There was another success in the effort to reconnect as I found old neighbors, the Larsons. The shock on finding old neighbors is that the image you have of them in your head doesn't match the reality of the years. That may not be true of me, I still live in the same house I've owned for 17 years, and only recently I've begun to move away from the field that I worked in for these two decades.

The children of the Larsons are in and out of college and in once case, have married. These are the same children who created a special hole in the fence in my backyard so that they and my daughter could more easily move from yard to yard. It is an Oh! My! God! Moment. It is at least comparable to the moment at Great America when you round the short bend and see the masses of people who are in line for the 50 second roller coaster ride you've been waiting for.

But this is life and it demonstrates with great power that I'm older, that the world too is older, even if it is imperceptibly changing to me. The growing up with the Larsons story most people will know from me is that annual urban tale of taking Luke and Anna to the South Side Chicago St. Patrick's Day Parade.

I don't want to go through the entire story now. Frankly the story has been told too many times. But in essence, I was the only adult and each of the children, starting with Luke, then Ceili and finally Anna, became separated from me. When I finally found them they were about ten feet from me, but in that crowd I couldn't see that far.

It is a great urban story: fathers aren't as careful as mothers, don't let your children go, etc. And, it is all true, though it ends well. It would have been a better cautionary tale if I'd never found them again. God smiles on fools.

I was thinking that it may have been 1995 when we last saw the Larson family. Jane corrected me, telling me that they visited in the last ten years. In any case, it's been a long time.

Jim, the dad, and Judy, the mom, are in Thailand doing missionary work among the prostitutes. I never met a person like Jim before we were neighbors, and would still be at a loss to point to a person who had the passion for service to others. I think a link to Jim's blog is needed here; my description of Jim's work wouldn't be adequate.

The reason I found them was that there was an old box in the garage. This was put there last summer as we cleaned out the attic. On the theory that you don't own stuff, it owns you, I've been trying to organize my life to erase the clutter that has accumulated. My nephews Dan and Michael brought down three skids of material from the attic to the garage. We are down to about ten boxes as of today, the rest have been sorted and disposed or organized.

Two papers jumped out from the box. The first was a letter from Jim Larson. As I look around the “man cave” I can't find it. It may have served its purpose and now it is lost forever.

I knew that Jim had worked in a church in the ex-urban area of Chicago. I'd thought it was near LaSalle/ Peru, instead it was about 30 miles closer, between LaSalle and Yorkville in Sheridan. With the address in hand I had enough information to start a new search. About 72 hours later and I'm writing my old neighbors again.

It is wonderful that Jim's service to others continues. It is wonderful to hear of it, wonderful and challenging to a person who has lived in the same house for 17 years.

I'd never believed in the Jerusalem Syndrome. But now I know different. It all started on a tour I took of Hollywood last week called the Dearly Departed Hollywood Tragic Mystery Tour. As we drove through Beverly Hills, our driver discussing the hows and whys of the spectacular Los Angeles deaths in ordinary looking homes I think I suffered a case similar to Jerusalem Syndrome.

You've probably heard of this ailment. It's a mental illness caused by being to close to the holy or something. The always dependable Wikipedia as a great entry on it, but doesn't discuss how it afflicts weak minds, such as mine, when in the orbit of the famous: “The Jerusalem syndrome is a group of mental phenomena involving the presence of either religiously themed obsessive ideas, delusions or other psychosis-like experiences that are triggered by, or lead to, a visit to the city of Jerusalem.”

It hit me outside someone's home. I don't even remember the name of the person. They are still popular and on some hit television show. Their car, a black Lexus, sat in the driveway. As I remember, the home had been the scene of a gruesome crime fifty or more years ago. And of course, we heard about the Black Dahlia.

I sat there looking at the car. Now it wasn't owned by Kevin Bacon, Bacon didn't even appear on the tour, but because I want to get a step closer to Kevin Bacon in degree of separation, let's just say it was Kevin Bacon.

And I sat there on the bus and looked at Bacon's car and his home and I thought just like those crazed fans who have murdered their heroes and idols. I thought about killing Kevin Bacon.

Back in my home in the Midwest, this all appears to be some flight of lunacy, as indeed it was. I was approaching the face of lunacy and looking deep into its eyes. It is lunacy to kill another human being for the pleasure of being known as a killer in the Hollywood media. But, when you're an unemployed blogger who normally writes about minor league hockey, perhaps this is the best you'll get: your shot at the big time.

Now a spectacular crime has to have some strange twists and of course I wouldn't want to be caught. So, being a Hollywood tourist is surely a good cover, provided I can escape that is.

But I figured that one of the best ways to become famous would be to kill the celebrity, that would be Bacon, with one of those plastic knives that TSA makes you take out of your carry on and then the bagel place 30 yards further into the airport gives back to you. The reason for the knives is that it is apparently some sort of sport to kill celebrities in California. I hadn't even realized this before the tour, but you know, it's California. And besides, there are loads of celebrities in California. They even work in the local supermarket bagging your groceries, I think.

“That will show you TSA” I could scream as I slowly sawed the body of Bacon surgically in two with the plastic knives they take away at the security line. Oh, wait, I'd have to drain the body of blood first.

Now you can see that already I may have fouled up my entire crime. First, I'm writing about it on a blog? I mean what the fuck is that all about. Right there Kevin Bacon is safe from me... I'll have to pick another star out. But the crime could be called the TSA murder.

“Police say the murderer wrote “TSA sucks” in the victim's blood on a nearby wall.” Scratch that. That sounds gross, though I like the idea of linking it to the TSA somehow. I've got to figure that angle out.

Second, thinking back about the Black Dahlia, her blood was drained from her body, her body was sexually molested... Oh God! I don't want to DO Kevin Bacon... Dead or alive. Kevin? You are fully released. Now I think as an actor you're okay and everything, but I have no, you know, interest in doing you.

I don't know much about Hollywood celebrities and don't even know who would be a good target now. I mean Paris Hilton? She is a transvestite right? I mean her face is almost plastic. Not interested.

I've never seen Hannah Montana and couldn't pick her out from the hordes of copy-cat girls giggling around her... So, that's no good either.

I guess the sexual thing would have to go. I'd probably need to pick up a guide on Hollywood celebrities to find a target. I'm just not that into celebrities. I'd need one that is old because the younger ones all seem to be in good shape and frankly, I'm not. It's not a good idea to do the sex thing either as it's a sure way for the police to find you. It's the DNA things floating around. I think I read about it in Dick Tracy once.

But I can still use my plastic, TSA-disapproved, knife to saw my victim in two. But first, damn it, I've got to drain all that blood.

I don't know why the blood must be drained, but the murderer of the Black Dahlia did it and they were never found. So, that seems like a good idea to me.

I heard somewhere that the body can function even after losing a lot of blood. I think there is something like eight liters of blood in the body.

Why can't we measure this in good old American units? I mean, why are we jumping to use metric for a body measure? It has to be confusing to be taking personal measurements, such as height, six foot one inch. Weight, 225 pounds. Blood in the body, eight liters. I mean isn't this exactly how NASA screwed up several of its launches, by mixing an American measure with metric?

I was talking to a woman from Australia on the trip to LA and she told me that she lost 20 kilos. I told her that I was glad she didn't put it in stone as I could never figure that measurement out. So, 20 kilos. We're trying to figure out if that is 2.25 k / lbs or is it 2.25 lbs / k?

Thank god I never tried to sell drugs. That's another industry that uses metric and mixes it with American measurement. They talk about kilos of something and then the dollar value. But when you're stoned and stupid and on the street looking for a hit do you really do the computation?

“I've got 2 kilo of wonder drug man.”

“Oh, okay, let's see, 2 k * 2.25 = 4.5” I mean if the drug users of this country can do that type of math then they should be running Wall Street.

What the hell were we talking about? Oh blood. Did you know that Bella Lugosi died in his cape? They should have buried him in it don't you think? Wait, did I get that backwards? Damn you metric system now I'm all confused.

Anyway the body is able to continue to function, according to my research on the History Channel, till it is down to about two LITERS of blood. I figured that waiting for the drain to finish would be a great opportunity, as the villain, to monologue.

Monologues, as described in the superhero flick the Incredibles, is that part of the film or comic book when the villain describes his master plan to the victim. It gives the audience a look at what is at stake if the hero fails. It always occurs at a moment when the hero is in big trouble. They are usually captured and facing some sort of devious plan for their death and torture.

I guess if I was a villain, I wouldn't want to monologue. But, since the victim is slowly dying and I hope that my Boy Scout training has taught me to tie a decent knot, they'd be secure...

So, why not monologue?

This is going to be disappointing, but I think I won't use ropes. First of all, I failed that Boy Scout rope trick thing. Yep, I never got the badge for that skill. Second, those rope burns leave nasty welts on the wrists of the dead. I know, I've heard about it when I pass through a room with CSI on.

A real smart villain would probably watch a lot of CSI because they could probably out think the police that way. I'll bet that if we took CSI off the tube there'd be a lot more solved crimes in this country as the criminals became stupid again and began making mistakes.

Back to the monologue. Why is a monologue so important in action films and comic books? I don't get why the motives of the villain don't come out slowly? Darth Vader didn't say, “hey I'm a bad guy and freedom is going to come to an end under the rule of my emperor and I.”

NO!

He took Princess Leia to Organa and asked her to give him the names of the rebel leadership. When she complied, he destroyed Organa. BOOM! Gone. No stupid monologue, action. Billions dead too.

Now that's a villain. “Comply and I still kill billions.” WOW! And no monologue either.

Can you imagine how it would have occurred if he had been a Silver age villain? Yack, yack, yack till finally the hero struggled free of their wrist manacles or whatever, then they alert all the innocent extras to flee the ship, including and especially the Teamsters as you don't want those guys mad at you when you make a movie, then Vader notices she is gone and flees and THEN the Death Star blows up.

Boring...

As I reflect on this, far from Hollywood, first, I think I'd have problems even with some 80 year old actor. Second, I can't tie a good knot. I'd need to go to the sex store and buy those restraints; don't they have a safety or something? And third, I'm just not that into the celebrity thing. I don't think reading about my murder would be interesting to me.

Anyway, you get the idea. As a potential Hollywood murderer (aren't we all?) I give a big thumbs up to the Dearly Departed Hollywood Tragic Mystery Tour. Please, check you plastic knives before you board the bus.