It was much later when Mokie Joe visited me at Orlando Regional Medical Center. He pointed out the chart at the foot of my bed, saying how lucky I was. On it was the notation "has good insurance...gets all the drugs he wants."
"Yes, you're one lucky guy", he said with a hospital-food eating grin, "but I'll bet I'm luckier than you are. I have Erin."
I asked him which one of us seemed to be on drugs now?
But he didn't seem to hear, as he went on about her physical attributes and "groovy" life style.
The more he talked, the more I hit the little plunger button in my hand.
Finally, in one final moment of lucidity, I shouted "For God's sake, Mokie...she's just a cartoon!"
He seemed taken aback...but only for a split second, before launching into a passionate tirade of his own. And with every word, I pumped that little button like a Jeopardy contestant on speed.
"Mona Lisa...Nate King Cole...Italian food...shapely rabbits", it all seemed to run together with ever increasing volume.
Finally, I was vaguely aware of a stocky nurse telling him quietly, but firmly, "You'll have to leave now, sir...you're scaring the people without insurance."
It would be weeks before I saw MJ again, and at that time, our situations would be somewhat reversed.
Yet that would be another day.
For now, I just wanted to watch the walls breathe and change color as I drifted off to sleep.

She said her name was Erin, and when I remarked "oh, just like our host country, here", she threw me a blank stare.
Up until now, Mokie Joe had done little but stare and maneuver...then with Erin beginning to reflect my own growing boredom with her, he played his trump card.
"I have a teenage son, about to get his license", he said seductively.
Erin turned to him in that insect-like way of hers.
"How very inter-r-r-r-resting", she purred.
As they proceeded to look deeply into each other's eyes, I caught the eye of a passing waitress, and made a motion of pretending to write into the palm of my open left hand.
The waitress, in full Celtic step dance costume, tapped over to our table carrying the check in her mouth, as she could not lift her arms. She spit the check out and I looked at it, pleasantly surprised at having spent less than $10 a beer at a Disney establishment.
The next second, I did something I have every reason to regret...but for some reason don't regret at all.
I pushed the check, face up, across the table toward Erin. When she looked at me distractedly, I smiled and said "since I'm sure you have an expense account..."
From that moment, things moved quickly, yet appeared to be in slow motion...a large blue steel gun materialized in her hand a split second before it discharged.
The bullet missed me the first time around, but ricocheted off a replica of the Blarney Stone and through the head of a robot bodhran player before slamming into my left calf muscle.
They say that a gunshot wound doesn't hurt until later...they lie.
The next thing I knew I was lying on the faux wood floor, spitting out sawdust. From far away, I could hear someone shouting "I was never here!"
Apparently it was Erin.
"I was never here! --and buying automotive insurance has never been easier or more affordable".
Crazy bitch...
As my head began to spin, I distinctly remember seeing three things.
I saw Mokie Joe intently looking at a business card he had picked up from our table
I remember a bulky guy in a Disney Security uniform shouting something into a Nextel unit about "pink hair and highly inappropriate costume".
And I remember a bartender hovering above me with a pen in one hand and an official looking form in the other asking me to agree to take no legal action of any sort into perpetuity.
"Look here, er, uh...", I looked at his name tag, "Martin from Ohio! I am signing nothing, NOTHING do you HEAR ME?! Before we're through, I will OWN this place!"
Then I must have blacked out.

It was a Friday night last February, the best night of the week and the best month of the year to be out on the town in Central Florida.
Mokie Joe and I had pulled off Interstate Four and into the friendly confines of Downtown Disney, looking to find the Mouse Factory's version of an "Authentic Irish Pub".
We parked the Miata in Dumbo-37, and, after a brisk 40 minute walk, were each parked behind a pint of Guinness in the Shane MacGowan room of the "Staggering Banshee" pub.
An audio-animatronic Celi Band was belting out traditional Irish music, (imagine a combination of the Chieftains and the Hall of Presidents), while highlights of Ireland's '90 World Cup appearance flickered on small TV screens above the ornately carved bar.
The TV appearance of Jack Charlton apparently made MJ think about a show called 'Samurai Jack', and he asked what I thought of it.
"I don't know Jack about Samurai", I said, chuckling quietly at my own cleverness. "Unless it's those guys who dress in black and get into your house by crawling on the ceiling...no...wait...that's Ninjas... never mind."
I was afraid I knew where this was going, talk of turtles and such, when something else grabbed my attention.
She had just entered through the bat wing doors and was standing by the green phone box leaning against the life sized statue of Michael Collins. Glittering pink hair, as if she shampooed with, well, glitter, and a shiny navy blue body suite that should never have passed the notice of Disney security caught my attention. No sooner had I said "Whoa, check out the pink haired babe" to Mokie, than she was sitting at our table!
"Why don't you check out the competitor's rates online instead?'" she said.
"Uh huh", I said...always the one with the snappy comeback.
She seemed small, almost fragile, with irritatingly quick body motions. Her face was animated, yet somehow without dimension. Maybe it was too much makeup...or perhaps she was just badly drawn.
As she began her clipped, one sided conversation about actuaries, binders and commutative contracts, the full horror of what was happening struck me.
"My God!" I thought to myself, "she's...a...an insurance agent!"
This was more horrible than if she were selling something else...Amway, HerbaLife...Jesus...anything but insurance!
As I slowly began to back away, I noticed Mokie Joe was just as slowly moving in.

Back in 1950, Japanese movie director Akira Kurosawa presented a movie called "Rashomon". Based on two classic Japanese short stories, it presented the same violent incident as seen from the differing perspectives of those who participated.
Each character saw the event as a completely different, yet plausible, story that was the one true version, contradicting the others. The movie has been around for nearly 60 years, but the "Rashomon Effect" is likely as old as the human mind itself.
Any cop, or trial lawyer for that matter, will tell you that an eye witness account is the least reliable type of evidence.
Which eventually leads me to the latest Blogstream Post from my friend Mokie Joe called "An Affair to Dismember". I'd like you to read it, in order to understand what I am about to attempt.
Go on...I'll wait...

You may have noticed that I am actually in the story...or, at least, in Mokie Joe's one particular version of it.

Marge Simpson once remarked to her husband that he should really like Japan.
"You loved Rashomon", said Marge.
"That's not the way I remember it", said Homer...

***

Fortunately, I wasn't running late this morning.
I backed out of my driveway and headed south along my street, with the idea of taking the back way by the water treatment plant, south past the RDV Sportsplex (owned by, and named for, the owner of the Orlando Magic)and on to Maitland Boulevard to get on Interstate 4.
I was traveling less than 20 miles per hour, as I started to veer to the left to follow the road.
Suddenly, a solid black pit bull ran in front of my car!
I drive a '97 Miata, so maybe he thought he might just fetch it and return it to his owner.
I slammed on the brakes, and the sound made the dog look over his left shoulder. In doing so, he apparently didn't see where he was going, and ran right into a metal pole that was holding up a mailbox.
The collision threw him to the ground, but he was quickly on his feet, if shaking his addled head a little.
I rolled down the window, shouting "You idiot! Do that again, and I'm turning you over to Michael Vick!
I swear a look of horror passed across the dog's face as he crossed the street behind my car.
It's a strange world when I start feeling bad for pit bulls.