Osmotic Higher Education

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I've got it! I finally know what she's talking about! Hallelujah!

Today, I went on a Mickaboo run to Vacaville, on to Sacramento, and back home via Davis.

It was the greatest day of my life, a day of fulfillment, of becoming a Sequoia Sempervirens of my former self.

It started out innocently enough. I went by Shelbi's house to pick up a bird stand, and then headed out of town.

Things shifted gears suddenly as I was stopped at the stop sign in front of the Buckhorn Saloon and Roadhouse. I felt the truck tremble for about 10 seconds, and the cab filled with BBQ smoke. All of a sudden I felt like Emeril Lagasse, able to cook anything. I looked down at my t-shirt, and there, printed upside down so I could read it while cooking, was the world's greatest Prime Rib recipe.

The guy behind me honked, breaking my reverie, so I continued on my journey.

As I got near Pedrick & I-80, I passed a scarecrow in a field. All of a sudden, I was sweating profusely and shouting uncontrollably that "the square of the length of the hypotenuse of a right triangle equals the sum of the squares of the lengths of the two other sides!"

This was getting weirder by the minute. I opened the door to make sure I was not driving on yellow bricks, and then scanned the horizon for any signs of a tornado.

My journey through Davis on I-80 was uneventful until I got to the old McClellan AFB flight pattern. There was an United States C-130, my favorite airplane, flying in, of all places, United States airspace, and passing right over my truck. I could actually feel the vibrations of its engines as it passed.

All of a sudden, the theme from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang replaced Ed Schultz on my satellite radio, the lenses of my glasses became virtual C-130 instrument panels, and I was flying over Folsom Lake.

My only regret is that my favorite plane was not a bomber. I have seen the Letters to the Editor that come to the Sacramento Bee from Roseville and Granite Bay, and their continuums could use some rearranging.

Then, in the blink of an eye, I was suddenly parked in front of the Bird Shop. I shook my head, figured I was dreaming, but I still cannot explain how that Dick Van Dyke picture got on my dashboard.

I got my bird supplies and headed home.

I love Sacramento, so I went through downtown. As I was idling at a stop light, I looked over and saw an Austrian restaurant sitting next to a cigar shop, and all of a sudden I knew I was uniquely qualified to be governor of California.

At this point, I was exhausted- and hungry. I needed some money. I saw a WaMu that still had WaMu signs up, not yet having converted to JP Morgan/Chase/Oracle/BofA/Branch Providians or whatever they are going to become.

I went up and took out 40 bucks. The receipt rolled out of the ATM like a Diploma, and I realized right then that I could run a bank that size.

Suddenly I felt like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man- or was it Midnight Cowboy? Well, it was one of the two.

If you have paid attention you will know that the head of WaMu has been employed for 17 days, got a 7 million dollar signing bonus, and has an 11 million dollar severance package. 18 days = 18 million dollars. I could do that.

I finally made it back to Winters. I parked my truck at home, and wandered down to my favorite watering hole, the aforementioned Buckhorn. They were not officially open, but I take very good care of my waiters and waitresses, so I can usually get served a little early.

I was sitting there drinking my favorite Russian vodka, a third double-Stoli on the rocks, and thinking about my day.

I had transitioned from retired Battalion Chief, Mickaboo volunteer, and small-town elected official to world-famous chef, math genius, airplane pilot, world banking executive, and was ready to become the cigar-chomping leader of the 7th largest economy in the world whenever they asked- all via osmosis, all in one day.

I shook it all off, and I sought peace by reading a tattoo magazine, when a friend asked me if I wanted to try a Canadian Club on the rocks. I said sure, but as I drained it I felt something dripping down my arms.

On my right arm, under my Anarchist "A" tattoo was a tattoo of a Maple Leaf that I had never seen before; on my left arm, under my Vendetta "V" tattoo was another new tattoo, the Russian Hammer and Sickle. Both were dripping blood, as all new tattoos do.

All of a sudden, my destiny was clear: I was to be the leader of some frigid, beautiful place crammed in between Canada and Russia. As I looked in the Bar mirror, I noticed my round glasses were now square, and my brunette hair was showing blond streaks.

I felt like one of the Blues Brothers, Jake, of course: "It's 2138 miles to Juneau, I have a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, I'm wearing dark glasses, and I am on a mission from God."

Hey, cheer up- if it could happen to me, it could have happened to Caribou Barbie, too.