Call me an old man, a mad recluse who knows your world only through the time-yellowed pages of long-forgotten books. Call me a dreamer, a lost prophet, I have been all of these during my jaded life, as well as a hairdresser and a typewriter repairman. You can call me Daniel, Roy or Edna or any of the begotten Biblical names, for I too am a descendant of Adam as was my father and his before him and so on as ye shall see in chapter 3 to 785 of this tome where I shall give but a breviloquent recapitulation of my impecunious family, immigrants from south Eden who came to this country with only lavender-colored lint in their pockets-- and bellybuttons. Call me these names, but you dostn't ever never call me Ishmael, for that name makes my soul weep! How shall I begin? Perhaps twas that stormy November's eve when Satan, that most unwelcome guest, first set foot upon my newly painted doorstep, soiling my varnished mahogany. He had forgotten to wipe his boots on the squirrel-shaped boot scraper I'd lovingly set outside for that purpose. But I digress-- my eyes were beholding a most astounding demonstration on the home shopping network when this impolite interloping imp, Satan, interrupted with a gravelly voice whose soniferousness replicated the discordant cacophony of freshwater pearl cufflinks when you've ensnared them in a Westinghouse can opener. "Ishmael", said he, "Your soul for an onion dicer!" I paused for a moment, for I already had a kitchen full of the best food processors that have ever flickered onto channel 62. But then I contemplated, "What if perchance there is something that would dice onions without making me cry." A tear rolled down my grizzled cheek just thinking about that.