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Mr. P.C.'s Best of 2013

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On a recent trip into the city I attended a master class by a well-known jazz guitarist. At one point he claimed that it is our limitations that truly define us. I have read about this kind of thing before so the idea was not entirely new to me, yet hearing him say it so clearly was inspiring. I really would like your opinion on this as I have more limitations than most and feel ready to take advantage of that in a big way. I gave notice at the local middle school where I teach P.E. and have packed my drums but am now having doubts. Please help!

Walter "Sig" Mathews, Milepost 17, State Route 4, Tulelake, CA

Dear Sig:

Milepost 17—I've totally been there! It wasn't in Tulelake, but I remember it vividly. It was just outside of Eagle, Idaho, a few miles before the VFW hall where I had a gig. Inside the hall, in the men's bathroom, they had decorated the urinal with a drawing of Jane Fonda's face, so that each user had no choice but to direct the stream into her mouth. I remember wondering: Was her acting really so bad? Distracted by that thought, and rushing to make the downbeat, I started urinating before I realized what I was doing. Could I stop, mid-stream? Hardly—I don't have superpowers! But I've never forgiven myself, to this day.

Why was I urinating so hurriedly? You see, my arrival at the Elks club—and with it, my subsequent defiling of Jane's image—had been delayed at Milepost 17, where I struck a deer. Was it my fault or the deer's? Oh, how I'd love to blame the deer! Then I'd at least have a partner in the blame for what I did to Jane. But, alas, I'll never know.

The poor bloodied deer, involuntarily quivering in the harsh glare of my headlights. The crude, glistening drawing of Jane Fonda, desecrated by an endless procession of war-hardened veterans... That's my Milepost 17, a nightmare that will haunt me to my dying day. Your Milepost 17 apparently involves some light wordplay about limitations and definitions. Forgive me, Sig, if I have trouble pretending to care.
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