A Willing Man for Dillingham

I generally don't like the political season, with all the false accusations and negative spin the candidates lambast their opponents with. I hit the mute button I'll bet 200 times, since TV becomes even more a cesspool than it usually is. But once the election's over peace and harmony return, and the bastards are gone for another couple years.

The only candidate I really like -- an institution since my 30s -- is Sheriff True Dillingham. He was up for reelection this year, and of course it was a foregone conclusion that he'd win. With the same great campaign he's run since his first try, the "Willing Man" theme. It's his brand, as beloved in these parts as Smith Bros. cough drops or Elsie the Cow. Obviously, I'm a willing man for Dillingham! I hope you are too!

The usual assortment of buttons, posters, and stickers were all over the county, asking the question that really only has one answer, "Are you a willing man for Dillingham?" Most guys who know their stuff -- and zip it up everyday -- proclaim a hearty and hale "Yes!" I suppose there has to be a few guys against him, like the sacrificial lamb the other party runs and his few supporters, stragglers from the truth, head-butters against the inevitable.

I regret to say Grandpa never lived in the Dillingham years. He would've loved him. Being a manly kind of guy. Grandpa was always tickled by macho stuff, often times striking out in a colorful string of obscenities and profane put-downs against anyone who saw it differently. I guess I got a lot of that from him. Dillingham's a man from the same mold as Grandpa, although he obviously keeps it cleaner, having more supporters looking up to him, including women.

We've had such good sheriffing from Dillingham that the women generally look up to him even more than the men! But their devotion is kept very demure -- and much of their guidance comes from the campaign -- as they declare their allegiance. For the men it's, "I'm a willing man for Dillingham," but for the women it's, "I'm a willing woman for Mrs. Dillingham." I like that, I really do, everything in its appropriate place.

Women aren't left out of declaring for Dillingham himself, if they choose, but most see no reason to cross boundaries unnecessarily or call into question the nature of their support. They're quite happy to say, "My husband's a willing man for Dillingham." And lest anyone think unmarried women are simply out, they're not, as they have the button, "I know a willing man for Dillingham." It's these women buttons, especially from the earliest campaigns, that are much sought-after by collectors. Another good one is the check box button, "I know a willing man for Dillingham: My ___ Boyfriend, ____ Uncle, ____ Father, ____Other."

As I said, everyone likes Dillingham except criminals and their families. And even some of them like him, because at some level they know they needed help and/or tough love. Normal families adore him, which goes without saying. It's something every generation can share. Really, just to live in the Dillingham years is an honor, memories of which we will surely pass on. Fathers hope they can live up to the Dillingham ideal, Moms hope their daughters find a Dillingham-type guy to marry, and naturally devotion to Mrs. Dillingham is also an inspiration for girls, young or old.

But it's men most of all who are truly in the most literal sense of the word "Willing Men for Dillingham." Whether you're a boy learning of him, a younger man, a middle-aged man, or an older man voting, you are able to see his unreflected glory, while the women, with all their devotion to Mrs. Dillingham, see Dillingham's glory in a more reflected way. This helps keep them true.

As for me, now I'm older. 30 years ago I was a younger willing man for Dillingham. As years passed I matured into a middle-aged willing man for Dillingham. And now I'm proud to say I'm a much older willing man for Dillingham, not always as mentally sharp as I used to be, but I hope when my last memories perish from the face of the earth, at least I'll be able to maintain some vestige of this deep-seated knowledge, and will remain a willing man for Dillingham, world without end.

Louis Pasteur -- The Enemy of Kids

Today I am speaking up for all the kids in the world -- past and present -- who hate milk, and who are therefore sorry Louis Pasteur was ever born. I myself wouldn't go that far. I refuse to believe our lives are set in advance, and so I believe Pasteur could have actually done something useful with his life. The fact that he became the one to work out a way to "pasteurize" milk, thereby drastically reducing bacteria and making it safe to drink, is unfortunate, but still not enough for me to rue his existence.

I know how kids feel, though, and so I won't say much more, not wanting them to turn against me and feel sorry that I myself was ever born. As you know, kids have always been mean little bastards -- even fighting among themselves! -- and are not known to appreciate the nuance of any argument. Either you're for them or against them, and they easily see through any facade, any kind of kissing up or trying to pull the wool over their eyes. In this case, however, I said what I said, and I hope that they will somehow, by some miracle, be able to understand my benign intent. Pasteur was evil, yes, but his life had the potential for good.

The weird irony in this whole matter, as I understand it, is that Pasteur as a kid himself wasn't a milk-drinker. I'm more or less pulling this from thin air, but think about it... If the milk wasn't pasteurized and therefore rife with bacteria, it stands to reason that his parents wouldn't have wanted him drinking it. Of course they knew he was Louis Pasteur, but because he hadn't as yet made any stirrings toward discovering his process, they are forgiven for not knowing he ever would. We're very forgiving because they were blissfully ignorant the entire time.

And "pasteurization" might not even have applied to milk! When I was young I heard it bandied about that all Pasteur wanted was to become famous for something. He wanted the word "pasteurization" to mean something, to be descriptive of some process, any process that he might come up with. For that reason, he was often at his drawing board.

One of his interests was magic; he wanted to become a famous magician, doing all the usual feats: card tricks, levitation, escapes, and invisibility. He thought his invisibility process in particular might be called "pasteurization." He worked out a great process by which he could vanish. But since he could only get his body to disappear, his head remained and appeared to float around town for weeks after performances, an embarrassing failure.

Back to the drawing board, he developed a system for communicating with aliens in space. This is true. And this was also something he was going to call "pasteurization." But this was a terrible failure as well, because aliens love milk. See where this is going? Millions of aliens came to earth, drank our bacteria-ridden milk and died. Hence the world suffered Intergalactic War I, II, and III, and we almost strapped Pasteur to a rocket and shot him into space, á la Jonah. The upside of these disastrous wars, in addition to corporate profits, was Pasteur's pursuit of a way to purify milk ... and redeem himself.

This, then, is how he was finally able to use the word "pasteurization" in at least a semi-productive way. But everything comes with a downside -- milk wasn't restricted to aliens -- and so we're back where we began: Louis Pasteur became the sworn enemy of children everywhere, making their lives a miserable experience, a living hell, by having to drink milk.

It's still true: Milk is for aliens and babies, not big kids.

That's Sexy ... We're Not Moving

You really can't help it, the things that go on in swanky restaurants. But you don't have to approve of it. Which might be a good lesson for Ted to think about. On the other hand, who knows, maybe Doris was just too picky.

They were out on the town at The Fireside, a nice place, but a place where anything's liable to happen. The waiter seated them and went away. Doris had never approved of alcohol and a guy at the next table was getting a bit sloshed on whiskey. She called for the waiter, telling him, "We want to move." The new place was pretty good, until another guy pulled out a cigar and finished off his meal with a strong smoke. Doris called again for the waiter, telling him, "We want to move."

Of course Ted went along with her because he also wasn't much of a smoker. He got way too much of it when he was in the Navy, plus it's bad for you. The waiter took them around the corner and found them a better place. The next problem was an artwork of an alluring beauty just behind Doris and right in Ted's line of sight. She was a gorgeous siren of the sea, waiting, it appeared, for sailors to come in on the next ship. Ted's eye lingered approvingly on the picture, and a smile brightened his face, as though he were thinking back on happier times, his own time in the service and good memories.

Doris called for the waiter, but Ted interrupted, raising his hand, "No, Doris, that's sexy ... We're not moving." Suddenly Doris realized ... they weren't on the same page. Ted was a rebel, mulling his own thoughts in private, whatever they were. She saw him smile again, after such a stern frown when he had said, "That's sexy ... We're not moving." What's she got that I haven't got? Doris went right to the nub of the issue: Such allure! Her blouse pulled down, revealing a shoulder and a breast that refused to be hidden. A tight skirt halfway up her thigh. The look on her face that of pure seduction. Her hair pulled back like a goddess. For starters...

And there was Ted, now silent, in his own world, who could not or would not be swayed. But Doris tried, complaining in tones accusatory, "She's down by the docks like she's waiting for sailors!" Ted lit up again, keeping a silent smile. Then Doris tried another tack, "I'm not hungry here, in fact I'm nauseous here. I think we ought to move." But Ted was adamant, "No, that's sexy, we're not moving." Sexy? Is that what he's thinking of? Ted's always been so good!

All of a sudden, Ted got up and went around the corner and returned a minute later. He bought a couple cigars and was lighting up. Next, the waiter came around the corner with a shot-glass of whiskey and the rest of the bottle. Ted had Doris move to the opposite side of the table, so she wouldn't spoil his view of the beautiful woman. He put his focus on her and didn't take it off, except to refill his glass. He didn't eat, only smoked his cigars, drank whiskey, and made visual love, as it were, to the woman in the picture.

Doris, for her part, ordered the most expensive steak on the menu, then sat picking at it. She'd show him! But Ted didn't care, in fact he didn't even notice, lost as he was in overwhelming pleasure and such a wonderful feeling of lust, that feeling you get when everything comes together as nature planned ... and everything is just right.

Take the Thanksgiving Pledge: I Shall Shop!

I'm up in arms this year, as I understand there are various ones agitating for businesses to be closed on Thanksgiving. Of course this is just more of the same, the undercutting that we've unfortunately come to expect of our valued American traditions. Apparently their philosophy goes something along these lines, Anything old and established needs to give way to something new, something modern. And so it is, they want something different simply for the sake of being different.

Like I said, I'm up in arms about it and I'm not going to take it lying down. I'm fighting back. By making a pledge, along with a warning to businesses, that I will be shopping on Thanksgiving, as always. With the warning that if any store is not open on Thanksgiving, I will never return there. And that's a biggie, because I'm totally hooked on shopping, and it might be tough for me to keep that particular codicil. Still, surely there will be thousands joining me whose discipline in that regard might be stronger. Plus, just issuing the warning, stated as strongly as it is, will give businesses pause about daring to close on Thanksgiving.

I don't know exactly where all this trouble started, but if I had the resources it'd be interesting to trace it and find out precisely who is to blame. It could be the employees of the big stores and shopping centers who are merely lazy and looking for a way to take the day off. Laziness is epidemic, as we all know. I know some kids, for example, who don't have a single muscle on their skinny little bodies. All they do is vegetate on couches, sometimes mustering up the strength to play video games for a few minutes before collapsing. You figure they have parents, and that some of those parents work at these stores. They're jealous of their kid's lethargy and dissipation, so they want a day off.

What I actually think, those I believe are probably responsible, are all the bleeding hearts on Facebook. You see their posts all the time. They're sentimental about every puppy, every kitten, every dying horse, every selfie their idiot kid comes up with, every Bible verse, every "witty" saying, along with cartoons of little old ladies saying ironic things that undercut their dignity, etc. Of course they've gone soft. Then there's grandchildren, and we all do love our families. But instead of taking the day off, that's a huge reason why I'm calling us back to our senses. Don't do away with Thanksgiving shopping! Your kids are depending on you!

I used to listen to my grandparents as they reminisced about the old days. Which would've been the 1920s and '30s. They got married in 1920. It's kind of funny, but the little old town Grandpa came from had only one general store. If they didn't have it at the general store they didn't need it! Anyway, that little store was run by some funny little man who spent a whole hour just lighting the stove. The rest of the time he was waiting on customers. As long as there was a dime to be made, he was there. And it's a good thing he stayed open on Thanksgiving, because that was the big shopping day back then. It took them a week to get there, and he'd better be open! And kids had muscles, too, not like today...

I venture to guess that today's kids have never heard a story like that. Everything today's so confused they don't know what to believe. So someone like me, who does know the traditions, and does value our past, has to spell it out, as I'm doing here. Whether they read my blog -- or even know how to read -- these are things I don't know. It could be I'm merely pissing into the wind with my words, but piss I will! As long as I have breath...

I hope everyone has Happy Holidays this year, and that you get your holiday shopping done, as it should be done, right away, bright and early Thanksgiving Day. Let me wish you all the best for a splendid and blessed Thanksgiving, as you accomplish your shopping, then gather to do ... whatever ... fatten up the little skeletons on your couch playing games ... introduce them to a turkey leg, and bring them back from vegetarianism and let them eat like healthy people. Meat, potatoes, and meat.

Happy Thanksgiving shopping!

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Lest any of this seems obscure, like you're reading this in the year 2034, when common sense has returned to mankind, the above graphic comments on the following graphic that's made its viral way around Facebook:

Horse Doctor -- The Easiest and Hardest Job

It's something we hate to think of, even as we know it's absolutely true, that when all is said and done, the horse is the weakest, sickest, and most accident-prone animal there is. How many times have I heard it, even when I was growing up and they were shielding me from bad news, that another horse has to be put down. He tripped over a rock, he ran his leg into a tree, he stepped on a nail, he's trapped in a bear trap, he's choking, whatever. It's a sad story, but a very old story.

I trust it's well known that horses back in ancient times had to do a lot more than they do today. Pulling wagons cross continents, going off to battle, dragging sledges, and on and on. So whether they were massively stronger back then, one has to think so. All that's done now. You might have a horse pull a little buggy, taking the grandchildren for a fun ride, about 15 minutes, around the timber once a year. We look up and it's swishing bugs off its back side, and we're charmed. But if I'm there I've got my fingers crossed it won't get stung by a mosquito and traumatize the party. Especially kids.

I was talking with someone yesterday who was telling me she'd just read on Facebook about a horse having to be put down because it had colic. In case you don't know, colic is a twisting or kinking or a bend in the intestine, so it can't have a bowel movement. There's not much they can do about it except, you guessed it, put it down.  The worst thing about it, from an economic point of view, would be the major investment a horse is, big money. Those who raise them are taking a risk first, so they need to get a high price to cover their prior losses. Then you buy one and it dies, you're out. I'd personally never buy a horse. I'd rather take my chances on lottery tickets, instant loss.

In this discussion on the Facebook horse, it occurred to us that veterinary services for horses have to be kind of useless. Whatever the problem, "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do for your animal; it has to be put down." And there's the doctor, a big old practiced sad look on his face, looking down, pushing a stone on the ground with a toe. Fidgeting with his hands, waiting for an opportunity to shake hands with the owner and put a comforting touch on their forearm. Why? he asks himself, did I ever go into veterinary sciences, especially with horses? There's nothing you can do. So I'm left patting arms and feigning sadness. I could've been a therapist and, in addition to making big money, known survivors.

But that's the way it is. Horse doctoring is literally both the easiest and hardest job there is. Whether it's a broken leg, colic, foundering, sugar cube overdose, tapeworms, an aversion to snakes, raring up and banging its head on a beam in the barn, the solution is always no solution, but instead a quick dispatching of the animal, albeit as painlessly as possible, humanely done. With the pat on the arm being quite sincere, an expression of grief that is true. I've been there, I've known people who've been there. You get one of these beautiful animals, you get attached to it, and BAM, three weeks later, you're putting it down.

My imagination of how it is for the vets, to reiterate, they have to think, I went to vet school for this? There being nothing you can ever do for the horse. The good thing about the job is it's so easy, except, of course, for your own grief and having to help the owner through their grief and watching them deal with their sense of your uselessness; that part's very hard. You can see the wheels grinding in the bereaved's head: "You are the absolute worst excuse for a veterinarian." It's true, but you're trying so desperately to compensate with the arm pat, the looking down, the handshake, which aren't physically tough, but still never get any easier.

And there it is, another dead horse at your feet. Another damned dead horse!

What a thing! Maybe after reading this you'll spare yourself this certain grief and avoid getting a horse. Because I've seen it happen, don't think I haven't. It might be a five dollar horse or a million dollar horse. They die just the same, just like that. An owner gets a horse, she's beaming with pride, then the next thing -- three weeks later -- the animal's got a hangnail and has to be put down. Any little thing you can imagine, and there's thousands of possibilities, the end is always the same, brutal.

Cosmos: Elvis Presley

For a while I was watching the Neil deGrasse Tyson "Cosmos" show religiously, and really getting into it, traveling across great vistas of outer and inner space, but getting back home in time for dinner. It was great, it really was. Then I got to about episode 9 and read they were only going to make 13 episodes, I was floored. What?! I thought it'd go on for years, but they're bailing at 13! That was a huge letdown, so I haven't watched the rest.

Why wouldn't they just keep exploring the wonders of the planets, the stars, the world, just on and on? What is this measly 13 episodes? Then I learned that Carl Sagan's show also was only 13 episodes, which I never knew; I never saw it.

As you can see from my graphic, I also had high hopes that one of the wonders Neil might cover would be my personal hero in life, Elvis Presley. There's no person, place, or thing greater than the King of Rock 'n' Roll. And I speak as one of the world's first (and youngest) Elvis impersonators, since I was shaking my booty and belting out "Hound Dog" when I was just 3, in 1956.

Lest anyone disagree, please take into account, each of us is a part, even integral, to the cosmos. But not everyone's the same: There's me, there's the president, there's the guy begging downtown, there's murderers, there's everyone else, but not one of them is or was the great Elvis Presley. No man could be Elvis but Elvis, and no one is as great. When the cosmos got done creating Elvis Presley -- I believe it was on the 8th day, after God had a rest on the 7th day fit for a king -- it was pronounced perfect. Then the rest of us, the various mutations making up us, were created and/or evolved from the ooze.

Someday, when it's almost my time to reenter the ooze, I want everyone to wait outside -- family, friends, readers of this blog. And I want the death nurse to bring me an iPod with Elvis songs. Then, at that grand moment -- even though I'm feeling like total crap -- I will spiritually be revived when I hear the greatest voice in 13.8 billion years, singing me to sleep:

Lord Almighty, I feel my temperature rising. Higher higher, it's burning through to my soul. Girl, girl, girl, girl, You gonna set me on fire. My brain is flaming, I don't know which way to go.

It's coming closer, the flames are now licking my body. Please, won't you help me, I feel like I'm slipping away. It's hard to breath, my chest is a'heavin'. Lord have mercy, I'm burning a hole where I lay.

Hey, I wasn't expecting his last song to me to be my diagnosis, but that works! Shows a certain omnipotence, hardly the stuff of 'One size fits all.' To know the King's got me in his thoughts ... Pretty good.

Anyway, I was listening to some Elvis tracks just last night, and it reminded me, "I really need to get Neil deGrasse Tyson in on this. People will listen to him even if they turn from me. He could make the case for Elvis' place in the cosmos so much better than I, with his fantastic little spaceship. He could buzz the planet Presley and bring back a report that would cheer my soul, and, who knows, maybe rescue me." Those were my actual thoughts, a direct quote.

Then, someday, when I go, when it's all said and done, Elvis will receive me into the heavenly mansions, saying, "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and perhaps dedicating "My Way" to me. Since I, too, have often bit off more than I can chew.

The bottom line, in case you haven't guessed, is I love Elvis Presley. I love every nuance of his voice. Everything of his looks. Basically everything of everything. Elvis is the stuff of miracles. Think of how it went, a truck-driving kid who went from that to blow the whole world away. If Neil deGrasse Tyson has a place in his heart for every obscure scientist who discovered how to tell one star from another, surely there's a place for the greatest star of all.

The Artwork of Children is Crap

Being a community leader -- I'm related to a guy in the Chamber of Commerce -- I'm sometimes called on to perform some interesting tasks. Sometimes it's fun, like the time I picketed a local strippers club with the town pastors. The girls came out to finger us, and I managed to get in a few winks to let them know I'm actually cool with nudity and lap dances. As to some of the other tasks you have to shake your head and ask, "Why? Why? Why am I involved in this crap?" I was saying that when they asked me to judge a children's artwork show.

Judging a kids' show is a big deal, it's not entirely cut and dry. They fingerprint you a month in advance to make sure you're not a predator posing as an art judge. Which of course I'm not. I'm also not an art judge, but they're a little more lenient there. They don't really care, because, let's face it, these budding Picassos are all going to win. Their genius is unquestioned. The bad news is some of them are going to kill themselves when they become adults, because that's when the world tells you the bitter truth. The good news is their crummy artwork will only go up in value, depending on how tortured they were.

Anyway, I showed up, and passed through all the parents and their fawning remarks. They know who to kiss up to. "Please, please, people, people, get a firm grip, OK?" I sounded something like Paul Lynde, gently scolding while at the same time chuckling. Then I took my place at the front of the room, with all the garbage proudly displayed. I needed to get a grip of my own, and make a good show of reviewing the divisions for judging. In all there were 36 art pieces. Each would get a trophy. That part was easy. The rest would've been tougher, except, I will confess, I was already swayed by outside forces.

So all 36 would get trophies, but there would be two overall winners (pictured above), with only one getting the top prize. Little Candy Apple's house picture was the runner-up winner basically to make things look good. The other took top prize because of outside threats. On Candy's work, her dad apparently built a house. I took the hint of a face on the house's front to be a statement that the house was essentially one of the family. They had moved into a generic house, then infused it with the spirit of their family. Or something. The kid probably draws everything that way, constantly personifying whatever it is. Actually a real yawner.

The judged masterpiece of the entire show was the study in black by the little Shivs boy. Knowing the family as I do -- they live on the other side of the tracks, most of the kids are in gangs, and all the older men are in prison -- I can say they're a very dangerous bunch. So after numerous threats, persistently made, I judged Randy's artwork to receive first prize. Actually I showered it with awards, six blue ribbons! I'm pretty sure Randy regularly gets high, and I can imagine him now at my door, a stub-nose in hand. But I don't believe he'll forget the favor of six ribbons.

At the end, everyone came up for their awards. And of course we presented the art teachers from the various schools, who also wisely congratulated Randy Shivs profusely. A kid like that will go far. I know if by some act of God he and his delinquent family were to move far from this town we'd all be overjoyed. And with six ribbons and several trophies, maybe he'll qualify for a scholarship abroad. He'll certainly get every recommendation The Family wants. And if the Chamber gets involved and turns to me, I believe I can bullshit some decent letters on his behalf.

Note: In addition to first place, I judged Randy's work most colorful, most creative, most apt to curl your teeth, and overall the utterly most superb and excellent -- the top dog -- to be praised in all known languages of this and all other possible worlds.

Little Old Fantastic Me Strikes Again

I'm remaking society in my own image. Isn't that great! Always thinking, always tinkering with things behind the scenes. Very nefarious, potentially, but always meant, strictly, for good.

On Twitter I've become something of a wild man, casting away all the norms of propriety, and I've struck out on my own. I whittled my "likes" down from something like 3,500 to 40. Making everyone crazy, no doubt. But to me it's fantastic, giving me something manageable to work with. Feeling great. I currently have 81.155555 times more followers than folks I follow, meaning I'm in huge demand, for once in my life.

Lest you think that's simply vain, let me assure you, it's not. Because in my way of thinking, this means I'm on to something, not being content merely to rest on my laurels. Instead, I'm contributing to world progress, happiness, and peace. After all, the more content you are, the more you are able to contribute in positive ways. I continue it today, through my peaceful writings.

You remember my post yesterday, to give an example, how I re-imagined what driving (traffic) could be like, virtually heaven on earth, if only we had something like a commandant/peon system, people like me being the commandants, with freer access to the roads, and peons like 81.15555% of the population, with more restricted access. I came up with that!

Then, as I recall, I also imagined the same commandant/peon system for the adoption of children and pets, both. That's radical, yes, and entirely level-headed at the same time. You can see the efficiency, and dare I say compassion, of such a system in an instant. What I'll be thinking of next, even I don't know. I only know I'm always thinking. And using tricks to jog my memory of everything I haven't thought of yet. See that? That's radical! And level-headed at the same time.

I can tell you a few of my mental tricks, things that give me the edge.

1) Tarot cards. When I get up in the morning, after having about a half cup of coffee, I shuffle the major arcana of my deck and draw a card. Let's say one morning I get the "Temperance" card. Every time I look at it I think of something new. There's a big angel with one foot in the water and one foot out. I'm always secretly hoping the lobster from "The Moon" card might come over and pinch his toe. Put those two cards together and you'd have something!

2) Meditation. One of the things I used to think was ideal was for meditation to empty your mind. Since I could never manage that, I went hog wild the other way. When I'm meditating -- and my exact routine is top secret -- I'm forever delving into some new way to enhance society and make humanity happier. My latest project involves Republicans and guillotines, but I haven't yet fully perceived the fullness of the ultimate goal. Only time, more meditation, and the availability of guillotines will tell!

3) Miscellaneous reading. I pick up at least 25 different books every week, intending to read each one. But I never get far, because the next one always looks more interesting. In this way I never actually finish a book, but I learn everything you can learn from the first 10-15 pages. This generalized smattering of knowledge doesn't do me a lot of good, but in guessing what I might have missed, I think of unexpected things. One plan I came up with for society is stocking the world's libraries with only the first 15 pages of each title, because the library would then be able to hold 100s more books. And if you get them on Kindle, the free sample usually covers the first 15 pages, so it's super cheap learning!

Everything in the world is getting better in every way, thanks to me! Which I've adopted as a daily affirmation, reading precisely like that: "Everything in the world is getting better in every way, thanks to me, little old fantastic me!"

The Road Commandant

I don't live in the most congested area of the country, but it's still pretty damned congested. They've either lowered the driving age to 10 or issued a second car to everyone, because traffic is crazy, terribly bad! I can only imagine how it must be in the worst places -- it takes three hours to get out of your driveway.

And nobody seems to be doing anything about it, such as tearing out houses and businesses and widening roads, at least not enough to make a difference. I frankly think our city parks would make pretty good holding stations for cars waiting to get on the road, if they'd pave them and put in some roundabouts for easy entrance and departure.

Until then, it looks like we're just going to have to make do. There would, however, be another way to handle things. Such as only allowing driving for everyone every other day, going by your last name. A through H one day, I through Z the next. There's not that many X Y Z names, so it's not exactly split in half. Or assign us all a rank and let the higher ranks have some privileges.

I feel I'm mature enough (61) and healthy enough that I'd make a very decent civilian commandant. That'd be a simple system for the roads, a commandant/peon social system. With higher/lower commandants and higher/lower peons. Keeping it simple. The peons would all have gray cars, the commandants gold, with red stripes showing their ranks.

So traffic stops at an intersection, the commandants go first, then the peons. If there's varying ranks of commandants or peons present, they respect the stripes. That's simple. If there's more than one commandant of the same rank, the first one to salute the other goes first. If both salute at the same time, they keep saluting till one's salute appears superior. The peons hash it out between themselves as well, as best they can, having the incentive to hash it out quickly lest another commandant appears.

I think that's pretty good. And it would work in other areas of life. I honestly can't think of any areas it wouldn't work in, except, probably, in peon adoption cases. As a commandant, I'd be open to adopting another commandant child -- like in a case where a commandant was killed in a crash by a peon. The peons would want probably get up in arms if too many commandants tried to adopt their children. But we could always do it at night or in secret.

It'd definitely be a plus in pet adoptions. Still, you can see there might be problems. Say you've just about chosen your pet when a peon family -- more prone to snap decisions -- takes it out from under your nose. But let's say we have a common sense commandant/peon system in place. The peons are making snap decisions, yet they're held up by too many peons doing it. A commandant enters and all snap decisions are officially put on hold. The commandants can now browse in comfort and silence and make their decisions in peace.

A certain amount of cruelty would be allowed, although a commandant could be merciful if he so chose -- tough to imagine but theoretically possible. I can picture a case like this. A peon family has just lost a pet, and the pet place has one close enough to it to be a DNA match. The peons are just about to make their snap decision when the commandant enters. The commandant chooses that very pet. The peons are left crying. He could show mercy, although you can see the clear downside. Why give them false hope, since that's just going back to the old failed system? There's more than one dog ... Wait your turn!

Lest you think it sounds kind of Gestapo, let this word go forth, to friend and foe: I don't mind Gestapo, just so I get mine.

My Better Angels

There's a bitter struggle going on inside the soul of man, I'm told. Friends tell me how they're torn from two directions, good and evil. It sounds dreadful, frankly, and I guess one of my biggest fears is that something like that might someday happen to me. Hope not!

Even in my innocence, however, I have not been entirely clueless about these things. I too see multiple paths and choices, which, however good my own options are, are enough to make me understand that not everyone is as fortunate. I'm often torn -- riven -- between two very good choices. Do I do this, something good, or this other thing, also good? It gives me pause. Fortunately a flip of the coin resolves the question, which, for me, is divinely determined.

But for my friends--- It sounds hideous for them. They've told me things that have made my hair stand on end, and goosebumps have been another reaction. I've had to wonder at those moments if indeed I do have it somewhere within me, like them. I wonder, How do I understand these things, never having experienced them. I can only resolve it like this, I'm just smart, or, again, it's divinely determined. Whatever the truth, Saints Be Praised!

It could be the saints, or it could be the angels. We've all heard the line about having "better angels." But they're not always successful (in others), leaving the field wide open for "worse angels," who, although they're worse tend to best the better! Ironic and weird. Boggles the mind. Definitely something for further exploration, as long as the taint of evil doesn't get on me.

My own saints and angels are very good at all this stuff. This is all literally true, in case you're wondering. As I think back, they came to me at a very early age, and just stayed. I don't think I'm bragging by saying I made a good home for them. They found me in innocence and they never left! What a great job for them. If you're an angel, you don't want to be assigned to someone who's going to immediately fall. That's a good way to be called on the carpet, the Big Carpet! But if you can luck out and get a charge like me -- someone never falling -- imagine how that looks on an angel's record. Looks fantastic.

I should apply -- I really should! -- to have all angels removed and see if I could do it on my own. I bet I could. I've had enough experience by now, no matter what the temptation. Even if there was no angel to help, I'd avoid it, stand up to it, and prevail! No doubt. I really think I'd be OK.

But, and this is important, I'm listening to my better angels right now, and they're saying not to go for it. So at this point, I'm not doing it. They've never deceived me yet, that I know of, so I'm very sure they're telling the truth now. The clear message is that I might not actually be that strong on my own. And once I tasted sin, there's no telling what it might do for the future. I better keep my better angels, and stay pure. Great advice!

Stay true, OK? Yours for clean living, Dbkundalini out.

Check for Spiders

More and more people look to the internet for advice, how to better live their lives. I myself have often looked up information, such as how to self-diagnose illnesses and conditions. A few years ago, you may recall, I had big troubles with olfactory hallucinations. I dealt with every issue through internet advice, and now, at this very moment, I'm OK. Things smell pretty much like what they are.

Now, some advice I can offer has to do with spiders. I believe it's important to check for spiders, at least in most cases. My belief is that anything left lying around for very long will attract spiders. This is confirmed by experience, because I've seen spiders here, there, and everywhere. I have to figure they came upon the item (place) and simply moved in.

Today, to give an example of my caution, I was going to put on some shoes that I haven't worn for a month or more. The first thing I worried about was, Could there be spiders in them? The last thing I want is put my foot in just to be bitten by spiders, or even to crush them. I'm both careful and compassionate. So I pounded the shoes against something, to jar loose anything that might have been in there.

One thing I'm not cautious about is putting on my everyday shoes. Until now that hasn't seemed like an issue, although I may start now, because, Why wouldn't they move in to a pair of shoes overnight? If it's a month or so, that's only one day multiplied by 30 or so. And this could be the very day or night they discover your empties.

Recently, and this is uncharacteristic of me, I've had a spider hanging around the bathroom, and I've been letting it hang there. I've been watching it. It's been very peaceful, just quietly doing nothing, meditating perhaps. Day after day has passed. He's here, then tomorrow he's an inch to the left, etc. But he's stayed in the same place. Until the day before yesterday, when he was gone! Where'd he go? I may never know. Or I may find him, in a shoe or in the pocket of a shirt in my closet.

Or, let's just say he's real adventurous. Maybe he went into my dresser. With winter coming, what would be more comfortable than a closed dresser, in among the warmth of my underwear? That's where I'd go, maybe to the T-shirts instead, but I'm not a spider, who, likely don't have good reasoning powers when it comes to undies. Now I'll have to check there, and frankly I'll have to check everywhere, because even if I find this particular spider, who's to say that's actually him? And not another or another or another ... with the entire place riddled with spiders, rife with them!

They might be amongst the towels, in the bed, under my pillow, inside my pillow case -- they can be anywhere! I'll never be able to function, I can only imagine how bad it must be for people who live where there's also scorpions. They're not sleeping at all, just zombies staggering around, doing anything they can to get a moment's rest, turning things over, forever alert to the danger that spiders, snakes, scorpions, lice, roaches, and all the rest of nefarious nature is about to get them. All these terrible creatures are small but potentially dangerous, whether they're one ... or a million.

My advice, check for spiders. Once, twice, many times. Your life is hanging by a thread as it is. You can't allow anything else to happen.

Great Caesar's Ghost

Was Julius Caesar evil? I'm asking. For once in my life I'm not trying to conceal my ignorance. I know virtually nothing about him. I tried to read him in Latin one time. But not knowing Latin it was a tough go, and I made it up to about page 4. I know he traveled around doing stuff, to England, building walls, etc., but that's about it. And I read Shakespeare, the play where he got killed midway through.

My other exposure was the Adventures of Superman episode where he (apparently) comes back from the dead and appears to Perry White, who has a catchphrase, "Great Caesar's ghost!" The way that episode goes, if memory serves, is that it's just more Adventures of Superman two-bit thugs out to swindle Perry for a few bucks. I love the old Superman show, but there was never much there.

For my purposes today, Great Caesar is very evil, and his ghost, being him, is also very evil. And that's me saying it, who basically doesn't believe in ghosts. Well, I've had some scary moments in my life where I've imagined there were ghosts, like when I was a little kid. The last thing I wanted to be dealing with -- and my main Superman days were when I was little -- would've been Great Caesar's ghost!

It's easy to imagine the ghosts of the great -- the infamous great -- was being around. They were larger than life, therefore they're larger than death. They did their mean crap when they were alive, and now that they're dead, they still have the moxy-on-the-ball to get out there and do mean crap. I could probably toss out Hitler, since he always comes to mind when it comes to evil. And Julius Caesar, whose evil I'm not even sure about.

Whatever the reason, he's back with a vengeance, no doubt because he's dead and wants to share his misery with us. He's a ghost, that's one word for it, but he's also a shade, a somewhat freakier ghost. You see him when the light's right, and before you can get a handle on what you're seeing, he's gone!

What precisely he's sharing of his misery, I haven't had personal experience. Except I know it can't be good. Likely much of it's passive, afflicting the vulnerable. Like Perry White, who was very vulnerable in that episode. Tired, dragged-out, listless, with very little resistance. He needed Jimmy Olsen and Jimmy's pal, Superman, to help.

All evil must be dealt with. Please vote Democratic.

If We Treated Astronauts Like Honey

I have an attention span disorder when it comes to two things, honey and astronauts. I've found that both are easy to ignore, forget, and neglect. When it comes to honey, once it's in the cupboard, it's completely forgotten; I shouldn't have bought it. And the same thing holds for astronauts, but with more nuance. Theoretically I like astronauts as much as ever, but they're not seen as heroes anymore, or even given actual names that I hear, so they're out of the public eye, and definitely forgotten by me.

Consider what happens to honey once it's in the cupboard. The honey's forgotten, the astronaut's forgotten, the honey crystallizes and congeals, the astronaut dies in outer space. Of course it's six of one, half a dozen of the other, but presumably the astronaut's life means something, whereas the jar of honey arguably has less value. It's close.

I have to tell you -- so you understand -- that I honestly do love both honey and astronauts. As for honey, I love its looks, its consistency, its taste, and all the rest. I fully support any and all efforts to preserve, protect, and defend honey bees. I've given to understand that they're vital to our well-being, not just in the making of honey but for every other crop, from soup to nuts.

OK, picture me in the store when the spirit moves and I pick up a jar of honey. I think of what I'm going to do, have a tablespoon of honey everyday for my health and happiness. The first day I eat a tablespoon, the second day the same, the third day the same, the fourth day a butter and honey sandwich, and the fifth day something else. Then the sixth day comes and I'm out of town. The seventh day I'm still away. The eighth day I get back home and by then I've forgotten I even have honey. The next time I see the jar is a year and a half later, by which time it's crystallized and congealed and looks like hell. I've heard you can heat it up and make it edible again, but it seems like I've tried it a couple times and it's not the same. At this rate I won't buy another jar of honey for two years. Because I've already got six to eight jars of congealed honey junking up the cupboard.

I shudder, thinking of the poor astronauts, all whom I've also forgotten. It was fantastic when they were taking off, great when they achieved orbit, and wonderful when they went for a space walk. But coinciding (or not) with me going out of town, by the fourth or fifth day our beloved astronauts are on their own. I can only hope Houston hasn't forgotten them, but let's say they do ... How horrible it must be to be an astronaut, when it used to be such an enviable profession. I might've been an astronaut, but once again, as has happened so often in life, math was my downfall.

The astronaut, quite unbeknownst to me and everyone, is radioing earth on the fifth day: "Houston, Major Tom here, floating in my tin can." But all Tom hears in reply is static, crazy static, so crazy it's indicative of static quite on its own, as crazy as having a lost weekend. Like the honey jar, he's in the cupboard, forgotten. Everyone's out of town!

Fortunately, there's plenty of supplies on board for a long flight if need be. Just like the honey in the jar doesn't crystallize and congeal immediately. You could take it out of the cupboard a couple weeks later -- I suppose -- and it'd still be good. Similarly, the astronaut isn't in any huge danger, just so Houston remembers him reasonably soon. But once honey's forgotten, it's forgotten. And the same thing, I'm thinking, has to hold for astronauts. We may have a hazy recollection of launching them, but very soon the memory's drifted away.

Six months later, the honey looks like crap. And the astronauts are all dead, having etched on the dash panels some last message, such as, "Tell Laura I love her," a last provocative, plaintive message to someone, perhaps his wife, mistress, lover, or sister.

My Favorite Ex-Wife and Their Club

Like most guys my age (61), I have a messy history, especially in the area known as love. You think you have just the right gal, then it turns out she's not that great and you need another. Then another. Then another. It's a little principle I guess I'll call Live and Learn.

Then -- and this makes for a messy present as well -- they all have to still be alive, and as luck would have it, right in this area, so they (and I) can't help but run into each other from time to time. But I've gotten pretty good about sneaking around grocery stores, holding cereal boxes up to my head when I peek around corners, and keeping my eyes down in the checkout line. But accidents do happen.

It just so happened the other day I ran into my favorite ex-wife, the one I doted on, and she informed me that the four of them have been meeting. Apparently there's a website that helps ex-wives form their own club, along with bylaws, officers, new business, and, especially, old business. Letting old business resurface, and thereby giving them the opportunity to crap on me all over again -- their goal -- when the spirit moves. Little things, like stealing the ex-husband's paper, keying his car, all the way up to uber reputational despoilage.

But it was kind of good running into her, Polli Marie. Since I loved her most of all, until it all went to hell. My right eye has this thing where it involuntarily wanders -- which no one believes -- so they all got the wrong idea when I'm looking around. That I have an attitude, that I'm the roving type, etc.

My first three wives were all high school chums, who thought they wanted me. So I gave in, one at a time. I saw a huge benefit in that they were all big-boned women and obviously suited for service. I had the property here, my grandparents', and all the things from their successful household, wash tubs, clotheslines, dressing tables, and everything. So it was an easy choice to marry them and put them to work. Definitely freed up time for me and my wandering eye.

Of course I'd come home -- let's say after hunting and fishing -- and get meals from them (we were married sequentially, which should go without saying) -- and drop off fresh game and fish for them to clean. I thought it was a happy way to do things, but all I ever got was guff. Too much work, not enough sex, was their main complaint. But I could hardly stand the gamey smell. So we divorced: First Cindy Jane, then Linda Jane, then Myrtle Jane ... I told myself I had to get off the Jane gang. Three strikes, they're out!

Well, it just so happened that when Myrt and me were married, my wandering eye landed one day on the sexiest little so-and-so I'd ever seen thus far. Small-boned, lithe, flexible, not naturally given to the wash basin and game. And that's how I treated her, as though she were incapable of actual work. I made her my little queen. Had her propped up on the couch -- her throne -- with pillows and Grandma's old nicknacks for her palace.

I doted on that beautiful woman, Polli Marie. "O my Polli Marie, Polli Marie, Polli Marie!," her name still gives me the world's worst hots. She'd been a farmer's daughter, so I suppose she could've done some work. But you gotta understand, I'd already worked myself out of three wives, naturally I'm going the other way on my sweet, precious Polli Marie!

Then it happened, I came home one day laden with game and fish -- set to clean them myself, thanks to having been abandoned by the big-boned ones -- and Polli Marie was nowhere in sight. I checked her throne, I checked the other throne, everywhere, but she was gone! With my wandering eye, also a source of her grief, I scoured the town and finally found her applying for a job at the library. Of course I threw the book at her. I probably shouldn't have, but I did. No small-boned wife of mine will ever work! She left me and ever since I've been single.

Now that I hear they're caught up in this internet crap, forming an ex-wives club, I'm beside myself with grief. Frankly, if I can't have them -- three of them for work and the precious one on her throne -- I don't want to hear about them at all. (That's why I burnt the edges of the above graphic, symbolically burning away the past.) If, though, I do have to hear about them .... If I have to suffer the slings and arrows of this club ... I definitely hope Polli Marie is elected president. The others, with their big bones, aren't fit to lead, only to take orders from my queen, and work.