Saturday, May 19, 2018
When's the last time you had a decent conversation with a dog? It's probably been a while. I know, because I've had dogs. Either they're barking at squirrels, people, other dogs, or the mailman, and that gets old fast. All they know is barking.
I have some experience, though, with training dogs. Over the years it's been remarkable, some of the things I've managed with dogs. I've taught them to roll over and play dead, how to bark for their supper, and how to beg for food or whatever folks are willing to give us. One of the best tricks is rolling over and playing dead. Since it gets tiresome having a dog, if they play dead long enough that's a break for you. Barking for their supper's not as good, because they're always hungry and don't know supper from breakfast, so they're always barking. If you can teach your dog to beg for whatever people are willing to give, you can set her at the Walmart entrance and make a decent living. I'd sit there and beg myself but I'm too proud. But imagine the sweet coin!
A few years ago I think I was involved in teaching a dog to talk somewhat. I say "I think," because I've had a bout of something one of my doctors calls memory loss with a side of aphasia. I'm always remembering things that never happened. Including perhaps my doctor even saying that. I'm hoping to join a "Discerning Reality" group, but it's hard to know for sure that the others are really there, wherever it may or may not be. But I have an application in, and hope to hear from them if indeed they exist. For the sake of argument and this post, let's say the dog talked.
OK, we're saying it's true. I remember I taught one of my dogs to say "A little bit of both." Then I might ask her, "Do you want pizza or stew for dinner?" And she'd say, "A little bit of both." I'd rather she had a choice. It seems healthier, pizza or stew. Normally I think of dogs as completely ravenous for whatever you set before them. I've seen dogs eat hardened, decades-old food that's been preserved as a cinder in a campground fire-pit. I remember one that actually looked like a dead rat, till you looked at it up close. Up close it looked like something from a volcano, sort of a cinder, sort of a glossy artifact of the earth's molten core. The dog would pull it out and gnaw at it, never making progress but never complaining either.
How about this question, "Would you rather have this week-old TV dinner or that volcanic cinder, rat-thing? "A little bit of both." OK, I didn't approve of her eating the cinder, so I threw it away and split the TV dinner in two. She ate half of it and assumed the other half was the cinder. Had she truly wanted the cinder, I might've said, "Are you crazy or merely stupid?" Then when she answered, "A little bit of both," we'd be on to something. I'd definitely have to agree!
That dog, she always wanted to go on walks. But my own preference naturally was to tie her to a post and go shopping. Walking, walking, walking. The only reason a dog wants to walk is to find something to bark about. Or something to eat in the neighbor's yard. That used to be OK, but now with hidden cameras and porch-pirates, I'd be totally worried I'd be busted and end up on the news. "Man's dog eats Amazon shipment of premium steaks for dogs." We both go running, I break a leg, the dog breaks two legs, and we end up on a viral video with people laughing and saying, "Serves the bastard and his dog right!" So I would want to walk her only where no one lives. That way if she found something to eat -- and she once found a dead deer, which we both ate for a month -- there's very little shame in it. But having taught her to talk, she didn't overeat. "Do you want to eat some of the deer we found or fast-and-pray?" She'd say, "A little bit of both," so we whet our grinders on the deer for an hour and also prayed the Lord for future dead animals.
Somewhere in the course of time I started slipping in things to confuse her. Dogs, remember, as smart as they are are still not smart. Not like me, who could sit upright all day and tell you what 2 + 2 is. It's 4, duh. Whereas my dog's answer would've been "A little bit of both." 2 + 2 is a little bit of both? I guess so, that's the plus sign but that's not the answer. You have the entire 2 the first one and the entire 2 the other one. So it's 4, not a little bit of both. That's a tangle. I would've hated to get her started on tougher problems, mostly because I don't know math for crap and would've had a hard time criticizing her answer. I can see situations where the answer might be a little bit of both, with her then showing me up.
Anyway, to confuse her, I started slipping in the word "ONLY." Like this, "Do you want to play in the backyard ONLY or do you want to go to the park?" When she said "A little bit of both," I had her in a mental Chinese finger-trap! Ha ha, how smart I am, but devious! I said the backyard ONLY, so there's no little bit of both. It's a logical problem that I can take in at a glance, in a second, and yet one that makes even my head spin. Because the question is couched as an OR question and she was hopelessly trapped! She couldn't say, "The backyard only" or "The park only." Just a little bit of both. That could've given her a brain hemorrhage that second if she had the wherewithal to contemplate it!
As it is, at this distant remove, with me 20 years older and more easily confused -- I fell down the stairs last night because my mind drifted and I forgot where I was -- it's giving me a brain hemorrhage too! Ever had one? There's a pleasant buzz to it, but if you don't take care of right away, you die. The positive side of which is, Everything else you suffer, you escape. But if I could only say "A little bit of both" I'd be insane within the week. Try it. Take the "Little Bit of Both" challenge. Video yourself in the backyard answering everything with "A Little Bit of Both" and post the results. You'll go crazy.
The way it ended, that dog died and I'm worried about her afterlife. I remember asking her at the end if she was going to heaven or hell, and she said, "A little bit of both." OK, bone voyage, don't forget to write if you have anything else to say!
It probably goes without saying -- since many of you know the kind of guy I am -- that I've had lots of girlfriends, and, for that matter, boyfriends. In relationships, I'm always faithful, but sometimes things just don't work out, through no fault of anyone, but never mine.
One particularly ravenous specimen I briefly loved, and virtually gave my reputation for, was a certain Terri Torial. Heard of her? I've never heard of any other, so don't Google her, because I can't guarantee you won't find her. Let me warn you if you find her, she will track you down, and that won't be the end of it. Far from it. As the name suggests, she has a way of glomming on to what's in her path, and you'll be lucky if she doesn't suck you dry.
It's funny sometimes about names, when the names are funny. You could have a Miss Dour, and she'll be perennially in a funk, for example. I actually had a teacher named Miss Crabby. Then she married a Mr. Grouch, so it was a wash. She didn't marry above her station. Then in sixth grade I had a huge crush on a Jeanine Syphilis, but I kept thinking "What kind of name for a girlfriend is Jeanine?"
As for Terri, as the name suggests, she's had an overwhelming covetousness for territory, real estate and beyond. What's for sale, she wanted. What's yours is hers. If it's not for sale, name your price. The price is right, and really truly it is if she has a boyfriend willing to keep her happy. If this guy won't, the next one will!
Anyway, we traveled the country together for a while, and in the years since I've worked like a dog to restore my credit. Like this: I take out a loan for ten thousand bucks. I sit on the money and pay it back the next week. You do that enough -- a ten thousand or a million -- no matter how many bad real estate deals you had with your idiot girlfriend, you get back in their good graces, the creditors.
Among the properties I was personally involved in with Terri, just off the top of my head I'm thinking of northwest territories, southern plantations, oil fields (dry and wet), wheat fields, corn fields, fields ripe for the harvest but we had no tractor, huge swaths of desert, tons of disparate far-flung forests, enormous square footages of miscellaneous nothingvilles, ocean-side properties with and without beaches, farms, small countries, various sinkholes, Klondikes, and land so inaccessible the foot of man has never laid eyes on it and may never. We put a bid on China that time it was up for auction online, but were beat out at the last second by a guy who bid a dollar more.
For a while -- it was in the papers -- Terri even had me helping her buy up cemetery land. Prospective cemeteries and actual ones. You have lots of options. One of her worst ideas -- I'll call it a scam -- was to buy up all the vacant plots, then complain to the seller so persistently -- "This one has no view" or "This one has too good a view" -- that they got sick and died. Then as the main property holder, she had more votes than the rest of board, and we ended up shipping caskets/bodies to the Klondike property. People just can't be bothered these days to care about their deceased loved ones. And true, face it, it's a pain in the ass to have dead relatives. So out of sight, out of mind. For a ten dollar settlement your relatives will agree to anything!
OK, now the cemetery's been cleared, it's divided into lots and sold for big money. You plant a garden in what used to be a cemetery, the food's delicious. Grandma and Grandpa left behind the potency of their heart and soul, the best soil, loamy, so good. It's great for potting flowers, growing radishes, you name it. We had half a warehouse of the soil and actually sold it to another cemetery, whose north side collapsed in a sinkhole. More land for China.
Time fails me to tell the full story of how Terri came "this close" from buying the entire state of Texas. I was telling her that I read a good book on Lyndon Johnson. And how the land in Texas was either really good or totally piss poor. She didn't believe me, so she made an offer to the governor, and he came this close to selling the state. We promised to relocate him to the Klondike too, to live out his days counting his money. At the last second, though, he realized how corrupt that'd make him. He was the governor after all, not the president, so he had the sense to back out.
Eventually Terri and I broke up. But anytime there's a FOR SALE sign in the neighborhood I keep a close watch out the window. Or just any old plot of land, really, whether for sale or not. Sooner or later, I'm sure she'll show up at my place again ... or perhaps yours!
P.S. Terri Territorial is not to be confused with another ravenous woman I knew, gifted with similar flair, Kitty Westwardho. Kitty and I never dated. A one-night stand you pay for isn't a date, is it?
Monday, May 14, 2018
I barely know how to tell the story of Reginald. You've heard about him all your life; I can say almost all my life, since I'm older, and even though it seems like he's been around forever, he's still mortal like us all.
Somewhere in the world right this minute someone's in need of Reginald. History's shown that. And he's answered the call over and over. He's may not always be the first on the scene -- that's the province of attention-seekers and the vain -- but sooner rather than later, he comes calling. To soothe ruffled feathers, if that's what it takes, but more generally to act as oil on troubled waters. And more than once he's laid down his life for the world, only to take it up again. He's the first among his peers.
There's been a few times, myself, when I've been in the right place at the right time. It's then I have to pinch myself; 'Am I really here?' Life is sometimes like a dream. I pinch myself, and, yes, I'm really here! That happened at the latest awards ceremony for Reginald. With Izora, The Little Lady, at his side.
It was a grand affair. If you've never been, you really must. The decorations were extensive. Various banners and flags of the grateful nations. I kept pinching myself; that's just my way. I expect good things to come my way and I've never been disappointed. But I'm not always so optimistic that I can take anything for granted. Which I'd also expect to be the outlook of any well-rounded person, and here I'm thinking of Reginald and The Little Lady. They're realistic folk.
Anyway, enough about me. I could go on and on, but... A raft of speakers preceded Reginald, each singing his praises in a higher key. Until he was finally introduced to applause that rang out like the thunder. No one saw it happen, but it must've been right about here that The Little Lady disappeared. I hadn't noticed. All eyes were on Reginald making his way to the podium. What confidence, what a stride; cocks of the walk are only half as grand.
Reginald shared how honored he was for such a grand reception. He took his sweet time to speak of his company, his friends' companies, as well as the various governments and their good administrations paving the way for good. These are essential stepping stones in the work of diplomacy, whether on a grand scale or in the intricate and meticulous dealings that also have to take place. It's all important. Like cogs and gears and things operating smoothly.
As Reginald spoke, I thought what a stunning profile he makes. Others were no doubt studying him too as an example of inspiration. Certainly any naysayers kept it to themselves. As they should, anyone whose heart would be that dark. There couldn't have been anyone that far gone, but these days you never know.
This evening was an evening of evenings, an event to be sure. When the massive piles of awards, ribbons, trophies, and what-not Reginald had accrued over the years would be traded in for "The Simple Star" award. You don't get any simpler than The Simple Star. But equally, you don't get any higher honors than The Simple Star. If it's ever been passed out before in our time, I've never heard of it. The Lord himself had one over his crib, but that's the only precedent I know of. Until Reginald.
The man spoke simply and elegantly of the honor he felt. And how he would continue on, to the extent we would allow. He thanked all the guests for coming. And reserved his last words for The Little Lady, Izora. Every eye scanned the dais to pick her out, but she wasn't there! Reginald himself looked about, a little confused, until a smile played across his face. I nearly snapped a picture but my phone was down to 10% and giving me fits.
Reginald called to Jimmy, an aide at the door, and had him step out and see if he could find The Little Lady. For she had already slipped away and was in the kitchen, supervising and helping the clean-up crew! In her own wonderful way, like always, showing modesty and service going beyond the call of duty. She's seen enough awards given out, to her this was just more of the same. For her, service to the world, that's also her calling.
They nearly had to drag The Little Lady out; that's how reluctant she was to stop her work. But out she finally came, to the greatest ovation. She tossed her apron to Jimmy at the door and made her way to the dais. Reginald lifted her arm, pointing to The Little Lady, as if to say, "Huh? Huh? Am I right? Isn't she the greatest?"
Saturday, May 12, 2018
I used to always hear about going to things stag. One guy. I don't hear that much anymore. Maybe we forgot what a stag is, which would be the root of the idea. The way I remember it, a stag is some kind of deer or super antelope, standing at a river pass, alone, drinking, while the other animals keep a respectful distance, waiting their turn.
With just that definition it's easy to see how they got the phrase "going stag," which often applied to bachelors. Then one would be about to get married and the others had a stag party for him. His last night of complete freedom, hanging out with the other stags, drinking himself sick. Some kind of entertainment. That's when the stags got together, but usually they went to things alone. Not that I'm up on it or in any position to get clinical; I never did research on it.
Do I ever go stag? Afraid so, more times than I like really. Like out to eat, but I don't like the look of it or the feel of it. And that's the way with most stags. They sit in their car with their bag of tacos and eat them as fast as possible. It takes me a little longer because I have to put hot sauce on each one as I go. I was out the other day and another guy I know was also stag. I motioned back and forth between us, two guys doing the same thing, whatever it was, independent, alone, but briefly together and witnesses to the thing. He waved and looked down.
Childhood was better. Like when my mom or grandma would go with me to the doctor's office, or all the kids had to go. Now mom and grandma are gone and I'm old, so I'm at the doctor's stag. The nurses watch me come in. And give me the computer interface to type my info in. Someone they can contact? I have relatives, who no doubt have their thing going on somewhere, ducking in, ducking out. I put the funeral home. They appreciate the business.
Really, it's nearly everything I go stag for. The library, church. I don't go on vacations that much, but I know guys who do. Taking selfies of themselves in front of the the world's largest steam shovel, stag. I personally hate tourist sites: "It's all been done before!" Who cares? I've thought about going to Mt. Rushmore, but I'm iffy. I read the book by John (Fire) Lame Deer and he's dead-set against Mt. Rushmore. And from his perspective it's obvious, we should never have messed up that mountain! So who wants to see that? Especially stag. Although I wouldn't want to go with friends either, because no doubt they've missed Lame Deer's great book and would love seeing it. Guess I'd rather go stag, but I'd rather not go at all.
I hate to make going stag sound pathetic. It's just a fact of life. Most people go stag to the post office regularly. I'm at the post office a few times a week and it's a parade of one-person at a time. The dentist, I'm always stag there. In that case, I'm very breezy about it. I breeze in, greet everyone in a bubbly way. It's sophisticated enough there they've got your basic paperwork taken care of on the computer. There's nothing to it. They get me in, there's room in the chair for one, so stag is the only way to fly.
Wouldn't it be crazy to rent someone to go with you? As in professional daters; I can't remember what that's called. Escorts was what it used to be called. Probably personal assistant now. You go to a massage parlor. They see another stag coming in. And you offer to pay them up front just to go to the zoo with you. Where there might be some captive stags -- the real deal -- looking for a way out. Follow me!
Friday, May 11, 2018
O! how many times I've listened to "The Shrine of St. Cecilia," the song! A bunch of times, so many. I wake up with the tune in mind. I'm out walking the dog and humming the tune or singing. It's inspiring. Musing over how there's trouble everywhere, devastation on a large scale in the area, storm clouds and winds on the march, but the Shrine of St. Cecilia remains standing, inviolate!
I love that song, but sometimes I get it mixed up with a couple other songs I have about St. Theresa of the Roses. So I think I'm singing St. Cecilia and it turns out to be St. Theresa! But they're inspiring too, one by Billy Ward and the Dominos and the other by the DeJohn Sisters. I honestly like about any saint I ever hear of, including St. Charbel of Lebanon and St. Rita of Cascia, who was a recurring character in a series of blog posts I wrote for Paranoia Week in 2014 (links below). I try not to hear about any other saints, because I know I'll like them and life will get complicated.
Today, though, we're thinking of St. Cecilia, also famous in song, with several versions of "The Shrine of St. Cecilia" available on YouTube. Her shrine withstands the various disasters that come around, giving hope and moral support to the people who weren't so fortunate. My life might be the pits -- and my house is actually right now undergoing major renovation because it neglected itself and became a shambles -- but as long as I know Cecilia's shrine yet stands, I too can make it through.
But where her shrine is is a thing I'm confused about. I thought it was in South America, since I've always heard about the Five Peruvian Shriners visiting it, having "traversed not far." But according to online sources, it's in Rome. Which is far from Peru, and allowing for continental drift, getting farther all the time. The confusion probably comes more from what is a shrine and what isn't. And whether the various locales in South America where St. Cecilia is honored are shrines per se. Regardless, we would also commend the Five Peruvian Shriners for going all the way to Rome and yet considering that, because of the saint's sanctity, "not far."
Still, the song of the Peruvians -- We Five Peruvians of Peru Are -- gives a great deal of encouragement to a lot of folks, though for me it's a love-hate thing as well. One of my family heritage things, which I wrote of a few years ago as well, involved Peruvians coming to America and being involved in abusing horses by having them kick their enemies to death. This was an immediate threat to me, having not been conceived yet, and not something I can imagine St. Cecila sanctioning. But every people group has their good apples and their bad, and I can't judge the whole crop by a few especially notorious bruises. Still, I'm watching Peru closely, because according to Grandpa, the Peruvians are among the baddest hombres ever to live. He said they have long memories and aren't given to an easy forgiving nature. The fact that it's all out-of-sight now, and a thing of the distant past involving previous generations, makes it tough for me to judge decisively.
Anyway, it's great to have saints; we can agree on that. They show the possibilities of genuine sanctity even in our usual sinful world. They're the cream of the crop, which is beyond dispute. The typical person is mostly good or mostly bad or some other combination. Then there's some that are mostly bad through and through, usually through some fault of their own. Maybe their parents were bad, so they picked it up. Or their parents were good, but they still turned out bad. For the most part I wish bad people would fall off the edge of the earth, or let's say the earth opened up and swallowed them. Followed by reopening and emitting a burp and maybe allowing for one final scream from the victim for good measure. Bad people make me sick. Then there's saints, better than me by far in their intensity of devotion and allowing devotion to characterize them.
Of course we would want to erect a shrine to them, telling the world, "Here's what our actual ideals look like," despite our own inability (generally) to live the same sanctity. I'm forgiven daily and nightly for my many sins, going back to my childhood. I've already seen the judgment room of God, and let me tell you this much, there's no place to hide. There's literally not even one broom closet in the entire Throne Complex to hide in, not one.
Paranoia Week links from 2014 involving St. Rita of Cascia:
1. Paranoia - I Hit Rock Bottom
2. Paranoia - This Dark Is Huge
3. Paranoia - I Know Where You Go
4. Paranoia - What Maniac Arranged All This?
5. Paranoia - One Slip, I'm A Goner
6. Paranoia - The Microscopic Level
7. Paranoia - My Fortunes Change
Sunday, May 6, 2018
Ho, boyd! You’ll never guess what I saw today! In a flighting moment, there it was, The Illusive Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallow, up from the ditch, as big as life! Meaning — purple as in the color of kings! — I’m in for great treasure, a kingly reward, or, since king’s also mete out harsh punishments, maybe I’m just in for it... A bounteous wind lifts the Swallow, but could I swallow a harsh fate?
This lovely bird flies freely, without a thought, but I have to remain grounded and testify of the significance of such a sight. Because you never can tell in these modern times, there’s many a youngster without the lore, know-nothings unfamiliar with the facts of life beyond their own narrow rutting habitat. As I think back, yes, there was a time when I myself, callow and barely cowled, was unfamiliar with basic life facts. Then my nearest of kin stepped in and brought me up to speed.
When your eyes are opened, that’s when you can see. As I did that gladsome day when I saw my first Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallow. They filled me in on the significance, which I never fore got till then. But till today I hadn’t seen one in so many years, I haven’t even been thinking of it. Of course sometimes I wish for it, but hoping isn’t happening, till, up it jumps, it dashes, it turns tail and impresses me deeply. You know I’m forever a seeker, seeking omens, checking my Tarot, watching the chakras in spin, and even looking at life cross-eyed — or with one eye closed — I buy reading glasses and immediately take one lens out — I’ve found it the best way to narrow my gaze to truly see. Then it happens and I have to wonder, are Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallows everywhere, but I only see them when they’re definitely out of mind?
Like today! I wasn’t thinking of them, and there it was, jumping up from the ditch, managing to keep its place on the driver’s side, where I could see it so clearly. Indicating 100 percent, the vision was for me! The beauty of this omniscient little creature waiting till just that precise second to bound out, when I was a mere 20 feet from it, is significant beyond anything else that’s happened lately. My heart’s racing, my breath is elevated. I haven’t had my innards tickled so dramatically since my first taste of Mountain Dew, then later when losing my virginity. I’ve seen the promised land in this brief flight of the spirit bird, being gypped thus phar but no more.
Watch for them! They’re always there when a major life change is coming! That’s what I’ve heard. I remember seeing one when I was a kid, without the faintest idea of any of this, and we later moved. So hard, but it led to good things. I was a third grade dropout! True. But when we moved I joined a different third grade. In that case, though, the Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallow sighting was just a few months before.
The next time I saw the Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallow was about the time of puberty, when it’s supposed to start. I was a late bloomer, OK? I’m not ashamed to admit it now, but back then I tried my best to shrink from sight around other boys and girls in the dressing room. O for those days of innocence now! I would’ve proudly strutted my stuff, but till the Swallow reappeared, I felt shame. Then I saw it and POOF! Just that fast, I had the pubic bush like everyone else! Not overnight, folks, the same damned day! My dad was glad, but said to be careful not to catch that tangle in a zipper. Man to man, he said it hurts like hell.
I mentioned losing my virginity. Please understand, my prospects weren’t great. I looked at the girlie magazines they had back then like everyone else. My cousins informed me of the various goings-on down there, I clipped photos, etc. I got in major trouble in 9th grade when I had some of the innocent girlie pictures — back then you didn’t know if they’d experienced a POOF like me; those things couldn’t be shown. I asked my cousins why that was, and the true answer we came up with was, “Must be something wrong with ‘em down there.” Anyway, I had the pictures and this nasty teacher came up behind me and busted me. My mother had to come in the next day and vouch for me, “He’s a growing boy, has a natural curiosity,” etc. The only thing she was mad about was I didn’t tell her about seeing the bird the day before. I never wanted to disappoint her, so her words were a bitter pill to swallow.
Then came the virginity thing a while later; sorry I got ahead of myself. Up popped the Purple-Breasted Yellow-Eyed Split-Tailed Swallow, and that same day I was in the hardware store and told the guy I needed a good screw. He fixed me up with his sister, also. She had one of the local shabby apartments, top floor. The floors were weak, the walls were mildewed, parts of the ceiling were literally hanging down. I looked pretty good to her and she to me. I didn’t tell her what we owed the tryst to — having read the bird’s omen — she just laid back and enjoyed that beautiful minute of paradise, once I became fully aware of the geography of the female physique. It reminded me of the slip n’ slide mat the other kids had, very smooth. My mom wouldn’t let me have one because of her fear of discarded razor blades possibly on the lawn. The rest of my time with Monique was without dreadful consequences, despite the Freudian possibilities of her haven of best becoming life’s worst gaping maw.
Those were such major times, I’ll leave it at that. The other times can be summarized by various moves, job changes, and starting this blog.
Now, though, today — literally within the last 20 minutes — the Purple-Breasted, Yellow-Eyed Split-Tail Swallow jumped up again, one of the closest I’ve ever seen. Meaning....? What DID it mean? I’m 65, in excellent health... Do you suppose — I hate to think about it — that I’m going to die? What else comes next? I don’t know what comes next for me. The other times I saw the birds it was generally for good. But there’s no telling what it could be, except it’ll be something. It could be I’ll be leaving soon, although I’m supposed to live till 85...
But whether 65 or 85, there’s no real difference. I was perfectly content not being present for the first 15 billion years of the Universe, I’ll probably be fine whatever the afterlife is or isn’t. I’ll just enjoy my days here, however many there are. Which might be the message of the bird for me this time. Nothing major happening till I see the off ramp. And there it’ll be, The Purple-Breasted, Yellow-Eyed Split-Tail Swallow, jumping up from the weeds! So enjoy yourself, read, write, listen to music, walk, talk, go half-crazy now and then. Be happy and die with contentment.
Friday, May 4, 2018
What would you think if I turned out to be local graffiti sensation (or to some spoilsports and haters of the arts, scourge) Quick Draw McFiti? What a surprise that’d be!
Interesting question, huh? You’re probably wondering why I asked. No reason, heh heh, just throwing it out there as a rhetorical question to muse on, let’s say. But, really, what would you think? I can well imagine how the run of the mill folks would take it. For the non-artistic among us, I’m sure so many of them would curse my name and feel that I should be brought to justice at long last. Then we'd have the other end of the spectrum, art lovers and fellow artists, who would be either very happy that the mystery was at long last solved or happy the authorities were getting me off the street, out of jealousy, or even because they're sticks in the mud.
It’s the last crowd that makes me sickest, frankly. To be the object of envy, or to put it more charitably, misunderstood in whatever artistic pursuit you choose, then vilified, is no good. It totally brings me down to contemplate that response, but of course everyone knows there’s lots of crumbs in life. Then there's the artsy-fartsies who think art isn't for the various walls around town, but for the museum. To them, I have a few things to say. The cleanliness of a wall is not worth stifling the artistic sensibilities of a person like Quick Draw McFiti -- Let's hear it for him! I’m not sure I can even forgive them, and people who know me always see in me a very forgiving person. I forgave that kid that sprayed "CRANK" on my outhouse.
But let’s set the naysayers aside; it’s dragging down my spirit. It’s the artistic-minded, the lovers of art, those who celebrate the spirit of the artist, that I celebrate. Whoever McFiti is, they may not care about that little detail as much, because they’re not looking to nab him or give him his comeuppance. Their thing, like I said, is to celebrate. You see a blank wall and you’re like, “Yeah, a blank wall.” But you see an artistic tour de force — and Quick Draw’s works are so often described with that term, if I do say so myself — you quickly shake off the doldrums and come alive.
I’m alive today and happy! Happy to see this arms-open-wide piece in the light of day. It looks better than I remember or even expected. For such a quick drawing. You just shake the can and cock it toward the wall and whisper a little prayer for guidance; there’s no UNDO button. It actually might be that detail alone that gives such quick abandon to McFiti’s stuff. Which I thoroughly resonate with. My thinking's precisely the same. Whatever you have in your heart and mind, put it down quickly, then let it be. The truest art simply flows.
Anyway, as to the details of this particular piece: It’s exactly something that’s in my own heart, continually. The prophet appears, like Isaiah or Jeremiah or Elijah*. They’re known for extended prophecies that welled up and overflowed from their heart. But the key to their power was their giving-over to the Spirit. Few edits, little self-consciousness; this was something bigger than themselves, and quicker. Like Quick Draw McFiti! Who has a similar message: The prophet throws his hands up and proclaims, “THOU SHALT.” A great positive message!
I’ve had that very thought in my own heart for a while, and how good it is to see it finally on full display. You don’t know how proud I am, and yet I’m only the conduit for a greater power; if we don’t personify it, we could merely call it The Power of Life! Elan, Energy, Elixir!
Draw on, mysterious Quick Draw McFiti, you’re doing our sad old world a great deal of good.
*Time would fail me to tell of Anna Phanuel.
Saturday, April 28, 2018
I remember a good joke from when I was a kid: “Were there any impotent men born in your town?” And the answer, “No, just little babies.” That puzzled me at the time, not knowing words and what they meant. So I ran it by my mom, who was always good at sugarcoating things, making them age-appropriate. “Mom, what’s an impotent man?” She frowned and said, “Someone who keeps to himself.”
That’s such a good answer, now that I’m basically impotent myself. In general, I keep to myself. I figure, Who am I anyway? Just another brick in the wall. Just another drop in the bucket. What’s the difference? And I love how she kept it on the innocent side. Because since then I’ve grown up and learned that there’s another meaning to impotent, and probably what she was hinting at with the ‘keeping to himself’ definition.
Still, ‘keeping to himself’ is a pretty good definition. He’s all sad sack, hang dog, long in the face and nowhere else. He’s got a couple dried up raisins lacking savor and flavor. Let’s say. Maybe he dreamt of deserts too much, vast spreads of sand and little else. Or maybe he worried about the humidity too much, kept the dehumidifier on, and now is all dried out. Which could be part of my problem. I’ve been running the dehumidifier constantly, and it looks like it caught up with me. You put a pot of stew on the back burner to keep it warm, pretty soon the stew’s gone and the pan's dry and crusty.
Naturally I’m going to keep to myself, not go out. When you’re impotent, what’s the point of catting around? You’re content to sit at home and watch C-SPAN, old school C-SPAN, not the interview shows, just the one-camera panning an empty Capitol building except for one lone filibusterer. I used to bust a few fillies, at least in my dreams. Now it’s only my eyes that are big as saucers, looking at this Republican wash-out, keeping to himself, impotent like me in every respect.
The great avatar of dried up men everywhere — although now 99% forgotten, fittingly — is the singer Yogi Yorgesson. He’s well-known for the Christmas record “Yingle Bells.” But it's his impotency song “All Pooped Out” I’m thinking of today. Back in his younger days he used "to give the girls the eye, now I only want another piece of pie." Once upon a time he used to “yump and shout,” now he dreams of pigs’ feet because he’s all pooped out. My mom used to buy pickled pigs feet, but I haven’t had any since; think I'll buy some.
So what’s my trouble with impotency? Good question. Mostly age, no doubt. They used to tell me, “Ahh, sonny, get out there and sow your wild oats!” This was the old guys at the barber shop. “'Cause one of these days you’ll be like me!” I’d look at him and not know what he meant. White hair? Needing assistance to his car? Something more? I didn’t know the facts of life. Now I know. He wasn’t put out to stud. He was put out to stood, as in was stood in the corner all alone. And loathing it.
But being impotent isn’t so bad, guys. I kind of like it. No more filthy lucre, as in I’m not even looking anymore. What’s the use, who cares? No more throwing pebbles at girls’ windows and hoping they’ll shimmy down the ladder I propped up. There’s no more shimmy, no propping up. No more sending flowers anonymously, then dropping hints of who might’ve sent them. The flow-er’s kaput, no more anonymess, the only thing dropping is the pp, and that’s a bare prickle. No more big testes, but quizzes still flow easily.
I have all kinds of time on my hands, folks. I mean, what else would I be holding? Just a ticking timepiece, the only piece I need, keeping track of my pathetic days, counting the seconds till the rest of me shrivels and fades away. Put me on a burning dingy and set me afloat; that’ll be the only dingy that hasn’t sunk hopelessly out of sight.
Tuesday, April 24, 2018
We all remember the story of poor Lazarus in the Bible -- poorer even than me -- dogs came and licked his sores. I heard the old preachers of old expound on this passage at some length. By the time they were done, he'd suffered long and they were terrible sores, with one brutal sore right at the nucleus. Of course it took three or four sore points to finish the soremon. Ah, for the love of a good sore!
One of my favorite jingles in advertising is, "Dog’s don’t know it’s not bacon!" Let's say we have a guy carrying bacon in his back pocket. The dog comes running up and bites his ass. Because, "Dog’s don’t know it’s backend!" Now I got another hole where the good Lord folded me, very holistic. My dog’s never been picky either when it comes to food. If it’s related to the meat family, it’s 10 times better than the world’s finest grain.
You get a sore, the sore has to heal. Dog’s also heel, eh? I have a few little sores. Who doesn't. You scratch too much, there's one, then another. And sometimes I get banged up. A cut. And I always hope the same thing, that the tetanus shot I got in 4th grade is still working its magic.
Other than that, there’s always dogs. Just take your mind off your problems. Watch TV, lay back, relax, and let the dog lick you, like Lazarus. It gets so comforting, you might set an alarm. I had a sore on my leg one time and the dog started licking me. Naturally I went to sleep. I woke up and there it was, all the color out of it, like a bit of ham fat from a can of soup after it’s processed in the soup factory. Hanging there, no substance, no strength, just dead tissue. Two minutes later the dog would’ve been bitten it off and I'd've never known.
Pa, is that dog still licking you? Cover that thing up or it’ll never heal! The dog hears heel and dives to the floor. Dives, of course, being the name of the rich master in the story of Lazarus. He had enough of life here — overdosed, I’d say — and had to go to hell, took a dive, dove right in, to a place where dog’s don’t heel, including Cerberus, the hound of hell. He’ll never heel in hell. I’d rather kneel in heaven than heel in hell, amen? For the love of a good sore.
A sore can be useful. It's nature’s bandage, an organic arrangement of blood and evaporation.
Dogs get so they understand the word sore, depending how accident-prone you are. Especially way back when, when they didn’t get treats like today. It's just like you say ‘You wanna go bye bye?’ They know bye bye means a car ride. You wanna go to the park? They know park. One of my dogs knew the word squirrel. I’d tell her “Squirrel!” Her ears perked up like satellite antennae. She’d look for my finger to point the way, even though if she wasn’t so dependent on me she could’ve just discerned it. Then she was off, blazing speed. Even caught one one time, but I didn’t want her tasting wild blood, so I called her off, letting the squirrel live. There was, however, a time when I came around the bandstand and there was a dead squirrel at her feet. It looked fresh with some fresh sores, and naturally I didn’t let her have it. A squirrel’s a rodent, and rodent’s carry disease. That’s why I don’t allow mice in my home, even if they are good for keeping roaches at a decent level.
Milton, he milt hell for all it was worth. Besides him, mythology has Long Schlong Silver (his distinguished appendage tastefully censored with a dime) with Cerberus appearing on the vast hellscape, that three-headed dog pissing on Satan to help relieve his pain. Or something.
Sometimes, though, as Kenny Rogers said, the hurting won’t heal. You get a sore, it gets worse, other sores pop up, things run, things get pusy and drip, and the whole thing degenerates into a mass of coagulation, looking a sight. There's purpose in that, too. A good sore sets things right, if you tend to it right. Or not, either way a good sore does its thing. Finally in the end, we fall on our sore and die a noble death.
Sunday, April 22, 2018
I’ve been doing some camping lately while they start working on my house (a complete gutting, fumigating, exterminating, re-boarding, paneling, shingling, from the ground up). Being away from the old place — with all the associated illnesses, allergies, and pure phobias that go along with vermin, their foulness and even the thought of them — had cleared my head, to the extent it can be.
Stepping out this morning, for example, I took a deep, very contented breath of morning air. Which, just when I’d done so, was spoiled when I looked over and saw a monster of some sort — perhaps a skunk, otter, or groundhog, etc. — moving its way from the outside air to the confined security of a culvert. Seriously, that’s one culvert I won’t get near! One, I don’t believe in disturbing the peace of another creature; two, yes, it disturbed my peace, but I chalked it up as unintentional.
It made me think what anyone in my position would think: You never know what’s going on around you, not fully. But we definitely share this world with all kinds of things, right under our feet, with no way of escape. As it is, ever since I saw Neil Shuban’s “Your Inner Fish” I know how these creatures and I are intimately related. We could sit in peace and break bread if somehow I could make them watch the same documentary and understand it. My brain, as it turns out, as feeble as it is compared to other human brains, is pretty sophisticated compared to the average creeping rodent.
I promptly put rodent-guy out of my mind as to any fear, let’s say, and thought of the impurity of the grass vis-a-vis piss and animal droppings, including my own dog’s, whom I was just taking for a walk for her morning bathroom break. Sure enough, she arches up and poops. Sure enough, she squats broadly and pees, all in the open, never thinking of it again, never caring.
Right away, though, I — much more self-conscious as to the impurity scale — pictured some irate trailer wife rushing over to complain, “You let your dog pee and poop right there?! Where people spread their blankets for picnics and family affairs?!” This didn’t happen, no one came out. But I had a retort ready, just in case. “Ma’am, may I instruct you in the ways of life? There is no pure place on earth that hasn't been defiled by the droppings of man or beast!” I would've gone on to add that if it wasn’t a defilement from the hind end, I’ve seen countless men and a few women spitting to beat the band.
My grandpa was the classic tobacco chewer and spitter. He even did the spitting-out-the-car-window thing, now something of a cliche, where it returns through the back window. Naturally a lot of his spit made it to the ground. So if you were going to have a picnic nearby you’d probably need not just a blanket but a tarp. I myself spit sunflower seed hulls, which bothers me not just for the unsanitary nature of spit but for DNA purposes. I’d hate to have an evil scientist cloning me, and frankly I'm not sure it hasn't already happened.
Anyway, right here as I camp, I’ve seen every kind of dropping from animals. There can’t be one square inch around here — of course the earth has been here since 4004 BC — that hasn’t been dumped on, drooled over or worse. And that's just the deer! No, you have to figure, this is the New World, and Adam and Eve didn’t travel far, but the animals were running riot. Pee parties on a presidential scale, enough scat to shame a Crothers.
But what about the Himalayas? Well, yes, there too. Since it was essentially the same level before continental drift thought of moving. And more recently, there’s all the backpackers, with plenty packed in their backside, and having to unload it somewhere. You ever seen the top of Everest? It’s so slick with offal that's the source of most fatal accidents. And they say you can’t breathe at those heights, that’s why.
Friends — fellow men and complaining ladies — there is no pure place on earth. Maybe there once was, but it’s long since been hopelessly defiled.
---You can't spell PURE without PU! -- That's Earl, folks!---
Friday, April 13, 2018
Our world today is awash in subliminal messages. Are you with me so far? I’m not going to sugarcoat it; I know it’s happening. I want to get into it for a little while, first by throwing out this interesting observation: Why is it so hard to get confirmation from the teenagers and young 20s who work there, at the pizza place? Unless...they are subliminally directed not to expose the works! You're seriously taking your life into your own hands when you go out.
I’ve been thinking along these lines basically forever. Really ever since a friend called me behind the barn to the alley once and showed me his Vance Packard collection, including, of course, The Hidden Persuaders. (About advertising and psychology, how goods are marketed and sold. And the crooked shysters who do it.) Essentially each of us exists as pawns in life in a huge game of “Buy my product or die, you filthy animal! Ve have zo many vays of dealing wid chu.'” Yes, I'd love to wave it off and forget it. Friends, I can’t keep going. I’m old. Let me live out my days and die in peace. I give up! Oh, OK, here's my money, where’s your crappy pizza?
Still, it'd be really nice, if I'm headed for my grave, to get my hands around the scrawny necks of every one of these sleazebags and ring ‘em; who's with me? But I already told you I’m old and helpless; I can't keep up. I’m walking around totally normal, let’s say, when suddenly they start in with the subliminal messages, and it’s like I just had a heart attack. I’m stumbling repeatedly, zigzagging like a pinball, buying whatever it is the Hidden Persuaders are selling. Bastards with the fat cat in his office are watching me on hidden monitors, as well as the kids working for them. It's their job to load the data files, aim the beam, and watch me dance this evil little jig.
There’s a pizza place we go to once in a while. I actually hadn’t been there for probably six months. But I always check the price in the window for the buffet, and, believe it or not, it always goes up. Now, about this pizza place, I'm about 99 percent sure they’ve got a subliminal system up and running. Purring like a cat. Whether it’s actually powerful enough to beam messages from the restaurant all the way to the road adjacent, I wouldn’t swear to that. But that has to be the next step. If they’re doing all the beaming and subliminal manipulation that I claim, they can seriously do anything. If I learned anything in the 1920s and the push toward full rural electrification, it has to be Never doubt the possibilities.
And this post isn’t the first time I’ve mentioned it. I post it and they take it down. But they haven't been able to stop me talking, and when I tell folks my suspicions they about lose their appetite. One dude did unleash an upheaval. Were it not for the subliminal messages aimed at us, he would’ve loosened a complete upsurge. But as it is, somehow — miraculously — folks recover and are again famished and can’t wait to get through the door.
So we’ve established the first step, the reach of the beam. The beam reaches midway from where most cars are parked and the front door. We were there today and I was literally salivating; I was about a quart low before I got to the door. And what did the messages say? They were along the lines of: “Our pizza is mouthwatering good. You simply must come through our doors. You are nearing the heaven of refreshment. Our pizza buffet is heaven on earth. This is the afterlife. Be a sunbeam for God.”
So far so good, we’re through the door. Naturally the price has increased a dollar or two since a few months ago, giving them an extra 75 cents or so per customer with which to tweak the subliminal messages. The random price increase is also meant to confuse the issue. Is this pizza more popular or less? Must maintain status among my peers. The rest of the apparatus is upgraded, new software's running, etc., making it hard to pin 'em down, like apples and oranges.
Let's say now you’ve paid, it’s time to eat. This is the tricky part. Because they don’t want you to eat so much that you cut into their profits. But they do want you to eat enough that you realize you’ve eaten, just not a bite more. (There’s other variables, like if police officers are present. I’m sure they flip most of the apparatus off; the times I’ve been there at the same time as our public heroes, I’ve eaten my fill and have had to be rolled out.)
But here’s how it generally happens. You see the buffet spread out. The messages start in: “It all looks so good, but I must restrain myself so that I’m not rude. Many other customers will be coming in and it wouldn’t be fair to deny them a hot selection.” Some pizza’s older than the other. Naturally I want the freshest and hottest, and always take some, but I suddenly feel “sympathetic” for the older pizza and have to take a couple slices. Why is that? Your sympathetic nervous system. It's always conjuring up sympathetic messages, also telling you not to skip the drink machine, observing how lonely it is, etc. And to choose water, being "good for you." Well, guess what? Water's a cheap hooker, but pizza has to be your wife, worth many rubies. I'm there for the pizza! And the powers that be know that!
So let's say you've now eaten your first slice. Around the beginning of the second slice, they’re already on you with messages about “eating right,” “weight loss,” “looking good for that special someone,” “only thinking you were hungry when you came in,” and so on. See how they’ve changed their tune? You’ve barely eaten a thing and they’re zapping you with “I’m full” or “I shouldn’t eat so much” riffs. It's hard to win. Just writing-down the phrases I feel stuffed!
Maybe I'll get them on the dessert! I try my best to save room for dessert. I approach the desserts, I start to get four or five different things, when suddenly I feel I should concentrate on “Quality vs. Quantity,” and brag later about having had a responsible dessert. Where'd that message come from? I don't think like that. I've been a dessert hog since I was three. Maybe two or younger.
Be that as it may, it's desserts at the pizza place I want now. But where has the time gone? It seems that time's run out. In my mind I'm hearing subliminal messages like crazy. That it’s time to hit the door, because, as everybody knows, “Traffic will intensify in the next five minutes. There were six wrecks within 50 feet of this restaurant a week ago today, all with fatalities.” Could that be true?
I'm thinking it over, then my mood is brightened at the door. As I'm leaving they’re telling me, “You need to hurry back. This was the most delicious and satisfying meal of your life. You rate this quality dining experience a solid 10. You must tell your friends — any that you judge worthy of such a pleasant time out. They'll thank you for it. You're such a good person!"
Saturday, April 7, 2018
One of the more famous wooden nickels,
and rare because the plows are usually broken
or tainted with crusted ear wax
and rare because the plows are usually broken
or tainted with crusted ear wax
No history of Eye Vampirism is complete
without referring to one of the biggest villains,
John "Suck 'Em Dry" Smith
without referring to one of the biggest villains,
John "Suck 'Em Dry" Smith
I had to help a friend in need the other night. A friend in need being a friend indeed, this friend of mine is a huge friend, always being in need. Be that as it may, as needy as you are, you're never too needy for me to swoop in and try to save the day. Or die trying.
But this isn’t about how great I am — I’m modest enough to say I’m only modestly great — but about a moment of sharing I had with a doctor.
It started with my friend calling, saying he needed someone to take him to the emergency room. He didn’t want to call the ambulance — and I took this as a huge compliment — because he’d read my blog post on emergency workers basically being in it for the free pastries. I told him I’d be right over, right after I finished the last three quarters of a cinnamon roll. Seriously, it had nuts like a boar, along with about a ton of cinnamon drizzle!
Anyway, I got there. He was hanging by a thread. And we got to the emergency room, where — wouldn’t you know it? — they let him linger on and on while they helped other folks, and walked by laughing with pastries of their own. So we sat in the room. I kept checking his pulse to make it seem like something was happening.
Finally, a guy presenting himself as a doctor showed up. He held the stethoscope up to the patient's chest and said, "Cough," murmuring over and over to his phone, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, no — scratch that, insert yes.”
Even though I wasn’t on my friend’s HIPAA list — the folks they can legally confide in about the patient’s prognosis, everything from their temperature to their pulse, Dr. Yes-No was forthcoming: “Just as I feared...” “What is it, doc?” I pleaded. "This doesn’t look good...” “What doesn’t look good?” I demanded. “I haven’t seen a case like this in ages.” By now my friend was also interested in his case, which seemed dark and dire. “Just as I feared,” the doctor repeated, “You’ve got Wooden Nickel Syndrome.” Of course my friend repeated the words back to him, being generally clueless about these conditions.
I answered for the doctor: “He means you’ve been taking too many wooden nickels,” which means different things determined on a case by case basis, like interpretive dance. The doctor looked at me as a fellow traveler. Our eyes met with an intensity I hadn’t experienced since the time I was heavily advocating Eye Vampirism in early 2002, a hobby horse I abandoned soon after because of a lack of fellow travelers. It’s damned lonely, a life as the only openly-confessing eye vampire in town.
“Exactly,” the doctor said, “Wooden nickels. And there’s nothing I can do.”
At that point — and I’m not a man given to professional confrontation as you might think — I protested violently, saying, “This, sir, is where I must disagree! There’s lots you can do for Wooden Nickel Syndrome—
“True,” he said, “but I haven’t lost a patient yet and I don’t want to start with him.”
Hearing such a lame excuse, and because I had Eye Vampirism fresh on the brain, I stood up and walked directly toward the doctor. He saw the intensity of my Bela Lugosiesque stare and backed all the way to the corner. I trailed him, staring, staring, staring. At last he buckled, and spoke in the grayest shade of monotone, “Yes, Master, I see and I shall obey.”
I stood aside and watched with pride as that man of medicine — thank God for doctors who can be reasoned with — walked calmly to my needy friend and shared valuable information with him, no doubt going well beyond the Physician’s Desk Reference in scope. It's true what they say, the hidden truths of life are the most interesting.
“If you take wooden nickels...” he said, staring into his eyes as he explained point by point the prognosis, its cause and its cure, the positive steps my friend could take to recover once and for all, and many other truths, well known and daringly arcane, “...in the end you’ll be fine.” I myself have studied the hidden lore of Wooden Nickel Syndrome over the years, of course, but even I didn’t know that its modern revival is attributed to carnival freaks in the late 1800s, originating as a kind of curse against folks who tried to pay them with wooden nickels. I thought it had to do with laughing at them, meaning, if the doctor's right, I can resume going to carnivals.
All the way home, my friend manifested the signs of a swift and sure recovery, seeming in every way his old self. Upon separating for the night, I restrained myself and did not — DID NOT — say, “Don’t take any wooden nickels.” Naturally that would’ve been very harmful. I did, however, use about five seconds of Eye Vampirism on him as we hugged goodbye, knowing I could calm him down without a word and ensure him a good night’s sleep.
Thursday, April 5, 2018
I’ve recently taken to camping, but now even that looks spoiled for me. If you’ve known me very long, you know I’m a very careful person. I don’t want anyone on my trail, know what I mean? My dad was the same way. When we had to fill out some papers on our family life in 6th grade, he warned me, "Do not fill it out!" if it asked, “Do your parents sleep in the same bed?”
At the time I was unable to see the concern. It wasn’t till I grew up that I realized the school’s basic function was not education, but fitting us as zombies in a totalitarian culture. If they knew who slept where, let’s say, they’d zero in on all our ways, knowing if we were a threat to The Man or The Woman or whoever ruled us now and in the future. Well, I lied and said I didn’t know where anyone in my family slept, including myself. The truth is, I literally slept under the bed, that’s how afraid I was, mostly of the Russians. Now of course they’re our overlords, but I dimly recall — although it’s hazy after the shock treatment and drugs — a time when we as a nation opposed them.
OK, a guy like me does enough “dimly recalling,” then jotting down the scraps of memories, and after a while I can piece together a narrative. And believe me, these bastards have gone beyond who sleeps where. Everything’s computerized now. They can scan your pockets when you walk by the turnstiles and see what you’re carrying, and find out everything about you. It makes a guy paranoid, except naturally for so many citizens who are already zombies. I keep the allowed change in my pockets just like they want, but I’ve hammered out a thin lead jockstrap that keeps my other business undetectable. As far as they can tell, I’m a neutered creature like the rest of the drone class.
How is it I’m able to go camping instead of working in the hives like others? Heh, heh, it pays to be disabled! You know the game toe I’ve got? That slips in and out of place when I need it to? That allowed me to get a special government disability check for the last 20 years? They determined I wasn’t fit to serve the realm. So I have some independence, although of course I still have to be careful. (Please don’t print a copy of this blog, thanks in advance. I have your phone or device set to self-destruct 20 seconds after you read it.) A little computer coating I learned. I know three different kinds of coating: 1) Lead coating on genital shields; 2) Goop coating on clams; and 3) Computer coating. You remember Acey-Deucy? My coat.
Anyway, OK, I’ve been camping. But my crazy paranoia is kicking in again. Mainly because I’ve been absolutely beset with a plethora — another word for coincidences up the yin-yang — of black jets and black helicopters buzzing me. As far as everyone else thinks, they’re just harmless passes, going from one place to another. So why are they always right above me? The scariest helicopter was a couple weeks ago.
I told myself it’s nothing. But its official markings were obliterated by a giant rubber-ducky bandage. Seems innocent enough. Then a voice comes through the speaker, “Enjoy Hell!” That had me worried. However, now — with lots of reflection — it’s hard to know if that’s a positive or negative. “Enjoyment” is typically a positive, “Hell” a negative; therefore, all things being equal, we might just as easily call it a wash.
Then a week ago today, a series of jets started coming over, apparently from the M class of planes, going by their shape. I would categorize them in the stealth group of planes, since they were entirely quiet except for an occasional chirp or beep. I outsmarted them by staying in my camper most of the time. The only downside to which — well, it was twofold — I ran out of groceries the second day — now I’ve got nothing but clams — and since I clean my portable toilet every other day, the bathroom is a complete mess. (I once knew a guy whose bathtub was up to the faucet with backed-up sewage. I console myself with the fact that my faucet is still mostly free and clear.)
One of the jets shot a fearsome bomb of some sort — the shape of it was like a comet, but the substance was more a goo or gel. I called out, mad as hell, “Hey! Hey! Hey!” What else could I say, but of course it was too late to do any good. I collected a wheelbarrow of the stuff, and a science major friend of mine examined it and said it closely resembled Glocoseoxytonicphosphate, which he chose to simply call Goop. Since then I’ve been using it as a sauce over baked clams.
Tell me when this ends! Don’t rat me out to The Man or The Woman! I don’t remember where my parents slept!
Wednesday, April 4, 2018
I’ve always been a person grounded in reality. So it’s not a case of denial here, despite what the veterinarian says. To those clowns, it’s always your fault, never the animal. Which is clearly false. I don’t force feed her, she could refuse. I put the food out there, she eats it. There’s no funnel. There’s no mouth brace under the meat grinder.
Whew, glad I got that off my chest. I have such RAGE against veterinarians, which, I suppose you share. Veterinarians are like psychologists, in a way. Psychologists know people and we are people, so we know if they’re right or not. But dogs aren’t people. So veterinarians read their psychology, then think “You’re not a dog,” so you should take their word for it and pay through the nose.
Well, no more! This dog knows what she’s doing when she eats and drinks. And if she didn’t want it, she wouldn’t browbeat me to give it to her.
Actually, the browbeating began when she was tiny. That look in her little eyes was “You give me what I want or you die.” I didn’t give it much thought then because she was so small; what’s she going to do, nip my heels? But we compromised. I’d go halfway on her demands, a little bacon, a little hamburger, a sip of whiskey; that’s reasonable. Once she put on a little weight the browbeating got worse. Pushing me in my chair to face the pantry. Pushing me to the fridge. Nudging me toward the hutch where I keep the whiskey. Then — and we’re skipping some months, probably a year and a half — the pressure was greater. Picking me up by the scruff of the neck and setting me by the pantry, flipping me on my back and pulling me by the foot to the fridge, and demanding whiskey with bared fangs. Leading me to observe, “Jeez, all that food and no dental hygiene and her fangs white as pearl. Has to be the whiskey.”
OK, now I’m on my own. The vet said don’t come back till I’m ready to “face facts.” I suppose I didn’t help myself when I dressed him down, calling him a dog- and cat-killer for all the old crippled dogs and cats that are put down on a regular basis. I even tinkered with the idea of sending him a card on Hitler’s birthday; I couldn’t find much at the card store that was to the point.
I went home, dedicated to making my dog face facts. The first day went OK. She grumbled but I cut the portions way down, a pound of bacon and a pound of hamburger and a cup of whiskey. She looked at me like “OK,” very tentative. But the next day the look was worse, then worse yet. Until she took matters into her own paws, and that’s when the pushing and dragging started. Now I’m compliant, because, really, she’s so insistent, I might be her next meal if I’m not.
Still, you know, I’m proud of her. She’s a like a body builder, only you have to flip the picture. She’s a body bloater, with my hope that at some point she’ll take up a healthy exercise regimen and keep her size but be so muscular that they take her into the service, exactly what happened to a dog in my hometown that was mean as hell. He went to Vietnam. Whether he got hooked on Vietnamese food and booze, they never said. Doesn’t it have a lot of soy?
So that’s how it stands. But how about the veterinarian? He’s a loser. He gave up without a fight. He “knew better,” but couldn’t convince me or the dog with reason. Therefore he was just a bully. And there’s only one way to handle a bully. Go the other direction, leave him in his misery. Maybe he’ll come around with age or die trying, I don’t know.
Yet I still insist it’s not my fault. The dog’s the one that allowed herself to spiral out of control. She got hungry, and instead of rationally saying, “I don’t need these larger portions, I think I’ll look after myself,” she threatened me. Strike 1. I blame her for even wanting bacon, hamburger, and whiskey. Although they are all delicious, and they make dog food to resemble bacon and hamburger. And there’s a phrase, “You old booze hound;” that had to come from somewhere.
It’s hitting me hard for the simple inconvenience (1) and (2) the money. There’s nowhere to move in the house, almost. And the money’s going down the drain. I only have money from Social Security and the disability checks from my game toe. I can’t be in economic thrall to her appetites forever!
All that said, it’s still something of a source of pride that I have the largest chihuahua mix on the planet. I have to laugh. We were home one day when the Cancer Lady stopped by for her annual check. She goes, “Oh, where’s your dog?” I go, “See that couch in there?” “Yes,” she said. “I don’t have a couch...”
Artwork credit: Tony