Phutatorius

I just ran by a flock of Canadian geese along the river today. I noticed that none of them had ears. It then occurred to me that, in fact, I have never seen a single bird with visible ears. Now birds can't be deaf. They're always chirping at each other. Mating calls, and all that. And ducks take off at the sound of a gunshot.

Birds hear, clearly — but with what?

Received via email from csresponse@columbiahouse.com, at 10:32 AM today:

Dear PHUTATORIUS,

Re: Account # XXXXXXXXXX

We have noted that you have returned several recent DVD shipments.
When you joined the Club, you agreed to contact us when you do not wish to
receive your current Director's Selection. This way, we can be sure to send
you only the selections you want.

The quickest and easiest way to let us know if you wish to receive the
Director's Selection, is to go to http://www.columbiahouse.com and click on
the Director's Selection. You may also use the Order Card we send in every
Club mailing, or call us toll-free at 1-800-262-2001. Just be sure to respond
by the date shown on your Order Card or on the web site. It's simple, fast and
easy!

Sincerely,
Customer Service

* * *

My return message:

Dear Customer Service:

Thank you for the protocol reminder: I certainly can avoid receiving unwanted DVDs by checking in at your website and reading your relentless promos. But let's be straight with one another — the above message has little to do with any desire to improve your customer service. Your concern is with the accumulating round-trip postal charges that Columbia House incurs when it mass-mails DVDs that nobody wants.

And don't give me this crap about how I "agreed" to tell you in advance every time I didn't want the Director's Selection. You well know that none of your members is contractually obligated to buy your recklessly compiled catalogue of overpriced and schlocky Director's Selections. It is the right of members to return said products — at your expense — when they are not wanted; it is your strategy to rely on our laziness or neglect in so doing, thereby effecting a "sale" of goods. In short, when you propose to send Phutatorius a copy of "Bad Boys II," you take your chances with the postal charges.

Thus am I brought, by the patronizing mass-messaging of your Customer Service Department, to the Rubicon of this war. As I blandly step over your line in the sand, hear these words of sworn enmity:

"I, Phutatorius, a Preferred Member of the Columbia House DVD Club (henceforth, the "Club") who has amply met and exceeded the purchasing requirements of his Membership Agreement, do solemnly swear that
(1) I shall never purchase another DVD from the Club;
(2) I shall never respond by mail, email, or website visitation to any of the Club's "Director's Selections"; and
(3) I shall never terminate my membership with the Club.

It is my determination to stick the Club with the monthly there-and-back postal charges for its unwanted goods into perpetuity — or until such time as I meet the aforementioned "Director" and am able to berate him for his taste in films. It is also my intention to take all steps necessary, until my dying breath, to bend the will of other Club members toward this same end.

This is my solemn vow."

Somebody help me. I don't know who or where I am.

Four hours ago, I woke up on the floor of this room: a ten-foot cube, with no windows or doors. The floor is cold asphalt, the ceiling untreated concrete, and the walls uniform cinder block held together with quick-dry mortar. The room could well have been built around me while I was unconscious.

Reasonably fresh air is piped in through small round holes — each probably an inch in diameter — located in the four corners of the ceiling. Beyond that, the room is featureless. Empty, too, except for a glass pitcher of water, a box of Premium saltine crackers, and this battery-powered IBM ThinkPad laptop, with its serial number filed off. The Sprint cellular modem affords only spotty Internet access, the reception certainly not steady enough to allow a precision signal trace.

For what it's worth, the computer is set to Eastern Standard Time.

My jean pockets are empty. When I woke up, I found them pulled out, leading me to believe that someone made off with their contents — wallet, keys, etc. — after I lost consciousness. The knit navy shirt I'm wearing could be Polo or Izod; the embroidered logo has been neatly excised, leaving a two-inch circular hole over my left nipple. It appears that all the tags, size-designations, care instructions have been removed from my clothes. The jeans, at least, have the cut and fit of straight-up Levi's 501s, or some cut-rate foreign knock-off — I can take some comfort from recognizing that.

Head to toe: a navy-blue golf shirt, a pair of possible 501s with frayed knees, red tasseled woolen socks, and a pair of Ace Frehley-style padded silver lamé platform boots — the ensemble probably not my choice.

I am male, aged in my late 30s, early 40s. No distinctive birthmarks, scars, or tattoos (though I can't see my back). I estimate height and weight at six feet, 170 to 180 pounds. These dimensions — and the fact that I have no clue how to play "Calling Dr. Love" on guitar — likely rule out the possibility that I am Ace Frehley.

I don't know my eye color or hair color. There are no mirrors to consult, no reflective surfaces, no lighting other than the backlit computer screen. My hair is cut short. I have plucked and examined four hairs in the glow of the laptop: as best I could ascertain, they were blonde, red, black, and gray. My jaw is sore and swollen — on first noticing this, I swished my tongue around in my mouth to account for my teeth. Nothing missing, but the effort jarred loose bits of crunched kernel, suggesting that I was eating popcorn not long before I was knocked out.

I have done about all I can do with my Internet access: scoured local and national news sites for reports of missing persons, checked Amber Alerts (though I suspect I am a bit old to be listed), reviewed online research on short- and long-term amnesia. An hour ago I opened a Hotmail account and emailed a number of federal agencies. I have no idea what their response time is and doubt that they will be able to find me on the limited information I can provide.

Ten minutes ago it occurred to me to go through the laptop's Internet cache. The cached material consisted mostly of sites I had visited, but this "Phutatorius" site — a page I hadn't seen — turned up. A username ("phutatorius") and a starred-out password were programmed into the browser. That's what brought me here. If anyone out there reads this — if anyone has any information on who or what this Phutatorius is, please write me and tell me what you know.

Am I to believe these other posts? The man who posts here says he used to be a career criminal, but that he's now reformed; a week later he wrote that he had kidnapped Hank Williams, Jr. Am I another of this madman's victims? Or worse, could I be Phutatorius himself, drugged and imprisoned by some enemy from the past?

Help me, please. Tell everyone you know: my email is stuckinthisroom@hotmail.com. If you know anything that can help me piece together who I am, where I am, write me immediately — before this computer's battery runs out, and I'm left here in the dark to starve.

Today's Guilty Movie Thought, from two hours into It's a Wonderful Life:

Pottersville looks like a blast. Who wouldn't prefer its Main Street's pool halls, weekly prizefights, and legions of dancing girls to the humdrum laundromatscapes of Bedford Falls? It grieves me to say it, George Bailey, but a petition is circulating in the community to ensure that you were never born. And they almost have the 400 signatures required to override your say on the matter, too. Pundits say that by Christmas morning the townsfolk will be back to drinking, gambling, rough-housing, and hassling women at pre-Bailey Redemption levels.

Oh, and Clarence — you're grounded.

From the "Greatest Hits" collection, my draft Pet Restriction By-Law, which our Condominium Association rejected — but narrowly — in October:

"23.1 Oversized Pets.
Notwithstanding the language of By-Law 23 ("Pets"), no Unit Owner shall keep any individual pet whose weight exceeds forty pounds. Pets found to violate the weight limit shall have their diets reduced by two thirds until the animal is deemed to be in compliance with this provision. Any single unit owner may call for a weigh-in of another unit owner's kept pet. The weigh-in shall occur at a time of mutual convenience to the parties, and on a scale inspected and approved by the Cambridge Department of Weights and Measures.

(b) An animal found to weigh in excess of thirty-five pounds (hereinafter "probation weight") shall be determined to be on probation, so requiring regular weekly weigh-ins as per the conditions heretofore specified, until the aforedescribed animal has achieved three consecutive weigh-ins below probation weight.

(c) Unit owners found to be in willful and persistent violation of this provision may be (1) subjected to the intervention and seizure of the offending animal by the Cambridge Department of Animal Control without prior notice, (2) assessed a fine no greater than $200 and no greater than $3500, payable to the Cambridge Riverside Condominium Trust ("Trust"), and/or (3) held jointly and severally liable for damage caused by the animal to real and personal properties owned in common by the Trust or individually by the unit owners. Damages specified under subsection (3) shall include, as appropriate, compensation for emotional distress."

I was particularly proud of the "Department of Weights and Measures" bit. Landowners simply do not take advantage of the many and various services offered by municipal agencies. I intend to stress this point heavily as part of my campaign's "Community Feel" theme. So Senator Lieberman thinks I lack what it takes to govern? He'll eat his words when he sees the condo-owner turnout in New Hampshire.

So the Wife and I went to see the Boston Pops Holiday program Saturday night, Pops Dude Emeritus John Williams conducting. It was a glorious evening, and the Wife, as is her wont, looked smashing. Here follows an incomplete record of what crossed my mind during the performance:

Do they take drink orders after the music starts? — Diet Coke, some kind of wine for the Wife . . . ooh! And a cheese plate! — For my part, I could do with fewer violins and more drums. — Richard's post about headscarves . . . was he really talking about the Establishment Clause, or was I just ranting? — It seems to me that what they're playing has nothing at all to do with the way John Williams is waving his arms. There seems to be a complete disjunct there. — What do you suppose the sleigh bell ringer does for the rest of the year? — Great single-serving package diversity on the cheese plate: wax, plastic wrap, and foil. — Hey, John: how about "Merry Christmas (I Don't Wanna Fight Tonight)" by the Ramones?

* * * INTERMISSION * * *

Hold the phone. Did he just say Orrin Hatch wrote the lyrics to this song? — The red-haired guy with the viola looks just like Josh from The West Wing. Except, of course, that he's red-haired. — We're pretty deep into this thing, and I haven't heard a cell phone ring yet. There have, however, been several premature claps. — Wait a minute. Is Walter Matthau dead or alive? I think I remember a news story. God damn, it's so hard to keep track . . . — I wonder how much that giant suspended snowflake weighs. — This woman to my left is eerily ga-ga about the Home Alone program selections. Thank God the woman to my right is my wife — DRUM SOLO! ROCK 'N' ROLL! — I forgot not to shave again (sigh!) at this rate I'll never get this beard grown by Christmas. — Is that Mayor Menino in the Santa suit? — [cell phone rings, three tables up] . . . and that completes the evening.

You can have your tinsel and ribbon, your sugarplums, fruitcakes, and hot toddies. The holiday season is for me about giving, plain and simple. There is nothing quite like that genuine warmth inside — the spark of good cheer — that comes from providing a benefit to another. Giving a gift is a natural high unlike anything your Schnapps or egg nog or even your uncut Afghan opiates can deliver.

For my part, the purest drug is the anonymous gift: wholly unanticipated and freely given, with no thought of compensation or exchange. In fact, I make it a point, during the season, to send a little something to all of you through the mails, and have done for years now. I can't say what divine inspiration gave me the idea, but it all started in 1994, when I collaborated with the folks at Visa to make sure that the entire Eastern Seaboard and four Midwestern States received a Special Gold Card Offer (pending credit check and income verification, of course — those card companies can be Scrooges). You may remember the mailing — "No Annual Fee" — I hope you took advantage of it. '99 was another banner year; in the heart of the dotcom boom I saw to it that all of you received a CD-ROM from a preeminent internet service provider, promising 1000 hours of free surfing! The perfect gift for an Internet Christmas.

Do you remember the weekly grocery store coupons, the trial issue of TV Guide, the holly-sprigged address labels from the American Cancer Society? All of them came to you, unsolicited, in December 1998. That year's bull market brought your Phutatorius unprecedented investment gains: why not share the wealth? I thought. Last year I tried something different: complimentary catalogs from Restoration Hardware, Pottery Barn, and Smith & Hawken to help you last-minute types along with your Christmas shopping.

To be fair, I experimented with email in 2001 (anthrax and everything put me off the U.S. Mails) — and from what I hear the penile implant coupons sort of fizzled. But the Spirit of Giving does not yield to minor setbacks. Not mine, anyway.

Now the wheels are turning for 2003 — what to do? what to do? — oh, I'll think of something. You can count on it. One day soon you will find unexpected treasure in your mailbox. Tucking the goods under your arm, you will key into your apartment asking yourself, How could I be so lucky? Somewhere, just outside your field of vision, I'll be smiling.

Quick hits:

• I saw Al Sharpton in the DC National Airport terminal today, boarding a shuttle flight to Laguardia. What a fabulous head of hair that man has.

• Diary of TiVo Angst, Entry #451: The DVR is ten minutes from erasing your week-old — but still unwatched — episode of 24, but your Wife is watching a recorded episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and she won't surrender the remote. What do you do, Jack Bauer? tick-tock, tick-tock . . .

• Diary of Weblog Angst, Entry #114: Queer Eye now over, the Wife catches you typing up your TiVo grievances and lunges toward your DELETE key.

• I hear the NRA wants to start its own television channel. Rumor is The Beverly Hillbillies is a front-runner for its Must-See Thursday slot, as programmers like the "fire gun/strike oil" cause/effect suggestion in the opening theme. [Fine, fine . . . since you don't remember: "Then one day [Jed] was shootin' at some food/And up from the ground comes a bubblin' crude." — Ed.] And here you thought I was going to make the simple redneck joke . . .

• Here's news: ®osa Pa®ks has trademark rights. Makes you wonder how an old self-promoter like John Hancock would feel about his insurance company's failure to outbid Poulan Weed Eaters for association with the Independence Bowl.

• My man Rich is demonstrating that, like another Richard once sang of love, blog comes in spurts. Go catch the wave.

I write to you once again from the Sheraton in Iguazú, this time to report on a conspiracy by the Argentinian government.

Two days ago the Wife and I and a third party — one of her co-workers — were walking down the well-worn tourist path to the waterfalls when we happened upon several strange-looking, presumably indigenous animals. I have never seen the likes of these creatures in the wild, in a zoo, or in pictures. Nor has our supposedly comprehensive "Discovery Channel" borne witness to the existence of these mammalian rascals, which appear to have the hindquarters of a raccoon, complete with ringed tail. They are burrowing animals, with clawed front feet to effect their swift digging of holes into which they bury a hard, black, scooped snout — not unlike a miniature snow shovel — apparently in search of insects and grubs to eat.

Of course, none of the three of us had a camera handy to capture these strange animals on film, but as we ventured further down the (primrose?) path to the base of the falls they appeared in such abundance that we took heart. At a snack bar near the falls trailhead they were constantly underfoot, at times even climbing onto occupied tabletops, hard after crumbs and uneaten food. The animals were not shy and they were everywhere: we could come back any day and take as many shots of them as we pleased. For my part, I had already encountered one earlier in the day, out on a walk by myself, so I had no doubt we would see some more of them.

Needless to say, we have not seen hide nor hair of this species in the two days since. And now that I think about it, I suspect some foul play. Every single one of these animals had a colored plastic radio tag clipped to its ear. Every one. The Wife and I assumed at first that park rangers had tagged the animals to track their movements, a common practice among naturalists, however inscrutable their investigative motives may appear to the rest of us. Now I'm convinced that the movements of these animals, far from being simply tracked, are in fact dicated by remote control via these tags, to taunt and menace tourists, advancing the animals in hordes to disrupt the tourists' outdoor snacking with wanton feeding attacks, then withdrawing them when the time is ripe for commemorative photos.

I can think of no better evidence of Argentine ill intentions than my earlier first encounter with an animal of this type. I was walking on my own when one of them wandered out of the treeline and began to prance a bit in front of two or three other tourists, to draw their attention away from an untagged butterfly posing on the hotel's lawn. When one of the tourists dipped suddenly into a vantage crouch and fumbled a camera out of his pack, the creature, caught by surprise, hastily dug out a hole and plunged its head inside it, neck-deep. The man, treated now to the unremarkable backside of a raccoon, waited patiently, with his camera squared on the shot, for the animal to withdraw its snow-shovel head from the hole. He was still waiting ten minutes later, when I decided to get on with my life.

It is my conviction that agents of the Argentinian government have themselves dug out a bunker under the falls, where they sit with joysticks in hand manipulating these poor animals forward and backward, left and right, and if necessary sending encrypted dig-to-hide signals to neural implants in the animals' skulls — all this to ensure that European and American tourists are denied their sovereign right to a complete photographic record of their travels. This misconduct cannot continue. I demand a resolution of censure from the U.N. Security Council, and possibly the imposition of appropriate economic sanctions.

I write today from the Business Center of the Sheraton Internacional Hotel in Iguazú, Argentina. The resort is dropped smack in the middle of a rainforested national park. To the sights, then:

The keyboard in front of me is set up for Spanish speakers, and aside from its maddeningly misplaced punctuation keys, it diverges from the QWERTY configuration in its introduction of a twenty-seventh letter. The "ñ" key is located at the end of the second row, pushing the ENTER/RETURN key one notch further to the right than is customary on the Anglo models. I suspect that repeated blogging from here will make the fifth finger of my right hand double-jointed. Under Lamarck's [rejected] model of evolution my children would be born with this mutation, handicapping them on Anglo keyboards in an increasingly computrocentric world economy and ultimately requiring Phutatorius et al. to lift roots and move to South America. And while I admire the beef intake down here — ¡the average Argentinian consumes 133 lbs. per year! — I am troubled by the dearth of Macintosh terminals in the various Business Centers I have visited to date.

So thank God for Darwin, then.

Did I say they have a collection of gigantic waterfalls here?