour is over, of course. There will be tales to be to be told of daring-do amidst the rapids, of the flash of a fat German brown’s belly gleaming in the fading sunlight, while he buys her yet another Appletini and injects his worldly savoir faire into her giddy misconceptions of him, forcing her to appraise his obvious charm and suitability for mating within the next hour or so.

Meanwhile, I’ll fix their drinks and lament his success, muttering under my breath as I cut limes, collect money for the till and remove dirty glasses, beer bottles and cocktail napkins from the bar. Maybe he’ll smile at me as they depart arm in arm… and, if I’m lucky, he’ll even leave me a buck. I won’t bother telling him who she was with earlier this afternoon.

Halloween Reindeer

Halloween Again - New Prompt 10/26

Ghosts of Halloween Past

A quick glance at the calendar reminds me that it is, once again, time for the office Halloween party, and, as usual, I haven’t a clue as to what costume to wear. Last year I felt adventurous, so I opted for the ‘aging Elvis’ motif (shown above). Talk about your fashion mistakes… Felicia in Accounting still can’t look at me without shaking her head in pity.

But, I’m a year older and arguably, by standards applied to Americans in general, a year wiser, so with a little luck and possibly the services of a fashion coordinator, I’ll do a little better this year.

The thought process itself becomes onerous… no one wants to show up in a costume that someone else is wearing (and, in all likelihood, looking better in than you ever could), so the elimination process begins in earnest, ruling out most of the characters that immediately come to mind like Cowboy Sheep Lover, World’s Oldest Infant and Birth Re-enactment. No… I must search deeper.

Slut Puppy, Grandpa Spiderman, Kiss, Twisted Sister Monk, David Crosby on Acid, Sleepy Infant In Jammies with Feet… no, no, no! I decided to step out of the ‘celebrity’ paradigm and think about something inanimate… Uncle Snuffy’s Outhouse, Golden Gate Bridge, Mount Rushmore… nope, been there done that. Besides, last year Jimmy Stevenson came as Plaza Where The World Trade Center Once Stood, and he’s now running the Shipping Department in Bismarck.

Then, it came to me… I’d go as a Top-Selling Dollar Store Cash Register Item! Who wouldn’t enjoy seeing me dressed up as Flyswatter Three-Pack or Bottle of Emerald Green^TM Dishwasher Soap? I’m sure that the room would buzz as I walked in as Commemorative Gulf War Beef Jerky, Betsy Eyes Too Far Apart Doll or Box of Apple Jacks with Krull® Action Figure Inside. All enticing, but somehow lacking in verve… I’d have to search further.

18-pack Senor Volto Battery Pack, Artificial Screwdrivers, September Enquirer… all possibilities, but none inspire me to rush right out and start accumulating building materials.

I’ve got it! I have an idea for a costume that absolutely no one will see coming—Aging Corporate Engineer Dressed In Normal Business Attire! It’s brilliant! No one has ever seen me dressed like that before, so I’m willing to swallow my pride once… I may even consider leaving my huge foam “We’re #1” Finger at home. I know, I know… but, it’s okay, I can live without it for one night in the interest of office unity.

Plus, with any luck at all, I won’t get the unexpected Monday morning call to the boss’s office for the yearly post-Halloween-party ‘don’t-ever-do-that-again’ dressing-down.

Pumpkin Head

I Want One--- eee pc!

Intel, Asus Announce $199 'Eee PC'

TAIPEI — Asus and Intel have teamed up to develop a $199 notebook PC, the companies announced here on Tuesday.

In a keynote address given by Sean Maloney, an executive vice president at Intel and chief marketing and sales officer, Jonney Shih, chairman and chief executive of Asus, was invited on stage to unveil the "Eee PC," an inexpensive laptop designed to help spread computing to poorer regions.