Lion Goes Berserk At Rodeo

 

Part 6 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

This one was supposed to be just something fun Mam and Pap put in the show once. Thinking they'd have a real distinction to be the only rodeo with a lion riding horseback. But instead for a while they were known for a tragedy. Unfortunately, the whole thing was a great disaster, and there may still be a few victims somewhere still waiting for settlements. The rudimentary sketch just before the mayhem show a lot of potential for a decent show, but lion/horse acts now seem doomed from the get-go.

In my opinion, and I see some of the trouble in the sketch, the horse was fairly afraid. And the way it is with animals — it’s the same with us — fear is contagious. The horse was afraid, the lion picked up the vibes, the horse became more afraid, the lion took on a bad vibe overload, and next thing you knew the lion leapt to the rafters of the rodeo tent. Swinging back and forth on the horizontal beam, he slipped into the stands. The panic of the crowd, while they should have remained calm, good advice always, was out of control. It’s a terrible thing to spook a lion. He went ballistic, his natural instincts being a predatory outlook when provoked, he took this very convenient opportunity to act out, and — please bow your head for a moment’s silence — several spectators were … unfortunately … lost… And a couple others got refunds.

Naturally, the horse was somewhat to blame for the mayhem, since when the lion leapt for the rafters he went straight up the horse’s neck, digging in for traction. Without featuring violence for violence’s sake — something I hate seeing in anything I read — a lion’s claws can do some serious damage and cause substantial grief in anyone or anything unfortunate enough to bear the brunt of one's earnest takeoff. Remember, a lion’s nothing but an overgrown cat, and like cats at home, they can rip your couch to shreds without even trying. The house cat, though, is quiet, unlike this roaring lion and the cry of dereliction from the horse in its terrible agony. I wouldn’t have wished that on my worst enemy, if there was ever a horse I considered an enemy.

Once in the rafters — again, the lion being an overgrown cat, really good for nothing but living in the forest — he was at a dead end and leapt for the side of the tent, completely out of desperation. His claws hooked in the cloth firmly, but with his weight he went right down the side, ending up with a rift in the tent from top to bottom. Screaming people fled through the hole. The lion, having freed itself from the cloth entanglement, fell the last 20 feet and crushed a young family who’d unfortunately faced some bad times just recently — little Ted’s pet mouse, a school project, had died, earning Ted a trip to the rodeo as payback.

Those with any sense — most lacked the sense not to scream during the onslaught of an injured lion — dove into the animals’ water tank. One guy — damn the luck — allergic to water immediately perished. Which you’d think he would’ve thought of before diving in. They later found a tag around his neck telling of his allergy, and advising, “If it’s raining, get me inside.”

Our hearts go out to him. Because when it rains, it pours. In a very real sense Tragedy and Violence mated that night and bore Death. Pap put it in his journal, underlining a rule that they adhered to for years after: “Do not allow lions within a country mile. They’re nothin’ but god-derned trouble.”

NOTE: No animals were injured or killed in the retelling of this fictional event.

The Rodeo Adopts Wild Horses

Part 5 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Those who know me well know I’m something of a “whisperer.” Not that I’m really well-known for being quiet, but my normal way isn’t to bang a lot of pans and shoot guns in any unwelcome sense. No, when I’m on my way somewhere, I mind my business and get there in a subtle way, nothing announced. They look up, there I am, and it's a total surprise. “What the—? Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Most of my “whispering” has been directed at my various dogs over the years. Telling them by pats and strokes and affectionate words and actions that they’re great and they and I are simpatico. I have, though, been afraid of animals like wild bulls, and so have taken precautions to avoid them. My dear old dad, often gored by bulls as a kid, told me if you ever walked in a field with a wild bull and showed even the smallest piece of red cloth, you’d be a goner. So being a person naturally inclined to a cautious demeanor, not only did I leave all red cloth at home, I avoided fields with bulls.

It's an interesting sacrifice, too, because I'm fairly drawn to red cloth. But you never know when a bull might show up.


Wild horses of course are not bulls, but six-of-one, who knows, maybe they don’t know what they are. They’re wild for a reason, and wildness carries consequences, and consequences can’t always be expected to be positive. In short, I’ve also kept a healthy distance from wild horses. And everything, really, I'm insulated. One of my biggest fears is that freaking out wild animals and finding myself dead or badly mauled enough to wish I were. That’s a low point in anyone’s life, prefering death to being badly mauled.

But anyway, I’ve sought out the experiences of those brave enough (foolhardy souls) to be animal whisperers. The rodeo gets some of these sensitive souls, and it helps them fill in the slate of performers on the cheap. For every wild horse you take in and no one’s mauled, it’s a boon to the show. Enough procurements like that and Christmas bonuses can go to every employee, so it’s win-win.

I’ve talked about this subject over the years with friends, and it seems like people are increasingly of the idea that wild horses prefer being wild. Which isn’t indisputable, naturally, since it’s tough to know 100% what horses think. But to me it looks like a horse is a horse and if it gets an occasional sugarcube it’s pretty well content no matter what the other circumstances are. My cousin had a horse that was hard to catch, but once you caught it it was content to be with you. Just don’t let it work up a gallop downhill and buck you off; that was it’s breaking point. Probably should've tried sugar.

Long live the rodeo horse, wherever they come from. May they give joy to cattle, clowns, and crowds. And as well receive whatever joy they would seem adequate for their psychological needs.

What Is A Horse?

 

Part 4 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

What is a horse? Sounds like a silly question. Since we know it's a big-nosed creature, simple to summarize. But it's like when we ask, What is a girl? And the answer is, unpredictably, sugar and spice and everything nice. Or a boy? Snakes and snails and puppy-dog tails. I heard that all my life as a kid and didn’t get it at all. It still doesn’t make much sense, like a secret code grandmas use with aunts and sisters to size us up. They’d be laughing and nodding, everything short of a high five. As if to say "This one's definitely a snail." Now I’m an adult myself and, like horses, deathly afraid of snakes.

An answer about what a horse is, like the boy and girl, could be something about the horse’s demeanor or interests. So a horse could be saddles and reins and equestrian brains. Or paths and trails and giddy-up wails. They are mostly known for being ridden hard in cowboy movies, or more leisurely down pleasant trails at a ranch, and of course rodeos. I used to go to trail ranches and the horses were so used to running back to the barn for a treat that they were sluggish going out and frisky going in. I nearly lost my life to a couple treat-happy horses taking the quick shortcut under low branches. And me, a paying guest sitting on their back...

For the western movie or rodeo the horse is the mode of transportation for going everywhere. You see some of those westerns and you have to think that we never would've made it trying to get across country on horseback or pulled. When I used to see movies of people in the stagecoach it never once looked like a good thing. But movies were plot-driven, so someone was always getting robbed, killed, or captured. And I wouldn’t want to be at the mercy of a horse walking a mountain path, although they at least have an interest in preserving their own lives while a car will purposely wreck if you don’t steer them right.

But what is the horse? Here I put my hand on my heart and look longingly into the paradise of the sky with profound thought. "A horse is a horse, of course, of course, and that’s all it ever shall be, of course.You can steer one east or west, or veer it back with force. When it completes its run it’ll be the same old horse. Or go to the north where live the brave Norse, they’ll stand and hold forth on the glory of their horse. Sometimes named Hrimfaxi."

In summation, horses that are lucky take the fast track to the rodeo, stay there performing, and enjoy the happiness of pleasing crowds the rest of their extremely-fulfilled lives.

Rodeos Still Rank #1

Part 3 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

All the worry we have with “Who’s Number 1?” and “Our team’s better than others!” is the Number 1 thing I hate. But you hear it everyday, so obviously people are totally into it. It’s really a case where one of two things has to be true: 1) Their pride’s run amok and needs to be channeled into an actual personal accomplishment, maybe basket weaving; 2) They don’t have any pride worthy of the name, making them cast about for something, anything to give themselves worth. The fact that they we tend to settle on teams geographically close to us shows that most of it's arbitrary.

I’ll just say that and move on. I dished the sociology on a roomful of guys once during the big game and they also arbitrarily grabbed me out of an entire crowd of people and had me dangling from a hook in the coat closet well past halftime. I don’t think it was compassion that got me rescued either but the nuisance I made due to my predicament. For even a wounded animal will loudly sound the alarm as long as it’s physically able, animals having the instinct to live. Once that instinct gives way they're prepared to die. Then there’s us with caffeine pills.

So when it comes to basketball (ball through hoop, ho-hum) or tennis (back and forth ad nauseam) or baseball (endless standing around) or football (a series of penalties with scant seconds of game play), these aren’t sports, they’re steps toward sports but can’t get out of their own way. The only true sport — also setting aside bowling for argument's sake — is the rodeo. I say that with gladness, because it indeed is great. And with sadness, because by now you’d think we'd come up with something else, anything, approaching it.

Naturally, I like to keep my posts positive, no knocking of others for mere knocking’s sake, and drive home the whole point in its full truthfulness, that everything else sucks bags compared to the only sport worthy of the name — any name! — and that’s rodeo.

Along with the greatness of the sport, there’s a whole culture as well, also worthy of the name. They carve out a place for everyone. You can show up at the rodeo and sit there with the cowboys, but try to stay out of their way so as not to interfere with the enjoyment of others. If Tex Smith over here has given you his autograph, please don’t be badgering him and the others for autographs for your dad, your Cousin Lou, or in memory of your deceased grandma as a thing to donate to the Salvation Army for auctioning off in the Christmas raffle. You might mean well but you’re completely in the way.

So stand back, smothering fan, and let the sport of rodeo breeeeeathe. If you’re so close and obsessive like that, can you not see that you’re killing the very thing you’re so excited about? If you’re that far-gone — over the moon in la la land or kookyville — we’d much rather you found a home in one of the inferior sports. Be a nuisance for football. The clock’s usually stopped so they have plenty of time to waste.

Mam & Pap Get Together

Part 2 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

I made the point yesterday that the famous Mam & Pap of the rodeo passed on a number of years ago. Mostly because they were born quite a while ago and it’s just in the nature of rodeos that if they’ve still got their actual founders in charge they’re relatively young as an outfit. I’ve had many foolish wishes that life could go on forever — I wish, I wish, I wish — but realistically there’s a terminal point for everyone.

Of course the heroes we have growing up, it's easy to picture them still out there somewhere. Even if they're not over the next hill, they're in our hearts. And we have some comfort in the idea that life goes on, tempered only by the realization that if it does it’s in some dimension that's not exactly what we'd want, but still better than nothing. The giants pass and we deal with it the best we can.

But death doesn’t stand in the way of the greatness of their lives. We have our memories, and if they’re supplemented by some fantasy and complementing embellishment as to their qualities, their stature, and their accomplishments, that’s also a good side of eternal life. I want to touch on these two heroic lives and I’ll try to keep it “down to earth.”

What can you say about Pap without losing your breath? They always said he was a worthless piss-ant that’d never amount to squat. I say that through tears of love. I myself have been called a worthless piss-ant and that’s my cross to bear. But Pap did something about it. His own Pap was a worthless piss-ant who never did one good thing but plant the seed for his son Pap. The son Pap then picked up the opportunities that came his way. He dropped out of school on the first day and set about making his way in the world at the age of 5. He picked up what he needed to know. And sneaked into movies to learn the rest, including the influential film, “Rodeo Roy, The Five-Year Old Piss-Ant That Made Good.”

But it wasn’t immediate for Pap and the rodeo. He also saw the film “Hucklebuck The Farmer.” With Pap’s natural talent to get an idea and accomplish it in the next five minutes, he started with a single row of radishes next to the house and advanced swiftly to become a titan of farming. He once owned the entire state of Kansas, then later parceled it out to homesteaders down on their luck. Mam also came up the hard way, like Moses. But instead of ruling Egypt she became involved with elephants, having removed a painful splinter from an elephant’s trunk. Because elephants never forget … to make a long story short, she was recognized as the ruler of the entire elephant circuit. And anyone that lucky was bound to find Pap. They made their home together.

At that point it wasn’t a hop, skip, or jump for them to say, “Hey, let’s do something! Let's trade it all in on our own rodeo!” And so it was, followed by people coming by train, plane, automobile, or rickshaw, and even sometimes horseback, making their way en masse to Mam & Pap’s rodeo, like refugees seeking their own homeland in a strange world suddenly compassionate toward immigrants. Mam and Pap gave succor to all, and that’s a standard they personally guaranteed in their great run with the rodeo!

(Without getting into the thicket of issues, we do not endorse the corporate version of the show today.)

The Mam & Pap Rodeo

 

Part 1 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Alas, the days of yesteryear are all past. It’s true what the philosophers say, today is always today, yesterday’s always yesterday, but what these terms mean is a deep subject. The saddest thing about time and the passing of time is how stubborn it is, as it's never to return. Until such time, if any, I'm proven wrong.

Speaking from my own rich experience with this passing of time, I think back on the things I did earlier this morning. My dog for whatever reason had trouble doing her normal business, possibly something meant for me from the hand of fate to curse an otherwise beautiful day and slow me down on writing about the rodeo. The circumstances were certainly suspicious, like maybe the sun had a bad night on the other side of the world. And of course I've been messed with by the hand of fate before. I cried out to the gray sky for respite and the sun tried to peek through the thickness of what turned out to be clouds. I’m glad it's now in the past, but the past can be prologue if it happens again.

Then there’s the years gone by. What was once new becomes old. Grandma was a newborn once, later an old lady, and finally passed away when her time came. That’s a downer, I know, but it’s in the natural course of things. Just like someday, alas, the same thing might happen to me. I’m actually already fairly old. But as long as I’m able to pass gas and fake a grin, I’ll keep living and churning ‘em out, posts for my blog as well as days of life hopefully well-lived. I may not get the key to the city — I’m not well known — but it's all been done to death anyway, and I haven’t got time to stand on ceremony.

We’re sharing this month the memories we have in common — you and I — of the well-known traveling rodeo, The Mam & Pap Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo. It happened in the days of yesteryear, and as we speak today, of course Mam and Pap are gone. There's still a rodeo going by that name, which several years ago was bought out by a corporate entity — who hold the name so tightly that even writing this series might have some legal consequences for me. But you won't tell. I have had experience with entanglements like that, but this time I'll be OK. Of course I wouldn't have the money to fight a legal challenge and I'd never expect my readers to chip in a dime (last of the big spenders). So I'm just going to post these memories and hope for the best. I would greatly encourage you to save off copies.

In addition, the series stops well short of the corrupt corporate takeover. The corporate incarnation when I saw it was crap and the show was shelved. They did the takeover when Mam passed away, with Pap virtually senile [try to prove it] when he signed the paperwork. They had clowns in the rodeo that would’ve made better managers than Pap at the end, but they had no legal standing. In years since I’ve gotten drunk with a few of them and they bared it all, the hooks those corporate hawks put in their flesh. There's nothing sadder than clowns sobbing tears of anguish.

Anyway, I hate to bring everyone down. Let's make rodeo whoopee! C'mon, c'mon, let’s whoop it up, get again the spirit of rodeo reverie, forever remembering the wonderful non-corporate version (when it was genuine) of THE MAM & PAP ROYAL SPLENDID TRAVELING RODEO!

P.S. -- I won't be mentioning the corporation again and all the chicanery they pulled on Pap, there's nothing we can do about it now. I stood at his grave one day and cried big tears of grief. Friends, those were the wettest moistest tears I've ever cried. Even stained my shirt. Between my first dog dying when I was 6 and Pap selling out the rodeo for a pittance -- aww, forget it. I just can't say my life has been a hundred percent happy.

Death In Them Thar Drawers

 

Part 30 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

We’ve been together this month on an important journey. Me in my incredible wisdom sketching out, probing, the many seamy implications of our imperative toward breeding, pairing off, “being there” for one another, but always with an alternative agenda, selfish in the extreme but still plopped out and used. Then you’re up, washing away the incriminating evidence, refusing to look one another in the eye, all quite sad. Maybe you leave that place only to drift into your own world of terror and careen out of control and crash into a tree. A tree that’s been there solid for a hundred years, yet prepared for your individual fate.

I know the feeling and am compelled to sketch it out one last time -- your last warning before the end -- that There Is (not maybe, not might, not sometime in the distant future) -- There IS Death In Them Thar Drawers! Which might appear in the guise of  a cute little number, a pair of pink frilly panties, always a favorite to the profligate mind. Some stout underwear might've been more serviceable for general wear, the cloth more durable. It might not be quite the same turn-on but it'd be more practical and economically wiser over the long run. It might even be a girdle. Men wear girdles all the time, I hear. I've actually heard a girdle on a man is sexy. It cinches the bottom and makes the rest protrude to the point of being indecorous, yes, but this appears to be quite welcome in the height of the rut.

You’re quite turned on by this, I assume. Which I'll take as a plea for help. Consider it, this is your plea for help. OK? Now that we’ve established and proven that point, we can move on. The mere fact that you didn’t know it before just now admitting it is all the proof we need to demonstrate that your present lifestyle, your present approach to life (and feeling “good”) is innately self-defeating. Naturally -- and I’m proud to say that in my career I was one of the first to suggest that these things aren’t complicated, any idiot can understand them, for which conclusion I was denied tenure -- you have numerous excuses, a rich variety of excuses, such as, “Even Jesse James wasn’t hung like me.” In the end, however, both of you have been up for swinging, Jesse by his neck and you by ...your other neck.

Once you’ve convinced yourself of that -- and here’s where it gets dangerous -- you turn to bolder activities. A little booze in your system, a little fire coursing through your blood, a partner up for the ride, you’re at the cheapest, sleaziest motel in town. It all goes uphill, then downhill fast. Everything you see puts you in a racy mindset. Until you’re down with whatever comes up. Reading between the lines, delving deep into the subject, and reiterating your point with intensity and wild abandon. To and fro. To and fro. Frolicking, frolicking, frolicking, then toys break the monotony, a fitful diversion. To the point of swift repetition, petting, nasty to be sure, but with such bold insistence that the heat of the moment makes it seem OK. Yes, yes! You go on until your mind shuts off and you wake up several hours later, alone.

The next day there’s talk around the office. And you only confess reluctantly, under pressure, admitting two points, 1) You took some comfort there, and 2) Recalling the thesis of this series, Something was decidedly nasty, death in them thar drawers, and with the sad termination of your ecstasy, unfortunately, you are finally spent.

Always Wash Your Hands

 

Part 29 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Getting toward the end of this series, I've covered a lot of territory and saved a lot of lives. But I still have a pretty good teaching to touch on, and once I touch it I'll wash my hands. That in fact is what the teaching is, the importance of washing your hands. And I know what you’re saying, “I already wash my hands. I washed my hands a month ago today.” Hmm, think about what you just said. “A month ago today?” Friend, that’s not good enough. It needs to be done more often.

Then you might say, “I’ve already learned my lesson, that there’s death in them thar drawers,” and you're thinking you've followed the chaste path. Again, I need you to think through some of these issues. Consider this, for every guy who’s given up all semblance of sex, there’s gotta be 99 who hasn’t. So say you go out in public, you’re walking in town, that means -- the statistics are through the roof! -- you may as well be walking in a minefield! Just as the exploding mines would practically scare you to death, the overwhelming numbers of the sexually profligate infesting our cities far outweighs your virtue and mine!

I hope I'm getting your attention. You’ve never been a sleepy guy, a dullard, someone without a clue. So please wake up and see -- open your eyes for a glimpse -- everything you touch in society has been touched by 99 of them for every 1 of us. Drinking fountains, door knobs, everything. If you’re willing to drink from a drinking fountain, you may as well be down by the piers welcoming sailors home on your knees! The button’s filthy, the sides are filthy, and the water coming out is moving across the spigot which has germs. Have you ever seen a guy lift a kid up to the fountain? The kid’s mouth encompasses it! Making it bad for the kid and bad for you; I'd rather be thirsty.

My honest counsel for you, once you’ve discovered your brain, is use it, don’t shut it off, don’t neglect your thoughts. They may call it paranoia, which I suppose it is, but it’s reasoned paranoia; I’m not paranoid about scary things that aren’t true or not likely to be true. I’m not worried about washing my hands because I think I'll meet a space alien in the park and don’t want to encumber him/her/it with earth germs. OK? That’s not a reasonable concern. I’m definitely more afraid of the park just for the friends I might meet.

You run into our circle of friends -- and this is true over everyone else’s friends -- those guys are polluted. They’re not likely to survive the day, and if they do, it’s an absolute fluke. Then what they're carrying will be on you, then it'll be on me. Which, excuse me, I need to wash again.

Touch & Goo All The Way

Part 28 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Do you still think there’s nothing to it, that all sex and its related acts and conditions and consequences are safe? And that somehow there’s not death in them thar drawers? And that anything and everything goes, and that all things should be accepted, and that the more the merrier, and that-- and that-- and that? If so, you've got a greater tolerance than I, and how you ever lived this long without being in league with the devil is the question of the hour.

Look at this private doctor's room. I can barely stand to look at the scene without being sick. Honestly, I’m on my third iPad, having destroyed the first two with a sledge hammer, and only hope I'm able to write the next few paragraphs without going into even more debt. I get sick easily, I’ll admit that much, but certain things send me over the edge, not in a good way, and I simply can’t continue. It’s something from childhood. I was 14 and my mom taught me the facts of life because dad worked nights, and her revulsion as to the details was so overwhelming that her shrieking stuck with me. The house was closed by the proper authorities for a month when they mistakenly thought we’d come down with the plague.

I was very impressionable, as you might've guessed. Because the overwhelming irrefutable lesson I took away from every despicable tenant of the teaching was “There’s death in them thar drawers,” whether a long and prolonged passing (footsy, puppy love, winking) or something more immediate and obviously fatal (slow dancing, parking at lover’s lane, traveling salesmen trying to scrub away the taint with stiff brushes and lye*). Those were the years when they definitely knew what death was: World War I, World War II, Korea, Friendship Rings. We lost some of our best people, virtually an entire generation, because there weren’t the safeguards we’ve come to expect now on the boundaries of a healthy friendship.

Even today, not very many guys are aware of how their bodies function. But the actual facts are that too much of anything can shut off this valve and open up these spigots, and it just happens more or less on its own when overdone. You're driving down a smooth blacktop and you're bouncing in the driver's seat. And repeated abuse simply means you're asking for it. Too much of anything has similar consequences. You eat too much pie, you’re mortgaging the house to buy more. You can get hooked on water. And with bottled water so common, I fear for the next generation, drowning, etc. And then there’s sex. Please, proceed with caution and stop before you turn on someone who refuses to be turned off!

Anything that is haveit-forming is obviously without boundaries after a certain time. Like in finances, if you over-extend yourself, you have have years of consequences, troubles with debts. Pretty soon you’re dealing with loan-sharks. Similarly, depending what the act is, you might need expensive medical care. Whereas you could even now, before it’s too late, simply zip your pants and walk away.

*Don't try it, it's deadly as rabies.

Mona Lisa Saps My Libido

 

Part 27 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Welcome to my office, the inner precincts previously never broached by visitors or curiosity-seekers, till today. And really I’m kind of proud to be welcoming people in for the first time, except for the cleaning lady; she’s been here before. Naturally, I’ve been well-behaved around her, although like everyone, I hear stories of other bosses, bold to say the least. That doesn’t go on here.

Which you can thank my vows of chastity for, since keeping vows to me is just as natural as breathing, actually more wholesome than breathing, since breathing, like sex, is just a lot of in and out, over and over, in and out. The only time you’re chaste breathing is at that tiny pause between the two. Which if I’m not wrong, is mentioned in Asian spirituality, like the Tao Te Ching, a sometimes go-to crutch I’ve consulted over the years, truth that keeps me limping along limply, contentedly.

And not to put too-fine a point on it, but would you rather be limply or empty? Think about it. One is a state of being, the other the end of a process. A state of being, you can merely be in that state, zoned in, zoned out. The whole thing of emptying is a process, and as processes go, it's quite the taskmaster. These are some of the thoughts I have in my desk. Notice I keep my desk pressed up against the wall, taking away space for chasing the cleaning lady or her chasing me. And you see my hands are on the desk, making them otherwise occupied.

The only sexual object I’m allowing is a new addition to the office castle, a gorgeous likeness of the sexiest woman alive, Mona Lisa. You might guess what I had there before, a still-life of a potted plant, and not even that colorful a flower, always worried as I was in those days of temptation. Say it were a red rose; it’d only give me thoughts of a lady called Ramblin’ Rose, and the nights we’d be ramblin’ out for tea, perhaps stronger drinks, then her place, my place, or maybe back to the office to be chased around the desk. And there’s death in them thar drawers...

Mona Lisa actually does me a lot more good. It stands to reason: Leonardo da Vinci painted the original -- what? 5 or 600 years ago? -- no doubt she's gone on to her heavenly reward. To me she's a calming influence. Anytime I get the least bit randy, say I'm performing the Heimlich Maneuver on a choking waitress, I return to the office and take a look at Mona Lisa, dead and decayed, a study in the some somber browns, her smile barely there. Makes me think of my own grandmother, also passed.

Yes, for me, (singing a little), “Life’s a wonderful path of no-sex no-sex no-sex, all the live-long day!”

Bugs, The Dangers Of Breeding

Part 26 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Have you ever given real thought to the process of breeding? Not just what happens in those hot moments of ecstasy but the whole range of the act from flirting to consummation? And at this point I’m not even talking of what we do as human beings -- trying to keep ourselves under control long enough to stretch it out to the full measure of the time we have -- but of bugs, insects, the sects they form for themselves and the sex they’re doing doing doing, all quite unseen in the walls, under the floors, and about as bad, in the basement.

I seriously go to the basement and realize it's another world down there. So, with winter coming on, please be careful in the basement. The bugs, the spiders -- say you fell asleep down there -- might carry you off to their many lairs. The size they have (or lack) and their ability to carry things even very cumbersome, is enough to give anyone pause. A nuclear accident and they’d possess the world, if they don’t already! They’re creepy, they’re crawly, and they're doing it, popping out new bugs everyday as we speak. Just looking for -- I don’t know what! -- your dirty sheets to curl up in, a disposed rag, flakes of skin, blood, bone. Even chicken bones in the waste-can, meaning they've infested the kitchen. There’s no telling what they might do.

The old Hollywood movies we used to be so afraid of only scratched the surface of what’s possible when it comes to a creature not only willing to breed but actually breeding 24/7, up the wazoo and back again, repeat until nauseated. I’m nauseated, and I know this is obscene at some level, but it’s the clearest call to attention you’re going to get this side of a dirty magazine. What kind of example are we setting?

Certainly nothing so clearly says “There’s death in them thar drawers” as creatures bearing thousands with each thrust. And they’re also meticulous about it, guarding their pile of eggs, knowing by foul nature the exact temperature it has to be, the exact arrangement it needs to be, and the precise timing it takes to go from zero to a million, bringing their eggs to full infestation. We're not that smart! But see them stripping a cardboard box down tiny piece by tiny piece. That’s the fluffy bedding they need. See that tangle of human hair apparently walking itself across the floor from the brush to the basement door? Look closer, there's a purpose!

They’re watching you do it -- don’t think they’re not -- and it gives them ideas, which they would've had by nature anyway. We think we’re the lord of our house. But sit very very still. Try this: Take the battery out of the clock. Listen to the silence. Hear the supposed silence falling away subtle decibel by subtle decibel, a kind of low grinding noise in the distance. There they are! Under the rug! Overwhelming! Your masters! In the next minute they're so big, so fearsome! You need to run screaming from your boudoir, never to return, and, yes, never to return to that way of life. Abstinence is now the only way!

Death At A Swinging Nightclub

Part 25 of 30

There's Death In Those Thar Drawers

It had been a long time since I was out to a swinging nightclub. As much as you think me the consummate cosmopolitan know-it-all, I’m actually quite inexperienced and innocent. I have a hard time talking about anything but the weather. So I don't try anymore. On any given night, instead, I'll put moisturizing cream on my face and let it cake, then hit the bed, reading some old Reader’s Digest hardbacks my grandparents left me when they passed. I’m definitely not setting the woods on fire, nor do I think it’s even a good idea.

Occasionally, though, I drive by a nightclub and survey the whole thing. It’s been about a year ago that I was so worked up about the obscenity of society and the things people are willing to do -- and they get away with it, too, ‘til they’re caught or diagnosed. I was thinking of this series and thought I should brush up on my outrage at society’s ways. So out I went! Parking behind a dumpster and walking nonchalantly up the sidewalk and around the building. The windows being draped, there was nothing to see, so I had to walk in. Right away the head waiter saw me and came over with a limp dishtowel over his arm and serving tray. He told me a table wouldn’t be available for an hour. I looked over and saw people strung out, entangled, arm in arm, pants strewn about, dresses unzipped, and coffee getting cold.

It might not look like a good idea, but I did have a good idea what was going on. Which can be summed up in one sweeping indictment: There’s death in them thar drawers! His drawers, her drawers, and all the drawers that drew them together and sketched out that bleak picture of lust once strong and now obscured in lifelessness, limpness, letting it all hang out, not presenting a good picture, nothing I’d like to be caught dead at, spread eagle like some or more demurely curled up and hidden under a table. The light’s never that great in those places.

I know what happens at these places, and that death is never far away from the participants. With the saddest commentary on the situation being, there’s always someone else just old enough and unwise enough to boldly take those people’s place when they’ve passed. Sweep ‘em out, call in the shadiest undertaker you can find, let the evidence be obscured, no one has to know, and the show goes on! Put in brighter lights if it helps the bottom line. Put in dimmer lights if the body count’s out of whack. Close the bathrooms for “cleaning” if the johns are piled up with the johns . Sweep the floor, and for most of those men’s rooms, make sure you mop it! Those drawers are a mess, and death has come for “them thar” people whose turn, unfortunately, it was.

I'm A Girl-Watcher (Or Boy-)

 

Part 24 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

These are things I definitely like: graceful backs, active muscles, and perfect digestion.

All of us have our preferences, our ideals. My own days of keeping in good condition are nearly over, being old and on the downhill slide. But that doesn’t mean I’ve given up my ideals of what others should aspire to. Our physical appearance and the fitness of our bodies -- whatever our age -- is a big deal. We don’t want to let ourselves go unnecessarily, and any advantage we’re able to sneak in, regardless of Mother Nature, devils, what have you, is a definite plus.

When it comes to fit young ladies, or fit young men for that matter, it’s not really territory that I’m encroaching upon. But of course as long as my eyes hold out, I'm still able to observe what’s going on with people around. I see a few people walk up the sidewalk, or very often in the road itself, and they’re quickly out of sight. But as they go, I naturally see how fit they are, how scroungy, or whatever. They keep coming and they keep going, and for all I know they fall off the edge of the earth when they’re out of sight.

It’s good to take inventory of your own fitness. Because it is good for yourself, your longevity, your social outlook, etc. The more you’re able to rein yourself in from overdoing it in any area of life, the more options you have for health and the all-important love life. The better things are, the quicker you can get your hooks into someone and have an “in” with them, be they rich, famous, or what have you.

This is true because those who are open to you are themselves taking inventory. And it happens fast. The light in my eyes, just speaking of me personally, is virtually extinguished -- I could cross the rainbow bridge any minute -- but as long as there’s even a flicker of light, yes, I’m window shopping. “Hey, baby, let’s get it on,” I’m muttering under my breath for some of the better inventoried passersby. Then there’s the inevitable others, the descriptions of whom would make me sound a coarse observer. Which isn’t my fault. I was raised to make superficial snap judgments.

Touching on the graphic for a minute, these are things I definitely like: graceful backs, active muscles, and perfect digestion. One of the worst things in the world is to be out with someone and have their digestion off, even slightly. Raising up periodically, you know, especially with the boldness people have these days. Some of these things we were discrete about when I was young. Having active muscles is one of those factors for sure. If only half your muscles are active, that means the rest have gone to pot. Not good. And graceful backs are nice. Especially with strength. At my age, with the challenges I'll soon be having, like falling down, any young ladies who’d go with me will probably want a graceful back to hoist me out when I’ve fallen into the ditch.

It’d certainly be embarrassing if we were out and she just left me there. She might say, “My back isn’t that graceful,” immediately disqualifying her. But I haven’t even mentioned her drawers, with the potential danger that’s in them these days. Which definitely These are things I definitely like: graceful backs, active muscles, and perfect digestion.

Undertaker Schemes

Part 23 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Maybe I should have been an undertaker, known these days as a funeral director. I’m certainly interested enough in it, actually to the point of fascination. I have indeed hung out with a lot of undertakers, breathing in the whole vibe they enjoy, their environment, and their faux sadness and sorrow, all so very superficial, I can definitely say from my in with them.

Which of course is easy enough to understand. They’re not mourners by nature but really technicians, and that includes the time they’ve put on their public display of stolid silence and grief. They’ll be patting someone on the shoulder in rarefied solidarity of grief one minute, then step behind the curtain and flip out the cards the next for a fun game of Pitch. Do they even care? I think they do, but like most technicians they’re personally detached except for doing what it takes to oil or grease the skids to make it through the rest of the proceedings and keep themselves beyond reproach.

I’m not quite as slick as they are, but I'm close to pretty much the same. Making me the perfect candidate to be an undertaker, except I wasn’t interested in it when I was casting about for an occupation that didn’t involve hamburgers. Now I look back and obviously say, Yes, I could’ve gotten in on the ground floor as an assistant to some creepy old man. I would've watched him, observed and emulated him. All the while spiking his beloved coffee with an occasional drop of formaldehyde. Until it was me who at long last was calling the shots, slicing, dicing, then becoming society’s last pillar between the average citizen and their imminent death.

But, alas, when push came to shove, I didn’t think of it. Instead I went the full burger route, till I graduated to delivering pizzas, and wound up my career loading dishwashers, a burying not of men, women, boys, and girls, but food waste, separating meat from the bone, disposing of half-chewed gristle, etc., the same kind of thing without the social perks. I could've made a lot of money. And done it looking so glum, so sad, like society's firm foundation when life gives way in every living creature. With the whole parlor overtaken with pallor and I’m the pal or best friend for the bereaved who may not believe, despite our common mortality, that it’s happened to them.

Then you have the economy of the whole thing. And the unpleasant fact that with modern medicine people can deprive the undertaker another day, week, year, or decade. Not good. We need to get out our Kama Sutras and realize there’s death in them thar drawers, and get people wantonly doing the deed with insistence, like they expect something from it, like it’s going to do some good this time, like it’s going to take hold and yield a blessed event. Which can be taken either way, the blessed event of a baby or the blessed event of someone saying bye-bye. For some folks, that’s also good news.