An Army of One

Sometimes you gotta face the fact that you're just outnumbered. Like Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Or the Spartans at Thermopylae.

Any time someone uses the phrase "That's our policy" as a smoke screen for laziness, or obstinance or just plain meanness, I imagine myself drawing the razor-sharp, white-hot sword of righteous indignation from its scabbard (schwing!) and lopping off heads like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Especially when the policy is clearly the antithesis of common sense. Which it usually is.

The other day I needed to return nine 50 lb. bags of mulch to Lowe's. "Why so much mulch?" you might well ask. Despite my meticulous calculations as to how much mulch would be needed to fill three flower beds, I was off by a quarter ton. But let's not get side-tracked. Needless to say nine 50 lb. bags weigh...well...a lot! So I pulled my vehicle right up next to the pallet where they keep the mulch, so all they had to do was lift the bags directly from my truck onto the pallet. Easy.

I darted inside the garden center, and handed my receipt to the cashier.

"We don't do returns here...you'll need to go to the customer service desk."

If you've ever been to Lowe's, you know that Customer Service is about a quarter mile from the Garden Center. So off I trotted. Walking at a brisk pace the journey took about 3 minutes. I presented my receipt.

"I'd like to return some mulch, please."

"You'll need to bring the mulch inside so we can count the bags" droned the obviously bored and under-worked customer service representative, not even looking up at me.

That's what I'd call about 450 lbs. of unhelpfulness. Are you effing kidding me? These thoughts scrolled across my forehead in 6 foot tall red neon letters.

"Um...isn't one of your employees gonna have to accompany me to my vehicle to unload the mulch?"

"Yes sir...This is Brandon. He'll help you."

"How 'bout this idea? I'm parked right next to the pallet of mulch. To make it easier for everyone, how 'bout we go ahead and handle the return now, and then Brandon can verify the number of bags. If I miscounted, then I'll come back and we'll square up."

"I'm sorry sir...that's our policy."

It occured to me that I might have a stroke right there at the customer service counter. How's that for about a quarter ton of irony?

"May I speak to the manager please?"

Rolling her eyes and sighing heavily, she dialed the phone and explained the situation to the manager in an exasperated tone, then hung up and monotoned "The manager says that's our policy."

Am I insane? Is this really happening? Have I unwittingly stepped through a hidden portal into Crazy World?

"May I SPEAK to the manager please?" By now the other employees nearby were starting to take notice. Meanwhile Brandon had wandered off to download the new "Complete Waste of Time" app on his iPhone. Or maybe was he "tweeting" about the Mad Man at the counter who thought he was William Wallace waging war against the English.

She dialed the phone again and handed me the receiver....

"Hi...my name's John Langford. How are you this evening? I need to return nine 50 lb. bags of mulch and I was wondering if...."

"I'm on my way."

The manager arrived and I shook his hand warmly. Assuming there had been some misunderstanding, I described the situation in calm detail, to which he responded "Oh yeah...we can handle that...no problem."

Turning to the cashier and trying to conceal my expression of glee, I handed her my receipt.

"Sir...we'll need to see the bags of mulch before we can process the return" the manager said.

I couldn't believe my ears! I WAS in Crazy World!! I was speaking English, but they only understood "Red Tape." No wait...I'd been here before. This was one of those "Am I gonna just laugh at the complete and utter absurdity of it all...or am I gonna lose my cool (too late!)" moments. Why didn't I realize it sooner?!

"Let's go..." I said.

As we hiked to my truck, I told the manager not to take it as a personal attack, but that I'd like to respectfully register my protest against their policy in the strongest terms possible, and that I thought it was completely ridiculous.

By the time we completed our cross-country trek, we were chatting amiably about his kids, how long he had lived in Austin and so on. Sure enough there were nine bags of mulch in my truck. Be still my tongue.

A quarter mile later we were back at the cash register, where he confirmed that I had indeed returned nine bags of mulch. The cashier issued a return, and I strolled the now familiar route back to my car. It was like deja vu all over again.

At least I got some exercise. And a 450 lb. reminder that when I least expect it, I'll find myself in yet another episode of Cosmic Candid Camera.

Monkey Shines

I was changing into my bathing suit when I heard the sound of shattering glass.

Assuming it was a member of the hotel staff who had accidentally dropped something, I called out “Hello!” from the bathroom. No answer. My next thought was that perhaps I had left the window open and the curtains blowing in the breeze had knocked a glass onto the floor.

I emerged from the bathroom to find a male baboon...90 lbs. of sinew and muscle and fangs...enjoying an afternoon snack from the fruit platter and looking at me as if I was the intruder in HIS hotel room! Out on the front porch were four of his buddies, who by now were watching me intently. Thinking about having me for dinner.

My mind raced...less than six feet from me was a ferocious fiend who could rip me to shreds. I frantically tried to remember if I had read anything that would help me in this situation. Curious George was the only book I could think of.

Was I supposed to spread my arms so I'd look bigger and more intimidating? Or should I curl up on the floor in the fetal position and whimper? Retreating to the bathroom was an option...but I might emerge hours later and find that all five primates had taken up permanent residence. The baboon, who obviously had no intention of leaving, continued devouring a helpless apple. I began to wonder which part of my anatomy he would find most appetizing. The phrase "low hanging fruit" took on a whole new meaning.

I maintained eye contact, spread my arms, and slowly advanced towards the him, making my best “baboon repellant” noise, which I’m sure sounded ridiculous to an animal that’s accustomed to frequent encounters with lions and wildebeests. He reluctantly stood up and sauntered away, but not before giving me a “go to hell” look which let me know he’d be back.

Note to self: When you’re in the Masai Mara Game Reserve...Kenya remember to lock your door?

Farewell to Virginia

Among the more interesting and eventful assignments I've had was the time I was hired by a retirement community to photograph several of their residents. The reason for the group portrait was that all of these folks had local schools named after them. Needless to say, they don't put your name on a school unless you grew up when the world was still in black and white.

I was running behind schedule, feeling frantic and hoping that no one would fall, or succumb to the heat and humidity, or have a stroke. Especially me.

Meanwhile, an elderly woman nearby was peppering me with questions:

"What are you doing?"

"Who are you photographing?"

"Why?"

"Are these photographs going to be in the newspaper?"

"How long are you going to be here?"

"Are you photographing everyone who lives here?"

I was trying to maintain my composure and be polite, but I was really preoccupied, stressed out and beginning to think she might have a screw loose.

"Will you take my picture?" she asked.

"Well...I have to photograph this group, and then I have to break down all this equipment and haul it inside and set it all up again to do a headshot, so...if you're still here when I'm finished (realizing as the words came out of my mouth that the phrase "if you're still here" might have have a different connotation to someone who can see the light at the end of the tunnel) then I'll be happy to take your picture."

"I'll meet you back here at 3:30" she said...making it clear that I better not be tardy.

The cumulative age of the group was somewhere close to 500 years. Seriously. 6 x 80 something = High Potential for Disaster. I held my breath as my subjects arrived with the assistance of canes, walkers, oxygen tanks and orderlies. As they crossed the lawn, I prayed that no one would trip and fall and break a hip or have to be hauled off in an ambulance. Or worse.

To my extreme relief, we completed the shot without any injuries or fatalities, and as we packed up the gear to move inside for the second shot, I noticed that the woman who had interrogated me earlier was still there, giving me the eye to let me know she meant business. By the time we dragged all of our gear back outside, my crew was exhausted, especially since we had shot another assignment earlier in the day.

And then we saw her.

"Hello" she said, having freshly coiffed her hair, changed into an elegant outfit, and sporting a multi-colored walking cane.

"Hi", I replied, shooting a sideways glance at my assistants, who had begun loading the gear into my truck.

"I've picked out three of my favorite spots" she said.

"Is that right?"

I realized that this tenacious little old lady wasn't kidding, and that I had bitten off way more than I could chew.

"My name's John, by the way" I said, extending my hand.

"I'm Virginia Walker" she responded, gripping my hand firmly. "Let's get started over here at the gazebo."

By now the absurdity of this situation was making me wonder when the Cosmic Candid Camera crew was going to step out from behind a bush and say "Gotcha!" She had very definite ideas about how she wanted to pose, where I should position my camera, and completely disregarded any suggestions I made. My assistants were chuckling, so I decided to give in and just let her boss us around.

We gave her the V.I.P. treatment, using studio lighting to photograph her at the gazebo, and near a flower bed, and sitting on the edge of a fountain. As nearly an hour passed, my three assistants, whom I was now paying over time, grinned at me to let me know they were really getting a kick out of this quirky character.

As we chatted, I learned that Virginia was 92 years old, had three children, was extremely well-read and well-traveled, and not only was extremely sharp and savvy, but was also a funny, charming, dignified, and sophisticated lady.

As things were drawing to a close, I asked "So...Virginia. Are you single?"

"I'm a widow" she replied..."My late husband was a Texas Supreme Court Justice."

"So...are you seeing anyone?" I continued.

"No...not at the moment." She smiled coyly.

"If I asked you out on a date, would you go with me?"

After a long pause, she answered. "Yes...I suppose I would" in a tone that let me know that would be a big step down for her. And I don't mean age-wise.

"What are you doing Saturday night?" I asked, grinning from ear to ear.

Virigina and I had several dates over the ensuing months. Once we went on a double date with one of her daughters and her "boy"friend...who were in their 60's. Another time we scandalized the retirement community when she invited me to dinner and led me from table to table introducing me to all her friends. On another occasion we sat together in her apartment as she showed me 80 years worth of Christmas cards, each one a painting or drawing that she had created every year since she was a teenager.

I grew very fond of Virginia, and every time we got together, we laughed ourselves silly, and invariably I got a little teary-eyed at something particularly poignant or touching or insightful she would say.

Virginia was always very concerned about my spiritual well-being. She insisted on buying me a subscription to a booklet of daily devotions called Daily Word. After carefully jotting down my mailing address, she sent off the subscription card, and called me repeatedly to ask if the publication had arrived in the mail yet.

After about a month of this, she took down all of my information again, sent in another subscription card, and began asking me again whether I had received my first issue. I thought about lying to her so she would stop pestering me, but because I knew she received Guideposts herself, I was afraid there might be a quiz! When I told her I had not, she got on the phone with customer service and registered her dissatisfaction. I wonder how many complaints they get at Daily Word magazine.

One night we went out to dinner and as the waiter approached our table he asked "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"I'll have a frozen margarita with salt!" Virginia said, as if she drank tequila for breakfast. She couldn't have weighed 100 lbs., and if you've ever sampled the margaritas at Fonda San Miguel, you'll understand my concern about the possible side effects on a diminutive little old lady. As she sipped her drink, dabbing the salt from her lips with her napkin, I said "Hey Virginia, let's make a pact."

"O.K....what sort of pact?"

"Whichever one of us goes first...and I'm not suggesting it's going to be you...let's agree that if there's something on the other side of this, something after this life...let's agree that we'll make every attempt to get a message back to the one who's left behind."

"Oh, there's definitely life after death," she said. "You've got a deal!"

We shook on it, and as I walked her to her door and hugged her tiny frame goodnight, I thought how fortunate I was to have a friend like her. I've been on a fair number of dates during my 30 plus years as a bachelor, and I can say with complete honesty that I've never had more fun, more of a feeling of connection or more belly laughs and tears of utter delight than I did with Virginia.

A few weeks later my phone rang, and Virginia's name came up on my caller I.D. Always happy to hear from her, I grabbed the receiver and cheerfully said "Hi Virgina! How are you?" There was a long pause on the other end, and then I heard a woman's voice saying that Virginia was gone.

A few days later her son called from San Francisco to ask if the family could use one of my photos for Virginia's obituary. I told him I'd be honored.

A reminder popped up on my computer screen that it was Virginia's 94th birthday. I went to lunch at a Mexican restaurant and could have sworn I saw her sitting at a nearby table sipping a margarita.

And then, a month to the day after she died, I opened my mailbox to find my first issue of Daily Word.

Thanks Virginia. I'll miss you.

Water, Water Everywhere...But Not a Drop to Drink

Many of us who took English Lit. recognize that line from the long-winded poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The passage from "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" which many of us we were forced to read (I read the Cliff Notes instead) goes like this:

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink.

Timely words for World Water Day, an annual event designed to raise awareness about water quality, particularly in the Third World.

Did you know that:

• 3.575 million people die each year from water-related disease. (10)
• 43% of water-related deaths are due to diarrhea. (10)
• 84% of water-related deaths are in children ages 0 – 14. (10)
• 98% of water-related deaths occur in the developing world. (10)
• 884 million people, lack access to safe water supplies, approximately one in eight people. (5)
• The water and sanitation crisis claims more lives through disease than any war claims through guns. (1)
• At any given time, half of the world’s hospital beds are occupied by patients suffering from a water-related disease. (1)

I've been asked to photo-document a group of volunteers headed to the remote village of El Zapata in Honduras in late May to help install a fresh water system. You can read more about it at Boone Planta Water Project. Each of us has been asked to raise $1400.00 to cover travel expenses and meals. Please consider making a donation at Network for Good. Please designate your tax deductible gift "BPWP/John Langford.

For those of you interested in more statistics, read on....but be forewarned, they will make you sick:

• 3.575 million people die each year from water-related disease. (10)
• 43% of water-related deaths are due to diarrhea. (10)
• 84% of water-related deaths are in children ages 0 – 14. (10)
• 98% of water-related deaths occur in the developing world. (10)
• 884 million people, lack access to safe water supplies, approximately one in eight people. (5)
• The water and sanitation crisis claims more lives through disease than any war claims through guns. (1)
• At any given time, half of the world’s hospital beds are occupied by patients suffering from a water-related disease. (1)
• Less than 1% of the world’s fresh water (or about 0.007% of all water on earth) is readily accessible for direct human use. (11)
• An American taking a five-minute shower uses more water than the typical person living in a developing country slum uses in a whole day. (1)
• About a third of people without access to an improved water source live on less than $1 a day. More than two thirds of people without an improved water source live on less than $2 a day. (1)
• Poor people living in the slums often pay 5-10 times more per liter of water than wealthy people living in the same city. (1)
• Without food a person can live for weeks, but without water you can expect to live only a few days. (4)
• The daily requirement for sanitation, bathing, and cooking needs, as well as for assuring survival, is about 13.2 gallons per person. (3)
• Only 62% of the world’s population has access to improved sanitation – defined as a sanitation facility that ensures hygienic separation of human excreta from human contact. (5)
• 2.5 billion people lack access to improved sanitation, including 1.2 billion people who have no facilities at all. (5)
• The majority of the illness in the world is caused by fecal matter.(9)
• Lack of sanitation is the world’s biggest cause of infection. (9)
• At any one time, more than half of the poor in the developing world are ill from causes related to hygiene, sanitation and water supply. (9)
• 88% of cases of diarrhea worldwide are attributable to unsafe water, inadequate sanitation or insufficient hygiene. (9)
• Of the 60 million people added to the world’s towns and cities every year, most occupy impoverished slums and shanty-towns with no sanitation facilities. (8)
• It is estimated that improved sanitation facilities could reduce diarrhea-related deaths in young children by more than one-third. If hygiene promotion is added, such as teaching proper hand washing, deaths could be reduced by two thirds. It would also help accelerate economic and social development in countries where sanitation is a major cause of lost work and school days because of illness. (6)
• Every 15 seconds, a child dies from a water-related disease. (2)
• Children in poor environments often carry 1,000 parasitic worms in their bodies at any time. (8)
• 1.4 million children die as a result of diarrhea each year. (10)
• 90% of all deaths caused by diarrheal diseases are children under 5 years of age, mostly in developing countries. (8)
• Statistics above quoted from Water.org

Is "Obsessive Compulsive" Hyphenated?

Anyone who knows me can tell you that I'm a little bit on the compulsive side. O.K....a lot on the compulsive side. The manufacturers of label makers can rest easy knowing they'll always have a job because of people like me.

When I edge my front lawn, I also edge my neighbors' lawns. I'd edge everyone's lawn on both sides of the street if I didn't think the men in the white jackets would haul me away in a straight jacket. Speaking of jackets, all the shirts in my closet are facing in the same direction. The short sleeve shirts are at one end, and the long sleeve shirts are at the other. I have a drawer for white socks and a drawer for socks of color.

My garage floor is clean enough to eat off of. When you enter my house, you are never more than 10 feet from a box of Kleenex. If I eat dinner in front of the T.V., I'm compelled to clear away the dirty dishes before I finish chewing the last bite, or I can't enjoy the rest of the movie. And all of my dirty dishes are surgically clean BEFORE I put them in the dishwasher.

Once upon a time I bought an area rug for my living room (after trying out several and returning them), only to discover that I really wasn't going to be happy with it unless one edge was under the two front legs of the armoire that houses my T.V. set and stereo. It is approximately the same weight as a Ford F350 pickup truck. A team of long shoremen couldn't lift that thing.

Not to be deterred, I bought a 12 foot long piece of lumber, borrowed my neighbor's car jack, which I used in conjunction with my car jack, and by placing the piece of lumber under the front of the armoire and darting back and forth between the two jacks, was able to raise the front legs enough to slide the edge of the carpet underneath. No small chore...and I was quite proud of my ingenuity and tenacity.

After lowering the armoire and returning my neighbor's car jack, I noticed that the edge of the carpet didn't line up perfectly with the floor boards in my living room. By that I mean there was a deviation of about 1/4". I figured I could live with it...but I was mistaken. After a week of lying awake at night staring at the ceiling fan, I decided that my mental health hinged on fixing the problem. I sheepishly asked my neighbor if I could borrow her car jack again, and repeated the entire process until the edge of the carpet lined up EXACTLY with the floor boards. Mason and Dixon would have been envious.

Yesterday I was hanging some photographs in a long hallway at Charlie Tango, where they will be exhibited along with the work of three other photographers. The hallway is 25 feet long with 10 foot ceilings, and I decided to suspend my photographs from fishing line so that they would give the illusion of "floating" in mid-air against the white wall.

I measured everything three times, making careful note of the thermostat mounted at the far end, which would have to be taken into consideration to maintain the proper spacing. Here's the 3 1/2" x 5" index card I brought with me to map everything out. Is it just me, or does it look like the schematic for the Apollo 13 lunar module? All of this in order to hang five photographs. Five.

Three hours later, the task was complete. I took my final measurements and discovered that the photograph on the right was 3/4 of an inch closer to the end of the wall than the one on the far left. Keep in mind, we're talking about a 25 foot wall. So I decided to let it go. But not really. I figure if the Egyptians could build the pyramids without the aid of cranes and laser levels and walkie talkies, I should be more precise than that. But I decided to leave it alone, and to channel the discomfort I'm still feeling 24 hours later into this blog entry.

No sooner had I finished my handiwork than my fellow photographer Lance Rosenfield arrived with 20 photographs to hang. Eager to help, I loaned him my pencil and index card. I stayed there 'til 9:30 p.m. "helping" him, and to make sure that everything lined up just right. Here's his diagram. Clean and simple. I added the arrow at the top, because I just couldn't help myself:

Before we left, I scrubbed all the dirty dishes and put them in the dishwasher, made sure that there were four chairs at each of the tables in the lobby and that they were equidistant from one another. I've read and re-read this blog entry 17 times and have made a total of 43 changes and corrections. So far.

Breakfast of Champions

Every Thursday evening, I get together with my buddy and fellow photographer Faustinus Deraet von Regemorter for some camaraderie, spicy tamales and a few frosty adult beverages. Next to my brother Paul, he is one of the funniest humans I've ever met.

Tomorrow, however, he's going home to Belgium for a visit, and we realized we'd have to miss our weekly ritual. So we decided to meet for breakfast at 8 o'clock this morning at Aranda's, a little taqueria in the neighborhood. Since my birthday is next week, and Faustinus will be out of town, a celebration was in order.

Imagine our waitress' look of concern when we each ordered a beer just as the other customers were sitting down for breakfast. Nothing washes down a couple of potato, egg and cheese breakfast tacos like a cold Tecate.

Just then the notorious curmudgeon, raconteur and candidate for Texas Agriculture Commissioner Kinky Friedman walked in, looking like the morning after the night before. Glancing over at our table, he sat down nearby and ordered heuvos rancheros and a beer.

Working From Home

I forwarded the following ad from craigslist to a friend of mine who is considering a career move. It sounds like a great job, except that neither of us understood a single word of the job description besides the phrase "working from home", which she is more than happy to do:

From: john langford

Subject: i think you'd be perfect for this....

Date: Friday, February 19, 2010, 3:45 PM

WPF/XAML Designer (Downtown Austin)

We are looking for a WPF/XAML Designer (on contract basis) to implement Photoshop mockups of User Interface for WPF application. The user interface has been laid out using Telerik controls and the basic WPF controls. We have a graphics guy who has built screen shots of the entire user interface and now need a WPF guru to take the mockups and skin the existing controls and user interface. If you are interested, please have some sample work to show us (in WPF or Silverlight). We are flexible with you working from home or here at our downtown office. There is potential for a lot more work after this project if you turn out to be a great fit.

That last sentence should read "There is potential for a lot more work if you are one of the three people on the planet who can decipher this ad and who knows WTF WPF is."

Bon Voyage

It was freezing cold, and I was standing high up on the windy deck of a passenger ship overlooking San Francisco harbor and the Golden Gate bridge. I was four years old, and along with my baby brother and my parents had left our home in New Orleans to cross the Pacific Ocean to begin a new life in the Far East.

The U.S.S. General W.P. Richardson was commissioned in 1944 as a navy transport ship, carrying troops to and from France, Italy, England and Morrocco. Subsequently converted to a luxury liner and renamed the S.S. Roosevelt, she carried a different kind of passenger.

During her colorful career, she was sold several times, and was called Atlantis, Sapphire Seas, Emerald Seas and Ocean Explorer I, like the names of lovers tattooed on a sailor's arms.

After exploring the the Mediterranean for many years, the old gal was finally scrapped in India in 1990, a seasoned world traveler with a lifetime of incredible adventures in exotic destinations.

For some reason, I thought we would be making the long voyage by paddle boat! I suppose this was because I had seen paddle boats on the Mississippi River near where we lived. Former riverboat captain-turned-writer Samuel Clemens took his pen name, Mark Twain, from the slang for "two fathoms", the depth of water needed for a steamboat to pass safely.

As I shivered in the cold wind, a grown-up handed me a tightly wound roll of crepe paper....a colorful streamer given to all passengers to throw to those on the pier below who had come to bid them farewell. I flung mine as far as a four year old could, watching it unfurl in slow motion as I grasped tightly to the end. Far below I saw a beautiful woman in a fur coat and a pill box hat catch the other end. For a long moment, we smiled at each other...a total stranger beaming up at me. I felt a mixture of excitement and shyness and confusion as she waved goodbye to me.

The three week crossing included typhoons, fine dining on crisp white tablecloths (which on days when the seas were rough were dampened so that the plates and glasses wouldn't crash to the floor), a screening of 101 Dalmations, and my first experience sleeping in a bunk bed.

Since then I've scuba dived with sharks in Tahiti, watched in amazement as a herd of elephants strode silently across the Serengeti, marveled at the majestic waterfalls in Brazil, run through the ruins of Florence before dawn, hiked through the jungles of Costa Rica as howler monkeys prowled overhead, gazed at the constellations from a thatched hut in Thailand, skied across snow covered rice paddies in Japan and plunged over white water rapids on a raging river in Honduras.

Many years have passed, but I still have the vivid memory of gazing into a stranger's kind eyes, joined to her by an umbilical cord of bright red paper, until it drew taut and tore apart, leaving her behind and launching me into a future that even Mark Twain could never have imagined.

The Emperor's New Clothes

This evening, after a long day of work, I stopped by Sarah's Mediterranean Grill, which is where I go when I'm really, really hungry. Nothing satisfies quite like a mountain of chicken shawerma with a side of hummus and pita, topped off with a piece of flaky baklava for dessert.

As I was finishing my meal, the owner, whose name is Maethem, joined me at my table. He's a charming guy with a winning smile and an easy going manner, and we struck up a conversation about this and that.

I asked him about his family back in Baghdad, and he told me about an incident he witnessed when he was 13 years old and working in his father's clothing business.

One day, as he and his father were returning to their shop, they happened to be passing by as the Crown Prince of Kuwait, who was visiting Iraq, stepped out of his limousine. His dutiful chauffeur closed the door behind him, accidentally slamming it on the sheik's robe, worth thousands of denarii.

As the sheik shouted at the driver, threatening to fire him for ruining his priceless garment, Maethem's father intervened, offering to repair the Prince's clothing at no charge if he promised not to terminate the unfortunate and humiliated chauffeur.

After much persuasion concerning his abilities as a tailor, Maethem's father escorted the Prince to his clothing shop and told him his robe would be ready in half an hour. With skilled hands, he deftly repaired the intricate needlework on the opulent garment and presented it to the Prince, who could not believe his eyes.

As promised, the humble tailor refused to accept payment for his handiwork. A true prince is not always recognized by the clothing he wears.

Third Eye Blind

Everyone has spotted a "tilaka" or "bindi"...a mark worn on the forehead by Hindu men and women. It marks the location of the sixth chakra, the seat of concealed wisdom, and symbolizes the Third Eye of introspection and spiritual enlightenment. It is also said to protect against demons or bad luck.

I now have one my very own tilaka as the result of slamming my car door against my forehead last night while talking on my cell phone with a customer service representative in....wait for it....India!

As a result of my self-inflicted injury, a couple of choice words sprang spontaneously from my mouth, one of which began with the word "God", and the other of which signifies the sacred union of two people. The customer service rep on the other end of the line did not find me enlightened in the least.

With any luck at all, my tilaka will form a permanent scar as a reminder to be conscious and aware...and what happens when I'm not.