Sunday, January 29, 2017

An Act or Two Short of The Final Act


All the stuff I had to do in this Supreme Battle -- it was like fighting World War II single-handedly -- was so unbelievably hard, even I, The Golden Child, am not sure how it was physically done. Except to say, You get organized, you make a checklist, and you check it off as you go, step by step, till everything's done.

This isn't the final denouement to this sad (yet ultimately happy) situation with Myra Kula Electra, but it's darned close. The tide turned when the Tractor Promenade performed on the square, such beautiful stuff, a beautiful, intricate act. Tractors square-dancing tugs at your heart, letting you know that mankind truly has it goin' on.

The courthouse was lit and beautiful. I had a front row seat from my place in the alley across the street by the theater, in the upper chamber of the Robby the Red-Nosed Robot suit. Myra was torn between good and evil, with the tugging of her heartstrings drawing her toward "good," due to the charms of the square-dancing tractors. (As an aside, a few years ago I too felt the lure to a life as a professional criminal, but having seen the Tractor Promenade, I renewed my vows as a law-abiding citizen.)

Meanwhile, in the country, at my aunt's old place, Cousin Roto had loaded the old coal mound with enough explosives -- purchased on the black market from a guy who should know better -- to blow every demon there skyward, and propel them several counties away, depending on the breeze. As it was, he arranged the explosives at a slant, to give them more of a town-ward direction once they hit the prevailing winds. Roto followed my cue made by shining Robby's red nose directly toward his position.

As for Myra, she was atop the old hotel, just north of me, in a spiritual tug 'o war. When as the Promenade hit their climax -- the bearded "women" on their tractors facing the "men" on theirs, then flipping their tractors around as if to yield their backsides -- Myra made her choice. I don't know if it was her deeper romantic nature, or a sudden charge of hormones immediately stimulated, but she made a 65-yard leap from the hotel to the dome of the courthouse! (A decent enough jump, but I still gave it only a 7.5, because with that many demons flying in and serving as an undergirding cushion as well as offering lift, my grandma could have equaled or excelled it.

That left Robby to go marching across from the alley toward the courthouse. My aim was one of life or death. If Myra submitted, then life. If she did not, Robby's eyes were outfitted with nukes. Guaranteed to kill everyone in a 30-mile radius, and probably ruin some very nice tractors. To nudge her more certainly toward life, I had another surprise. The four prisoners Myra and I shared in common -- her more than I -- Tipsy White, Dashing Danny Whfrf, Spud Tuber, and Cannibal -- emerged from Robby's feet, which flip up from the toes like garages. (The remote at first triggered the groin area, where oil drains for oil changes, but with quick thinking, I stopped that and restarted it to trigger the feet.)

As the demons swirled, the fevered commandments of exorcists, multi-tracked earlier in the day (and adding 528 Hz Third Eye Opening music) to be an overwhelming force for good against them, cast them out. The sky opened, many were sucked up. The ground opened, many were sucked down. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth, enough for everyone remaining to take seconds.

My own teeth chattered, because I've got just enough evil in me, exorcists also give me the heebie-jeebies. Were it not for my countervailing good, my hands would've slipped from the joystick and Robby would've taken out the war memorial near the courthouse, a fatal faux pas in this day of superficial cliche patriotism, roused against those football players who refuse to stand, another subject for another day; our society being rife with stupidity, it's hard to cover everything in one swell foop.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

Enter The Tractor Promenade


When the history of this battle is written, let the word go forth, to friend and foe alike, that like Frank Sinatra, win or lose, I did it my way!

A number of years ago I was in the company of some folks who were excited to go see the Tractor Promenade, square-dancing tractors. The guys who drove the tractors were all men, but because square-dancing is generally done by men and women, half of these guys were dressed as women. Not in a pretty way, lest anyone think they shouldn't be allowed to use the restroom, but in an exaggerated way. Big thick wigs, floppy dresses, and beards were part of it.

I wasn't excited about it right away. I mean, look at me, I'm a cool cat; I can't be impressed by the ways of country folk and their laughs, can I? Well, you know what? I'm not really as cool as everyone thinks. Most of my YouTube history reveals I watch a lot of "Hee Haw" clips. (For some reason there aren't full episodes of "Hee Haw" out there, that I've seen.) I like Grandpa Jones, Buck Owens, Roy Clark. Once I hitchhiked nearly 250 miles to see Roy Clark perform, then when I got there, I can't remember what happened, but I never saw Roy Clark. I'm full of stories like that, because I'm not cool.

The charms of square-dancing tractors got to me, to the point that I became a Tractor Head and followed them around. And when I'd see the guys, I'd often make eye contact with them as they performed, a tear in my eye and tapping my heart, as if to say, "You're in my heart, I'm misty, keep that dress and wig on, and shave that beard, and we might get it on." I've been very lucky in life, but, alas, it never happened. I had to turn and walk away, solitary, in tears, clutching my program, and hoping to escape the place without someone laughing at my failure.

Regardless of all personal heartbreak, and especially now that I'm older and losing a lot of my ambition to succeed -- because What's the Damned Use? -- like the Virgin Mary, I've treasured the things of the Promenade and kept them in my heart. I became friends with one of the guys, who now is my contact in this present distress. Putting a end to the terror wave of one Myra Kula Electra!

Friends, she's going down! When she catches sight of the Tractor Promenade, it is going to be so confusing to her. Tractors square-dancing! If what I'm thinking is right. That demons have the kind of mentality that expects a certain amount of order in the world. I believe their mentality is very orderly, despite their reputation for chaos, and very literal. Demons think A leads to B, in a direct line. A doesn't lead to C, you see, because demons are hung up on directness. Tractor square-dancing is antithetical to linear thinking; they'd freak out. Remember the multitude of demons Jesus sent into the herd of swine? They didn't say, "Let's bide our time on this hillside till Jesus is gone, then come out and go about our business." They freaked out directly, ran into the sea, and presumably got wet.

But enough about demons. Get me started like that and I'll talk your leg off. I'm not bragging, but I probably know more about demon psychology than most people my age and of average intelligence. Demons are basically stupid, they just have bullish dispositions, but in a few years they might be president. Say we had someone set the example for them, it could happen. I'd gladly vote Demons for President, because I could cast them out anytime I wanted!

Let me add one more important thing. Myra, I know you read this blog. In the name of everything holy, after you read this post, you must promptly forget it. Thank you.

Friday, January 27, 2017

Mapping Out My Strategy


I'm busy, very busy, checking the signs, getting my forces in place, strategizing, taking time out to run the dishwasher twice today, taking the dog out, and getting myself spiritually aligned. I actually have dealt with dark forces before -- but nothing like exorcisms in Mexico, nothing that bad; I wouldn't mind having a wall just to keep actual demons at bay -- so I'm reasonably familiar with evil. It's something a guy has to be careful talking about, lest he rouse them again. I'll just say there's some bum spirits out there who wouldn't mind getting a piece of me. But I'm strong, like a knife you buy at the State Fair, guaranteed for life.

So, yes, I'm checking the signs and so forth, because honestly I don't know how it's all going to shake out. Whether it might be a 'Rumble in the Jungle' or will simply 'Go Down Downtown'. I've been penciling out a map of the area. I've been in contact with some of my friends in the tractor dancing sector; make note of that, you heard it here first. The guy I've been in contact won't mind me putting his publicity pic up. But just in case, like Jackson Browne, I doctored his eyes to maintain his anonymity.

As to what we know about Myra Kula Electra's plans and her forces, it's very little. There are things we don't know. Like me with the facts of life when I was 16! Ha ha, don't want to go there! I'm a little giddy tonight, maybe you can tell. I guess I get that way every time my life's on the line. With the weight of the world coming down I might get crushed. Like when I was 16, many crushes. Ha ha, the facts of life thing is all moot now -- I got it figured out in time not to need it! By the way, I am not lusting after Myra Kula Electra. Give me a break! Yes, she has a very appealing exterior, but mentally -- I don't know -- public sex with prisoners? That killed it for me.

I just hope she's not smarter than me. That'd be terrible, wouldn't it? Let's say she's got a lot of her evil supernatural buddies, sulfur, fire, balls of fire she could be throwing. I've got nothing like that. If it comes to supernatural stuff, I just have to hope that good actually has the advantage over evil. I'm guessing so; I have theological reasons to think so, but even so I have to hope there's something to it, something more than wishful thinking, or logic that hasn't necessarily been tested.

OK, the map. That's the basic lay of the land. The center of town's where most things happen. It's hard to believe she won't go for downtown, but when? First, second, third? But I think there'll be another part of it, i.e., the supernatural portal at the old coal mound. Remember that? It could be I'm all wet all the way round.

One thing I have to warn you about, this isn't fiction. So you shouldn't expect the basic fiction outline of this battle. Which would be: 1) Setting, engagement; 2) Advantage, Myra; 3) Advantage, Me; 4) She retakes advantage; 5) I'm weakening; 6) Something intervenes; 7) I'm able to rally; 8) Etc. Chances are it won't happen like that. And I seriously have no one to come zip-lining into the scene. Frankly, I'm getting confused. I should probably be saying a few Golden Child mantras to psych myself up. Anyone know any?

I've only been The Golden Child a little over a week. What the hell am I battling Myra Kula Electra for, already? Is that what you get for being The Golden Child? I need to think this over. There should be a few months of happiness first, right? Maybe that's it. I kill (or otherwise neutralize) Myra (the reason suddenly escapes me) then I live happily ever after. Surely there's room in the whole wide world for both of us. There's been room up till now. What changed? I honestly forget why I'm in this battle. That's a bad sign!

Mantra work: "Gol-den-Child you-can-do it-oo-oo."

Thursday, January 26, 2017

Myra: Devil or Demon?


It's a quiet day on the Golden Child front, giving me the sense that this might be the quiet before the storm. Usually things are normal, then there's a storm. Although of course sometimes there's quiet without storms and storms without quiet. I've seen storms followed by quiet, in fact most of them are that way; that's how you know the storm's over. Be all that as it may, there's no storms in the forecast, at least none having to do with the weather.

I'm definitely using the quiet to get prepared. I called my insurance guy to make sure my house insurance is paid up, including the important rider on damages from supernatural sources. Right off the bat, of course that made the guy a little reticent; he came back on after checking the policy and asked if my house was haunted, because that's about ten bucks more a month. I tried to walk it back, saying I was asking for a friend. Anything to save ten bucks.

I'm a little quiet because I don't know what might happen; I'm thinking. It's not like I'm too young to die, but I feel like it. I'm mid-60s -- old by internet standards, I know -- but I'm still in good health. I feel young, not a day over 55. Most of the wistfulness I feel has to do with Myra Kula Electra. I confess, I thought she was hot stuff when I first saw her a couple years ago. She came in, wanting to join my newsletter staff. And she already worked for the Daily News. With my age, I sort of forget why she wanted to join. Seems like she had some shenanigans in mind, something up her sleeve.

She was a good writer, I guess, seems like she was. She does work for the Daily News. Did I mention that? With my age, I'm getting forgetful. My short-term memory's coming up with multiple gaps in the course of days ... seems like it is. It's hard to be sure when you can't remember. Who was I talking about? Myra! Good woman, I thought. Then there was the public sex with the four prisoners -- I might've mentioned that. I'm too tired to look back...

I could call my pastor and ask him to keep me in his prayers. You remember my pastor, Pastor Wadd. We've had the same guy for years. He runs the church according to his own beliefs, which is the best way to do it if you want to stay in office. I've written about him before, I'm sure. His specialty is counseling guys for various sexual addictions, which means he's always on the lookout for anything the least bit shady in his parishioners' personal lives. Even if you don't do anything wrong, like me, you still look guilty anytime he's around.

And if he doesn't like sex, he's equally pissed about anything involving the "New Age Movement" -- if there is such a thing. In fact, anything that doesn't match up with his own narrow belief system -- whatever he was taught by his pappy as a lad -- he's dead-set against. Imagine if I called him about advice with Myra. "Uh, Pastor Wadd, I'm not entirely sure Myra's even an actual human being; there's every chance in the world she might be the manifestation of a demon, a devil, or wraith. I'm not even sure the size she is is her true size. She might be little now just to lure in helpless victims, before showing herself prodigiously huge, the size of an ocean liner stood on end, the size of a sequoia, and so forth. Then the public sex with four prisoners."

For all I know, there is a literal hell. How else do you explain politics these days? And this literal hell, in addition to sending us politicians with hell for brains is sending us prodigious demons posing as beautiful women. You tell me, why else would a prim and proper woman -- dressed often in turn of the (20th) century clothes -- break down in hatred of an old-fashioned guys like me, and, in case I haven't mentioned it, have public sex with four prisoners

If only she didn't appear to "have it goin' on," if you know what I mean. Hubba hubba. Do young people still say Hubba hubba? It has an old fashioned sound to it, but I'm old. What do I do about Myra? Isn't there a verse that says somewhere, "Yea, though he slay me, yet shall I love him"? Something like that. Should that apply to possible girlfriends. Say they can transform in an instant into fire and smoke, a huge red tongue, eyes like the Big Bad Wolf, claws like a thorn tree, and a stomach to hold you and four of your closest friends, with a game room downstairs. Should I love her? She took everything four prisoners had and possibly more, how good could she be?

Yes, I'm wistful. I don't want to see Myra die -- I don't especially want that, maybe a little. But if it has to happen, like it turns out she is a wrathful spirit who's been tormented for 10,000 years, just waiting to consume a sweet young thing like me, perhaps it'd be doing her a favor to kill her. A stake through the heart. Maybe take her head off with tree shears. Which I don't even have. It's a quandary. Just have to play it by ear as it comes. 

Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Myra, My Dear, I Forgive You


OK, my first mistake might have been listening to the wise derelict, the cat guy, who in reply to my question, "What if I surprised Myra Kula Electra by simply forgiving her for our problems in the past, as well as her article calling me a 'Local Crank'?," said, and I quote, "I hope to kill a cat, that would be good." 

Let me reread his statement, just to make sure I didn't miss any qualifiers, any warnings, any hint of possible disaster, however remote it might be. "I hope to kill a cat...." He said that several times, which seemed to be something of a nervous tick, maybe a phrase he picked up from his parents. I can picture an old immigrant getting off the ship, having tripped over many cats carrying verminous rats and mice, saying repeatedly, "I hope to kill a cat..." But there's nothing in the phrase that constitutes a warning. The rest of his answer "that would be good" seems at first blush to tell of a bright future, a positive outlook, and an expectation of results that could only be characterized as unambiguously good. No warnings.

So why in the world did it turn out that everything ended up in an unmitigated disaster? I trusted this old fraud -- some derelict he turned out to be! -- and now I curse the name and memory of him and his unhelpful father and the ship he came in on. I hope those verminous rats and mice that were such a focus of his ride to this country, to freedom, are even now feasting on his dead bones, or are with him in the afterlife, like in Egyptian religion, forever consuming that bad father's heart. "The sins of the father are visited" and all that, with a son who didn't fall very far from the old tree, to give me that kind of pathetic advice. I hope to kill a cat, indeed!

I called Myra and she hied her way to my home. I started in, pleasantly officious, "Myra, ever since the beginning of mankind there has been sin and sorrow. Ever since Ug killed Craythur, we as a race have been up to no good. It's both no fault of our own and entirely our fault, if you can accept, not a contradiction, but an existential dichotomy often missed in polite society for a certain unfamiliar subtlety. You're the kind of gal who'd probably prefer more the jackhammer approach to theology, since I recall how you preferred more the jackhammer approach to lovemaking when you bedded down in public with the four prisoners."

You gotta admit, that's a killer opening. I'd call it 3D understanding. Not only do I understand the ins and outs of the first sin, but I'm able to deftly apply its lessons to our immediate time, what Myra did -- with Tipsy, Spud, Cannibal, and Danny -- public sex, right there on the ground, during our city's observance of the July 4 holiday. 

As heated up as she appeared, upon this preamble to my ultimate offering of forgiveness, I believed that the conviction of sin was already working its divine magic. So I continued, "I hope to kill a cat that you understand the gravity of your sin that night, and the deep rift it caused in our relationship. Not one of those prisoners was worth giving your all to, let alone all four. I was surprised that you were so willing to cheapen yourself in my presence, and allow my opinion of you at that time to sink to such a depth, that, frankly, I had absolutely no respect for you from that moment forward. I was repulsed, shaken to my core, and considered you lost." Rereading that part, maybe I was harsh; I had no claim to her. But didn't the cat-derelict see good things ahead for Myra and me working together? "I hope to kill a cat, she'd believe it," he averred.

So I was all set to offer my grace, if only she'd honor my offer. "Myra, I sincerely believe you are a good person at heart, a decent woman through and through, if you let yourself be, and, very importantly, if you face up to your faults. I will stand with you as you work through the trauma of your treatment of me; be encouraged, it wasn't easy for me either. And now, my dear, hear me out. You don't have to face it alone, you can face it knowing that I have wiped the slate clean, meaning, Myra, I forgive you for your sins against me. Yes, they were against me, but they were also against you and your best interests. Do you accept my forgiveness and vow to make a fresh start and become a better woman?"

Imagine my horror when she went into full meltdown mode, and spun there like a top, and with her voice set on Maximum Shrill, she proceeded to dress me down for my nerve of presumption; my misjudgment in every way; my own inability to accept that I'm not God's gift to man, woman, or even the common house roach; that my sanctimony is a hindrance to my appeal, which was low enough to begin with; and that I'm simply such an aggravating son of a bitch that I should be wiped off the face of the earth like snot off a two-year-old's lip! That hurt.

In her full malevolent eloquence -- and as I was otherwise mentally preoccupied with the terror of this complete dressing down -- I was able to perceive something about her 'not quite her.' There was something else going on. I felt a charge of light and energy skyrocket up my spine, as I recalled the old coal mound!

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

I Hope To Kill A Cat


Unfortunately, being The Golden Child -- while a terrific rush most of the time -- doesn't make me immune to troubles. I've had so many problems, inconveniences, and headaches, of virtually every description, since yesterday. I sat still for about an hour, seeking my inner counsel, usually a very reliable service, open 24 hours a day with the best advice, tailored solely for me. But nothing happened!

Then it all hit me, the root of the problem and the solution. A karma kabammy has been put on me, as sure as I'm sitting here, by one of the saddest mamas I've ever been cursed to know, Myra Kula Electra! O! Doesn't that sicken you to hear? How often must I suffer her? I want to know! I didn't sign up for this!

Anyway, I just had to get out of the house. The walls were closing in on me, likely damaging the foundation. Thank God I've got good insurance, but I hate the inconvenience. I ran toward town, leaving a wake of wreckage behind, cars swerving in the ditch, damaging fence posts, releasing dogs from yards, and probably inconveniencing not only me but many others. At this point I had no alternative. It was stand-and-die on the spot, await the fate of a massive sinkhole, or keep running and hope no one connected millions of dollars in damages with the karma of The Golden Child.

The further I got from home, the more I could see it was only a localized kabammy. Obviously Myra didn't anticipate me diagnosing the situation and making a run for it before it was too late. The closer I got to town, everything was more normal. I knew where I was headed. There's an area just off downtown called the Skidrow area. It's nothing like a big city, just a mini version. A few bars and derelicts, nothing major enough to inspire pride, but still relatively cool. I've learned by hard experience, if you've got a kabammy going kablooey and karma's at the heart of it, there's no better counselor than a derelict; they're so far down it all looks up to them...

I saw my man. A gnarly looking guy, probably about my age, mid-'60s but looking so much older. I went over and sat by him, up against the building. He had a bottle in the bag. I reached for him to pass it to me but he refused. Which was a good sign. This is a man who knows his own mind! I explained the whole situation about Myra Kula Electra and asked if he understood the dilemma. "I hope to kill a cat, I do," he said. Fine, that's great.

He also understood my karmic debt. "I hope to kill a cat, you've got it bad." Can I get rid of it? "I hope to kill a cat, you could," he added.

The situation gained rich clarity by the moment. What a counselor, I thought. He needs to bottle it, at least write a book. This is Deepak Chopra territory, Eckhart Tolle gold, guys I like. He could write a book and buy this bar, then he could sit inside whenever he wanted.

I continued, "I've been thinking, What if I surprised Myra Kula Electra by simply forgiving her for our problems in the past, as well as her article calling me a 'Local Crank'?" "I hope to kill a cat, that would be good," the man assured me. I ventured on, cautiously, "She and I could work together -- two heads are better than one -- I'm the Golden Child with important work in the world, and she's very special, too, apparently; at least I suppose I could make her believe she is." I hope to kill a cat," he started, "She'd believe it."

It went on like that for a while -- clarifying many things for me, including his bad history with cats -- and I went home. Now all was clear! The kabammy had dissipated and I believed I knew how to handle one Myra Kula Electra!

Monday, January 23, 2017

Local Crank Guts Myra Kula Electra


You're not talking about me, Myra. You better not be talking about me. When you're running around using words like "crank," you best be kidding, because that's not Hoyle. Not kosher, not halal, not good for body or soul, junk calories. Yes, you, Missie Myra Kula Electra. I know you, and you know I do! I got enough dirt on you to sink your battleship now and forevermore! Ho, ho, ho!

Please, Myra, don't call me, OK?, wheedling in private about "being sorry" for this despicable article. It's your big scoop, my dear; own it! And all the baggage that goes with it! That's the part I like, 'cause now you're mine, aren't you? How, O how, do I plan on taking the great Myra Kula Electra down? Gee, I'm going to enjoy this! This is my project for the next day or so. Just taking walks on my half acre, giggling, laughing, and doing what I do best, holding a grudge till the day you're destroyed!

But how to do the deed? There's so many ways I could come at you, Little Miss Myra. The weird thing is you act like you don't know me, and I know you do know me. You couldn't have forgotten, of course! But you plowed ahead anyway, writing this scurrilous article, then plastering it across PAGE ONE! To me that's living dangerously! Obviously assuming, Kundalini's a nice guy. He'll take it in stride. He doesn't want to drag his dirty laundry out of the basket, for fear it might make him look worse. Well, let me pop your little bubble, My Sweet: Even though I am nice -- voted "Nicest Guy on the Internet" a few times -- I can also be mean. Self-preservation, you know, it's one of the basic instincts...

I'll just let you think about that for a minute, while I take your foolish article apart line by line, word by stinking word.

First, how about that newspaper: "SPECIAL." I like that part. My business, me being The Golden Child, is important enough to warrant a SPECIAL EDITION. That's actually pretty cool. Because if memory serves, how many "specials" has the Daily News had? Only a few. The Kennedy Assassination, 911, The Tearing Down of the Shopping Center, and now this, me being The Golden Child! Hell, looking at it like that, I'm in good company, three total disasters and one blessing. At least I see it as good news.

It's the headline that immediately catches my attention and gets my hackles up. "Local Crank." Sigh. Up-urp! I just ate chili and about lost it. I knew what you meant, but I looked it up in the dictionary just to be sure: "CRANK n. [kh-ránk]. 1. Twisted metal bar to start old cars with. 2. Drugs that fry your brain. 3. Term adolescent boys use for their junk. 4. Junior high teachers, who are crank-y. 5. Eccentric guys, believers in imaginary stuff, the clinically or colloquially insane, idiots with butterflies for brains.

Then there's your article, one crummy little paragraph. At least it doesn't mention me by name; it could be anyone! Except there's only one Coffee Club in town called "The" Coffee Club. And there's only one Golden Child that's been declared in recent memory, who just happens to be me. Imagine how this beautiful declaration blessed my life. I could've been nothing, like you -- just a nobody with a whole shelf of awards for Article of the Year, etc. Of course if they're all one paragraph long, I could churn out one paragraph articles all day! Look at my article here! Should I split it up into a 12-part series? Would they give me an award, some worthless award I could stick on my mirror, like you no doubt have done!

But we're not done here yet. Your article goes on to term The Coffee Club's declaration "a terrible step." That hurts. And is unfair. Had you gone on to elucidate the problem, maybe I might've seen the point. But you thought, 'One paragraph of scurrilous insults covers the territory. I'm going on break. Someone get me a fan; I've had a tough day writing.' Ha ha! I could sit here and write insults about you till midnight and not get the slightest overheated, let alone need a fan!

OK, Myra Kula Electra, here's the deal: You have 24 hours to retract this despicable article or face the music. I haven't forgotten all you did when we were together. I may have forgotten a lot of things in my life, but does July 4 set off any fireworks in your reprobate conscience? As in four unsavory characters having the time of their life, Danny, Spud, Cannibal, and Tipsy. You have 24 hours or I will repost your sins! If anyone forgot, they'll be dramatically reminded! Apologize or you're going down!

If you retract the article, on the other hand, all is forgiven. And maybe we could still get together for some projects. Remember, Babe, I am The Golden Child. How many of those do you meet on an average day? The things Golden Children are capable of. Oh yeah!

Sunday, January 22, 2017

Lucent In The Sky With Demons


One man immediately believed my word that I was the Golden Child, my cousin Roto. I figured he would. We've been together over the years, especially as kids. "Yes," he said to me before the Coffee Club, "You are The Golden Child." As he declared this, others more readily fell in line, celebratory of the mission before us. So Roto tilled the soil for me, and now what a fantastic crop I hope shall come of this moment!

How well I remember the magical world Roto and I lived in as kids. Probably like all kids at play, when left to ourselves, we saw angels, devils, and various animal prodigies. I'll never forget one great Thanksgiving when we were about 10. Mom roasted us this gigantic firefly we'd caught, about the size of a 20-pound turkey. The thing was delicious, and the extra glow from his backside as the centerpiece made the holiday even more special.

Some of the coolest things we saw -- excluding fairies, gnomes, and trolls, everyday stuff -- was at this old mound of coal at his parents' place, my aunt and uncle. I'm still not sure why there was a mound of coal, but there always was, with soil that had blown in and green growth over it. My hand to heaven, we saw that mound become like a glistening mound of gold many times. Occasionally we beheld lights circling around the gold, with new age music emitted from somewhere, well before it was an official genre. We met with beings of lights so often we must've each worn out a dozen pair of sunglasses! Good times...

But the times weren't all good... Occasionally there was an enemy who'd rise up -- one with female qualities -- and terrify us. In psychoanalysis, I suppose she would be akin to an anima heart attack or a devouring mother figure. Like in Indian mythology, a mother who consumes her children. We usually ran away, but finally, having just smoked a homemade corn silk cigarette, I stood up to her with these words, "Whoa, back, Immortal Menace, thus far and no farther! Sheath thy fangs! And withdraw, for you have already eaten your children!"

You would've thought I'd touched her with an electric cattle prod, the way she reared back in terror and keen distress. She spun into the air like a souped-up comet; then in what can only be described as the overwhelming radiance of fire when it makes contact with piss and vinegar, she exploded across the night sky. If you look back in '60s history, that's the night many small planes went down across the country, obviously making it a sad time for their survivors.

We were kids. We didn't report our involvement. Anyway, who would've believed us? "Uhh, we were at the old coal mound, which belched forth hellish beings, including this one particularly menacing wraith. Piss and vinegar were involved, and that's all I know." On second thought, at least they would've had a lead. Instead, we were repeating to each other, in fear, "I didn't see anything, did you?" "No, I didn't see anything." We kept our silence until now, this very minute.

Now, back to today. With Roto's testimony backing me up as The Golden Child, I officially named him First Vice President in Charge of Disciple Affairs. Hopefully he'll be working up a sheet of membership benefits and donor classes, based on the different grades of light: Tea Candles for the Golden Child, Tapers for the Golden Child, Candelabras for the Golden Child, and so forth, all the way up to the more generous $10,000/month donors, Super Bowl Stadium Bank of Mega-Lights for the Golden Child.

Saturday, January 21, 2017

The Golden Child At The Coffee Shop


This was a gold star day in the life of The Golden Child, having announced my presence in the world. I took this big step right here where I live, downtown, before my coffee club. I've drunk coffee with them for years, but never had I said anything this monumental: "Friends, it has come to my attention that the long-awaited child of destiny -- The Golden Child -- is present in the world." Most members set down their cups, a few stroking their beards in perplexity. 

But I still had to stand and clink my own half empty cup to gain their full attention, with a couple of the rowdier members shaking their table and making a ruckus, as they strained to finish a particularly competitive bout of arm wrestling. "Gentlemen, that can wait! The hour of destiny has come!" I repeated myself about The Golden Child being present in the world, and now they were hushed. 

Naturally everyone's minds raced far ahead of themselves as they considered my solemn declaration. Was he or she born in the last few hours in Rome, Athens, Jerusalem, or India? In a back alley or dead end in Egypt or Calcutta? Which is always how it is, of course; The Golden Child has to come from somewhere none of us have been. And the extent of our ranging -- except for the veterans who served overseas and swear they'll never go back -- is fairly tight. Silage City, Grundy Rock, or Mingo. The Golden City couldn't be from any of those places, and indeed he is not.

I explained that our own little town (What are the odds?) hath been blessed, that long ago at our own local hospital there was a mystic obstetrician who pronounced the words over a locally born youth. All right, enough suspense, "You guys, it's me!" This is so cliche, because of course they had to balk, "You? A pissant like you," etc., one of the biggest kidders said; not coincidentally he was one of the loudmouth arm wrestlers, such a lout. (My biggest complaint about life has to be the predictability of everything. You can't just go along, you can't be surprised, then accept things at face value; everyone's a skeptic. If you ever win the big lottery, don't do a double take, don't act like it can't happen. Just say, "Looks like I won.") 

I raised my hand in an almost threatening way, like 'this hand is going to smite you,' but I didn't mean it that way. If you consciously had miraculous powers, it seems, you'd have to do 50/50 smiting and saving; one size doesn't fit all. Like to the government: "You guys voted no on universal healthcare, 50% of you will die in the next half hour," instant karma. They're calling ambulances, doctors, etc., but the lines have all been cut, the signals jammed. "No, the lives of others were of no value to you; why should yours be of value? Die like the worthless curs you are!"

When I raised my hand to the coffee club, all I wanted was to skip the tiresome foreplay. "Gentlemen, you're wasting time in predictable and worthless palaver." They came to their senses. And my cousin Roto stood, his face beaming. He looked at me, smiling, and simply said, "Yes."

Friday, January 20, 2017

There Shall Be Enemies


Since the time I was conscious of myself in the world I've known I was The Golden Child -- destiny gave me this standing through divine will (probably) and a mystic obstetrician (definitely) -- but that doesn't mean I've always been open about it. I never marched forth to fulfill the role for various reasons. One, the urge was never a great as it is right now; with aging, unfulfilled destiny is often seen in a "now or never" light. And, two, there's no "pass" given to The Golden Child; there are naturally the challenges everyone faces, but much worse.

Being or doing anything out of the ordinary in life can be fraught with peril. Your friends at school get word that you think you're something, your life ain't worth a plug nickel. I remember grade school; a few kids were literally assassinated on the playground, for no greater crime than acknowledging they'd done well on the quiz! Survival meant you failed out of ignorance or on purpose, or keeping your yap shut about passing. Adulthood is hardly better. You won five bucks on a scratch ticket? A jealous mob can arise in a flash. You won? No, you lost!  There's always enemies.

Without trying to put myself in esteemed company, and in light of the truth that "No good deed goes unpunished," there are famous examples in spiritual literature. Moses in the basket and Daniel in the Lion's Den. One was a basket case who couldn't stay away from Egypt and the other styled himself the mane man. As a result, both had fierce enemies. My dad taught me about the speckled bird (Jer. 12:9); "The birds round about are against her; come ye, assemble all the beasts of the field, come to devour." Needless to say, they didn't celebrate Speckled Pride Week in ancient Israel! 

Right now, believe it or not, I'm typing this in public, in the library. But I don't want anyone to know. So I'm hunched over the keyboard, hoping there's no keyboard-whisperer type agents around, guys who can read from a distance what you're typing, or I may never get through this post! It's a paranoia I'm hoping to shake, but being out as The Golden Child is a new thing for me. I see huge danger coming thanks to this distinction. There will be enemies!

Of course it still might sound craZy with a capital Z to you. But ask yourself, Who's more likely to rock the boat of the entrenched, the corrupt, the powers that be, some flaky guy crossing his eyes and twiddling his thumbs, or a Golden Child from Who Knows Where? I'll guarantee you, if you're considering these things in the light of day, the Golden Child's a marked man forever.  So here I am, hunched over the keyboard, and probably even now betrayed by an aura or inner music or some other infernal thing that ought to be pure blessing to me.

Don't worry. I haven't talked myself out of being The Golden Child. This has been cathartic. Steeling my resolve. I shall make my stand as The Golden Child! Tomorrow! At the coffee group downtown!

Thursday, January 19, 2017

Milk Your Destiny


It seriously wasn't till I started looking into the archives of the old Rosicrucian Digest, issues from the 1920s into the '50s, that I started realizing the prevalence of mysticism within the medical profession. There's "Doctor" this and "Doctor" that, a closer study of their backgrounds revealing a predominance of men (at that time) in the baby-making profession, i.e., obstetrics!

This is a great subject for consideration, why that should be. I'd like to know if there are already studies on it, although I haven't come across one. Somehow they've eluded the radar, since nothing automatically leaps out signaling the need or importance of higher things to obstetrics. Recruitment of wise babies to the Order? Hope for a fulfilled life in conferring with babies? It's only a specialist in arcane things like me, who has had incantations and prophecies uttered over him in infancy, who might care.

I think the immediate reason for the connection would be the concept of destiny common to the Rosicrucians. It's no stretch for me to imagine myself, given the skills and position to deliver babies, at least starting out the profession in wonder and awe. Given enough time at it, like most things I've done, I'm sure it would've become rote. Even the thrill of partial nudity wouldn't be enough to sustain me; I'm very easily jaded by routine. Of course the wonder and awe would be connected to the well-being and destiny of the youngsters making their way into the world, having come from where?

Speaking of jaded, it looks to me that we've reduced the excitement of childbirth today to just another thing that happens. Like pouring a cup of coffee or taking the dog for a walk; you've seen it once, you've seen it all. You're checking your watch, which itself gets old. The dog's business is like a birth, but in that case I scoop it in a shovel and throw it into the bramble. I'm sure there are jaded obstetricians who look on the funnier side of life. They're with their fellow doctors later in the shower going, "[Rude comment conflating childbirth and defecation excised.]" Wild, huh!?

Regardless of any of that, and assuming the obstetrician attending me knew at least the generalities of mysticism -- whether he was a Rosicrucian or not -- I have enough hints about him to know that words of that spirit were spoken. Like Simeon in the Bible, "This child is destined for X, Y, or Z, whatever..." The fact that he said anything except, "Congratulations, ma'am, I'm hitting the showers," seems significant. Had he meditated that day? Had something been imparted into his spirit, something akin to the Gospel of Thomas logion 4, "The man old in days will not hesitate to ask a small child ... about the place of life."

It'd be great to be a mystic obstetrician, now that I think of it. If you continually sent the mother to the bathroom while you whispered words of wisdom into the little one's ear, you could change the world, transform life and existence! It's as good and true as mother's milk, but a reorientation in destiny: Milk your destiny for all it's worth! Milk it!

Pardon me as I pause and dance around the room. "The Golden Child's got it goin' on, uh huh, uh huh."

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

The Golden Child

I don't write much about myself, my own life. I guess I've been very modest, since, believe it or not, there would be a lot to write about. But many of the original witnesses are now deceased. And some of these topics appeared to be strictly off limits when they were alive. What were they precisely afraid of, that's something I could never wheedle out of them. My mother would throw up her dress and flee the room.

Still, in the hoary mist that makes up the past -- thick enough to cut with a knife -- there are things about me, and destiny, and about great things that I could accomplish. I dare say would accomplish, but I'm pretty sure everyone's forgotten the prophecies. Which don't just spring out of thin air, but are always something that someone's considered, then hidden in their hearts, then pulled out time and time again to rehearse, then concealed, and on and on like that, all very cyclical, see? Let's say my dad was in on it. He was sharp with an incisive mind; I wonder what he knew!

I got very little guidance on these things. But what wasn't spelled out was hinted about, that I would accomplish certain things, and before that, I would know it when I saw it. Friends, I know nothing. Just a kind of tingly feeling I get when I fall asleep -- or just before falling asleep -- when I'm regaled by, yes, beings, personages, memories dredged up, and revelations even now that are new! This one spirit from the hoary mist, he was hoary himself, hoary-headed, old-fashioned speak for essentially white. White as snow, the purest white you've seen this side of a snow drift.

What would I accomplish? I've accomplished very little thus far. Unless the revelation/prophecy somehow involves this blog. It's weird, I'm telling a story and I don't know how it goes! I'm feeling my way. But doesn't it stand to reason that anything that is prophetic, if it's meant to take place, that it would take place whether I knew what I was doing or not? Like going to the bathroom. Everyone knows how it goes. You do your business, then pull 'em up. Like the kid on the diapers commercial: "I'm a big kid now!"

I could make up prophecies, but that would be artificial, false. I could keep my ears open, and everything I hear try to distill it through a mental process of thinking. I've done that before. Like the time I learned to tie my own shoes. I'm thinking now of ... women! My mother always had female friends. They would get together and do things together. They would talk. Maybe at the lake, on a boat, away from the crowd, among themselves. What were they talking about? She had friends who would live close to her, then move somewhere else. Why did they move?

Seems like a dead end. So many of the folks who attended my birth and early years are dead. It seems, though, that there was something hushed that was occasionally heard, about the obstetrician they had at the hospital, or one of them. How he was always into the hidden lore (or something), how he was thrown out of various churches for his offbeat ideas. I remember hearing some of this, that he was a essentially a mystic obstetrician, and the words "golden child." That's it, I think. Mom and her friend, this one lady -- I remember her name -- had something between them about a guy like that.

I'm going to be working on this from time to time. Freely associating memory scraps with what "must have been." What are the sorts of things people keep to themselves, talking in whispers, acting like they've swallowed the canary? People's mysterious destinies. Like I was meant to have and live, no doubt... I foresee the formulation and using of many techniques. I've long had the conviction, When in doubt, improvise. Act like you know what you're doing. For those reasons alone, and in fulfillment of them, I must be The Golden Child! Yes, I'm certain of it!

Sunday, January 15, 2017

An Enormous Icestorm (Or Not)

I swear, I'm starting to think that ice can be downright dangerous! You try to walk on it and if you happen to make a mistake -- in an unguarded moment of carelessness -- you can go right down! Very slick stuff, ice is, a hazard, a public menace. But what can you say? Sure you hate it, but it's as natural as anything else. You get the right combination of moisture and temperature, and similar to those little trays in the freezer, you've got ice! They don't call it "the icebox" for nothing!

And wouldn't you know it, it's winter, and we're prone to experiencing it firsthand, nature at its worst, which has lulled us into a continual confidence vis-à-vis our legs by uprightness from warmer times being the norm, only to upend us when the cold comes to bear. Slip! You're down, with no undo button, and left to survey the possible damage: "Are my legs injured, did my hands get hurt, how's my all-important spine?" I've known people who've been terribly injured on the ice, then others (like myself) who've come through falls with almost miraculous deliverance.

One time I remember clearly was probably 35 years ago, when my feet went out from under me slick as snot, as we used to say. This was split-second stuff, whoosh! And I hit my head with some violence where I stood. It hurt like hell but shocked me worse, shaking me not just by the physical pain but with what it did to my normal breezy confidence. 'If that could happen as fast as that,' I must have thought, 'then, really, what confidence can I have?' The lesson stayed with me and I've been more careful since. The greatest part of it was I wasn't injured beyond the immediate pain. I shake my head and it's the normal rattle.

Today was the day we were dreading, an ice storm for the ages coming in. When I heard there would be ice build-up of a half inch, in my imagination that's the biggest half inch ever; I pictured it as something closer to three times that. Do I have a faulty imagination? I was never great with math. Or is it that I fear the possibilities of enormous ice so much that to be extra safe is to be extra careful, and as a reminder to magnify the predicament? Could be. I do lots of extraneous stuff, and careful redundancy is my middle name. I make backup copies of grocery lists in case the original is lost. Good thing I don't knit sweaters; they'd be so thick they'd last forever and suffocate you.

As it turned out, at least during the day and in town -- and it may have been worse in other places -- the ice storm was nothing much. Once I got out, inching my way to the car, and casting my ice melt upon the frozen waters, I realized it was nothing. I didn't have a problem in the world! The roads were great. I didn't see a single car in the ditch, whereas during a less-dreaded storm a couple weeks ago I saw two cars spin out in three seconds and wisely turned the other way. What it was like on the interstate, though, I can only imagine. Ice is always so much worse there, with maniac truckers flying by at 80 mph and throwing it on your windshield a foot thick if it's an inch!

I also didn't see anyone fall on the ice. Good for them, but bad for me. Couldn't rush over and do my good deed for the day, helping them up and issuing a heartfelt warning, "Be careful next time, stupid. Let me tell you what happened to me 35 years ago, and everything I learned from it..."

Friday, January 13, 2017

Will My Cremains Be In Dad's Shaving Mug?

Another birthday has come and gone, this year on January 13. All day long I kept thinking, I'm another year older, IF my Mom told the truth about my birthday being on this unusual schedule. I tried to explain it a couple years ago at this link. (As an aside, I actually liked 2016 better, with it being on Jan. 9, not so long to wait. The next time I get it that good is 2022, a virtual eternity away.)

Of course birthdays make me alternately happy and wistful. Because of death, of course. Which is quickly mitigated by the fact that I know I shall live till 85. Occasionally I run into someone 85, and I always say, "As you are, so I shall be. But once I am as you are, no longer shall I be." It's kind of a riddle, and sometimes when I lay it on them they drop dead on the spot. I put my hands up, all innocent, going, "I don't know what happened, maybe some kind of weird psychic overload!"

Death has changed over the years. There's always something new people have to think about. It used to be old guys and gals would assemble at the funeral parlor and check out the caskets, the various models and colors. The salesman going, "Here you got The Corinthian Emperor, a beautiful model any man'd be proud to stretch out in. Or let's say you're more bargain-minded, there's always our old standby, The Pine Box. Even with the low price, it's a great little casket, guaranteed to keep your body perfectly incorrupt a full 10 years."

But now caskets are out and ash receptacles are in. You can still go to the funeral home and listen to their sales pitch about "this roomy little number." Or you can do it the way I'm going to do, find something around the house or at a store to hold yourself. The graphic above shows some of the containers I'm considering. I have a soft spot in my heart for my dad, who died way back when, the early 2000s. I inherited his shaving mug, over which there's still hard feelings; my four brothers also wanted it, but somehow it found its way into my trunk, and the rest is shaving history.

The other objects are fairly self-explanatory, but I want to highlight the pitcher. My mom's ashes went into a pitcher precisely like this one. Although, and I hope I'm not putting too fine a point on it, her ashes didn't heap over the top like that. She wasn't that big. And the thing with ashes is usually you don't need huge space, since they're compact. Look at me, a guy my size -- average to below average, depending on which parts you're talking about -- could fit in a pitcher like that and have room to grow.

Mom's pitcher looked great at her Memorial Service, The Service of Remembrance, An Assembly of Friends in Solemn Grief, Our Final Goodbye, A Time for Joy, Not Tears. I'm a little sad thinking about it, but also proud of how it all worked out. We kept it reverent enough there were no lightning bolts. But pleasant enough that her pitcher didn't open like Aladdin's Lamp with a monstrous version of a once beautiful mother appearing in wrath. As for her ashes, they were later scattered, and I don't know what happened to the pitcher. Probably sneaked out by my brother like me with Dad's shaving mug. Might be why I have to stand at the door when I go to visit.

So she was scattered. And so it shall be for me, at some indeterminate time after I'm 85. Whatever I choose as a receptacle, I know I will like it. To the extent that dead ashes can like things. I don't smoke or I'd ask a cigarette, just a little joke there. Let's say my spirit's drifting overhead somewhere. I'm sure they'll have my blessing.

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Does This Picture Nauseate You?

Like all the best blogs, almost everything I post is exhaustively tested for its appeal to the public. I spend a small fortune on focus groups, doing anything I can to present only the finest content, things I know people will like. That's part of the secret of my success; you don't attain the heights I have by leaving things to chance. Making what I do not just a creative effort, but a scientific achievement.

Most of my stuff sails through with flying colors, of course. So imagine my amazement when the reports came back on this stilts graphic! The focus groups experienced every queasy feeling there is, from nausea to outright vertigo. It was actually so dire the focus group center temporarily closed, their employees making any excuse to go home for a long weekend. If they had been kept at work, according to one lower level employee, they would've been restricted to very tame content for a few weeks at least, so as not to rankle them further. Not only that, but because of lost hours, now I've been fined, docked, and blacklisted for a couple weeks. So till I'm reinstated everything you see here will be raw, and I can't be held responsible for any of it being good.

So that's the report. They went from nausea to outright vertigo. Nausea, I've been nauseated, I know how it feels. Lots of things nauseate me. Waiting more than a minute for service in restaurants, reading Facebook posts about pets "Crossing the Rainbow Bridge," commercials for fast lawyers and anything involving insurance and the Statue of Liberty.

Anyway, the big problem with the graphic -- which is simply a man in the wilderness standing on stilts, and perhaps wobbling about, shaky, and about to fall -- so far entail these physical reactions. The focus group people say their groups were getting sick everywhere, with their reactions not limited to direct viewing, but persisting for hours after. Naturally, a person can only do so much of that, but the reports are that they've also had many severe dry heaves, followed by cold sweats, hot flashes, and the heeby jeebies.

I myself am a little sickened by it, perhaps. I had some of the manifestations reported, but I thought it was unrelated to the graphic. I've been listening to some of those brain wave videos on YouTube, most of which are marked "Dangerous" and "Beware," so I figured that was the root of my problems. Either way, I'm bold, charge right in, heeby jeebies or not. I've got my big boy panties on, and they're not in a bunch! That's true grit, which runs in my family, skipping a generation only now and then.

Please, dear reader, give the guy on stilts a chance! Why would something like that get on your nerves? Maybe because he looks very unstable, a fool in the wilderness about to tumble, probably head first. He's dizzy, so you're dizzy! To the point of nausea? Perhaps. If so, please look away, and try to forget it as soon as possible.

Monday, January 9, 2017

The Mad Train Passengers of India

This might be India. If it's Pakistan, that'd just go to show I know next to nothing about Pakistan. I'm going to be writing as if it's India, and if it's Pakistan ... it doesn't matter. The message is the same.

Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong place, since I think it'd be very cool to live like crazy people, like they do in India. Certainly crazy according to our constant rules of propriety in America, where we're so bogged down by rules and fears, nothing like this would happen. The cops see five guys on a train here, they'd stop the thing and take them in. I don't know if I ever mentioned in on the blog, but I was on a train once and the cops had the whole train stopped and took me to the station. (They let me go, no charges.)

Just let 'em try to stop the train to take these people in. They're on a train like that, do they look like they care? Certainly there can't be a law against it. And if there is, that's the way to circumvent a nasty law, en masse, a law unto yourself! I think it's pretty clear that the rules are different, that the laws, if any, don't matter, and that the people themselves are extremely careless as to the consequences of what could happen.

Imagine that in America! Everything halfway dangerous is a no no. And if you're on a train, even inside a passenger train, if the thing goes around a corner and you fall on your butt in a suite, you've got a good lawsuit against the line. The people in this photo don't look like they're riding with a lawsuit in mind. They probably don't care at all. Their whole psyche's different from ours. They're not living with long boring longevity necessarily in mind. "I need a ride today, up I go, hanging on to something that's already crowded and dangerous. Get me home!"

I'm so reserved, though, I'd see this mess of humanity on the train, and I'd be embarrassed to step up and say "Make room for me." I hate to put anyone out. But obviously you've got to get in there and make your own kind of magic, a place to hang on to, and do your best. If you care!

This picture is not a rarity either. I seem to remember in Slumdog Millionaire a bunch of this. And I've seen documentaries about India, where it's mostly constant like this. The really weird thing about the picture is the apparent orderliness to the chaos. Which naturally is because everyone's clinging to something, like organisms attach themselves to the bottom of a ship and make a life with that environment. It's fascinating.

One of the other things I've seen about India, and you can find it on YouTube, is train surfing. Guys do this other places too, but the Indians look a lot more daring. Moving out, then moving in just in the nick of time to avoid running into a bridge or something. They're quite complacent about danger. Not the way that comes natural to me, of course, but I've lived with American ways all my life. Look at all the money we'd save if we could just glom on to any passing vehicle. Riding on tops of the trains, trucks, whatever.

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Next Time You'll Get 'Em!

I hate it when anything goes wrong. You have the best of intentions -- you make New Year's resolutions, let's say -- then real life impinges, to the point that failure is imminent. If this were a science fiction movie, there'd be flashing lights and noises from the panel. "This is your captain. Please hold down all expressions of panic to a dull roar while I try to pull our asses out of the fire."

I'm actually doing OK with New Year's resolutions, because, frankly, I didn't make any. That's one benefit of getting old, you simply give up. Yes, I have lots of aspirations. I was raised to be a responsible person. I look out for my reputation. I have a strong instinct of self-preservation, so I fit in, follow all laws I know about, "Yes sir" all law enforcement officers, and keep my own counsel.

There's certain ambiguities, though, such as in the complicated world of taxes. The big trouble with numbers is they're too precise. You also have to be precise handling them, because you're swearing on the pain of perjury that they're accurate. And if you see a mistake -- which is something that happens easily, you have to investigate it from all angles. It nearly gives me a headache just thinking about it, with the cold sweats not far behind. So far, though, life has been manageable.

Even with innocent mistakes, though, chances are you'll survive. You read in the paper about some guy who's obviously guilty but gets off on a technicality, or a minimal sentence. I don't usually see that as good news. But the positive side of it for us normal people is we've never done anything that bad; any sins we'd do would be sins of omission, not commission. I'm old, I keep my nose clean.

We used to hear the expression from people trying to encourage someone, "Next time you'll get 'em!" It's been years since I've heard that. Seems like it used to crop up when a kid was giving his best at something like baseball, but he strikes out. They say, "Next time you'll get 'em," you'll do better next time. The kid takes it better with encouragement, even though he might be realistic and say, "No, I won't."

My opinion, any problem, the best course is to wriggle out of it as gracefully as possible. If it's impossible, accept responsibility, and do whatever you can to make it right. Of course we're not talking about terrorists. They do their terrible thing and die. We're never that bad!

You've made mistakes, I've made mistakes. So far, though, nothing's made the news. It's all quite containable and anonymous, just normal everyday flubs. In other words, we've got it together!

Friday, January 6, 2017

Going Beyond Common Sense


What is common sense but the lessons learned from common experiences? Everyone beyond a certain low level of awareness, a step up from the turnip, has it. It guides behavior in this, that, and the other situation. If, for example, it's a matter of paper-clipping pages together, common sense says the paperclip goes at one of the corners; it's not thrust through the center of the pages, then bent over. If you disagree, please consult one of the style manuals used in intro college courses, or look it up in any dictionary under "Duh."

Today, I'm thinking of what lies beyond common sense. Which, to be brief about it, is found in two directions: 1) Expertise in a subject (or generally), which comes through interest, discipline, and is laboriously pursued; 2) A terrible trauma, which can happen at any time and is dangerous. Of course, discipline and study build up a person. Trauma commonly makes a shambles of one. But rarely, anyway, there is a positive difference. Didn't Rudolph face trauma being excluded from reindeer games? But didn't he also save Christmas?*

I'm thinking of trauma of a different sort, which cannot be precisely described, since trauma can also immediately kill you. Look at my graphic. Study it reaaaaal good; it'll be on the exam. A guy is kicked in the head by an ass. There are stars, which indicate a nasty blow. His crossed eyes show a physical reaction, probably one of pain and confusion. At this point he isn't looking for the silver lining of the unfortunate incident. If he's thinking at all, it has to do with immediate assessments of what the afterlife entails.

Let's surmise, however, that with this trauma everything in his head was now in perfect alignment. Before, he was what? A dunce? Who else would stand that close to the ass of an ass? Now, however, he could a genius. Probably not, but would it be impossible that a brain that before was good for nothing might through a million and one unlikely internal coincidences now be an honest-to-goodness, certified, Einstein-like specimen? Anything's possible in fiction, just shooting the bull, speculating, "What if?"

I would never (not in a million years or more) wish any trauma on anyone. I myself actually had a head trauma a year ago, and it didn't do me a bit of good, nothing that's manifested itself yet. But if you ever do have a trauma -- anything from falling off the top of a Ferris wheel, all the way down to something more commonplace, like a paper-cut -- you might look for the possible hidden blessing. Are you now a genius? Have you suddenly acquired deep spiritual insight? Or, as you may prefer, but to me is actually an inferior result, are you simply the same simpleton as before? I myself have noticed no positives, only continuing memory loss, which may or may not be psychosomatic.

Note: The title "Going Beyond Common Sense" is only one possible outcome, and not the most likely. May none of your traumas be self-inflicted, only the result of genuine accidents!