my-video-resume-blog

[my-video-resume-blog]

[The six Hultquist children discovered that on Saturday mornings, before their parents were up, they could crawl through the Television right into the program they were watching! Ahem, although they had not tired it out on cartoons]

 IT WAS A BRIGHT AND CRISP SEPTEMBER MORNING, A SATURDAY, IN FACT,

 which meant plenty of cartoons at the Hultquist residence. Draped over a floral sofa and plush chairs like fresh washing laid out to dry were six children of varying shapes and sizes: Cathy, the eldest, the one in charge whenever their parents were missing, followed by Kurt, Karen, Kristi, Craig & Clark.

 Saturday morning before their parents woke up was the time of week when the earth shifted on its axis, when the cartoon universe ruled for hours.

 Naturally, early in the morning in front of the idiot box, after countless bowls of sugary cereal, it was all too easy to slip into a semiconscious state. But when a barrage of senseless commercials interrupt a Tom & Jerry cartoon, Karen jumps up to flip the channel.

 FLIP . . . nothing . . . FLIP . . . nothing . . . FLIP . . .nothing . . . FLIP ---

 OH GOOD, THE ROADRUNNER AND THE COYOTE!

 On that huge TV screen, glorious hues of orange, tan and green cast an alluring view of the southwest desert. Crested buttes towering high over vast fields of tall cactus. Overhead, a sparkling blue sky.

 Once again, the coyote had sent out to Acme Inc. for another Roadrunner catching contraption, causing everyone to perk up a bit.

 Kristi said, "I feel sorry for the coyote. He's always getting the bad end of the stick."

 With an impish smile, Karen turns to Kristi, and says, "Do you want to help him out?"

 Craig was feeling kind of peckish, wondering how a fried Roadrunner leg would taste. After all, he'd only consumed three bowls of Lucky Charms. "Why not!" he blurted out.

 Suddenly Clark sat up. "Do you think we can? I mean, it IS a cartoon."

 "It might be wise for only one of us to go in, just to be on the safe side," Cathy said, her maternal instincts switching into gear.

 Kurt frowned. "Don't you think it should be, "All for one and one for all?"

 They all jumped up and shouted, "ALL FOR ONE AND ONE FOR ALL!"

 From the point of view inside the TV, a finger tentatively poked through a hazy electronic curtain, which like a bulging sheet of rubber, seemed somewhat reluctant to give way. Then appeared Karen's arm and head, breaking through a diamond haze of electrons --- and then suddenly, just like that, she was on the other side!

 Like a string of babies from the womb, five more children plopped through, rolling around on the sand.

 "WOW!" Kurt exclaimed, feeling the scorching desert wind. "It sure is hot!"

 And then, all at once, they all noticed the same thing . . . how their clothes and skin had acquired an airbrushed look, no wrinkles, no lines, no moles,

 THEY WERE ALL CARTOON CHARACTERS!!!

 Everyone grins

 Craig heard it first, a BEEP-BEEP in the distance that could only mean one thing. . .

 The Roadrunner!

 Against the far horizon, between sheer rock cliffs, appeared a tiny plume of smoke, snaking along a winding 2-lane road, slowly getting larger and larger --- sounding something like a sound of a bullet. Suddenly it came to an abrupt halt. Silence. In the middle of the road, with the patience of a monk, the Roadrunner calmly observed the children.

 Just as Kurt ventures a "Good morning," to the bird, atop a overhanging cliff, a large boulder connected to a mighty rubber band teetered precariously. Loitering on the edge for a few seconds as if deciding on which way to go. . . before finally dropping. . . .

 . . . . just missing the Roadrunner, who had switched into overdrive the second it heard the sound of the huge rock whistling through the air. . .

 "Thpttt, Thpttt," went it's red tongue, as it shot off toward the horizon like a meteor.

 WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSHHH!

 "BEEP-BEEP!"

 Looking down from atop the cliff, Wile Coyote snapped his long slender fingers in disgust, not noticing that the rubber-banded boulder was heading back up in the air, now over his head, and then with a frown he finally saw it when it was a bit too late. . .

 Crushed flat as a pancake.

 Cathy gazed at her brothers and sisters, and with a concerned look in her eye, she says, "Do you think he can hurt us?"

 "Duhhh," Kurt replied. "Helloooo. . .we're inside a cartoon!"

 "Yeah," Kristi affirmed. "I've yet to see one fatality in a Tom & Jerry cartoon."

 As if to accentuate the point, Clark picked up a huge boulder as if it weighed nothing and proceeded to smash the head of his older brother, who was crushed flat as a pancake.

 A few seconds later, a muffled plop revealed a hand reaching out of the rubbery flattened substance that had been his body, which reaches down and grabs the rubber and then with great force suddenly pulled it up. Like an accordion, Craig suddenly regained his true shape and form.

 "Hey!" he shouted, "that was fun!"

 As he and his brother proceeded to take turns smashing each other into pancakes, a storm of laughter erupts from their brother and sisters, that is, until Wile Coyote steps into view.

 Stillness descends on the group. Laughter died away as quick as it started as Wile surveys a semicircle of pink faces.

 Always quick to take the bull by the horns, Karen scuttled over to the coyote, putting her arm around his bony shoulders. "Wile," she says, "I think you need a better plan."

 Back in Wile's cave, the kids watch Karen and the coyote thumb through the thick catalog of Acme Road Runner catching contraptions, Karen humming the theme song from Love boat.

 Her face lit up when she saw a powerful BMW 1200 motorcycle with a sidecar. No more than 60 seconds later, the Acme delivery truck drops off a huge box in front of the cave.

 After all, they were in a cartoon!

 Karen hopped on the huge motorcycle after unboxing it. The coyote gleefully taking his place in the sidecar.

 Cathy's worried expression said it all: "Please be careful!"

 When Kristi made the point that Karen had never actually ridden a motorcycle, the coyote's eyes got big as saucers. "Hey, we're in a cartoon," Karen calmly replied as she placed her right hand on the hand grip of the accelerator.

 "I don't need a freaking driver's license!"

 The immense roar of the engine drowning out Craig & Clark's urgent pleas to take them along.

 Then, out of the distance, moving at least 90 miles per hour, a tiny speck appears in the distance, at the head of a long plume of smoke.

 Karen looking back over her shoulder, timing her take-off --- and then the big bike suddenly surges forward, the coyote's eyes bulging out of their sockets.

 "WHOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!!!"

 In a fiery chaos, the wind spinning Karen's hair, streaming behind her in long streaking waves of brown and blond. After racing around a few turns, nearly popping that poor coyote out of the sidecar, the Roadrunner suddenly darts off the road, leaving Karen with no choice but to follow.

 Bouncing through a boulder-strewn field, she suddenly veers between a series of huge rocks, not seeing the edge of that dried out creek bed until it was too late --- flying through the air --- a huge boulder on the other side of the bed that got them, which Karen did not observe until in mid-flight.

 Catching the motorcycle squarely and sending Karen and the coyote shooting through the air like cruise missiles. . .

 Straight at the Roadrunner!

 But just as they both reach out to snag that dang bird, the Roadrunner disappears in an abandoned coal tunnel at the base of the cliff, reaching back just as fast to zip the opening shut right behind it . . .

 ZIPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!

 "Thpttt, Thpttt," went its tongue. . .leaving Karen and the coyote on a direct path for the base of the cliff. . .

 Flattening as two dark circles on the rock wall, hanging for a second and then slowly whispering down to the earth.

 LATER:

 Craig's forefinger running down through the numerous selections in the Acme catalog with the precision of a surgeon, Clark's hazel eyes following like lasers. Suddenly the finger stops. Tapping his finger on the page, he glanced at his brother.

 "A robot," he says with a gleam in his eyes.

 "That's the ticket," says Clark, visualizing a dramatic chase scene.

 Ten seconds later, an Acme delivery van screeches to a halt in front of the cave. A long box is pushed inside.

 "Ladies and gentleman," Craig intones after opening the box, "I give you the XL-2000, more commonly known to movie fans as Robbie the Robot!

 There was a humming sound, a few colored lights on the robot's chest begin to blink. The neck moves, pincer-like arms rotate, opened and close; the bottom tread then moving forward and back. Two green lights glowing from within its clear plastic helmet. A faint whiff of ozone lilts in the air.

 Suddenly the tin can says, "Robbie the Robot, reporting for duty."

 Craig & Clark cracking their knuckles in delight.

 A lavender sky greets the boys as they step out into the desert sun. The robot, unable to bend over, simply smashes through the wall, emerging out of a cloud of dust.

 When Craig shouts, "ROBOT, STOP!" The tin man ceases to move, much to the amazement of the girls.

 Clark commands, "Robot, what are your directives?"

 After the whirring and buzzing cease inside that metallic tin can, a mechanized voice precisely states, "Reviewing primary directives: One --- preserve Hultquists at all costs; Two --- maintain a pleasant atmosphere for Craig and Clark (they both grin); Three --- catch Roadrunner."

 A yellow sun casting an even glow on that red and tan desert. Exactly in the middle of the road stood the robot, patiently awaiting its prey. Then, in the distance, a faraway sigh of wind could be heard, steadily increasing in intensity until reaching the sound of a bullet. . .

 "POOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW!!!!

 The Roadrunner now standing right next to the robot. . .

 The feisty bird eyeballs the metallic man, its red tongue darting out of its beak,

 "Thptt, thptt . . . BEEP, BEEP!!!"

 The Roadrunner rockets into a narrow canyon, and almost as quick, the robot gives chase, but not before Craig and Clark jump onto its back!

 WHOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

 FOR CRAIG AND CLARK, WHO WERE BARELY HANGING ONTO THE BACK OF A ROCKETING ROBOT, the steep canyon walls were nothing more than an orange blur. . .

 But they were GAINING on that bird!

 The crafty Roadrunner began weaving back and forth across the narrow road in the hope of buying time, two-lanes of asphalt bounded by dense scrub brush and cactus --- not to mention those two-hundred foot high cliffs --- no escape was possible.

 Suddenly the bird stops.

 In a deafening squeal of rubber and orange sparks, the robot began braking, now going into an out-of-control sideways skid, Craig and Clark barely holding on like two limp rags.

 The underbrush on either side of the road marking off a bewildering labyrinth of alleys, one barely wider than the others, and it was there that the bird darts, suddenly heading out into the desert. . .

 "THPTTT, THPTTT . . . BEEP, BEEP!"

 "ROBOT!" Craig commanded, "GET THAT BIRD!!!"

 The robot resumes chase, a dense cloud of dust and debris billowing behind the double-wide track, as it careens wildly across the loose sand.

 RIDING ON THE BACK OF A SPEEDING ROBOT, THE GROUND SKIMMING BY AS THOUGH DRIVING A VERY FAST CAR, CRAIG AND CLARK FELT A SUDDEN UNEASINESS. . . .

 Disquieting thoughts of sharp cactus needles lodging deep in their rear ends caused them to cling to the rolling tin can like baby possums to its mother.

 Swerving like an out of control tractor-trailer, an aluminum monolith on oiled wheels, darkened shapes pass by in a hazy blur --- as though viewing the world through a kaleidoscope --- a helter-skelter of crazy images superimposed upon one another.

 The Roadrunner darts through the brush, and then, without warning, suddenly shoots off to the right, through a dried out arroyo creasing the wall of the canyon. The robot duly following. What the boys and robot did not know, was that the path led directly to a sheer drop. . .

 Clark shouts in delight --- they were going to trap that damned bird. They'd have squab for dinner!

 When Craig yelled out, "ROBOT, ELECTRON GUN!" Clark immediately shouted, "NOT THAT! We don't want to fry it!" But it was too late --- twin beams of energy out of the chest of the robot laser toward the bird, exploding boulders and cactus on either side of it into dust.

 WHAMMMMMMMMM!!

WHAMMMMMMMMM!!

 And the robot, as if angered by missing its target, lurches ahead with an startling rapidity.

 Here the local knowledge of that crafty bird served it well, waiting till the very last second to hit the brakes and then darting off to the right, onto a narrow rock ledge running alongside a sheer cliff wall.

 When Clark shouted "JUMP!" he and his brother both leap to either side of the speeding robot, who was going much too fast to apply the brakes successfully.

 "HELLS BELLS!!!" shouts the robot as it catapults off into space, hanging for a second in the air as its arms circle wildly, and then disappearing down into a bottomless chasm.

 LATER:

 Cathy was sitting in Wile's cave, thoughtfully thumbing through the Acme catalog. Suddenly her finger stops on the page with jet-powered roller skates. She remembered going one mile an hour on the driveway at when she was eight. When Kurt reminded her of the debacle that happened in Episode 38, when the coyote had tried them and ended up smashing himself into smithereens, she quickly turns the page.

 Next her finger stops on a hot-air balloon and an anvil, her anxious gaze shifting to Karen.

 "Nope!" Karen emphatically states, "In Episode 55 the balloon gets punctured and he's blown into a lake."

 The coyote sadly nodding his head.

 As Cathy gazes at the catalog in despair, Craig and Clark finally stumble in. Her traveling gaze beating her laughter by a good three seconds.

 "WOW!" she ejaculates. "What happened?"

 After they finished telling her the story, she assisted them in the delicate operation of pulling the last cactus needles out of their tender behinds.

 The hole the robot had blasted out of the cave wall had been nicely tidied up. And despite the coyote's mild protests, his wrinkled puss set in a fierce frown, Kristi had added some potted plants, Karen a beautiful bouquet of desert flowers.

 The clever animal had conceded one point to those humans, however, whenever women were involved, he always dressed up. Now striding around his lair wearing an ancient smoking jacket of crushed red velvet while smoking a fine cigar, a large snifter of cognac cupped in one hairy palm.

 Outside a hole that served as a window, one could see a lonely two-lane road unwinding toward the distance like a used typewriter ribbon between precipitous cliffs. Along one side of the cave wall sat an iron cot covered by an old army blanket. A chest of drawers topped by a clouded mirror with spidery cracks. Perhaps that fetid smell, a compound of dirt, moisture and wet animal hair, had prompted the girls somewhat rapid bout of spring cleaning.

 Cathy said to the boys, "I've been perusing the Acme catalog while you two were gone."

 Clark blurting out, "I guess that means you thought we wouldn't catch it!"

 Cathy ignoring his statement with the diplomacy of a good housewife. Tapping a red fingernail on the table, she resumes flipping through the pages. Then she suddenly stops, staring intently at a picture of a Japanese Zero fighter.

 She'd always yearned to fly.

 Ten minutes later, a huge flatbed semi tractor-trailer squeals to a halt. Two efficient Acme employees quickly offload the plane, the clear cockpit reflecting a diamond star-burst of the sun.

 First, Cathy inspects for flaws. Kicking the wheels, checking tire pressure. She bent down to see if the huge black net she had ordered was in place on the undercarriage. The plan: swoop down low in a strafing attack and release the net, which was weighted with little pieces of lead.

 Craig let go his breath in a long soundless sigh. "WOW!" he says with wonder. "I wish I'd thought of that!"

 Clark jerked his thumb toward the aircraft. "Do you really think you can fly that thing?"

 Cathy, who was busy donning a leather helmet, goggles, scarf and gloves, merely smiled, thinking, "Of course I can, silly. This is a cartoon, isn't it?"

 She leaps onto the back of the wing, at the point where it met the fuselage. Then she placed a hand on the bottom of the cockpit, found a toe-hold and pulled herself up into place.

 "OOOMPH!!" she says while plopping down on an uncushioned seat.

 Orienting herself with the controls, her traveling gaze took in the yoke, the pedals and the throttle. She experiments with the pedals, pushing down on the one on the left, watched an aileron flap up and down. After doing the same thing with the one on the right, she then rattles the stick to check out the flaps.

 Satisfied with her checkout, she nods to Kurt, who'd stationed himself next to the propeller. Smiling faintly, she gave him the thumbs up. Her brother carefully grabbed the propeller and then jerked it hard as he could toward the ground.

 The crescendoing roar of the engine causing her siblings to take a step or two back as they listen to the ferocious high-pitched shriek, a snarling yowl now under maximum boost. Puffs of black exhaust shot out of twin mufflers like machine gun bullets.

 The Zero shooting into the sky towards a blood red sun.

 But the sound also drowned out the approach of the Roadrunner, who'd swooped under the aircraft in a fantastic burst of speed.

 Heading into the wind, Cathy rose above the vertical canyon walls and leveled off, giving the plane all the throttle it could handle, the thin whine of air over the wings gradually increasing in intensity. She shot into a cloud bank, felt its damp coolness on her face. Experimenting with the controls, she banked, veering in a one-eighty, heading back the way she came. The plane seemed to fly itself --- everything seemed so easy!

 She got so cocky, in fact, that after zooming back toward the ground and leveling off, she turned bottoms up and stunt-flew the highway, saluting her brothers and sisters.

 Rising back in the air, she began searching for the Roadrunner, seeing it almost in an instant. There, down on a needle thin strip of road, she could make out a billowing dust cloud trailing the bird.

 This was it! A live run!!!

 She pushed the controls forward and swooped down between cliffs framed in steep perspective by the windscreen, needles spinning crazily. The earth seemed to leap at the plane. Only twenty-five feet above the road, with the altimeter as close to zero as it could get, she finally recovered balance. . .

 The bird was dead in her sights!

 Closing distance gradually, just as she was about to release the net, that unpredictable animal changed to squirrel-cage antics, began swerving back and forth across the blacktop.

 Cathy leaned forward in the same way a child does on a rolling toy, hoping to gain momentum. . .

 Cathy hunched forward in her seat as the valley floor rushed by beneath her --- soon the moment of truth! She transferred one hand from the yoke to the release handle for the net, clutching it fiercely.

 Like some great Pterodactyl out of the far-flung past, the plane swooped, going over on its nose and shooting downward in a screaming vertical dive. . . nearly hitting 270 MPH . . . wings shrieking and moaning under the strain.

 Hemmed in by those sheer rock walls, concentrating so intently on the speedy bird, she did not notice the tight bottleneck up ahead --- sheer cliffs creeping ever closer and closer, until at last, a wing-tip made contact.

 The little craft bucked and shuddered from the impact.

 Cathy stood the aircraft up on its left wing in a futile effort to turn around . . . but she'd lost way too much speed . . . stalling and pointing toward the earth in a grotesque slow-motion spin.

 SPPPPLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTT!!!

 "Thpttt, Thpttt," went the red tongue of the Roadrunner as it shot into the distance. . .

 WHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHH!!!

 "BEEP-BEEP!!!"

 The long walk back seemed to take an eternity, and it was as pancake woman, ten feet wide and a half inch thick, that Cathy returned to her brothers and sisters, a very thin circle embedded with a fine black netting.

 Everyone threw their hands in the air and laughed. . .

 CATHY'S MISTAKE, KURT THOUGHT, while thumbing through the thick Acme catalog, was selecting an aircraft which could not turn fast enough. Suddenly his finger stopped. His eyes got big as he took in the APACHE WARRIOR, the latest breed of attack helicopter.

 That baby was bristling with gadgetry!

 *Infrared thermal imaging

*High-speed processor for multi-target tracking

*Laser-guided weaponry

*Night-Vision telescopic viewing system

 Naturally, there were plenty of options, the most desirable being a 64-oz cup holder.

 When he finally tore his gaze away from the catalog, Karen said, "Well, have you finally made a decision?"

 At that moment, outside the cave, the Acme flatbed truck screeched to a stop. Not more than five minutes later, after a cursory glance at the thick manual, Kurt buckled in after donning a helmet with a swiveling ocular sight. A powerful engine shrieked to life.

 The sagging rotors began flattening out in a blur. He gave his siblings the Thumbs Up while climbing into the sky. The chopper tipped forward just as the Roadrunner sped by underneath. . .

 WHOOOOOOOOOSSSSSSHHHHHHHHH!!

 The bubble window gave off a spectacular view of the desert landscape careening by not so far below. Brushing cactus tops, skimming across fields of scrub brush, the craft tore over the earth.

 Flying on a direct course toward his target, Kurt bore down like a bird of prey, slowly closing the gap . . . a quarter-mile . . . two-hundred yards . . . one-hundred yards . . . until finally right behind the bird. Fifty feet below, the sand churned wildly, whipped into a frenzy by the copters vacuum wake.

 Punching the computer screen, he activated a 360-degree ring of cameras dangling underneath the cockpit. On the screen flashed a picture of the bird, and underneath its classification,

 Geococcyx Californianus, Speed-Ophoric Maximus

 And underneath that, an asterisk --- VERY, VERY HARD TO CATCH!!!

 The copter swooped, a thundering of rotors as it banked and aligned itself. A pencil-thin beam of red light slanted from beneath the copter, a shimmering blade targeting a feisty bird with two huge drumsticks. But at the last second, sensing a threat was near, the Roadrunner finally shifted into top gear.

 WWHHHHOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!

 Kurt lifted the protective plastic casing off the toggle for the HELLFIRE MISSILE, and while making a quick course correction, calmly flipped the switch. A brilliant white flash of white followed by an exploding boulder, shattering into a million pieces. The concussion wave sent the bird reeling in a series of cartwheels. . .

 The sound, apocalyptic.

 But the Roadrunner recovered quite nicely, quickly resuming top speed. Kurt maintained a low heading over fields of cactus, rock and scrub, a thermal scanner revealing the midsection of the bird as bright orange, fading in hue toward the feathers.

 But technology vacillates between being a tool and a trap for the unwary. The stone arch which the bird ran through led directly to a five-thousand year old tree, a Bristle-cone Pine with some very pointy limbs.

 When Kurt finally looked up from the instrument panel, his jaw nearly hit the floor. Inside the rounded cockpit dome, a thin silhouette leaned back in his seat while realizing his vast mistake. . .drawing a deep breath and shouting,

 "SSHHHHHHHHIIIIIITTTTTTTTT!!!!!!"

 When he finally got back to his brothers and sisters he asked for assistance in pulling the limb out of his backside. . .

 AT THE BOTTOM OF A STEEP CANYON WALL, STILL AS A BRILLIANT WATERCOLOR, RISING HUNDREDS OF FEET HIGH, overarching a clear blue sky, Wile's cave was weathered brown and tan, and, to be frank, in a very sad state of disrepair. At the moment, Cathy was busy sweeping a dusty floor with a broom she'd fashioned from some fronds tied to a tree limb, thinking,

 "That robot certainly made a mess!"

 Craig & Clark, tanned and alert little boys, were taking turns arm-wrestling the coyote. Karen was whistling the theme song from LOVE BOAT while making coffee in a battered tin pot hanging over a small fire. Kurt kept himself busy thumbing through Wile's collection of PLAYWOLF Magazine. Kristi perused the Acme Catalog while ruminating on possibilities.

 Suddenly a flashbulb popped in her head. . . A Time Machine!

 Because they were all inside a cartoon, their ultimate fate would always be subject to the whims of cartoonists. And since cartoonists enjoyed cushy jobs, they always took great pains to make the Roadrunner the ultimate winner. But in a Time Machine she could travel back to Burbank Studios in California, where cartoonists played god while drawing painted cells. She smiled at the thought of a confrontation --- a big gun pointed at their heads as they reluctantly drew the demise of one of the most popular cartoon characters ever.

 She began flipping through the pages, searching for a Time Machine, imagining the sequence of events: breaking into a locked building, alarms erupting as she broke through a system of laser beams, flickering over her inquisitively as if she were an item of meat in a check-out line, diving for cover behind a desk as an overweight security guard waddled by, her head pushing out from under the desk like a turtle from its carapace.

 ALL CLEAR!!!

 And then she was actually there, taking a .44 Magnum out of her clutch purse, checking to see if the safety was off, then pushing herself to her feet. Lucky for her, a sign on the wall pointed the way to the cartoonists. She eyeballed the ventilation system, imagining a lurid scene where she crawled through constricting duct work, popping the end open and then dropping to the floor like the creature from ALIEN.

 Then she reconsidered --- that would mean dodging giant dust balls and annoying insects. So she continued her journey, ducking and weaving down a long corridor. Then she finally realized the futility for stealth. In room after room after room, absolutely nothing was being done. . .

 After all, this was the Graphics Department!

 Instead of typing, secretaries were tossing wadded up sheets of paper at a mini-basketball net over a trashcan. Some supervisors were keeping score while others were chasing little cuties.

 Deep in the bowels of the building, the pebbly surface of frosted glass in the door leading to the lair of the cartoonists did its part to shield her. Trying the knob, she found it to be unlocked. She went into an alert crouch, cracking open the door and then peering inside. . .all clear!

 After taking a deep breath, almost in one motion, she opened the door and dove inside, tucking in a tight little ball and somersaulting across the floor toward the snack machine.

 Three men, steely-eyed creatures with pointy little heads, who up to that moment had been busy gossiping, suddenly looked up.

 "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!" One shouted.

 Kristi leaped to her feet, and holding her gun at arm's length, said, "I'm your worst nightmare."

 Stunned, the wide-eyed men stared at her in mute horror, as it was frighteningly close to their lunch break.

 "It's time to get to business," Kristi said. "I want you to draw this. . ." She threw a balled up sheet of paper at the cartoonists. "And to make sure you actually do it," she went on, "I'm going to take the precaution of holding your snack machine and coffee-maker as hostages.'

 She grinned with satisfaction as their eyes rolled back in their sockets.

 LATER LATER LATER LATER LATER LATER

 There was something comedic about the scene, Cathy taking another big chomp on a huge drumstick, not bothering to close her mouth as she chewed. She said, "Kristi, tell us again how you caught the bird."

 "Well," Kristi replied, after wiping her chin with the sleeve of her blouse, "After those silly cartoonists finally saw things my way, they drew it like this. . .

 "As I was traveling back to the cartoon, I realized I could use the Time Machine to go to a point in time exactly when and where the bird would pass a certain spot of landscape. Then, with a hologram-maker I got from the good people at Acme products, I proceeded to set a trap. What looked to be a clear road was actually a Vietnamese Tiger Trap . . . a deep, spiked pit."

 "QED --- end of Roadrunner."

 A light shined in Craig's eyes as he looked up from his plate, a huge grin on his "Dat one fine bird!" he said.

 Wile leaned back from the table, and with a contented look on his puss, he burps.

[my-video-resume-blog]

[my-video-resume-blog]

************* WALT DISNEY WORLD 1977 *************

I was standing at the entrance to Main Street at Disney World, my Model T vehicle idling in the sun, roughly ten minutes before opening, before paying guests made a dramatic entrance. My partner, Derwin, was leaning against his vehicle in a familiar pose, wearing the same style of black shoes, pants, vest, and white button down shirt. Residual water from the gigantic water trucks that sprayed the pavement prior to opening was already quickly evaporating.

Beaming a crisp welcome from a clear blue sky, the sun slung arrows of light to Cinderella’s Castle, whose shining windows in tall spires caught them and sent them back my way. There was such a peaceful feeling of repose to the large turning circles, one at either end of Main Street, where our vehicles swung round to head back in the other direction. Maybe it was because the sprays of colorful flowers and well-mannered trees that were clustered so tightly gave off the air of adulthood without being smug about it. A wrought-iron fence and red cobblestone sidewalk gave way to a white cement curb. Plenty of green benches topped with dew ringed the outer perimeter, an island of repose for tired moms and dads, but would remain empty until the Electric Light Parade later on in the evening.

Casting my glance in the direction of the castle, I saw the green and white striped awnings of the Confectionary. Next to it was a sidewalk restaurant where one could catch a quick bite. A sleight-of-hand magician was practicing one of his many tricks in the Magic Shop --- and all those truly wonderful smells wafting out of the bakery! A well-lit sign over Main Street Theater boasted not one, but six films playing simultaneously! Of course, there were more than enough chances to buy silly hats and logo-ed shirts in the other shops, or perhaps a toy to appease the kiddies while waiting in long lines. The three-quarter-sized buildings made the young ones feel as if they were just a tad bigger in size. The white light bulbs lining those gabled windows, long ledges, and arrow-straight white pilasters, would remain dormant until just before dusk, but you can be sure when they finally lit up in the evening, there was not a burnt out bulb among thousands.

The steel rails called the trolley tracks ran as perfectly straight as the lines of each building, that is, until hitting either end of Main Street, where they became big turning circles, where the clop-clop-clop of horse hooves, the jingling bells on the black reins, and the grinding wheels on the curving metal rails always came to an abrupt ending.

Standing there, waiting for my working day to begin — although one could hardly call driving up and down Main Street serious labor! — I reflected on my chaotic journey to Central Florida. It may have seemed a bit hard to comprehend, but in the space of just one year I had worked at 3 major amusement parks: Disney World, King’s Island, and King’s Dominion; all of them were wonderful, but what set Disney apart was the fact that there was such a vast parcel of land surrounding it, acres and acres and acres. One drove down the Disney Highway listening to the Disney radio station, parked the old chariot in a vast sea of spaces, bought the tickets, and was then whisked via a gliding monorail or a churning paddle-boat to the park entrance. It was a journey in itself to get to the entrance.

What made Disney so formidable was the fact that the land had been secretly purchased in small parcels, and then came the excavating of the lakes and the building of the foundation for what amounted to be a perfect small town in a forest of trees in the middle of Central Florida. There was absolutely no cutting of costs anywhere.

I lifted my hands from the hood of the car, from where I’d been leaning, looked at my fingers most carefully. Even though I’d carefully washed them, there was still a hint of tackiness from my bicycle’s black grip. You see, the start of my first day of work at the park had been a doozy.

Landing down in Florida two months earlier, I’d found a house, a small rental property. This low-slung, half ranch sat behind another larger house a mile north of downtown Orlando. My landlady and I hit it off, but when I inquired if I could borrow her car to apply at Disney, I could almost hear her gulping. Why did I need to borrow her car? Because one month earlier I had sold my Volkswagen Beetle to her son, due to my dwindling finances.

She agreed and I applied, which was followed by a deafening note of silence. In truth, I was crushed. A few weeks later, knowing how things can fall through the cracks, I applied once again, and was subsequently hired. When my group met for orientation it was in a room similar to a Fortune 500 Boardroom. I mean, we are talking about an immense mahogany table, deep pile carpeting, burl walnut walls, and a bottle of sparkling spring water in front of each of us. The essence of Disney’s orientation can be distilled into the fact that paying customers were to be thought of as guests. But when the message is lilted in front of you by a consummate actress one tends to pay a little more attention. My group collectively sighed when our hostess informed us that orientation would last for eight hours, but what we didn’t know at the time was that the last five hours would be spent out in the park riding rides --- in short, to experience the Disney magic from the point of view of a guest. What a great idea! Yes, we all got paid to ride the rides!

Speaking of riding, I mentioned that I didn’t have a car, didn’t I? How on earth did I ever get to work? Well, it seems that my landlady owned a house in the middle of an orange grove that was about eight miles from the north end of the park, the employee entrance. Using her car, I’d already transferred my sparse belongings to my new home. On my first day of work I would ride from her house to the park and then head for my new abode later that night.

Only the moon and stars greeted me as I peeked out my front door on that dark and peaceful morning. With a pair of black shoes carelessly slung over the handlebars, I hopped on my bike and experienced one of my most memorable rides.

Riding a bicycle at night without a headlight is not a good idea. That being said, the roads I chose were so sparsely traveled that if a car happened my way I’d simply switch sides. And, indeed, nothing happened, that is, until the last few miles. At that point, I was mirroring the route I would be taking home later that night. Cool air rushed over my head and arms as I pedaled in near-silence, the crickets singing a familiar refrain. A crescent moon seemed to smile at me in encouragement. This was no Herculean effort; really, it more closely resembled a bizarre twist of fate.

Well, I made it, I congratulated myself. I had driven to Florida to work at Disney and now I was actually doing it. Plenty of exciting new experiences lay in front of me. Just as I was accepting my Academy Award, a dog flew out of a grove of orange trees, snarling like crazy, trying in earnest to take flesh out of my leg. Here I applaud my adrenal glands, which kicked in, seriously, allowing me to crank it to a higher gear. But that snarling mongrel had the clear advantage, as I’d been pedaling a bit too lazily. I’m not exaggerating in the slightest in that I feared being bitten. Coupled with the profuse bleeding that would surely follow, it would make a very bad start to my bright new day.

This is where I rose off my seat and brought my left leg to the same side as my right; with one foot above the pedal and one foot below, I clamped them so that I could ride on just one side of the bike. This was not something where there was time to ponder things — it happened in the space of seconds.

Dramatic times like these are always magnified in size and at some future date are then trebled --- but not this story. The dog was close, very real, and so were those snapping teeth. But I made it past him, or her --- who the hell knows?

My first day at Disney was turning out to be a doozy.  

I was laughing. This was, without a doubt, my absolute favorite time of day. In the middle of the afternoon, just like clockwork, immense thunder heads dutifully rolled in from out of nowhere, blanketing the Disney realm and unleashing an unmitigated fury of rain. What had been a peaceful summer day suddenly became a whirling maelstrom. Great cracks of thunder were quickly followed by sizzling bolts of lightning, casting chaotic after-images across the darkened heavens. The sky was thick with rain. One could smell the freshness in the air, as if the nearby ocean wanted to whisper something to you, but was too damn big, and ended up just shouting its message. The sound of water hitting the hot pavement was a million strips of frying bacon, while the thunder was compliments of a band of mile high kettle drums. . .

                              BBBBOOOOMMMMMM!

Cool wind rushed down Main Street, an airborne tsunami gone crazy. On a tall pole in front of the Administration building, the American Flag was snapping its fingers like Sammy Davis Junior on amphetamines. There was something truly awesome about the few seconds before the storm finally hit, when the wind abated for just a second, perhaps a bit like standing in the eye of a hurricane. We, or, I should say, all the employees, expected this. After all, this was Central Florida in the middle of summer.

If I was working crowd control in the Main Street Cinema, I’d poke my head outside for a few minutes to take in the unfolding drama. It was like one of those World War I movies, but without the weaponry. Because the rain struck so suddenly, like a column of hidden Panzer tanks wheeling out of a forest, most people were caught unaware --- but then suddenly they began running, like a coop of chickens without any brains. Bumping into each other like Larry, Moe and Curly, using a folded park map in a futile effort to protect their new hairstyle.

 “Where do we go!?” their confused body language seemed to say. I wanted to help them, to shout out,

                            “GET UNDER A ROOF STUPID!”

Of course, some of the youngsters took advantage of the situation and quickly became drenched. Kicking puddles of water at little brothers and sisters, pointing and laughing at how the clinging clothes made the pink skin appear underneath. At that point of the day, poor mom and dad were worn to a frazzle, and if their complaining children were giggling idiots it was certainly all for the better, to say the least.

Meanwhile, the folks who had thought ahead, and were protected by the awnings and roofs, watched and smiled in contentment.

I remember standing on the small patio behind my house in the orange grove, one hand shading my eyes, trying to discern the cloud patterns like a Seminole Indian deciphering smoke signals from a distant tribe in Lakeland. Remember now, Florida is flat-land. At any time there might be three separate thunderstorms in the panorama around you, some many miles away --- and not all traveling the same direction --- while you, on the other hand, were bathed in intense rays from the sun, sweating bullets from the high humidity.

There wasn’t a problem if I arrived at work early — I could read a book in the canteen or wander around aimlessly. Glancing inside the sliding glass doors, I observed a living room that was practically empty. Not a stick of furniture. Not even a TV. I was using a sleeping bag in the bedroom. However long this house had been vacant before me, my landlord had spent no time cleaning it. Sand particles infested the carpet. I suppose I could have run a rag over the stove, but what was the point?  I wasn’t cooking anything; there surely would be no guests for weekend parties. At that point, I felt like the star of an episode of the Twilight Zone. As my eyes searched for hidden cameras, I could almost hear Rod Serling speaking . . .

 “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a solitary gentleman, alone in an orange grove like a castaway at sea. But in a little under an hour he’ll be engulfed by 40,000 people, an ocean of humanity. Let us watch as he searches for the middle ground in a quest for happiness. . .”

Since it was about as hot as the surface of the sun, I went back inside, showered and shaved, hopped on my bike and made tracks for Disney.

My dog friend was always waiting for me, but I knew that my 10th gear was more than enough to cool his intestinal jets. I laughed when he swung out from the trees to give chase, aborting the run after about 30 feet. Sometimes I’d even shout something before I arrived, giving him a better chance to catch me.

With my bike safely locked, I hopped on the employee bus and it sped away. I was still new enough, the peach fuzz fresh on my face, where I was still looking forward to work. After all, what was the worst thing that could happen on Main Street? Well, later on that same morning I’d be able to answer that question with a fair degree of certainty.

The back parking lot, or employee parking lot, was immense. I chained my bike and waited for one of the two Greyhound shuttle buses that ferried employees to the park and back. Above the driver’s windshield, the letters V.I.P. stood out in bold type on the header. While riding the two miles through the back stage area of the park, I absorbed the sights: the extra monorail trains perched like birds on elevated rails, gas pumps for the cars of Main  Street, all of the buildings for fixing and keeping things up to date. Spotless, all of it.

And then we made a turn and pulled up to a gaping rectangular hole, where arctic air spewed out like an exhalation of dry ice; seeing that there was absolutely no attempt to close this door, made me keenly aware of the deep pockets behind the Disney enterprise. This was the entrance to the tunnel system that ran under the park, vaguely similar to a square with a diagonal running from corner to corner. The diagonal line was the tunnel running from north to south, under Main Street. The four other lines headed to different areas of the park. Staircases and hidden doors allowed employees to pop in and out of view like a mouse in a haunted house.  

The difference in temperature from outside to inside was dramatic. A large canteen came into view from behind a series of large plate glass windows. One could see Goofy without his head or Cinderella puffing on a Winston. From that point, the tunnel angled down and split off into three different directions. Of course, wardrobe was close by. Up on the ceiling of the tunnels, immense ducts carried water, heat and electricity, everything immaculately clean. Maintenance men riding bicycles beeped ringed their bells or beeped their horns as they passed you on the right. Those people with a little more clout were offered the luxury of electric golf carts.  

First things first, I was going to tour the park, ride a few rides, perhaps sit in the shade and simply observe the proceedings. Knowing that the sand in my hourglass was slipping away at a much different rate than the tourists, I had the luxury of walking without haste. I could spot frazzled families in the packed queue lines, an unfolded park map between mom and dad as they plotted out strategy. . .

“OK, next we’ll go to the Haunted Mansion,” Dad begins, but when he sees Grandma shake her head, he swiftly alters the plan. “How about the Merry-Go-Round?” Then little Bobby pipes up, “Not that! That’s for kids!!!” Mom bends down low, with both her hands on her knees, interjects with an impish grin, “After that we’ll go to Space Mountain!” At that point, Granddad wheels around, shakes his head vehemently, as if to say with a grimace, “You’ll have to drag me there kicking and screaming!” On each and every ride it was always the same.

Ancient Egyptians believed that the world didn’t change. Life went according to a plan set into motion by the gods at the beginning of time. The sun traveled an unwavering path across the sky. Night followed day, the stars spun around the sky, time renewed itself with each new king, even the Nile flowed in a great circle, traveling underground from the Delta to replenish its source in the mountains. War or famine might upset the harmony of life but were considered small lapses in the order of the gods, mere bumps in the everlasting rhythm of the world.

Well let me tell you, if Egyptians lived in Central Florida during the month of August they would’ve thought the exact same thing. Each and every Florida morning was perfect. Clouds rolled in in the afternoon and then it rained cats and dogs, followed by an orange-limned horizon at sunset and then a smiling moon and twinkling stars --- except Disney’s gods were Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Goofy and Pluto, whose ghost images circled Cinderella’s castle as giants.

Meanwhile, my imitation of Goofy’s laugh was improving. And if you think that driving a Model T, a Jitney, a Doubledeck Bus or a Fire Engine up and down Main Street all day was an easy job, things got even better at night. From the outer fringes of the park, like a tide slowly receding from a coastline, thousands of people were converging upon Main Street.

                                                WHY?

. . . to see the Electric Light Parade!

As day gave way to night, the thousands of light bulbs adorning Main Street buildings blinked to life. This, however, was only a prelude to the nightly parade of zany vehicles, floats and wacky characters that would wind their way down Main Street towards Cinderella’s Castle and then off into Adventure Land. Of course, each and every float offered one the view of thousands of blinking lights.

It should come as no surprise that the shops on Main Street did some serious business during this period, and surprise, after the parade concluded it was nearly time for the park to shut down. Well, what do you know? Everyone was pretty darn close to the exit!

The men of Main Street Vehicles were assigned with the task of “Getting the Cheese”. Since the parade vehicles rolled on wheels, there was always a slight chance they might tip over if they hit the trolley tracks at an angle. So, at strategic points, ten foot long sections of rolled rubber, sort of an orange/yellow in appearance, found their way into the trolley tracks; what had been uneven ground was now nearly flat. And then we dispersed to different points around the parade route to serve as crowd control agents.

Sooner or later, a football stadium number of people lined the parade route. Everyone was happy, Cinderella’s Castle was magnificently lit, and there were plenty of big smiles all around.  Then, the casual music playing from the loudspeakers shut off, followed by a brief silence, and then from hundreds of speakers came a voice, which was followed by the sonic power of sound, of very, very loud synthesized music. Sound echoed off the buildings onto the street and into the eardrums, swirling like water going down a drain --- and to see all those smiling faces basking in the light of moving luminaria.

                             The parade was starting!!!

I loved the parade. I loved to watch the youngsters, those who were just learning to talk, smile and point at things with a chubby little arm and say,

                                          “DAT!!!”

That little ‘Dat’ was what Disney was all about. That little ‘Dat’ was why parents shelled out thousands of dollars to fly their children to the very best amusement part in the world, to experience the Disney magic and then fondly remember it in their later years.  

Of course, as always, my job was pretty simple. And just what was my job, you scratch your head and wonder? Simple. To keep thousands of feet from stepping off the curb and onto the street. But really, at its simplest form, my task was to keep just one foot from touching that street, because once that first shoe came down off the curb it started a chain reaction you had to see to believe; a small pimple quickly developed into a big bump and then — well, try to get fifty people to back up sometime and let me know how it works out for you, will you?

My demeanor at the time might’ve been caught somewhere between the amiability of a Gomer Pyle and the fussy strictness of a Barny Fife. . .

“Uh, ma’am, could you please get back up on the sidewalk?”

Sure, I’d turn my back to the crowd to better observe the pretty women characters --- only for a few seconds, mind you --- to watch the beautiful Cinderella as she passed by in that magnificently lit royal carriage. I certainly wasn’t going to miss that!    

Smaller vehicles, similar to the type that clowns drive at the circus, buzzed around the larger floats like gnats on the back of an elephant. Some came pretty darn close to my feet, and I’d wonder if the women inside were playing to the crowd or just flirting with me.

Most of the time I crouched down so as not to block anyone’s view. And there, with a knee to the ground, I had time to ponder life, and a quote from a Ray Bradbury story came to mind.

“What are we?” he asked. “Why, we are the miracle of force and matter making itself over into imagination and will. Incredible. The Life Force experimenting with forms. You for one. Me for another. The Universe has shouted itself alive. We are one of the shouts. . . We touch both ways and find each other miraculous because we are One.”

As the wonderfully loud synthesized music and that incredibly magical parade passed by, I too felt like shouting. . .