ME AND YOUTUBE

Fortunately, I came of age before the time of video cameras. For my parents to capture and show those precious moments of my childhood, they either had to use an 8 mm movie camera and then a screen and projector or use hand puppets and marionettes. My parents were sensible creatures and decided that few childhood escapades were so cute that they were worth such hassle. So there is little visual evidence to counter my assertions that by the time I was 6 I was advising Hugh Hefner about his sex life and routinely intimidating Clint Eastwood.

But that would also make it difficult to one day explain and pass on my story to a rising generation. Suppose I one day have children, or suppose my nephews want to know what it was like back in the day; what then?

Well fortunately, the human tapestry is made up of many common threads, and I think I can get close to showing what my formative years were like by borrowing the visual record of others. So with the help of You Tube, I shall try to show you a bit about myself.

I was born in Winter Park, Fla., to an upper middle class family. But we were not affected by bourgeoisie pretense. (By the way, I'm the one on the sofa.) We didn't have much in the way of company because of my father's peculiar way of greeting visitors. So my sister and I had to make do with the family cat, and we took good care of her.

Like many people of my background, I went to college and eventually got a job. Needless to say, I have become an invaluable employee. When people have questions about staplers, they come to me.

And I have matured into a devoted uncle to my nephews. Sometimes I talk to them as though they were my own.

So there you have it. A quick video history of my life. I hope it helps clear things up.

THE CARD

I recently got a card from Mom that had this photograph on the cover.

A lovely look at two wildcats in their natural home, no? And then I opened the card. It had been blank originally, but Mom offered this caption: "He always tells that same joke -- and I'm supposed to laugh at it ..."

And so nature's splendor is reduced to a display of dubious wit and connubial disharmony.

Cool.

HORSE TALK

Fifty years ago, the three most popular spectator sports in America were horse racing, boxing and baseball. Of the three, only baseball remains in the first rank of our nation's sportscape. Boxing I don't think will ever regain its former standing, but there is hope for horse racing. NASCAR's popularity shows that Americans finding the circumnavigation of an oval riveting, and maybe horse racing can borrow some of NASCAR's devices. For instance, perhaps the races would be better if the horses got a running start instead of bolting out of a fixed gate. If so, then there would need to be some sort of pace car for horse races. I suggest this:

JACK'S BACK

As quality kills go, it was memorable even by 24 standards: chained to a chair and enduring torture, Jack Bauer escapes by sinking his teeth into the neck of a terrorist and tearing out the jugular vein (Some message boards are now singing the praises of "Jackula.") It was a tone-setter kill, one to show fans that though Jack was brutalized for two years in a Chinese prison, he still is tough enough (and perhaps hungry enough -- Chinese prison cuisine must be pretty hopeless) to punk any terrorist fool enough to challenge him.

And that is good news, because the security forces protecting the United States in 24's universe are just as sorry as ever. They couldn't stop a weaponized virus, a reactor meltdown or Kim Bauer's idiocy, and now -- on top of weeks of terrorist attacks across the country that have claimed hundreds if not thousands of lives -- they've allowed a tactical nuclear weapon to be detonated in a Los Angeles suburb. On 24, the good guys usually fall behind by two touchdowns in the first quarter.

So here's where we stand after five hours: Jack is back and he is just as disdainful of due process and other constitutional inhibitions as ever. He is damaged by his stay in China, but not so damaged that he can't put a bullet in a friend's neck. That friend would be Curtis, who you could tell would be taking a dip in the dead pool (joining Michelle, Tony, Edgar George, the hobbit and and so many more of Jack's unfortunate co-workers) as soon as he started gritting his teeth like some denizen of the looney bin. Turns out Curtis was carrying a grudge against a former terrorist turned aspiring statesman who had critical information ... and better hair, for that matter. His dark impulses overcame him and he trained his pistol on the erstwhile terrorist's forehead, leaving Jack "no choice." Jack Bauer, you see, does not know how to shoot to disable. Jack briefly grieved, and got over it as soon as he saw the mushroom cloud on the horizon. Mushroom clouds really piss him off.

The president is the brother of the slain President Palmer, and he's in a bad way. On one side, he's mired in a security crisis that would have even Ghandi screaming for blood and he's in the shadow of his elder, unflinching brother. On the other side, he's burdened by his activist lawyer sister, who is shaping up to be this season's Really Stupid Chick. My guess is that she is actually Kim in disguise. Anyway, the current President Palmer does a lot of soul-searching and looking about anxiously. He'll be lucky if he makes it to the end of the season without an enraged mob storming the White House and supplanting him with a musket-waving Charlton Heston or someone else of that ilk. It all depends on whether Jack can stop the Bad Guy.

Who is Abu Fayed, the bullet-headed terrorist leader with the sulfurous glare of a sadistic gym teacher. As I said, he's off to a big lead: He's already vaporized part of Southern California (why do the terrorists have such a mad on for L.A.? It's gotta be Pauly Shore.), and he has four more nukes at his disposal. But he's only setting himself up for the Big Payback.

Meanwhile, the search for Fayed has led Jack to his father and brother, and this is where things get really cool. Jack's brother Graham is the sinister nebbish that has been behind a couple of plots to take over the world and kill Jack. He is married to one of Jack's former girlfriends, and the connubial bliss they share is apparently the sort that only a marriage counselor with chronic money problems could love. He shouts at her, "You've never gotten over Jack!" Well, duh, ya little worm-lord. The only woman that ever got over Jack was Nina Myers, and that was because he fired two or three fatal slugs into her chest. Anyway, Jack drops in for a visit and a few telling glances with his sister-in-law. Yeah, it seems she still has the hots for him, and even more alarming, Jack's nephew is a tall, blond teenager whose good looks could not possibly have come from his short, bespectacled, bald father. (It will be interesting to see how this kid behaves; any stupidity that recalls is possible half sister calls the Bauer genes into question.) Jack decides it's time for the brothers to catch up, and so he escorts Graham into the study. Where he then ties Graham to a chair and begins torturing him. I'm guessing the first thing out of Jack's mouth was something like, "Two years in a Chinese gulag, and I never saw so much as a postcard from you!"

Such a display makes the mind reel at what growing up in the Family Bauer must have been like. There's probably a home somewhere for the baby-sitters unfortunate enough to cross the Bauer threshold; it's probably a house full of middle-aged women with nervous tics and a fear of sharp objects. Why, one can almost see Mary Poppins tied to a chair, head slumped forward and hair disheveled. Suddenly, young Jack Bauer pulls her hair so she is staring him in the face as he brandishes a power drill in her face and bellows, "DAMMIT, WE'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME! SO I'M GOING TO ASK YOU AGAIN, WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?!"

It gets even better to imagine the Bauer clan going on the Dr. Phil show. "So, Jack, you say the only time you ever really communicate with people is when you are shoving bamboo shoots under their fingernails. Why do you think that is so?" Of course, such a question would prompt a savage response from Jack, one that the audience just might cheer on.

So anyway, that's where we stand at present in Club 24. I can't wait for next week.

CAR TALK, PART II

Fortunately, I'm a sucker for creature comforts, and this car had 'em. Comfortable seats, an easy-to-use CD player and a cool retro look coaxed a Shakespearean turn from me: "What's in a name?" And after years of driving cars that had all the horsepower of sled team of harnessed chipmunks, I was thrilled to be driving a car that noticeably accelerated when I stepped on the gas pedal.

But what I liked best was the security the car offered. I liked the way the car would flash its lights to remind me where I had parked. I liked the way the doors automatically locked once I was in gear and driving. I liked having enough airbags around me that I could drive as recklessly as I wanted, and only other people would suffer for my folly.

So the car began to grow on me ... a little. After all, it was so accommodating that I began to wonder whether I might one day awaken with the car in my apartment, serving me breakfast in bed. But it only grew on me a little. At one point, a friend who was also driving a rental car suggested that she provide the transportation for an excursion. Nah, I said, let's settle who drives in the only way that two people driving rentals should: We'll meet in a parking lot and have our own private demolition derby; the car that survives is the one worthy of our use. (Naturally, there would be some explaining to do at the rental agency. But that's why we blame things on "those damn kids.")

The only real drawback appeared when people saw me driving the rental for the first time. Their initial response usually was "Oh, I love your new car! When did you get it?" But before I could answer, their faces would register a sudden reassessment and realization: "Wait, it's a rental, isn't it? What happened to your old car?" They might as well have just come out and said what they were really thinking: "Wait a minute! You? A new car? No way! You being able to afford a nice, new car has about all the symmetry of Paris Hilton slugging it out with a trailer park princess for $10 lingerie at the local Wal-Mart." It was depressing to learn that any sign of bourgeoisie prosperity on me was utterly preposterous to my friends.

But like many relationships, ours had to end. I could no longer afford the thrills of dating a much younger car, and its destiny was date other drivers. I had to find something more permanent, and I began to think I should get a stable, reliable car. Something Japanese and in a muted color. But memories of the rental and its swift acceleration were hard to shake. So I compromised. I got a Volvo ... a cathouse red, turbo Volvo (used, of course). We'll see how that works out.

CAR TALK, PART I

It was such a slight sound, just a minor whine coming from somewhere in my car. It seemed a trifling problem, one that could easily have been fixed by turning up the volume of the stereo, had my car stereo not been stolen months before. There was no urgency, no robotic voice bellowing, "Danger! Danger, John Parnell!" Just a tinny, little whine that gave every indication that whatever problem it signaled could wait until Monday when my mechanic was open.

Or not.

The next sound that my car made was its death rattle. Turns out that minor whine was the bolt that held the tensioner in place breaking. Once it broke, the tensioner was no longer tense, the timing belt quit timing and my engine was junk. My mechanic said he had never seen something like that happen before. Well, at least I could say I could still astonish people.

So I needed wheels fast and that meant renting a car, which meant stepping into a time machine, figuratively speaking. You see, I work at a newspaper, snd so I can only afford cars from the previous decade. Any new leaps forward in automobile technology come to me only when I leach off my well-heeled friends, or when whatever car I own pauses long enough on its grim march to the junkyard for me to get it to the mechanic for an overnight visit ... and I get to rent a car. So in a pathetic sort of a way, I saw a silver lining to my engine debacle.

I rented the cheapest car I could get: a Chrysler Sebring. The car's name was meant to evoke the high-speed thrills of the race track in the Florida town. As a boy, I had been through Sebring many times on the way to my grandparents' house in Lake Placid, and I had thought Sebring sucked. The car and I were not off to a good start.

But

FUNNY CAT

Sorry to be so long during posts. My life has been stuck in the Land of Things That Don't Work for the past two weeks or so, and tending to that has taken up a lot of time. You will learn more when I post about the car troubles this week.

In the meantime, a guy who posts on a message board where I lurk has been incorporating hilarious cat art as part of his sig (his handle is UFNY). He posted this a few weeks ago, and I didn't stop laughing about it for days. So here you go.