Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Dennis Ford is the author of five books, including Thinking About Everything, a medley of whimsical musings, and the novels Red Star and Landsman. He lives on the New Jersey Shore, but he is definitely not Jersey Fresh.

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Miles of Thoughts

iUniverse, Inc.

Contents

MILES OF THOUGHTS.................................................................1EXCELLENT GROANERS................................................................207PROF. FAWCETT'S NOTORIOUS LECTURE ON TEST-IRRELEVANT THOUGHTS.....................233

Chapter One

1. Many people are convinced the world is coming to an end. Preachers tell us we are living at the end of time—this is presumably the same as the "end times". This sort of religious prognostication has been going on for centuries—twenty centuries, as a matter of record. The current crop of nigh-sayers with white collars and crosses can be considered diremen in the snooker-and-larder brigade.

They ought to know better, but the scientific crowd has grown equally giddy over the possibility that the end is imminent. The modus operandi for Armageddon is a bit diverse in science compared to that in religion in which Jesus and Satan more or less dook it out amid human cannon fodder. Some scientists claim we are going to suffocate as the greenhouse effect squeezes the collective breath out of us. Other scientists claim we are going to take it on the continental chin when the big asteroid unleashes a cosmic right hook. Still other scientists claim the world will end as humanity incinerates itself in a hailstorm of hydrogen bombs. And there are scientists who put the odds on a little creature called a virus that is presently exchanging feathers for hairy nasal passages.

So the world will end with fire and brimstone. Or with carbon dioxide. Or with a cosmic right hook. Or with H-bombs and nuclear rain. Or with wheezing, sneezing, runny noses, and day trips to the toilet. If it turns out that a virus does the human race in, the Four Horsemen will have to be renamed "Sweat", "Pus", "Bile", and "Phlegm".

2. The Four Horsemen are not the four guys in the warehouse with stuffy noses and sore throats. According to the Book of Revelation they are the apocalyptic figures who usher in the end of the world. In our time the Four Horsemen is a sexist term. The modern usage prefers Four Horsepersons. To be equitable to half the world's population and balance things out we need to change the gender of two horsepersons. I opt to make Famine and Pestilence female. War and Death can stay male.

The end of the world will come and it will be nonsexist when it arrives.

3. The world is indeed worried about avian flu. Since we have no immunity, the fear is infection could rapidly turn into a pandemic. If a pandemic breaks out, there won't be any rheum in the ER. As a species we will be in the proverbial "big trouble".

Symptoms of avian flu are similar to that of seasonal flu, with one difference. There are the usual fevers, chills, night sweats, nausea, and trots to the toilet. A symptom unique to avian flu is a fondness for lying in dirt and flapping the arms and legs and dust bathing. If I feel that symptom coming on I intend to buy two bottles of Remy Martin XO. One bottle is for me. The other bottle is for the Ferryman. I prefer a window seat on the boat to the Great Beyond and I hear the Ferryman is susceptible to bribes.

You are welcome to join me if you feel the urge to drop to the ground and dust bathe. Climb up and sit with me on the branch. We can hold hands and reminisce and comfort one another and pass the bottle back and forth.

When it comes to the Ferryman, you'll have to buy your own bottle.

4. The Borough of Manhattan Community College is doing what it can to keep avian flu from the halls of learning in the great building on Chambers St. There are signs in the men's room informing students how to wash. I presume the same information is posted in the ladies' room, but I've never been in the ladies' room.

TO STOP THE GERMS the signs advise students to WET, SOAP, SCRUB, RINSE, DRY, TURN OFF THE WATER. Pictures accompany each step in the process. The pictures are for the students who don't read English.

There is a problem. I don't see how any of this good advice can work. The signs tell students to TURN OFF THE WATER. They don't tell students to TURN ON THE WATER. Students can't proceed to WET unless they TURN ON THE WATER, but they're not told to do that.

They will never get to WET.

God keep us from the imminent pan-academic outbreak.

5. The inquiring mind would like to ask, "If the pandemic starts, can we break out of the outbreak?"

6. On summer evenings a Pinelands entrepreneur sells grilled chicken from a flatbed in a parking lot in Warren Grove on County Road 539. He places advertisements along the road. They are simple wooden signs at fender level that announce "Piney chicken!" in magic marker. This kind of ad produces instant curiosity in drivers going slow enough to read road signs. "Piney chicken? How is that different from chicken that isn't Piney grilled—or is it grilled Piney?" The answer is Piney chicken is the same as grilled chicken in the rest of the state except for the feathers.

7. If any movie ever came to a decisive conclusion it was James Cameron's Titanic. The ship has broken in two and sunk. Jack Dawson has drowned. Rose Dewitt Bukater has survived into old age. She revisits the site of the wreck, tosses the jewels her psycho boyfriend hid in her coat pocket, and quietly slips into the gala going on in the Great Beyond. A sequel didn't appear possible—until now. I've sent the studio an outline tentatively entitled Titanic Two.

Here's the story line. Jack won the ticket that got him admission to the doomed liner, but he never got aboard. He was struck by a shillelagh and knocked unconscious by a friend who took the ticket and made the voyage in his place. Jack has been in a coma for days. He's been dreaming he's on board. He's been dreaming the story we saw in Titanic.

He awakes from the coma at the exact moment the black and gold stacks blow. A nurse lovingly rubs his forehead with a cool sponge. Of course, the nurse is Rose. Before Jack can lower the hem of his hospital gown, they fall madly in love. Just like they did on the steamship. They spend the middle of the movie cooing over each other and whispering sweet nothings in each other's ears. They also tour the famous sites in London—the film is in 70 mm. and needs panorama.

The story progresses. Jack can't find steady work and Rose has been fired for missing too much work. They decide to use their dwindling funds to buy tickets to America. They book voyage in steerage class on a liner called Gargantua, an imaginary sister ship of Titanic. (This is literary license on the high seas.) As Gargantua sails the North Atlantic it swerves to the starboard to avoid colliding with an iceberg and runs into a debris field filled with Titanic flotsam. A sharp-edged object tears a hole in the bow. Gargantua promptly fills with water and sinks. There are the requisite scenes of courage and cowardice on the part of the passengers and crew.

The final scene has Jack and Rose afloat on a door. The door can support only one of them. Jack looks at Rose, a last loving look of hope and despair. "Good-by, Rose," he says in a throaty voice. He pushes her off the door and holds on for dear life. Deliciously beautiful though she is, it doesn't have to be Rose in particular. Any woman...