Today In The Checkout Line ...

I did it ... I swore I wouldn't but I did it anyway ... I bought "Avatar." Well, I didn't actually buy the movie ... I bought a box of Milk Duds which made me think of going to the cinema which caused me to stop at my friend Mike's house and borrow his Avatar DVD. And I watched it.

In a word ... AMAZING. In another word ... SPECTACULAR!!

I like all types of movie ... drama, action, comedy, fantasy, etc. ... so the fact that I loved this film isn't a big surprise. What is shocking is that I wasn't burned by another over-hyped epic.

Like just about everyone on planet Earth not living in a cave, I was bombarded with pieces and parts of the Avatar press machine long before the film's December 2009 release. I knew that the movie had been in some form of development since 1994 ... kids are learning that fact in nursery schools now. I was told repeatedly that Avatar was going to show movie-goers breakthrough motion-capture animation technologies that would set new standards. Info-tainment publications and television shows flooded the newsstands and airwaves with details about Avatar's $237 million budget and the rumored $280 million to $310 million actual price tag for the project. Complete strangers stopped me in the street to ask if I was aware that Avatar was nominated for nine Academy Awards, including "Best Picture" and "Best Director." And if I was exposed to one more James Cameron "exclusive" interview I was going to go old-school postal on somebody or something ... no court in the land would convict me!

To be honest, I actively tried not to see the film and had decided that, if I ever did, I'd hate it. But the story of a mid-22nd century paraplegic marine working with scientists to inhabit artificial bodies and use them to sway the alien population of a distant moon into allowing a mining colony to both aid a resource-depleted Earth and turn a tidy profit (that's a mouthful) was like a siren song. The main human character's hardships and his struggle with doing what's right or obeying his military masters was enthralling. The spiritual Na'vi people were equally captivating, with their brutal-yet-dignified lifestyle. And the prehistoric, often-physics-defying landscapes of Pandora as it orbited a gas giant in the neighboring Alpha Centauri star system were breathtaking. I even overlooked some of the obvious plot points and the textbook gonna-be-a-sequel ending because it was so damn entertaining. I really liked it!

Upon reflection, I can see that my planned film embargo stems from the deep-seeded anger from dozens of movies that promised me everything and delivered very little. In 1997, James Cameron released another little film called "Titanic," promising the most heart-gripping love story ever told between characters "Jack" and "Rose." The world was abuzz with "Titanic Fever" and the film set all kinds of box office records, grossing more than $2 billion internationally. For me it was a big slow boat filled with a big slow story line. I want my three hours back, James Cameron.

In 2001, friends asked me to attend the movies for a little flick called "Pearl Harbor." We had big-name box office draws and noisy battle scenes, all interwoven with a steamy love triangle and enough historical references to make any social studies buff more than happy. I fell asleep ... an event only happening once before when I was forced to watch "On Golden Pond" on DVD. Michael Bay directed Pearl Harbor and he was only forgiven by me after the first "Transformers" movie debuted. Maybe if the planes and aircraft carriers of 1942 had changed into Decepticons and Autobots, I might have stayed awake. And the cast owes me a ticket refund for poor, poor performances ... that's $2.25 from Ben Affleck, $2.25 from Josh Hartnett, and $2.25 from Kate Beckinsale. And I don't care if one of them kicks it in or they all go together, but a box of wasted Skittles is also part of that redemption deal!

And 1994 called to remind me that that nightmare called "Pulp Fiction" ... which I saw at a discount theatre ... still pisses me off. That stupid dance and the getting-stranger-by-the-minute progression of plot and characters. John Travolta is a yawn, Uma Thurman can't act, and I never know if Samuel L. Jackson IS Samuel L. Jackson or if he's Lawrence Fishburne or Morgan Freeman. A buck's a buck, Quentin Tarantino ... cough it up!

Even comedies ... my true love ... have failed me. In 2008, "Baby Mama" was released, starring the campy, nutty duo of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler as a busy executive (Fey) who waited to have children but now finds she needs the help of a surrogate (Poehler) to make her dreams of motherhood come true. Has anyone you know ever watched a preview or commercial for an upcoming movie and commented, "I think we just saw all the best parts in the trailer." They were talking about Baby Mama. The trailer was more meaningful and much less annoying. It was like slow sketch comedy ... I was listening for the "rim shot" to move us into each new scene. And predictable ... not what I expected from the quirky Poehler (thank God she found her home in "Parks and Recreation"). And Tina Fey was just bad, not surprising from the most over-hyped celebrity in show business. She doesn't even return Oprah's calls in a timely manner!

It hasn't always been the big screen that's disappointed me. Friends and family have tempted me to sit in front of the small screen and "be amazed" by their favorite movie. The amazement seldom occurs. Two "death sentence" movies would be "Officer and a Gentleman" (1982) and "Wall Street" (1987). The first is always mentioned as a story of "timeless romance." All I saw was Louis Gossett, Jr., yelling at Richard Gere, and what he should have been shouting was, "hey, how did we get roped into this piece of crap?" And Wall Street's "Gordon Gekko" ... I've heard that character quoted at meetings and slurred in barroom conversationscountless times. His one line, "Greed is good," is well remembered. Well, remember this ... "the movie was bad!"

POINT OF RANT: In a world where people earn college degrees from their home office and doctors use imaging devices the size of an Ipod, why is entertainment still such a risk?

Today At DEWmocracy.com ...

We, as Americans, sit at a crossroads ... a political precipice of life-affirming proportions. We get to select yet another flavor to join the royal Mountain Dew family.

I take this duty solemnly. Most Americans, like myself, will probably give this decision more serious consideration, ask more peers for guidance, and perform more research than we did for the most recent presidential contest (come on, the black guy was too hip not to vote for).

Since the 1940s, PepsiCo has been supplying us with one of the greenest, fizziest, tangiest, caffeine-iest sodas ... first in Tennessee and the Carolinas exclusively, then taking the U.S. and the globe by storm. In 2007, Mountain Dew was ranked as the fourth best-selling carbonated beverage in the world. In 2008, like celebrity couples and fickle rap artists, the popular soda came up with a neater nickname and became known as MTN DEW.

This is the second such "election" in the drink's history. As if to undo the nation's error of a second term for George W., PepsiCo presented consumers with three new flavors of Dew and allowed us to elect the winner. In 2008, store displays grabbed our attention and encouraged us to try "Supernova," a strawberry-melon blend that tasted like a wet Pixie Stick; "Revolution," a berry-flavored drink with a not-too-subtle medicine-like finish; and "Voltage," a raspberry concoction that was like a cross between blue snow cones from the carnival and angel wings. Voltage became our reigning Dew, joining with regular and diet versions as well as "Code Red" (a 2001 very, very cherry creation), "LiveWire" (the 2003 tangy orange variation), "AMP" (a Dew step-child energy drink), and "BajaBlast" (a 2004 blend of lime, pineapple, and Dew magic).

Today, the ballot again has three contenders. "Typhoon" is a pinkish tropical punch-like drink with hints of strawberry and pineapple. To me, it's like that Hawaiian Punch guy after he's moved into a nice retirement village ... no oomph. Next we have "Distortion," a lime-infused drink that has kind of a syrupy feel to it, and a peppery or minty after bite. Think kamikaze shots from your college days ... or last Thursday. It's reminiscent of Rose's Lime Syrup and pretty damn tasty! It's also got a cool greenish color, like radioactive sludge from any sci-fi movie. But my early favorite in the race for American soft drink taste buds is "White Out." It's white ... like luscious pearls ... or fiery opals ... or the cool special effect they gave Halli Berry's eyes in "X-MEN." Like really bad glaucoma. It's billed as "Citrus Smooth" and it delivers in spades. I also think it screams "mix me with citrus flavored vodka and call in sick tomorrow!"

And like modern elections with their gimmicks and outrageous promotional spending, each Dew candidate has a political ad. Typhoon shows a pink tidal wave washing over a pair of arguing beachgoers ... they deserved the tasty disaster because, in the short time we know them, they seem truly annoying. In the spot for Distortion, viewers are treated to an animated rave with hip youngsters, rockin' DJs, and an it-seems-so-natural cloudburst of raining limes. But again, leading the pack, the advertisement for White Out is far superior, featuring a smiling female shopper who thwarts a pack of crazy ninjas to enjoy her refreshing pearly white beverage. It's like a clip from an '80s action movie, and look where Schwarzenegger's limousine is parked ... at the governor's mansion!

This will truly be an election where you can't go wrong. Especially if you're like me ... in love with carbonation. I loves me the bubbles!! In fact, even with my history with alcohol, I'll choose some fizzy beverage over the "hard stuff" nine times out of ten. It goes back to my childhood. For whatever reason, the children in my family were raised on Kool-Aid and Wylers ... "pop" was a rare treat we had when visiting friends or celebrating holidays at the homes of relatives we only saw once or twice a year. I remember a family that lived on the far end of the block ... the Nelsons. They had two kids that none of us liked, but I think they had a soda pipeline connected to their house. And I'll never forget the first time I pretended to want to play with them and was rewarded with a tall, sweating bottle ... bottle, I say ... of Pepsi. I distinctly recall Mrs. Nelson bringing the chilled containers outside and popping the tops with a bottle opener. That hiss of released pressure and subsequent development of carbon dioxide "bubbles" gives me goosebumps to this day. And the "bite" and "fizz" caused by the carbonic acid separating out makes my mouth water. Is it getting hot in here?!

Anyway, do your dew-mocratic duty and vote at DEWmocracy.com. And as with any election, I exercise my right to introduce a right-in candidate. Around Halloween in 2004, and again in mid 2005, PepsiCo created "Pitch Black," a Dew formula centered around the taste of sour grape. Words cannot describe how wonderful this drink was, but I'm gonna try ... INCREDIBLE! It had zing, and pow, and bam. It had a flashy silver, black, and deep purple can. And it mixed beautifully ... like pretty teenagers in a backseat on prom night ... with Absolut Kurant. Where did you go, my pretty? If I had a fallout shelter, I'd fill it half with Pitch Black and half with Twinkies ... and throw in some books, comics, deodorant, water, vitamins, a good first-aid kit, flashlight and batteries, and a case of Absolut Kurant. And no bombs or war ... I just want a cool place to hide out and get hammered!!

POINT OF RANT: I do loves me the bubbles!

Today At The Gas Station ...

After filling up my gas tank, I went inside to pay and hopefully grab one of the new Mountain Dews ... "White Out," if I can find it. There are a few people ahead of me in line, but I'm not in any real hurry. I wait my turn, move up when the line advances, and start swearing to myself when I see that the lady in front of me is clutching a slightly-rumpled envelope with numbers written on it. She's buying lottery tickets.

Now, I enjoy the lotto ... the thrill of the gamble, the dream sequences running crazily through your mind about how you'd spend $10 million ... but I know a line stopper when I see one. And sure enough, this lady wants a few auto selections (chosen by a computer), three picks based on her children's birthdays, five sets from an office pool, and about four other picks based on God knows what. And she wants some instant tickets, but she needs to know the background history on every one of the maybe 20 rolls on the instant lottery display. "The one with the clovers," she asks, "had any winners on that roll recently?" "And to the left, is that a fresh roll or are there a few purchased already?"

What happened to manners or common courtesy? This lady has every right to make her lottery ticket purchases, but I was raised to try to not hold people up or get in their way. I allow a driver or two to sneak in in front of me when lanes are merging ... it's not like I have to get to the next phone booth before the kidnapper calls. I often let people ahead of me at the supermarket if I only have a few items and they're pushing around a heaping cart or riding herd over some rambunctious children. I still hold doors and let people who seem to be in a true hurry take the cab we're both wanting.

There's a truck stop I pass on my way to and from the office. I get gas and snacks there occasionally. It's really kind of run-down and a bit on the grimy side, but it has one of the best innovations I've witnessed of late ... a dedicated lottery window. There isn't always a cashier manning this station, so lottery gamblers sometimes have to wait a bit to be helped (oh, is that a tear I'm shedding? No, it most certainly is not.). The lottery window is fronted by a shelf with all the forms and little sawed-off pencils (like at the golf course) you need to gamble away a good amount of pocket change. And you can't buy gum or pay for your gas at the lottery window ... that's a distraction. Likewise, none of the other three registers deal with lottery ticket sales, so don't even ask. It's a total win-win ... the ticket buyers can consider their options at a leisurely pace while poor schleps like me can get in and get out. Nirvana!!

And even more heaven like are the newer lottery "vending machines" that offer the game-themed tickets without the need for any human interaction. If they could just fit more of life's general needs into vending machines and keep the prices reasonable, then I could become a happy hermit.

This idea of "retail dedication" isn't new. The express lanes at supermarkets have been helping us quickie shoppers for years, and the self-service checkouts are even better ... except for the tiny area they expect you to balance your merchandise on while trying to complete the transaction. Drive-up windows at pharmacies have also been a great timesaver ... for some reason, the inner bowels of pharmacies can be littered with people waiting for help, playing with the blood pressure machines, and generally contaminating the general public with the biological h-bombs of their coughs and sniffles.

And I think one of the coolest things to come along are those "predictive 'bots" on the Internet ... you know, the boxes and lists that say "People who selected this product also enjoyed blah-blah-blah." Damned if they aren't usually right on the money. Again, win-win ... I see a few selections I would have otherwise overlooked and the online store gets more of my money.

POINT OF RANT: Golden rule, folks ... golden rule!

Today At The Art Supply Store ...

I'm feeling creative ... that mood where you want to get out lots of pieces and parts and make a mess. So I went and bought three pre-stretched canvases. Big ones ... the largest is 28 inches by 60 inches. I also bought a few small brushes and a bag of seas sponges. I have tons of paint, rags, sealants, varnishes, and larger brushes, all in a box that I get out from time to time. Painting is a long-time hobby of mine ... I love to do abstracts that most people don't "get," and some of my landscapes and cityscapes aren't half bad.Buying canvas ... but I think being creative, for me, is something genetic.

My late father was a carpenter in a manufacturing plant. He was kind of a cross between a designer and a repairman, but it was his home workshop that really showcased his ability to see the potential in a chunk of wood. When he was deep in a project, he lost track of time. His hands were usually a mess and his workshop was peppered with sawdust. I think he taught me a valuable lesson - why clean up until the mess-making is over.

My paternal grandmother, my dad's mom, was a lyricist, although in fact she just liked to play around with words. But on a dare, she mailed her "word stories" to a magazine ad in Nashville and had three songs sold to country music wannabes ... I still have the vinyl records with her credits on the labels in a box somewhere.

My maternal great-grandmother was a poet. She was a small, severe woman who didn't speak about creative topics, but her imagery about the beach, nature, and farm life graced the pages of four different magazines in the late 1950s.

Her daughter, my grandmother, was a seamstress by trade for many years. She could look at fabric and imagine things that others just couldn't see. She was also scandalous. In the mid '50s, she was almost run out of her neighborhood by the other women when she altered several men's suits to be worn by the wife of a Chinese immigrant and local business owner. I think Grandma could have given Project Runway a shot!

My maternal grandfather was a crooner. He sang in all types of groups, and even won several awards in high school and performed as both a solo act and in a barbershop quartet at every county fair that would have them. He was good, so he performed throughout much of the state.

And last but not in any ways least, there's my mother. A self-trained artist. She once designed a condiment label for a local teen burger joint ... she used the $30 prize money to buy paints and an easel. She never got the chance to go to art school, opting for marriage and a family. I don't think she regretted that decision, but, when I was young, my mother took a part-time job as a librarian and used every opportunity to bring home books about painting, art history, weaving, printmaking, decorative arts, and more. She studied as much art as she might have if attending a proper college.

Later, my Mom worked in a print shop where the owner, recognizing her natural gift for design, taught her everything about the business. I think she did as much presswork as she did billing and reception ... the duties for which she was hired.

And in our house, there were always boxes of crayons and colored pencils, reams of paper, markers, glue, glitter, tracing paper, paint sets, glue guns, string and yarn, pastels, scissors and hole punches, ribbon and scraps of fabric, modeling clay, buckets of sidewalk chalk, cardboard boxes of varying shapes and sizes, rulers and protractors, sheets of felt, a woodburning kit, construction paper in nearly every color of the rainbow, and even a big sack of plaster mix from the hardware store. Supplies for arts and crafts were crammed into every drawer and cubby we had. I remember various relatives commenting lightheartedly that my mother wasn't much of a housekeeper, but I never minded. Neither did my siblings. We were the only kids on the block with a moat-surrounded castle made out of Quaker Oats canisters and popsicle sticks, or scary hand-painted monster figurines made from clay baked in an old toaster oven.

In my early teens, my mother suffered a devastating stroke. For about three weeks, it was a constant battle for her to just stay alive. I vividly remember the times when we children didn't go to the hospital and we nervously awaited for Dad to return with the day's "verdict." After months of hospitalization and therapy, she came home ... but her mobility and speech were greatly affected. With great difficulty, she was able to see me as the "Mayor" in my junior high musical. But she missed my high school art shows and other events involving me and my siblings.

I really wanted her to attend my senior design show in college, but the venue and logistics made it nearly impossible. However, my college experience provided some great bonding for my mother and I. Remember I said she liked to learn about all types of art. Every phone call to her or weekend home was filled with me recanting stories about classes and projects. She was outraged by some of my photography assignments, and extremely supportive during my rough brush with the potter's wheel. One Christmas, I gave her a duplicate topography text as a gift. She loved it and would mark all the typefaces she found especially interesting ... her leftover printshop days coming to the surface. From time to time, I would also present her with old pieces of lead type I'd find at flea markets and antique shops. She kept them all on her "special" shelf.

Toward the end of her life, my mother suffered additional strokes and health crises. The family eventually placed her into a nearby convalescent home for the ongoing care she required. I still talked to her about art and design, and when she died I secreted away all her lead type. These little things didn't mean squat to the rest of the family, but they were each representative of a bit of time that just the two of us spent together. I keep them in a box ... it still makes me sad to take them out, but oddly comforting to know I have them nearby.

Even though I have paint at home, I grabbed a big tube of crimson acrylic paint before I left the art store. Red was, after all, her favorite color, and I think my next painting will be all about her.

POINT OF RANT: Moms in all shapes and sizes are priceless gifts ... treasure them.

Today At The Art Museum ...

I took today off ... a Thursday. I could have asked friends of family members to join me, but I'm handling this adventure solo. With the car gased up and a quick breakfast stop at my favorite "royal" drive-through under my belt (literally), I'm on my way to Toledo and its art museum.

Not everyone can make a day of a museum, but the facility in Toledo is truly top notch, hosting world class exhibits and offering visitors a look at art at its finest.

There's nothing special I'm "after" today, but I always find something. In the past, the museum has awed me with El Greco and surprised me with murals by Picasso in his later years. And one visit had me captivated by the work of a retired microsurgeon from Michigan. It seemed that this gentleman was looking for some use for the expensive surgical tools he had acquired over the years. Being from Michigan, I guess he loved skiing and snow because he created hundreds of framed "snowflakes" ... the kind you make by cutting notches into folded paper. But besides a few traditional "flakes" and ski scenes, his work included detailed beach scapes, wrathful gods and goddesses from popular mythology, and even a crimefighting scene featuring Batman and Robin. I don't know how he did it!

Like with any art museum ... Columbus, Dayton, the Metropolitan Art and MoMA in New York, Art Institute in Chicago, etc. ... I tend to gravitate toward the Impressionists. It's the softness I think that attracts me, and the strong brush strokes. Centered around Paris in the 1870s and 1880s, Impressionist painters used bold colors with wet-on-wet application to blur edges and "play outside the lines." Also, because pigments had become available in lead tubes, these art-forward individuals could capture landscapes, still-life groupings, and even portraits outside. Impressionists such as Monet, Cezanne, Cassatt, and Renoir were said to favor painting in early evening when they could best visualize the battles between light and shadow.

I also love the post-Impressionist Pointillism movement ... Seurat, Van Gogh, Pissarro, and Cross ... where individual dots of pure color are arranged in patterns to create images comprised of hundreds of tints and tones. And modern art ... with its geometric shapes and loud splashes of color ... always sends me to the gift shop to rifle through a selection of postcards and not-always-affordable art books.

But I think the thing I value most about a trip to a quality art museum is the atmosphere. The quality of the air and sound is usually so hushed, almost reverant. There is a sort of comfort that patrons experience as they walk amongst the visual history or sit and stare at the interplay of shape and color. It's a "quiet" like no other.

POINT OF RANT: When you say to yourself "there's never anything to do," look up the stats on the various museums in your area.

Today At My Favorite Wings Joint ...

It's a Monday night and I'm sitting in "T.C.'s Wing House," my favorite wing place in the world, with my sister, her daughter, and my oldest brother's son. Earlier in the day my sister called me at work and asked if I wanted to meet them for dinner after work ... my treat, of course. Of course, I agreed, minus the "me treating" part.

The Wing House is typical of every wing-slinging dive in the country I've ever patronized ... noisy patrons happy for the taste of a cold beverage, multiple big-screen TVs tuned to sports of all types, messy napkin and condiment stations, cool track lighting, crowded tables and booths, and the ever-popular trivia remotes obviously perched on several tables.

I love wings, the spicier the better. But I'm also a bit demanding. I like good spicy food, but for the life of me I can't understand why some of these bars and pubs make these scalding hot dishes that are all fire and no flavor. Heat for heat's sake just doesn't make sense. Does it really make you more of a man if you survive eating something that can dissolve the lining of your mouth and gums? Go figure.

My late father and I had similar philosophical leanings when it came to spicy foods, especially chili. Food that successfully combines "heat" and "flavor" should surprise you, not make you frantically search for a glass of water ... or a fire hose. It should open up your nasal passages, not cause open sores to sprout on your tongue. It should make you sweat, not swoon.

One time in college, one of my roommates, Brodie, decided to make chili. He had a recipe for something called "Texas Oilman's Chili" that called for cubed-up sirloin, three different types of peppers, tons of expensive spices, lots of red onion, and even a healthy spoonsful of horseradish. It was actually delicious, but cost prohibitive for college students. I remember telling my Dad that that chili probably ended up being about $9 a bowl, but once I described to him how good the "sweat" from it was, he offered $10.

Back to the wings ... like most places, T.C.'s has a range of wing flavors ... timid to bold to beyond bold (I bet your regular wing joint has similar selections). There's "mild" and "medium" for the beginners, two tastes that, at most establishments, seem identical to me. And there's two barbecues ... "smokey" and "sweet." The general strength of flavor and heat goes up a notch then with teriyaki (always one of my favorites for it's depth), "Spicy Garlic," "Sesame Ginger," and "Parmesian" (which is surprisingly hot). Then there's a few choices that promise spicy richness ... "Island Jerk," "Mango Fire," and "Burbon Street." And finally, T.C.'s has three hotties to try. One is called "Blazin' Wildfire" and it does simply scorch the land of your mouth and throat like an out-of-control conflagration. The second is "Habanero Heat," combining a tobasco heat with the scorch of it's namesake pepper. And the last flamethrowing menu item on the wing spectrum of taste is ... drumroll, please ... "Valhalla Hot." Down the street it's called "Dante's Inferno." At a place in D.C. near Georgetown where the fish tacos are out of this world, it's named "Five-Alarm Fantasy." It's pure heat ... pure eye-watering irritant. In my opinion, it ain't any good!

Most really "hot" hot wings incorporate capsaicin, an oil found in many types of peppers. Capsaicin affects the nerve receptors in tissues, especially mucous membranes ... that's what causes the burning sensation in your mouth when you bite into a pepper or eat a "hot" wing.

Some restaurants include a copy of the notorious "Scoville Scale," a rating of peppers and corresponding foods according to their capsaicin levels, in their bar menus.

Like with most things, different people have different tolerances for capsaicin. That's why you all know someone who can eat something you consider extremely mild but they freak out over the "spicy" taste. Or who doesn't have one person in your life who can eat things that are just-short-of-actual-fire hot and never flinch.

From my own personal experience, I know that, when faced with a too capsaicin-rich dish or wing, water doesn't help. It just spreads the oil around, making the burning spread more quickly. And don't look to a cold beer for any first-aid assistance ... alcohol is said to only intensify the burn.

For me, ice cream or a small taste of sour cream works best. I have friends who say a glass of milk or a spoonful of yogurt does the trick for them. The fats in dairy products seem to dissipate the burn, and most bars and restaurants have these things on hand.

If lactose and you are not friends, try a lemonade of a lemon- or fruit-wedge from the bar ... the acidity in these items cuts through the capsaicin attack.

And I read someplace that capsaicin and starch don't play well together. The starch in rice, bread, and even a banana can help beat the heat back to a managable level.

POINT OF RANT: If you are gastrointestinally challenged, be prepared whenever possible!

Today In An ATM Alcove ...

I'm humming the Reba McIntyre TV theme song "I'm A Survivor" in my head because I am, indeed, a survivor ... barely.

Today, at approximately 3:03 p.m. EST, I was making my way through a small shopping plaza. I knew there was a pedestrian galleria adjacent with a handy ATM. I wanted some cash to make my wallet feel less lonely. I parked within a quarter block. The weather report had predicted thunderstorms but the sky was quiet ... actually, too quiet. The air had the feel of an approaching storm, but there were no ominous clouds rolling in. And the sky was not blackening ... it was an odd pearly gray color. Flat, like a lifeless curtain waiting for a breeze. The wait, as it turns out, would not be long.

I entered one of the area's three little paved "alleys" with shops and small businesses. No one was in line at the ATM so I quickly entered the boxy Plexiglas enclosure, plugged in my card, and punched the appropriate buttons to get the transaction started. It was my right ankle, badly broken in a childhood boy-meets-big-hill accident and funny about humidity ever since, that first warned me that something was up. Before I had fully turned my head toward the "mouth" of the walkway, a blast of wind and rain came blasting my way, running parallel to the ground. It was like a special effect in a big-budget movie, this undulating slash of form and movement rocketing my way. Bits of grit, twigs, and mulch flew in the wind's path, shooting into the two-foot gap where the vestibule's walls ended about 18 inches from the ground. There was hail and rain gusting against my back, and water was rapidly collecting on the cobblestones, too much for the nearby drain to handle. I felt like one of those game show contestants in the glass box, but instead of grabbing for swirling fives and tens, I was huddled in a smoked-glass hemistructure being pelted by botanical bullets. I could see the wind, a darker, meaner shade of gray hit the dead end wall of the alley not 25 feet to my right. Anything and everything not nailed down came down the funnel of the little shopping side street and hit that wall like nature's shrapnel.

It didn't even last three minutes. The ATM was trying to get my attention, wanting to know which of my accounts to debit the withdrawal against. I finished up my banking and looked up the alley. All was still again, and it wasn't grey out anymore ... more like a sickly yellow. Two pieces of shingled siding had torn loose from the opposite wall ... I think it's the back of a Greek take-out place. Water and mud climbed past the soles of my sneakers, the drain to my side choked and ineffective with debris. Where the shopping artery met the plaza proper, a dentist's hanging placard lay in ruin. My car and all those around it were covered with these helicopter rotor-like leaf pods, but I didn't see any real hail damage. Loose branches and twigs were everywhere.

As I drove out of the shopping center, I saw that very large trees had been downed ... some appeared to have just snapped off in the wind. The temporary nursery tent ... one of those early spring businesses that sell mulch, top soil, gardening paraphernalia, Memorial Day wreaths, potted flowers, and seed sets ... was torn to hell. Clean up in aisles 1 through 100.

All the way home, dodging larger tree limbs in the road, I just wanted to put a name to the strange weather that had flashed through the area ... and had caused my life to flash before me for just a second or two of panic. Now, tornados are a common occurrence all over the U.S. In fact, tornadoes ... rotating columns of air that bridge clouds to ground and spin at anywhere between 60 mph and 300+ mph ... occur on every continent except Antarctica. What I experienced wasn't a tornado.

Hurricanes are tropical cyclones out over water that affect thousands of square miles in and around the western North Atlantic area and limited Pacific Ocean regions. Often named (alternating masculine and feminine monikers), these storms develop intense thunderstorm-ridden central "eyes" and produce damaging winds generally in the 100 mph to 150 mph range ... gusts of 200+ mph are also common. Similarly, typhoons are tropical storms that primarily affect the northwestern Atlantic Ocean and areas from coastal China to the international dateline. A typhoon produces damaging winds in the same range as hurricanes (80 mph to 180 mph), but these storms often produce more destructive waves. Since my ATM was squarely landlocked, I ruled out a mini-hurricane or tiny typhoon.

Now a monsoon showed promise. Monsoons, often called "rainy seasons" by area inhabitants, are disturbances in normal weather patterns where wind direction generally reverses and large amounts of rain and sustained damaging winds (40 mph to 100 mph) are produced. Monsoons are often driven by differing heating and cooling patterns between large land masses and adjacent bodies of water. Monsoons are typically associated with areas of Asia, western Africa, and Indonesia.

I think I experienced a hybrid "monphoon" weather system. Or I was hit by a freak "phoonado." Whatever it was, area emergency services needs to program an appropriate alert into the sirens.

POINT OF RANT: Never feel safe just because you have an umbrella at home, at the office, and in the trunk of your car.