Valentine's Day -- My Date's Heartbeat

Note: It's Valentine's Day, so we're celebrating LOVE and all the accoutrements that go with it, including, between the lines, a dash of sex. It's great to "couple," however you do it, whether together in the flesh or in some other sense. I've had a few dates lately. She and I went out for our Valentine's Day date last night, to avoid the rush -- the crush of people -- on Valentine's Day itself.

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Remember a few weeks ago I said I had a couple dates? Well, guess what: It's true, lightning can strike in the same spot twice! We had another one.

The difference between this date and the others is that we know each other so much better. We have exchanged calls, texts, and Facebook statuses. I'm pretty well up to snuff on her love of funny cat videos and miniature horses. I appreciate the psychology behind liking miniature horses.

This time, again, we came together over dinner, for Valentine's Day. I did the traditional thing, which is paying for her meal. No dutch treat for me. I'm old-fashioned like that. My dad probably did it before he and mom were married, even though, as I understand it, he was something of a pauper.

Later, without getting into too much of the nitty-gritty details, I found myself in a position of resting my head on her chest, just under her chin. By resting my head, I mean sideways, definitely not my face directly buried in her chest. It was a touching moment, right out of the old song, "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child." Which, after all, I am.

And she seemed comfortable with it. I was comfortable. It gave me a lot to think about, as you can imagine, about proximity and what it could all lead to. Of which, speaking of comfort, I'm not comfortable saying too much.

Then I started thinking, "I can hear her heartbeat." Thumpa-thumpa -- thumpa-thumpa, etc. It really did something to my thought processes, giving me the thought, "Good grief, this is a living other ... blood is flowing ... each cell is being nourished," and other things along those lines.

Then the more I thought the sillier I felt. Of course her heart's beating! There's nothing wrong with that, is there? It's just you don't hear it that often. I kept toying with the idea. She might've thought I was lingering a bit too long, but what could I do, being a motherless child and all? Who knows her secret thoughts, probably something about nurturing and me being clingy?

My silly thoughts went something like this: Hearts beating, hasn't it been done to death? All these years the same thing, we haven't risen above it. Even though they've done marvelous things with artificial hearts, they still haven't got one to sound as lifelike as this, I presume. I keyed in on how regular it was. She wasn't varying much from the same old thumpa-thumpa you think of as the heartbeat's basic stereotype. How exciting is it having me attached to her breasts, in that sideways manner of speaking? Obviously not too exciting... she had the same beat-beat regularity...

Continuing this lovely reverie, I noted to myself, Aren't heartbeats these days almost passé? We've denied so long that we're living things -- not willing to use a bathroom if another human soul is within 50 feet -- both because of the well-known reluctance to pass waste in public as well as the fear of being sexually attacked by truck drivers in the area -- why, at the end of it all, is a heartbeat allowable?

This woman is mortal! I exclaimed with my inner silent voice. Not the goddess I imagined. Someday, although God forbid, her heart will be stilled. And if we proceed down this path, I might be there, whether it's 10 years or 30 years later, when it happens. What will I do? What should I do? CPR? How am I to know if this mortal machine can be repaired either by medicine or mechanic?

I felt my own heartbeat quicken its pace, making me no more innocent than she. When a thought like that hits you -- you know as well as I -- it's a real bastard to shake.

My Olympic Experience: International Whittling Champion

Even to this day, after all these years, I can barely stand to watch the Olympics. It's a very bitter thing to see, although of course I congratulate all the athletes who made it, and especially those few who take medals for being the best in their sport. Just don't ask me to watch it ... at least for very long ... they might eliminate the ski-jump while someone's in midair!

I've probably mentioned all this before; it's one of the defining moments of my life, although, thankfully, it's receding now farther and farther into the past; mercifully, time has passed; there won't be much time left for me to dwell on it, the shame, the heartbreak, the bitter disappointment. Someday, hopefully soon, I'll pass from this dark world, only to dwell on the heights, in the light, with other great champions. On Mt. Olympus, or somewhere better.

If you've been able to forget me and my experiences as an almost-ran Olympian, then, frankly, I can only envy you; it's something I've never been able to put behind me. I still see them whispering at the grocery store: "There's the guy ... the Olympics guy ... thinking he was going to be the international champion of whittling ... only to have his Olympics dream whittled down to size ... actually whittled down to nothing!" There's always a few chuckles, probably uncontrollable laughter once I've left the premises. Some time I ought to set my phone on record and leave, then come back and see...

My family always told me not to be bitter: God never gives you anything too big to bear. Which was definitely true, although maybe not in the way they meant it. God never allowed me to bear an Olympics gold medal around my neck! That's for sure! Hell, when it all comes down to it, I wish I had at least a silver or a bronze. Is that too much to ask? I sometimes scream, shaking my fist at the heavens. Yes, He whittled my ego down to size, that's something. Whittle this! I scream, extending a massive middle finger---- You get the idea.

It all started when I was a kid. I had more time on my hands than I knew what to do with. And what I wanted to do with my hands they said wasn't good for me. So I didn't know what to do, until Grandpa got me a set of pocket knives. Several different sizes. All the way from a tiny one piecer, with several larger one piecers, all the way up to a larger three piece knife, with a blade so big you had to screw it together for the full length. Custom made.

Of course at first I was like any other newbie, cutting myself, missing the wood block all together. But with time and patience and great effort -- sometimes sweating blood in my labors -- I was able to whittle pretty damned good, and I actually was doing intricate little sculptures. I whittled so many ships in bottles, in the Who's Who of America in 1967 they said I was responsible for what would've been the third largest navy in the world, if they'd only been full size. But by the time I went full size, it took so long to whittle entire ships, I had to settle for achieving only the 45th largest navy in the world.

Naturally they thought I'd be a shoo-in for the '72 Olympics. My family was busy hosting benefit dinners for my Olympic expenses. And I did my part to make them memorable, whittling toothpick holders for each table and the toothpicks themselves. That's tough work, because whittling something so small, each toothpick had to be tested for durability, leading to some very sore and bloody gums on my part. I couldn't chew for a month; I could only chew broth, nothing more.

Anyway, as everyone knows, the Olympics giveth and the Olympics taketh away. New sports are added, and older sports, deemed passe and utterly worthless (those bastards), are eliminated. And that's what happened to me. The word came down from on high in the fall of 1970 that whittling would no longer be part of the Olympics in '72. Remember all that trouble at the '72 Olympics? Turned out I wasn't the only one pissed off.

Poor Spirits Aggrieved by Shady Podiatrists

Some time back, after hearing of so many terrible goings-on, I decided at long last to put my foot down and seek information on the shady trade known as podiatry and the heels that do it. I've taken certain steps in that direction and I'm prepared to give at least a preliminary report.

So far it's just me doing the work. But I'm hoping that by getting the word out I can put together a team. I'm thinking of calling it TAPS, like on the ghost hunting show, but this time with TAPS standing for Those Asshole PodatristS.

In the past I've written about one other very shady industry, the whole fly-by-night carpet biz. They sell you carpet, you walk on it, it comes apart at the seams, and then they're gone. Now I'm revealing the truth of podiatry. In short, podiatrists are the fly-by-night carpet biz of the whole stinking medical world.

I've discovered one very interesting detail of these guys. Podiatrists always marry their receptionist, with the receptionist being the only employee, since she can't be forced to testify against him. That would be a concern if anyone could ever catch these guys. But they tend to set up shop, then disappear in the night. Probably the ideal situation for them, from their point of view, would be to set up in the back of a carpet store! They could all vacate together...

My work so far has been to visit empty office space where podiatrists once were and have now left. I've gone to a few of these places. I've used my natural sensitivity and intuition to communicate with the spirits of departed patients. It's not the case, however, that every one of these patients actually died. But in the agony of their treatment, they all left something of their spirit energy within those unfortunate walls.

Now, being only one man, and without the government's surveillance expertise, I don't know any of the actual patients by name. So as a workaround I play the odds. "Is the aggrieved spirit of Ted here? Calling Ted." Nothing but silence. I went through a list of common names. "Al? Mary? Clyde?" But there was nothing. Silence. Finally I hit on one: "Phoebe?" At that, I suddenly heard rustling, right where the chair had been! Then the telltale fragrance of foot odor hit my nose, and I knew ... Phoebe's in the house!

"Phoebe, I know you suffered heinously here. Flick your big toenail if it was an ingrown toenail ... treated without anesthesia." I was spooked, really taken aback, when she not only flicked it but let out a bloodcurdling yell. "So the pain hasn't lessened at all? Flick it again if that's a yes." I heard the same flick, and an even more bloodcurdling yell. "OK," I said, trying to nail down certain conclusions, "Flick it once more if your podiatrist was a son of a bitch, then flick it a second time if you wish you would've simply suffered with it the rest of your life than to seek out his worthless treatment." I waited as she no doubt pondered whether she could endure the pain. Then, flick, [SCREAM], followed by flick, [SCREAMING BLOODY MURDER].

I poked around the office a bit more. Under some rubble I found a poster of a foot, a cutaway view, with the skin, muscle, and bones on display. You'd think this would've been nothing more than artwork from a supply house. But I'm thinking it might've been a view of an actual patient's foot, possibly operated on in this very office. I called out to Phoebe, who verified for me that it was indeed her foot, this time with three nail flicks and three more bloodcurdling screams, growing in intensity as her pain increased exponentially.

Finally, just to satisfy my curiosity as to how the podiatrist and his wife are able to disappear during raids, I tapped around for a hideout. It didn't take long to find a cut out section of the floor, covered with a removable door. Obviously there had been a switch and wires on the wife's desk to unlock it. Pulling away the boards, I found a room big enough for various provisions and space enough to sleep if need be. Very clever!

But that wasn't all! I let out a scream of my own and nearly threw up when I saw a shelf with actual foot parts, severed toes, bone, curdled muscle, the whole bit! As I screamed, Phoebe's spirit was again with me, herself screaming. As I poked at some of the bits of a bloody toe on the shelf, her screams became deafening. This time I knew! She didn't need to flick her toenail for me to know ... some of this mess was hers!

Once You Go Ojibaway...

I heard the call from the shower stall two stalls down, "Ojibaway! Ojibaway!" Two things about it: 1) I didn't need three guesses to know what was going on; and, 2) I knew he'd be dead by noon. Another non-native Gone Ojibaway, sad.

And yet there's always the temptation, as I well know. Forbidden fruit, etc., trying to be something other than what you are. We've all heard the mythology that the Ojibaway are the studliest guys in the world, and they are inarguably culturally well-endowed. Who wouldn't want to be Ojibaway, if only for a day? Struttin', secure in yourself, always on the move, on the prowl, luxuriating in the wildest things, and taking names and kicking ass, and, of course, carrying out the terrible ritual murders of those who've Gone Them.

I for one have always taken pride in my own personal restraint. Naturally, I've been very tempted. But when it comes to temptation, by and large I simply keep it to myself. I don't make the various moves you have to make to make fantasy reality. I'm afraid of lots of things in life, and it's this constant fear, while taking away some of my quality of life, that has at least given me quantity; I'm busy getting old, always looking out for even imaginary dangers. But what goes on behind closed doors, as far as I'm concerned, even in hot showers, stays there, hidden and steamy wet. If I can get in on it, I'm very careful ... picky and choosy.

Likewise, I'm always amazed at the vast number of stupid guys who don't share my caution. And some of them, the ones I've known, I thought were a lot smarter than that. This one guy, whose white guy name was LeRoy, and whose Ojibaway name I don't remember, one day Went Ojibaway ... and that was it. We gathered at the funeral home and no one said a word about it. It was also the unspoken word -- the O word -- at his grave site. The only reference to it at all was the sudden appearance of a mysterious bloody feather atop his casket.

I'm sure I don't have to tell most of you, the Ojibaway don't mess around. Once you Go Ojibaway you don't go back. Because the Ojibaway are just that fast. They're on you like a ton of buffalo. Knife to the throat, knife to the back, knife to the heart, and a bit of poison in each ear. And speaking as one who's had plenty of ear problems, itching, I'm very worried about Ojibaway poison.

There are immense payoffs, they say, and I guess we'd have to admit it, to Going Ojibaway. The wild sex, first, and, second, those amazing dreams of tribal mythology that puts you right at the center of everything. For the few hours you have left, you're going to feel things, see things, and experience things you've never known before. But when the Ojibaway avenger gets there, you'll also feel things, see things, and experience things you've never known before. And that you'll never know again.

No, no, no, none of it's for me! Would I like to experience those few hours of ecstasy? Of course I would! But I'm very strong, as I said, and I do not give into temptation. That's why other guys like me are falling like flies and I alone continue on.

So beware ... Beware indeed! ... The Ojibaway lifestyle -- with amazing powers and satisfaction that just don't quit -- is uniquely for the Ojibaway who are Ojibaway by nature. Anyone else foolhardy enough to mess with it, schittttt [gesture and noise of your throat being cut.]

Bitten by a Dog

Note: This post is based on a partial quote of Tibet's Great Yogi Milarepa, found in the book, Tibet's Great Yogi Milarepa, (Evans-Wentz), page 79. It is: "On the way I was bitten by a dog..."

I had to make a trip to Edwinton the other day. No one would give me a ride. There wasn't a taxi to be had, and, of course, thanks to modern transportation, these days the bus no longer goes to Edwinton.

The point of the trip was to file a restraining order against an evil neighbor, whose vicious dog keeps me awake nights with his horrible howling. And occasional barking.

Like I said, I couldn't catch a ride. When everything was denied me, I thought, Just my luck! And driving was out of the question ... for reasons I should keep to myself. All right, I swore in church that I'd go on a month-long car fast.

So I had to walk, which carried with it unforeseen perils. Little did I know my neighbor (this is my suspicion) had various Black Magic powers, because of _________. (Tibetan magicians he knew.)

At the north edge of town -- on my way -- a vicious black dog -- a big son of a bitch -- came out of the weeds and bit the snot out of my arm. But at the first full taste of blood, thankfully, something spooked him and he ran. This would've been a great time to kill and gut myself a dog, but, alas, no knife.

I kept going, Edwinton being a distant 30 miles. I neared a farm and turned in to use their pump; my taste-buds were dying of thirst. All was good till the first gush of water, when a vicious farm dog came rushing around the barn, attaching himself on to the backside of my pants, tearing a hole in them and removing enough flesh to make me scream in terror. I splashed a handful of water in his eyes and he ran away.

About halfway to Edwinton, I knew I looked like a mess. I was cutting across fields, streams, and through muddy bogs. I sat in the mud and allowed it to dry and cake, to obscure my rear nakedness. What I hadn't anticipated was a hunter being spooked and his dog lurching at me, biting me on the leg and clamping on. I threw my hands up for mercy and he called it off.

The last dog bite was just outside Edwinton. It was just this simple: The sentry at the gates tensed up at the sight of me. And dogs, being keen when their masters are fearful, his dog leaped on me like a lion on prey. He got my other arm and his fangs grazed my throat. The sentry, to his credit, shot the dog, saving me, while inadvertently peppering me with stray buckshot.

Once in Edwinton, I got the restraining order. They said they'd serve my neighbor the papers. And then, to avoid a repeat of my journey there, I begged a taxi guy to drive me home.  His taxi worked great, easily able to outrun a pack of dogs chasing us all the way.

Groundhog Day -- The Big Hunt

In case you've been wondering where I am, I'm back! It's just now early afternoon here, Feb. 2, Groundhog Day. And I've been out doing what you do on G.D., which is groundhog hunting. It's a big thing here. My family and I have been blasting groundhogs for many years ... and (not to get too morose after such a joyous day) I'm probably the end of the line for this side of the Slump family. After me ... who knows?

Anyway, it's still a lot of fun -- no doubt bringing joy to my ancestors in Heaven -- if you can stand the hours and the cold, which of course I can. I went to bed way early and was up in plenty of time to stake out the holes. Me and some other guys from town. It's on a parcel of ground my aunt owns south of town, a hill we actually call Groundhog Hill. We've been calling it that since 1965, when my aunt and uncle (he's now dead) and cousins moved there. Groundhogs were swarming it then as now...

Just a sidebar to that: The groundhogs were thinned almost to nothing around 1968, thanks to the relentless hunting one of my cousins did back then. Except for a few, I guess, burrowed deep in the bowels of the earth, there wasn't a living thing on that property, nothing but us. Birds rerouted all flights, it was that bad. It wasn't till my cousin married and moved that wildlife made tentative forays back. It looks now like the natural balance is restored. But we still love to get the groundhogs on this Day of Days!

OK, so there we were, way before dark, enduring the darkness and cold. My fingers were getting cold even through my gloves. There was one dramatic moment when I had to take my gloves off and simply blow hot breath on them. I mention that not so much to be bragging of my resourcefulness -- how would I know it'd even work? -- but to pay tribute to my dedication to the annual hunt. Few are more dedicated than I, and of course I pay tribute to the others as well...

Now, when do groundhogs come out? As you may guess, they wait till the crack of dawn. The sun rises literally just inches over the horizon and the first few come out. We let them sit a while and get secure. Then a few more come out, a little better. It's right at the end, then, that the fattest old grandpa pops out. He's more suspicious, sniffing the air for hunters. But being older and apparently having lost the power of smell, he doesn't notice us till it's too late. POW POW POW CRICH POW, that CRICH being one guy's gun jamming.

Picture the scene: Old grandpa, the fattest one is blasted back, eight feet from the hole. Even if he might hope to fall back in the hole and die in dignity, it's too far now. The others are massacred. Only one made it back in, so it was nice that we gave them a sporting chance. We were very happy! The only guy pissed off was the CRICH guy, one of my cousin Roto's grandsons.

I got a big whiff of the gunpowder smell, instantly taking me back to the glory days of my childhood, watching my own grandpa chuckling over a victorious hunt. What memories! I only wish I wasn't the end of the line. I should've married and had kids, if for no other reason than to keep our Groundhog Day traditions alive.

OK, NSA, Bite on This, You Screwed Up Idiots!

When I write, I like to send a message. I want people to hear me -- loud and proud. I guess I'm like all great writers in that respect. Being ignored isn't my thing. As for regular everyday readers, maybe I don't have as many as I'd like, but it's like I always say, I prefer quality to quantity. If I wanted nothing but quantity I could do like they do on Facebook, cutesy crap on cats and solemnities on veterans everyday of the week! I know one guy who posts every picture he takes of food on the BBQ, and he has readers up the butt. The pork butt.

But I have one regular reader -- I should say a host of readers, no doubt -- at NSA headquarters. Which I just looked up. It stands for National Security Agency. Who like to think they're the biggest baddest playahs on the block. When you see them comin' you better run! They're gonna getcha! You don't want to meet them in a dark alley! They'll scan the contents of your wallet, give you a full rectal exam looking for the missing documents, and send you to Gitmo!

That's what they want you to think. Heh heh, but I'm too smart to fall for that. I've always been able to see through propaganda. They can't be everywhere at once. And even if they are, they can't pin anything on me. All I have to do is say I was "just kidding" when I wrote this stuff belittling them. Sure, I believe they have some power. But this is America, right? We the People are the boss and we can't be pushed around by government flunkies and nitwits. I hope you agree, and of course I hope you've got my back.

Apparently they're able to some amazing things. Like read every blog, every website, watch every YouTube video, all trying to pin something on someone. They're able to download a record of every phone call, every piece of mail, track you with your smart phone, and know what you're thinking even if you're in bed asleep in the dead of night.

OK, let's test it out: I heard of a guy who was possibly killed by some mean hombres and fed to the hogs. Just kidding or am I? OK, I don't remember his name, exactly where he lived, exactly what year it was, and I don't have one single clue about the people who allegedly did it, or any way of communicating with the hogs who ate him. It's a total cold case, probably all of the principles being dead. Now, if the NSA is as bad as they think they are, they'll either be here in 20 minutes to question me or they'll have to settle for just kidding. Anyway, even if the hogs were still alive, they'd have a good defense: People have been eating them for years...

My sense of how it really is with the NSA is, yes, they're able to download a bunch of stuff. But actually getting to you and doing anything about it, I don't think they can. Safety in numbers. They're surely overwhelmed. So it's all completely worthless. You heard me, completely worthless!

UPDATE: Obviously I said too much. As it turned out, they were at my front door within 10 minutes of posting the above tirade. There were four of them. Three took turns tying me in a chair and slapping the snot out of me. The other one was outside shooting flaming arrows over my house, which is very dangerous with the tufts of dry hay that Grandpa used for roofing the house in the mid '70s. It turned out they were interested in the hogs eating the dead man. They said I gave too many details for it to be just kidding. Which I admitted, yes, you're right. Then I quickly backtracked and said I wanted a lawyer, which they denied me, knowing I wouldn't be able to afford one. I raised my right hand and said I was just kidding.

Now they're gone, and I'm still tied to the chair, unable to move even a muscle. The NSA did this to me. Send help! I'm typing this at 6 words a minute with my nose. On an iPhone keyboard, no less. NSA, I hate you! But I understand you're just trying to protect my freedoms, so, OK, you can't be all bad. 

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.

Possessing and Consuming Eagle Jerky

EDITOR'S NOTE: This is an imaginary post, located in a more perfect world, where we are free to feast on eagles. In our current non-imaginary world, of course, at least in countries where the eagle is the national bird, such freedom does not exist, although it should. It stands to reason. I've heard it said, "The freedom of your fist ends where my face begins." Meaning, if an eagle is clenched by the neck in my fist, I'm free to do what I will as long as neither my fingernails or its talons scratch your face.

I love eagle jerky. I just love it! Most people do, even if they're not good at making it. In fact, most of the eagle, like the hog, is good for something. Like with hogs, you use everything but the squeal, so with the eagle, you use everything but the squawk.

I watched my dear old Dad make eagle jerky many times. The whole process has a delicious fragrance, from the first gutting of the bird, to the delight of dogs eating the innards, right up to the cooking. I remember Dad carefully separating out the talons, the skin, the meat, the feathers, and even the beak. Then he went through all the steps and made the world's best jerky. Or, depending on how close it was to Thanksgiving, we'd roast a few birds for the meal.

Now Dad's gone ... and Mom ... both to the scourge of cancer, giving me something to think about as to my own physical disposition ... which is neither here nor there ... although I had the opportunity to buy cancer insurance when I was 30 and didn't. I could probably be cashing in in a few years.

Now Dad's gone ... and when I want an eagle I have to go over to the lake and get one myself. Sometimes with other guys, hunting by the old "storming the tree" method and filling them full of buckshot. We split up the haul and discard any eaglets that may have been hit. Even the dogs are repulsed at eating an eaglet.

Is it sad to kill an eaglet? Yeah, sure, a little, because that's one that won't grow up to be harvested later. Still, we rationalize it away like this, that the eagle is a big bird, a bully in the wild, so if we kill a few young it helps the other species. It's the same rationale for not allowing too many big people to live, giving the rest of us more wiggle room.

As for me, when I get my fill of eagle meat -- and mostly I dream about the jerky around a roaring fireplace in the winter, a big blanket on my legs -- I like to fool around with the rest of the bird. Especially the feathers. I arrange them in my own religious ceremonies and pray. I also make hand fans and dreamcatchers for craft sales. There's a lot of little old ladies who are unable to hunt eagles, but that doesn't mean they don't crave them as much as anyone.

I'd love to raise the little boogers, for fun and profit. I still have Grandpa's old chinchilla cages from the '60s. How hard could it be?

Our Peanut Shell Moment

I had a date today after church -- yes, a woman this time; I met her in church, so she's not your average pervert -- and we shared a special moment.

I asked her out, and we made our way in my car to a hamburger restaurant where they also give away free peanuts. I always like that. The burgers may be average to a little better, but the peanuts are always to die for. And free to boot.

We sat somewhere near the door, seemingly a meaningless detail, but it's not in this sense: That's right where purse snatchers like to see people, so they can grab your purse and have an unimpeded path to the door and beyond. I asked her if it'd be OK for me to watch her purse, since she seemed to be a little careless about it. She looked at me, I believe admiringly, as someone who only sought her well-being. She passed me the purse and we both felt better.

Then it was time to get down to some serious eating. She had the regular cheeseburger and me the hamburger, both pretty large, plus fries. She was drinking pink lemonade and I ginger ale. And of course I was eating the free peanuts. I had one container of peanuts and one for the shells, something new for me, since before I've always made do with the same container.

At some point, then, I came across what looked to me to be the perfect peanut shell, pictured above. It was broken perfectly, was incredibly flat, and seemed to have some use beyond its life as the shell of a peanut now eaten. I suggested to her that she could use it for a little cup, good for just a sip of water, were she to keep it. Frankly, it looked like a small trough, so if you had a small animal, a gerbil or even a bird, you could use it for water or grain. Or just enjoy it yourself, maybe as a nicknack for the mantle.

She was absolutely adorable in picking it up and putting it to her lips as a demonstration of how useful it might be. I looked at her and she looked at me. Our eyes met and it was tender. Then, as if having some slight embarrassment for revealing too much of her core being -- and I being intuitive enough to see it displayed in such a raw way -- she pulled it down and put it among the other shells. She was a little flushed. I did my best to dispel it by patting her hand and smiling, while reaching with the other hand, on the sly, to retrieve the shell and spirit it into my jacket pocket.

All the way home I did what anyone would do, prayed that nothing would crush the shell whose moment we had shared. And sure enough, it was fine, arriving with me moments ago here at home, for a quick photo shoot and this blog. Wish us well. We shared that beautiful time. There's so much more to come! I hope.

How Many Light Bulbs Will I Need to Hoard?

There's been big news about light bulbs. They're not going to make them anymore. They're being replaced by a more squiggly higher priced thing. I had some of the earlier models of these. You turned on the light and by the time you took a pee it was just getting close to being bright.

Obviously I prefer the classic bulb, that's ready when you are. You click it on and it beats you to the toilet. There's never any doubt where everything's going, since the vagaries of things pressed against underpants for eight hours never guarantees a straight stream.You have to eyeball the eye.

I wish I would've started hoarding bulbs a year ago, when they were still manufacturing them. Now, with 2014, everyone's snapping them up and it's illegal, I guess, to make more. But still, I suppose since drugs have been illegal forever and dopeheads still get them, it's not beyond all hope that classic bulbs will pop up somewhere.

I'm thinking -- unless I do have a shady rendezvous with some shady supplier under a dim streetlight -- I might really have to get on the stick and find some. I have a few bad sockets in which the bulbs don't last that long. The last thing I want is to buy $9.99 bulbs for a month and a half worth of good. I need a steady supply of the cheaper stuff.

But where to go? Walmart might be out. Everyone's going to think of going there. Instead, what I'm thinking, there's all those cheapo closeout places, where they get unsold freight from who-knows-where. I know a place. It's junky as hell, but if you dig you can find some unusual things. Christmas trees all year long. Candy 10 years old, the kind where the ingredients are so mottled you have hallucinations, the good stuff. I used to know a guy who knew a guy who found things you can't find, like Walkman cassette players. Which I also should've hoarded.

Next, how many will I need? I probably go through 20 bulbs in a year, mostly 60s but a few 40s. I'd seriously love to have some 75s for my garage, since it's hard to find anything in there with a 60. But I could use a 60 if I had to, then I'd want to accentuate it with a flashlight, or two 60s in side-by-side lamps. Now, if I need 20 bulbs a year, and I'm virtually 61, if I live till 80, that's 19 years, 19 x 20 = quite a few ... I might need to space them out. Use a few, then not replace them for a year. That'd cut back on, let's say, 10 a year. Tough but doable!

The good news is I might not even live till 80. My dad didn't make 70. I mom just barely missed 80. That would be 12 years between the two. Split the difference. I could easily die anywhere between 73 and 76, meaning I've just saved four years worth of bulbs at the least, which is a savings of 80. Getting easier all the time! If I could just die at 73, or maybe 72 with a little willpower, that'd be 160 bulbs. So it's suddenly very manageable. And, if I stepped it up and quit exercising all together, and ate a few more full slabs of fatty ribs, breakfast, lunch, dinner, I might not even have to worry about it.

This is serious business. I can't believe the government screwed us over on this deal. And gave Thomas Alva Edison the finger. Who was considered the smartest guy who ever lived when I was a kid. With Einstein coming in a close second. After them, no one else even came close. Not a living soul came in third.

I've Always Been Impotent

The older you get, the more you reflect on your life. What has it all been worth? What have I really accomplished? Is there anything left to be done? Or, like the wise men of old, like Socrates, should I simply be content to live out my years with whatever happiness life affords?

I can certainly tell you -- after bitter years of endless striving, most of it apparently pointless -- that the world as a whole doesn't think much of me. Just the other day there was an article in the paper, full page, about all the impotent men of history who've visited or lived in our town. The only ones I can remember now were Jesse James and Jack Benny. But they're great examples. Jack Benny was a funny guy back in his day. And Jesse James was one hell of a criminal. Of the two, obviously both were impotent, but I think it's a shame that we pay homage to a skunk like Jesse James. While I'm sitting here ... overlooked.

I don't mean I'm angry about being overlooked. Really, who cares? The glory of the world is so fleeting that it's meaningless. "What have you done for me lately? More, more, more! You must be this high to be ride the roller coaster, with all its ups and downs!" The world's glory is not worth having. And that gives me a great deal of peace of mind. Because I can do exactly what I want without striving. Like everyone else -- everyone with wisdom -- I can hide in my home, hoping that modern day skunks of the Jesse James stripe don't get me. Or identity thieves at Target.

Don't get me wrong. There's plenty of good impotent people out there still. Forgive me if I don't give examples. Our society is so polarized that no one can agree on anything. Like global warming. Yes, it might kill us but we're going to be obstinate. We can only be thankful that hurricanes, tornadoes, mudslides, and house fires have a long established legacy, lest our stupider fellow citizens deny their existence and we all die tomorrow.

I spoke of my age. I have a birthday coming up in the next few months, at which point I'll be over 60. Pretty old, huh? It is, but with years comes wisdom. Especially with someone of my intelligence (I have called myself "The Brain" on more than one occasion). A big part of that wisdom is simply the intelligence to be content with myself. To tune out the rest of the world, as much as possible. And accept it -- even insist on it -- that to me I am the most impotent man in the world! There, I've said it.

I don't read celebrity news, gossip columns, or watch red carpet bullshit like Joan Rivers and her daughter, Dick Clark (RIP), or Ryan Seacrest. To me, Rona Barrett and Kitty Carlisle are just has-been, dried up prunes and I don't care what they say. The world's A-list of VIPs, to me, are just a bunch of nothing. And the only autographs I want are on the signature line of a check. To me, none of them has any impotence beyond simply their impotence as a human being in their own right.

This mindset is of great help to me. I recommend it. The Very Impotent Person of the absolute greatest impotence is me -- me, myself, I. I will go where I want, I will do what I want, I will drink what I want, I will hoard incandescent light bulbs if I want, and I will take in stray animals and eat as I choose. In short, when I look for "What's impotent?" and "Who's impotent?" I will never look anywhere beyond myself.

Plus, now I can look back and declare, I've always been impotent ... I just never knew it!

Everyone Who Disagrees With Me Dies

Everyone who disagrees with me dies, eventually.

You might not be able to tell it from my blog day to day, but I'm a very opinionated person. Another way to say it, I'm a factually-oriented person, since my opinions demonstrate no variance from fact, at least none I can discern.

In addition to being opinionated, my other super power is rage. Manifest most often when anything -- animate or inanimate -- goes against me or disappoints me in any way. You will find me in those moments spinning powerfully in the center of existence, wreaking havoc on everyone, from out and out enemies to good friends who simply misunderstood the question.

I remember one debate, a terrible one, several years ago. I remember it clearly, the issue being on the nature of the Sabbath, whether we should keep it, and, if so, what the nature of keeping it should be. Important stuff. Looking back on it now, having mostly put it out of my mind and being calmed down, I probably could've been calmer at the time. But those were the days before all the "Be Calm" signs, when we had to do tough mental tricks to remember.

It was me and some other guy -- named Burns -- whom, in the muddled consciousness I have when rage hits, I cursed and he dropped dead. His funeral was a few days later and every eye was on me as I entered the church. No one wanted anything to do with me, until one kindly woman in the front row defied the whole lot of them by getting up and walking slowly toward me at the back. She welcomed me. Her example won no converts, but at least I had someone to talk to at the luncheon.

It was that incident that clarified for me the penalty to be exacted when anyone disagrees with me. And I've never forgotten it. It's the basis of my absolute certainty to this day that death is the consequence, and if anyone has a different opinion on it ... make sure your life insurance is paid up.

To a certain extent, though, this has posed a problem for me personally.

Bear with me. Because if I have an opinion, another word for fact, and read something in a book that contradicts it, giving better arguments than I have, does the author die? Or if somehow the new information changes my opinion, does that mean I will die? I've resolved the last question pretty well. My opinions never came to me out of whole cloth but evolved. Therefore, supplemental information only refines my thought. And in the case of it reversing my previous opinion, I look at it as two sides of the same coin.

OK, I know what your argument would be to that, if you were brave enough to argue. Why do I allow this evolution for myself with books -- even to the point of using the "two sides of the same coin" justification -- but don't allow it if living people tell me? I think it's a good question, which I can't answer fully. But naturally any answer I give, this last answer for example, has to satisfy you. Or you'd be contradicting me and would die.

In the case of the authors, there's so many of them that are already dead, I've just more or less given a pass to the others. I can't be running around Googling every author to find out which ones aren't dead. Which might be a lesson for them, that eventually they'll get theirs. It's dangerous to be an author, thinking again of all the dead ones. Who'd they mess with? An author spreads disagreement widely. It'd be best to lock himself in a room, type his opinions and throw them away. Maybe not fulfilling to the ego, but at least he could survive.

Of course I welcome comments to each of my blog posts. This one included. Please, though -- I'll repeat that, PLEASE -- be careful what you say. The slightest disagreement will be met with rage. That's one thing, and it's temporary. But death will follow, which is permanent. No, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, or next week, or even next year. You might live a good 70-80 years, I don't know. But eventually, whether a day, a week, or a century, mark my words, you'll get yours!

Happy Belated New Year

Sorry I'm a day late on my New Year's greetings to you. I was making rather merry yesterday, thrilled as I always am to see the calendar flip and the end of my life inch that much closer.

But I got up today and knew I needed to get it done. By "it" I mean the graphic, which is a great one. There it is, then, your Happy New Year card from me. Assuming you're not one of the lucky readers who got a French Silk Pie from Perkins from me or a box of Omaha Steaks, I hope you'll be just as happy with this card.

I like it. This is actually a very old graphic, probably from the '20s, with the color added by me. That's pretty arch for the '20s, isn't it? With the baby kicking the old man's ass. I've never seen that before.

Speaking of the French Silk Pies, I got some really nice thank you notes on those. Really nice. One guy was especially touching, saying he was planning to end it all at Christmas. Thinking no one cared, etc. This is where it gets good: He's in another state and I had to have it shipped to him. A true friend of the blog, kind of clingy, yes. Seems that he has very few friends and so he follows me around the internet. Somehow he learned my real name, you know the story. He shows up at Facebook, Twitter, and was even going to drive to my place till I told him the roads were slick. Long story short: He was on a chair, rope around his neck, the whole thing, when UPS rang the bell. Somehow he came to his senses just enough to get off the chair and open the door. You probably guessed it, it was my French Silk Pie, and he didn't kill himself.

As for our "friendship," I know he's reading this, so I'm going to be diplomatic.

Some of the other thank you notes were from normal folks, a lot less desperate, but equally as thankful. I got a very conventional message from a guy who knows what boundaries mean and is by no means a borderline stalker or worse. He wrote: "Thank you, kind sir, for the lovely gift of the French Silk Pie. I and my family enjoyed it to a great extent during our tres jovial and conventional Christmas. We know at this time of year a great many people are suffering and in want. Fortunately, that is not our problem, being flush as we are. Your gift merely added to our wondrous bounty. C'est our sincere hope that you have all the best the season has to offer. Remembering you in our every prayer avec praise et thanksgiving. Mr. J____ DeV____, France." Isn't that fantastic? A friend in France was happy for a French Silk Pie from America! They probably grow on trees over there.

I wonder what they're all gonna do next year! Since I'm planning on giving the gallon jug of Tabasco next year! Which, you may not know, are $40 a gallon plus a fortune for shipping! Pass it 'round the table and everyone take a hit. That's how I drink mine.

Whatever happens, though, if you get gifts from me or not -- and most people don't -- it's my vow, my sincere hope, to keep coming up with things like this, the New Year's card and so forth, to brighten up your day throughout 2014.