Casual Stylish Sleazy Women

 

Part 6 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

That was Donny. Donny’s no longer with us.

The province of the word “Sleaze” to describe good-looking women is a matter of conjecture. But I think I know how it works. A site called Urban Dictionary has an example of its usage: “Man, that girl Ashlee a sleaze…” Which sounds very modern.

I first heard “sleaze” used this way in the early '70s with guys I worked with. They weren’t cosmopolitan or even remotely sophisticated concerning the latest lingo, let alone urban dialect. But we’d be on break downstairs, lying on some equipment with a good view of the sidewalk, looking up at people passing. For my co-workers, mostly one guy in particular, any old man walking by was a worm or wormy. Any physically attractive lady, going by the usual standards, was a sleaze or sleazy. Worm was a put-down, sleaze a great compliment.

OK, I’ve got that bit of archaeology out of my system. I hate my memory. There’s all kinds of useful things I could remember — the Preamble of the Constitution, Mom’s Recipe for Noodles — but, no! Still, it’s interesting to see the Urban Dictionary has it the same way, although the dates of that usage aren’t given. And I won't even wade into Wikipedia, because, really, who cares? Language comes out of people’s mouths, they got it somewhere, agreed to it, and if they say it meaning something particular, fine. If they say it and they’re killed, next time keep your damned mouth shut…

Seriously, look at this idiot. Donny’s obviously farther from Betty getting dressed than it appears in the picture since he’s using binoculars, but someone picked up on what was going on. And whether it happened right away, jumping him, or they waited till later at just the right time, I’m not a repository of everyone’s movements. My mission is not to sketch out precisely when they pulled him down an alley crying, or how fast he disappeared into one of those abandoned warehouses with no windows, or whether Betty had something to do with it — I really don’t see how she couldn’t have. All I’m doing is stating the basics of what happens when you say the wrong thing and when you get involved where you’re not wanted. In this case, a completely carnal case. Donny used his binoculars to see her getting dressed and/or undressed. He fell victim to the standard insatiable libido. If only he'd had brains like me, he would’ve gotten as much as an eyeful holds and run for home.

Now I'm much older and know it doesn't really do you any good to see such sights. Look away! It's just a point of frustration, not glory, until you do everything right, 1, 2, 3, and end up going out for dinner. And you definitely need to keep "sleaze" words out of your vocabulary. Step it up, guys!

Whoever you are, just like Donny, there's someone with just the right mindset and drive -- hearing an apparent slur like that -- who could still actually kill you for it, which is impossible to live down. Donny's best course of action, if he'd had the chance, would’ve been to change clothes, toss the binoculars, and not be found again till he was on the other side of town. Like me, anytime I feel threatened somewhere, that’s one place I won’t go again till the cows come home or later. Till the donnybrooks run free of donnys.

But whatever, he's a dead schmuck, so here’s to you, Donny — fingering in the general direction of his grave — next time keep your stupid fat yap shut.

Pink Car, Collide!

 

Part 5 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I myself was in a traffic accident once -- I'm just the average guy --  so I know how they swing, drivers, and how it goes and some of the hazards of the road. In my case, I was an unimpeded non-threatened single driver simply running into a utility pole. No one was killed, but injured.

At the time I had no idea of the ins and outs of accidents or so-called accidents. Which upon greater experience I’ve come to discern as incidents arranged by malevolent forces. If I may be so bold as to categorize Death as a malevolent force, and I'm not sure that's wise. If I feel any tightening in my throat in the next few minutes I'll retract the statement. But just take a close look at the graphic for all the evidence you need. Death is right there in one of his distinctive costumes, replete with the scythe prop he often carries. Looking nicely eerie with no contrast between the cloak and his eerily stark white pallor. For all I know, he may have been invisible. Which gives more of the element of surprise and keeps bad press down to a minimum.

The main point is Death is clearly portrayed as present just prior to an accident, one that resulted in at least one fatality. Like my accident with the pole, the scene is from a time before airbags and even people regularly buckling up. I wasn’t buckled up. That far back, it was like the Wild West of Personal Behavior. We didn’t give one second of thought to the consequences of anything. I regularly played guitar while driving. Kids got cigarettes for their first birthday. We literally had a shotgun for an alarm clock. Kids died early then, sometimes before breakfast. And as for the more important problem of property damage, our house was nearly blown away merely from hitting the snooze button.

The scene presents itself, then, and thankfully a sketch artist was there: It starts off a pastoral scene, the world’s safest road, except … Where Death is, Death always follows. Someone was either not looking ahead or simply being wanton in her handling of the car. She floors it, apparently unaware it was a one-way road going the way she wasn't going. We don’t know every detail, but Death is obviously pulling the strings. She flips that cute little pink job around the corner, oblivious to danger, with one of the worst devil-may-care attitudes I believe I've ever seen so hideously displayed.

But I’d like to step back in time a minute or so. She left home, thinking to herself, “I’m in a massive hurry. I will cut every corner I can to get there in time. To hell with the danger! To hell with the lives of other innocent victims along the way! The road is mine, I will take my half out of the middle! Yes-sir-e-bob!” And she had a dumb way of nodding her head, bob-a-bob. So knowing her exact thoughts, I'm not at all sympathetic. With her attitude there was a definite bad end in the offing. The person of Death couldn't have arranged it more deviously. In this case he had the perfect foil, so unthinking, so uncaring.

Her name was Irene. As in the song “Goodnight Irene.” And she was killed outright, with the others injured really beyond recognition. Each family swore they weren't theirs. At least one party was happy for the Irene’s demise, Death himself, whistling this terrible sentiment: “Good night, Irene, you should've driven more responsibly, but I'll see you in my dreams!”

The Elevator's Fatal Last Plunge

 

Part 4 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I’ve had some experience with old elevators. Not much, but it was memorable. I’m thinking of an elevator in a fleabag hotel from 1898 or something, with a rickety old man pushing the button for us and taking us to our room. The guy and antiquity of the place was like something from a time travel movie. This guy was strictly colonial, ages ago, and obviously the last remnant of a generation that now is a'moldering. You literally saw the floors slowly passing by.

It used to be common to have an elevator operator, and there’s still places that do that, Cuba comes to mind, most likely. They patch up cars from 50-70 years ago and keep them in decent shape, they probably do the same with elevators. I think of Cubans as connoisseurs of the past, mostly because of the old cars, but if they’re equally conserving of the bygone days of elevators, more power to them. And probably New York, I don't know.

The key thing is staying on top of the thing, right? It doesn't matter if it's Serial Number 0000001, if you keep it in good repair. You never want the cable rusted through, though, so everything needs to be checked maybe annually. Get up there and count the threads of metal. And if a few are sheared off or rusted through, get the fix-it guys pronto. Certainly my hotel was a miserable throwback in a miserable neighborhood and must have been completely demolished by now. Allow me to polish the apple of pride on my sweater that I had the foresight and good sense to stay that one night only. The operator there surely checked out on life soon after, but I have no idea if he took the plunge of death like this guy.

Our poor deceased guy today, in the graphic, is Gus the elevator operator. What can we say about him? We hope he didn't leave a bunch of dependents. We hope his wife was set for life. We hope a lot of things. Like they say, running an elevator you have lots of ups and downs. I hope he had a lot more ups in his life, and that in the things he desired life always stopped on his floor. It bothers me to think of his last moments of terror when the thing plunged to the basement. If he only could've timed it just right, then jumped in the air just before it hit... If I could’ve given one piece of advice to the owner of the hotel, it would've been, They’re doing great these days things with escalators.

But back to the guy. Look at him there in his silly orange costume, a foolish smile on his face. He’s holding the door open because he likes the look of satisfied riders. They rode his elevator, two brave but foolhardy guys. They’re shaking hands and wishing each other a good day. As Gus closed the door, the cable down to its last frayed strand, he should've had the good sense to run as fast as he could. Pretty bad decision not to. Instead, he set his ignorant course to tempt fate one time too many. Leaving him to disengorge one last cry of terror, but what it was was lost to posterity. And who really cares what it was? We're never going to know. We only know it was completely in vain, a noise piercing the air and wasting everyone's time who tried to decipher it.

Don't Play Dice With Death

Part 3 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Day Death Shows Up

 

Part 2 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

Here’s one I like. Talk about throwback bookkeeping! Instead of the great mystery everyone thinks Death is, high tech, cutting edge, we see it's quite simple. Anyone can understand it. Which may be one of the reasons no one has much trouble dying. Whether you're young, old, a genius or dunce, you're sitting watching TV and sudden guttural noises and struggles tells you something's wrong. What happening? We may never know the whole story until we ourselves experience ... clutching the neck ... and we're gone.

But we see here that Death's mission sounds very straightforward, crystal clear, and without ambiguity. He spells it out, an open-ended mission to seek out all lives in all civilizations and bring them to an ignominious conclusion through his own ministrations. Whoever it is. The millionaire financier who owns Texas oil wells and is up all night smoking with the president isn’t any better than you or me. All of us -- each mortal soul, including my dog, sad to say -- is catalogued somewhere in Death’s filing system.

One of the ways I picture this working is ... the 3 x 5 cards aren’t just the nice white kind we used to have for school, but some kind of really cheap paper that browns quickly over time. And since older people usually die first, Death can just flip through the browner cards. While of course shuffling in an unknown number of newer cards to keep us guessing so no one gets too comfortable.

The message he holds up says there's a card “for every person who's ever lived.”  Some of those cards have to be so brown, so yellow-brown and brittle as to be falling apart. Probably they've been digitally recorded and the hard copies dispensed with. I'd like to see the notations on Jesus' card: "Dead" on Good Friday, "Never mind" on Easter. And the same thing year after year, until "Forget it and have an egg..."

One interesting detail is Death doesn’t restrict the information to just your name but also “possibly” includes your measurements. I’ll probably get in trouble with someone if I “flesh” that out too much, but I think most of us have a mind to “go there.” Let’s jump on Death for this one, you old devil you! Can he really be carnal enough to care about bust size, well-spaced hips, or for the rest of us, our endowment or lack thereof? That’s the only thing I can think of. It might be good news for me, the reason I'll keep to myself. Never hurts to fly under the radar.

But maybe this tells us more about Death than we should know; he might even have some envy going on. So often he's portrayed in artwork with a skeleton head and skeleton hands and skeleton feet. What’s the chances, realistically speaking, that the rest of him has much length or girth? A point I'm afraid to flesh out. I hate to say he’s lacking in any one department, but there's few other realistic conclusions we can reach. Notice we aren't allowed a peek under the robe. So what’s he got down there? He’ll kill me for this, I know, but ... I've never heard of a Mrs. And I've never heard of any little Deaths running around.

Oh crap, I’m getting a strange tightening in my throat! I’m being choked! My ... comments ... were ... all ... in ... good ... fun ... 

Speaking Ill Of The Dead

 

Part 1 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

Over the years, I’ve written about my friend Death. Everything from a bleak, moist individual suicide by drowning to the bold firebombing of a nursing home, and it’s been a useful exercise. I can’t even say how many have contacted me, once frozen by the fear of Death by telling me now how they see he's more like grunt labor than an actual monster. Hence, they’re not afraid to go when their number’s up. Some of my pieces have given such comfort that many have actually foregone "necessary" treatments, resulting in happier lives, albeit causing hospital bankruptcies in at least 40 states. But I like to keep it positive ... Undertakers deserve to make a living.

So now, for me -- teary-eyed and sentimental as always -- writing this series is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, focusing on those who've passed. Not so much about Death himself, then, but looking lovingly on the lives of the deceased, albeit in a critical way, usually coming out with the verdict that they deserved what they got. I've always found it true, the more you nitpick someone’s life, the more you find they weren’t that great. You might say to me, “That’s how you are? Good riddance!” Which is exactly what I'm doing, so you may as well stay...

As a renowned blogger on the subject of death, I’ve had many opportunities for public speaking, sometimes even at the funeral itself, with generous fees received. A couple of points on that subject: 1) I like money; and, 2) I pick up lots of other life stories of loved ones who've passed. They really spill the beans! They go on and on about their terrible personalities, how they mistreated others, dogs, cattle, whatever, with plenty of other flaws, maybe a superiority complex, an inferiority complex, or they just found them too balanced. I encourage everyone's honesty. It helps with my future talks, keeping it fresh, up there riffing about the deceased and their quirks. I may praise them, I may condemn then — usually the latter — but by the time I'm done, everyone's satisfied. Nodding heads and big knowing smiles.

Did I mention the money that I get in the community or at funerals? My absolute favorite part is that I'm actually paid. Of course, at funerals the families like to maintain a more dignified pose without showing off with their money, so they usually slip it to me on the sly, $40, $50, up to $100. That’s nice. My other favorite part is there’s often a big meal afterwards, free food. I’ve been told these used to be sad gatherings, folks with no appetite and lots of food going to waste. But now that everyone’s mood’s lightened — it's a joy to find your loved one wasn't as good as you thought — they’ve even increased the food intake, so it's win-win.

Even as a kid I was big into cataloging people’s flaws, physical flaws, yes, but mostly character flaws. Like, I'd be sitting in the shopping center while my mom shopped, so I'd be jotting down how long people were in the bathroom, etc. Men, women, whatever. The bathroom was about 10 feet from my dentist’s office, so I had all the time in the world.

Little did I know, that’s how they would finally crack the case of an horribly secretive molester. They didn’t have security then. But when the police got hold of my notebooks, they were able to extrapolate and correlate his times of day in the bathroom, descriptions, where he exited, etc., ending in the identity of the molester and the very kids who egged him on and helped him in his nasty pursuit. Remember, he climbed the water tower and plunged to his death rather than being taken, one of my first character studies on the subject of death. I didn't go to his funeral, but that was still my first real payday, Mom treating me to a chocolate malt.

All this month, I’m bringing that same spirit of inquiry and criticism to the dead. Speaking ill of them. One thing I know for sure, those who die today are no different from the villains of the past. If anything, they’re precisely the same. Or exactly the same with some fatal differences.

Related link:
The Gaping Maw of Death, Woof Woof

Physician, Commit Thyself

Part 30 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

As time goes on, long after my day, when better Psycho Squads are made, I’ll be there, my spirit pressed against the grindstone and sparking like mad. The current generation always builds on what came before. And so it shall always be, until everyone's normal.

Now I'm an old man and I’ve seen a lot of changes. For the most part the changes have been for the better. When I first started, we didn’t know much, we were feeling our way. They wanted to train us “right,” according to the standards of the time. But we were young and brash and said we could do it. We tried, really tried, and it wasn’t always a big success, with the wild massacres of the late ‘70s inflaming things, to say the least. Now it's all ancient history. Because we charted a new course, hating with a purple passion our banning by the infernal "responsible authorities." We had to take a different path if we wanted to eat...

Yes, a lot of guys were skittish and acted tough; they fell by the wayside. Some true talents were among them, too, who could’ve helped advance the Psycho Squad movement. But they wilted like violets, proving themselves namby pamby weak-willed nothings, always there when the going was easy but nowhere to be found when people started dying: “Aggh! There goes another one!” Which to me is when you need them the most. “Suture this man’s wounds! Set that bone! We’re dying here, people! Where are you going?! You can’t leave us! I don't care if drinks are half-priced! They’re locked in the bathroom with a box of matches and enough gasoline to ignite World War III!” ... You realize I'm not talking about patients, that was the staff...

But today is not a day for looking back but ahead, and having the same can-do spirit that made us pick up the loose pieces and march forward. Which, if memory serves, some loudmouths said couldn’t be done. I will be the first to admit, I almost believed the naysayers. Because, really, what'd I know? I was new, still fairly innocent in the ways of the world and personally had some tough times. Now I've had decades to reflect on the mission, but then I wavered. And just before I was lost forever on the naysayers’ path, I found my way back. Big thanks to Cindy Lou S___ for taking me in that night, for comforting me, stroking my hair, etc., and humpa humpa, the dawn broke.

Where have the years gone? Into service, that’s where! We've seen the whole mental hospital scene. County facilities for the mentally wayward. And a relatively recent emphasis on meds to calm and control. I was vehemently against it at first but they subdued me and thereby convinced me, “Yes, this works.” And now I have several prescriptions of my own, so, to be absolutely blunt, I’m chillin’, dude … You still here? Hope you can read these chicken scratches; I can barely read them myself, but hey… I’m OK, you’re OK, no one reads this far anyway. I could say anything or puke all over the place and it’d be all the same...

You know, I haven’t seen a psycho in a choke-hold in 20 years! The old ways have passed. Which was indeed fairly sad, but effective. Cuffed to a nightstand, turn the TV way up, and except for the noise everything was under perfect control. Of course you wouldn’t try that working on your re-cert! I mean, live dangerously if that’s your thing, just don’t tempt fate, that’s all.

Warning: Cheer Up!

Part 29 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Everywhere I go as a mental health guy — head of the local Psycho Squad — I share the same positive message of moral uplift, good cheer and behavior. Because for the most part I have the world’s greatest attitude, only so often what I get in return are folks looking back at me tough as nails, like they’d jump me in a second with a ready shiv. Yes, there’s a few cheerful ones. I try not to take all the credit, but I figure they’re also inherently mean but briefly piggybacking on my good cheer.

It’s amazing how many folks I run into in the course of a day. I take the dog out and there’s strangers everywhere, walking up or down the street. Serious question: Whatever happened to people walking on the sidewalk? Why are they always literally walking in the street? I have some theories on that, but when you’re in my business, you have theories on everything. Like my theory on squinting: I sometimes squint my eyes and seem to detect that people with psychotic tendencies often live in houses that appear to be melting. (A true result of squinting, and if verified it'd be a great tool for diagnoses.)

Really, it seems like I see more with my eyes squinting than wide open! I don’t know if there’s any relation to how you fix your eyes (open, closed, squinting) and the accuracy of discerning life's secrets. It’s an interesting theory. Maybe one of these years I’ll make a New Year’s resolution to squint my eyes more than ever and see what kind of year I have! It’d be interesting to squint your eyes in rush hour, because I believe I’d see a lot more accidents than otherwise. I seriously don't have the time for accidents and the nasty aftermath, but it'd be a great way to meet new people in distress.

I don’t know what you do for a living, but unless you’re with the police or bill collectors you don’t see as many sad (and mean) people as I do. To normal people, there’s nothing more fascinating than the Psycho Squad. I get a million questions from normal people, all asked with a big wide-eyed look of true interest on their sweet faces. The first thing normal kids want from me is to blow the siren. Which I can’t legally do, but if they promise real good not to report me I’ll blow it for a few seconds. Then there’s kids and adults who aren’t normal. Sensing me in the neighborhood, even without the siren, they duck down quickly inside their melting houses, trying to stay hidden from the light of day, and doing ... who knows what? There's so much squalor of their very dim, sun-deprived houses or apartments, it could be anything. It's bad for property values for sure, too much melting.

If you get a bunch of folks together — say someone's reported them for abnormal tendencies — and I show up, with a blank sheet of paper to take down their info, you have never seen a bunch of sadder pusses than the look on these folks! Grimaces! Frowning like concentrated evil, furrowed eyebrows, bald heads flushed pink with social disgust, really the whole gamut. What can I do but run ‘em in, and let the system sort ‘em out? Yes, I get it. They hate me. But I’m pursuing their ultimate happiness, and if they can prove they’re not a danger to themselves or others, and that can sometimes be a struggle, they can go back home. Folks, the answer’s easy: Put a nice smile on your face when I’m around or face the music.

They could duck down and hide when I go by, but somehow I’d still be drawn to them and they to me, and I’m not sure anyone will ever get away.

Are We All Crazy?

Part 28 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Are we all crazy? Who’s asking? If we're all crazy is there someone sane enough to ask? Sounds like a thought puzzle, like we had in college, talking in some guy's dorm room. The weird philosophical discussions we had! Then an orgy would break out and the time for talk had passed. Boys and girls, girls and girls, boys and boys, an occasional priest. Completely carnal except for the intellectual talk and a dash of spirituality.

A few of the discussions centered on interests like this, How do we know what we know? Where do we independently stand to know the truth? This stuff usually came out of philosophy, which I still don’t get entirely. Except it's meant to tie you up in knots and get you flunked. Technically it's the love of wisdom, but since it’s so hard to state the terms and definitions describing reality (which is a mystery), it’s every person, object, or concept for itself. That’s what I got out of it, and it’s helped me immensely with the Psycho Squad. “Screw the rules. The rules are ‘Battle stations, entities of every stripe!'”

I can simplify things: Clinically speaking, we’re divided into two basic groups, the much smaller group, normal people like me. Then the vaster group, those who are abnormal in one respect or another. They may have eaten one too many TV dinners or maybe they were born with it, but they’re decidedly different, confirmed wacko. One problem with me, and I don’t admit anything bad very often, is I only have one Psycho Squad ambulance. If I really applied myself I could have a thousand ambulances and a million employees! But the few employees I have now pilfer me almost to death, so if I were any more successful I'd be completely broke.

Think of the dilemma from this angle: With that many people lost in their mental problems and essentially incapacitated — except for their strange unerring ability to act as criminals — I couldn’t afford to screen a staff with the percentages; they themselves would be 80% psychotic! Just keeping track of who’s nuts enough to be semi-normal would be too much. The only solution would be to have a vast facility and an unlimited number of holding cells for when they acted out. But getting staff who aren't sadists, sheesh!

Anyway, I guess I'm happy enough with operations the way they are. Small enough to be flexible and big enough to keep myself neatly dressed. Plus, it does allow me enough free time to chart out how massive my problems are. I keep a blackboard in the garage and update it daily depending on the previous day’s experience. My PQ rating (psycho quotient) goes up and down, which is my take on the social environment. I buckle down when it’s high and loosen up when it’s low. It's about even now, so I'm simultaneously buckled and loose.

But it's all good. I get a few days rest, the PQ goes up, we work like dogs, then enjoy a few days downtime. It’s a great job. Although I'm stuck with the sneaky feeling that I may wake up someday and discover the real truth, that I've been locked up and sedated my whole life.

Fight Like Samson, Like A Dog

Part 27 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

“Fight Like A Dog To The Death.” That’s the Psycho Squad’s advice. It makes sense. We’re all eventually going to die anyway, we may as well fight like a dog getting there. Half measures are for halfwits. The whole enchilada, that's what's happening for those who would prevail. Like my mom told me the first day of Kindergarten, "Get your butt in there, son. Kick ass and take names." Which, like Samson in the picture, is one of my pillars of success. Essentially it means, Do everything you can to better your circumstances.

One of the biggest barriers to our understanding these days is we don't usually see dogs fighting. But it used to be that dogs ran free. They weren't curled up while you were watching TV. But off doing territorial, defensive things. In some cases they did fight to the death. The key thing is the territorial resolve that motivates rugged nature. Like me with a box of glazed donuts; I may not be generous, don't lose your hand testing me.

These days when we say things about fighting like a dog, of course we’re speaking in terms of mental/psychological resolve, not giving up easily, not being a pushover. What if we had the personal strength to make better choices, X Y Z, instead of letting circumstances run roughshod over us? Someone comes in the room and says, "What's this dead body on the rug?" And you're not overly disturbed but calmly calling around to see if anyone's missing someone.

You've probably heard the story of Samson. He was a lecherous guy, having wild sex with temptress Delilah. But she was working with his enemies, trying to find the source of his strength and how to destroy him. It was his long hair. When they cut it he lost his power. They even blinded him, then put him to work like a slave. But his hair was growing back. Finally, when it was long enough to put up a decent fight, he was tied to the pillars of the building and pulled them down, killing everyone including himself. That's the kind of power any of us could use.

But you have to pick your battles. When it comes to the Psycho Squad, I'd rather the guys I take in not fight like a dog to the death. One, we're going to get you one way or another. We have backup. Two, we have insurance, yes, but I hate to use it. If you start destroying ambulances, that's a big deal. Or getting hurt, that's a liability. The Philistines were primitive compared to us today in terms of chemistry. We have enough medicine to put you to sleep for a month. Imagine that, waking up a month from now in a 40-pound diaper. The picture in your mind, let it be a warning.

You could even make the case that Samson got it all wrong, struggling like a fool, no eyes, no prospects of getting back his normal life, he should’ve just given in. That’s the advice we give our patients. I’m standing there Mr. Compassion, but we'll use all legitimate means to subdue you for your own good. Say you're biting through a tire on the ambulance, for multiple reasons that's a big no-no.

But if we have a guy without any fight at all, we're gentle. We have one guy who actually gave me a key and said, “Don’t bother knocking, the bird might be asleep.” So we go in, creep quietly by the cage, give the guy a hypo, get him help and he’s back home in a couple weeks. We’re even compassionate with the bird, put a box of food by him, a gallon of water, and the Sunday newspaper.

You May Have Psychotic Tendencies

No. 26 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Something most of us share is a great hope for the future. I believe there's a correlation between hoping for things and getting them, even if it's nothing more than an occasional coincidence. You certainly see it at the personal level. You tell your mom you hope for a dartboard at Christmas and there's a pretty good chance you'll get one. Unless you have a bad history with darts as some families have. If you ever threw a dart and killed a brother, ask for something else.

In the Psycho Squad business we’re always hoping to pin down the things that accompany psychological eruptions. It’d be great if we could predict when they're going to happen, who the parties are, and where they are. With there possibly being a few drawbacks. You'd still have to let it happen before you jumped in. If we had the stun gun ready and jumped the gun, right there's a lawsuit. And if you've ever seen a certified psycho with a certified lawyer, they want so much money they're both psychos. Let me underscore this point: Even if it’s statistically likely someone's going to go completely nuts and kill half the state, wait! Maybe put up some netting at the ceiling, that's it; you could save a few lives without being an accomplice.

And after reflection, I'm thinking it's not smart to predict things too accurately for other reasons. If I showed up at someone's place to treat them preemptively, after a while they’d think it was me that was making them sick. Business would drop off, I’d miss out on meals and get hungry. And I wouldn’t be able to afford the few meds I take. I’d start acting out, getting crazier and crazier, and pretty soon a different Psycho Squad would take me in and predict all my future eruptions.

So it's the element of surprise that keeps me in the green. Making me resolve, “Even if I know who’s going to act out, I will do nothing about it in advance." In fact, I might just wait till all hope is lost before responding. Then drive five miles out of my way before turning around, so the exacerbated consequences will yield more profits. Soon society will be so bad off that my work will be publicly subsidized, with greater and greater profits. However (and this is a good point), I can't purposely fail too much, because then the competition would overtake me. Plus, if I was always late and they were always early, that'd hurt my self image; I've always been proud of my punctuality.

Anyway, I started working up a few psychological tests (see above), but I think I'll junk them now. We need to keep psychological stuff, and certainly the world of psychoses, a little quieter. We really don't want competition. I won't even explain the graphic, because, honestly, that one graphic is the key to everything. If the competition had the barest inkling of the arcane implications of those five graphics and five captions, that'd be it! So I will leave it posted only briefly, a few minutes, OK? And, please, no one make copies of it. Even now I'm going to print off a copy and immediately burn it. Must -- keep -- everything -- secret.

The Most Attractive Men

Part 25 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

What do I find attractive? Depends on the day and the eyes I wake up with. But attractive or not, everything's off limits till we boldly go after it. Rubber stamp a court order, barge in, this is a take-down, a shakedown. And the rules are on our side. It's a bad time to be a perp. Even if I only imagine myself doing something criminal or psychotic I know how they'll take me down. That's a good perspective to have. And that the two ends of every life are birth and death.

Attractive? Sure, my mind goes there. I mentioned kindergarten teachers before; they've got it goin' on, even as I consciously wonder, "Who do you think you're fooling? It's been done to death." Then there's tougher gals, making the two extremes, innocent and guilty. We just covered all-night waitresses. And there's everyone else, of every tribe and nation. I used to see those pictures of naked ladies from other tribes and a bone in their nose and not get it. I get it now. The guys there are desperate.

So we're looking at the balance between the absolute innocent and the absolute wanton. And there's a lot to that — it’s in the myths, the mommy that babies you and the mother who guts and fillets you. I hope waitresses will forgive the jab, but next time I’m in your joint how about a grin for the road and not the blunt end of a frown? You could've killed me in the crib but you didn't.

Sure, accused men, even the psychotic, are attractive, the center of their own nucleus and gravity. Who doesn't know that? The law swarms them, never to their liking. Even if the accusation isn't immediately clear, round up the usual suspects and we'll sort it out. In the picture Josef K acts like he doesn't know why he's under arrest. When the evidence is everywhere. He can't contain it. Everywhere he goes he's clearly seen, bad behavior massively askew and guilt pouring everywhere through the cracks. He could've just died in the opening scene rather than stringing us along and gumming up the works. Dispatch him quickly and give us the rest of the day off.

But if we must work, let's work... Get on with the important mission of spotting the guilty, the confused, the infirm. Frankly, it’s all I can do not to tackle and arrest people simply for their own good. You see them a mile away and what they’re up to. You know where they go and you know what they do there. There's no reason to hide behind niceties, it's disgusting. And if I know that much, there's no denial of the rest. We started out with enough to go on, pal. Let’s get you some help, if you'll submit before it's too late. And if it takes pouring money into another ambulance or two -- I'd love to have a vacation instead -- so be it. Every little bit helps.

You all have something you can do to speed things along: Don't hide in the shadows. Surrender immediately, confess. We're not going away. We're going to get you hook or crook. But you'll be fine. What exactly are you trying to protect? What you've got's no good; let's make it better. You know me. I'm against all wanton feeling up, all invasiveness. It never happens. Don't listen to anyone. I'll cuddle you like you were my own family jewels.
-----
Photo from movie "The Trial," starring Anthony Perkins. From the novel by Franz Kafka.

I Am A Proud Cog

Part 24 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Have you ever foolishly worried that you're "merely" a cog in a machine? Or are you rightfully proud that as an appropriate match to other cogs the machine runs smoothly? When your long life is finished, will they put your citizen name on the tombstone (boring!) or a nice glorious stylized clip art cog to identify your valued life?

I used to think I was something other than a cog, because really I hadn't given much thought to it. I was 18 and in my first job, but having raging hormones I wanted to go see my matching girl person for a date. But the boss instead wanted me to work overtime. So he came in and shared with me the facts of life. These facts didn’t involve wasting time worrying about sex, but instead me being a cog in a well-oiled machine. I learned that if a cog doesn’t stay put and do its job, it's replaced. Naturally I took that as a new insight, and since I always want to be helpful, I stayed. Even now I can imagine that wise man in his office -- he's long since passed on to the great machine in the sky -- and I still feel privileged that from his lips I learned that great lesson.

Life would be a lot easier if we could cast off all flesh and blood and literally be metal cogs and strong machines, joyfully going at it, no evil hormones to interrupt us. We would pause and submit to on-site mechanics, not waste time going to the doctor. It would be of the greatest value to work 24 hours a day. And our arms would be programmed to reach for the exact medicine we need. I don't always know what to take. The only medical knowledge I have are bandages. Which are tough to choke down, but if you can manage it they're great for a sore throat. If they could only be engineered to cure everything, from headaches to broken bones...

But as things stand, we still need a doctor for everything else. Jock itch, syphilis, Italian breath. The doctor actually helped me with Italian breath. Put hot sauce on a bandage and wrap it around your tongue and replace it every couple months. And avoid Italian food. And I guess there's other medicines we’ve managed to wrestle out of the doctor’s hold: cough drops, triple antibiotic, and fungus spray. Everything else is off limits. With the Psycho Squad, I can't even commit a guy to the psych hospital and throw away the key without a doctor's OK. It tempts me sometimes to blow my top, but I tell myself that there is social wisdom in it. A higher-up cog decided, so that's good enough for me.

Just to come full circle on my triple antibiotic story, I tried healing an itch on my arm with triple antibiotic, with a consult with the doctor. After a few days I thought it was cured so I quit applying it. But it came roaring back. So I ganged up on it, applying the cream several times a day for a couple weeks, till -- yucky! -- my skin was glowing and sagging. Ultimately it worked and that's good. Wrestling psychos into ambulances is a lot easier with two arms.

Just to close it out on my old boss. The last time I saw him was in 1984 at a political debate of the presidential candidates. Beloved Mr. Cog in the flesh! But I didn’t go over and visit with him because I still didn't quite feel worthy. I still had in my mind the original shame of wanting to visit a girl instead of working. This was before I had the Psycho Squad franchise or I certainly would've shared with him my place in the world. And maybe checked his mental health to keep him going. Good health is important, from one cog to another. Do your part and you will fulfill your destiny!

Please, seriously, do your part faithfully. Reading time is now over. Back to work.

No Pocus, No Hocus

 

Part 23 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

I seriously thought I would make a love connection with Doris the Matching Tie Waitress, but it wasn't to be. Something came between us in what might've been our moment. It didn’t take long for the coffee to cool off and the same went for her. Some like it hot, some like it cold. Who we kiddin'? No one likes it cold. Except her. Although in fairness, she's probably been burned more than once. And maybe she thought I was too eager and a danger to her physical health. I totally understand, since that’s my own normal standard of thinking. Whatever, there was no love connection.

And so I tramped out into cold slumped like a lost puppy, but with a Psycho Squad call to deal with, a group of guys considered off the beam. You never know when these calls are going to erupt. As far as I know, they were as mentally healthy as horses just minutes before. And whether there was a mysterious quivering in the cosmic cloth or just some persistent problem of Monkey See Monkey Do, Birds of a Feather Flocking, or Communal Delusion aka the Jonestown Syndrome, they all went whack in perfect synch.

Was it a massive coincidence? Well, they were all looking for love connections at a gentlemen's club, according to the sworn statements of several more satisfied guys. Which I’ve seen a thousand times. Guys get so stoved up and desperate for affection, and this is especially pronounced at gentlemen’s clubs. Then once rejected their eyes glaze over and they act out in negative ways. It’s rooted in their desires and years and years of rejection, fears, misplaced optimism, etc. Group think is a biggie in men’s breeding genes, and, yes, it edges close to the psycho range.

It’d be great to pool our knowledge of gentlemen’s clubs. I’m not saying I know a lot, about average, but I never put it on my resume. Guys, you need to remember, those gals are pros! They’ve been around the block more times than teenagers on a Friday night. But you look down and see your single solitary self and think you’re God’s gift to women. Maybe you are, but that doesn't impress the pros. They’ve got your number, they milk it for what it's worth, and that’s as far as the service goes.

So I showed up at the Fox's Tail Club, found the group of glassy-eyed Romeos about like you'd expect — one had kicked the jukebox and ended the fun for everyone — and took them in for a while. The worst four I told to sit up straight in the back of the ambulance. The way we handle these guys is scare them straight the best we can. Do they have wives? Do they have jobs? Are they elected officials? We point out the consequences of bad behavior. Throw in an aspirin-flavored placebo and it instantly heals what might’ve been a full blown psycho meltdown.

Then hand them a few tissues and send ‘em behind the building. The same way you purge a good drunk, the body’s normal way of ejecting booze out the mouth, is similar to handling gentlemen’s club rejects. And profitable. I charge $5 a tissue and because they were bad boys they never complain.

Which brings me back to my own rejection from waitress Doris: Dear Doris, darling Doris! I need the hocus pocus... I need the magic back... Because no pocus, no hocus! But, baby, the last word's mine! And I’ll be back to normal any minute now...