IT'S ALL ABOUT timing. George Carlin- rest his gnarly little soul- knew about timing, knew the art of The Ba-DUM-bum-bum. Barack gets it; he's the master of the timed news item, the Grand Poobah of Apropos Announcements. And who is it again who says timing is everything? Oh, that's right: everyone.

On July 17th a grand confluence of gaming companies comes together in Los Angeles for the E3, where every game company worth a crap or two will announce the upcoming and in-progress electronic games for this year. I wish I were going to be there; not even huffing paint would give you that kind of contact high. Amy Winehouse was taken to the hospital for fainting and while there it was discovered that (shock!) her years of crack smoking had given her emphysema. Had it gone a month later and she would've been hooked up to an oxygen machine like a little old lady (she already has the wig, house slippers, and criminal insanity for it). Good timing for them both.

I spent last night playing Magic and watching Battlestar Galactica. It was fun. It was entertaining. But as my thirtieth birthday comes around on the calendar, I have to ask myself if the time is really right to be spending it in such a way?

Answer: Hell, yes.

LEONARD'S HOME LAY in terrible disarray. His easy chair rested on one side, the stuffing spilling out of a slash in the fabric. His neat rows of books had tumbled to the floor in wild profusion, pages lying torn and fluttering. The kettle was missing. With a cry he sprang to his feet. The fire burned brightly, and Leonard seized the fire tongs to pull out a smoldering book. The remains of his hearth rug lay in the corner, shredded to bits.

With a strangled gasp Leonard ran back to his bed and threw back the covers. No MacGuffin! He tore the bedclothes from the pallet, scrambled behind the headboard, ripped the pillowcases off: still no MacGuffin. Leonard climbed onto the bed, hid his face under a pillow and... best if we draw a veil over the events of the next quarter of an hour.

Some time later, a dry-eyed and only faintly tear-streaked troll face hovered over a rough burlap sack to which two straps had been neatly stitched. Leonard stood in his ruined kitchen, stacking in the sack dried lizard tails (full of protein), extra bottles of rat blood, and several containers of Garp (a mixture of his own invention made of crunchy salted bird feet, chewy sundried snake livers, and sweet chocolatey mouse droppings in a candy shell). His claws moved to pick up a stack of fallen dishes. He hovered indecisively a moment, then left them lying on the ground.

Leonard moved through the ruin of his home placing essentials in his sack. A sparkle on the floor caught his eye. He reached down and picked up a tiny black shoe button. "MacGuffin!" he whispered, and placed the stuffed bunny's eye reverentially at the bottom of the pack, wrapped carefully in a hankie, before closing it tightly. Brushing away a tear, Leonard walked slowly to the arched entry to his bridge home. He shouldered the pack as he turned and took in the devastation with a deep sigh.

Reaching out, Leonard clawed the support beam directly above him and swung his way to the ground.

LEONARD SHUFFLED OVER to the kettle and poured the hot water into his favorite mug (the one with a chip taken out of the rim). He slid the mouse out of the fire and put it on a plate, placed a napkin under it, and carefully placed mug and plate on the battered little table next to his easy chair.

As he settled himself, sucking out the eyeballs of the mouse before delicately patting his mouth, Leonard couldn't help but look over his shoulder. The sound of crunching mouse bones was deadened by the snow, but nothing else could be seen.

After clearing up, Leonard sat on his haunches on the edge of his truss and thought. Why was he so certain something watched him back from beyond the blustery whiteness? He was, perhaps, a little lonely. After all Leonard had no friends and no relations. No one would come and see him, which is why (here he nodded to himself) he simply imagined someone wandering around in the snow around his bridge. He much preferred it that way, of course. Leonard nodded again and reached out to take his stuffed bunny from his chair. He gave MacGuffin a little kiss on the head and cuddled it as he dangled his legs over the truss edge.

The day passed. Leonard sat on the balustrade with the wind in his face. He ate six cockroaches for afternoon tea. He read his book- Humans: A Compleat Guide To Meat Preparation- in bed and drifted off to sleep with it open on his face, MacGuffin carefully tucked in beside him.

The next morning, Leonard awoke to silence.

He lifted the book off his face. A scene of horror met his eyes.

"DUTCH MAN INJURES posterior in mooning incident". I think, on the whole, that the news is getting better every day. Ever since Barbara Walters outed herself as the lover of a Republican senator, it's been wonderful! Dutch media goes on to say that he is recovering since the accident, during which something went "horribly wrong".

Of course it went horribly wrong! You can't have a "mooning incident" without following with the phrase "horribly wrong". They go together like toast and butter.

I'm sorry to say this young man pressed his hiney up against the plate glass window of a restaurant, and the inevitable occurred. Should you be concerned about the small businessman, you'll be happy to know the man paid for the broken window.

Baby... got... back.