What is your first memory of swimming?
I almost can't swim at all. Playing in my parents' pool with plastic toy spaceships.


What is your first memory of being lost?
One day after kindergarten my mother's car broke down and she was late to pick me up, but I didn't know what had happened. The teacher and the other kids had left, so I was all alone in front of the classroom, and I started crying. An older kid named Dor saw me and went to get a story book, which he read to me to calm me down until she showed up. I'd never met him before.

What is your first memory of being in a forest?
We went camping all the time from the time I was a baby, so there are a lot of vague images from about age three on. The first memory that I can pinpoint accurately was in the desert (Death Valley) when I was about 10. I remember setting up toys outside the motorhome in little scenes and taking Polaroids of them.

Do fish have feelings?
Don't know.

Do plants have feelings?
Probably.

Do bugs have feelings?
Don't know.

What was the last lie you told?
"Tsong wasn't in yesterday, so I couldn't get it signed." I have no idea if he was in, but he probably was.

Are there lies you believe in even though you know they're lies?
I can't decide if this is a yes or a no, but there certainly are lies I'd love to believe if I could.

Were you lied to as a child?
Yes, on at least two non-consecutive occasions that I can remember.

If yes, do you forgive the person who lied to you?
Probably not.

Have you ever punched someone?
No, though I came close once with a good friend when I was a kid. He punched me instead. I was staying at his house for a few weeks, far from my home town. After I went home, I never spoke to him again. I also came frighteningly close to stabbing my brother once with a kitchen knife. It's probably a good thing I didn't.

Have you ever wanted to be punched?
No.

Do you have an imaginary friend?
Not any more. Not very often that I'd like to. Sometimes I have an imaginary audience.

Have you ever felt that there is an exact replica of you, somewhere on earth?
No, but several times over the years people have mistaken me for someone they knew, always named Mike. This happened in several different places around the country. So yes, if you look at it from their perspective.

Do you still play "pretend"?
Often.

Have you ever had a profound spiritual experience?
At least twice, arguably a few more times.

Have you ever experienced incredible, transcendent beauty?
Yes, but what I'm asking you is: so what?

Have you ever had either experience as a result of viewing a work of art?
Yes.

How do you feel when you stand in front of a famous painting?
If that's its only salient quality? "There it is."

How do you feel when you stand in front of a work of art that you love?
"....."

Which is more beautiful - the most beautiful painting in the world or the most beautiful garden in the world?
The former during daylight hours; the latter in the evening and at night. I'd trade both for a good view of the night sky any time.

Do you have a deep, spiritual connection to very specific works of art?
I think so, but the specific works involved change over time.

Is there an object in your home you believe is endowed with special powers?
I'm not sure any more about certain items. There are others I've discarded. Alternately, if occasional mind-stopping sentimental value is a special power, then yes.

Do you know that this isn't true and yet you believe it anyway?
No, and no.

Do you believe there are ideas that are worth physically fighting for to protect?
Ultimately, no. Provisionally, yes.

Do you think you will ever be called upon to fight for your beliefs?
I could see it happening. If so, I guess I hope I'll fight.

Have you ever stood up for someone or something because you felt utterly compelled to?
Yes. Sometimes very stupid things. Never anything that counted, as far as I remember.

Have you ever made sacrifices because it was the morally right thing to do?
I'd like to think so once or twice, but I might just be flattering myself.

Do you believe in the existence of any moral absolutes?
No. All absolutes, moral or otherwise, are relative by virtue of their existence.

Have you ever wanted to take on the suffering of another person to spare them the pain?
Yes, more than once. Relatively few people qualify, though.

What was the last news story to deeply affect you?
Earlier this morning: "One of the largest giant squid ever found has washed up on a remote Australian beach."

How did you react?
"Yay!", but only for a split second. It was a very transient deep effect. I'm also partial to stories about deep-space discoveries and nightmarish proto-dystopian medical science. Human cloning? Bring it on, you bastards!

When you hear about the war in Iraq, how do you feel?
Let's lump the various shades of reaction under "pretty damn angry." Disgusted with everyone involved (including me) also applies to some degree.

Have you ever turned away from news coverage of a story you found too unpleasant to deal with?
Yes. Often small, local crime stories affect me that way more than large-scale catastrophes.

Do you trust the American political system?
Not for a second.

Have you ever wanted to travel to a war-torn country?
Peru.

Do you know anyone who has ever fought in a war?
Probably, but I can't think of anyone. The one person I used to know who has definitely been in combat belonged there like a fish in water. Highly likely that he loved it. He was basically at war long before he ever joined the military.

Have you ever seen extreme poverty?
Not the kind that I hear about sometimes at work. I have seen the U.S. version before, but don't know how it compares. How can I judge that sort of thing without sounding like an ass? What do I even know about it? I would be middle class even if I somehow became homeless.

Have you ever seen someone gravely ill?
Yes.

Do you know someone who is sick now, but can't afford treatment?
Probably, but no one sick enough that I'd know for sure. If we include psychological disorders, then I know someone who needs and can't currently afford treatment, but wouldn't go in for it anyway.

Have you ever been on welfare, food stamps or lived in public housing?
No. I almost owned public housing once, but dealing with the local bureaucracy scared me away.

If abortion becomes illegal, what will you do?
First, probably get really mad. Second, try to figure out what, if anything, I could do about it. Third, wonder why I didn't do something about it sooner.

Do you ever wonder what's going on in Afghanistan? Or New Orleans?
Sometimes. Also other places that have been hit by disaster, such as post-tsunami Indonesia and various places hit by earthquakes. Also, a few places not hit by disaster, such as certain random spots I've visited. I sometimes wonder what's happening on the surface of Mars right now, but don't bother much about the other planets.

Augustus Durtweiler
Senior Editor
Journal of Anergathic Consciousness Studies
9401 Farmersplatz Road, Suite 1437
Fullibald, New Jersey 07025

Dear Augie:

Attached is the corrected text for the section you highlighted in my entry for the 9th edition of the Encyclopedia of Transcendental Paradigms. I've tried to address your comments in re: the ambiguity of my prior formulation. This redraft should eliminate the problem, as I have tried to adhere as closely as possible to the accepted vocabulary of the debate (one which, I stress--as always--I personally consider closed). Que sera sera. I hope it meets with your approval.

Best Regards,

Milton

************

"Enlightenment emulates a version of madness in that the concurrent full disclosure of all of the meanings of any single signified (choose one) forces the sage into an endless recursive unidirectional linear-but-also-loop from which there is no escape.

"[This, by the way, is the meaning of the manifestations chapter of the Gita, which the author had to fudge in order to allow for a conclusion to the story. The moral may be that Arjuna was lucky God was there to throw him out. We wonder.]

"Whereas we once thought that Enlightenment destroyed all relations with reality via the effective dissolution of Proximal Consciousness (or, if you must, the casting off of identity with such consciousness), we now know that its effect, if there is any at all, (because it must occur within manifest reality [there being no other alternative]), is that of unproductive and inescapable perpetual-motion-in-one's-place, which we may call externally-imposed mantric autism. See "The Sri Yon Yonson Effect" for details. (Also Meher Baba on the masts, though one of course must beware his interpretation of this phenomenon.)

"Or perhaps both are true, since fundamental awareness is a self-contradictory idea, given it can't be aware of anything as defined. The ego is only a lens in some forms of psychology and not in perennial philosophy, unless the id is to be equated with the eternal and illimitable substratum, a position which many antagonists on both sides of this essentially disciplinarian debate would violently deny. But if the One Mind casts off the Other, we've gained nothing in terms of transcendental understanding, or understanding the transcendent, and the ego seems to pay the price. Though I suppose that spinning in place for the rest of one's natural life could be defined as a form of transcendence, and one which is in re: the world and its perceivability far more real than that of the mystic theorist."

Hey, Murray. I was sitting in the jury selection room this afternoon, and I got an idea for the next comic. Have Timmy start with the pencils and the lettering, and I'll finish it up next week. Here's the idea:

In panel one, we can see Dr. Tintype's robot in the background, standing immobile up against the wall. His leg coverings are missing, so that you can see the rods and gears underneath. Doc is in the foreground with his back facing us, and we can see over his shoulder that he's reading a catalog advertising "the latest in robot fashions." (You and Timmy can play with the wording, maybe more of a "fine fashions for the discerning mechanical man" sort of thing.)

In panel two, we've got a closeup of Doc giving a handful of bills to his nephew Zeebo and saying, "Go out and buy a pair of ro-pants for Donald Duck back there."

In panel three we're back to the same room as panel one (with the robot in the back), and Zeebo has returned and is proudly holding up a pair of designer jeans with fish eggs sewn all over them. Maybe the label can also say "Beluga" or something like that. Doc is sort of jumping up with his hands on his head and little anger lines coming off his head, and he's yelling, "You idiot! I said RO-pants!" The robot has a smaller word balloon that says, "Man, it smells fishy in here."

You get the idea. We'll work out the kinks when I get back.

Eddie

P.S.--I also overheard something that you might want to pass on to Shuffy for one of his brown paper jobs. I was in the court house cafeteria at lunch sitting near two cops, one of whom as it turns out was also named Murray, and he said to the other one, "So, the other day Joe and I went out on an eviction case, and when we get into the apartment it stinks to high heaven. So he turns to me and says, 'Jesus, Murray, it's as dirty as a baby hooker in here.' " I figure he'll be able to use that somewhere.

From my portfolio:

The Toonerville Movie Review, v. XXXI, #7, Oct. 2004

The Spoils of Glamoury (a.k.a. "VIF", "A Popular Predicament")
Biograph, 1912, 10 minutes
Directed by Malcolm Bondi

Nothing excites aficionados of the early cinema more than hearing of the discovery in some foreign archive of a print of a lost silent masterpiece, with the possible exception of the restoration and release of such works into general circulation. Readers will know of my deep admiration for the work of the American Film Reconstitution Cooperative, which has brought more than thirty recently-rediscovered works to the public in its relatively-short existence, each time with truly astonishing results. Once again, the AFRC has come through with its magnificent reconstructive work on yet another of Malcolm Bondi's wonderfully-innovative short subjects produced for the Griffith-era Biograph studios. Bondi's overshadowing by Griffith has always been one of the sad but lesser-known chapters of film history, and the AFRC must be commended by all for its Herculean efforts in setting the record straight. As the reader will see, The Spoils of Glamoury was--like all of the other Bondi films recovered to date--truly ahead of its time.

The plot is as follows. On three non-consecutive occasions, a man (the delightful but also mostly-forgotten Murville McRendy) sees an office coworker with a Very Important Figure--which I, following the intertitles, will identify as VIF from here on--whom he recognizes from the press. The man (who is never named in the film) doesn't know much about the VIF, other than that he is very wealthy, and is often seen at political functions, charity events, and fancy restaurants.

Recognizing a potential opportunity, the man cultivates a friendship with his coworker. On one occasion while they are out together at the opera after work, the man sees the VIF some distance away, watching both of them intently. This excites the man, as he figures that being noticed is the first step into the exclusive world of wealth and privilege in which the VIF moves. His hope is portrayed with unusual exuberance for a mid-period Bondi Biograph film, including a series of full somersaults performed by the man in his apartment, concluding with a jump that carries him onto the fire escape and nearly over the edge. Needless to say (considering that this is a Bondi work) the slapstick, although a bit out of tenor with the rest of the film, functions very well in light of the sharp change of tone that follows.

It turns out that the VIF is the head of a rather powerful local crime syndicate, and has been following the man's interactions with his son with some concern for his son's and his own safety. Paranoia (also dramatically overplayed, including literal scenery chewing, perhaps the first ever in film) is also in evidence here. He sends two of his associates to find the man one day after work, when he is not likely to be missed for some hours thereafter. It is hinted in a final intertitle (missing in this print but mentioned in original promotional materials) that the man is then killed.

The film, though very popular with paying audiences, was debated vigorously in the press as to its sensationalism and morality. To quote T.W. Shimby of the New York Harmonian, "In the blessed name of the Eternal Verities, are we not confronted with enough of this sort of vulgar spectacle in the garish reportage of our ostensibly more reputable daily journalistic organs? Is life not disconcerting enough in its blunt exigencies for us to say, enough! and relegate such barbaric display to the tenement, where it most rightly and naturally belongs? Is not the motion picture more suitable for such light entertainments as take our thoughts away from the horrors of city dwelling and into a sylvan abode of delightful repose? Enough, sir! I say enough!" Such sentiments, however, did not prevent this film from enjoying an astounding three-week engagement at the Herald Square Nickelarium, and similarly-long runs elsewhere throughout the country.

Modern scholars, of course, will be intrigued by the VIF, as he may be the earliest extant example of a character that operates as both an individual and a symbol by the conscious intent of the director. The brilliant use of the acronym in the intertitles makes the to-date unidentified actor into something more than a dramatic player, but also a representation of the larger anxieties with which the ferment of urban life was pregnant in the early part of the 20th century, and I'm sure that the nature of this symbolic everyvillain will be debated among film enthusiasts for years and decades to come.

Finally, it should be noted that we may now be able to settle the old debate about the relation of this film to a similar but much more ambiguous 1916 Feuillade film, likely influenced by Melies, that tells the same story but features a longer prologue involving capes and strange transmogrifications of characters, and an extended chase sequence at the end that leads to the protagonist vanishing into thin air just as the assailants' guns go off. I look forward to seeing this question played out in the journals.

F**k'n*awsome!!!! I've finally managed to cut a deal with Mustache Rides Graphics to have them print and sell the t-shirts I've been promising y'all (just kidding!!!--y'all!!!!!) for so long. Three will be no-frills slogan shirts, and the fourth will be illustrated with a nice FULL-COLOR photo by my friend (and kickass artist) Oggie Pahoney.

Here are the four designs available. (Longtime readers should get a kick out of 'em.)

1) "I don't have a drinking problem: fuck you!"

2) "A shaft of light on a baby's face is my antidrug"

3) "The kingdom of God is within you; cough it up, Poindex!"

4) "Choke on this!" [lovingly illustrated with O.G's picture of a bowl of plain vanilla ice cream.]

The details on where to send the money and how much are still TBD, but we should have all that figured out in time for the next e-block party ("Fire up your web cams, 'cause the Pony Express is a-comin'!"), so update your wish lists now, before Jack Frost sheets on your parade and they all get snapped up! Whooooo!

Whooooooooo!!!

If these sell well, I'll be rolling out the following designs too:

5) "There are no stupid guestions, other than yours"

6) "I am your worst asshole"

7) Any of the above shirts, reproduced as a photo on another shirt.

La comercia es el molino de los sueños. Boom!

Students of classics, linguistics, and Eastern religions! Buy this term paper now!

Word count: 7500
Title/topic: "Indra's Semantic Net: An Examination of Issues Related to Translation from One Language to Another Across Time and Cultural Geography, as Elucidated by a Comparison of Two English Versions of a Classical Japanese Text"
Grade level: undergraduate
Programs/majors: linguistics; Asian literatures; liberal arts
Study guide available: Yes

Excerpt: "...indeed it can become as hard for the scholar as for the translator not to despair at the seemingly infinite range of equally valid yet immensely different possible meanings that can be derived from a source text in the process of translation from one language to another, especially for cases in which the source and target languages are vastly separated by time, syntactical issues (such as word order and basic sentence structure) and a sizable fund of signifiers that, although ostensibly interchangeable across linguistic boundaries, are intricately tied to culturally-imbedded signifieds that could not be more different to the hypothetical objective man from Mars observing two cultures in contrast. The problem is only exacerbated by the slow semantic shift of signifiers across, to, and away from individual signifieds over time, like contingent but ultimately untethered tectonic plates gliding slowly across the shifting mantle of meaning. Consider, for example, the following two translations of the haiku "Autumn Wind Whistlings", written by an anonymous contemporary of the famous Basho (late 17th century).

We will start with Burford Liggett's 1823 translation (spelling normalized):

What the farmer said:
"one don't title a haiku
ye devi'nt slugwit!"

Compare this to the much more contemporary (1966) translation of Robert McQuorkney:

The radio shrilled:
"Cadillac ac ac ac ac..."
Fuckin' HATE that song.

Immediately one sees that although the spirit is the same, one could arguably not have two more different surface renderings derived from a single text. Why, then, is this--in fact, how, then, could it be--the case? It is the purpose of this paper to examine (and answer) this question in light of the issues mentioned above, considering factors such as the cultural contexts of the source/target languages at the times of composition and translation, the ranges of possible meanings for various words in both languages (and their effects--limiting, distorting, and/or freeing--on the translators' word choice praxis), and poetic license. In the process, one hopes that larger and more universal aspects of the perils and frustrations of the translator's art will be elucidated and..."

The rest of this term paper can be purchased by clicking HERE. All major credit cards accepted. Buy three or more papers for a 15% discount and a FREE Term Paper Tex squeezie! (While supplies last.)

[Cue choppy, energetic spyaction theme song, heavy on the kettle drums and low-register brass] In 1998, Donna Pinciotti's little sister Tina on Fox's That 70s Show mysteriously disappeared from the series, never to return but for a few embarrassed half-mentions in later episodes.

In 2003 a similar fate befell Kaitlin, little sister of The OC's Marissa Cooper. Though she was to return briefly three years later, the circumstances and a growth spurt of highly-questionable credibility have left numerous quietly-gurgling questions skulking unanswered out in the Wasteland among people who really want to know.

In Fall 2007 Fox execs premiered a series featuring all of the little sister characters who have ever disappeared from any of the network's shows, as well as from any other fondly-remembered property that they could acquire on the very, very cheap. It started with Tina and Kaitlin; others were soon added. Plot was unimportant. Later, execs said, we'll have little sister characters mysteriously disappear from other shows (say, either of the girls from Bernie Mac, though I guess technically there's only one little sister there they mused) and show up on the new show after some suspenseful delay, focus-grouped for maximum tension to within a .005 degree tolerance of the tensile strength and capacity of the leading (at the time) brand adult diaper. Save the disappearances for sweeps; fans of the show and vaguely-interested bystanders will be forced to watch every Fox series featuring little sister characters (which, of course, they soon all will) to see who disappears, thus driving the network's ratings through the roof. We don't even need to stick to one genre--why not cross-over with reality shows (too bad My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancee is no longer on the air one said. There was a little sister on that show who could've been forced onto the new one; after all, how many contestants on those things really read every clause in their contracts anyway?)

And then the breakthrough--the show could be will be and was about a mysterious convent in the desert where all of the missing girls go to escape some horrible once-cliffhangered fate, perhaps a stalker who is killing little sisters at random. "They all dressed as pint-sized nuns and went on A-Team-like adventures every week." It will, they beamed, be called The Little Sisters.

Ommmmmmmmmm..........mmmmmmmmmmm.........mmmwawawawawawawawaaaahhhh......and lo with a sweeping of many winds, I punched through the fourth veil and flashed that the mysterious Archon-like voice of Charlie's Angels was none other than Richie Cunningham's older brother Chuck, who was also unpersoned without a trace after how many episodes, never to return. Some theorize a marriage-gone-bad to Valerie, Donna Pinciotti's equally-shadowy older sister, coupled with a Solomon-sized mid-life crisis. Sic transit gloria Chachi, baby.

.........mmmahahahahahahhhhhhkkhaaandscene.

There is one sentence on each half of the item with the meaning of "The power of the Buddha can reach everywhere in the world and can help all the suffering people".

with Chinese character "asking the buddha and blessing the people"

[I meant to post this a while ago, as you'll see from the first sentence. It's not so timely anymore, but I think it's still worth putting up.]

Well, it's Constitution Day again. I know a lot of people have mixed feelings about it, considering it to be as fake as some Hallmark holiday, but I actually like it a lot. As with so many things when I was growing up, my parents always went all-out on it, so it was always really special for me. We were never really traditionally reverent or patriotic, so we always skipped the usual reading of the Constitution in the town square (or in our case, the college football stadium) that so many families participate in, but we always did the secular stuff that's also become associated with the holiday (I still wonder to this day how they got the box of Jefferson Mints under my pillow each year without my knowing about it).

I guess I've really loved it since CD '77, when I was eight. That day we got up and did the usual stuff--watched the parade on TV, answered the door to greet ribbon-wearing neighbors reciting the usual litany of historical trivia, daydreamed about dinner (the smell of cabbage and bacon on Constitution Day is one of my strongest childhood memories)--but then around ten or so Dad said he needed to go to the hardware store, and asked if I wanted to come along. Now, I was too smart for that--even at eight I knew that the shops were closed on Constitution Day--but I saw the mischievous gleam in his eye that he always tried so unsuccessfully to hide, so I figured I had to see what was up.

We piled in the car and drove toward downtown, past Motel Row, past the old City Hall, past the train station, and eventually ended up outside of Mainway's department store. My Dad said that what he needed was actually in their hardware department (he was never really good at credible lying...remind me to tell you the Bionic Man egg story sometime). Anyway, even though I knew that the hardware department at Mainway's couldn't be our real destination, in we went, right through the big glass doors, and on we walked, past the men's clothing department...past the housewares...starting to skirt past the hardware section...when suddenly we ran into a friend of his from his monthly Shriner's breakfast club. (Dad wasn't a member, but he was fairly well respected in the community, and had worked with a lot of the Shriner guys in his dealings with the city government, so he had a regular open invitation to their monthly informal breakfast meeting at Dee's Diner. He took me along a couple times, so I knew a lot of the regulars. This guy was 60-ish, a little portly, with an expensive but old-looking light gray suit, a pearl tie clip, neatly-trimmed gray hair, and a huge gold monogram ring...real "old Shriner," if you get my drift.)

"Morning, Nate," he said, and then greeted me too. He said that he was there to pick up a couple of things for the house (yeah, right...a Shriner buying hardware on Constitution Day in our town?), and that he was waiting for one of the stock boys to bring some things out from the basement. He then asked my Dad if he'd be willing to do a huge favor and take his wife, who was waiting in the car, her prescription, which he'd just picked up for her next door at Wizen's Pharmacy. Dad said sure, and the old guy handed him a little brown bag (and I'm pretty sure I may have seen him wink).

So we went on, our supposed original errand apparently forgotten, until we reached the door opposite to the one we'd entered. Now, my dad worked in a building near The Parallel (the big outdoor shopping mall where Mainway's was located, one of the first of its type in the U.S. back then), so I knew the area well enough to know that this door opened onto a big brick-paved pedestrian plaza, and there was no parking anywhere near there.

Sure enough, when we went out, there wasn't a car in sight: just a plaza crammed with people. I remember huge streamers of balloons (want to guess what three colors they were?), the smell of hot dogs and popcorn, and the sound of a band playing Sousa marches. My Dad (remember, he was a crappy liar) said something like "Wow, what's this? We should stop and take a look. Here, hold this while I get you a soda." And then he handed me the bag. Now, I really loved the sodas that you got at public events back then because: 1) fountain soda beats can soda hands down; and 2) they always came with that cool little clear plastic skin you had to peel off the cup before you could drink them; but I was worried about the old lady getting her medicine, which I told my dad. He said (and I have to admit that this was pretty clever), "You're right. But I'd hate to miss all this. Maybe you'd better check the bottle to see how often she has to take it. We might be able to steal a few minutes here before we have to go find her."

That sort of logic worked well on me, striking the right balance between my innocent sense of civic responsibility and my childhood Pepsi lust. Opening the bag, I looked in to find...not a bottle of pills...but a little plastic case containing...a Johnny Constitution action figure! I'd never seen anything like it (they had just come on the market, and I had somehow missed all the TV commercials). It blew my mind. I mean, action figures are dime-a-dozen nowadays, but this was one of the first ever made. Clunky as it was, it was a revelation, and I was mesmerized. (It was only later on that I learned how hard they were to get at that time. My Dad must have asked his friend to check around and pull some strings to get it; that would explain our strange encounter in Mainway's. Anyway, boy do I wish I still had that action figure today). I looked up to my Dad, who smiled, all warmth and joy at the great scam he'd pulled off, and said "Happy Constitution Day, son. Come on. We'd better get those pills to Mrs. Belmont." I was still in such a daze with toy joy that I didn't even realize how stupid that sounded (what pills?), and I just let my Dad lead me along until I found us standing in a long line at the center of the plaza.

I asked my Dad what was going on, and he made up some ridiculous story about it being the line to the parking area, but I didn't even care. That is, until I noticed a commotion at the front of the line, and kids walking back our way with what appeared to be signed photos in their hands. I caught a glimpse of one and saw what appeared a big rectangular shape with arms, doing a thumbs-up. Then it slowly started to dawn on me what was going on: oh my god..could it be...yes!...I was going to meet Johnny Constitution himself! This was going to be way better than the time I met Robin at the grand opening of Eddie and Joe's Mobile Home Shows!

Now, we can all agree that it's cheesy in retrospect, but I was eight years old, and that sort of mind trip can rocket you into a completely different, much happier universe when you're that age. I'll dispense with the description of how everything went into slow motion as the line dwindled to nothing and I approached the roped-off area where he was. But, there he was, the living embodiment of the Constitution itself. With adult eyes I'd probably have noticed that the costume was made of papier mache and tempera paint, with the eyes painted onto mesh so that the poor guy inside could see a little, but to me he looked just like the real thing, surrounded by the Founding Fathers, muskets at the ready, old glory flying high. (We've all had to face it at some point in our lives: the writers of that movie weren't historians.) If you wanted to, you could even read all the funny old words across his big, yellowing face, with their strange little f's for s's.

The rest of the day is a blur. I got my photo and a firm handshake from Johnny Constitution, along with an autographed copy of the Constitution in miniature, we had a big lunch at Bob's Big Boy, I went home and played with my new toy, and most likely went to bed a very happy but very tired young man.

It may just be pure operant conditioning, but to this day I still get a little funny when I hear the Constitution Day song, and I'll probably even go to see Constitution Day VII, no matter how bad the reviews are. Now, that's Great American mythmaking.