My Heavenly Visions

 Virus

Part 7 of 30

I do a lot of meditation. And I’ve had vivid images of heavenly glory, most of them involving gigantic tables of great food, spread out as far as the eye can see: big roasts, salads with lettuce that doesn't wilt, and of course spaghetti, the most delicious cheap thing you can make. Mostly I see things from when I was a kid, when I was learning about life: Wars, plagues, cleaning fish, Grandpa clearing his throat, Grandma talking flea market dealers down on canes, and of course vivid dreams of Heaven.

The last one, I’d love to have dreams like that now that I’m old, but it just never happens. One of the reasons, probably, and I’ve mentioned it before, is that like Jimi Hendrix I might have a vision and slip into the alpha jerk state and slip into the hole and die before my time. Although, whereas he no doubt had future classic albums that were never made, what have I got? Nothing, just this blog, which, while it’s extremely influential on all seven continents, I'm “just not fed” by the constant acclaim. My time is near.

Still, if I could recapture the glory of my youth, these dreams of Heaven, I think I’d appreciate them now even more. Back then, they were so vivid -- I saw the whole judgment! -- I’d wake up with cold sweats and my mom thought I was peeing the bed. I told her no, I wasn’t, and tried to blame the sweats on God, but, you know moms, the supernatural always escapes them.

The graphic today portrays something of Heaven without quite showing it in its fullest accurate detail. I do concur with the graphic on one point -- and this is a major truth -- there are no broom closets in Heaven. You don't see a single one. So nowhere to hide. The rest, except for nonessential details is basically true. And who’s this I see? Pa! The old man, his cancer a thing of the past, with even his bald head covered with the light brown hair. That’s so good to know, illustrating what is clearly portrayed, Justice, sweet Justice, among the other golden trappings of the grand hallways.

It’s a great vision to have in these days of the virus. That filthy thing, that devilish virus, seen under the microscope in its full hideousness, a lot of jagged edges and tiny little infecting handles, has no place in this grand vision. The fear that people have -- including me, naturally, in my weaker moments, almost 24/7 -- will not be sustained in that vision's fulfillment. The way it brings people low and just outright kills them around the world cannot stand in the grand vision. I see the numbers. And more importantly I can picture in my mind the terror -- again, 24/7 -- and know that it’s no good. Like the cancer that took down Dad. And whatever it was that took down Grandma and Grandpa, heart troubles and miscellaneous, respectively, these filthy devils shall not stand.

Please be encouraged, the comfort and best wishes are real. But if reincarnation turns out to be the afterlife, buckle down next time and set a few goals for the next go-around. Buy paper towels early, toilet paper, cheese, whatever.

Skunk Security For Break-Ins

The Big City

Part 23 of 28

It’s official! According to Skunk Security, I’m averaging a higher than average break-in rate at my place in The Big City. Which is a mixed blessing when you think about it. One, I'd rather not have any break-ins, but, Two, At least I’m getting my money’s worth … and more.

But it's kind of weird because some of the other houses in the neighborhood don't get this kind of traffic and most of them don’t even have a security system. You'd think they’d be hit harder, but I can't complain, I'm getting great service with Skunk; they’re always here within the hour, and the police generally show up at some point.

I was at a movie the first time and it was a big shock to get the message that my alarm had gone off. Just what I feared! As soon as you put a security sign in your yard it’s the same as saying you have something worth stealing. Most of the neighbors don’t spring for a security system and they’re doing all right. About the worst thing I heard of was a few grudge break-ins, people who know the neighbors and have something against them. There’s a family up the street whose daughter was dating the guy who shot up the liquor store a few months ago. He’s been in the area and shot up their mailbox.

But back to me: You don’t forget the first time you’re broken into, no matter if they took something or not. The first time they got an old VCR and a video camera I had since the ‘80s.The second break-in I was actually at home but in the basement. The security system didn’t go off since I was home. I went upstairs and didn’t see anyone. I flagged down a neighbor and he helped me search the house. I hoped the perp was already gone, but there he was, like vermin, in my closet! He got up, creeping toward the living room, not wanting to make a big deal about it. Then he made a dive through the window and ran up the road. I gave chase but couldn’t keep up.

Some of the other break-ins were probably by friends of his, even though you'd think he would've told them I ain't got crap worth stealing. A lot of sentimental stuff, Grandma’s picture, some things from Grandpa, a Univac computer from the ‘50s that’s not good for anything but I'm still hoping to power it up if I can find the right nuclear power plugs. Then, more sentimental and irreplaceable, I have Grandpa's toupee, which still has the original masking tape on the underside. Otherwise it's in terrible shape. My dog was shaking it one day, but as long as there’s even one hair left, the damned thing stays! And thank God the cops came back with it, dangling it on a stick like they were afraid to touch it. The bullet holes bore mute testimony of their confusion.

And, I can’t even remember the other break-ins. The alarm took care of them, I vacated the premises, with the worst part being I came this close to tripping over a white ‘possum scurrying up the neighbor’s drive-way! About scared me to death, truly. I’d like to sic it on the thieves; they’d never come back. Trade in my Skunk for a Possum, that’d show ‘em.

Big City, Twilight State

The Big City

Part 18 of 28

Let’s establish a hypothetical situation. You’ve read this far enduring my many pleas for caution; I’m on my knees, listen to me now. Be cautious not to make the same mistakes I made and move to the Big City. My situation was very specific, I didn’t do anything rashly. The city fathers of my little town wanted me out. They led me to the city limits by gunpoint. They were vigilant, blocking every path back. Grandma’s house went down the drain after a few years of bad income and brutal weather. She herself was deceased, old and dead, her eyes wouldn’t open, her heart was shot. It barely worked when she was alive, imagine the rot after her passing...

Yes, it’s true -- setting aside her carcass -- weather can really take a toll on a house. You start thinking, How can I ever overcome these terrible conditions and feel better? What can I do to change my pathetic circumstances? A guy could, of course, learn building skills. Which is hard and not as foolproof as they think. Or I could've changed my outlook on things, mind over matter. No matter how things rot away to nothing, it doesn't have to affect you quite as much. My path was to train my mind to go into what is called The Twilight State. Crossing your eyes, locking your arms at the chest, nodding quickly, and briefly holding your breath. Goodbye cruel world, hello Twilight State!

However -- and this is important, the basic key to failure -- not everyone takes to alt consciousness quite as easily. And the techniques, like most secret techniques, come with strict rules about sharing them. That's an ironclad thing a guy vows to uphold. I took that vow. But, you know, what the hell… They didn't give me a choice, so to hell with them.

I will say, though, that everything here is “For Entertainment Purposes Only,” and any materializing and de-materializing that may happen around or to you is at your own risk. If you become a vapor and evaporate before your time, I cannot be held responsible. This is precisely the point where a friend of mine, Maha Raymond, gave up the ghost in the Himalayas and became an immortal. To give you some idea of such an achievement, it’s like winning a third place ribbon when showing cattle. It’s huge.

And with that, with only two more days of semi-strenuous practice -- grunting is encouraged -- you may encounter the deadliest, most dangerous passages. If that happens, the directions are essentially, “Feel your way.” Anyone incapable of feeling their way is immediately terminated, which is always hard for loved ones. The few who manage to feel their way -- and I saw a family of 12 halfwits make it so don’t tell me it can’t be done -- are deemed immortal with all the advantages pertaining thereunto, including gold merit badges up the yin yang and a ceremonial kiss from the only blonde in them thar hills.

But remember this truth: Mountains aren’t just there, they grow incrementally through extremely slow tectonic movement. Similarly, we advance quickly to the heights, by leaps and bounds, so be patient, stick with it because it’s definitely worth it. Breathe in, breathe out, let it happen. And there you have it, the Twilight State is now yours, and now you can spend the rest of your life mastering it.

For mastery, your purpose must be righteous. Your purpose cannot be to enter the Twilight State willy-nilly or for trivial purposes. If it’s not something righteous and something massive -- a purpose for the ages -- then most of your hopes, however sincere, will be for naught. You seriously need a righteous purpose. One such purpose, completely good, is merely because you moved to the Big City and need something more to help you cope. You’ve heard of the devil? The devil is a metaphor for Big City life, so it takes something bigger and bigger yet to transcend such an obstacle. Try your damnedest, on your word of honor, and see how it goes.

Dear Grandma Therapy Letter

 

The Big City

Part 7 of 28

The same thing happened to me that's happenedd to small town immigrants to the Big City through the ages. I got down in a funk, and had to go to one of the raging hyenas who sit in their ivory palace mental clinics just waiting for easy prey, a quick buck, from supposedly "counseling" us, tamping down our desires toward a popular uprising because we’re so desperate for the old ways.

And, yes, my eyes were closed to the situation, that’s how desperate I was. Then, like sheep to the slaughter -- They still slaughter sheep, right? I haven’t had a sheep and biscuit breakfast in 30 years -- the guy had me with the teary-eyed Big City therapy exercise of “writing home.” In dark moments of life like that I don’t fight back as I should. I wish I would’ve seen through it immediately and literally gone "full terrorist" on that guy’s office, which you can do and get away with it. Counselors love bragging to other counselors about clients who completely erupt and destroy their office. The main problem is that there’s very little you can do to piss off a counselor, so they win.

Anyway, the dude roped me into the simplest, stupidest technique -- what am I paying the guy for when I had to write my own letter -- the Dear Grandma letter they make you write. Since she was the main authority figure in my upbringing. And who could win me over, back to sanity, any more than Grandma? See what the Big City does? I sort of support the idea of writing to Grandma, but the idea that these worms forced me still rankles.

“Just pour out your heart and spirit,” the counselor went on, his straining weasel voice giving me the creeps, like someone or something that just slithered out of Eden, a snake from central casting if I ever met one. Yet with all that, the wool was still pulled over my eyes somewhat. It was a battle royale, really, as I saw the truth that I should reject The Big City, but I also knew that under the circumstances, Grandma’s house being moldy, pulled down and hauled to the dump, I had very little choice. “Go along to get along.” So I did my best, putting the letter in my own words, not copying out of a book:

"Dear Grandma, This is your old sonny boy here, hoping you haven’t forgotten me during your stay in the heavenly palaces. You probably haven’t. You may know more about me than I know about myself, from your perch above, so I’ll tell the truth. The counselor has narrowed down most of my trauma to the loss of our house. Remember, it was already very old. And the construction seemed to be a jumble. Starting like a small shed, then being built on over the years, whenever the mood struck our ancestors. It was always a patchwork. Weird cracks between pieces, and the wind would blow and separate everything even if just slightly. Those places where the roof didn’t join perfectly then took on water. Drizzle was no big deal to the better houses, but in your house it was Public Enemy No. 1. Then you and Grandpa gave up the ghost, leaving me as the caretaker/resident. On a limited income and with no knowledge of maintenance beyond patching the obvious. Which over time can be hard to catch up on. Well, eventually, the city came by and shut the place down, and came in with a court decree that I vacate, and finally carted it off to the dump wall by wall, everything from the floor to the roof, in that order.” My last tender words over the rubble were, 'It was nice while it lasted.' Which was a tribute to you and Gramps. Who probably could've done a better job maintaining the place when it was new."

Don't Let Grandma Down

Part 21 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

It’s unfortunate that we haven’t found a way to bring more people onboard without succumbing to the ways of the flesh. Cloning has limited value because of the randomness of the families they draw. So there's still a ways to go. Seeming to reinforce the old adage, “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, six of damned one, half a dozen of damned other.” We're stymied, because we want friends and family and they have to come from somewhere. Yet we know there’s death in them thar drawers, and it'd be great to be principled and consistent in our convictions.

The fact is very few of us are as good as we want to be. Even a sweetheart like Grandma and every traditional grandma I’ve ever heard of. There’s a whole new breed of grandmas, consisting of younger ladies. I question their legitimacy. But getting back to our traditional grandmas, I believe they came by their children as a necessity, mostly to repopulate the farms when the other farm hands were away at war.

So there’s some circumstances where sex has a positive side, very rarely. If your goal is something righteous -- repopulating the farm -- it appears to put aside some of the pain and guilt, the death in them thar drawers. But there's always a terrible nagging sense that you’ve let someone down. Which was clearly painful for Grandma, always torn by the issue. One side of her loved us dearly, and the other, naturally, resented bitterly our very birth; I for one never aspired to be a farm hand, so that was another mark against me.

Thankfully, she kept a lot of her bitterness to herself. In a passive-aggressive way she went about her sewing, her legs demurely covered with a blanket for warmth. It also helped her fight any natural aggression against us before we learned the rules of a decent society in regards to nature’s so-called “ways.” They drilled it into me, and I’ve never forgotten the lessons. I can still recite it: “Sex makes farm hands in case of war!” Which was strangely contradicted by the fact that we had lots of other people around. Cousins, aunts, grandpas, in addition to the dominant class of society, far and away the majority of the population, unemployed farm hands. Frankly, we could use a good old-fashioned war to use up some of them!

I myself vow to keep my chastity. With Grandma long gone now, it's less an issue to her here on earth, but I know somewhere up there she’s looking down, and I fear to let her down by foolishly siring a few unemployed farm hands of my own. So far, then, there’s no death in mine har drawers, unlike the drawers of others in which thar is lots of death in them.

Grandma vs. Guidance Counselor

 No. 21 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

I’m looking at the picture one last time before launching into this and it makes me smile. This might be the best, most decisive evisceration ever of a guidance counselor. But if you have a better graphic evisceration, I’d be happy to set it side by side mentally and judge.

As graphic eviscerations go, it’s hard to say it’s better than he deserves, since in this one case the guidance counselor deserves only the best. It’d be a humbling thing to see the look on his face as he looked at it. I'd get a tingle in my legs. And I’m nice enough, remember, to have sympathy for him, so I'd probably not even show him. But if he had an ounce of humanity at this point, I hope he'd be a little humbled. Of course then he'd get a grip and shake off the humanity and swear it never happened! Or swear it would never happen again because he's now dead...

We ought to have an Evisceration-Off. All you need is the world’s bitterest grudge and a willingness to admit it, then put it in the most drastic terms you can think of. Notice how my guidance counselor never comes in for shades of gray. The ounce of humanity I gave him was a stretch. Because you can’t eviscerate in slow motion or by half measures. It’s not compassionate to the recipient of your grudge. Like skinning a rabbit, it has to be fast. And lest I look bad with that statement, remember, I didn’t start this fire. He was the one in charge, not me.

Anyway, we have here a truly compassionate person, Grandma, telling me that she was just reading an article about women’s boots, something perfectly wonderful, then assuring me that I can do whatever I set my mind to. Isn’t that just like her? The important news about what she was reading became a touching defense of her grandson’s ability to set his mind on things!

Then on the other hand, what have we here but His Unholy Eminence, the world’s most concrete evidence of the existence of a literal devil, the guidance counselor, doing his level worst to cut me down. I need to read his poisonous words again, which I’ve put in his mouth, to get the full impact of his evil: “Whatever it is, you’ve shown you can’t possibly accomplish it.” That's harsh! And might be even too drastic for him, but in putting it that way I’m consolidating numerous slights, interpreting rolled eyes, etc., so naturally it needs to be essentially the opposite of what saintly Grandma said.  She read an article about boots and encouraged me in the same breath. But he does the exact opposite.

Now look at me in the middle, torn between pure goodness and abject evil, not countermanding the guidance counselor or even thanking Grandma for her fashion sense and sense of my righteousness, but speaking from my own intellect on a book designed for children but still impressive enough to be called a psychological tome -- sort of like Dr. Seuss -- of a cat and mouse sharing the same name. Which could be applied to me and the guidance counselor. We’re either two individuals or the same mega-person in an inner titanic struggle — good vs. evil. Two souls in one body, like something from Star Trek, with the Enterprise in mortal danger for about 49 minutes.

I seriously like this graphic more than all the others! One, it gives me a remembrance of Grandma. Two, it takes my breath away to hear the guidance counselor’s verbal poison, and it makes me feel good about myself in the center, an overlooked scholar enchanted about a cat and mouse, while no doubt raising in my own core lessons about guidance counselors and how they go bad.

How Much Longer?

No. 5 of 31 -- Thermometer series

Grandma is a memory to me now, like the Beatles, my hair, and the city dump. A lot of us are in that situation. You have the dearest people on earth to you, grandmas, who were already old when you were born. Then they're suddenly gone.

That’s what happened, and even though I regret it tremendously, with everything wrong with her I’d never wish her back -- sniffle-sniffle -- never wish her back --- blowing nose -- O hell, Grandma, if you're somewhere near by, the key's still under the pumpkin. But we haven't got the phone anymore -- it's a long story -- just report to a place called "Verizon" and sign up for a new one. If you don't know what Verizon is, ask around...

But when she was alive, wow, she did everything. Things I could never accomplish if I worked all the time. Look at her pulling on the yarn, working on a spool there, picking it up and tying it together, or churning it out, maybe even making it in the first place. We think you just go to the store and get another spool if you need it, which I don't because now I buy my undies ready made, but somehow she had the skills to fidget strands into form from scratch. If she could handle that, Verizon can't be too hard.

What I have for myself now, in addition to the memories, is the knowledge that SHE knew what she was doing. And the same lesson has to apply here: Do I know what I’m doing? Do I know what I have to go through to get places? Yes, sometimes I do know. But sometimes I don’t. My memory, for one thing — please don’t get bummed out by this — is a little shaky. I’m not quite in the total pits yet; the worst thing is figuring out who the ugly guy in the mirror is. But with discipline, mental devices posted here and there, and a notebook for my enemies list, I'm doing all right.

Today I'm clear as a gun shot, what I’m engaged in, this filling of thermometers, each thermometer indicating the popularity of my precious blog. I started out a long time ago, just a guy and a keyboard, then I saved up and got a computer. And slowly, more or less daily, I filled in the blanks and those were my posts. Then I needed friends to read them and give me constructive criticism: "Go to hell, loser." So now I'm filling in thermometers, a whole box full, trying to get better friends.

You go back to your sewing, dearest Grandma! Knit that thread, tote that bail, piece that thing together -- work it, work it! -- making Grandpa a new sweater, or a pair of undies too, whatever he needs. And call me if you ever figure out the phone thing.

Money Mule Arms Race 2000

Note: I'm off to a slow start on this. Since it's my 2000th post, all of a sudden I'm worried about quality. How to begin? Just begin, stupid...

The last few days I've been worrying myself sick about money mules. It's a big deal because, frankly, I've been putting a lot of money into them. The idea's basically sound: Send money mules (people) out with money, stay at home myself, then let them bring back their earnings. I'd share with them some pittance and keep the rest myself.

The big problem -- it's a poison pill -- is none of them returns. They apparently think, "I've got $100,000 in my hot little hands, I'm footloose and fancy free, why should I return?" Which, I guess, I might also think were I in their position. The bastards!

Now, of course I'm not focused on any of this in a vacuum. There's plenty of others out there, now alerted to the money-making possibilities (and the development rights), jumping into the fray. And as far as I know, coming up with better techniques, ones that actually work.

That being the case, it leaves me more or less high and dry. Except for what a small-time local operator might make at the edges, two-bit stuff, while flying under the radar and keeping his activities lowkey. Similar to small taco places, that once surpassed in quality by the likes of Taco Bell, et. al., just can't compete. We spit out their crap food in a second and flock to the corporate counterpart.

Still, shouldn't a little guy, say, in the money mule business, flourish? It hasn't been proven that he shouldn't. But in any arms race there's going to be winners and losers. Those with the greatest resources have the upper hand.

The time to get busy, then, is now. Find a way to make money mules more trustworthy! There's no time to waste! Time is of the essence, ready or not! To delay is to lose! He who puts his hand to the plow ... something something something.

At this point I'm thinking my go-to strategy has to be to convey to the mules the sense that I like them, appreciate them, and trust them. Do what my mom did to me, with moderate success on her part. If I only can ... But you lose a million or so, as I have, and it does something to your confidence.

One other good tactic might be something like this, give and demand back:

I have five money mules before me. I give each one $100,000, then immediately demand back $50,000. Then half of the remainder, then another half, etc., until they have almost nothing. Then repeat, and repeat time and time again. By evening they're exhausted but hopefully have learned a message.

The arms race is heating up. This much I know for a fact, the big guys have the best psychological teams at their disposal. Just like the Nazis. You have your hands around the throat of an entire nation, of course you can command resources. And what have I got? I'm one guy, no country, no Gestapo, no conglomerate, no company. I'm like the little taco guy, doing my best with diminishing resources. Peddling a little bike and throwing tacos out of the basket and hoping people pay, so to speak.

And yet I need it to work! I have no other option. The money I get from money mules today might very well fund my retirement tomorrow. Depending on how much I lose to them between now and then.... I'll either retire or keep working the system till I die.

2000: OK, that ought to hold everyone, while I express my thanks to myself for 2000 posts since this blog started. In addition to thanks, I'd like to recognize a deep inner beauty in myself that made this moment possible. Everyday, lately, I've sat in silence at the beginning of each morning, and have looked within. I've liked what I've seen, making, almost, two of me. Get that split? I should be up to 4000 by now!

Anyway, it's a measly 2000. I remember 1000 in 2010, and now 2000 in 2015. If it takes me 5 years to do 1000, that means I'll be writing my next self-congratulatory message in 2020. At which point I'll be 67. Is it normal for 62-67 year olds to write blogs like this? Seems a bit abnormal. I know my old friends -- people I know on Facebook -- are busy grilling and taking pictures of their food. Which is also a labor of love. The question is, Do they grill 2000 cuts of meat and stop to congratulate themselves? 

My Christmas Gift to My Readers

It's almost Christmas Day! And that means something to me, lots of things. One thing it means, very relevant to this blog, is getting something out to each of my readers. To show my love and appreciation. 2014 has been a great year.

As you remember, last year it was a French silk pie for many of you. Then I had a few complaints, what you might expect. 1) Too fattening; 2) Distribution was poor; 3) Many were left out; 4) Several pies were crushed by the time they arrived, etc. So pies were out this year.

Not only that, but the number of readers has grown so much. Now I'm getting around 36,000 regulars, almost too many for me to keep up on, with birthdays, clothing sizes, letters back and forth about family milestones, and everything.  I needed something that's good quality, sure to please, and easy to ship. So I got each one something very much like what you see in the picture, a planter with funny little creatures with big eyes popping out. Very nice, aren't they?

Then, being ever the optimist, even though I only needed 36,000, I figured by Christmas I might have another 4,000 readers, so, hell, let's just get an even 40,000. At $8 a pop, that's ... It's quite a bit, but what's money when it comes to making someone's Christmas a little merrier? Grandpa and Grandma left me a little cash. I keep it in the very bottom of the freezer. Right under the fish I still have from the mid-'60s. Then there's my own disability payments (game toe). I've been able to save back around $10 every check.

It's the least I can do. I remember what Christmas always meant to me as a kid. Back then I got dolls. Grandma made them. Jet black, like a quaint old world craft. Lovely. Except I used to dream of them sitting up suddenly in the night, going, "Mama!" I'd wake up in shock. Whatever gender ambiguity you may have noticed in me, it started about that time. "I'm not your mother," I'd think, then I'd wonder, "Maybe I am. I don't know anymore."

Everyone please be patient, your planter's almost on its way. Right now they're individually wrapped and stacked to the ceiling, both house and garage, with a few thousand in the cellar. I have a couple of high school girls -- maybe they're boys -- getting extra credit for doing this kind of charity work. They'll be helping me get them to the post office, so everything's going to work out for your happiness, and mine.

Memorial Day -- Death's Day to Shine

Happy Memorial Day! I always think about that "happy" and whether it's appropriate, but I've heard it enough, it must be right.

I'm not doing much for Memorial Day, as usual. They fought and died for my right to sit on my lazy buttootie, so I'll honor that. No trips to the cemetery -- I hate crowds. I'll miss the parade -- looks cloudy, hate to get wet. I'd put the flag out, if I had one. I'm just in a terrible way.

The parade, you've seen one truck of waving vets, you've seen 'em all.* Although it is quite cool how they have the trucks festooned with little flags. I can just see the folks doing that, taking hours sticking those flags on. I honestly can't remember how they even do it, tell the truth. Surely there aren't little flag holders everywhere on an Army truck. What would that be, some kind of retrofitting? Or are we spending so much extra time and money in military procurements to make sure our trucks have 800 flag holders?

That'd be worth looking into. That might be why a lot of guys died. They're trying to scurry off a truck that's been hit and they're caught on a flag holder. So many of them, it's like a mine field. Like all that barbed wire they had in World War I, between our trenches and theirs.

World War I. This is a big year for World War I, because it's been 100 years since it started. I was talking to a guy the other day, a geezer, really, except I've known him since high school. He reportedly spends a lot of time and money on war literature and other mementos. Civil War through whatever; probably has an empty room ready for the next war.

In our discussion, I quickly blew through my limited knowledge of the First World War. Which consists of everything I know of Eddie Rickenbacher, since I've been reading his book for the past six months and I'm still not done. It's interesting in places, a total boring bastard in others. I felt gratified that my old friend agreed with me on the WW I flying aces, that they wasted a huge amount of time after a hit, driving around the countryside looking for witnesses to sign for them, to vouch that it was indeed their hit. Isn't that dumb? Do you suppose every infantry man jumped out of the trenches and ran ahead to get verification that he shot a guy? Anyway, it was my theory -- and this guy, a self-taught expert agreed -- that it was only the novelty of an air corps in those early days that prompted such a stupid idea.

Grandpa was in WW I. I don't know what he did exactly. He never said a word about it. Don't remember him being in any parades. Exercising his right, too, I guess. I honestly don't remember him even going to many parades, for anything. Just sitting around the house here, going out on the half acre, moving the outhouse every couple years, and hunting and fishing. My uncles were all military guys, like in the heat of WW II, the three boys this side of the family. The other side of the family, I had a couple uncles in Vietnam.

Funny thing about that. You know how the government's always screwing the veterans in one way or another? One of my uncles who was in Vietnam, after the war, died, not war-related. Somehow the government didn't get his headstone right. They always put which war you were in, and they put "WORLD WAR II," which meant he would've been around 5 or 6 when he enlisted. They must have a big assembly line of headstones and a guy daydreaming and forgetting to change the matrix.

The way it worked out, my mom went through all the bureaucratic gyrations you have to go through, and for the length of time it takes the government to solve anything, including a relatively easy problem like this. It may or may not have involved a contact with a senator or congressman. In the end, though -- she would've made a great bull rider -- she stuck with it and they got the correct "VIETNAM" tombstone to her.

What happened to the old one? There was someone in the cemetery without a tombstone. So she took it to a stone-etcher, someone who does that for tombstones, and had a different one etched on the back, then flipped it over. So out there somewhere in "The Silent Centuries" cemetery  .... Someday, when archaeologists are excavating it, they'll go, "What the hell happened here? This tombstone has a flip side!

_________________

*My true feelings on a truckload of 90-year-old vets, is I'd love to hug and lip-kiss them and rub their head and celebrate them without end. But you can't do that. They'd look at you like a madman, which you'd be. Inside they'd be thinking, "I'm the same guy now as I was when I was 40 or 50, an average guy on the street -- or maybe even your mean boss -- and you didn't want to razz me. Why razz with me now that I'm old? You're looking down on me! You're demeaning my humanity, manhood, and sacrifice?" Which wouldn't be true, but you can't disagree with one of these beautiful old goats.

The Gaping Maw of Death (Woof! Woof!)

I've really been enjoying my friendship with Death (see links below). Especially the times when we're able to talk. Not just chit chat, but on some of the deeper philosophical questions involving life and death. He's a very meticulous craftsman, of course, eventually getting each of us. So who better to share with?

Earlier today, Death and I were out on the half acre where I live, walking along, and talking over these things, life and especially the nature of death. He was explaining to me in some grim detail about the death of numerous folks, how badly they take it, their intense struggle, etc., until finally he said, "They are ground up in the gaping maw of death."

At that point, almost involuntarily, I went, "Woof! Woof!"

Up till then he'd only known me as a serious person. Which is true. But I couldn't help it. He asked, "What's the woofing for?" I had to laugh, realizing I had woofed. I told him the whole story of my old dog, Wuss, who always barked back when Grandpa would call for Grandma, "Ma!" It became something of a family joke, something to mimic. "Woof! Woof!"

We sat down in the shade by the garage. Death laughed, but proceeded his talk, again getting serious. He went into a long explanation of the process of death, in great detail, including not just people, but animals, etc. He said, "All of you, and nature, at some point are chewed up in the gaping maw."

Again, I went, "Woof! Woof!" Death slapped his forehead, a little pissed that it seemed like I was cheapening life and death -- his work -- by constantly harking back to my old dog and what was apparently his single trick.

The third time we were over at the well getting a cold drink of water, and Death again got involved in the discussion of death. He was very serious, because I had asked if it's actually a universal process, quite apart from our mythology of it being the penalty for original sin, etc. And he said, "Yes," explaining that it's in the nature of creatures everywhere to eventually die, sin having nothing to do with it.

By universal, I had meant just that, life on other planets. He went on, sharing with me very illuminating revelations, with parts of his talk granting me inside knowledge on civilizations thousands of light years away, if only I could remember what he said. Parts of it were very philosophical and, thinking of the inner makeup of alien lifeforms especially, were quite dry. The key point I remember was this: "All of them are eventually consumed in this vast gaping maw."

I started to say it, then he anticipated me, and put his hand out as if to prompt me, "Woof! Woof!" He asked, "Have you about got it out of your system?" I threw up my hands as if to say, "I'm sorry, it's a dreadful habit, but, you know, the dog and everything, Grandpa, Grandma, it's in my system like a heroin addiction!"

Finally, back in the house at the table, we continued our discussion. I reflected on Death as someone who obviously relishes his work, while being one of the rare ones -- the only one? -- to have such a thorough philosophy on his job and its nature. Perhaps the only other ones would be strippers, who like saints are the most rewarded when they have the least.

Again, he was completely serious, expounding at length about how misunderstood the reality of death is. He ruminated on our vanity of denying and hiding death and the process, and on everything we do to try to stave it off, which he agreed is understandable; perhaps we're looking forward to the graduation of our first grandchild, etc., something irrational but understandable as part of our present egoism, acting as dualistic, not holistic beings. He thrust his hands up in something approaching complete exasperation, then said, "And all the while this is what's awaiting them, exactly what they dread the most, the gaping maw."

This time Death caught himself, and looking at me, jumped in with his own, "Woof! Woof!" Of course I gave him two thumbs up. He laughed and said, "Now you've even got me doing it!"

Links:
Death -- I Now Pronounce You Dead
Out Drinking with Death
Death Goes to the Dentist with Me
Death -- When Your Number's Up
Walt's Suicide -- Death by Water