YEP, let's face it. We all need 'em. Sometimes you don't think you need one, but when you least expect it, you'll be sitting in an English class, and all of a sudden you'll scream "AAIIGGHH!!" and go bounding out the window to freedom.

Okay, maybe you wouldn't go out through the window, and maybe you wouldn't scream either. Nevertheless, every so often it comes to pass that a person just has to have a break. Waaaayyy back in my high school days, I would usually figure out the appproximate point I'd be going berserk for the day, and synchronize it with the breakdowns of my friends, which were almost always just after first period (conveniently leaving us marked as "present" in school). We'd then gather around my strategically located car, pile in, and tear off in a cloud of rubber smoke before Security had a chance to pursue.

An Essay Mostly About Drunk Driving

In fact, it gets even more exciting when he can only keep track of THREE things, and is extremely slow about them. Which explains why a drunk driver sees you at the expense of staying in his lane, why he then stays in his lane at the expense of knowing which one it is, realizes he's in opposing traffic at the expense of remembering how to steer, remembers how to steer at the expense of how to brake, and is reminded of how to brake by a red oak.

Crash Helmets Are A Pain

Anyway, there's a crash helmet law now. It has three stages: First offense, the officer slaps your wrist. Second offense, the judge slaps your wrist. Third offense, the judge spanks you, then hand you a bill for his trouble.

Rumor has it that there was a fourth stage, where the officer simply shot you as you rode by, but they were afraid that this would violate a littering ordinance.

Incidentally, I am not sure how they plan to enforce this, since presumably if you are riding a bicycle, you are not driving, and so are not carrying identification, and so you can tell them anything you want ("Yes sir. Last name is Mama, m a m a. First name Joe, j o e.").

What I Did Over Winter Break

Left the plane parked at a rest stop along I 95, so there would't be any troubles with finding it. I didn't want to cause anybody any trouble, y'know, 'cause I'm a good guy.

A cabbie gave me a free ride to the wharf after checking out my pocket protector, where I made like Gilligan and headed out for a little tour. Nice floater, too. Twin Chevy rat motors, turbocharging, water jets -- none of that prop stuff here. Top speed was about 60 knots, but the gas mileage sucked.

I figured the owner was probably set fairly well, and would understand that this was just a case of trickle down economics. I reckon he could get an-other if he don't buy his daughter the Rolls. That's right, buddy: be tough. Make 'er drive a Benz.

The Fascinating and Advanced Neptunian Space Bears

The creature climbing down the ladder was perhaps seven feet tall, quite rounded, with a long pointed nose, small circular ears, large and utterly black eyes, amazingly delicate hands, equally amazing feet of grand proportions, a tail of equal length to the whole of the body, and was covered completely in brown hair (I later found this to be fur).

The creature had with him a box the size of a camera attached to a tripod. Because of this similarity, I initially mistook the baggage for this device; I was quickly corrected, however. He walked to within two yards and set up his ma-chine-he fiddled with several dials on its top, then stepped back. He spoke, not so much to me as to the box between us; in a moment it was clear why. The box itself spoke!

"Using am I native the language on planet this?"

To say that I was startled would be to say that General Washington was a statesman of note. Nevertheless, I was determined to maintain an air of author-ity and control, and did not so much as raise an eyebrow. Paul, sadly, had taken all his simple nerves could handle, and fled in terror. I ignored the small inter-ruption and continued:

"Indeed," I replied to the curious box, "though you do not speak it well. Am I to presume that you are a foreigner?"

Cat and... Gerbil?

Illyria was a little confused by the chair. Its bars rose far above her head, but not above the top of the ball. She could see that there was plenty of space for her, but she couldn't understand that the sphere would not conform to her desires. She sat and pondered this new quandary.

Cactus Bob knew an opportunity when he saw one. Quickly he reached over the top of the chair and gave the ball a good thwack! The ball rolled forward out from the chair and Illyria, grateful for the guidance, continued in that direction on her own. Orange ears slid slightly backward and orange tail flicked vigorously as Bob's quarry fled.

For Illyria, the novelty was beginning to wear off. In this bizarre universe, the only thing to do was run. Running was good as far as it goes, but a gerbil needs more in life: digging, eating. She tried to dig through the plastic but her claws had little, if any, effect.

The Trek-O-Matic Star Trek Storyline Generator

"And will this production be a cinematic spectacle which will draw in audiences, Trekkie or otherwise, or will it pretty much be a vehicle for its own continued existence?"

Definitely a vehicle.

"Now, will your director be a qualified professional director, or will he be one of the lead characters?"

One of the characters -- Riker, we think.

"Will he be allowed to play a role which will make him look like a swank, cool, in-charge type of guy, even if his character for the last seven years was most certainly not?"

Of course. That's why they always want to be director.