KYLE-AM .. Kyle In The Morning

By Michael Breckenridge

There’s been a lot of talk in the New York Times recently about the phenomenon of death by blogging. This is nothing to sneeze at. Unless you have a cold, like Russell Shaw (who according to the Times article died of blogging recently after he had “come down with something”), and then by all means, please. But use a hanky, a tissue or your sleeve as those recent health department commercials have demonstrated. We don’t all need to suddenly catch cold and die - really, seriously. Among other real or perceived wrongs I’d like to accuse it of, excess computer use apparently suppresses the immune system as well.

At any rate, what we are faced with in this country is a new phenomenon known as the SOLO: small office, lonely office. And it is within the confines of these self-imposed home-exiles that people are keeling over into the Big Sleep despite a full day’s supply of Vitamin Coffee. That’s why the bed’s next to the computer. I aspire to count myself among them, thanks to the Times article. I have a New York state of mind.

“I’ve been dead before.” — Spock

Death is not so unusual. In fact, it’s happening all around us. I had a NDE once, from being trapped in a snowstorm. Too bad it didn’t finish me off, because now I’m stuck behind the computer all the time, instead of doing dangerous things that could get me killed for a better reason than blogging. But let’s not discount the deleterious effects of the web - this is work. It’s a job. It can be fun at times, but let’s get real: there are bills to pay.

This is work. Did I say that already? Well, it’s still true. It involves sitting at a desk, typing into the computer, instead of kicking back, relaxing on a sunny day with a gentle breeze in a hammock tied between two palm trees with the surf crashing nearby. Those photos of people typing on wifi laptops with a cool drink on a tropical beach are such beautiful lies. There is a word in Japanese for dying at your desk for a reason - because it happens! Blogging is no exception.

I’m dying a little bit every day. It’s true! And someday, I’ll prove it, because I’ll be dead. And when I am, I expect I’ll be writing an email post like this one. Something like:

Subject: Death by Blogging
Body: Well, here I am: dead. The CSI said I’ve been dead for about eight hours now. COD was congestive blog failure. I had built up some mean callouses on my fingers and wore the letters off my keyboard from excess typing. Being unable to rip myself away from one more post, and looking like a bloated whale despite chronic malnutrition, I expired. Apparently the metadata of my life was set for no-cache, and so I am penniless as well. I had made up a cardboard sign that said: “Will blog for food”, but there was never any time to stand by the highway with it. There was always one more post to do. Too bad I was unable to compete with those kiddies eating a steady diet of tasty and nutritious silkworms. The high protein content gave them the strength and energy to out-post me, and their lower cost of living and government subsidies gave them an edge I didn’t have. But enough about me. I’m logging off for the last time now. Hey, look at that light! It’s so beautiful! Must go to it … yada yada yada

The preceding hypothetical posthumous blog post was a complete fiction known as link bait. It doesn’t represent me, anybody I know, or anybody you know, living, dead or zombies. Just another ten minutes of my life wasted, sitting at the computer. Sorry for wasting your time with my nonsense. Can we all just get along?

P.S. I once saw a New Yorker cartoon where one dog says to the other, “I had my own blog for a while, but I decided to go back to just pointless, incessant barking.”

By Michael Breckenridge

Lake Wobegon, Minnesota — Local residents Barb and Jim found a superman in blue tights, 14 times the size of a normal man, from a planet 14 times the size of Earth, lying in a scorched patch of ground in their wheat field. Unsure what to do with their strange guest, they dragged him by his red flowing cape into their barn with a tractor.

When the superman came to his senses, he saw they had set up a card table with coffee and the trimmings for a light meal. Jim began to address him.

“These are the good years for Barb and me. The kids have all moved away, the mortgage is paid, and the pets are finally dead. And yet, something just hasn’t been right.”

“What’s troubling you, Jim,” Barb said.

“I felt a disturbance in the Force, Barb. As if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened.”

“Oh, your spidey-sense is tingling again. Have you taken the gamma radiation pills the doctor gave you for that?”

“No, dear, I haven’t. They were causing a startling metamorphosis, making my skin turn green and my whole body to grow into a hulking creature every time I grew angry or outraged,” Jim said. “Frankly, I was tired of waking up in alleys with my clothes in rags and not knowing how I got there, not to mention always hearing sad piano music while I was hitchhiking back home.”

“That’s true. I had to call Ghostbusters several times to go rescue you.”

“Barb, that’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why did you always call Ghostbusters?”

“People knew there was something strange in the neighborhood. When your husband has turned green, busted out of his clothes and gone running off again, who ya gonna call?”

“Of course, dear. They’re accustomed to chasing green spectres. Better them and avoid a sting operation by the police.”

“Speaking of the police, what shall we do with our guest?” Barb said.

“You’re right. I’ve been so rude. Why don’t you put on Synchronicity. Mr. Superman - I don’t really know what to call you - do you like The Police?”

“If they are for truth, justice, and the American way,” the superman said. “And when you call me, you can call me Al. Al Ice from Gliese 876 d, a Super-Earth in a red dwarf solar system far, far away.”

“Charmed,” Barb said, extending her small hand. “Isn’t that the one with the orange colored sky?”

Al stuck out a finger which she touched with her own. Then he picked up the cup of coffee she had served him and ate it.

“It is difficult to be precise, Barb,” Al said. “I should say approximately, an orange-colored, purple-striped, pretty green polka-dot sky.”

“Difficult to be precise?” Jim said. “An orange-colored, purple-striped, polka-dot sky?”

“An orange-colored, purple-striped, pretty green polka-dot sky.”

“That’s a pretty close approximation.”

“I endeavor to be accurate.”

“You do quite well.”

“Do you smell fish?” Barb said.

“The burgers! They must be ready.” With a flick of his wrist, Jim retrieved a plate of meat patties for the three to enjoy with his spidey-webbing. “I’d offer you some asbestos to sprinkle on your burger - it tastes kinda funky - but my friend Clarence Washington told me it gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Is that right?” Al said.

“Yeah. I can’t sprinkle it on eggs in the morning or my Dutch Masters cigars either. For a while, I didn’t know what I was gonna eat.”

“So now, we’ve switched to ketchup,” Barb said, handing Al a super-sized bottle with the words “DRINK ME” beautifully printed on it in large letters.

“Ketchup has natural mellowing agents,” Jim said. “It makes a person more normal. Isn’t that super?”

Al picked up the tiny burger, tossed it in his mouth, then squeezed out the entire contents of the ketchup bottle on to his tongue with one super-pinch and ate it.

“This burger was a really wonderful idea. What an incredible taste you’ve discovered,” Al said.

“It’s a mixture of cherry tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,” Barb said. “And one special ingredient from my brother: kryptonite.”

“What a curious feeling,” Al said. “I must be shutting up like a telescope.” The superman began to shrink to the size of a normal human. “What does your brother do?”

“He works for Lex Luthier. They make guitars.”

“How did you say they came into possession of kryptonite again?” Jim said.

“Because they couldn’t get moon rocks for their ultra high-end guitar picks. People love the Krypto-Picks™, shaped like a dog’s paw. They have the added benefit of providing adequate protection against caped crusaders from space with superhuman strength, in case one wants to break up your death metal concert right in the middle of a gnarly solo. It’s a good thing.”

“It’s a wonderful story, and it makes me feel charitable. Come on, Barb, let’s go down to the Red Cross and give blood for the Hurricane Katrina victims. Want to go with us, Al?”

“No thanks, I’d best be, uh, you know.” Al stood up, adjusted his tights and made an up, up and away gesture with his hands. “I believe I can fly.”

“Well, suit yourself. If you change your mind, there’s a phone booth down at the corner.”

Al climbed up to the roof of the barn and spread his arms. As Barb and Jim headed for the car, they heard a resounding thud as Al hit the ground.

“He’s dead, Jim,” Barb said. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled.

“Sounds like rain. When we get back we’ll bury him out on the lone prairie,” Jim said. “That’ll be the end of it.” They looked with melancholy at the fallen hero, then drove away.

The unsteady folkie voice of Rich Dworsky permeated the air with a wistful little song.

“Here in Minnesota / Al Ice and wheat fields / Here people know / The power kryptonite wields / Life is flowing like ketchup on steering wheels / Ketchup! Ketchup!”