Let's Stamp Out Juvenile Delinquency

I'm plenty old now. How it happened, I guess, is no more than the passage of time. I'm sitting there going "la la la" as a kid and next thing I know, I'm over 70! Lots of times I don't get too excited about anything. Today, though, isn't one of those days. Today, I've actually got my hackles up about something which is generally the environment of much younger people, vandals, morons, anti-social sicknicks, petty thieves, and evildoers. I hear about it and think, No! That's no good! But I try to justify it, saying, It's the environment.

I've never wanted to put the full kibosh on youthful activities. Of course I wouldn't be able to condone or sanction murder, robbery, and every other criminal offense that's on the OUT-THERE side of life. You can still do pranks on your friends, let's say, like dipping into their popcorn when you're at the movies. It's a kind of jovial socially-permissible prank that friends terrorize friends with. Ha, ha, really takes me back, yes, yes, there was this one guy who stole my popcorn at the movies, and it seemed disastrous to me, but, what can you do? Do you want friends or 100% of the popcorn that's legally yours? [Point of advice: You can make popcorn at home for about a dime. Eat at home, THEN go to the movie.]

One thing that is sometimes forgotten by our younger compadres is, You have to be someone a little self-censorious. Which starts, of course, with a baseline of common sense. Then along with that there's the various penalties that the law sets before us readily. The milder penalties, say, a $20 fine, are one thing. The greater penalties, like life in prison suck in an everlasting way, especially if there's truly no way back short of death. It eventually becomes a matter of one's self-interest to sketch out for yourself that certain paths must not be taken! If you need more information on avoiding prison and death penalties, there's an encyclopedia somewhere you could borrow...

OK, I feel for you. And I know that stupid things happen. You just want to get on the right side of life. As merciful as I sound, I'm all for stamping out juvenile delinquency. My feelings have run the gamut, winking at minor offenses, all the way up to an outright rejection of murder and murderers, summed up nicely in an old quote I once gave in an informational speech at school: "Juvenile delinquency ... This old crap's gotta cease!"

And, indeed, that's still my conviction. I remember, truly, thinking about it over the decades. At 20, I agreed. Then 30, 40, 50, 60, and even on my last birthday, No. 70, I was thinking the same thing. Now that I'm old, though, I'd guess I didn't sound as forceful about it. Picture me eating cake at my birthday and chewing with loose dentures, while also offering a few out-of-context jibes at criminals today, with most the guests figuring I was in LA-LA land: "You wanna live to a ripe old age without a rap sheet, don't do nothing wrong! Got that, you little whippersnappers?" I looked around the table at all my 70 and 80-year-old peers, and lifted my Milk of Magnesia as a hardy toast.

Of course! Of course this old crap's gotta cease! Let's do our utmost to be the last generation who has to sit in a nursing home judging the craziness of society outside its doors. "Juvenile delinquency is bad! Down with it!"

Top of The Morning to You!

Just like it's been most of my life, so it is today, feeling a little out of sorts, like maybe I got up on the wrong side of the earth. And if that's overkill and beyond belief, at least think of what it must feel like, that I got up in the wrong hemisphere. Woke up, that's for sure, with a thud, with a cry. I cried out, "Damn! An iceberg just pulled the elastic on my shorts (the back side) and let them snap." It was like an earthquake, the snap snapping at me so hard that I tottered on the brink of an ice floe. And nearly went Man Overboard!

Something like that happened when I was a kid. I was checking rabbit traps and managed to fall through the ice and got myself sopping wet. And since that took place at a creek about a quarter mile from home, I had to run in the cold to try to get home. Didn't mean to put my own terrible memories on display, but I'm the only guy with my terrible memories to recall them. I huffed and I puffed and nearly died in a ditch. But pressed on, thinking, "Better get going before I freeze to death," and since I'm here today recalling it, apparently it worked. From that time on, I stayed away from the cold as much as possible, and left the rabbits to their own devices. If they're not smart enough to get caught closer to home, I'm not even going to bother with them. Leave 'em, let them live out their own stupid lives ... and I'll live out mine. We left on good terms.

Have I ever wished I could go to the arctic regions? There's two poles, of course. The North and the South. I don't want to brag, but I have a sense of direction. I could step out from my house -- right this second without preparation -- and tell you which way's which. The Sun comes up over that way and so forth. And I think maybe we're getting a few close calls with it. Either that or it's just showing off for the the others and will soon be gone. It's a thing, though, of real power. Being 93 million miles away and yet close enough to give you a sunburn!

You've heard of course, there's a whole thing going on now with radical weather. The south is mad at the north, the north with the east, the south with the west, and I'd be remiss to omit the west doing whatever it does. California's that way somewhere, which is a place I've been to two or three times. Probably never again, since I'm stationed here where I live, keeping track of the directions just locally and not doing so from particular places. There's also this to consider, I'm fairly old now, not a spring chicken or tom turkey with a lot to prove. Everything I needed to prove, with so many connections dead and off to heaven, is already proven.

With that, let me wish you a hale and hardy "Top 'o the Mornin' to Ye!" You see an igloo, respect it, someone might be cold and on his way home. You see a seal or otter or even a reindeer, stand back and give them room, every creature is one we want to survive! And rabbits. Environmentally yours! Pick up litter, dispose of it in sanctioned places, respect the environment, etc., etc., always words to live by.

God Bless the Pusher Man

I know we're all "environmental" sympathizers these days; I know that's what I am. My feeling is it's better to take care of what we have, kind of like the truth you follow if you're shooting for 50 years of wedded bliss. You take care of what you've got, first and foremost.

But every case isn't like the last case. In this case, apparently the man has some authority over that piece of land. 1) It could be his own mountain and he's out moving it around for aesthetic reasons; or, 2) He does it for a living and the boss told him to get out there and get it cleaned up. Most of us have had a boss who throws around his weight, guiding we the workers in accomplishing the task before us after his will. For us the employee, it'd be better if we won the lottery and bought all the mountains we wanted to tend to. Which is really just a dream, gone when I wake up.

If it's your own mountain, naturally that's happier than tending to other people's mountains. My assessment is, he's got a skillful eye on the task. He wants things to be as nice as they can be, but he knows it's going to look terrible for a while longer, can't build Rome in a day. So it's time for lunch.

Have we decided which is the most important meal of the day? I've heard good arguments for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But it could be controversial, so I'll leave it to each of us to decide his or her favorite meal and just keep it to ourselves. If we're together for any length of time, I'll figure it out.

I spoke about environmental sympathizers, and said I am one. So I'm going to assume this man has the same wisdom that I have. Anyone who has an argument about it, there's a different mountain about 8000 miles east of here, it's more interesting, for sure, so get going!

The Last Good Guy on Earth?

I'm usually so optimistic, giving good kudos to my friends, family, and neighbors. Which entails thinking highly of them and feeling assured that they're A-OK, nothing wrong, nothing shady, nothing hidden, such as schemes, criminal and/or crooked stuff. I suppose I could push my thoughts out there occasionally, just to make sure that I'm not being overly optimistic.

Because according to what I'm hearing, things aren't that way at all. And I used to be so optimistic that when I'd see wanted posters at the post office for guys who were WANTED, I figured they were just razzing them, like neighbors laughingly making so-called accusations about them just for kicks. Get a rise out of them. Well, I was talking with a friend and he caught a whiff of my innocent thinking and laid it on thick about how apparently rotten ("to the core") the heart of man is, firstly, and how an indwelling "evil" is manifest in things like robbery and killing, taking it all the way down to pilfering packs of chewing gum at the gas station.

I've gone out of my way, too, in waving at everyone, giving everyone a smile, and I've even trusted them farther than I could throw them. Loaning out lawn equipment, for instance. And, yes, sometimes I never got it back, but I always figured they had it at the garage somewhere cleaning it or having the blade sharpened before they returned it. I'm the most honest guy in the world, it seems. I guess that's how I have to see it. Since I have no good way of knowing where everyone is on the scale.

If anyone could PLEASE, PLEASE, PRETTY PLEASE (with sugar on it), could tell me and reassure me that I'm not the last good guy on Earth, I would appreciate that. It might tamp down my recent insights and bring back a lot of it or even a smidgen of my old optimistism. If this is how it is, though, I'll never loan out my lawn mower ever again, assuming I get it back after loaning it out yesterday.

Welcome To Testville

I got a new computer. Full disclosure, I think I'm losing it ... not the new computer, but my mind.

It's kind of an awful thing. Feels like crap, really. Which is at least something of an encouraging word. Encouraging? Why? Because if I'm able to discern that my mentality is in uproar, at least I'm looking at it from a sane perspective, possibly my main consciousness battling this alternative narrative. That's great. Because, as the song says, "Seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are overcast."

Another paragraph and I'll be able to test this TESTVILLE post. What would the town of TESTVILLE be like? Their whole civic thing is to explore, to test the great and the small. No test is bad, although in tests there's lots of pain. But if the test gives you more to suffer from, then you need to try to get your house in order.

Food for thought. Big huge steaming platters of food for thought. The butler sees the crowds waiting for their food. Bibs around their necks. And we'll see how the test ended, probably a burp.

Old Me Doesn't Know How to Make a Blog Post Anymore

Wondering if I just type a paragraph of stuff? Then wondering what happpens next? I don't remember ever having to screw around with this stuff. So on and so on, son.

That would have been the top set of paragraphs. Then this is a longer paragraph, starting with the para and ending with the graph. I'm presently grapling with what I used to do as a GIVEN now sort of a cranky old dishtowel.

And if that ain't not nothing, I'd hate to see something. 'Cause if I saw something, I'd cry, "That ain't not nothing, it is manifestly something! Amen? Amen? Can I get a hale and hardy Amen, or are you all just a bunch of reprobates and maybe even robobates. If you're 'bating with a robot in charge, beware, the business you lose might be a business that doesn't register on the Wall Street Top 5.

So I march along, getting my blog post an ever-expanding nature. I'm not worried about anything, except it is somewhat discouraging. What I used to do like instinct, now I'm given to meticulous wondering. Not an overjoyed fellow, but, hey, who gives a rat's patootie anyway? Except the rat, and we haven't cared what rats think all these years. I'm of course sympathetic to all creatures, but I'd rather rats worried about their own challenges and merely left me alone. But I'm INURRED to that slate of events, which may have gone out of fashion.

And there we are, rallying with our old family back at the old family place, Grandpa as the head of the place. (Keeping it to himself that he himself was once a baby like us. Imagine that, Baby Grandpa, my Grandpa as a baby. They hooked a diaper to his lower quarters and checked it throughout the day. The old people smiling and laughing that he's called Grandpa, when, of course from their perspective THEY'RE the grandpas and he's still an infant. These things are mind-blowing.

Fireworks Fundamentally Evil?

Fireworks have a way of making a mess wherever they go. We used to think they were great. Then, I guess it was the danger and all the warnings I heard from parents and grandparents. Everyone knew someone missing a finger, an eye, a head of hair, and it was all something I took to heart. Joining that of course with the realization that everyone eventually dies, and, if that's true, the events along the way are obviously not guaranteed to be favorable to our desires. When life gives us a given, receive it for what it's worth, with at least a speed bump of realization and wisdom.

Well, we had a few explosives, firecrackers occasionally, but usually sparklers. That's my history. Sparklers of course are not completely safe. Just like everything else, there's a downside. Relatively speaking, they were safe(r). But if you neglected the basic safety of the thing of course you could be in big trouble. My outlook has always been to LOOK OUT!!! The eyes you save could be the ones you're using to read this.

So, anyway, there's your big fun for the holiday, celebrating (in America) our great liberties, blah blah blah, and trying to make sense how fireworks really fit in. It's better to have something to celebrate than not. Celebration of our national place and society's benefits having to do with our heritage, preserving it, etc. If you manage to burn down your town, you probably have less to celebrate. But if you're smart and maintain some degree of temperance -- good virtues -- you'll have a pretty good common sense understanding of what the threats are, (1), and what the payoff is (2), everyone going "Whoopie! I just ignited a firecracker, aren't I a good boy? Yes I am.

Now let me end with my testimony to America and what have you: I, CITIZEN OF THIS LAND, THANK THEE FOR THE BESTOWAL OF LIBERTY, AND SO ON AND SO ON, until the sacred cattle of the fields (even them) crow and moo, "We too have a great place in our country's heritage ... people gotta eat."

Studying The Thing-a-Marod

I'm going to confess right up front here, I'm not 100% sure that I remember what this graphic relates to. I've got a few memory issues stemming from one time getting hurt right in the head region. Ever since then I've been on a strange overload, a condition where it's hard to focus even on a limited number of things. Instead it magically flowers and there's anywhere from 10 to 100 perspectives that, once the attention space is lost on a few perspectives, the others become overwhelming. Where the focus should be is seldom definite. Kind of like saying, "I want a white car, but I need to test-drive all the other cars to make sure white wasn't a mental trick.

The graphic features no one that I know of, at least in the present memory path. I may wake up in the middle of the night convinced, let's say, that she's my mother. Or my dog in a past life. Something entirely different would be the focus then. But what if she were actually someone I glimpsed on the sidewalk one day and my brain is giving me false positives about the potential relationship we might be subliminally toying with. Or maybe she's an old teacher of mine and a scientific study would center on what made her a good teacher, in the event she was. 

Seriously, I'm starting to think the female look of the graphic might be related to me, although I generally answer to male. Naturally, that could immediately make us think of things that are all mixed up. This one might be beyond me. Is that what the tongue looks like when it's seen in its entirety? It looks like a surfboard, and maybe there's some big waves today, and we'll ride it like wild horses, in this case a definite filly. Or whatever a male horse is called -- a stud -- with makeup. I'm big on gender identifications being the particular person's judgment, not so much based on equipment but what comes out of the mentality. In this case, with the graphic, it's "Ride the wild surf!" Or it's similar to the diving board by the pool. She's got a thought, the words form on the edge of the diving board, and jump in unison with the body into the wild surf, or sedate pool of water (water pooled in one place.) 

Is there any value in it? I believe so. I think it'd be cool to get together with a few other explorers, you know, and bat it back and forth what we think. Say we have 10 members in the discussion, and we're charting our course, not so much to come to conclusions, but it keep the discussion focused on the theories that are thought up in a brain storm, with lots of affirmation. Each member has a different theory, and we can't declare the next guy wrong. "I'm not saying you're right, but I'm also not saying you're wrong." 

The scientific study goes on. Perhaps I'll dream of it. Perhaps in my dreams I'll know how she (or he) fits in the scheme of things, who's right, who's wrong, blah blah blah. Each member of the discussion has something valuable to say. And if they say nothing, it could be because there's about to be the one with the most valuable thing to say. In this case, what could it be? "There's a thing-a-marod, and what it is isn't exactly clear. And what's going to become of it? Museum or city dump, albeit city dumps aren't anything like they used to be. We used to shoot rats in the city dump and of course there were lots of interesting things to discover once the rats were gone. The stuff they stashed away.

I'm Overwrought!

It's like I've been locked out of the opportunities that I've always taken for granted. Point A leads to Point B, then Point C; I do nothing but the elementary things that have always worked. Then suddenly, WHAM! Then the results, when results are manifested, are but balls of confusion. You could put your finger horizontally on your lips and blast out a noise and stretch it by wiggling your finger up and down and make more sense. Rationality, are you my old friend from back in the day? Or have you been hijacked and are now at the mercy of unsympathetic hijackers, about to plow your way into an edifice, perhaps a rural silo, meaning to rub it in: This terrible fate laughs, even chortles, then says in that old perfectly structured robotic voice, "No success for you!"

Well, I'm not giving up, you evil heinous polluted spirit of imposed failure, let it be YOU that fail, and upon that realization find your own deadend to your aims. Already I'm thinking the last laugh shall be mine! Usually when I have this sweat-out with seemingly insurmontable odds, I keep thinking, try, try again. It's in there, my normal sense of confidence even when the results start out so poorly. Whether it's riding my bike to the post office and get a stifling headwind, or I'm on assignment from the FBI trying to nab and take in the top 100 Convicts of History, I know the task is big, but not so big it can't be done. Have you noticed we don't hear much from Jesse James anymore?

Anyway, that's both the problem and the solution in the challenges I've been facing. What needs to be done can be done. The bigger they are, the easier they fall. My problems gang up on me, my inner self rebels, albeit temporarily, but in the end the little minions, the rebellious spirits in my mind and outlook, are surmounted, and either granted leniency for minor offenses or are strapped in electric chairs and jolted either into hell eternally or easily forgiven with a slap on the wrist. Forgiveness keeps the electric bill down.

I'm not a bad master of one's self, as is probably clear to you by now. Have you doubted me? Thank you for that hale and hardy "No sir!" It's gracious people like you, whether pushovers or not, that are the true heroes. We depend on you, don't let us down.

I Got Stung

I forgot what all the lyrics are for "I Got Stung," to me one of the greatest songs that Elvis recorded. Which is a weird state of being for anyone who sings the snippets of the song and can't quite get the lyrics right. I know, I could google it and memorize it, but I'm old. I'll reserve the rest of this paragraph for any future excuses I might thing of.

Anyway, I have a manic style in mind when I'm even humming this song. It's flagrant, the style I'm thinking, flagrantly improvising the lyrics, which for me, when forgetful, is to stock it up with sexual imagery, with thoroughly priapic apparatus and conduct in mind. If the real Elvis appeared in my room, I'm sure he'd enjoy the craziness of it all. But then he'd start singing and completely owning the song, leaving me for royalties a piece of chocolate out of my own pantry. Or, who knows, maybe he'd take me a few suburbs over and get me a new Cadillac! Anything from bright red to something less fun.

I can't go on, because I almost launched into a whole cussing thing, which would probably mean I'd be locked out of the system, a stinging rebuke from whoever owns Blogger, which I believe is Google. Great guys, but with trillions of blogs being their pride, I don't want them looking askance at me, not even for a minute.

I got stung by a cute honeybee.

Floundering with a computer about half here

Yes, when it comes to verbs describing me and my activities, there's not one as close to perfection, vis-a-vis ME, as "floundering."

I'd like to tell the whole story, but I think it only comes to me in bits and pieces, here and there. Memory lapses, memory faults, did I already mention that?

Anyway ... Speaking of "anyway," go watch a few YouTube videos of Don Rickles and count how many times Don says "anyway." Virtually continuously. After a joke, "Anyway...." 

What's one of the weirdest things about my computer? It was unused for maybe a year. When I went and opened it, there was something I wasn't expecting. Big black dots on the screen. Like it was ON with some intensity and burnt through the screen. Except no computer of mine has been plugged in for a year and had the capability of burning through the screen. Where would it get the power? Yet it's true, those big screen hogging black dots are part of the problem!

This might help me. How did I get memory loss? Two ways, 1) Old age, 2) Hit my head on a rock, I'll withhold the details.

Friends, I'm Half Whack

 I've spent the last hour or so trying to sign in. But it's been a mishmash of floundering and failing. Finally, now I'm here writing something

The big deal will be when I log out and try to do it again. The mishmash is still in sight.

This is A TEST. Not an actual blog post.

From My Internet Bunker

Haven't got time for a fancy graphic to accompany this post. Screw it, I'm desperate. Listen to me. They're doing a real number on the internet, OK? Understand at least what I'm hinting at? They're coming to take me away, my blog, my hopes and dreams, and I don't know precisely how it's all going to turn out. Although I have at least a clue. It's similar to a bug hitting the windshield, it's unceremoniously wiped out, with its final word (not being consciously thought out but more of the onomatopeia-ick variety) "SPLAT!"

Let me introduce myself. No, wait, we haven't got time for that. I'm a victim, and you know what, I heard that victimhood was pleasant, something of the perfect egoic sort that it sees you through life with great meaning. I'm here to tell you, no, that's crap. This feels like crap. Like G--- and the Major Powers have taken over, putting us "little guys" out to pasture, which is not pleasant because it not only feels like crap, because in the pasture, it's actual crap you're subjected to. Chart your steps carefully!

I've already said enough, I know, and The Bastards That Be Will Be out to get me very soon. You know how the garbage guys come by the house and pick up your two bags full? They carefully tuck the bags in the truck. Well, this is different. The big guys crushing the little guy will not be so careful. They know we're behind the eight ball when it comes to torture. A dead Hefty bag has no feelings, at least none that we've been able to measure with various sensors. But a living body has those nasty nerve ends that provokes a hideous response to pain. The Powers That Be are screwing us alive, and it isn't pleasant!

Where was I? Need to look back and see if I can recapture the thread of the argument. (Nodding my head as I read.) OK, I think I see it. They're screwing around with our blogs. Including my old blog, which I just recently thought about reviving. It turns out it was just in time for new rules, new policies, and so forth, and none of it is fun!

So I know there's big CRAP coming down the line. Somehow the major search engines -- is there more than one? -- are acting within their own headquarters, and presumably are in league with any others that likely exist. With the brief conclusion being, little fish like me and littler fish like you are screwed, yes, up one side and down the other, with the center orifices -- one major one come to mind -- being about to be hideously packed with the length, breadth, and the whole solid girth of these sadistic monsters and their overgrown ilk even now standing at attention.

Are we gonna take it? What choice do we have? My recommendation is not to be taken literally. It's make yourself new underpants with 2" by 4" lumber, because these guys are not just naughty, but haughty, You'll see! Hang in there, Grandma!

DB Kundalini Is Back, Baby

What you mean, Baby's all grown up? The Baby's my blog, and finding out it's "all grown up" apparently means it's had to be "grown up" when I was apparently neglecting it.

Thank you dbkundalini fans, I'll try not to wander far away from my calling here. But the way it happens, you think "I'm going to take a few days off," then you take a few more days off, then a few more, till it's been years. And every good habit you had in the past, such as daily updating, filling in the important information that my readers need, etc., is replaced by the bad habits of neglecting the basic mission. I understand, at least I can pick out the likely threads of truth, but going that far doesn't mean I'm free and clear, innocent. I spent a full three hours today literally kicking my own ass. With the unexpected result that my foot and leg hurt more than my ass. It's either an ass of steel or something to do with the foot and leg. Which I'm thinking has to be this, No one spends an hour or more literally kicking his own ass. That takes more of a toll on the leg and foot than it does the ass! An interesting discovery...

Anyway, I'll let it go at that. Put some ice on my leg and foot, etc., everything will turn out all right. 

Join me, if you will -- your religion doesn't matter -- in a group singing of Kum By Yah. 

Sniffles, Gluttony, Virus

Virus

Part 30 of 30

It’s never part of my self-image to think of myself as a born loser. But what a month! The virus came in like a roaring lion and went out a defeated foe, and it really wasn’t that hard. Our political leaders led the way from victory to victory. They had what we haven’t seen in a while, good old fashioned selflessness, taking no account of themselves or future, but acted with just selfless giving, single-minded direction toward the common good. It’s been a blessing to behold, such a spirit radiating out from those at the top and continuing as an inspiration for everyone, from the cabinet, our representatives, all the way down to the lonely bum on 8th street. (I should take him a tract and convert him.)

I have to say, though, I'm busting with a great pride I feel for everyone -- what a country! What a world! -- but I do feel a little shame, a lot of shame and even existential revulsion that there was a time I was in a constant stir, a panic.There were times when I had my doubts, and not just split seconds of it. I was in constant mortification and desperation, oozing sweat, gallons of sweat. “What’s going to become of me? Am I lost? Is this my last hurrah? Will I die early in the month, only to have my rotted carcass blocking the door when the undertaker comes? They’ll have to push through, moving my body slowly toward the wall, blood and other bodily liquids making a mess of the living room and further shrinking the low property value the place already has. People will pass by crossing themselves, 'That’s where they found that bloated guy.'"

I should say in my defense, I am a lonely old man, single, all by myself with my fears. My imagination always gets the worst of me, and my paranoia is so crazy, running rampant to the point that with the slightest noise at the door I know I’m done for. But being old should be a reminder to me that, “What am I living for?” Am I living just to live another terrible day? No, that can't be right! Instead it's to be bold, to have the kind of mindset that I can do it, whatever it is. If others can live, breathe and prosper, why not me?

Just let me rank the enemies I’ve faced all month -- and thank God the virus is gone after today and I can get back to normal. The enemies included the sniffles. Right away when there was a toilet paper shortage at the beginning I convinced myself -- my paranoia -- that I was sure to get a runny nose. And just like clockwork, there it was. The sniffles were so bad, the sniffle molecules multiplied faster than usual, making it a torrent. I was trying to conserve toilet paper so I was using my sleeve, which tainted things even worse. I had to dig into my stash of toilet paper and took out just three or four squares. But those were quickly overwhelmed. Not being able to staunch my tears, I was completely overcome. Excuse me for saying this -- I’m usually a holy person -- but “Gosh darn them sniffles!”

Then there was gluttony, the deep seated feeling in me that I should eat more than my fill. We couldn’t get toilet paper, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have plenty of food. Canned goods, which never goes bad, except maybe after a hundred years. Every time I had the slightest pain, even my typical sore knees, I thought the remedy was another can. So I ate my fill. And with the eating only felt greater hunger, meaning I was up to my neck in empty cans. At night, after all the viral ghouls of the Big City passed by, I threw the bags of cans in the road.

Then last I faced the greatest enemy of all, the Virus itself. I made the mistake of not taking the discarded cans farther from home. Meaning the ghouls became three times as bad, craving the off scouring and even putting 2 and 2 together that the cans came from my house, so they were banging on the windows. Virus to the left, also to the right, and trying to pry into the basement and on the roof. I could do nothing but shout, “Virus! Virus!” The universal cry of taint drove them on to the next house.

In short, it was a terrible month.

The Virus Is An Imp

Virus

Part 29 of 30

I’ve always been one attracted to those who know what they’re doing, knowing the ins and outs of life and are certain beyond belief, and even expand belief until it's certainty for all. Naturally, I’m talking about religion, where it’s sketched out “In the beginning” blah blah blah all the way to what is revealed at the very tip top pinnacle of the end. Everything's resolved...

The weird thing, actually, is that we know all the stuff from the beginning to the end, but we still maintain, at least fictionally, a little doubt as to how it affects our day to day lives. When, as common sense tells us, if you already have the beginning and the end, all drama should then be gone from the interim bits. If I had anything to do with it, anytime someone came to me with a problem, we’d review the opening, then the end, and the person would be immediately convinced that the interim’s OK.

But as it turns out it’s not always like that. My own suspicion is it can’t be that simple because everyone has to make a living. And what better way to make a living, perpetually, than by allowing doubts to grow up and thrive, and finally see worry ester and spill out everywhere, bearing bitter fruit. So that people are like dry plants in the desert when they should be sprouting and budding, alive with moisture and certain faith and knowledge.

It’s a self-perpetuating machine -- and there’s always room for someone else to jump on -- whereby we could, if only we wanted (and it’s easy to get crowded out if you pose the slightest threat), settle everything once for all in just a few seconds. I tend to see all sides of everything, then choose my answer and keep it to myself. Because I don’t like the threats of entrenched interests, never have, probably never will.

We always think religion is “so good,” that virtue is the default behavior. Big mistake. Every time you hear some guy in the public square calling the whole thing into question, then proposing a simpler understanding, notice how he or she’s always gone the next day. Our quick assumption is that they have such a grand message that they’re wanted in other towns, with a big demand. No, these spiritual vampires against the truth are up late at night, hustling people on to their reward, whether by drowning, stabbing, overloading them with poisons, basically everything except “God bless you.”

But thank goodness there’s still a few who not only understand it but put forth the true doctrine for people’s good, like this one guy I know whose prayers are immediately effective. His teaching is that believing your apparent symptoms is always wrong, positing as he does a never-ending series of “imps,” whom we might think of as devils or germs, but germs with a consciousness. Of course all germs have to eat, but do they have to be gluttons? No they don’t. And when they are, that’s when they need to be confronted and cast out.

His quick prayers are the prayers of power, big enough to end the virus in a heartbeat. Were it not for the others, those whose interests are behind the persistence of evil! They’d milk it forever, whereas my guy, he puts an end to suffering. People arise immediately from their so-called "bed of affliction" and march forward in newness of life. So won't you plan on it? To meet me in a dark alley near here, and bring your best offering, and I’ll turn you on as to this guy's whereabouts. Satisfaction guaranteed or a small portion of your offering will be donated to your favorite charity.

The Best Urn For Me

Virus

Part 28 of 30

We’re getting near the end of this dreadful series and I just want to dedicate it to the sweetest lady that ever lived, my dear Mother. When it came to ladies, I mean forget about it. She knew all the ins and outs of life and taught me the facts of life. Not just the reproductive stuff -- which has been done to death, Amen? -- but the real lowdown, the real scoop, everything from how to cut the legs out from under the other guy to how to hide the evidence.

You really gotta love her, the mind she had, able to see the details of every scheme without missing a beat. It's with fondness I remember coming home from school one day and she was on me like a ton of bricks. The teacher caught me copying another kid’s paper and I ended up with a big fat red F for my efforts. Mom was pissed, totally P-offed, and put me in one of those baby chairs where you’re trapped in the middle and encircled by a plastic tray four foot in diameter. Strangely, though, all she did was withheld my dessert, and in its place impressed me with stern eye-to-eye instruction and wisdom. “I have told you and told you, a million times, ‘The getaway is the number one priority, not the loot!”

And that’s a piece of wisdom that was attained at a high cost, missing my desert that night, so I’ve never forgotten. To help my memory, I wrote it on a 3 x 5 card and memorized it, and even swallowed it in case I forget what it said. A cough, a quick paper towel run over it and it’s good as new: “The getaway is the number one---” and so forth.)

So say I’m getting ready to scheme out a plan, you know, a job, perhaps a swindle, I think about the getaway. Some of the easiest marks in life are guys who think they know it all. Which I love. Pawn shop dealers come to mind. These guys are so cocksure that they know it all, they’re the easiest mark. They make a huge mistake with their feeling of certainty. Naturally I don’t know what their mothers taught them, and how often they’ve swallowed that advice, but it obviously wasn’t the same as mine. They’re probably thinking of the points along the way in scheming -- which generally works -- and not the getaway. I got in, already picturing my getaway and they didn’t know what hit them. I’d love to see what they upchucked. It was probably their mom saying, “The getaway is…” then there’s a gap, where she must have been on the phone and forgot her train of thought, now with the meat-of-the-goody of her advice missing.

Anyway, Mom was great and still lives in me, her richest advice as close as a cough. And I’ll never forget one of her greatest jobs -- she saw the future -- when she swindled a funeral home out of a bunch of urns, our family being quite large. We used the biggest urn for her, then since her getaway was a priority we took out her ashes and scattered them to the four winds. Whoever in the family’s responsible for my ashes, someday, whichever urn's the best, that’s what I’ll have. This might even be coming up, say the Virus gets me.

Self-Quarantining With "Men"

Virus

Part 27 of 30

The warnings have been pretty clear, the more we self-quarantine the safer we’ll be. To be alone is safer in the sense of the germs others have not getting on you. That much is common sense. But it’s still up to each of us -- having the virus as a common enemy -- to take care of ourselves while we have a fighting chance.

Of course families have to stick together. Having a family gives the benefit of being able to look after each another, a kind of holding each other to account. I heard it many times growing up, "The family has to stick together." Or as the soldiers used to say, "We need to hang together lest we hang apart." I always heard that, and that's actually one of the biggest reasons I never "served," I didn't want to hang apart. On the battlefield that'd be a lonely death until they came across your carcass one day -- three weeks dead -- hanging apart, and after three whole weeks, very much alone.

In other words, this is serious business. And that’s the way it must be dealt with, 1-2-3, stepping through it, having a certain discipline and sense of perception about the threat. It's no time for half measures or treating such serious business with anything but a serious response. Speaking for those around me, we've taken the serious path, huddling together, watchful for additional threats but for the most part optimistic that we'll make it through. You'd be proud of me. Four months into the pandemic, I got my first face-mask yesterday!

And we've had fun, actually, sheltering in place. I can well imagine such togetherness will have its additional rewards. As, say, nine months from now when the virus has passed and new people will be raised up to replace the old. (None of them will be mine. I knew it'd be tempting so I dipped my undies in wet cement, the fast-setting kind.) But for the others, this is the way of life, holding great promise for tomorrow and -- who knows? -- maybe facing a different virus on a different day. Because if you get one, there could just as easily be another million coming. God forbid, I know.

But not all of us are surrounded by people, friends or family, but instead are alone, the minutes passing slowly as they rouse into defensive posture every time they hear someone passing. "Are the hordes here to steal what’s mine, my toilet paper, my canned soup, or worse, my paper towels? Will they take my life? They may as well. Without my stuff what would I be? Withering on the vine until the grim reaper makes it official, 'He’s dead.'"

Anyway, I meant to say, all this breeding is happening where those equipped to do it are doing it. Meaning we’re just 7 or 8 months away from the dawning of the Q Generation, the Quarantiners in their youth. Their generation marked by the forever compulsion of stocking and restocking, "We never have enough! Take care of yourself with the uttermost caution. Plan way in advance. Anything can happen!"

For those who are about to pass on -- never to see the glorious days of nine months from now, let alone the adulthood of that future generation -- pass me that old copy of “Men.” Even if I'll never be a father, I can dream.

I'd Leave If I Could

Virus

Part 26 of 30

A few years ago I had a life like this, traveling the country, camping, and roughing it. I thought that was the way to go, but, like always, my paranoia got the best of me and I decided to transition out of the more hectic lifestyle into the more sedate life of The Big City.

Of course Grandma’s place was out of the question, as it had been a house in shambles, completely rife with mold, other bacteria, smelly stuff, and rot. Then the City condemned the it and helped me (they insisted on it while still charging me) tear the place down and haul it to the landfill. And believe me, it was tough watching bulldozers cover the last of the place under the soil. The only revenge of the house against them was when one workman was scratched by a rusty nail and ended up losing a toe. You take small victories wherever you find them.

Between the landfill, then, and the Big City, there was that camping/roughing it period. And I should have stuck with it. Because if there’s the slightest trouble -- and say everything else is OK with your truck, camper, health insurance, issues getting your mail, knowing how to file taxes, etc. -- you can always pull up stakes and go somewhere else. In short, any little thing can go wrong and you’re stuck. Stuck? You’re screwed. I don’t know how people do it long-term, although I’ve seen a few who have; they’re just not worrywarts like me. O! if I could do it again, but the money’s all gone...

So now the Big City has to be the focus when it comes to dealing with the virus. We’re crammed in by the millions. I see people walk by my place everyday, people I’ve never seen before. And do they all look healthy? Not by a long shot. It’s painful that there’s so much traffic. At Grandma’s old place, way back when, it was at the edge of town there weren't 20 people walking by in a month. There’s 20 or more an hour in the Big City. But where they’re going? I don’t know. I keep thinking I should follow them and find out. But I’m afraid they’d notice and I’d end up with house guests, which would be certain death.

When I was scrounging for aluminum cans a couple years ago I met a guy and talked to him. He invited me on his porch to visit and get some cans and so I did. Then he told me, with trepidation, never step on his property unless he was there and invited me. Because his son is totally crazy and would kill me just-like-that. I still drive by that guy’s house and wonder about his son. Is he watching, is he waiting? Big deal, his loss! The chances that I’d stop there now even if the dad WERE home are zero. I don’t know what the son looks like, but he about has to be huge and ugly.

OK then, here I sit, with all the dangers of the Big City and nowhere to go. Say the virus breaks out in full force: I’m dead. But say it doesn’t, say we become the safest place in the world. Then everyone will want to live here, including those with the faintest taint, and then -- because of our great success -- the virus will return and we'll end up dead.

Make Hulk Great Again

 

Virus

Part 25 of 30

It looks like there’s a lot of work to be done, if we’re up to the challenge. The world’s in a sorry state, it’s gone downhill with a vengeance. Whether by neglect or incompetence or too many bean eaters and not enough bean counters, everything’s gone to hell. I look out the window and of course it looks fine, the same old same old, as usual. But then there’s all those places where I don't happen to be, and unfortunately, due to worldwide communications, I’m able to hear how things are going, which lately has been uniformly terrible.

Certainly we’re having trouble getting people honest enough and hardworking enough to take the reins of leadership and commit themselves to doing a halfway decent job. A lot of halfwits and dumb-asses looking to enjoy the trappings of power, and of course after everything they can grab, instead of acting responsibly to do a good job with any decent ideals in mind. The way to look at it is that the world needs stewardship, good spirits doing a good job for the common good, at least a helping hand, but what we see instead is "Every halfwit for himself!", with the new standard being you’re entitled to everything you can steal and finagle for yourself. If you see it differently, of course you're one of the plunderers, or -- let's say you're not one of the plunderers (fat chance) -- you're at least tempted to put a crowbar through the hardware store window and steal something.

Yeah -- dammit -- it’s really too bad I'm not seeing the kind of pitch-in and help ideals I remember when I was a kid. Say the river overflowed and flooded the baseball field, every kid in town was down there carrying buckets of water back to the river. Then fan-drying the baseball field. Those were the days when you joined the scouts and you got a lot of merit badges. They worked us to death but we loved it. And along the way learned to tie our shoes, recite most of the numbers between 1 and 50, and could build a fire rubbing two sticks or burn ourselves trying. We learned the difference between different fish. And we could pitch a tent. Unfortunately there were a few prima donnas who could also pitch a fit if they were denied a single thing. But the good old days were good. We had a virus back then, we squished it in the dirt.

These days, the virus has some friends in high places, of course the usual crooked ones lining their own pockets from the common purse, all under the cover of being responsible, ha! Yeah, that’s how it is, but they’re not fooling me. I’m just not in much of a position for putting the clamps on 'em. I’d certainly insist on a fair trial, but then once found guilty, you know how it’d go: I'd insist on perfect justice, reparations, and prevention measures for the future. Make an example of the rapscallions and do away with their sort now and forever. And live happily ever after, dealing in the future with viruses (if any) according to wisdom and the common good, all hands on deck, with the usual cast of slimeballs sidelined once and for all.