A Letter to Rod:

As a young man of about seven, I accomplished something that brought me to the bright, clean edge of epiphany. But I stayed and did not leap. I now remember it only as a fuzzy thing -- a pencil sketch rubbed with a thousand sweaty hands. I remember that I was there standing in stocking feet on the burgundy tile of the downstairs bathroom. It was during the days when I still peed through the pee hole slit in my pajamas (just seemed convenient). And there was a piece of crap in there Rod. Just one, log-like, and it was floating. I didn't like the looks of it. Not at all.

I decided to fix it. So I pushed as hard as I could with the air in my chest, and I made my pee come out hard and fast. It cut through that loaf of feces like a laser through an ice cube. Sliced it right in half. Then I sliced it again, just for fun. And the lacerations caused the water to cloud so that the piece didnt look so prominent and hideous anymore. It looked more like soup then, which is naturally less offensive.

Then -- and this is legendary in my family -- I made a realization and pattered out to the living room where my entire family awaited (it was my birthday). There, I announced, loud and clear, that "pee can beat up poop." And I was a proud boy. And everyone laughed. I didn't understand why, but I didn't mind either.

Now if I'd had the capabilities of abstraction back then that I do now, I might've realized the ramifications of the situational symbols. But then, all there was was a little scratching in the back of my skull, like a gerbil was trapped there for just an instant. A scratching, or an itch. One or the other. I felt it, creeping up, never hopping the fence. I was boy though. Merely a boy.

So take what you have Rod. Take what you have -- the acidic and malodorous byproduct of everyday's alchemy -- and push with it. Slice through that loaf of feces. Dilute it. Make it soup. And run out and spread the news. Far and wide, boy. Until the last ear of the last corner of the land may hear the fifth echo.

It's moments like these -- after much thought -- when I go to my roof with my face covered in horseradish. I tilt my skull. I watch the stars move. Something smelly drips in my eyes. But my eyes don't smell things. So it doesn't matter.

Until the last hour be upon us,

Dave