Still under lockdown somewhere beneath the earth's crust, trying to pound out The Great American Non-fiction Book. The work is tedious. The words ooze like the maple from an old Vermont tree. Occasionally, they even taste as good.

So I took a small break tonight and caught "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" on the tube for what was probably my tenth viewing. This is one of those films that simply doesn't get old for me. Despite the fact I can almost recite the script, the comedy is as fresh as golden pita bread from from a big fat Greek oven.

Oh, how I enjoy this movie.

Michael Constantine is an actor whose work I have admired since the early Seventies when he played the principal on the television show "Room 222." What I find disconcerting about the talented Mr. C. is that I thought he was sixty years old when he did that show. Now, thirty years later, he doesn't look a day over seventy. This either speaks to the inability of youth to gauge the age of anyone over twenty-five, or it says I'm rooting for him not to be ninety because that places me much closer to the finish line than I'd like to acknowledge.

Constantine's character, Gus Portokalos, is the ultimate cheerleader and authority of all things Greek. His pholosophical perspective toward any of life's ills visited upon Gus or his family is not only profound, but affords us one of the great running gags in film history. (And those who follow this space closely--The Three of You--already understand just how enamored I am of running gags.)

"Weeeeeen-dex," he constantly tells anyone who will listen. "Eeet feeexes av-er-y-ting." Got a pimple? Spray some Windex on it. A sore back? Just drop a dab of that magic blue liquid on a towel and rub it in. Gus himself has hurt an elbow and as the camera pans back we see him soaking the wounded joint in a bowl of the magic elixir.

The line has transcended the movie and, from time to time, makes its way into The Family's conversation. The Teenager has just endured a hard day at school. The Ten Year Old isn't happy with what's on her plate. The Toddler trips on the hardwood floor and starts crying. I break into my best Gus Portokals impression, beaming ""Weeeeeen-dex! Eeet feeexes av-er-y-ting."

Mostly they just stare, enduring as they have these many years what they see as my perplexing sense of humor. They look at me as if I was from Mars. Even She, Who is From Venus, rolls her eyes and sends a mock scowl careening my way.

Jesus tells us in Mark 6:4 " “Only in his hometown, among his relatives and in his own house is a prophet without honor." This is true. I believe the Savior knew as well, though He failed to comment for posterity, that often in his own house a humorist is without laughter.

Such is my lot in life. Perhaps heaven will have its own laugh track. Or at least a ubiquitous drummer for my own private rim shots. But here I am on earth (or several hundred feet below), toiling on The G3 PowerBook, hoping to find enough words in just the right order to keep The Editor happy.

Windex. It's good for the heart and good for the soul.

I hear it works on windows too.

Have I mentioned my love/hate thang with my laptop? It's a G3 PowerBook and it fits my hands so beautifully. But it lacks the RAM to open more than a couple apps or browser windows at once without a system freeze or crash occurring.

So there I am ready to finish my blog posting for the evening. It was something. You'da loved it. Spent an hour on the most polished prose this side of Updike. I'm ready to hit the "post" button.

But wait!

Wouldn't it be marvelous to end this thing with the perfect quotation? Sure the sundae looks delicious, but wouldn't it be even more tempting with that cherry on top?

It was a Kesey quote. Something about being a writer who hates to write. But I coudn't remember the precise wording. Must be on the internet, right? Must be easy enough to Google, no?

Open up another browser window on the old Internet Express highway and . . .ZAM . . . BANG . . . POW It was like a bad scene from the old "Batman" show. (Think about that concept for just a moment).

I'd tell you about the rage. I'd tell you about the language. But I am a self-taught model of restraint. So I muttered, "Shucks! Gosh-golly! Dad-gummit! Dern!"

I chose not to throw my laptop through my office window. I had, after all, just Windexed it.

So here I am, closing in on midnight, trying to keep my daily posting streak alive while imparting something of interest.

Alas, I have only to share I will be leaving home for 11 days tomorrow for some focussed writing on the book I'm working on. The book has already missed its first deadline and is threatening to miss another publishing cycle. (Do you like how I did that anthropomorphic thing? It's the book that's a worthless bum. Not me. Writer's tip #721. Collect 'em all.)

Anyway, I have Pricelined a room in a luxury hotel for Motel Six prices. A few operatives will know my coordinates, but they have poison capsules in their dental work and are trained to do the honorable thing if captured.

My point here is:

1. Please pray for great, sudden and prolonged bursts of creativity if you do that sort of thing.

B. I will do my best to find a semi-public internet connection on my time away. It wouldn't be fair to ask my devoted public--the three of you--to go cold turkey on the baloney I dish in this space.

I'll let you know if the window in my hotel room survives.

(insert pithy Ken Kesey quote here)