Monday, November 25, 2002
It’s clear you are as strong in your convictions as I am, Nuttley. It reminds me of the old parable/tale/cliché of the immovable object meets the irresistible force. Each of us is so well-matched in so many areas. A chess game or series of questions on 1980s television trivia would go on for centuries, or until one of us died, and would solve nothing for the time invested. It’s high time we settled this dispute in the only way remaining: A race around the world!

If I could see your face, would I see fear in your eyes, Nuttley? I doubt very much your fearlessness in facing such a trial, even if I don’t doubt your tenacity. The simple fact is, when I set the appointment to meet tomorrow morning in London at Big Ben, I can practically hear your nervous breath tremble at the thought. A race around the world—is he mad? Yet I know you will be there, because despite the apparent insanity and recklessness of it all, you are both a man of your word and a man of fervor. You will be there tomorrow morning, because you know it is the only way to win our argument.

The rules will be simple, as previously established in the obscure chapter of Robert’s Rules of Order for around-the-world races. Journey shall be over sea, air, or land through any available means, but you must go all the way around the world and establish your presence at the agreed-upon global markers. In short, it doesn’t matter how you get there, but you must get there, Nuttley. I know you too well, though; you wouldn’t cheat, it’s beneath you. You won’t find me beneath you either—I will be directly ahead! Ha!

You might expect me to take a plane all the way around the world, given my friend Danny Turrell has a pilot’s license, but the thought doesn’t appeal to me. Traveling by air alone might get me there first with little question, but taking the less paved path of boat and land travel would make victory all the sweeter once it’s in my hand. I’m not ruling out a short sally in a hot-air balloon, mind you, but if you expect me to flutter on gossamer wings rather than plant shoed feet on firm ground, you’re sadly mistaken.

We shall carry only that which fits on our back, Nuttley, eat when we can catch food, drink when we can lay hands on water. It is a test of will as much as speed, endurance as much as swiftness. Of character even more than rate of travel. The exact mathematical formula is C=d (s X w+E) I think, but you’ll have to check with a mathematician. I’m a raconteur.

Don’t even ask to bring along your girlfriend, or even your pot-belly pig; no race around the world has ever been a family affair. The solitude of those moments as you bicycle toward the end of the Asian continent are the importance of the experience. The loneliness of the vast open sea as you search desperately for fish to eat and fresh water to drink crossing the Pacific ocean. I wouldn’t deprive you of that, Nuttley, and wouldn’t allow you to deprive yourself either.

We’re agreed, I assume, to meet tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time in London, at the base of Big Ben, where large crowds of friends, well-wishers, and the simply curious will gather in droves to see us off. They’ll think us mad, I’m sure; I couldn’t deny the possibility they’re right. It will be a rigorous test of character, one we’ll both be better off for. But once I win—and I will win—there will be none of these petty arguments ever again, and I’ll prove the Cure is and always has been a better band than Echo and the Bunnymen

I Just Wanted a Card That Said “Sorry For Kicking Your Grandma in the Kidneys”
Is that too much to ask? Apparently so. Time and time again Hallmark has left me high and dry to draw up my own cards of one stick figure putting the boot-stomp on another, or a cat getting sucked into a lawnmower.

Ode to the Debunker
Without debunkers, the conspiracy theorist population would grow wildly out of control, regenerating exponentially and savaging the natural cultural landscape. The beautiful diversity of nature would quickly and unceremoniously be destroyed, like a bedwetting puppy that was a gift from your ex-wife.

Nobody Mentions the Nerd Problem
I raised three kids, not one of them a nerd. There’s Mike, my youngest, Bunko, my youngest, and Maul, my oldest, and they all know what to do to a nerd when they see him.

Just a Minor Setback in the Raoul Dunkin Story
I started off at the commune in the beginning of its web birth. I was the first to point out to Red Bagel that a black background and black text make the stories more difficult to read. My thanks was a dirty scowl and a desk drawer full of cooked noodles, which would have been more of a disappointment if I weren’t so happy to receive the desk at the time.