Dear Earth Souls Of The Past

 

Part 18 of 30

Paranoia

I had a great time finding and arranging faces of all these dear earth souls from the past. I went back far enough, I think, that no one today will be able to say, “Yeah, I knew him personally, quite the guy.” And certainly they were remarkable persons at some point, but they’ve made the passage -- the old ticker fizzled out -- and if they’re conscious at all, it’s merely the huge ultimate amalgam of confused, indistinct non-specific Consciousness with a big C. Happening automatically by eternal life abilities, flitting about in the afterlife.

The hopes and dreams they had -- and the fears and heart-crushing paranoia they experienced -- are all past. Of course there’s people in our world today, and this is true for many generations to come, who are related in some way to most of them. A little research and you’d find great connections and be able to say, “This guy on the left with the stereotypical Old West mustache, my own nephew takes after him.” Or the three-headed lady bottom left, “Spittin’ images of my three-headed cousin! Who always hated the jibe, “Hey, Six Eyes!” Wonder what she had “where it counts,” going at it in shifts or just one hodge-podge V-V-Vector of mutual pleasure, and perhaps inspiring the first utterance of the now common question, “Was it good for you?”

Then there’s the other end of the spectrum -- undefined -- “Death Grips Great Mind.” Looks more like the kind of personality who would be coexisting with Old Man Bitter Paranoia himself. And if there’s any death gripping, it’s his hands around someone’s neck, gripping the very life out of them. The kind of guy I like to avoid, although I might brag a little on myself and say I have a few psychological trips up my sleeve that have allowed me to withstand more than one mass murderer. My trick is based on the story “Three Billy Goats Gruff.” The perp gets his filthy hands around my scrawny, completely worthless neck and I open my eyes wide the other direction, exclaiming, “Look at guy over there so much plumper than I! I’ll bet he’d be funner to kill, you could pop him like a pimple...” And there he goes while I’m ducking out, exit stage left. I have a deal with paranoia that allows me to run really fast. I chop the air in front of me to cut down resistance, and going 30 mph, in an hour I’m 20 miles away, only seldom having stopped to catch my breath or pee.

The nude woman next to the dartboard, I’ll just mention her in passing. Whatever you may have heard, she and I have never been anything more than friends. She showed up at my place once only, buck naked, doe naked, fawn naked, the works. I was overwhelmed with paranoia of a different brand from two voices, the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. Strangely, the angel said go for it. But the devil said, “Don’t you dare!” That’s a dilemma! But I’ve been paranoid so long I even have a paranoia diploma and knew in this case the devil was right. The angel has a quota, trying to off as many people as possible to fill heaven with cheat grunt labor, those too sick to resist. But the devil knows if you keep your health, he might end up with a healthy soul to torment, a worst fate.

In this case, I resisted her charms, which I always do. I already know I’m going to heaven, so I didn’t fall for the devil’s selfish schemes. I’ve always been a fast typist and my heavenly reward is to type and retype huge lists of the worthy and the trash among us. Get on my good side and you might be something. Paranoia of a very rewarding sort.

A Piece of My Soul in San Francisco

"Big blimps billow blissfully," I told myself last night as I tried to fall asleep. The galley slaves had climbed up into their quarters; without their rowing, of course, we couldn't make the same progress, but their argument was, 'We have to sleep, too.'

I lay awake on my cot, thinking of the weird confluence of past and present afoot in these strange days. We had narrowed it down to this fact, that the piece of my soul that I'd lost in San Francisco in 1975 was the center of the entire trip. I kept thinking back to my night there, under one of the highways, wondering what the morning would bring. I was hitchhiking out.

The soul split was unfortunate, and when morning came, close to 40 years ago, I should've looked for it more diligently. The truth is, I felt a distinct difference, but at that age how would I know how much soul I'd need? Or that decades later I'd have a friend and lover who'd obsess over it to the point of going there? I thought The Pink Professor was the perfect man -- and still do -- but, Get a calculator! Wouldn't it be smarter to stay home and enjoy 93% of my soul than leave to get by with 7%, or however much it was?

Now, of course, I realize soul splits can happen when you're confused, beset with worries, wondering about tomorrow, etc., "Oops, there goes another piece!" But as a kid you're dumb. You're immortal. You can always go to church and they'll give you 7%, or whatever, like a gas station. Little did I know, they're powerless to help you. If you feel your soul even appear to crumble, you deal with it right now; carry Super Glue if you have to...

So I spent that night clinging to my pack and possessions for comfort. And with morning, caught a ride. I spent the next night, a disastrous, cold night, outside Winnemucca, NV,  and wasn't myself. I was totally freaked out when I crawled to the middle of a culvert under the highway and imagined scorpions and other animals crossing through there. It left me no choice -- split soul and all -- but to get out and spend the night wrapped in my space blanket, standing by the side of the road. A military general picked me up at daylight and said I looked like his son. He bought me breakfast and gave me $5.00. I have to wonder, if I'd had the rest of my soul, maybe I'd have gotten more.

Back to today, I knew at some point the blimp would be near Winnemucca. The memories of the old general are actually sweet ones, though by now he's probably dead, and his son old like me.

In other activity -- it wasn't all boring contemplation -- I tried one of the billionaire's other chamber suits -- this one meant to hone your mental acuity in the zero gravity chamber. My vision was sharp, hyper-realistic. I saw The Pink Professor, as in a musical, on his knees like Al Jolson, calling out to me, not "Mammy" but "Babyface!" Behind him was a large group of devotees, also calling out. I saw an underground shrine and a whole apparatus of devotion and sacrifice. The Pink Professor counseled two old derelicts, who were given an honored place in his group, the "Servants of the Beloved," the "Beloved" apparently being him, me, or 7% of my soul.

I shuddered and left the chamber. Because if one broken off soul shard is so important, I don't want to lose any more.

The Billionaire Could've Been Anything

It's been a lazy Sunday afternoon. The billionaire's been hanging out at my place. He's usually a fireball of activity, but like everyone he has to cool his jets sometime.

This is what I like. It's what I liked when I was with the Pink Professor, doing nothing in particular, just hanging out like two old slippers. Small talk. Comfortable body language. I looked over at the billionaire, wondering what his dreams must be like. I hope they're not all of exploits and conquests, the next gold-laden rainbow, etc. As much as I like the billions, I'm still a romantic at heart, and like to slow down.

Anyway, there he sat -- the man himself -- a guy with the world on a chain. Even without the billions he'd be a great guy. I can picture him a total success no matter what. Having him asleep gave me time to think over the possibilities.

How about a dashing cowboy hero? Of course he wouldn't be from this generation. We have cowboys, but there's very little call for them to round up rustlers or head off bank robbers at the pass. In which case we would've never met. But he could've been in the Old West. He has his feet on the table at the saloon, dozing off. There's a guy there saying, "Even if he weren't a dashing cowboy hero, he would've been a success at something. Like if he lived in the far-off future, an important mogul in the world of high finance. I'm picturing him as an eccentric billionaire." Then the future goes fuzzy, our cowboy hero wakes up, tips a glass of whiskey, and takes off to protect water rights for the settlers.

Or he could've been a great talent in the arts. Since to be a truly great artist you have to let yourself go, and not be afraid to face the scorn. As for me, I've never let myself go in the arts, so I haven't painted any masterpieces. I've had a blank canvas for the last five year and I'm afraid to touch it with paint. The billionaire might've been born in France, like the guy in the illustration obviously was. He has that look of French insouciance. He's there in France, doing art, with many fans. One fan wonders, "If he weren't such a great artist, I wonder what he might've been. He's too eccentric to ever be wealthy. He'd waste his money in a second and be found drunk or dead in his garret. As it is, he needs a keeper! He'll get knifed in a bar yet!"

I can also see the billionaire as a brave soldier in battle. Brave in the extreme, because he has very little reserve; if he wants something he goes for it. His wealth proves that. It's no stretch to imagine him as instrumental to a major battlefield rescue. The commander says we need someone to run through that minefield and carry out our fallen battalion. He can't do it alone, so he goes to a farmhouse and barters for several stallions. Which he lashes together side by side, then he steps on the middle horse and drives them into the fray. The battalion sees him coming, and they're ecstatic, shouting their admiration like, "That crazy son of a bitch! I never seen such a beautiful bastard!" Even the enemy's beside themselves. Meanwhile, back at the farmhouse, the farmer's telling his wife the story: "That guy could've been anything, dammit, I'm tellin' ya! A cowboy! An artist! In the future, a billionaire!"

Finally, the billionaire could've been an average man of any little town. I have my doubts here, but there's no telling. My dad was an average man in a little town, and he was extraordinary in various ways. He met my mom, and believe me, other guys didn't! So who's smartest? Obviously, my dad. But the thing about the billionaire is, What would he have done as an average man of a town? Even he might not know. He would've paused, thinking, and really going over it: "Is there a place for me in the arts? Or perhaps the military? Anything would be better than this trash route! But it pays the bills, and people like me. They honor me each time as one of the nicest guys they know. And that's success as well.

I was about to go on ... forever ... when the billionaire woke up. Being a genius, he saw I had something on my mind, and goes, "What'd I miss?"

There's No Time Like the Past

You're interested in the past. That's why you're here. We have spent our whole lives in what is now the past, and those are moments for us to celebrate.

Today, we are holding a gala celebration for the past, with the purpose of moving on from it. We are bidding a fond farewell to the past, that it all might be left behind, not with a bum's rush but in style and with honor.

I want you to enter the grand hall, with the audience where the audience always sits, and at the front a dais and lectern for the various leaders. Everything has been arranged in advance, you really don't have to worry about a thing. Simply stand and cheer at those times you feel would be most appropriate. Or remain silent.

There will be various ones, divisions of people, marching in. There will be the giving and receiving of awards and certificates. There will be so many different things happening that I won't even be able to write it all. You will have to imagine it where you are. And if you need to shed a tear over something, so be it. Let them flow.

On this occasion we will be extending our thanks and appreciation to those of the past. We will be applauding one another, listening to one another's stories with laughter and sometimes tears. There may be fist-pumping and backslapping. We will be holding up the glories of the past, revisiting the stories.

In comes the magnificent banner with our theme! "THE PAST WAS OUR HOME FOR MANY YEARS, BUT NOW ITS WORK IS DONE."

And here comes The Cavalcade of Decades! With representatives from each one! The 1800s flag is carried in (the whole century, not decades) by someone they found who had ancestors from then, as there are no living representatives from the 1800s. A moment of silence. Imagine that, we couldn't find a single living representative. They've all gone on to their reward.

Next are the flags for the decades spanning from the 1900s to the 1930s. There's a few from the 1900s, a few more from the 1910s, a few more from the 1920s, and several more from the 1930s, getting progressively younger. They plant their flags and we see a symbolic picture from each one. I'll mention the 1920s, a megaphone. And the 1930s, a sign saying "APPLES 5 cents."

The representatives from the 1940s through the 2010s are more numerous, and the symbolic pictures closer to our own experience: World War II, Elvis, Kennedy, Bicentennial, Big Hair, Computers, 9/11, and Guns. I'm personally proud to have lived through quite a few of these. I'm still doing the whole Elvis thing, and of course working with a computer. As for big hair, I'm virtually bald, but I still have decent sidewalls.

I get a tug at my heartstrings with the '50s flag, since I was born then, was one of the world's first Elvis impersonators, at the age of 5, started school then, and crossed the road one time without my mother's permission. The '60s flag tugs at me, too, JFK. I was in an antique store the other day and saw a huge picture of Kennedy. I told him what I've already told his picture a thousand times, "Do not go to Dallas!" The '70s flag doesn't tug quite as hard. I couldn't wait for the Bicentennial to be over, and now it's ages ago. Probably should've put the Fonz on the flag.

Shhh ... they're doing one of the obligatory moments of silence for some past atrocity. I was typing when they announced it and accidentally tuned it out. But it must really be something, because people are putting their hand on their heart. Which I better do, too. And ... there ... OK ... the man at the lectern said, "Thank you," followed by lots of us clearing our throats and coughing.

I'm taking it all in. It's overwhelming, what the past means for us. And now, here, today, we're leaving it all behind! It's going to be tough! But rest assured, we will carry on. If we ever wonder then, "Whatever Happened to the Old Days?", we can know, with every fiber of our being -- it's like Doritos -- we're making new old days all the time.

Men's Underwear -- 2013 Vs. 1913

I always said I wouldn't get involved in these pointless debates of what they had in the past vs. what we have now. For one, who is there to debate with? If we're talking about 2013 vs. 1913, there's plenty of us, but very few people from 1913. And even if they were from 1913, they wouldn't have stayed in 1913, they'd be right here with us in 2013.

This has been a constant with me, ever since I saw the episode of "Bewitched" where Benjamin Franklin comes back from the past and is immediately driving a fire truck. Those from the past adhere to the things of their time only until they're brought to the future. It's something of a law, The Past Adherence/Present Forbearance Law, unless you can think of something snappier.

If we're debating, let's say, the relative merits of men's underwear from 1913 vs. 2013, were we to bring a guy here from 1913, he'd probably say the underwear of 2013 is better. And for another reason, simply because the average man from any time doesn't have any real reason to tout the underwear of his time particularly; he's not cheering for 1913, per se, but only looking for comfort, in addition, of course, to good value and other qualities.

But these debates come up anyway, because we really have this urge to compare ourselves to someone else and take sides, whether for our own self image, or, it's conceivable because someone actually believes there's merit in it. Like I said, I've always said I didn't want to get involved in such things, but -- forgive me -- this one is too interesting to simply let it go. I really would like to see a decent debate over the underwear of 2013 vs. that of 1913. And you know what, I truly believe 2013 would kick 1913's ass!

It's been a hundred years, folks, and the issue has dragged on for too many years: Is the men's underwear of 2013 truly superior to that of 1913? I'm going to say yes.

Just looking at the picture, the underwear of 1913 looks pretty tough, too tough for me. I'll give 1913 this, their underwear definitely looks durable. But who really wants that toughness? You'd be sleeping, if you were lucky enough to get to sleep, and you'd feel the toughness of that fabric. A gunny sack would be more comfortable. But the picture from 2013 shows a lighter fabric, something that breathes, something that goes with your body, not against it. It's definitely going to be more comfortable. We've made strides since those dark days when it comes to fabric. The pictures don't lie.

Another thing, going by the above presentation, the guy from 1913 himself looks like a tough old buzzard, whereas our 2013 contemporary looks cool, calm, and collected. It's something about the underwear -- Mr. 1913 turned into some kind of mountain man/hermit, with no access to a razor, with it having something to do with the underwear. Maybe he didn't want anyone to see that weird codpiece on him.

OK, I'm getting too negative. Instead, I want to focus on the qualities of 2013's underwear, and that will keep things more positive. First, I like the way the straps on the shoulders are so delicate, fitting like a dream. But look at our friend from 1913, it's definitely a tight fit at the neck; he's going to be itching all night. Then there's the legs. 2013 has shorts, much more comfortable, unless it's winter, in which case 1913 has the upper hand, not forgetting for a second the lack of comfort in the fabric.

Finally, notice that 2013 has a smile on his face. But 1913 is looking somewhat more dour, even perplexed at what's happening: Have I somehow traveled into the future and met a man who's going to taunt me for my old fashioned underwear? I'm buttoned up tight, but look at him, loose as a goose. Were we to strip down to our bare nubbins, he'd beat me in a heartbeat. He'd be nude in a jiffy while I was still fidgeting with my neck piece. Then he'd be under the covers just that quick, that nubile 100-year-younger flesh pressed against the satin sheets, waiting for me, an older and more experienced man to crawl in with him. Imagine that, a guilt-free roll in the hay, since I'm from 100 years in the past and no one knows me. I could be Rip Van Winkle for all this guy knows. And they're not expecting me back in 1913. I think I'll go for it. And maybe he'll turn me on to some halfway decent underwear when it's all over. Then next week I'll have a job driving a modern fire truck, putting out other fires. Hey, baby boy, come to Poppa...

They Thought Dentistry Was Some Kind Of Hoax

I was stunned to find out about this. But a little research, and it didn't take much, shows it's absolutely true. Dentistry started out with a great deal of suspicion. We're only lucky the first dentists stuck with it.

People tend to be skeptical. Full of doubt. But it's nothing now like back in the olden days, in the earliest days when man had barely made progress. Thomas Edison had to literally hit people over the head with the light bulb before they saw the light.

I was at the dentist's office just yesterday, and my dentist had only enough time to tell me the bare essentials of what went on way back when. Years ago, it seems, they didn't even believe dentistry was a true thing. Of course those who really thought it over -- the first pioneers themselves in dentistry -- saw it was logical: If you can tie a string around your tooth and pull it out with a door knob, surely a professional could help you with it.

And that might have been the problem. The average guy would obviously think, If I can do it myself why would I pay someone else to do it? Everyone has a sadistic baby brother who'll help out in a pinch, and he's built up enough animus, of course the rest of us are willing to help him, too, and how! They weren't thinking of root canals, crowns, or wisdom teeth, that are tough enough to ruin the knob, etc.

And not only that, they had a teaching from the Bible -- they being pious -- that suggested that when it came to teeth you just left well enough alone: In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few... (Ecclesiastes 12). The verse more or less says you use your teeth till they grind themselves to powder, then you spit the powder out.

But a few of the pioneers, the first men into dentistry, somehow had their consciousness raised, then struck out to convert others. And I would say they were ultimately successful, because as far as I can see, today there's more dentists than gas stations. We're crazy about our teeth, straightening, whitening, braces, polishing, cleaning. It's actually a little ironic. The first dentists were mostly doing extractions, but that's the one thing that's hard to get today. For some unspecified reason, dentists want you to keep your teeth...

I have the ad pictured above to show one of the pioneers, a certain Dr. Witless, who really has to receive a lot of the credit in proving people wrong. Look at that, he was giving away $1,000 worth of dental care just to prove the point that unrelated third parties could do dental work!

And from the looks of things, he was more concerned about simply making that point than in doing anyone's teeth any good. When he says, "I'll extract teeth for you ... simply to prove to you that it truly can be done!", notice he doesn't care whether the teeth need to be extracted, he's only doing it to promote dentistry. And just a look at his before-and-after graphics shows he didn't want to leave even the slightest doubt about it.

What do our current dentists think of those olden times efforts? The way I take it, they're amused by the quaintness of it, while also realizing how much better it makes them look. Because we're so used to modern painless techniques that we see the pioneers as barbarians. True, there is still a lot of discomfort today, shots, your jaw propped open for 20 minutes, mouthfuls of sticky stuff when they're making impressions, and the fact that the free floss is a measly 5 yards. But when you think of the olden days, you're happy, and willing to buy your own floss.

We've obviously come a long way. The skeptics are all gone. The so-called Dental Truthers have all died. Thanks to guys like Dr. Witless, who were willing to pull out every single last tooth in their heads, and free at that, to make the point. And, really, if you left the office with nothing but bleeding gums and still didn't believe, of course there's not much he could do about that.

Today's dentists might be amused by the pioneers. But they also owe them a huge debt. They were the ones who led the way, the trailblazers, who gave the practice of dentistry a foundation to build on. And if it weren't for them, just speaking for myself, my smile would look worse than it does. I'd be a mumbling fool. And worse, probably a virgin.

The Rest Is Inconsequential History

ABSTRACT: I survey the history of the American presidency and a bunch of things I happen to do. The rest is inconsequential history.

George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, two of our greatest presidents, ones I have no problem remembering, indisputably made history. If they fell out of bed, it was a big deal. Especially because they spent so little time sleeping, having wars and the affairs of state to keep them awake. Their influence remains today, as they are the ones I think of first when I think of historical figures. They dwell in my consciousness, up there in my natural cloud (no Amazon or Apple needed!).

What could I say to summarize the influence of these great men? Really, time and full intelligence would fail me, were I to try. So let me just start by saying, "Two thumbs up!" on their presidencies, and, in fact, on their lives period.

Of course President Washington was our first president, which had to be a great honor. He must have been struttin' and trash talkin' all the time: "They can't compare me to nobody!" and "Suck on this, you muthas!" President Lincoln came later in the distinguished line of American chief executives, according to the encyclopedia being the 16th man to hold the highest office. No, it's not as good as Number One, naturally, but you could say "Sweet 16" ain't bad! Not bad indeed, and in some states, still legal.

So let's hear it for Washington and Lincoln! Two great guys, even though it's not February. A grateful nation doesn't forget. What they did, they did. Whether it was in battle. Washington took out the English. Lincoln took out half of America. Or in their personal lives. Washington cut down cherry trees. Lincoln split rails. Their portraits remain with us, which is how we picture them yet today: Washington standing up in a boat, Lincoln staring down the cameraman. I love it that we have actual photos of Lincoln. But back in Washington's time, no one was yet smart enough to invent the camera. Which to us today seems real duh. My brother can make a camera out of a box and a pin! True story!

OK, I'm mentioning these great men today -- Number 1 and Sweet 16 -- to put myself in their company, the company of those who make history. The biggest difference between them and me is they chose to make history hundreds of years ago, and I choose to make it now. Which I'll leave to you to judge: Their history is so long ago we're dealing in hearsay and cliches. My history is up to date, something any objective observer can currently evaluate. Personally, I think my choice is best; certainly it lends itself to greater transparency; I'm not hiding out somewhere in the obscure past, I take my stand today!

About my own history, given enough time and bandwidth, I could go on and on. Like my list of teachers. I could give you a list of most of my teachers. A list you're not likely to come up on your own, because how would you know? It's not in the encyclopedias! Or the way my preferences in life developed. It's funny, the way things go. We used to eat a bunch of wild game that Grandpa hunted. Squirrels, rabbits, coon, pheasants, turtle, possums, etc. And we didn't think anything about it. Then, sometime, suddenly, when I grew up, I decided I'd only eat store-bought food. I'm not even that much of a proponent of hunting these days. But against those who do hunt, I hold no grievance. Old fashioned people hunt, the rest of us buy. See all the history right there?

I'm making history everyday. Here's one big reason: I carry a camera, a built-in feature of my phone. Can you believe it? A camera right in my phone! I can order a pizza one minute and take a picture of it the next! Try that with an Instamatic! Here's the history: My pictures capture a moment in time, i.e., history. I like to take pictures of old windmills and the broad sides of barns. Someday when we get our wind from other sources and all the barns have been burnt down for firewood, my pictures will preserve a bygone era. Like Ansel Adams, they'll be on calendars and coffee cups.

I'm making history right now, just by passing on my memories and knowledge to the world. I can see this blog as a primary resource for researchers someday. They'll be like, "Whoa! This is some good shit!" The researchers will be in little cubicles reading it, one of them starting at the most recent stuff and the other starting at the oldest. Eventually, they'll meet in the middle, like the great Americans who drove the Golden Spike. And they'll shake hands and thank their lucky stars for me. Then they'll go out for drinks and laughs before getting up the next day and doing it all again.

History ... it's a gas. I'm signing off for today ... although history may reveal that I came back.

Days Of Yore, Days Of 'Morrow

How wistful I am, how wistful I've been! I've been doing a lot of thinking on the days of yore and the days of 'morrow. Not the most pleasant thing...

What a monumental deadend are the days of yore once you start thinking about them! Oh, damn, but I can't quit. My mind is working overtime on the stinking days of yore!

My age has something to do with it. I'll be 60 my next birthday, and I'm already getting the senior discount everywhere I go. I look in the mirror and see, frankly, the unkind ravages of time. The me of the days of yore, appearance-wise are gone, alas. Every old picture of me shows signs of being vintage. Not just the elements of me but the cars, haircuts, and faded colors. I have a knack of picking 1974 pictures out of a lineup based on subtle color distinctions.

Anyway, here I am, my memories stretching back as far as the eye can see. I've been thinking about it when I should be sleeping, what I could've done differently, etc. I've already concluded that I was little more than a child till more or less 30. Young and foolish. With a whole bunch of crazy moments that make me wince, then get sick. 'Nough said!

Then, stretched out the other direction, with likely a shorter stretch ahead of me personally, are the days of 'morrow. Were I to live another 30 years, doubtful, I'd be close to 90 on the next birthday. That's tough to picture. Not that 30 years doesn't go fast enough; it speeds by. But the idea that I'm going to actually make it that long -- I suppose if others can do it, it's conceivable.

I have a dentist appointment later this week. There's decay in this one area where I might need a post drilled into it. Of course I'm reluctant to do anything drastic. Then I think, what if I really do last through the days of 'morrow? That tooth might come in handy.

My abilities aren't all that terrible now. At 59, you've still basically got it. But I notice a little more fatigue, a little more sagging, mental slowing down, all the time. The days of 'morrow, face it, aren't going to be much better.

As for the days of yore, I have things going on. I've been trying to contact a couple friends from the days of 'yore. I still haven't gotten hold of any, even though I know they're alive. I actually have a call in to one woman (a friend only) I knew 30+ years ago. I hope she calls back, but I keep picturing it as awkward. And she hasn't called so far. The other is a guy I was best friends with, but we lost contact. Then I ran into a sister-in-law of his who took my email and was going to write me with contact info. She hasn't. Must have forgotten.

With both these folks -- we all worked together -- I had many interesting experiences in the days of yore. But it's been so long now! The days of 'morrow don't hold much hope for a renewed friendship, but who knows? You don't know till you try. Then if it all fizzles out, at least I won't have to spend the days of 'morrow wondering if I should call "now."

Wistfulness is for the wistful, which means me. Those damned days of yore! And those damned days of 'morrow!

11-11-11 In 1911

From The Syracuse Herald, Syracuse, NY, Nov. 11, 1911, page 6.

From Hutchinson News, Hutchinson, KS, Nov. 6, 1911, p. 10.

The Human Union

The burning issue of the day, and I'm finding myself to be pretty liberal on the subject, is whether animals should be allowed to join the Human Union.

Those who take the conservative position say, "It is called the Human Union," which is a great point. And they are 100 percent correct that since the inception, all these years, only humans have had admittance. But whether that's the way it should remain, of course that's key to the issue.

I don't think I'm too far off the mark to say, Just because something's been that way for a hundred years (or whatever it is) doesn't mean it needs to stay that way. On this issue, how do we know our forefathers were correct in their judgment? It's not like we were there to give our opinion or the opportunity to hold sway with decent arguments in favor of animals. So, say they made a mistake in excluding them, should we and the animals of today have to to maintain it? I don't think so.

And another thing, not just looking at the past but at the future, if we kept the argument that the forefathers' system should stand, those of the future will look back to our ratification of it for further justification that it should remain that way. And if we're simply ourselves ratifying the past because it is the past, then I can't see how we're passing on a valid basis for future generations to make their own determination. In that case, they would be as foolish (or more so) than we are now -- I know the word foolish is harsh -- and there will never be progress.

It seems that common sense cries out that the forefathers' opinions and choices are not of necessity more valid than our own. What leads us to think they would be? That they happened to live before us? So what? There's no infallibility because you live before someone else. In that case, we also have infallibility in relation to future generations. I don't see it!

Let's say we allowed animals in the Human Union, but future generations, as opinions shifted, thought animals should be excluded, would they then be prevented from making that determination simply because some conservative voice of the future reverences our present generation as past and thereby infallible? It's lunacy, and ironic, that conservatives now would say one thing, yet conservatives of the future would take the exact opposite side, simply out of a reverence for past opinion or precedent.

I say, let's debate it rationally, then decide the issue, not centering on precedent. Let's look at the actual implications of what it would mean for animals and humans both. It could very well usher in a new age of animal-human relations, where we're not always simply at one another's throats. Yes, it might make the separate Animal Union somewhat obsolete, somewhat, because animals of course could maintain their own union if that were their choice. They've already said as much, with some of their conservative members already saying, That's the way it's always been, and that their own forefathers knew what they were doing when they set it up that way.

The truth, of course, is far murkier. As I recall the history, the Animal Union started as an animal version of the Human Union. It looks like the animals never would've thought of it on their own, previously being content just to eat each other, yet complain that no one was doing a damned thing about it.