Beware of The Big City

 The Big City

Part 6 of 28

I don’t give a lot of advice. Of course I’ve done it, but it’s never been anything too intrusive. Mostly just everyday advice that everyone should already know, so I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that if someone missed the basics of life. Plus, they’re just regular no-nothing people who are always happy to be taken by the hand and led down the primrose path.

There’s actually a lot of people who fall into that category that I’ll never meet. I think of that sometimes and worry how they'll make it. But I also see wisdom in just keeping my mouth shut. I can’t save everyone, so why should the others get advice and have their lives changed for the better? How's that fair to the ones I’ve never attempted to guide? Is life really just a matter of the luck of the draw? Those who happen to meet me are helped, but that extremely unlucky few are doomed. You’d think there'd be a better system.

Of course I am always happy to help. Ever since I was little I’ve had a helpful spirit. “Grandma," I said, "Grandpa said don’t stick your finger in the socket, it’ll kill you.” And she never did, however she did die a natural death later that try as I might I couldn’t steer her clear of. A guy can be very helpful and still not manage to save everyone. Which honestly is not really a mission of mine. I’ve been staying at a place just a little ways from the freeway, and I hate like hell hearing the tires squealing, cars flying silently over the embankment, and coming to a quick collision with people and buildings in the area. True story, first day I was in the Big City, someone collided midair with a guy’s shed.

I would’ve loved to sit down and discuss the near future with that driver. But again, I can’t be everywhere at once. If you’re reading this, though, that’s good, because I could very well be being used right now by the powers above to save your life. Which puts a lot of responsibility on my shoulders. What do you think? Your life is even now in my loving hands. And whether you believe me, that’s something I can only hope to be convincing enough to make happen.

Let me explore the case a little more. Let’s say you’re the average guy, clean-living, you love your family, but you’re in the small town and feel like you need to stretch out a bit, get some “leg-room” in life, be on your own, make your own decisions, and maybe pick up a few thrills along the way. I hope you don’t. I sincerely hope you decide for yourself to forget the thrills and merely live a good boring long life. (Just now I'm hearing a siren speed by, so somebody loves thrills.)

May I be more direct? Thrills aside, sir. If you come to the Big City, you will die from that decision. This is no joke. You believe I can’t call it like that? I will narrow the actual situation down before you. If you move to the Big City you will -- WILL -- die on the ninth day that you’re here, or sometime between the eighth day and a tenth day you'll never see. So if you come to the Big City, I implore you, leave sometime before the ninth day. I'd probably leave before the seventh day, because I might be off a couple days. And it'd be smarter to leave the fifth day just to be on the safe side, leave a little buffer. Though the third day, too, would be ideal, or even the second, or simply don’t come. You’d ultimately be better off if you just forgot it all together.

Beware, beware, beware of the Big City. It's so big that literally anything can go wrong. The sad truth of the matter is no one should live here. Right now everything's bigger and farther away, but if no one lived here that'd help shrink things and make it safer.

My Destiny Consultations

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 27 of 30

One of these days, if I ever get my life organized and can really bear down on pursuits, I’m hoping to monetize some stuff. Just people talking to me in incidental little meetings, like running into someone at Walmart and they ask me where the toy department is ought to be worth at least a quarter. Then there’s the meatier stuff, like consulting with me on anything I’m an expert at. Anything I blog about, of course I couldn’t blog about it unless I were qualified to do so. It's in the Constitution.

But my education is extremely impressive -- going by the classes I actually passed -- which you probably already know by my scholarly lingo. Full sentences, very little slang, willing to tackle any subject head-on, and bold to put my opinions out there head-to-head against the best of deceased scholars. Politics, religion, opinions on yard work, tips for an efficient life (don’t wait till the end of the month to balance your checkbook), and so many other topics I can’t even list without a fee.

Probably the biggest reason I haven't done it yet is I’m too lazy to put all the pieces into place. I always try to do things by the book. That means I need a tax attorney and others. I'd have to dispose of my present identity and take on something that suggests a more scholarly, disciplined character. Then I'd launch into a consultant role. Visiting you everyday with my briefcase. And being just up-the-wazoo helpful, with relatively low fees, undercutting everyone.

Of course one of the big consultancy jobs that’d keep me perpetually in the green would have to do with Destiny. The generic fortune tellers of old kept it somewhat mystic and a lot more mysterious than I like. I’ll be a consulting friend on the subject, giving you the green light or nixing it when it comes to your destiny. I have a kind of electric arm-hair system on a lot of things. If it’s positive it tingles in one way, pleasantly. Or negative, it tingles in an unpleasant way, one of the evolutionary cues most of us have forgotten, hackles, bearing my fangs, growling. My arm tingled endlessly and very unpleasantly when my dad died. I almost had it removed.

Then there’s the topper to the whole thing, that there will be an accompanying Certificate of Excellence. I’ve actually found this is the only way to go. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth a Certificate of Excellence. With limited rights for you to claim it merited my Certificate of Excellence, but certainly the higher the fee, the more you can brag, boast, and/or tout it that by paying your precious money you earned these unequaled Certificates of Excellence. They're printed on 30 lb. paper so they're quite a lift.

I can see myself helping to determine your destiny everyday. Which could be done in a snap. Very easy. My guesswork has been noted for quality in scholarly articles I've written. Then there's the ongoing fee, which you will love paying because of the positive strokes I give you. You'll be the toast of the town, everyone knowing your destiny has to be a particular grade of excellent or you wouldn’t have warranted the opportunity to brag about what I've told you, that your destiny is certified "Excellent."

Ms. Wiggins, Empress

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 5 of 30

“I don’t know.” Ms. Wiggins pondered a new revelation of Destiny, “This could be more than I bargained for.” This dear one thought it through with many doubts. Which is common enough for those uncommon enough to feel the mantle of history bearing down on them.

One thing seemed sure to help, that it was a done deal. The cards of Destiny had been shuffled, the deck cut, the face cards and lesser numbers mixed as thoroughly as any deck -- and judged "as random as we can make it" by various experts in such things -- and the verdict of history pointed squarely at this one individual.

It’s really something, a surprise, when you've been tagged by Destiny. As life goes, it's certainly better than nothing. Although it so often turns out that the person had a better experience when they were nothing. It is hard for them to be so disappointed.

Maybe you're one who's felt the strange weight of Destiny at least once in your life. It feels pleasant enough, but with hidden dimensions of concern. To be thought of by Destiny and in the running like that, then to have the whole apparatus turn around and choose you is not an experience for the cowardly. Although the cowardly are so often the best recipient, because it’s such a surprise and there's something marvelous about existence in it: The ugly duckling becomes the swan! Or an old dumpsite the best site for the palace!

Our destiny, though, often turns out to be temporary, later growing up with trees and weeds and everything rots away, and someday someone shows up with a camera to document its at least temporary demise. But in Ms. Wiggins’ case, she still reigns as Empress of the World! She didn't slide from it in vanity! Yes, she had her doubts, but they went away, and she said, “If this is the way it’s gotta be…” She took it as an obligation, which grew into the realization day by day that her destiny was sweet, like buckets of candy you never grow tired of. Probably chocolate or peanut butter cups.

But for any one of us, you never know; the Empire might grow tired of you. In which case it’s best to stay humble, hoard your candy, and not take any riches for granted. Keep clipping coupons and pinching pennies. Because you might be right back in the same old spot, your good old life before the new life claimed you, and you'll need to get along with the same skills you had before. Easy come, easy go.

That's what happened in my life. I never got a big head, not too big, I kept the same size head it needed to be to fit through in the old shirts I saved. In Ms. Wiggins' case, she kept most of her old clothes, too, shorts, dresses, or whatever, from the previous realm, the backyard garden. And of course they're still stashed away as she still reigns in power as Empress, a very wise woman.

For many of us, Destiny's way seems like a lot of practical jokes and trickery. And wisely we never give in to it entirely.

My Personal Cheerleader

 

Part 26 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

With the strong emblem of self-esteem on my side (yesterday) and my self-esteem growing at a rapid pace, I want to consolidate my gains. Because if you haven’t got self-esteem, it’s hard to get. And once you get it you know the difference; you don’t want to lose it immediately. Any and all encouragement -- mostly of an inner origin -- is welcome and also does you an amazing amount of good.

You can consider your own best cheerleader! That’s certainly what I think anyway, the way it works. No one else knows your depths or heights. You alone know it, and need to get in there and stoke the fires, hold the fort, open things or keep things on lock-down, it all depends. Having some internal cheerleaders, imagined or with the faces, and more lasciviously, the great bodies of cheerleaders you’ve known in the past, helps greatly. (Except for Cindy Lou, my own memory of cheerleaders is vague and unusable, so I'm always thinking of a one-member squad.)

In terms of self-esteem, having it or losing it, things like Cindy Lou can be a good crutch, useful as that for a while but in the long run just another hindrance. The more quickly you veer from concrete cheerleaders into conceptual replacements, the better. I like masked images myself, because I might get tired of Cindy Lou's face. But like those old time African masks that tribal leaders used to wear, it's always interesting. Say your head is yea wide, yea tall, the average head size. The masks I’m recalling are about four times bigger than the head. And shaped more or less like a shield. Huge eyes, painted features, orangeish, brownish, maybe some yellow thatch design, and may as well throw in a small goatee on the point below the chin.

The whole communal scene would be good for me, which in my experience is best viewed in its stereotypical form. Scenes beyond the stereotype have too many moving parts to keep conjuring actual scenes on the fly, plus you’re worrying, “Is it stereotype? Is it not stereotype?” And obviously you’ve created for yourself a whole new raft of problems. This is true for all of life. Stick to the stereotype and you can’t go too far wrong. Stereotypes were set in place for a reason, because on the average they’re true. And we’re not looking for particulars, we’re not looking for lifelike portraits, we’re not looking for something to bolster some imaginary person’s ego. We’re looking for the life-giving assistance we need for our own self-esteem.

Fragile self-esteem has its own worries, there’s no dispute about that. Bring in, then, the stereotype, use it however you need to to raise your self-esteem. It could even be -- and this is advanced stuff, beware -- that ultimately you will pile all these help aids into a bit imaginary pile and make a soaring bonfire of it, standing back and out of the way so as not to get burnt yourself. When that moment comes for, be bold, be courageous and do it. Just, please, don’t do it prematurely. Because I’ve seen a lot of people live to regret it. “All my African masks (or whatever) are gone up in smoke and now I’m lost!” Be bold, yes, but also beware!

This post is dedicated to Cindy Lou, who married a real jerk.

Self-Esteem Thru The Ages

 

Part 21 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

That’s an interesting summary of a life poorly lived in terms of self-esteem, “That was a lie then, it’s a lie now.” When you're old, you may as well be honest. Frames it in one nasty little package, in perfect focus. Like Veni Vidi Vici, “I came, I saw, I itched.” And itching's good if it’s incidental, but bad if it’s constant since it only breaks the skin and makes you bleed, leading to infection.

Either one of those would be fitting for my final words, with the itching being not as bad in the fall when it’s easier to stay dry. So itching’s one problem, and fragile self-esteem’s another. And for self-esteem it doesn’t matter if it's summer, winter, whatever, it gets you down and keeps you down, whether you’re 3 or 303. The downside for me being, I haven’t even cracked 100 yet, so if I go through two more centuries of this crap, I'm not sure I'll make it.

Yet, as much as I admit the problem -- unlike some people, I didn’t ask to be born -- I refuse to do anything else about it. I wake up and if it’s there I go back to sleep. Which has an interesting side effect, the passing of time of course, but additionally the things that accrue, it’s mad. I didn’t open my birthday presents from my teen years till I woke up sometime around 24. Which meant I had a lot of catching up to do on model airplanes and cars. I still have some in unopened condition but their value's lower because of minor scuffing on the cellophane.

Then self-esteem also got mixed in with too much grieving. You wake from a coma and half your family’s dead; it affects you. I woke up in time for Christmas one year and was surprised how much room there was around the table. I can only say now, Don’t make that same mistake. On the bright side there was a lot more room around the table, elbow room, yes. But a downer was the food was reduced proportionately so the portions were the same or even less.

Then I had to catch up with emotional stuff, which was painful. “Did Grandpa have any last words for me?” I hung on their reply, figuring it’d be something tender, some last piece of advice for me, a lesson I’d never forget. His last words were indistinct gurgling, plus a cry for his childhood coon-hunting dog Jedekiah to come, “Yip, Jed!” I remember the old story from years before, how Jed got in with a skunk and got the skunk's spray. So Grandpa put out a coat and bar of soap for him and left. And Jed -- faithful Jed -- was there the next day waiting, good as new, having meticulously bathed overnight in a nearby creek.

O the things I missed! And part of me wishes it’d never happened. But once again there’s the bright side. My self-esteem was so fragile -- with the consistency of a fried cracker, easy to break and crumbling everywhere -- I couldn’t have stood it. If you have self-esteem like that, the absolute pits, sleeping or a coma's the best thing for you.

I'm Into Negative Lifelines

 

Part 11 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

So far I’ve clearly expressed the truth that my self-esteem is fragile and getting worse. The way it feels inside is … lots of jitters. I'm anxious all the time, ducking down so no one notices me, retreating to the back of the room, preferably the coat closet or somewhere to escape the staring eyes of others, always tempted to leave early or not show up at all.

Plus, I'm terrified someone might call attention to me, as in, “What was that strange thing you said the other day about ___?” Everyone turns to hear me, they’re smiling a bit, I break out in a sweat, I stumble out a few words before trembling like a snare drum, then end up throwing my apron over my head and running screaming from the room. The biggest thing I wonder about is why I'm wearing an apron.

I think I need a working buddy system, like on game shows where I get some lifelines before I'm completely booted out. Of course the problem with that is social settings aren’t game shows, which everyone knows is a game and they’re rooting for you. This is real life, and -- not to get too anxious -- you can’t really pause social settings to claim a lifeline without blowing yourself out of the water. Instant guilt.

So whatever lifelines I have need to be spent more surreptitiously. Like if I'm meeting someone, the conversation is extremely awkward -- my fears sabotage me as the rule, not the exception. I squint my eyes at a friend and that means, “I want to use a lifeline, meet me in the kitchen.” Where he chastises me for using a lifeline in the first five minutes. Then says, “You’re as good as anyone, stop worrying about wasting the world’s resources, you didn’t ask to be born.”

The friend adds, “If you’re paying attention to the conversation and not just your own insecurities, you’ll notice that the things others are saying aren’t exactly pearls of wisdom, but basic observations, ‘It’s hot at work,' 'The movie was bad,' and 'No, it’s not too hot in here.'" Even though I'm sweating through my underwear and telling myself I shouldn't feel sorry to be alive.

Anyway, I used up my last lifeline, all very regrettable. Then I was on the verge of making a scene and my friend saw my anxiety. I truly am a worm, so he accompanied me to the kitchen again:

“You’re now in negative lifelines, dude, this can’t go on. If you’re not happy, leave. If your self-esteem is that far in the toilet, you should probably avoid coming to parties. Yes, it’s going to look awkward if you get your coat from the bedroom already. What you should do is leave, then come back the next day and say you forgot it."

That’s pretty good advice, and imagine that, a bonus lifeline came through right when I needed it. I’m lucky like that.

Don't Play Dice With Death

Part 3 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

It's ridiculous. How anyone thinks they can play dice with Death and come out even. It's beyond me. Of course I respect Death and always avoid getting on his bad side, so believe me, some of this stuff you too can avoid. At least try! Don't just sit down for "a friendly game" or start wagering or you’ve already lost. Does Death come right out and tell you what you're in for? No, there's no full disclosure rules. To him it's sport and he gets his kicks at your expense. But I'll give you the only advice I know that does some good. That's resistance. Death usually moves on to someone else.

Most days I feel fairly free. I don't feel any huge compulsion in any regard. I'm consciously engaged, thinking on my own, sequentially thinking without troubles. But those who are dying, it's exactly like Death has them cornered, then they try to resist when it's too late. It's good to check yourself. What I do when thinking is I string a few random thoughts together and feel myself go on auto pilot, allowing myself a conscious/unconscious flurry of thoughts that leads nowhere in particular. I sense in that that my thinking is my own. But you can't settle on it, with your mind close to blank. You have to move back to ordinary thinking so you're not hijacked.

And that's it. Don't roll dice with Death, don't play games. Just walk away. Don’t play the game. Another bit of advice: Keep your calendar in a private place, especially if you have upcoming doctor appointments. Act healthy. Leave games for others, focusing on living a good life. I actually feel pretty well, so right now for me nothing's a threat. I'm not likely to have a heart attack right away. So things are pretty good.

Anyway, back to playing dice. I personally don't even know the rules for dice. It’s nothing I’ve ever played. I’ve rolled dice, like everyone. But just for games like Monopoly. Or to show myself, maybe, the way numbers work. There’s no particular sequence. Every number comes up at random as they turn in the air, roll across the table, and land. It's boring, not a "game" interesting enough to play.

But the guy in the bib overalls, Chester, has a sharp focus on the game at hand. He follows whatever the rules are, puts the dice in the can and shakes them to get a particularly good shake and then throws a completely unknown combination. Looking closely, he’s using three dice. So he has a lot of numbers to choose from, with each one apparently meaning something.

Obviously some numbers are more desirable than others, particularly in relation to what Death rolls. With his scythe at hand, he’s prepared to play the game and use it … if he wins. That seems fair. It’s not like he’s going out of turn and doesn’t have business in the vicinity. We have plenty of cemeteries around here, one big one just up the street. I go through there once in a while and look at the names and even pictures of people on their stones and the curious etchings. And you know what? About 90% have etched-in dice and a frown face! Now you know why.

Maybe that's where Chester got his concern. His old Dad died in 1975. His old Mom sometime too. Now he's throwing dice with Death himself and losing. Beads of sweat form on his brow, he starts to feel toasty under the arms, he might have to stand up and walk off the tightness in his overalls, which is really just the heat affecting fairly warm areas generated by the swinging and swaying of manhood still moist from a bath just this morning. Uncomfortable.

“Damn it,” Chester swears. “Damn it, not again!” he complains, with Death keeping a patient pose, a neutral display of equanimity, having all the time in the world. As if to say, “I’m in no hurry. I belong here. If anyone’s going away, it’s not me, no sir-ee-bob!”

At that moment Chester’s eyes are suddenly big as saucers. No one would ever think their eyes could be that big! But they're ginormous as he clutches his chest — heart attack! He cradles his head — aneurysm! He even grabs at his leg, what? Nasty bruise from bumping the bed frame! He prays, "Christ in Heaven, I’m dying here on three fronts!" That was Chester’s last thought, except for the sense in his heart that everything would still be OK. Suddenly he's found in angelic robes, his favorite overalls being replaced mystically just that fast, and he's adrift in the clouds, flapping his wings toward his heavenly home. That beautiful mystic sound clear and deliberate as a bell: "Flit, flit, flit."

Remember, friends, I'll never steer you wrong. But dice, those sons of bitches'll get you every time.

My Friend D— Died in a Terrible Accident

In my usual way of thinking I try to keep mortality out of my mind. I’m so used to living — it’s become a habit — I’m not thinking of dying. That said, the opposite is also true. I’m a walking precaution against dying. Like the nervous bird forever bobbing its head, watching for danger. The habit of survival. I swerve to miss a three-car pileup or sidestep a hole to not trip.

This is actually something you don’t want to think about a lot. Even if it’s not far from your mind. Because the more conscious you are of the process, the less reliably your defenses work in the background. It’s true. The more you consciously think of anything, the more you are consciously responsible. And background processes are very reliable. If we could go through life entirely unconscious and yet happy, we’d avoid the whole mess.

OK, since most of it’s delegated to unconscious processes, that leaves me consciously able to watch out for others’ safety. So I’m a warning-a-minute: “Watch out for that hole, someone’s following us, have you got your keys?," etc.

But I suddenly failed! Coming out of store with friend, D----, I turned my head for three seconds to check out the sale on bottled water, which I don't even drink, and even though I'd very recently warned her to look both ways, I let down my guard for three seconds, leading to a terrible end... When...

It wasn’t the driver’s fault. Unless the fact that he was going 45 mph in a dangerous parking lot is set at his bumper. No, despite my prior warning — was it a case of her being pigheaded? — she walked right into the truck’s path. But it couldn’t have been intentional, not the way she was protecting her sack of groceries. Clearly she meant to live at least long enough to eat a four-pack of yogurt; she didn’t mean to die before that.

Still, I can’t see any value in restricting cause and effect to the physical. There’s also the mental. She had bad habits, one of which was depending too much on me. Because I usually do give constant warnings. But you still gotta look at for yourself, Doris! What if you’d lived and I’d died? You would’ve died anyway if you couldn't wise up to danger. Did she deserve to get run over? She probably didn’t technically deserve it, but the jury’s still out on whether there was a moral verdict waiting for her to receive sooner or later. Still, who am I to dump on her? People make mistakes, they pay the piper.

It took me a couple days beating myself up to finally reconcile things; this wasn’t my fault. Get on with your life. Easy come, easy go. Another day, another dollar. Plus, I have to save my energy for the guy’s trial.

I hate to face the guy again, as much ragging on him I did. It wasn't a good picture of me, cussing him up one side and down the other. Blaming his passenger for distracting him, without evidence. And I even blamed his truck, an old fashioned model that you usually only see at garden centers, with the hood up and a bunch of flowers where the motor used to be. “What are you driving that rickety old piece of shit through the parking lot at 45 mph anyway, Stupid?!”

It took the police to calm me down. I was in a rage, lunging at the guy. And his stupid antique truck. What kind of tires are those? Model T’s?! The police calmed me down fast, Officer Rix pulling a gun and threatening to blow my brains out. He calmly explained, “Your friend was a complete klutz to get herself run over so stupidly.” Which of course I had to accept as true.

My own purchase that day was Neapolitan ice cream. Three flavors for the price of one. I meant for me and Doris to enjoy a bowl each, had only she lived. As it turned out, though, tragically, that meant two bowls for me. It’s a good way to drown your sorrows; eat more ice cream.

So ... one friend down, several friends left. Who really should listen to me more. Permit me, this is rough. ... Doris will never get another chance to do the right thing. She had to let her mind drift off who-knows-where, thinking, “I’m 100% safe, nothing can ever happen to me, my fate’s a long ways away, I’m young-ish, invulnerable-ish, I’ve got lots of plans for tomorrow,” etc. People like her are always making plans for tomorrow, completely unaware that the clutching hand of fate is already clamped tight around their neck.

But I definitely saw it. In the seconds after exiting the store and the screech of the tires and her scream, the sky was cloudy, ponderous, foreboding. But was it already too late for Doris? That’s for philosophers wiser than I to debate. She was definitely run over and by the time I got home my ice cream was softer than I like.

It made me think, God took my friend’s life to teach me an important lesson, which was probably “Look Out for Trucks,” which I already knew.

Chiseling Wives -- What Will She Steal Tonight?

I had to laugh when a dear friend recently told me of his terrible suspicions that his wife was chiseling him out of money. Certainly it’d be pocket change -- I don't know, there might've been bills, if I had to guess I'd say yes. I laughed because this is a problem that goes way back. I'm getting up there in age, and so many times when I was a kid I'd hear guys complaining about their chiseling wives. (I've had more than one offer, as an old man now, to record an oral history of the past. But it's so sad, every time I start in, I break down something fierce. So I restrict myself to articles here -- exposés? -- because if I start crying and it's just me I'm not quite as embarrassed.)

But I'm not embarrassed by what I'm going to call these gals: Damned chiseling women. OK, how you like them berries? Just calling it the way I see it, the way it is. Again, a story as old as the ages and a story as new as tomorrow, when, a'rising from what he thinks was a good night's sleep, there's a poor guy who's going to learn one of life's important lessons: You should definitely have had a vault, somewhere to keep your valuables. Otherwise -- it's sad but true -- you'll be wondering, What happened to X, Y, and Z? Then there she is, still fast asleep. Wonder why she always seems to sleep in? Could it be she was up half the night, chiseling, stealing, creatively nibbling around the edges of things to the point that ... oops, they're gone?

Then there's another case, which I can't vouch for, but I heard it from a friend, who himself heard it from a friend. If you ask me did I see it? No, I didn't. But if you ask me do I believe it? I'd have to say, Yes, I absolutely do. While it's brazen and for that reason barely believable, there's the aspect of performance art to it, and thus it's perhaps (wink wink) taken as a joke, so although it's done in front of a host of witnesses, it's not thrown in the groom's face by witnesses:

A couple was being married. He and she had written their own vows, and as they're repeating them, suddenly he's lightheaded and passes out. Right then, as part of the vows, she was supposed to vow not to chisel money or anything else from him, apparently as his mother had done against his father. So he passes out, that part of the service gets left out, and when he comes to moments later, the minister is pronouncing them husband and wife. Husbands naturally being tough-guys, he didn't say anything about the apparent lapse. (And the video was edited with footage from the rehearsal filling in the blanks.)

Next thing you know, his pockets were being rifled, change from the dresser was missing, and even a few old, very old, 1897 silver dollars his grandfather had given him were gone. Truth be told, his wife used them for bus fare! True story! But he refused to believe the facts, even though they were staring him in the face, until it was too late. One day he woke up and the bed was missing, and suddenly the evidence was unmistakable: She was a chiseler. Stealing everything in sight! Even his clothes. He went to work that day in nothing but a jock strap, and when he came home -- having had to work overtime as punishment for violating the company dress-code -- the house was gone! (To her credit, the wallpaper was neatly rolled up and waiting for him on the curb.)

My personal recommendation would be, Don't jump into a marriage you may regret. Get to know the woman. Listen and observe carefully. Does she seem to be overly materialistic? When she's at your home, is she carrying a clipboard and does she seem to be taking inventory more often and more diligently than would be normal for insurance purposes? Does she seem to have rental agreements lying about for warehouse properties? Does she have an all-consuming interest in online auction sites? Have you overheard her pricing major railroad shipments? The picture she gave you and you kept on your bed stand, does it have both a front and side view? These are telltale signs worth noting.

OK, here's one of my throwback stories from a long time ago, 1970-71, about a guy I knew named Mr. Stanley. I'm withholding his first name. I don't want any trouble from his heirs. Mr. Stanley married, then woke up one night to find that his wife was a chiseler. She was rifling through his pockets. With the worst thing about her habit, sometime along the way she made off with his valuable pocket watch that he had from when he worked on the railroad. Long story short, their marriage was over. Whether he ever got the watch back, I'm just going to say he didn't. Otherwise, why would he have still been so pissed? And why did he lapse from English to complete horseshit gibberish every time he spoke of her?

Be careful, guys. Sleep with your eyes open -- one eye at least -- if you can.

Newsletter -- 3-Day Stubble

LOVE ANTICS -- Every household has their little jokes. It's no different for me and my husband the Pink Professor. We're something of friendly rivals when it comes to working, always playfully arguing which one works hardest. I strut around the room, my head pushed back, sort of like a drum majorette on the march, going, "I be the hardest worker!" Then he leaps up and falls back suddenly to his chair, going, "I've been working so hard I can't even stand up, at least you're still fit to strut!"

That's the way a marriage should be, am I right? It's not all seriousness and "How was your day, dear?" Little love antics along with friendly competition, being strong for each other and each other's biggest fan, but still wanting some advantage for yourself, as in, "Look at me, dog, I am bad!" Woo hoo! I haven't been this cranked since that time I drank a Mountain Dew in the '80s. But this guy, Pink, simply always brings out the devil in me. OK, a blushing devil, since as everyone knows, I'm fundamentally good.

OK, hard work was the subject. And I've been putting in some of the longest damned hours of my life. Working on my newsletter project, the newsletter I hope to get going, to be sent out via email to subscribers, and as an adjunct to the blog. In it, I promise, there will be lots of juicy tidbits about me and Pink. Just a sample, I was working up an advice column, with fake questions, but general stuff everyone gets caught up in, using some of the things we've been through to guide me in my advice.

One biggie, usually quite hush-hush in most relationships, has to be, "Who initiates?" and "What response should the other partner then make? Is there any obligation?" Of course, one believes if it's obligatory, strictly speaking, that's no good, because in any relationship there has to be free choice or you're as good as a slave. Still, to a certain extent, depending on various factors, there indeed is an expectation that there will be some mutual follow-through. The best example I have is this: If Pink initiates the idea that we grill dinner, I don't have to agree with his choice, but if I don't follow-through on it at least occasionally I should have a good reason.

OK, that shows I've been working hard, and I doesn't show any sign of letting up. And here's the thing, I've been working so hard that I neglected my hygiene and appearance. As of this morning, I hadn't had a shower in three days, I had on the same undies and shirt and pants, and I hadn't shaved. I literally had the worst three-day stubble of my life. That's how much effort the newsletter's getting from me. It's been all-consuming.

So as horseplay, Pink comes out this morning and sees my disgusting appearance and acts like he doesn't recognize me. "Have you see DBK, my clean-shaven hubby?" Then he laughs and says, "I always wondered what you'd look like with a beard!" "It's not a beard," I protested, "but a three-day stubble that looks more like a week's!" Pink, ever the playful one, says, "Whatever it is, it's butt ugly and you need to take care of yourself, OK?" Was I hurt? No, I just laughed, and we fell into each other's arms, and, believe it or not, we did grill a little earlier, burgers and a few chicken legs. I didn't have a "headache," which would've been very convincing, given the heat.

SUBSCRIPTIONS -- I am serious about the newsletter. I want people to subscribe but I don't want them to UNsubscribe. Nothing brings me down faster in my relationship with my readers -- complete strangers -- than when they rudely turn away. I used to have a bunch of faithful followers on Facebook. They were all, "Attaboy, we love you," etc., then one by one they fell away. I don't know what changed, although I suspect they were lured away by someone in disguise.

THREE-DAYS -- It's funny I haven't published the newsletter for three days now. Giving me time, as it were, to have regrown my three-day stubble (as everything above this paragraph was written three days ago). Although I didn't, instead remaining clean shaven. The true reason I haven't been around is, I went to the cellar for preserves and, finding none, kept looking.

Go Whole Hog!

My family's philosophy when I grew up was, Anything worth doing is worth doing whole hog. Go long, go deep, or go home. Lukewarm doesn't cut it, we'll spew you out of our mouth.

Now I'm old, and kids come to me for advice. (It's true, here and there you find stragglers.) And I tell them, much like Joseph Campbell's "Follow your bliss," whatever it is, go whole hog! They look at me, with doubt in their big innocent Walter Keane eyes. But I get a stern look on my face, and in my agitation point toward the door, snarling, "Now!"

I've been going whole hog all my life, and except for the dangers of always being ALL IN, it's been a fairly good ride.

But, let me say, I used to have a secret grudge against some in my family. Even though we believed in going whole hog -- and this is literal -- I'd still catch them buying half an animal. Know what I mean? That's one of three things: Shortsightedness, absentmindedness, or hypocrisy. I don't think it was hypocrisy, because they still went whole hog in everything else.

I'd think, "What's the use of buying half a hog or beef? Especially if it means letting the other half go to waste. Buy the whole thing!" And lockers back then were meant to handle the whole thing. These were people who went through the Depression. When times were good they built meat lockers like you wouldn't believe, the size of football fields.

In more recent years, though, as you'd probably guess, some of our sicklier friends stopped eating vast quantities of meat, and that didn't help. Guys at the locker threw up their hands and went out of business. The enormous freezer units were pulled out -- electricity also went up, taxes went up on the larger buildings, etc. Leading me to one conclusion: Life is nothing but a big conspiracy to screw us out of decent sized meat lockers.

There were still folks who needed lockers -- thank God -- but they had to do with smaller ones. My family, I regret to repeat, had a part in this devolution, buying half an animal when a full animal would've been better.

You never know what your actions might be if you don't go whole hog. But I've seen it happen. That's one of the benefits of old age. The wisdom of going whole hog. The chief detriment is they think you're crazy, depriving themselves.

A long-haired (bald on top) guy marches around the square with a protest sign, "Buy the whole animal." But across the lawn, a bunch of PETA women are stripped naked and painted like tigers. You tell me, who draws the crowd? The old man can do nothing but go home in tears. That, and prepare himself for even smaller lockers. Tell you what I'll do, I'll double down on buying personal freezers, energy crisis be damned!

Sorry I went on and on about it. There's very few things I care passionately about; meat lockers just happens to be one of them.

Anyway, people come to me. And that's what I say, Go whole hog. The ironic thing is, I myself have never ventured very far from my old comfort zone. But when I chose this path, I went whole hog. And so here I've been, in my comfort zone, at my grandparents' old place, vegetating and chilling, chilling and vegetating, but always doing it, strictly, whole hog.

People in Chains

At the risk of inflaming an already troubled world, I have a few comments to make. Further, I know I am putting this blog and my reputation at risk as well. For I have very sensitive readers, most of whom have told me time and time again that anything that rocks the boat doesn't sit well with them. In other words, they've threatened to "hit the doors" if I ever say anything evenly the slightest bit controversial, in anger and rage abandoning me out of revenge.

But I shall be bold. I've weighed all the different factors -- and others I'm too afraid to list -- and have decided, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." If my readers, precious in my sight though they be, are so super sensitive, so supercilious, to anything that even might rock their world, and however slightly at that, are they really worth having? In that case I'm as much in chains as the poor folks seen in my illustration.

Anyway, being bold, here's my sincere contention, Everyone's got something going on, some problem, let's say, something that's holding them down. It may be a complex, a behavior, a predisposition, a habit, or longings, not yet acted on but enslaving them every bit as much. I will simply lay it on the line: I feel sympathy for them and want their lives to be better, to enhance them as much as I can, if I can.

I will make a few comments on each one, expressing myself in sympathy and grace, thankful that it's not me, for There but for the grace of God go I.

Let's go left to right. The older lady's chain is LUST. I've known several people on the chain of lust, true story. They're always on the make, sniffing the air for whatever opportunities there might be to get their jollies. As I'm given to understand, lust is a terrible taskmaster, capturing first your attention, then keeping you firmly on the hook until you've gone the full mile demanded. For the lady here, as sad as it is to say, there's no turning back. She will either grab the guy next to her, RUDE as he is, or the PRIGGISH guy. Who, being PRIGGISH, might put up quite a fight.

Then there is RUDE. I really hate it when people are RUDE. Their biggest thing is they've given up on human sympathy. See the connection? If you have sympathy for other folks, you will bend over backwards to understand them and to accommodate them. But being RUDE is to show a lack of sympathy, showing itself by acting mean. Have I ever been RUDE to someone? This is something that, yes, I have done. But my sympathy is such that it's never gone on for long. I get over it very fast.

PRIGGISH.  I've actually been accused before of being PRIGGISH ... because I believe in clean living and I don't allow blue material on my blog. Me PRIGGISH? Ha! Let me say I'm a little turned on by the lady in the pink dress. The little BORED kid looks like she could almost be my daughter -- if Pink and me got married, then did it, 40 years ago when I was young. I see she's MOODY, which can be good, if she's clawing cat MOODY.

HELLION - All boys are potentially little HELLIONS. I used to be a boy, and still use the HELLION attitude as a boy does. But it's never misbehavior, or used in being RUDE. I'm not a vandal or anything like that. I use the HELLION nature if I need the confidence to do something, like jump over a creek, climb over rocks and boulders, something hard. I think "I'm a boy!" and dive right in, fighting and going at it like a tornado.

MOODY - As said above, I like a certain amount of moodiness. It gets old, though, if it's constant. Variety is the spice of life. Mix your sullenness with good cheer, grumpiness with bubblyness. Keep me guessing, but not so much that I'm perplexed.

BORED - Little girl, why would you be bored? You have your whole life ahead of you. You know next to nothing about anything. Everyday should be a day of excited discovery for you. I want to see you bouncing around, going from one project to the next. Let's set you up with finger painting activities, kite flying, origami, reading cool books at the library, and going to various fun outings -- touring museums, theme parks, and going on trail rides. As for theme parks, though, I'm BORED by them, so I'd skip that. 

She's Cute ... He's Handsome ... Stop! Don't Do It!

This is just the kind of argument you want to get into ...

You caught her fair and square, bald-faced, lying, red-handed, in the act, in flagrante delicto, as it were. You had her right where you wanted, names, dates, suspicious comings and goings. This would be your big chance to be rid of her, no questions asked. No one could blame you.

Then -- you should have known -- as sure as the sun doth rise, she has the names and dates, and suspicious comings and goings of you as well. A little tit for tat, what's good for the goose is good for the gander, or vice versa. You tried to avoid that infernal lipstick! Proving to yourself once and for all, there's no fool like an old fool!

It's the same old story, times two. You're out and about, you catch an eye, an eye catches you, then there's a smile and an exciting closeness. It's a crowded room, pretty dark, you can duck through this curtain and out this door, the back door, and find a booth somewhere. No one's looking, you think. In this whole big world, surely you can duck scrutiny for a paltry hour; you've been around, you see people, they're out of sight in a flash.

But there's always some little thing. Someone crossing the street the opposite way, catching a glance, noticing something out of place, a slightly different person on your arm. But they don't say anything, don't greet you, and maybe turn their head to look the other way. Saving their kind attentions for later, the gossip mill.

She, however, was very discrete, coming up with one excuse after another for her absences. Doctor appointments, visiting a sick friend, Christmas shopping in July, having her dress mended. But you started thinking, Something's going on. And decided to call in a private detective for answers.

He tailed her, but good. She wasn't so secure she didn't look behind her and around. But she kept right on going, not noticing him. Then the assignation, a dark stairwell, a key to the door. Their meeting went well, such as it was. The detective was back with the details within the hour. Now to confront her! And be done with it!

She was ready, though, the evidence she has against you bringing out an added brazenness. This is why she had no shame!

Fortunately, friends, the above scenario is fictional. The very sad people in the illustration, just actors, helped me make a point. The point being, if you haven't yet crossed that line -- and there has to be a few of you who've thus far held back -- there's still hope for your relationship. You may seriously think you've lost the fire as a couple, but it's very likely that's just a deception. Because whatever it was a long time ago, the mutual attraction that brought you together, isn't dead. Much more likely, you've simply set it aside, by neglect, or from a lack of imagination. The old fire's still there, present somewhere, just waiting to be rekindled.

I've had friends who've crossed that line, and I've kept their confidence, only because they're my friends. But I know they're miserable. Had they only come to me before it happened -- this goes for male and female -- I would've told them, "Don't do it!" In my favor I would've brought out the old truth, "The grass always looks greener on the other side of the fence." I would've then lead them through a few questions -- delving into their thinking -- before emptying a pitcher of iced water in their lap. They'd have come up cussing me, obviously, but when they got hold of themselves, they'd have thanked me.

It's too late for them now, many of them, but that doesn't mean it's too late for you. Let's say you're getting ready to go right now. But somehow (Who knows how it happens, but thank God it does!) you found your way to this blog -- a very popular blog, yes, but still obscure enough that you basically need divine guidance to find it -- and you're reading this post, and it's hitting you like a ton of bricks. You're saying to yourself: "Yes, yes ... just the word I needed, as within the hour -- or maybe even sooner -- I was planning to throw it all away with some hot little floozy [or tall, dark, handsome paramour with a pencil-thin mustache, smoking a Swisher's Sweet, very sexy.]"

It's fantastic news to me to know now that I had some little part in changing your plans. And that you've decided to take another look at your mate, your partner over all these years. She ain't so bad, is she? He's still pretty cool, isn't he? You look up, you look at each other, there's a meaningful look, a glance, and a sly smile.

Forget everything else! Take your pill and fill the tubs in the backyard! Maybe you can make it before sundown!

You're 61? What's Your Secret?

Isn't that something? Me, an old man? Yes, it's true, I am 61, extremely old. But it's not so bad. Except for the sore knees, being a little more tired with each day, the slow shuffling along, my crackling, tentative voice, and the increasing difficulty of every other aspect of life, it's the same as 16. I suppose all that sounds like a terrible challenge, but when it gets too much my head clouds up and in confusion I simply pass out and so I never really know the difference. Actually a pleasurable feeling, except at major intersections. "Honk! Honk!"

The key thing to remember about old age -- and 61 is indeed a ripe old age -- is that you haven't got any choice, unless you simply die. Which, despite the massive failures of every aspect of my being, I won't do, not till I'm 85. That conviction was hammered in my head by revelation, and I keep repeating it everyday, every time I feel like I might just physically drop, "You're not 85 yet! Try, damn it, try to keep your face out of your soup." 85? That sounds like a long time to wait, but every second is one second closer to all of it ending. Old age makes you more philosophical like that. And cheerful.

Once in a while, and this is happening more and more often, some young buck or doe asks me the secret to my enormous longevity. Of course I don't have any big secrets to it. The same as other guys: Clean living (with everything failing, what else can I do?), watch lots of TV, exercise little, in times of sentience gorge myself on bacon, gallons of Tabasco on food and food byproducts, and writing this precious blog. I get a lot of encouragement from my readers: "You're not so old; I had an uncle who was 63 when he died," was one especially thoughtful comment. I figure that on my fingers and it's very close to 61.

The ones I like are the kids I know, who ask, in their own little words -- and let me do a little interpretative rewording on my part to make it sound like actual English -- simple little questions like, "Tell us, kind sir, as you approach your well-deserved dotage, what exactly is the true secret to your great longevity?" They ask it, then tip over my walker and rush on to the next thing; they don't really care. Have you noticed that about kids today? They're off to the next thing, always rush, rush, rush. It ages me just to watch them. They're like a blur; I can make out an occasional color of clothing, a shirt sleeve, perhaps, and the rest is lost.

If, however, those kids really took the time, like for a school project, like we used to have to do, before everything was computerized and push button, to interview "the old man," I'm sure they'd get an A. Because I'd give them a politically-correct, socially-correct, and educationally-correct answer. After telling them that in my opinion I'm not really that old, since I've known plenty of much older people in my life, I would gather them together and say, "It's like this..."

And this is where the teaching would come in: 1) Keep physically and mentally fit -- Study the remote before pushing it; 2) Do the things you love, within reason and most laws; 3) Eat your vegetables and fruit, canned of course; 4) Stay on good terms with those around you -- you never know when you might need help getting up; and, 5) Watch your regularity, which means a conflict with a few of the fruits, or just add prunes--- Then I look up and they've been gone for the last 20 minutes. Off cutting down a plum tree and destroying the rest of the environment.

Still, even without the little varmints, those are the correct answers. I'm shouting, but no one can hear me. My hearing's going too ... 61!  --Sigh--. I'll review the list. 1) I need to work on the physical and mental stuff, now more than ever. I'll do that tomorrow. 2) I try to "do the things I love," which I will get to next week. 3) My diet's terrible, probably. Add more bacon. 4) I'm normally on good terms with people, as much as it depends on me. When I'm mad, I just shake my cane and they laugh. 5) As for regularity, OK, excuse me, I'll be back in an hour.

Kids. They'll get theirs, again shaking my cane a bit. Of course they're not interested in this stuff, they're a long ways from 61.

Celebrity Deaths -- If Only I'd Been There!

Famous people with their huge problems have always been off limits to us common folks. So it seems that they develop huge problems and die, whether by their own hand or another. I always think the same thing: "If only I'd been there!"

Because my philosophy has always been, People are people. What's good for one's good for another. One size fits all. And I've always been good at this sort of thing -- not to toot my own horn but just to state the facts. If only I'd been there, frankly, it's bloody hell likely they would've made it through. Not to put too fine a point on it.

I remember thinking this when Elvis was in his downward spiral, expressed in one of his last songs, "Way Down," his last single before his death. My thought went something like this, "The guy's in the grips of Death ... sure wish I could be there!" But of course, you know how it goes, he had lots of hangers-on and it would've taken some doing for me to get in.

Too bad. Because with my natural talents of talking anyone down, if they're able to think at all -- I'm no good with human vegetables -- I'm sure he'd still be recording today. I'm able to do this because I'm super friendly, very competent and empathetic, and able to contextualize the truths of life for the individual. Pretty good, huh? In a way -- and this is my biggest secret -- I'm really only channeling the female forebears of my family, Mom and Grandma, who had social skills that didn't quit.

Going way back, back before I had any idea about any of this, I probably could've helped Judy Garland. She was still alive when I was a budding kid, but I didn't know much about my abilities. I was a little too young and stupid. But let's say they had explained the issue to me, and opened the door, and explained to me who she was, the kid from the Wizard of Oz, I probably could've helped.

Since then, many crises have come and gone, demanding but not receiving my counsel. I won't mention the lesser lights because of their families' continued grief. But I can think of writers, politicians, and movie stars that I could've helped. Of course there's a huge name, Michael Jackson, not a lesser light. He needed a lot of help, all along the way, which I would've been happy to provide. But in his case, it being a matter of years, I might've needed a job in the same town. Or, who knows, I might've cleared him up right away and gotten back home right away.

OK, I can't help Michael now, or Elvis, or Judy, but there's plenty of celebrities in trouble today. I read the Huffington Post, so I know. Whether they'll contact me or not, that I don't know. I only know that if they did, it would only benefit them.

It'd be nice to be known, not for my own benefit or ego, of course, but for of the positive good I could be doing. Some famous person – maybe an actor, singer, a writer, someone in despair – wouldn't have to linger but could simply say, "What about that guy with the blog? Get him!" Then I would take a few days off, go there and get everything worked out. Everyone would be happy. Everyone would win.

Pointers For The Next Ricin-Attacking Idiot

We've had a couple of cases just recently of idiots "allegedly" sending ricin in letters to the president and other government officials.

We know this much about it: 1) Someone sends the ricin; and, 2) They have a person of interest in about the time it takes to gargle. The SWAT team breaks down the door and you suddenly realize, "My life's over."

And yet -- Oh, how you can picture them rubbing their hands earlier in sinister delight -- it's obviously the perfect crime ... No one will ever know! All you have to do is buy the beans on eBay in your own name and have them shipped to your own address. Then you grind them (I guess) and have traces of the powder everywhere. Then you mail it, getting tricky here, from the mailbox down the street. Then all you have to do is lay back and picture the president getting up and hustling out to the mailbox, somewhere there at the curb next to the White House. He's like, "Hmm, something about this mail smells weird, sniff-sniff ..." And that's it!

The perfect crime? In case you haven't been keeping up, law enforcement has everything at their disposal. Did you catch the word I used: They have everything at their disposal. Even if you use the mailbox on the other side of town, they're going to nail you. Even if you spell your name backwards on the return address, they're going to know it was you. In fact, that's the first thing investigators do. They hold things up to the mirror to see if you wrote it backwards. They know how to find evidence. And the president's never going to see your letter.

Seriously, folks, you really have this image of the president running out to get his own mail? Maybe Abraham Lincoln did it like that, I don't know. We know security was very lax back in those days. But it certainly hasn't been done since. I think it's even been very well publicized that they have big mail sorting places around Washington, D.C., or somewhere, for the president's mail and that of Congress. By the time they get the mail, it's been cleared. And perhaps everything is photocopied before it gets to them, so there's not even the slightest threat of anything getting through. I know that's how I'd do it if I had anything to do with security. Then if underlings were dropping dead -- like the old food tasters kings had -- we'd see the wisdom of our caution.

So the biggest pointer is: If you think what you're doing is a worthwhile thing, think again. If you're really so troubled, get a stick and a cardboard box and go to the backyard and whack it. Or if that's too violent for you, take a deep breath, count to 10, and be thankful you won't have to spend the next 40 years in prison. Go gargle in peace, knowing the SWAT team isn't right outside.

Words Of Advice

I'm old enough now to be able to give good, serious advice to younger people. Whatever it is, I've been there, done that. In general, I know what works and what doesn't. I know what regrets are all about and what you need to do to have fewer of them.

When you're young, it's not always obvious to you what all possibilities you have. Mom and Dad are there trying to make things safe for you. They have good reasons for you to play it safe, because all kinds of terrible things can happen. Maybe they want you to fit in the family mold and carry on for them.

Plus, you simply don't know all your possibilities because no one's told you. Well, I can't tell you either, because the possibilities are so vast, everyone's got to see them and imagine them for themselves. It's enough to say, If you think your possibilities are really limited, chances are you're wrong. Because you can launch out and do all kinds of things.

I have this in mind because we've gone out for breakfast and had the same waitress a couple weeks in a row. She's come by the table and talked about more than our order, like what she might do. She's living at home, at her parents' place. Grandma and Grandpa live in the same town and they want her to move in the trailer with them. But she might like to move away and do something else...

It seems like I told her last week she ought to "Go for it." I can't remember if I did or not, but that would be my usual advice if I happened to be in the advice-giving mood.

Really, though, it's OK to stay in your town, just stay wherever you are, if you're happy with that. Like it says in the Tao Te Ching (and is quoted in a Beatles' song), "Without going out of your door, you can know the ways of heaven." It's somewhere near the end of the book, that the people in this one place never need to go anywhere. They never even visit the town nearby. I believe I know what that means. Everything is the exact same in terms of the Tao.

But practically speaking -- and I don't like the sound of that phrase entirely, because practicality isn't always the way to live -- you don't know that your life's happiness is going to be found in your own backyard. You might need to get out and go to school. You might be better off traveling, seeing new things, etc.

The advice that really came to me, which I didn't say, is the most famous thing Joseph Campbell ever said, which is, "Follow your bliss." Look it up, it's an interesting concept. It's different from crawling in a hole, covering yourself, and hoping to die, a lot different.

Then I thought, I don't want to have to tell her, "Follow your bliss." Because how am I going to explain that without my eggs getting cold? And you really don't want to seem too profound, because how are you going to be a regular customer next week?

My Daddy's Advice

I had a sudden flashback today when I was taking the garbage out, of my dear Daddy and his sage advice.

First, let me say, this has been a long time coming. I've been trying to be very economical, so when it comes to the trash, I want to use the big plastic bags as much as I reasonably can. It gets to a certain level, and anyone would immediately tie it up and haul it out. But because I'm trying to get economical, I get up there with my foot and press it down tighter. That frees up space to keep putting more stuff in it, banana peels, used paper towels, and other crap, coffee grounds, etc.

I have to confess, I think about the bacteria on the bottom of my shoe. But no one's dropping dead, so it must not be that bad. I forget about it and go on with my business, knowing that I'm saving money in the long run, the more garbage I can fit into one bag.

Anyway, getting back to my Daddy. He's gone now, so I'm left all alone to carry on as best I can. But fortunately he talked to me over the years and let me know the things I'd need to know...

So I was thinking of him today as I got up over the trash and tried to compress it further down. It wouldn't budge, meaning it was as compact as it was going to get. It was time to change the bag and take this one out.

My Daddy's words came back to me, traveling over the years once again into my consciousness. Sitting on his knee, I heard him once again: "Son, someday you'll be a man, as old as me. And I won't be there to tell you what to do. You'll be all grown up and on your own. So I'm going to need to tell you right now what to do, so that when you're on your own, you won't lose your way."

I always gave close attention to his teaching, and now I'm glad I did. "Son, someday when you're filling up trash bags, there's some things you need to know." I remember this all so clearly, because I remember cutting him off with my childish protests, "Daddy, it'll never happen. You'll always be with me. You'll always be there to take care of the trash."

He put a gentle finger to my lips, to silence me, and I remember seeing a tear in his eye. "Hush, young one," he said with unlimited patience. My lip started to quiver as I realized he wasn't just "funnin' me." The old codger was serious. "Let me speak. I might drop dead right now." Then he told me, "When you're filling trash bags, press it down very tightly, as much as you can. You'll save money that way, money that may come in handy for other things you might want."

This was a long time ago, but I remember it like it was tomorrow.