My newsletter staff was in the mood for love that night, taking down The Lady on the Fourth of July, and I've been in the mood for revenge. Big, violent, terrible revenge, the kind you don't come back from. And I'm confident my grievances will be satisfied. If the righteousness of my cause counts for anything. These guys knew what they were getting into. They knew my rule, "Hands off The Lady!"
With Danny's demise yesterday and exit from the scene, I had to choose, Let us see ... who's next? Suddenly a thought flashed in my mind, How about Spud Tuber? They had The Lady on the ground and that's where potatoes come from. Spud was burrowed down with her and stripped to his skin that night in lovemaking. I've been practically consumed with rage ever since, and now as I replay my memories of her in the grasp of my least-favorite Tuber, that's the topper. It's time to uproot and ship him out.
I have to tell you, folks, rage is a killer. I haven't eaten, I haven't slept. All I can do is pace the floor and cuss the heavens. I'm usually a guy respectful enough not to take the Lord's name in vain, but in endless rerunning of this sickening memory I've spewed so many oaths and imprecations that it certainly would've brought down the storehouses of thunder and lightning on my head if I didn't know within myself such treasures of grace. It's good to be loved unconditionally.
Maybe that's why The Lady allowed these prisoners all over her, just too loving a nature. But that doesn't make sense. She can see, she has feelings, she can tell they're the scum of the earth. The other thing I can't see is how the Potato Man could have had any illusions about his chances with The Lady, due to his hideous form and equally clumsy personality. It's ridiculous. I can only conclude it must be the same for Spud as it is for many other losers, they never see how inexcusably horrible they actually are.
But I've also been thinking, it doesn't seem like a case of a loving nature. She could've flirted with them and left they high and dry. That would've been funny. Instead she willingly succumbed to Tuber that night, and I'm endlessly appalled.
Was there some underground chthonic allure simply too powerful for her? Was it Tuber's connection to nature, the call of the wild, the charm of the primal? Maybe a guy like him looks better to a lady in the dark; certainly in the light of day this potato's not blue ribbon stuff. Whatever it was, there they were, him with his big spudly hands, similar to The Thing of comic book lore, pawing the goods, every beautiful piece of her under the filmy fabric of her dress.
Now, about the newsletter... Danny managed to fill Spud's head with notions, as he was parroting the same line as Danny, "Ahm gonna take your newsletter and make it mine. Ahm gonna take The Lady and make her mine." I had to laugh to myself, thinking, I never thought Potato was that into writing a newsletter. I mostly wanted him for grunt labor, to carry boxes of newsletters to the post office. His talents are few. Yes, he may have the instinct to breed -- and that's where the Lady would come in -- but every three-legged idiot dog knows how to do that. But you have to admit, when it comes to newsletters neither three-legged dogs nor potatoes are any good.
When I confronted Spud about The Lady, I believed I had the upper hand. But as it turned out he wasn't about to go down easily. I vowed I would slice him into enough french fries for an army. He glared at me and I glared back. Then all hell exploded, and there we were, in fierce hand to hand combat. Spud had me in a bear hug and was about to squeeze the life out of me, when I pulled a knife from my pocket and plunged it in his back. He released me and staggered back.
Regaining his strength, Tuber lunged at me, got hold of me and lifted me, and was about to break me in half over his knobby knee, when I pulled out a second knife and plunged it in his mid-section. He staggered back again. And again -- potatoes never learn -- when he lifted me again above his head and was about to thrust me against the broad side of my garage and to a certain death, I pulled out my last knife -- and this is unpleasant, but it's what you sometimes have to do to a potato -- I plunged it in and cut his eyes out. If I'd been hungry he was ready for the microwave.
I fell to the ground and watched Spud Tuber fumbling about on the ground, like Samson, looking for his eyes, as if his Make-a-Wish was to take one last look at The Lady before complete blindness overtook him. But it wasn't to be. Even had he found his eyes, The Lady was inside retyping a new article, on my parents' teachings on pacifism. And I wasn't about to authorize a coffee break.
With Tuber down, I delivered probably the saddest words I've ever spoken to another living creature: "Spud, I once believed you would be my right-hand potato. It really bums me out to slice you up like that. But look on the bright side, you're not crinkle-cut." I put in a quick call to the work release farm and the black prison bus came and took him away. From three quarters of a mile away I could see him shedding a tear, his tear ducts now completely open air and probably running 24/7.
July 4th marked the end of my newsletter staff as I knew it. Each member of my staff -- Dashing Danny, Spud Tuber, Tipsy White, Cannibal, and The Lady Herself -- betrayed me. So now it's time for paybacks. Which will be sweet, as I systematically destroy them.
I thought, Dashing Danny Whfrf's obviously the ringleader, he's the one I'll take out first. All I knew about was the sexual stuff Danny was involved in with the rest. But in confronting him I soon learned it went far deeper -- amazingly! -- that he planned to take over the newsletter, to steal it and issue it as his own and the Lady's!
In confronting him, I caught him, red-handed, with my notebook of newsletter ideas and The Lady. We stood on the lawn, glaring at each other, The Lady cowering behind the Dashing One. I chose to take a mournful tone, not a strident tone, which would've inflamed things and likely precluded answers. "Danny, I thought you were the one redeemable prisoner on my staff, the brains of the outfit, you alone ... but here we stand."
He seemed perplexed at my sorrowful words, but also knew any advantage he might have lay in a strident response. "What you think or don't think is of no concern to me. You have what I want, I'll take it!"
I kept up the mournful pose. "Of course you mean The Lady, that much is clear, but now the newsletter as well? It's not enough that you find a Lady of your own and start your own newsletter; oh no, that would be too much!" I had crossed into the no-man's land of sarcasm, a place you can never return from, where there's nothing left to hide behind.
"You're right about one thing, Kundalini," he said sharply, "I am the brains of the outfit. Whatever success the newsletter would've had had nothing to do with you. Your blurbs on the minutiae of your daily life hold no interest. I've got what today's reader wants, anecdotes of crime and punishment, doing time and escaping, and sex with The Lady!"
"So you're planning...?" I was tentative, I don't think I wanted to hear the answer.
"That's right, I'm escaping! No more work release, no more halfway house! Once my voice takes hold of society in the newsletter, they'll never be able to touch me! Especially with a Lady like this on my arm!"
I lamented, "You poor delusional fool. A newsletter needs a spirit to it, the spirit of good. Every newsletter I've ever seen inhabited by the spirit of evil has flamed out after the first couple issues. The public -- despite their many failures -- are essentially good. They're the kind of Everyman I represent, a pool in the yard, two kids, three dogs, a garage full of cars. They want pointers on how to step up their game of domesticity, not how to work a paperclip in a jail door!"
"So that's all you think I know, eh? The life of solitude and solitary confinement." I started to feel I wasn't getting through to him, and the ire rose up inside me, my ears glowing hot at the tips. He pulled the Lady to himself and bent her over for a long and involved and very wet kiss. I lost my mind and lunged at him. But he anticipated me and stabbed me right between the eyes. I would've been a goner, except for a yoga move I'd only just recently mastered, the Third Eye Displacement. It changed my focus in a startling new way, so that -- knife or no knife -- I could see my path to victory.
I grabbed the Lady's hand and pulled her behind me. Danny was aghast, suddenly seeing how things stood. What kind of newsletter could he make without the Lady's love? It's unfathomable, even ridiculous to imagine!
I didn't know what to make of it entirely, but self-preservation got the best of Danny and he dashed off, leaving me to phone it in to headquarters. There were sirens and gunshots about a quarter of a mile west of my place, and pretty soon I saw the prison bus -- a school bus painted black -- take the road east past my place.
It gave me the last glimpse I hope to ever have of Dashing Danny Whfrf. I watched closely as they passed and beheld a tear in his eye, which he then defiantly wiped away before assuming a stolid pose, looking straight ahead. Now he was a half mile away and his back to me, details were harder to make out. All I could tell was he had a sneer on his face and was resolved to greater and greater crime in the future.
I learned a couple of important lessons in this whole episode: There are men you simply can't redeem, no matter how good your newsletter is. And second, a knife between the eyes, while being entirely life-threatening, serves as a pretty good beacon to the higher consciousness, for a limited period of time. I pulled it out and got a bandage.
For most true Americans, the world begins anew every July 4. We're worn down by a demanding world and the evil machinations of the other party and we're about dead. It's only with the first firecracker that we're roused again to the barest signs of life. Then as the kids keep up the racket we gain renewed strength. When the fireworks become increasingly dangerous, with actual injuries in the neighborhood, we're nearly our old selves. Finally, when our leaders blow up $50,000 in tax dollars in a ten-minute orgasm of fire and noise, we're good for another year.
But this year, for me, instead of the usual inspiration, my world came to a sputtering end. For it was when the fireworks lit up the sky that I beheld sexual fireworks on the ground at my feet. Yes, it was a five-way orgy, my entire newsletter staff minus me, in full display, writhing on the ground, all hands and body parts, connecting and detaching, then reconnecting in greater and weirder configurations, as if to match the increasingly complicated bursts in mid-air.
To recap what's going on here. I've been working on a newsletter and took on a staff, made up of four prisoners from the work release program and a woman we call The Lady. I've had one rule since Day One, and that's "Hands off The Lady!" Anyone touches The Lady they answer to me. With my answer promised to be a most violent one, something no one in their right mind would even want to imagine, let alone face and tangle with.
Apparently I made two mistakes, bringing blankets to keep the bugs off us during the fireworks, and offering to get Sno-Cones for everyone. I came back from the glare of the Sno-Cone stand and didn't notice what was taking place in the immediate vicinity of the blankets until explosions lit the sky. At which point my full attention was arrested. Certainly each of the prisoners was at his fullest attention, as well as The Lady. That settled it, the Sno-Cones were now mine!
But what else could I do, with a huge crowd of people pressing in on us? I couldn't very well kill them with so many witnesses. So I kept it low-key, dealing out swift kicks when I could, when the explosions were the greatest. But each prisoner -- Dashing Danny Whfrf, Stan "Tipsy" White, Spud Tuber, and insatiable Cannibal -- was only spurred on by the punishment. Angry kicks excited them further, with The Lady looking up in delight, as if to encourage me to punish them even more.
The whole crew was in a kind of weird orgasmic nature arrangement, moving and trading places like a cloud of birds melting in formation across the sky. I hadn't seen so many moving parts in perfect harmonious motion since I couldn't remember when, probably the church camp I went to in 1966 and the wet T-shirts on the girls after that tremendous rain. Again, it was all on display, right in my face, but this time giving me absolutely no pleasure.
The explosions mounted, and I could tell, by body language and just the innate natural knowledge creatures have, that there was a definite synchronicity between the sky and the connections at my feet. Rockets shot up in splendor and BOOM -- Dashing Danny was out. A torrent of large shots made their ascent and BOOM -- Spud Tuber fell with a thud. Weaving, crazy fire made its zigzag way upward and SPUTTER -- Tipsy White collapsed. A giant Uncle Sam was lit on the levee and as the fire engulfed everything before fizzling down to the burning teeth -- Cannibal was consumed. Of course the blankets were ruined.
Each of the men stood then, as if proudly on display like fluttering Old Glory itself, and the five of us watched The Lady respond to the last crazy shooting-of-the-moon you always get with a big fireworks display. I can only say -- fully ashamed of myself -- that for a few moments I too was transported in my thoughts to realms of glory, as The Lady herself sought the heights. She convulsed with each unpredictable explosion, before collapsing in exhaustion just as the last display on the levee was ignited, Lady Liberty, which flamed forth before quickly flaming out.
We went home quietly and then our separate ways, the prisoners to their quarters in the garage, The Lady to her room in the house, and me to mine. This isn't over! There's more fireworks to come, big time punishment to mete out. Huge...
I wrote tributes to the male members of my newsletter staff, Dashing Danny Whfrf, Spud Tuber, Tipsy White, and Cannibal. But just like a fancy meal, it's time now for the main course, my favorite, The Lady. Just like an exquisite lily against a backdrop of weeds, The Lady has pride of place on our team. So much so that I've warned the riff-raff, not once but multiple times, "Keep your hands off The Lady! If I ever catch you near The Lady..."
I suppose I may as well say it, I have a really hard time keeping my eyes off her. When I see the guys of course I'm revolted, my heart sinks, I feel queasy, and I'm barely restrained from lashing out, "You sons of bitches!" But when it's The Lady, it's a different story; my heart just melts. Her smile, her smooth skin, that personality, she's the whole package and more.
The history of men and women since the beginning of the world is an interesting one, to the extent that I know anything about it. I learned as a child that the Lord created Adam and Eve, long before Steve showed up. Adam was created from the dust and Eve from one of his ribs. If memory serves, I believe they also told me, to this day men have one less rib than they would have if they had one more.
Immediately the question comes up, Is it worth it to be missing a rib so we can have women? My answer has to be, Absolutely! What would you rather have, an extra rib or a mother? As a question it's nonsense, because how would we have had mothers if we'd insisted on the extra rib? Clearly in that case we wouldn't have any ribs, to speak of. I'm not begrudging her, Mom was worth it. The Lady, similarly, is worth her weight in ribs.
The other points I feel like making are these: 1) Women are the Glory of Men; 2) They cause us to say "Oo-la-la;" 3) They are very addictive; and, 4) When they were created the Lord threw away the mold. But just stating the points will be enough, because you're smart, you can figure out what I would've said.
I know, certainly, The Lady is the glory of this man. Cute, sweet, smart as a whip, sharp as a tack, gentle but not too gentle, rough but not too rough, not afraid to talk back, but too kind to overwhelm me in a game of tit for tat. Like a good bowl of porridge, she's just right. I can truly say the best move I ever made was when I took her on for my newsletter... If she learns to write articles, so much the better.
You know, it's been only a month and I don't actually remember where I got her. True! That's interesting, because I'm usually very sharp on these things. I know I got the guys at the prison release farm. But The Lady, I guess she just showed up and I took her on, which doesn't sound likely. But I've been known to do stuff like that. I pride myself on making snap decisions, and they always seem to work out great. Wherever she came from, The Lady's the best decision I ever made.
Like I said, though, the worst thing about it is the terrible dread I feel that she might be molested by one of the other fruitcakes. I can't stay awake 24 hours a day, anything could happen. This is the same thing Adam thought about Steve, always coming after Eve, or, worse, himself. But I'm doing what I can, letting The Lady sleep in the house while the guys are bunking in the garage. Putting some separation between them and her, which gives me a little comfort.
OK, that's enough of a tribute for her. I want to be alone now, just me and my thoughts, wherever they may lead me.
Friends, do you ever get that feeling you're being eaten alive? I've had that feeling the last few days, especially this morning when I got up. First, there's always the damned bugs of summer. Do I like bugs? I guess I do, in that sense that I like all of creation, believing it fits together in some kind of vast wise oneness. I just don't like them practically, as in feasting on my flesh and blood. Which I know is shortsighted and selfish, because I also feast on the flesh and blood of creatures. But I spray a little OFF on myself and I don't have too much trouble.
The other thing that's eating me alive -- and I suppose I'm generating some by mentioning it -- is karma. Everyone knows karma by one name or another as that thing that supposedly gets you in the end. You do something wrong and it eventually recoils on you and you're paid back in kind. The thing to realize about karma is that it's in continual action. Meaning, you learn from it or you don't. And if you don't, it's in continual action even more. If you learn from it and manage to keep your behavior somewhat in check, there's less of it to suffer. I've had so much Facebook karma this past week -- big news week -- I can barely mention it or I'll generate more. It does eat you alive, from the core outward.
Then there's one of my male staff-members, working with me on my upcoming newsletter, who will eat you alive if you let him, the disgusting Cannibal. I should've shipped him back to the work release farm (he's a prisoner) as soon as I heard of him. Because he creeps me out and I'm very afraid of him. It's tough to sleep knowing he's around. I've had his mouth on my arm a few times -- always playfully, of course -- but he has to be shaken off because he never seems to know when enough's enough.
Still, I need to give him some kind of tribute. It's fair to do -- I did the others. And there has to be something genuinely good I can say about him. Which, one obvious thing would be, like I said above about the bugs, everything's gotta eat. Would I want Cannibal to shrivel up and die for lack of nutrition? It wouldn't bother me all that much. Yes, I allow mosquitoes to live, for the most part; I don't begrudge them that much, since there's nothing I can do about it anyway. I kill one here, one there.
But Cannibal's one normal sized guy -- one filthy, slobbering, rotten guy -- and if he dropped off from lack of nutrition, it'd be a positive. Remember, this guy literally bit my little finger off! And while it's been stitched back on and is more or less functional, I'm very worried about my blood flow. Stuff like this was meant to stay permanently attached, in my not so humble opinion. But I'm not a guy to lash out. But if the other prisoners -- Danny, Spud, and Tipsy -- lash out at him, that's their business, and more normal to their proclivities. I wouldn't mind.
My Tribute -- My staff member Cannibal is one of the truest lovers of humanity I know. Most of us appreciate man's output: art, history, relationships. But only the cannibal goes for the whole package. Which can be a beautiful thing, just so the ones he goes for aren't worth crap. Various enemies, criminals, high school bullies. But most of us prefer to continue our lives much more than being eaten.
Cannibal's nickname of Mr. Food Chain is quite a tribute in itself. To have that continual hunger and yet to never be hungering, because there's always someone to gnaw on, must be very satisfying. He has the freedom and power and drive of a shark, particularly when his prey is sleeping. You're dreaming you have pain somewhere, you figure it's karma you're working off, until the pain becomes a little too real, too immediate, then up you spring, only to see Mr. Food Chain in action. Terrible. It's tough enough to fall back to sleep under normal conditions...
I have one consolation. Cannibal knows, because I told him, he can't mess up too many times, or it's back to the work release farm for him! So as long as I hold to that threat, I believe I will be OK. What's that??? Thought I heard him behind me, false alarm.
POLICE -- When the police showed up, I had to tell them, "I'm not aiding and abetting. He's eating and a'biting!"
Everything's going so smoothly for me and the editorial team for my newsletter, I'm amazed how blessed I am. So I've put some of the good feelings into tributes to Dashing Danny Whfrf and Stan "Tipsy" White. I wasn't planning to do the others, but since it came up in today's discussions, I know I really should, at least to stifle jealousy.
Today, Spud Tuber. About the best thing I can think about Spud, once I get past his potato-like exterior, is his reputation with dames. According to him, when he's not in prison there's constantly dames at his side, day and night. What they're doing all day, I don't know, but he's hinted enough about the night that it all sounds pretty exciting.
I look at him and, to me, there's a disconnect; I don't see him as that great. Which is obviously the difference between me and dames. But one thing I do like is the chance to study his type. I've reached one thrilling conclusion so far -- and I may be writing a book about it -- is this, Dames can't help liking him.
Here's a few hints as to how my book might go: Speaking in evolutionary terms, a guy like Spud is valuable, acting as a kind of pressure valve for the group. In nature, men want to breed for the preservation of the group, and that's it. But there's always going to be dames, and they're looking for the guy who throws caution (and prudence) to the wind and is willing to mate with anyone. So a guy like Spud keeps the dames happy and helps preserve the men's stamina for actual breeding. Spud says he has no sons.
Spud's also represents the stud in our group, then, although I have not relaxed the restriction on any of my four prison-workers to not lay a hand on our female staff member, The Lady. And at this point, evolution or no evolution, I can't see myself relaxing the restriction, not so much because of Spud, but because the other three wouldn't understand the distinction. They've been in lock-up, they'd be all over her. I wouldn't like that.
So, let's give a few minutes for a tribute to Spud Tuber. To me, yes, he has rugged looks, a little good, a little bad, depending on how the light hits him. In the shadows his crags have too many dips. In the light, the sheen keeps the eye traveling on the surface and he's not so bad. But looks aren't everything.
What about personality? I've always thought half of sex appeal has to do with your personality. In this area, I think Spud must have a different persona when he's out with dames and hoping to score. Because to me his personality tends to be on the brusque side. It's easy to rub him the wrong way, then the temptation is to throw his weight around in a bullish way. He has intelligence, though, because he always knows his work release privileges are on the line.
What's he like with the dames? I have a limited view but I see a lot of confidence. Spud is a man who's seen his share of love, lust, and the various combinations. It's easy to imagine him in a fancy nightclub, a dame on each arm, approaching the bar, calling out the bartender by name, and treating everyone. Whereas, you put me there, I'd be shy and be asking the bartender nicely for a drink, lest he get too surly for having been overworked.
What's Spud like with the dames when they're alone? I can only speculate, since this is where men generally like to be alone with their thoughts. They don't tell. Still, what's a Super Brain for if I can't guess? Spud's obviously in the relationship for himself, detached from the dame's feelings. The dames think anyone that detached has to be rich. So they're throwing themselves at him. Only to find out later, when the police show up later putting the pinch on him, that he's just a potato with a record, and out past the work release curfew to boot.
For those fleeting moments, however, Spud's the dame's dream, the dame's all. The dame is fluttering her eyelids, flexing her wiles, putting on a show, hoping to haul in, far from any other dame's hungered grasp, a male specimen to match the gods. Spud lets them dream, until that magic moment 45 minutes in when he devotes 15 minutes to blowing his top.
"Oh, baby," he coos, in that magic potato guttural tone he takes, "You got it goin' on," before emitting a satisfied, extended breath of relief. "That oughta hold me for a day."
Do I admire Spud Tuber, the Potato Man? You better believe I do. I can't see any reason now or into the distant future why he and I wouldn't be on the best of terms. I'll have him on my team as long as he'll stay. And doesn't touch The Lady.
Yesterday, I lifted up one of my staff members, Stan "Tipsy" White, as a great example of the glories of drunkenness, and got a lot of nice comments, so I thought today I'd highlight another member I sincerely admire, Dashing Danny Whfrf.
Danny's a traditionalist, and I like that, a traditional thief. He's not into new crime like computer hacking or carjackings, which of course have their place; he's into what has to be one of the oldest criminal activities of all, thievery, stealing. It's so old there's even a 10 Commandment about it! Fortunately Danny doesn't live in some backward country where they cut your hands off for stealing, because he'd be out of work then, needing as he does his hands for holding the gun and carrying stuff off.
Of course in these days where every field seems to have succumbed to modernism -- and I'd complain, "Modernism for modernism's sake!" -- it's rare to find traditional craftsmen, working not only with their hands but with their wits. When you work with your wits, you need wisdom, and that's what Danny uses to scope out a situation, see where the goods are, where the exits are, and what it's going to take to get him in and out in one piece. Part of one's wits also entail foreseeing the unforeseeable, if we can put it like that, having the foresight and intelligence to roll with the flow. Danny's not afraid to change his plans on the fly, such as his route of escape. He says he's dove out of more second story windows than he cares to remember!
Damn the luck, though! He's currently doing a little prison stretch that's sidelined him, but he's proven himself an honorable and worthy fellow in demonstrating "good behavior." Plus, he went beyond the call of duty when he ratted on a couple rat-finks in the clink, who were planning to knife a guy simply for not sharing a Playboy magazine his sister smuggled in to him. And that put Danny in good with a few higher-ups, who then put him on the fast track to eventual release by sending him to the local work release farm. From there he was let him out to help me as a staff member on my upcoming newsletter.
I've been happy with Danny's work ethic. He's very bright-eyed, looking at all the angles. Which is even more amazing given the late hours he keeps after a full day. I bet he's explored every part of our town. I sometimes wonder what discoveries he's making -- our town's a fascinating and hospitable place, and I believe he's found that to be true. But he's not one to show a lot of emotion; he's reluctant to get sentimental about civic pride because he might break down and cry. And once you've been in the pen, that's a big no no.
Yes, the thought's crossed my mind that he might be pulling a few jobs around town. He always goes armed, which he sees as a fundamental constitutional right, and it could be he sees things he likes that he honestly can't afford, since the state's only giving him 12 cents an hour. That's not much money for a full day's work! I've chipped in a few cents to make it 15 cents, but even that's only marginally better. You could literally blow through a whole day's pay on an unfrosted cupcake. Fortunate for him, we have little joint downtown that'll sell you a single cigarette or he'd be completely lost.
If he is pulling jobs, more power to him, right? If he's at peace with it, who am I to raise a ruckus and mess up his thinking? He tells me his mama never raised no fool, and I confess I'd say the same thing about my mama. I'm a pretty good judge of character, and Danny's got it. And even if he didn't have it he'd know where to find it, which is reassuring.
Messing up his thinking would be the same as messing with his peace of mind. And that's something I'd never do. Danny's got what a lot of us haven't got, the native sense that God gives thieves, who believe, "The whole world belongs to me. What's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine." There's such a beautiful innocence in that, like a baby reaching out and picking a piece of food off his daddy's plate. Daddy just sits there and laughs, "You're such a good boy!" The amazing thing, then, is to carry that attitude through your whole life; what's out there is like the air, it's your environment, your enchilada, and completely free for the taking. It don't get no easier than that!
I am personally not one to get good and royally drunk. As must be clear at least to long-time readers, I'm a guy of strict discipline and resolve. So going overboard on anything -- except maybe doing good -- simply doesn't happen. And I would never encourage anyone else to get inebriated, wasted, or faced. If they came to me and asked, "Should I?" I'd say "No."
Then we have a guy like Stanley "Tipsy" White, staff reporter for my newsletter (soon to be published). He didn't ask, he just showed up with drunk as his default. Drinking's simply his thing, his basic modus operandi in life, the way he copes, gets along, and lives. Yes, of course, when he's at the work release farm (he's a prisoner) he probably doesn't have perfect access to the hard stuff. But he's obviously getting it somehow; when he showed up at my place he was already drunk, and he's been working on something ever since.
I like watching Tipsy, maybe because we're such polar opposites. A few sips now and then of something, going along with spirituality, that's my thing. I've been giving a pretty good effort lately at yoga (not the stretchy kind), working on self-control, transmuting the various energies of the body. The yogis say alcohol isn't good for that, although I have a slightly different feeling on the subject, and so the sips are allowed. But there's no way I'm going to get drunk. But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy and even appreciate the fun habits and accompanying states of mind that Tipsy shows. I consider him a close personal friend at this point, and I can't think of anything that would drive us apart.
You know how most lushes have a pattern in life? They're struggling to get their lives on track, they swear off the booze, then two hours later they show up drunk? That's not Tipsy. Left to his own choices, anything apart from solitary confinement and lack of access, he's going to be boozed up, lubed real good. And spaced out, talking with a slurred voice, the whole bit. It's a lot of fun to imitate him, stumbling over your words, like the old comedian -- one of the funniest guys of his time -- Foster Brooks. I watched Foster on YouTube lately, and had the same feeling for him as in the '70s: I like the drunk voice a lot but still don't like how he bottoms it out so often. Just me.
Tipsy's not extremely verbose. He's mostly in a more enviable condition, the complete, total, beautiful miasma of drunkenness. He's just there, more or less worthless for any and all practical pursuits, but happy and apparently even centered in himself. That's the good drunk, unlike the bad drunk, which involves staggering and personal endangerment. Tipsy usually looks very contented, sitting in a chair, the bottle dangling from one hand near the floor, with his head pushed back, face toward the ceiling, in his own world, his own personal haze.
It'd be interesting to read his mind and know what's going on in his thoughts. Is he tapping into realms up there that would yield new and more wonderful answers? Is he working through visions and dreams that might make a difference to humanity in, perhaps, coming up with an answer to man's troubles? Or is it just what it looks like, a guy so bombed that if even the slightest thinking's taking place, there's still not two coherent thoughts joined together, nothing of cognitive syntax of any form that would make sense in terms of our current prevalent consciousness?
Looking at some of his ideas for articles for the newsletter, most of them aren't what you'd call deep stuff. He's very anti-cop and he doesn't like to be hassled. I can only imagine what it's been like for him, off on these beautiful multiple-week drunks and having to be hassled by the fuzz. Wouldn't you just like to take the fuzz by the lapels sometime and say, "Lay off, copper, my friend's not hurting anyone. Take your officious, self-righteous, crock of crap lawman pretentiousness, and get the hell out of here! He sleeping it off, as you can perfectly well see, because there's a party tonight he doesn't want to miss."
I said I had some spirituality going on, remember? Even the Good Book says drinking is fine. I'm looking it up. 1 Timothy 5:23: "Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities." So water's out and wine's in. Something for your stomach, which is where liquids go. And something to help with infirmities. Let me do some interpretation of the verse. It says "Use a little wine." I like that. Going by that, it's all relative, use what you need. If wine's OK, anything else you need would be OK too. The same principle holds for the phrase "thy stomach's sake." All other body parts might benefit. So, in Tipsy's case, he's got all the bases covered.
Yes, Tipsy's an all right kind of guy. If I wasn't for the whole yoga discipline thing -- and I'm extremely faithful to it -- I wouldn't mind joining him. Tip up and down a bottle of rye, I'd be lubed too! I met this guy one time and we got on the subject of drinking. I asked him, "Do you drink?" He goes, "Nope ... I guzzle."
I'm running the access numbers again, in case you missed yours. As a reminder, I have officially opened up subscriptions for my new exciting newsletter, to be published very soon. But you do need to have an access number to receive it, because, quite frankly, I can't afford to send one to everyone who wants one. That'd be literally everyone in the world!
So today, if you look in the little white box above, you might see your own private access number. If there is an access number shown, obviously that's what you'll use when you subscribe. Enter the number when directed -- and, please, it has to be precisely as written -- and you'll be good to go. If, however, you see no number, but just a white box, then you are not currently eligible for a subscription. I am so sorry for any inconvenience, but as I said, money's tight. You will probably agree, it's best that I start out small in case there's any glitches along the way.
The fact is, the first run will be very small, as it will be limited to 300 copies, all mailed. Even that's a huge expense: Stamps are expensive, envelopes are up in price, paper's through the roof, and toner ink, we all know that problem...
But it could be that I'll have issues going out to more of you sooner rather than later, because I'm currently making arrangements with several companies -- including lots of little companies I'd never heard of, Chinese companies, Middle Eastern companies -- to monetize my initial subscribers. Yes, it's exciting stuff, with the potential for me to make some big bucks by monetizing your information, whatever I'm privy to, with up to 600 companies. If I receive only a penny per company, that's $6.00 per subscriber per month. If I can do that, of course I'll want as many subscribers as possible. Because I'll be rolling in it.
I know a couple of you will be concerned about your private information getting out there. Well, you don't need to give it a second thought. Because I've been assured by these characters, who haven't given me their names, precisely, nor have I seen their faces -- the light isn't so good in the alleys around here -- that everything's on the up and up. They're definitely gung ho for it, and that's a great sign. In fact, they're so excited they're asking that I press you for more information. Credit card details, Social Security info, bank accounts, the whole bit, which to me says a lot. It says these guys are "full service," and that's the kind of service we all want.
They say, though, that falling short of the ideal won't be a deal breaker. They're willing to accept any information I can get, even if it's just your name, address, birthday, phone numbers, your mother's maiden name, who your best man or maid of honor was, and the city where you met your spouse. See, they want to have a friendly relationship with you, maybe send you a birthday card and special offers to your friends. Like the points on a rewards card. You have to agree it'd be great to get 3,000 points for doing nothing but subscribing to a newsletter. I know people who've lived and died and struggled and still haven't gotten close to 3,000 points.
Anyway, it's all win-win. Not only will you receive the newsletter -- and I promise to make it as good as I can, lots of articles, blurbs, maybe a few connect-the-dot illustrations of stuff from my personal collection -- but your mailbox will be literally stuffed with catalogs, letters, various come-ons, offers for insurance policies, charity pleas, the whole bit. Just as a funny aside, if it's too much for your mailbox, they'll probably have an offer for a bigger one!
So, you may say, what if I don't want all that mail, all those offers? I'd say try be more flexible. Because look, you'll get great environmental cred with your friends and neighbors when they see how much you're recycling. I'd be proud to be dragging two or three bins to the curb every week instead of just the one I've currently got. Your neighbors might even give up recycling all together when they see they can't compete. Another benefit, you could do what my grandparents used to do, let the kids have the mail you don't want. When you're a kid it's great to get mail. They can fill it in and, as a surprise to you, be applying for multiple credit cards. At first you'll object, but when you see some of the great gifts they're getting you'll be very glad.
I hope I've taken care of all lingering doubts. If I have, great. If I haven't, well, no one's twisting your arm to subscribe. You can always show your complete lack of gratitude by ignoring the access number. Making me feel bad in the process, but what do you care? You don't care. Hell, if you're Number One in your own mind -- I've known people like that, stunted in their feelings -- that's all that counts. Other people's dreams, like mine of having a top-notch newsletter, sent out only to select people (and that's you), don't matter. Put me out to pasture, let me wither on the vine. You don't care.
I'll definitely have second thoughts, though, about ever doing anything nice for you again. I won't. I'll send your access code to someone who appreciates it and you'll be out forever. There's lots of other fish in the sea, choking on pollution, hoping someone will catch them and answer their dying wish.
I say you will subscribe. You need to! You want me monetize you. Because look at it this way, I didn't have to tell you any of this. I could've signed you up, no questions asked, and you would've been totally surprised -- and probably appreciative -- to be on 600 to 1,000 lists, receiving the mail, and having people take out credit cards in your name, the whole bit. Maybe you don't like to get out and shop. You won't have to, with so many others doing it for you.
Let's get it going, OK? Because the newsletter's just about to be published! We're working on it! We're stuffing it with blurbs and things I haven't even thought of yet. And you need to be on board. I want us to shake on it. Let's solemnize it, let's make a bond between you and me that cannot be broken. That you'll agree to, stand by, and keep forever. My handshake will also be on behalf of my 600 partner companies.
I'm about ready to put out a newsletter, and I have a staff, which I hope will make the process smoother and make for a more interesting newsletter. I'm a big believer that more voices add something. I've been looking to enhance our chances, so we got together and I led the team in one of the exercises I do at some of my seminars, whether it be on group dynamics or anything. This is a great exercise even for something like positive thinking, firing up some of those tired brain cells. I recommend it.
I called the group to order and explained our "conundrum," The Object before us. Hmm, what is it? By that I meant, What is it beyond what it obviously is, in this case a stone? What does your mind tell you? I've been doing some personal spiritual development -- look for my seminar in six months -- so this is an exercise that makes me tingle all over.
You probably remember my staff. In the graphic, going clockwise from the upper right corner, we have, the Lady, and from the work release farm, Spud Tuber, Cannibal, Stanley "Tipsy" White, Dashing Danny Whfrf, and me.
So there we were, chairs in a circle with The Object on a table in the center. What is it? What are you thinking? Think deeply. We have The Object in common. Take a deep breath and release, not in your neighbor's face. What could it be? As usual, answers weren't immediately given. Either a case of nerves or mentality. The guys seemed clueless. Only the Lady, clearly the one with the fullest deck, and everything else, was forthcoming, "I am perplexed," she said.
Ever patient, I counseled them to close their eyes again as I spoke. "I have given seminars for some of the smartest people on the planet. Fortune 500 companies. Scientists. Fifth graders. And nine times out of ten they also sit in silence as you have. Until they do what I'm going to ask you to do: Open your eyes suddenly and mark in your mind the first thing you think of when you look at The Object. Now!"
We went around the circle. The Object reminded Spud of a big potato. It reminded Tipsy of a flask. Dashing Danny saw a nice little lady's purse, fit for the taking. Cannibal picked it up and chipped a tooth, apparently seeing in it the cheek of someone's juicy ass. That was the guys. The Lady started, then regathered her thoughts, like maybe she was reluctant to reveal too much. She pulled back in silence, then after eye contact she braved it, "I see in it the egg in the Ukrainians' Bird Goddess mythology, circa 4500 B.C." I nodded, "Yes, I can see how you'd arrive at that conclusion."
I thought to myself, This gal's really on the ball! Not just a pretty package, there's something going on in there! Or maybe she just got lucky. Beginner's luck, pearls of wisdom as from a child, a random assortment of words that just happened to make sense...
We broke into groups. Right away I and the Lady were one group. None of the others wanted to be partners with Cannibal, so there was a group of three with Cannibal alone. I gave them five minutes to confer, then we would reconvene. They were to come up with a consensus answer, thinking deeply about what is truly is.
It's in these group dynamics settings that I really shine. I figured Cannibal would have the fewest insights, so I would call on him last. That's a good way to encourage the smarter ones to take charge without the entire group being sidelined by the stupidest. As for the other three prisoners, I knew they had enough mentality on the ball to jog forth at least one thought. This really isn't to slight Cannibal entirely; he's dumb, but as is true of all prisoners, he has convictions.
When we came together, the three guys really disappointed me. Dashing Danny was the spokesperson, and whatever progress they had made was lost. Probably because of the complexity of the Lady's previous answer. The had decided to go back to The Object as a literal rock, which Dashing Danny said would "be great for throwing through a plate glass window and making off with the goods!" I shook my finger to scold him.
I was the spokesperson for myself and the Lady, saying we had set aside the goddess imagery, to behold in The Object a representation of the linga, not precisely a phallic symbol, as some would contend, but a symbol of something more nebulous, but something that could be perceived in a shape like this, while not really having a distinct form. It is a primal concept, inherently beyond thought, which dissolves in our imagination and leaves us in the presence of the vast, the void, the divine. I looked over at the guys and saw the vast void in their eyes.
"OK, how about you, Cannibal? What do you see in The Object?" Before I knew it, he leaped on me and bit off the little finger on my right hand! The pain was excruciating but I was immediately enlightened.
LATER: After the incident the Lady got me a BandAid® brand adhesive bandage and took me to the ER. The doc reattached my finger and told me to soak it in ice for extra-fast healing. It doesn't feel too bad, except every time I hit the ENTER button I scream.
It's nice to finally get back to the newsletter (and also blogging), after a few days off. I say "days off," when in fact it's been anything but.
Having a staff has turned into a mixed blessing, mostly bad, but fascinating nonetheless. I got four prisoners, paid pennies by the state, from the work release farm. The first mixed blessing is you have to sign your life away with the forms. I had to give assent to the official terms, that "Hiring said parties may result in death and dismemberment to the party of the first part," i.e., me. The way I look at it, I have a Savior, I'm ready to go if need be. Although, God forbid! -- am I right?
Still, anything to save money. Then there's the token lady. I never want to be accused of favoring male prisoners over law-abiding women. No, seriously, I love women; my Mom was a lady. But as you can imagine, it's a potent mix. Some of these characters act like they haven't learned the basic lessons of childhood, like "Don't stare." The lady seems to be taking it as a compliment, but it's making me uncomfortable as hell.
A lot of my time is spent trying to instill in these guys -- I'll call them what they are, losers -- a few of the basics of propriety and decency. Then, assuming we can get the preliminaries out of the way, we can buckle down and put out the best newsletter anyone's ever known! At the present moment I'm proposing a modest three-pager. Drill the guys for a few blurbs, if they're able to think of anything, and also open it up for the lady, if she has a recipe or make-up tip.
I probably should introduce them, Dashing Danny Whfrf, Spud Tuber, Stan "Tipsy" White, and the Cannibal. I already introduced the lady. Right away when we came together for our first editorial meeting I noticed a weird dynamic and addressed one key issue: "Keep your filthy hands off the lady. If anything happens beyond 'God bless you," you're out, back to the farm!" The first three were silent, making Cannibal's hissing and clawing at the air that much more unsettling.
That out of the way, I described my blog, my claim to fame, as a fairly well-known blog in the online world. Famous among the literati, glitterati, those into esoteric lore, as well as the entirely conventional. Everyone from your plain jane to your chocolatey gooey mess. These are my people! The unselfconscious vanilla milquetoast as well as those so far off the wall they're in the field.
The lady asked, "If you have such a successful blog why put out a newsletter?" I had to wonder if one of the prisoners coached her on such a coherent, insightful question, but they kept a completely blank expression, poker faced. "I want something more special for my readers, something that's exclusive for subscribers only." She had no comeback for that, the coaching obviously not extending to rejoinders, and still the guys weren't revealing anything. Cannibal munched playfully on the Potato Man's arm before he rose up and backhanded Cannibal across the room. It did my heart good; playfulness is good for community-building. Tipsy sipped on one of those tiny bottles of whiskey. Danny paid close attention, giving me the creepy feeling that he might be a usurper.
I've always been something of a people-watcher, so it did my heart good to see the dynamic going on. I take after my dad, who would often sit on the bench and watch people till he fell asleep. We would come along later and help him home and to bed, only to prop him up again on the bench the next day and leave. I really found out in those days how good people are. Thieves would come by and try to strip him of valuables, but passersby were great, so often coming to his aid and restoring his things.
We're getting close to Father's Day, so that's not a half bad memory. Might make the newsletter. Spruce it up, make us kids look better than we were, while keeping the "people are great" angle. You compliment people and they'll eat out of your hand. Meaning, another great article would be to compliment my readers. I love my readers. I'm reminded of a record/CD store I used to go to: "Through these doors pass the greatest people in the world." Then every CD had about five anti-theft devices on it, that's how good they were.
Keep your enemies close, your friends closer. And if you have an editorial team made up of prisoners, with a lady in the mix, keep them as close as can be, without them able to actually chew on you. Looking at the lady, though, a little harmless love nosh wouldn't be so terrible.
Excuse me. "Cannibal, that's close enough! Remember, the lady needs her personal space!"
These are the times that thrill men's souls. When a brand new newsletter rolls out of the printer and is available to the general public. To be read. Shared. Treasured.
It's been months in the planning, my own newsletter, and now it's finally here. Along with my staff -- four men and a lady -- I've been hard at work, as boss and editor-in-chief, collecting news and views to be published. I can't wait to see the first issue, then sit back and read it myself, and do as the great editors of the past did, get printer's ink on my fingers.
Staff? Yes, I said staff. I was given the opportunity, at minimal expense, for a few work release prisoners from the farm to help with the project. You see Dashing Danny Whfrf above. He's quite the little newsman! Very interested in newsletter production, plus his hobby of sharpening the cutest little dirks.
A lot of what I'm doing here is untested and unknown, such as what demand I'm going to have for subscriptions. So I'm parceling out access numbers quite sparingly. If you see an access number in the graphic, you're one of the lucky ones. If it's blank, I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait.
You can imagine, though, the joy of those who have an access code. I know if I were sitting where you're sitting, and say I didn't have a code, I'd have mixed feelings, probably a combination of anger and jealousy. But I would look on the bright side; this is a God-given chance to work on the negativity in your life, and overcome the instinct to lash out.
Which will only be more difficult when you realize what all you're missing. Content you can't get anywhere else. I'm keeping it exclusive to the newsletter. But I don't mind hinting around about some of it. I have a nature/electronics article, kind of a rant, about planning for the 17-year cicadas in 2032. Briefly, I don't see why I can't put a reminder on my iPhone for May 2032, so when the time comes I don't forget. I tried. They don't let you...
Then there's a nice piece on me as a 79-year-old in 2032, greeting my little nature friends. I've had such a wonderful time with cicadas this year. Their drone/mantra would be enough, were it not for those pesky mosquitoes, to carry me into complete chakra ecstasy. Seriously, I'd be naked on a shimmering pillow in the sahasrara right now drinking amrita, if not for mosquitoes.
For the guys among my readers, I'm also sharing some of my intimate fantasies about Hannah and her horse. We're on a beautiful island, the sea is a gorgeous blue, it's a complete paradise. The sand's white, the weather's beautiful. We have a pet goat and of course her horse. I've done everything I can to make a nice shelter for us, a tiny kitchen area, a tiny dining area, and a tiny living room area, leaving room for a spacious bedroom. The only thing we're not concerned with, not in the slightest, is DirectTV.
Look for your access code. I don't want anyone to miss out. If it doesn't appear, refresh your browser a few times. If that doesn't work, I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do. I suppose you could reboot your computer, which sometimes helps but not usually.
LOVE ANTICS -- Every household has their little jokes. It's no different for me and my husband the Pink Professor. We're something of friendly rivals when it comes to working, always playfully arguing which one works hardest. I strut around the room, my head pushed back, sort of like a drum majorette on the march, going, "I be the hardest worker!" Then he leaps up and falls back suddenly to his chair, going, "I've been working so hard I can't even stand up, at least you're still fit to strut!"
That's the way a marriage should be, am I right? It's not all seriousness and "How was your day, dear?" Little love antics along with friendly competition, being strong for each other and each other's biggest fan, but still wanting some advantage for yourself, as in, "Look at me, dog, I am bad!" Woo hoo! I haven't been this cranked since that time I drank a Mountain Dew in the '80s. But this guy, Pink, simply always brings out the devil in me. OK, a blushing devil, since as everyone knows, I'm fundamentally good.
OK, hard work was the subject. And I've been putting in some of the longest damned hours of my life. Working on my newsletter project, the newsletter I hope to get going, to be sent out via email to subscribers, and as an adjunct to the blog. In it, I promise, there will be lots of juicy tidbits about me and Pink. Just a sample, I was working up an advice column, with fake questions, but general stuff everyone gets caught up in, using some of the things we've been through to guide me in my advice.
One biggie, usually quite hush-hush in most relationships, has to be, "Who initiates?" and "What response should the other partner then make? Is there any obligation?" Of course, one believes if it's obligatory, strictly speaking, that's no good, because in any relationship there has to be free choice or you're as good as a slave. Still, to a certain extent, depending on various factors, there indeed is an expectation that there will be some mutual follow-through. The best example I have is this: If Pink initiates the idea that we grill dinner, I don't have to agree with his choice, but if I don't follow-through on it at least occasionally I should have a good reason.
OK, that shows I've been working hard, and I doesn't show any sign of letting up. And here's the thing, I've been working so hard that I neglected my hygiene and appearance. As of this morning, I hadn't had a shower in three days, I had on the same undies and shirt and pants, and I hadn't shaved. I literally had the worst three-day stubble of my life. That's how much effort the newsletter's getting from me. It's been all-consuming.
So as horseplay, Pink comes out this morning and sees my disgusting appearance and acts like he doesn't recognize me. "Have you see DBK, my clean-shaven hubby?" Then he laughs and says, "I always wondered what you'd look like with a beard!" "It's not a beard," I protested, "but a three-day stubble that looks more like a week's!" Pink, ever the playful one, says, "Whatever it is, it's butt ugly and you need to take care of yourself, OK?" Was I hurt? No, I just laughed, and we fell into each other's arms, and, believe it or not, we did grill a little earlier, burgers and a few chicken legs. I didn't have a "headache," which would've been very convincing, given the heat.
SUBSCRIPTIONS -- I am serious about the newsletter. I want people to subscribe but I don't want them to UNsubscribe. Nothing brings me down faster in my relationship with my readers -- complete strangers -- than when they rudely turn away. I used to have a bunch of faithful followers on Facebook. They were all, "Attaboy, we love you," etc., then one by one they fell away. I don't know what changed, although I suspect they were lured away by someone in disguise.
THREE-DAYS -- It's funny I haven't published the newsletter for three days now. Giving me time, as it were, to have regrown my three-day stubble (as everything above this paragraph was written three days ago). Although I didn't, instead remaining clean shaven. The true reason I haven't been around is, I went to the cellar for preserves and, finding none, kept looking.
TODAY AMERICA, TOMORROW THE WORLD! -- Well, friends, I've finally done it, swept across America with my blog. It's been a long time coming, but like everything worth having, it was worth the wait. I remember a few years back when they said it couldn't be done, I took my famous vow of chastity until it happened, and now, thanks to you, it's time to let it go.
OK, I'm back.
And the real amazing thing -- among many amazing things -- about this is, I'm just one local guy. But in America, guess what, that's all it takes. One measly guy, one nobody, one big fat goose-egg zip like me, if truth be told the lowest of the low, not amounting to spit, and worthy, truly, to be ground to powder under the scrawniest weakling's feet, but now look at me. I'm the same guy, but this is America!
I remember hearing how even Abraham Lincoln started out like me. In fact he had it worse in some ways. He had to read by the light of a fireplace, I had a flashlight. He got up everyday and split rails, the worst I had were split ends. He was so dumb a little girl had to tell him to grow a beard. My face has a perpetual stubble no one likes to see, and these days you don't get letters from little girls; he was lucky to be elected, given the scandal. But he did get elected, and now it's my turn.
I've been holding off on the big word till it was complete. If you look at the map above, you can see the dots now cover the entire country, the lower 48. (The results of Alaska aren't in, because it's so vast, and I'm not trying very hard for Hawaii, because there's barely enough room for dots.) Each of those dots means at least one person -- "at least" means they could represent thousands -- is not only reading my blog but perhaps loving it. I'm guessing on that.
Just wait till they get word that there's a newsletter in the works -- with subscriptions about to be available -- and I'll be so popular I'll probably end up with my own podcast. Which will be very awesome, but I'll probably have to hire staff to do it for me. Being a nobody, my voice isn't that great for radio, kind of a scratchy, raspy, croaking noise, plus I've got a cough that very quickly becomes a nasty hacking.
I've kept my American stats quiet, as I said, but I've mentioned my foreign stats a few times. Interestingly enough, the countries I'm most popular in are kind of weird, Russia and the Ukraine. Which makes me nervous, because I have a hard time picturing them identifying with me. To tell the truth, I think they're using my site for some kind of [shenanigans]. I have my suspicions and fear for my life.
Among the other countries, I seem to be the King of France, since that's one of my biggest countries. I hope that's true, because I'd hate to see the French go down the same path as the Russians and the Ukes. France is big for me, and a few years ago I had a hit from Mauritius. Is that what it's called? That was 2010. I don't know what happened but I haven't noticed them since.
Anyway, thank you, world. And a big huge thank you, America. You did me right. I stood by you, now you're standing by me. I said the Pledge of Allegiance all those years ago, and since then I've taken part in other patriotic exercises, namely, listening to the Star Spangled Banner on sports broadcasts. I've heard a few good versions and a bunch of bad ones. That's a pet peeve. What's so damned hard about standing there, arms at your side, and singing a modest, respectful version of the Anthem? All this caterwauling and substituting different notes for the right notes -- I'm a liberal, but I'm aghast...
Speaking of 2010, a few of my long time supporters will remember when my success started, when I won the Gorton Fisherman Award for Writing Excellence for 2010. Something as modest as that got the ball rolling! A few here, then a few there, sat up and took notice. And I kept eating Gorton frozen fish, which is good brain food, and running with every silly idea I could think of to blog about, and as things went along, I started seeing much bigger success. And ever since I've had much bigger fish to fry.
Stand with me! USA! USA! USA! With a shout out to Mauritius, call me. And France. And the other countries, the Ukes, whoever they may be and whatever no good they may be up to, along with the Ruskies, which seems just weird. Stand with me! And you know, with "Bob" Dobbs as my witness, I'll stand by you. Until global warming, climate change, and the rising tides overtake our great land, which, God willing, we'll recognize before it's too late. Even if the jig's up, at least they'll still be able to play the blame game as their last gambit -- "Those damned liberals, why'd they have to send out Al Gore as their messenger; we would've listened to anyone but him, we really would've..." Hollow, folks.
No, I'm not part of that number. I'm part of the good side, the side that says ... at this point, what can you say? We made our bed, now we have to lie in it. That's no lie. That's my biggest fear. Someday all those places that are now covered with dots, my readers, will be uninhabitable, and I'll be back to what I started out as, a guy in the beautiful Midwest, which by then will be overrun with refugees.
