Newsletter -- A Sacred Trust

INTRO - I've been kicking around the idea of getting my newsletter started again. It seems like there's no excitement like newsletter excitement. You're always rubbing someone the wrong way: "How dare you put that into print!" (There's always an email version, too, for those who don't like the sensitive nature of gossip in print.)

HISTORY - My newsletters actually go back to 1971 or '72, when I distributed one in my neighborhood, printing it on a Hectograph. In more modern times I briefly published in the early days of this blog, 2008. When I had the bright idea of real-life meetings. Which, incidentally, was how I made a lasting friend, Garrett Al (aka Geritol and Jor-el). But in those days he was a maniac and sexually assaulted me, so it wasn't all good. We're OK now.

NEWS - One of the pluses to subscribing is the newsletter is it's a great place to get news of me and the ideas I'm kicking around. You get insights into the creative process, including some of my strange meditation techniques, some of them so dangerous I should probably only hint at them. I was being chased by demons when this newsletter idea came to me.

SUBSCRIBING - I need to offer one big hint on unsubscribing, with the basic message about it being DON'T. When someone tries to unsubscribe it really gets to me. It's not pleasant and I can't be held responsible for my actions. The last time it happened I held my breath and ended up so blue I had to go in for painful skin-dying. You wouldn't want to unsubscribe anyway because you'd miss out on all the news of me, the ideas I'm kicking around, etc. In conclusion, I consider a subscription to my newsletter a sacred trust. With something like that, your eternal security could hang in the balance.

MY TRAVELS - Something I like putting in my newsletter is a record of my travels in the community. Which part of town will I be in today? Only subscribers know! Will I be at DQ? Perhaps. I've been a lifelong fan of DQ ever since I heard of it. How far back would that be? I wrote about it in my early '70s newsletters. I had an article about their banana splits being 40 cents. Then 45 cents! That's the day my life ended (the first time), when they raised the price. Now they're $3.39, a good bargain.

PEPPERING - I may even pepper my newsletters with a feature called OLD NEWS, snippets here and there of old memories, that are enhanced in their interest by the passage of time. One item of OLD NEWS I can think of right now concerns how much I would daydream when I was a kid. I used to sit in my room and stare at the air itself! I'd watch dust motes floating in the sunlight for hours, then feel sad when I had to leave them. Now, even though it's been over 50 years, I still sometimes wonder what ever became of those old friends. 

If These Walls Could Talk

IMAGINARY STORY--

I was sitting in my hotel suite/office, staring at the wallpaper. Have you ever done this? I used to do it when I was a kid. I was always perplexed how wallpaper designers could match up the patterns so well. It was mesmerizing.

Being mesmerizing, it's easy to get lost in a reverie. That also happened when I was a kid. My mind would go almost blank very easily. As an adult, it's harder to do it now, to really concentrate, like what you aim for in meditation. I've had various theories as to why that is, mostly involving being old and not a child, being burdened with more responsibilities, having a brain differently developed, etc. But now I suddenly realize, it's because we just don't have as much wallpaper now. We need more wallpaper!

I like a good wall. Who doesn't? Although you never know what's going on behind it. Since I turned to a life of crime, I've been more and more paranoid about walls. Because how am I supposed to know-- the feds, the state police, the local authorities, or just a lone dick, might be back there. I have the place swept everyday with a bug sweeper, but the bug sweeper might be sweeping with the enemy.

And God knows I'm guilty of enough crimes! It'd be an insult if they weren't at least trying to listen in. Right now, sure, all I really am is the head of the Organization's prostitution operations, but that doesn't mean I don't poke my nose into everything else I get a whiff of. I lead the big diamond heist, I tried to corrupt professional wrestling, I killed the Ciggie outside of Tastee Freez, and the kid crapped on the police chief's desk at my instigation. Not a bad month's work!

I stare at the wall. The whole reverie thing kicks in. My eyes cross and I see the pattern of the wallpaper merge, a piece from over there with the identical piece over there. It's playing tricks with my eyes, my mind wanders. I start thinking, "If these walls could talk," as the old saying goes, "what might they be saying?" I might be out on a job and an investigator drops in. I come in and catch him, and I have no idea how long they've been chatting. One of my pictures is crooked, indicating something.

Next thing I know, someone higher up shows up with a warrant, and I'm very twitchy, looking guilty as hell, but really more afraid of what the wall might say. "I was standing right here when Machine Gun Ricky Wayward was blackmailing Rutledge!" The thought's crazy, but in my reverie I'm thinking, "I'll kill you, and I'll kill this entire room if you open your damned mouth!" Finally, they do get me, but there's no witnesses, at least none in the flesh. And yet, the prosecutor brings in a surprise witness, a chunk of my wall, swearing to tell the whole truth. The whole truth! That'd sink me!

I realize what I must do. I must get construction workers in here and take out that damned wall and put in a new one, one that's soundproof. When that's done, only then can I plot and plan and do whatever the hell I want, and nobody will be the wiser.

And -- I'll be able to idle away the hours with my guitar and harmonica, knowing no one can hear me. Because I'm so bad it's embarrassing.

RICKY'S FINAL WORD: I'm really glad the foregoing -- what you read, and will probably re-read -- is an imaginary story. It would be an obvious bastard, not just to me but the entire world, if our walls could actually talk. I really didn't want to get into my own sex life, but other than my crimes, of course that's the first thing I think of. And if the walls could talk! Whoa, Nelly, bar the gate! They'd be describing things best left even out of the imagination. A mental group grope, perhaps, I'm not saying what all it'd be, except it wouldn't be a description I'd be proud of. Struttin' my stuff, such as it is.