I am currently enjoying a trip to the Maine coast. During the drive from the Portland Jetport last night, my stepfather was pointing out various points of interest — or rather, asking us to take on faith that they were there, given that they were obscured by darkness. We believe that he believes they’re there.

One of the more curious points of interest was a defunct business. Apparently, this guy had purchased a chunk of land and installed a bunch of mounds on it in anticipation of having a shooting range there. As it turned out, though, the mounds were actually toxic waste, and the guy in question had declared bankruptcy and probably blown town. Or at least, he should have blown town, because after you do something like installing a series of toxic mounds in a small New England community, it makes for some mighty awkward conversations down at the Hannaford when you run into your neighbors there.

One entertaining thing about New England, though, is that a bunch of smaller businesses spring up around various landmarks (geological, geographical, historical and otherwise) and name themselves after said landmarks. For example, at Walden Pond, one might expect to encounter Cantankerous Hermit Condominiums across the street. This got me thinking about what kinds of things might be available around this former aspiring Superfund site. Toxic Mound 7-eleven? Toxic Mound Square? (Although that’s more of a Somerville, Mass. thing, where every damn intersection is Some Joe Bag O’ Donuts Square.) Toxic Mound Junior High School?

This of course leads to wondering what the mascot might be. A six-legged ‘possum? Cerberus? A two-headed ‘possum with a football helmet on one head and the football in its other mouth?

Where did you graduate from?

Oh, Toxic Mound. Good ol’ TM. Those were the glory days.

Just as I am the only human on the planet who doesn’t think Johnny Depp is all that, I am apparently the only human on the planet who thinks Shiraz pretty much sucks across the board. I find it bitter and too tanniny or something, like it leaves a bitter, almost powdery-sludgy film on my palate, and to make matters worse, that film tastes like Shiraz.

The other day, I was picking up a bottle of wine for dinner, minding my own business, and I was beset by Shirazes. It seemed like fully half of the wine section at my local liquor store was nothing but Shiraz. It was much like the earlier scenes of The Birds, just before it became too late to just set about 50 cats on them and be done with it. Walls of seemingly OK wines had scores of Shirazes mixed in with them, peering down menacingly at me, knowing I hate them, and possibly plotting against me. Because, let’s face it, they are pretty bitter. And probably evil.

I base the statement that Shiraz is probably evil on its insidiousness. I think it’s so popular right now because, like many evil things (Satan, Blofeld, pineapple pizza), it seems rather charming at first. That’s how evil stuff reels you in. Can’t you see, people?! They’re all walking corpses!/They’re only fattening us up to eat us!/It’s really terrible wine! Don’t be fooled.

I’ve been getting mighty well acquainted with I-70 these days, specifically the stretch between exits 238 and 270, while I take loads of boxes in my trusty Ford Focus to the new place. I’ve been calling these trips F-loads, not surprisingly. I’ve noticed a particular habit of mine during these trips. I see something in the road a little ways ahead, but as I draw closer, I see that it’s an inanimate object: a wet cardboard box, a discarded wadded-up t-shirt, a hunk of wood. I can’t help but smile — every single time. It seems to be an automatic response. I’m pleased some little critter wasn’t run over, and that, instead, that glob by the side of the road was just a crumpled pair of underpants. Waitaminute, how did those end up there?

This, of course, brings about another kind of entertainment: imagining the story. Maybe someone had an epiphany, a moment of liberation, and flung their underpants out the car window as a statement. Maybe someone’s luggage exploded and there were a lot of other clothes, but someone else happened by and picked them up (jackpot!), but the underpants were just too personal, and were left behind. Maybe some rogue raccoons around here don’t limit their resourcefulness to food, and have diversified into tighty-whitey raids. But then, after they get the underpants, let’s face it, what use do raccoons really have for underpants? After proudly carrying them around for a bit, the former bandit would almost certainly become a litterer.

This in turn gives rise to the other side of the scenario. With the starting point being the expectation of finding one’s underpants and being perhaps somewhat disappointed (entertaining in itself: is the drawer or the hamper just a little light, or have said underpants actually gone AWOL from one’s very person?) how does one get to the endpoint of them having been swiped by raccoons? What is the middle matter, and indeed the climactic point, of that story, such that “raccoons got them” is the denouement?

What can I say? The drive eastward isn’t quite as scenic as the drive westward.

I’m pleased to report that I will be monitoring bats again this year. I’ve learned new things about them, too. For example, did you know vampire bats can run — and I mean really haul ass — on their feet and wrists? I have a feeding site again this year, but a different one. I’m really looking forward to checking the new site out and getting familiar with the hikes. Bats are so cool. All in all, bat monitoring is an excellent way to get out and enjoy some night hiking, impressive critters, and the summer in Colorado.

And by summer in Colorado, I of course mean: Fire Season. Ah yes, the season when Colorado is all aglow with various fires. It’s official, too. I heard a teaser for the evening news a couple of weeks ago that was enticing viewers by offering safety tips for the upcoming Fire Season. So, the seasons of Colorado now consist of: autumn, winter, spring, and fire. I later wished I’d tuned in to hear what one was supposed to do for Fire Season. Are there cute metallic-toned accessories now available at Target that are shaped like fire extinguishers? Is there a forest stampede festival in some quaint mountain town, with backfire setting as a major contest? Ride A Briquette To Work Day? Do we all toast s’mores simply by lining up some marshmallows on a windowsill for a little while? Ah, Fire Season. I’m really looking forward to it.

While I was driving from Chicago to Urbana today for the Fifth International Congress of Qualitative Inquiry, I was contemplating how nice it was that so many speed limits across the country have long since been raised from the previously obligatory 55 miles per hour. There are so very many stretches of US Interstate that are flat and straight forever. Eisenhower, initiator of the Interstate system, was inspired by the Autobahn. Surely, driving 55 was on nobody’s mind. Is anyone else really entertained by the idea that the oldest US President in history was the guy who made federal highway funding contingent on everyone driving like a geezer?

You’ve probably been wondering where the hell I’ve been. Understandable. Well, I’m getting divorced and moving. Before that, I was really preoccupied with my marriage, which I knew was painfully unraveling and making us both miserable, but I didn’t really want to write about that for the world to see. With that taking up the bulk of my brain, it was also hard to write about other stuff.

Since my divorce is about to be a matter of public record, though, hey, no point in trying to keep it quiet. Besides, in much the same way I was once really proud of my marriage, I’m actually kinda proud of my divorce. It’s going, well, rather swimmingly. We’re getting along better than we have in years, and enjoying a very deep, respectful friendship. We’ve been laughing together again, which is lovely — I really missed that. We’re agreeing on everything so far, and there haven’t been any breakup-related spats at all (well, since that last martial argument that initiated the breakup, anyway).

This is the upside of not having any kids, or many material possessions, or any major assets beyond one car each: it makes this process fairly simple from a legal perspective. It also makes the financial paperwork somewhat hilarious. Since we’re amicable, too, sure, it’s still sad, and difficult, but it’s nowhere near as wrenching and impossible as I thought it would be. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that our breakup was mutual and rational — we decided together — nobody got dumped, and we both did the right thing by each other and by ourselves. We should be able to just file paperwork, hug, and part ways amicably, staying the kind of friends we have been for these last few weeks. Best of all, there is no need to enrich all the people and industries and juridically-related systems that profit from the demises of formerly happy partnerships. It just rubs so much salt in the wounds, you know? I think there’s a special place in hell for those who profit of others’ misery, and I think a lot of them take the opportunity afforded by divorce to do so. Plus, this way, I get to stick it to the man, and that’s always a bonus.

The thing we had that was truly community property and more difficult to which to assign any individual ownership than anything else was our significant DVD collection. I thought it was going to be crushingly hard to split it, and that we would have terrible fights for sure. As it turned out, though, it wasn’t too bad. We had a bunch of stuff that one of us watched a lot and the other didn’t, or that one of us didn’t necessarily want, or that we had on both DVD and VHS. We ended up with about 20 or so that we both wanted, and we just traded them out at the end like baseball cards. It was actually sort of fun, and I really valued having fun together again. Again, still sad and difficult, but not crushingly terrible. We’re both committed to protecting our friendship, and to being fair.

I’m also moving to Idaho Springs, a very cute mountain town about 40 minutes outside Denver. The house I’ll be living in is actually technically about 3,000 feet above the town, which is itself around 8,000 feet. There’s plenty of scenery, and snow around most of the year, but not much in the way of air. I’m adapting to that okay. I am a little concerned that, even though I’ll have a real guest room for the first time in my adult life, my sea-level-dwelling friends and family still won’t visit for fear of altitude sickness. Or possibly dogs. Because there are indeed two dogs. They’re big and mellow, they like cats, and they mostly sleep. Maybe I can get an oxygen bottle and some jerky treats. That should cover both.

I’m planning to be installed in the mountain lodge by the end of the month, and I’ve been taking boxes up there in The Magical Ford Focus of Holding. The goal is to have to move only furniture on the day I get a truck and people to help. To that end, I’ll be taking several more Focusloads up the hill over the next week and a half. I’ve been calling them F-loads.

I remember commenting to Lisa a few years ago that I was really surprised by how conventional my life looked, and that I expected to be doing something like living in a tree by now. Moving into the mountains and having an intense Colorado experience is certainly enough like living in a tree. It’s an adventure. And it is something I would do. Also, the commute is spectacular.

It’s been a couple of years since I staffed the Evil Lair of Dr. Hellspawn. Here’s the original call for minions, and here’s the preliminary staff list. The Evil Valet position was later filled by John B. Evil. If you’re interested in the Evil Lair, here is another hilarious posting about it. Seriously, it should come with a snarf warning: Do Not Ingest Liquids While Reading This Post, As Its Extreme Hilarity Will Likely Cause Said Liquids To Exit Through Nasal Cavity. Do Not Ingest. Do Not Stuff Into Light Socket, Well, Really Anything. Read At Your Own Risk.

While much of the original staff is still in place, unfortunately, some individuals have become a little incommunicative, or even in some tragic cases, less evil. I am therefore pleased to announce that the Evil Lair is once again accepting applications. Please submit your interest and qualifications to the comment window below. The Evil Lair is an equal opportunity employer.

You know how Blofeld’s evil cat was white and kind of inert? I’ve occasionally wondered about that. Wouldn’t a darker cat look more sinister? (I dunno, maybe it’s a holdover from cowboy movies: white hat, white cat?) Also, the cat is very, well, chill. What is up with that chillaxin’ white cat?

Well, probably the chillaxin’ is a casting choice. The auditions would have to be fairly entertaining, with cats draped all over the studio, some of them perhaps sedated to improve draping. Any remotely nervous cat, or one that was inclined to, say, bite Blofeld, would have to be excused immediately. I’m sorry, Mr. Jones, but I’m afraid Miss Fluffy is just not chill enough for our purposes. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.

I think it’s a white cat because long-haired furry black pets don’t photograph so well. Take Jackie, who’s always ready to pose for a photo op, whether roused from a snooze on the bed, laying waste to a Bizzy Ball (TM) or hiding in between hanging-up suits. She basically photographs like an indistinguishable black fuzzball with two yellow eyes. There are no other discernible features. If her eyes are closed, a photo lab probably wouldn’t even develop that shot because clearly there was some sort of black fuzzy smear on the negative.

Plus, what if Blofeld did have a black cat? He’d still have to wear a white or light-colored suit as a backdrop just so we could see the cat. And then, he’d stand up and be covered in black fur from belly to lap, and that would totally wreck his street cred as an international badass. A supervillain busting out a lint roller just doesn’t seem evil enough — even if it’s an evil lint roller.

Today, while on my way to lunch with a friend (to be followed by an afternoon of groovy research and then groovy teaching — you know it: living the dream!), I got in YET ANOTHER hit-and-run accident. Yup, that’s three in two days. But wait: there’s more! This one was on I-25. Now how much would you pay? (I’m asking because all these little bits of body work are going to add up at some point.)

A large white pickup truck cut me off from the right at highway speed, at about the same time the small blue hatchback to my left was edging into my lane (either taking the curve lazily or changing lanes without checking directly to the side, I’m not sure which). Small Blue smacked into the left side of my car, knocking off my side mirror, and split. I couldn’t get a license plate. While I can’t verify its affiliation with Office Depot, I can say it was that same royal blue as the uniform shirts of its minions. Draw your own conclusions.

I managed to get to the left shoulder without getting hit some more, thank [insert benign deity here]. For all the frustrated disappointment my fellow Colorado motorists sometimes offer me, they were really on the ball today. It could easily have become a 20-vehicle highway pileup. I called 911 while Small Blue made its getaway. I was sure that side of my car was destroyed. The police on their way, I got up the nerve to go have a look.

As it turned out, there were some light scratches on the side of my car — nothing I’d bother with, even if I did have collision — and barely noticeable. The mirror had been knocked off before and had been held on with glue and tasteful black gaffer’s tape. When I got home, I would stick it back on with fresh glue and fresh tape. That was it. I wasn’t hurt, the car wasn’t appreciably damaged, nobody else was hurt or damaged either. I suppose it’s possible Small Blue got worse than it gave, but perhaps its occupants were already on the lam and didn’t care for police involvement — or perhaps it was just the Will of Office Depot behind the wheel. It was just yet another hit-and-run.

When the nice policeman came, he asked me what I wanted to do (given that I didn’t consider the damage to my car particularly significant and I didn’t get Small Blue’s plate number). He would be happy to fill out an accident report, he said, no problem. What did I want to do? I wanted to get the hell off the highway. He helped me do that, running interference with the left lane while I got off the shoulder and toward an upcoming exit.

Needless to say, I canceled lunch with my friend and went straight home. I’m supposed to teach tonight, but I’m worried about my car getting hit by a satellite.

I came out of my local Office Depot today after purchasing some terribly important office supplies, only to discover that someone had hit my car. Not content merely to smack into it, they scraped along the right front fender, gouging the bumper, putting a frowny little mouth on my turn signal light, and removing perhaps enough paint to give a starlight mint a metallic graphite shine. Giving some fortunate peppermint a makeover may have been the motivation. We will likely never know.

So I filed a police report. Maybe one of the surveillance cameras pointed at unknown suspicious or imaginary parking lot objects caught something. The nice officer came out, took my statement, and filed my report. She was pleasant but realistic about the odds of catching anyone. Fair enough.

After that short delay, I had the apparent karmic audacity to attempt to leave the parking lot and go home. While stopped at a stop sign maybe a hundred yards from Office Depot, a huge maroon and chrome truck came whipping around the corner, seemingly slightly out of the driver’s control. I can only assume that the gravitational force caused by his speed had caused him to black out a little, like a rookie astronaut. I honked my horn, hoping to wake the driver in time for him to avoid hitting my car. How nearly my efforts were rewarded! I felt the left rear of my car move a little and heard his bumper against mine ever so softly. He took off. I pulled through the intersection and checked the left rear of my car. Sure enough, there was a contact mark there, and a teensy bit of chrome paint transfer.

Turning around and heading back into the parking lot of karmic punishment, I found the truck and blocked it into its parking space, utilizing its latest victim. In retrospect, offering this person a second opportunity to ram my car, and much more directly than before, was perhaps not the wisest plan. You know how I am about justice, though.

The driver was not pleased to be informed he had hit my car. Nor was he impressed by the admittedly very minimal damage. But given his truculence, hell if I was going to be a victim of two hit-and-run incidents in the space of about twenty minutes, so I called the police again. When our pilot (perhaps we should refer to him as Albert or Ham) jumped down out of his truck, he wore the unmistakable royal blue shirt and accessory human hangtag of, oh yes, an Office Depot employee. He proceeded to call over some of his colleagues to garner support for his claim that there wasn’t enough damage to call the police. He allowed them to leave when I pointed out that they were not, in fact, witnesses, because they had not seen the accident. Further, I didn’t care about the lack of serious damage to my car, I explained, I didn’t want his money; he was simply driving like a freak, and I, as a conscientious citizen who didn’t care much for having my car hastily pranged and left behind without so much as a how-do-you-do, was merely reporting it.

This time, it took four phone calls and about forty minutes to get a police officer there. I imagine my calls kept getting canceled because dispatch had already sent someone for the previous hit-and-run, not realizing that, just because the odds against it were astronomical, it was still possible for one’s entirely static vehicle to be hit twice in the same parking lot in the same half-hour. The same nice officer eventually returned to assess the situation. Fortunately, she already had my information, and that really sped up the whole rest of the procedure. After assessing both our accounts, and giving the driver of the aptly-named Dodge Ram (both for the ramming and the dodging) some sort of formal admonishment, she gave me her business card and cheerfully admitted she hoped not to see me again.

I pray that the items purchased at Office Depot today are in no way defective or substandard, because clearly, I can never go back there. Even if I were to wait a few weeks or months, so as to let the terrible dance of retail turnover eradicate from that business all those might vaguely recognize me, I don’t dare subject my pathologically reliable, fuel-efficient, cute, and otherwise superfine little car to further indignities in the malevolent parking lot. From now on, I plan to frequent Office Max, Staples, Walmart, Target, Amazon, Officesupply.com, Barnes and Noble, a visually-impaired streetcorner doomsayer with a pencil cup, or various independently-owned stationery supply stores for my office supply needs.