Photo by Cynthia Larsen

Who could ask for anything less?

By Ed Goldman

FLY THE FAT-FREE SKIES OF UNITED—If everyone who flies in a commercial plane knocks off some flab (via Wegovy, Ozempic or Lipo), the airlines say that’ll save them money on fuel costs—the implication being, though never stated, that they’ll then pass the savings onto their passengers.  

And if you like that one, here’s another: If you rub an old Persian lamp, a genie will slither out in a wisp of smoke and grant you three wishes. One of those just might be an upgrade on your next flight! (Note: Certain restrictions may apply. Like: reality.) 

WHEREFORE ART THOU, TATER TOTS?— My oven died peacefully in its sleep the other night, surrounded by loved ones: a slightly warm ribeye roast that I needed a co-signer to buy and a half-baked potato.   

While the oven had seemed to be in fine spirits that evening, I was a little concerned that it was still running a low-grade temperature an hour after I’d set the dial for 375 degrees Fahrenheit (that’s almost 191 degrees Celsius, in case you’re one of my four Canadian or two European readers). 

I don’t know which felt worse: the embarrassment of sliding on oven mitts to pull the meat and potato out of the oven for an in-flight inspection and finding them barely above room temperature… or the realization I’d need to cook them both, one at a time, in my microwave, which is also in semi-disrepair. Oh, it still heats everything; but its Lazy Susan is suddenly Narcoleptic Nancy, refusing to turn. I’m not sure if the microwave’s lethargy means that my food and my body will be receiving a higher or lesser dose of radiation than when the appliance is in full spin. If I become a night light, we’ll have the answer. 

AS TIME GOES WHY—I happened to watch an old time-travel movie for a few moments the other night and it reminded me that nearly any film, book or TV show set in a fantasy universe, an unrecognizable past or a dystopian future usually has the same effect on me: a refreshing, uninterrupted REM nap. 

The exception would be one of only two sci-fi/fantasy films I ever enjoyed: the 1960 version of “The Time Machine” starring Rod Taylor. Parts of it were set in Victorian London at the dawn of the 20th century—but also in the same spot in 802,701 A.D. Having the locations, if not the year, coincide squared with the concept of the book’s author, H.G. Wells, and the movie adaptation’s director, George Pal, that the machine moved only through time, not through space. This delighted me as a kid (because I almost got it!), thereby making me wonder if I’d be a scientist when I grew up (still waiting for either of those possibilities to emerge). 

My late brother Stuart, who became an engineer and entrepreneur, had explained the difference between the past and present after we saw the movie together. During a chess game that night after dinner, he put the bishop piece on our kitchen table and said, “The bishop is sitting here in the present.” Then he moved the bishop to another part of the table and said that the bishop’s prior position “is now in the past.”