Lower Level Disturbances

How do you know when someone's lying?

I know when I'm lying. And I'll bet you don't. Know when I'm lying. That's probably what makes me a Geiger counter when it comes to lie-spotting. It Takes One To Know One. I've got serious lying credentials. I've been lying since the Eisenhower Administration.

Do they even have Geiger counters any more? I'm going to resist Googling to find out. I Google everything, just like you. I mean, I think I've come up with a phrase or idea that no one else in the history of life has ever thought of. Then I Google it and get 15 billion hits. So much for original thought. Not to mention original sin.

Speaking of which, I should invent a program to spot lies. Then I could save what little is left of my sixth sense for more productive ventures. Like figuring out if that asshole in front of me is having a heart attack or has simply stopped in the middle of the road to text her babysitter. Make that bookie.

Speaking of bookies, in New Jersey it's against the law to talk on a cell phone while driving. So what do you do if you're motoring down the turnpike and some asshole in front of you is blathering away on the ol' LG Dare? Call 911? On your cell phone?

(Note to self: Forget about moving to Jersey, just fuggedaboutid.)

But I'd like to move somewhere. Pretty much anywhere away from anybody remotely resembling a teenager. I used to be picky and persnickety about pretty much everything. A real headcase of oversensitivity. Like, if the wind blew, I got heart palpitations. To be honest, I've never liked the wind. Never trusted it. I always felt it was out to get me. Maybe this comes from having dumb hair. The kind the wind could blow right off your head, given half a chance.

These days I'm not so high on the picky-and-persnickety scale. Thanks to being the parent of a teenager. A state which puts everything else into perspective. There's "everything else," and then there's Hell. The state where you live.

Teenagers are like the wind. You can't control them. You can't trust them. They're out to get you. They make you feel dumb, and you pull your hair out. As an olympic-level lie-spotter and the parent of a teenager, I'm practically bald. I'm in a constant state of arousal. And not in a good way. These days my sixth sense is stuck in overdrive, texting its bookie, laying odds on whether I'll make it to next year. Make that next week.

Wanna lay odds on how many Google hits I'll get with "lie-spotter"? Here goes. Wow. Only 1,700. Nice round number. One of my more original thoughts, looks like.

Here's an original thought: I used to be a teenager. Many people think I still am. Not in the looks department, in the acts. Maybe that's why the ol' Geiger is working overtime these days: there's an adolescent in the building. And It Takes One To Know One.

Makes me want to move to Jersey. Or at least leave the building. These days I have to settle for just going outside. I mean, give me an upper level disturbance over a 14-year-old anytime. I never thought I'd say it, but I miss the wind. These days I'd give anything for a good hard blow.