The time has come, he said, with a glint in his eye the color of the underside of a veal cow, encrusted in its own exrement, the time has come to get on with telling the story.

But first, a digression. Journalsonline was supposed to be this kelp frond of creativity in a barran media ocean. Things have not turned out that way. Not exactly But still, I have three readers of journalsonline (my own mother doesn't read it, complaining that the text takes too long to download on her modem). My original conception was that this was a gentile audience, interested in amusing anectdotes about children and puppies and shit.

I suffer no longer under that delusion. My only recent journalsonline related mail has been in search of prurient details, more on the drunken debauchery of this evening, or the violence implied by the gentle teaser 'my fight at the gas station.'

Ah, why not? Who cares about puppies and cute kids? Is there an audience for stories about cute children who spread feces on themselves and others? About a daughter who, when angered, has discovered that she can give a big snort and send massive snakes of snot down her face, which she knows will get her attention?

So I am conduction a poll. A serious and scientific poll, the results of which will be used for whatever purpose I so desire. If you want more stories about cute kids, then email FecalMatter@journalsonline.com. If you want pruirent stories of debauchery, then email IAmAFreak@journalsonline.com.

Include any comments or questions, and they will be respectfully considered. If, as expected, I get three votes (or less), then I will continue to write irregularly about whatever the hell.

On with the fight story...
I have now officially become a grumpy old man, offended by all that passes for youth culture, and the effects of media violence and disrespect.

Last Tuesday I worked at home (and got quite a bit done) and then in the early evening I drove Molly and her friend Elizabeth to my Mom's place in Belmont. The plan was for Mom to take Elizabeth to her Wednesday morning plane back to Colorado, and then Mom and Don and Molly would head up for a relaxing week at Stanford Alumni Camp on Fallen Leaf Lake (near Lake Tahoe).

And it even worked that way, with a minor distraction.

We pulled into a gas station in town and I started the pump then stuck my head in the car. "Do you girls want anything?"

They both started to call out their requests, too much information for me to remember. "Well, then get your lazy butts out of the car and pick out what you want!"

We started across the lane between our pump and the store. I heard the squeal of tires, moving fast, looked up and saw a car coming around, fast! I lifted an arm, then located Molly and Elizabeth. They were ahead of me, watching the car, and starting to move. Satisfied that they were okay I threw myself backwards. The car just missed all of us, then made a U turn and pulled up to the pump kitty corner to ours. I stood stunned, then walked toward the store. Before entering a looked at the car. Trying to give the driver the chance to make eye contact and apologize.

I did not feel anger, or outrage, emotions that I have felt in the past in the sort of situation (and emotions that seem justified!), but rather a huge sense of amazement. Here is how it felt. It felt like a movie. I felt the way I feel while watching a movie, after something dramatic comes to pass, and I am sitting in the dark, trying to guess what will happen next. "Wow, that was amazing" I thought to myself, "I wonder what will happen next?" I literally stood and wondered what would happen next. I played through a few scenarios, like going over and pounding these insolant little jerks into the pavement, but like watching a bad movie, I was uninterested in the characters, and did not care what happened next, so I turned and went into the store.

The girls searched for treats, and I went to make my choices. One of the miscreants entered the store. I looked up, expecting an acknowledgement of some sort, but I was studiously ignored. Hmmm, I thought, that is a rather interesting reaction from someone who came rather close to running you over. Must be ashamed of himself.'

So I mostly ignored him. He went to the counter, maybe to prepay his gas. I was picking out candy, and stood up to find myself in between him and the most direct route to the door. He was still facing the counter. I assume that I was in shock, trying to process my experience. I don't think that it was a 'near death' experience, but it was certainly a 'near to thrown across the parking lot and hurt a lot' experience. So I stood. In the middle of the aisle, between him and the door. Maybe eight feed away from him.

He turned. Big fellow. Taller than me, athletic. He saw me. I didn't note his reaction, I was watching his body for clues as to his next action. He had a choice. He could take two steps and go around the display case and out the door, or he could save his shoe leather and head towards me.

He headed towards me.

I stood, impassive. I still did not have a plan. I had no sense of what I wanted from the situation. I felt no desire to apologize, and I wouldn't have had the words even if I did. What do you way "Hey, sorry that you almost ran over me and my daughter who is way up there as one of the most important things in my life, and her friend who I have know since she was Kindergarten, and who I cherish only slightly less than my own flesh."

What do you say? What can you say? I said nothing. Nor did I glare or make aggressive movements. I just stood. I just stood, the way a Giant Redwood 'just' stands. I stood as though I filled the room. I stood as though I had always stood, there, silently, and I would always stand there. He strode towards me. He walked the way bullies walk, with the assumption that all would yield, that he didn't need to watch where he was going because he could not imagine that anyone would stand before him.

Just stand. Just stand, and not move. And not say anything.

I didn't move. He walked up to me. He stopped. I stood. Wondering what to do next. Running through options. Scenarios. 'If he nods, or says excuse me, or apologizes, I will move. If he steps around me (there was plenty of room) I will let him.' I felt ready for what may come, but not ready to make the next move.

"You got a fucking problem?"

This was not in the program. The punk comes out of a car that almost runs me over, and he is cursing at me? What a strange world!

I didn't know what to say, what to do. I was keyed up, on edge, ready to do anything, but I did nothing, said nothing, kept my face blank. I felt peaceful. I was not 'angry,' but nor did I feel shame.

Shame. There is that word. I often feel shame at my actions, or my feelings. The other day I had a conversation with Molly's principal (we had called to get a test result), and I felt ashamed. It was not until I had replayed the conversation in my head that I realized it was a perfectly normal conversation. Even pleasant. Heather and I want something for Molly that the principal probably doesn't fully support, but nothing happened. I asked a few questions, and he expounded on how the school is set up, and it was all good.

But standing in the gas station, I had no shame. This was not a road rage situation, where someone does something, and then the other person responds, and so no one is 'right.' I hate those situations! But this felt different.

I felt strong. I felt solid. I felt totally right with the world. I had said nothing, I had done nothing.

The moment continued. Tense, and vivid. It was 'fun.' In a perverse way. It was real. No artifice. Just me, standing, impassive, wondering what would happen, knowing that it was a good time to be alert!

Something happened. I am not sure what. I try to replay it in my head, and I have asked the girls. I don't really know what happened. Exactly.

I think that he lifted his arm. He may have been getting ready to push me out of the way. I have a memory of him pushing my shoulder, and the girls say they saw something like that, but memory is a strange and fragile thing.

The memory that I do have is of reaching out, grabbing him by the shoulder, twisting him and throwing him towards the ground. I think that this supports the memory of him moving his arm, lifting it and pushing me or getting ready to push me. The physics of it would require that his arm be up.

So we were facing each other, and I think that he lifted his left arm, I believe that he reached out towards me and may have pushed me. Then I struck out my right arm, grabbed the upper part of his left arm, and swung him around and towards the floor. Toward the end of the swing I started to lift him up, and I heard his shirt rip.

After this little dance, our positions were reversed. I had pivoted in place, and now faced the door.

I let go of him, put my arm down and stood. Solid. I expected him to launch an attack, but he did not. He just stood there cursing, saying "I am going to take you." I said something in response to this. Something like 'I can take you.' That was about all that I said. I expected us to have a knock down fight, but I didn't really care. I truly didn't care. I thought 'if he comes at me, I will hurt him. Severely. I might be a little sore.' But I had no fear, no thought that he could do anything to me.

I pictured myself throwing him at the displays, and wondering if the metal hangers that were sticking out would cause him serious injury. I decided that they would, and so my first step would be to throw him at the chips.

I have heard that the key to 'real' fighting is to have no inhibitions over causing pain to the other person. I didn't think of that specifically at the time, but I must have internalized it because my thoughts were about causing as much injury as possible in the shortest possible time.

After a few moments of his ranting I realized that he was just a scared punk. He was afraid. He was shaking and trying to get out of it, without backing down.

That isn't exactly right. I didn't realize he was scared. Not yet. After a few moments I realized that he was a punk, and so I turned my back on him. Intentionally. This seemed like the most insulting, most dismissive thing that I could do.

In hindsight, it was the meanest thing I could have done. Even worse than pounding him. I dismissed him as an entity worthy of consideration.

He was a tough guy, probably used to getting his way, and I swung him off his feet like he was a doll, and then turned my back on him. No final words, no 'my brother can beat up your brother' just total disdain.

I am not a total idiot. As I turned, I was listening pretty damn carefully. I felt as though I knew exactly where he was and what he was doing. Maybe not. I remember feeling relaxed, and ready to drop to my knees if I felt him on my back. I felt at peace with whatever might happen. He could scurry out of the store like a rat. Fine. He could swear some more. So what. He could attack my back. Fine.

I walked up to the counter. The attendent was on the phone. "I don't know what it is, but something is happening." He was watching. I smiled at him and put my purchases on the counter. The girls put up their things. I paid, and said thank you. He was still on the phone. We walked out of the store.

The car was still at its pump. The girl who was driving was still at the wheel. She looked at me. I looked at her in a disapproving manner and shook my head. She exploded in profanity. "What you shaking your head at Bitch?"

It was amazing! Both she, and the guy in the store, made a big point that I had 'jumped too far.' Strange when ones' automatic defensive reaction to get out of the way causes offense!

She went on and on about how far I had jumped, using 'bitch' and 'fuck' a lot. I didn't say anything. I walked towards my car. I made a point of looking at her license plate.

I not a very nice person. I had no intention of calling the police, what would be the point? But I knew that it would piss them off. It did. It was funny. She exploded anew. I said nothing. Molly looked at her and said 'oh shut up.' Then we walked to our car. I finished with the gas pump, then wrote their license number on the receipt (3Z2289, a black Chevrolet, I think it was a minipickup with a topper, but I don't really remember), and we all got in the car and pulled to the exit.

I made a very big point of waiting until they pulled out before going. They pulled into the road, Highway 116, going towards Sebastopol, and then stopped in the middle lane with their blinker going. I waited until they made a left turn, and then I waited a bit longer before I pulled out. I was nervous that they might turn around and try and do something in their car. I called 911, and was put on hold automatically (ie no human intervention). I waited a bit, and then hung up when they turned left. I had no desire to be on the road with them!

We pulled out and made our way to 101. On the way we passed a county sherrif's car zooming, I assume to the gas station, with lights and siren.

And that was that. We talked about it for a while. This is when I learned that he had been afraid. The girls both said that after I spun him around that he was clearly afraid. And at one point another guy had come into the store. Molly said that she was planning to jump on his back if he tried to do anything. She figured that whatever nefarious bad intentions that he might have had would be harder with a 130 pounds of Molly on his back. I appreciated the support, and was glad that it hadn't come to that.

And that is the story of the fight at the gas station.

Any Questions?