grandmaslump.com

I can't keep anything under wraps for long. The guys at Wikileaks, always revealing my secret plans for the blog, leaked it a few days ago. And now I can announce it officially as true. I have a brand new address: grandmaslump.com.

Yes, I've joined the big boys, with my very own "dot com," hopefully not just in time for the bubble to burst!

I've had my grandmaslump.blogspot.com address for quite a while, so it was a complete shock to me that grandmaslump.com was even still available. But it was!

The honest-to-God truth is maybe it wasn't available, if you know what I mean. But the government has the means to twist a few arms when they want to. So let's say some other guy had grandmaslump.com. They put pressure on him to give it up, which is only right, because it was meant for me.

You're probably wondering why I made the switch after all these years. So here's the real deal. As part of the government's push to make the homeland safe, they've been designating certain internet sites as vital to the national interest. And because I gave a couple hundred bucks in the last election cycle, and with 2012 looming, and them hoping my generosity will continue, I qualified. I am officially "vital to our national interest"!

Seriously, the Department of Homeland Security contacted me one day, offered to pay for the domain name, and after making them pass the sniff test, I accepted. Simple. And they were more than generous. It's not just for one year like I was expecting. It's for life! Isn't that something! I've got the grandmaslump.com domain forever! [I'm fist-pumping the air.]

The ironic part about it is this, that I actually think the Department of Homeland Security is by and large a lot of crap. We had 9/11, the powers that be "didn't see that one coming," so now we need an entire department just to sit around and buy people websites. LOL, it's ridiculous! Hell, one of my neighbors got his driveway graveled for nothing, just because the police occasionally turn around in it to chase a speeder. This guy's driveway is "vital to our national security"! Anything to spend money .... and keep us safe! :)

The way the Department came about, though, if memory serves, is that the Democrats proposed it, of which I am one. The Republicans were against it, then they embraced it and it took on a more Republican slant and was even promoted by them, and dare I say, exploited by them. Remember all the duct tape we bought? Someday archaeologists will be digging through a mound, come to a stash of duct tape, and immediately pin it as "post 9/11."

We had -- oh, what was that clown's name? -- that big doofus from Pennsylvania ... -- I'm drawing a blank -- oh, yeah! Tom Ridge! He was George W. Shithead's man, and he kept us busy, didn't he! The alert is red, orange, blue, chartreuse, the chart is throbbing, the thermometer's exploding at the top! Then, fortunately, the 2004 election was over, Shithead was again ensconced in the White House, and we were safe!

But by now they had all this money. So they threw it at crazy stuff. I literally saw wheelbarrows of cash being pushed down the street, with the wheelbarrows having the Department's logo on the side. They turned in to this big heavy-duty truck shop and came out with a Command Post for the local police, something like $250,000. An armor-plated Winnebago. Meaning the July 4 parade would be safe, since that's what they did with it. Parked it at the main junction, monitored the crowd, and sold cotton candy out the window.

Now, with the next election season upon us, they're cozying up to guys like me, and I can't complain. I'm happy to have my own web domain. Ten bucks a year ain't chickenfeed! And since it's for life, and let's say I live another 25 years, that's roughly ... hundreds of bucks ... Unless, and this is my biggest fear, we get another idiotic Republican president and he cuts the funding, with Obamadomains going down the tubes.

But I'm going to live for today, not for what is to come. And today I have "grandmaslump.com," giving my blog some real credibility. You realize, I hope, that yahoo.com and google.com are dotcoms just like me. Once upon a time, any schmuck could've registered google.com. Think about it. It was just sitting out there! I could've registered google.com once upon a time, then what became Google might have been grandmaslump.com. People would be looking up stuff on the internet, saying, "I grandmaslumped it!"

Today, thanks to the Department of Homeland Security -- and their tireless work protecting the Fatherland and upholding the Motherland -- you can "grandmaslump" it. Just by checking out my blog, not at the old address, although that will still work, but at the newer, better, bigger web address!

Progress Edition -- 2011

The purpose of a Progress Edition of a newspaper is to tout the achievements that have been made locally, while looking forward to greater things to come, and to lift up civic pride.

I've always thought it was a great thing, something inspiring, to read the Progress Edition and see that we're really part of something. We're not part of something that's bogged down, something in the ditch; no, we're moving ahead with purpose, resolve, and optimism.

And so today it is in that spirit that we put forth the Progress Edition of this blog. We do it because we're proud of what has gone before, and we're optimistic for what is still to come. As your editor, of course I'm perhaps proudest of all, but I know that I couldn't do it day after day without you, my faithful and supportive readers.

One of our proudest achievements was as recent as yesterday, with the post on "George, Bill, Frank, and Dale." These were four fine men -- with Dale still a fine man as the only survivor of the four. While I didn't hear directly from George, Bill, and Frank's loved ones, I can only believe they were happy to read it. In Dale's case, I did hear from the nursing home that he raised his head and smiled, so I'll be getting a printout to him as soon as possible, and I'll probably have it framed, bronzed, laminated, and numbered.

That's just one achievement! But we've made progress on many fronts, presenting the best blog we can and putting it out there free of charge for one and all. And while so many other blogs -- mostly so-so blogs -- have shuttered and gone by the wayside, we have prospered, our traffic growing all the time, five here, 10 there. How do we do it? Mostly by word of mouth, and we thank you for all your links and retweets. But also by running compelling promos for our key demographic, everyone from 2 to 104.

As an example, here are the five promos I ran for the "George, Bill, Frank, and Dale" post:

I feel the promos were well appreciated and effective, but for some unknown reason I lost 734 followers overnight, roughly an average of 180 after each one. So that's an interesting coincidence.

Other than the "George, Bill, Frank, and Dale" post, in the last week I presented a fearsome apocalyptic vision of the end of the world, mostly based on a dream I had of Mexican street children stealing my suitcase. That was called "Knee Deep In Dead Crows." I made real progress with my post on the latest in police technology, the pinging of cars, called "Don't Ping My Car, Bro." This is true, for my efforts there I was featured in a recent issue of Police Technology News, albeit it under the fold.

And of course this week hasn't been it. Earlier in the month, I had two posts on sex with a mule, "Sex With A Mule" and "Champion Jack Dupree -- Sex With A Mule 2." Which gives me a good opportunity here to express a heartfelt apology to the Dupree family. Yes, I got your note, and, no, I wasn't saying any of you were the illegitimate offspring of man/mule sex. As far as I know, you're all legitimate.

July was full of progress. That was the month I had the great post on going to bed with the Princess and the Pea and Sri Masturbananda and the Wood Manhood Affair. My memory isn't as good as it used to be, so I'm trying to remember what the Wood Manhood Affair was all about, but I'm sure it was something good. As to going to bed with the Princess, I can't forget that!

Just looking over the whole year, time prevents me from mentioning all the great progress we've made. But I would at the very least urge you to go back and look at my "Proceeding From The Pink Professor's Zipper." Because I seem to remember that was a pretty good one. At the very least, it has a heckuva title.

So progress has been steady at the Grandma Slump blog, and we will continue on, exorcizing our mental demons together and having a few laughs, maybe, hopefully.

In conclusion, let me honor them once again, because this could be the very last time they're ever publicly mentioned: "George, Bill, Frank, and Dale." I started writing a folk song about them, but I've only got the first few lines, and I know you can't hear the tune. But so far it goes like this:

George, Bill, Frank, and Dale,
George, Bill, Frank.
George, Bill, Frank, and Dale,
George, Bill, Frank.

It will go on from there, depending on if I get the inspiration to write more.

Grandma Slump Is Dead

Note: The interesting news and admissions in this post have nothing to do with April Fool's Day. This is not a joke, no more than if it were April 2, which it will be tomorrow.

Grandma Slump is dead.

I'll stop and let that sink in.

She died. Now here's the interesting part: She died in 1973. How can this be? you may be wondering. Haven't I referred to her several times as though she were alive and still in her bedroom resting? Yes, I have. How I can completely escape the charges of being less than truthful -- a liar -- I don't know. I hope to just beg your pardon and figure that I've received it.

But is it simply the case that I am a liar? I'm not a Republican, so there must be some other explanation. I believe there is. Let's call it not wanting to accept her death, perhaps, then being caught up in an unending downward spiral of grief. I'm still mourning dogs from the late '50s, so it's not completely out of the question. Maybe only now am I ready to face the facts.

One fact still remains, that I'm still living in Grandma and Grandpa's house. You can see it on Google Earth, so that proves it's still here. You can see the half acre, the well, the maple tree, the whole business. I just wish I'd known when they were flying over, I would've gone out and waved.

To keep Grandma's memory alive, I've kept her room just as she left it, minus the personal hygiene receptacles that I did drain and clean shortly after her death. But now that I'm finally ready to accept her passing, I've decided (and already gotten to work on it) to remodel it as an alternate love nest for myself and the Pink Professor. I figure if it was good enough for my grandparents to have sex on the sly and bring forth five children, it's good enough for me.

Some of you have written in, being very close readers of this blog, asking about her. And a few of you have been concerned that I've been neglecting her by spending nights with the Pink Professor at his place. "Is anyone watching your grandmother? Helping her to the bathroom at night? Turning her so she doesn't get bedsores? Making sure she's well-hydrated?" These and other Nervous Nellie questions you've posed to me. I've been tempted to tell you off and to mind your own f)@#!^% business, but of course I don't want the health department knocking at my door, so I said I'd brought in a nurse from the Ratchet nursing service. The simple fact now that she's dead ought to ease your mind.

1973 ... good grief, how long ago was that? 2000 ends in a zero, so I'll leave that year out. It's like -- let's see, '73 up to 2000, then drop the year, start with 1 through 11, which is 11, then add in the first number, scratch scratch scratch ... it's something like over 20 years, drop the zero and that leaves only two years ago? That can't be, I started the blog in 2008 and she was already dead for some time; in 2008 she still had died in 1973. Let's just say she's been dead long enough that she hasn't come back. Like John Brown, a'moldering in her grave, which I've visited a time or two, since it's just across town, on my way to the races.

And here's something you might've forgotten: The picture of her above isn't even really her. Remember that? This is something I mentioned way back in my second post. Playing the part of Grandma Slump is Mother Kendall, which is what it says on the back of the original photograph, which I bought at an antique store in 2008. It was supposed to be $3.00, but somehow it was on sale for 50 cents. So I could've bought six grandmothers for the price of one, but I only needed one at the time.

This business of her being Mother Kendall, sometimes I think of that. Because Mother Kendall likely was someone's actual grandmother. Meaning there's people out there who might show up at this blog and go, "What's my grandmother doing on the internet?!" To those folks, I say, "So what are you doing with your grandmother's pictures in an antique store?" But I'd be nice, because I'd love to get additional pictures of Mother Kendall, since I'm completely attached to her by now.

Finally getting this out in the open is good for me. Because I've been concerned with continuity, and, really, the whole business of turning her, cleaning her up, checking for bedsores, changing her sheets, etc., would be very important. And it makes me feel guilty spending the night with the Pink Professor across town if I think people think I'm neglecting her back at home. See, I'm not. She's passed on, a little over two years ago, in 1973. At the ripe old age of 70, even though I've said she was 104. She was old enough to know better, but too old to die, if I sit here and think of how close I actually am to 70 (I'm still in my upper '50s).

Grandma's dead. I've finally said it. Now if I can only make myself accept it. ... There, I accept it.

The Power Of My Archives

When you have over 1,000 posts on the internet, as I do at this blog, it starts getting interesting. Because you have readers hitting them all the time, things from years ago, and sometimes I wonder how they got to the random post. They go on like residuals, or reruns, or golden oldies.

Approximately 20% of my posts come from the time I was the philosophical father of the Residential Industrial Movement. At that time, I had my own electrical generating plant and my own tire factory. That really struck a chord with people, believe me, and it continues to this day!

You'd think people would have enough tires in their lives, but you couple the fact that people simply like tires with the idea that you can make a fortune off them, of course there's going to be an enduring interest there. So a couple of my most popular posts have to do with making tires, how to get your own tire company up and running. I myself no longer do this, since the Residential Industrial Movement was destroyed. But that doesn't affect my archives. So there's always someone hitting these two posts: "The Black Smoke of Industry" and "My Tire Industry Rolls On."

They want to know how it's done, how to make tires! So they read a little bit and it starts something. Then they often write me for more information, exactly how they would go about starting their own tire factory. I tell them all the same thing, that you better love hard work and long hours. And that you may as well kiss your family goodbye right now, because you're either going to neglect them to do the work, or you're going to lose them in the work. Like if you have the kids helping you, sooner or later they're going to fall into a vat of something, get crushed, or be overcome by toxic fumes. It's an unbelievable story but a true one.

Still, there's hardly any swaying some of these people. Because all they can think of is the big money. They're reasoning that every car needs four tires and one in the trunk, making five. We all know a tire is between $80 and $120, then with all the add-ons -- balancing, alignment, old tire disposal fee, white walls, air spigot, tread polish, miscellaneous service fees, federal and state surcharges, gauges, lug nut snuggies, and even air, which is going up all the time thanks to inflation -- you're looking at an average cost of $500 per tire.

That may sound like big money, and that's as far as the dreamers look, but think, most cars already have five tires. No one's starting from scratch. You're not going to have a car drive in to your factory on nothing but metal rims with an empty trunk. You're going to have to wait for their old set to fizzle out, and in the meantime you're looking at a mountain of inventory and supplier bills you wouldn't believe. Because the fact is, people hardly ever really need a new tire. Real life isn't like NASCAR, where they're changing tires every 20 miles.

OK, putting that one aside -- that gets a lot of hits. But you want to know the biggest search phrases that bring people to my archives? You're not going to believe this. There's two big ones: "If you see a red dog running free" is one of them. I wrote a post on the song "Abergavenny" one time. And ever since then, on a daily basis, there's someone in the world looking for information about that. To me, that's wild, because this isn't a Beatles' song or something extremely popular; it's obscure.

The other big search phrase is a lot more scandalous, and it's this: "undress grandma." Seriously. I just shake my head. Because, believe it or not, there's lots of perverts out there constantly googling for information on how to undress their grandma! I get letters on this too, which I completely ignore, since I have no way of getting a reliable affidavit signed that says they need the information for legitimate purposes. As far as I'm concerned, in the absence of those assurances, to me these people are nothing but perverts. The irony here is that this post today has the phrase in it again and so this will also be a drawing card for that crowd!

Anyway, what's so hard about figuring out how to undress grandma? You do it the same way as any other woman, just perhaps without the same urgency. I hope that's true. I've undressed mine many times -- there's no thrill to it. It's all for purposes of hygiene or changing clothes. Nothing lascivious. I'm like a doctor. And I look away a lot. There's still things I haven't actually seen ... clearly ...

Of course there's grandmas out there who don't have my grandma's hard years on them -- she's 104. You get one of the ones who was pregnant in high school, then her daughter was also pregnant in high school, I guess you could easily have a grandma in her upper 30s. But face it, the grandkid's still got a ways to go, no matter what Freud says, before he's going to be consciously looking for action. By then she's in her '50s ... which, I guess that's not so bad. Still, she's your grandma, for crying out loud! Get a girlfriend your own age!

So I'm not too happy about that traffic. But what can you do? I'd love to put a parental lock (or a grandparental lock) on their computers, but I'm limited in my abilities to do so. I have no ability to do that.

The power of my archives! Everyone should try it. Get your own blog, write a bunch of stuff, and watch the world beat down your door!

As Good As I'm Ever Going To Be (1000)

Yes! I have finally achieved something that's always eluded the rest of my family, 1000 posts on my blog!

Isn't that great? But, you know what? I'm still going to put my pants on one leg at a time, I'm still going to empty the mousetrap by myself, and I'm still going to have breakfast like a normal person; I won't be hiring a cook.

I said this achievement was something that eluded my family, and that's true. As much as Grandpa did in his life -- serving in World War I, guiding his family through the Great Depression, sending off three sons to World War II -- he didn't even have a blog, let alone hack out 1000 posts. He died in the late 1970s.

And it's the same story for the others. Either they died before everyone got computers, or they were too old and begrizzled and already in nursing homes, or they weren't cognizant for some other reason of the value of sharing their opinions with a vast audience of complete strangers. Whatever the reason -- and it could be that I have cousins out there with assumed aliases writing up a storm, I just don't know -- they held back, leaving the field open to me. Then I flew under the radar with quite a bit of stealth, and here I am today!

But we all know, blogging isn't just something you do so you can brag about it as it somehow relates to your dead relatives from bygone generations. That's of course a big part of it, but it's not the whole story. If you're like me, whatever generation you're living in, you have a compulsion. Even if I were living in the days of the cavemen, and computers were hard to come by, I'd still be blogging by whatever name it went by. Like in the Flintstones. I'd have a typewriter with a couple of big birds pecking out the letters on a huge slab of rock. We'd set them by the side of the road, and passersby would stop and say, "Look, he's got 1000 rocks ... It's prehistoric!"

You get a compulsion, a few ideas, and you do it, that's all. If I'd've been in the world wars, I can see myself dissing the Axis powers in my posts. I might've shamed Hitler into surrender. Or if it was some other period in history -- just name one -- I can see myself, maybe with a big quill pen (a feather two foot long) and a bottle of ink, scribbling out something. Being around bottles of ink would be messy, of course. Remember hearing about Martin Luther throwing a bottle of ink at the devil? But if that's all you had, you wouldn't know any difference. (What I really miss from childhood are those little plastic ink cartridges we put in our pens. That was some smooth writing, although, again, they were messy.)

The problem with 1000 -- and I've been thinking about this for a couple weeks, so forgive me if I get a little teary-eyed -- is that it could be my best years are behind me. And the past has stretched out so far that it's not prologue anymore. It seems natural, doesn't it? Eventually the past isn't going to be prologue, eventually it's going to be epilogue. I might be bumping up against my natural ceiling here, folks. This might be about it. Maybe I was crackin' good at one time -- when I was young and hepped up on hormones. But now, it could be I'm getting too old to cut the mustard, as Grandma always said.

When you're old, of course you can still do a few things in life, at least go through the motions. I know I go through the motions quite a bit and it seems like the frequency's picking up. You get a mental block that stays around a little too long. You're dawdling on the sidewalk, even tottering, and all the neighborhood kids pass you by with their happy games. You find yourself window-shopping for caskets and checking out the sales. Triple X entertainment doesn't hold any thrills anymore. I'll be sitting there with a cup of coffee, lose myself in a revery, and 'wake up' and my coffee's cold. That's a terrible feeling -- Where was I? But it makes me feel a little better knowing cold coffee's now in style.

I'm going to try to continue on. It seems like if I'm conscious of the idea that this is as good as I'm ever going to be, that's still a positive enough mindset to work with. If somehow I can turn that into actual optimism, without being blind to the facts, then somehow I'll be able to keep going. Maybe someday they'll make a "Pluggers" cartoon about me, if I ever start dressing in heavy flannel and one of those dorky hats.

Sex And The Single Hidden Book

Well, there it is, Grandma's illicit book, "Sex and the Single Girl," shown out in the open (left) and hidden amongst some other junk (right). I pulled it out to get a full shot of it, more or less to prove that I still have possession of the nasty little thing. Then it went right back into hiding, where it will stay.

I first found this book a couple years ago while poking around in the basement. I quickly eliminated other suspects for who might've possessed it, which basically would've been my mom and my aunt. They were married and out of the house by 1963, which it was published. The book next came to my attention during the whole 'Peruvian Grange Queen' fiasco of last year. Since that episode had a terrible sexual center to it, and since my grandparents were both involved in the grange movement, I put two and two together, determining that Grandma was a lech.

Well, guess what, probably despite her wishes, I've still got it! I've been cleaning out the basement and I came across my hiding place, trying to keep it out of her sight. It still galls me that it's been down there all these years. One thing I hate is to know that people are hiding sex books around the house, especially an aged grandmother.

The picture I have above makes it look like it's hidden in plain sight, but it's not really. I pulled down some other junk from off the shelf. You can see it's pushed all the way to the back of the shelf, with other stuff covering it up. Still, you start uncovering stuff, which she would probably be able to do, if she were looking for it, and it's fairly easy to find.

I don't know for sure she wants to find it. It's a hard subject to bring up, for both of us. On the one hand, I don't want to let on that I know about it, because then she'd be looking for it for sure. If I keep my mouth shut, maybe it's a matter of 'out of sight, out of mind' on her part. But then she might not be saying anything about it, because she doesn't want me to know about it. In that case, it's making her very nervous, because she has to know the book is like a ticking time bomb, something I'm bound to come across sooner or later, whether before her death or after. So she doesn't dare ask about it, because then I'd know her dirty little secret.

So, I guess, from here on out it's going to be our own little personal game of cat and mouse we'll be playing. Which proves that holding out on me carries absolutely no reward whatsoever.

You may wonder why I don't simply destroy it. Because I'm keeping it for evidence against her if she ever tries something. A little leverage like that could really come in handy.

If This Couch Could Talk

If this old couch could talk, I wonder what all it'd say. I'm sure there'd be lots on its mind, if somehow we could evince its presently mute testimony.

It's been setting there for quite a while, decades. That much we know for sure. The various parts that make it up, the legs, the arm rests, the cushions, the back, haven't forgotten what they're for. They're still in place, cohering together despite the passing of so much time.

That old couch has had a lot of people sitting on, a lot of people ... The years have been kind to it, as one after the other has plopped down on it and taken a load off. Of course I've sat there many times, maybe more time than anyone! I pretty much take it for granted, except on a day like this when I'm feeling overly sentimental.

How often do we go by a chair, a bed, or a couch without giving thought to its burdens? I know I'm not one all that faithful to express my thanks for a job well done, at least to inanimate objects. But then, you know, the years do pass by, and you look down and see it still setting there, and you suddenly realize, Good God, haven't we been through a lot together?

Perhaps I'll never know what the couch actually would say if it could talk. But I can give voice, at least in my own mind, to the speechless. I truly believe that's a worthwhile exercise.

If the couch could talk, I'm sure it'd remember well the day Grandma and Grandpa brought it home from the couch store. I wasn't there, but I'm sure Grandpa probably sat on several difference couches before he settled on this one. And maybe Grandma razzed him a bit for being indecisive, but, hey, if you're going to be sitting on a couch for years at a time, it pays to scrutinize your options. As it turned out, the couch outlived Grandpa, even though it's not technically alive and he was.

I know for a fact, if the couch could talk, it'd say something about us kids. We'd be up on it tussling, smacking each other. Or we'd be in the other room tussling and smacking each other, and they'd put us on the couch for punishment. And they'd have us lined up on it for pictures. I was looking through the family albums and that's what I found. Never a picture of just the couch by itself, but always with someone sitting on it.

A big moment for the couch, and a good memory if it could talk, was always Christmas. We were lined up on it again, but this time with all the joy of anticipation, practically peeing our pants with joy that Santa brought us a little sack of candy. I remember getting my candy cane and that was a big deal. I could take five or six licks a day and make it last till May.

And I know the couch would have a few memories of sick kids, home from school, sleeping on it, or tossing and turning on it, or just laying there watching TV from it. Somebody would get sick all over it once in a while, and Grandma would have to come and lovingly wash it clean again. There's been a lot of spots on the couch over the years. And maybe, just say you could slice it in pieces, you might still find evidence subcutaneously of those spots. But from the surface, with so much cleaning and so many other activities taking place on it, you don't see anything. It's self-cleaning.

I know something the couch would probably say, Hey, give me back that quarter, from all the times I've reached my hand down it looking for change. I've also found pens, dirty pills, receipts, little toys, and all manner of whatnot in its cushions. You never know what it's going to yield next.

Then there have been all those times of passing. And we've had loved ones over, sitting on the couch, sad as they could be that someone beloved in the family had died. That's the way it was for Grandpa. His place on the couch was suddenly empty, and the cushion in that section got quite a break, until someone else finally decided it was OK to sit there.

There's a lot of memories in that old couch. And somehow, if it were possible, I'd love to talk over old times with it. Maybe it heard some gossip I missed out on, including, who knows, something about me.

EVOCATIVE UPDATE -- The more I think of it, the more there is to say. What of the babies being changed? Or the toddlers who sat here when bad, the bigger kids rasslin' around, a few who lay there and kicked the arms (attached well enough to endure it.) Then there was Grandpa rocking back and forth when laughing. And all those times he'd dose off for a catnap. Or Grandma sewing a doily ... sitting right there. And all the boys and the girls they brought home. And the girls and the boys they brought home. Surely someone did some hanky panky on this old couch, and if the couch could talk, we'd find out about it!

The Well-Wizened Industrialist

We want to pay tribute today to a well-wizened industrialist, one of the true elders of the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM). He's been with us since the very beginning, April or May of this year, going well on six months. But he'd rather we didn't use his actual name -- he doesn't want marriage proposals -- so we'll just call him Ernie.

We're calling him well-wizened because, frankly, that's what he is, yet he's seen it all and is still standing. He's been through a lot of tough times and weather in all his years. From the howling snows of the winter to the blazing hot days of summer. For sure, the years of age have taken over Ernie's face, even though he still insists he's only 39! And of course we believe him...

Be that as it may, Ernie has actually seen more than his share of years, one after the other adding up to quite a few. And in this six months, with his standing as one of the RIM's elder statesmen, he's seen not just the ravages of time but many tough challenges. One, getting a factory up and running is a tough business -- he doesn't want us to say which company is his, again, marriage proposals. But nothing's been easy. He worries a lot about us younger folks, hoping we'll be able to stand up boldly to the Major Industrial Powers (MIP), which so far we have.

Ernie has all the lines of age and the wisdom, and that's a very cool thing to have. He's not like "all those young idiots," as he puts it, who turn from the serious things of work, aren't frugal, and are out "tomcattin' around and gettin' their lives tangled up with girls." But he doesn't always speak his mind. Usually he just stands by in mute silence, knowing it wouldn't do any good anyway. They've got seed to scatter. So he watches all these "fool" young men ride by in the girls' convertibles, eventually being taken to the cleaners.

When I think of Ernie, I have respect for his experience. As stated, he's been with us from the very beginning -- since May, I think it was -- and that's the kind of experience that doesn't come easily. An old-timer like him fascinates me -- remember I have a 104-year-old grandmother -- also well-wizened by the ravages of time and not looking to remarry.

It's easy for me to imagine things about Ernie, since he is such a private man. Such as, I imagine him at home looking within himself, being alone with his thoughts. And I can picture him like an old prophet, up on the highest hill, pulling his mantle up over the lower half of his face, his eyes squinting as the smokestacks blow. In those moments he sees it all, what the ravages of time and three failed marriages have brought. It's a very inscrutable image, an old man who sees it all, and wishes he'd done certain things differently. Milk is fine, but you don't need to buy the whole cow...

In my imagination, Ernie thinks back to the days when people told folk tales by heart, sang songs from their memory, and had good times hanging out on the porch or at the general store. I can picture Ernie as a young man at the general store, playing checkers on top of a pickle barrel, and meeting the first girl -- dammit -- who turned his eye. Nothing they did back then was rushed. They'd sit and look at the potbellied stove like it was a TV. No one was thinking about divorce and losing everything.

Bringing it back to reality, the realm of established facts, I know Ernie opposes the MIP, including even the old-timers from his own generation who are MIP industrialists. Because he knows they're exploitative, selfish, and out only for themselves, not their neighbors. He hates they way they cut corners, have little respect for markets, and for the shabby quality of their inferior goods. They're old but somehow not wise, carrying on with their affairs and quickie Vegas marriages.

Ernie may not be well respected or well known on the world stage. But that's society's problem. The fact is, in the RIM he is a hero. And he's my hero, proving that lonely bachelorhood is the best path, even if it took him several cracks to finally get it right.

Industrialism -- Automation Vs. Craftsmanship

The only automation I presently like is what must be done, but nothing else. What I'm saying is, if it's not necessary then I would rather you didn't do it. Thank you. Industry, in order to have craftsmanship, needs men to do the work.

To me, it's a sad thing to see a factory where you have machines with their big, ugly metallic arms poking and prodding pieces on things, welding them with a spritz, and moving them down the line. No! Manufacturing is for men, a whole hands-on thing that's good for men's spirits and souls ... as long as it's done in a humane way, that is apart from the major industrial powers' abusive practices. The Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) has made manufacturing humane again! Every man can flourish!

Now, some of the things that I'd consider necessary, those times when I would see automation as necessary, would include the obvious: heavy lifting, stacking in high places, and shuffling cards during lunch breaks. Some things you just can't trust men with.

But for all the rest, I prefer the hands-on approach, not just because men need to make a living, but for the craftsmanship that we expect. A machine isn't a craftsman; it does the same thing over and over by rote, always the same way. An actual man, assuming he's not drunk, not too tired, not too distracted, not mad at the company, and has taken his meds, has the pride it takes for genuine craftsmanship.

Of course I've been in factories. And I know that men can fail and often do. If you get a company that allows women to work there, as I've seen, you get fights on the line. Someone's jealous. This really gets bad if there's a husband in one part of the plant and a wife elsewhere. Invariably, she'll be flirting, pulling up her blouse for a "peek" and all the rest, and the man will go ballistic and bash in someone's head with an 80 pound pipe-wrench. Or one guy will owe someone else money and they'll get in a fight about it. Or someone will show up drunk and start spilling the beans on someone. Or someone will sneak out early. Or someone will be sleeping up in the top of the stacks of parts. Or a leadman will be pulling rank against a peon, making him lose face in front of his peers. Or he'll be quick to cite you for "insubordination" for the slightest thing. Or someone will make a racial crack. Or misunderstand something you said, since the factory's a loud place, and you're written up. It's endless what can happen with men.

But what about machines? They have their problems too. Of course there's no jealousy, no sexual shenanigans, no violence, no fights over money, no drinking, no leaving early, no sleeping on the job, no testosterone-fueled turf battles, no bending of the rules for personal gain, no racism, and they never have anything to say, nor do they ever get in trouble. But they do break occasionally. Then the whole line has to stop, usually for a minute or so while the part is quickly replaced. Then everything is back up and running in a flash. It's everything you'd ever want in a factory ... except the craftsmanship.

I could almost love automation. I mean, who doesn't like time-saving conveniences and efficiency? I wouldn't mind sitting in my house like a lump with machines serving me all day. As it is, I have it much easier than Grandma had when she was a girl. Back then, they washed clothes with a washboard. They walked to school. They had a car they had to crank. Their toilet was an outhouse. There wasn't any such thing as an electric guitar; they only had manually operated ones. Thank goodness those days are gone for good!

But I can't love automation when it comes to industry. Yes, yes, it does its business in a nice, clean, and neat way. It helps keep prices dirt cheap because you're not paying a large workforce. And, as stated above, there aren't all the terrible things that men do with and to each other in a factory, including, I might add, taking out their grudges after hours in the parking lot when the shift's over. I personally know some of these men and women have hooked up after hours, then they're spotted in a bar over at Skidrow, then she goes home and tells a lie to her husband, who goes storming over to the other guy's place yet that night ... or the next day ... It's a terrible mess!

Automation has its place, there's no denying that. But the biggest reason I can't love it, again, is in the whole issue of craftsmanship. Craftsmanship demands a man to get the job done.

That's Some Serious Industrialism

My neighborhood is full of factories, factories as far as the eye can see. That's some serious industrialism. And it's not just my neighborhood, but it's the whole town, the whole county, the whole state, and the whole country! Really, that's some serious industrialism!

I went out for a walk last night before bed. The heat spell and flooding we had a couple weeks ago are all over, and now it's pleasant. But that was some serious weather, so thank goodness we're back to normal. While walking, I was looking over the whole scene of the block. That's some serious commitment on the part of my neighbors, to man their stations, to keep their factories going, to give their lives over to hard work.

And it's not just the commitment they have to do the work for their self-interest alone. It's the commitment they had -- that we all had together -- in the worst of the weather a couple weeks ago. Remember, most of our factories completely retooled, and instead of making whatever it is we normally make, we were putting out air conditioners, fans, and sprinkler hoses. Or, with the floods, we were putting out sump pumps, water vacs, and drainage pipes. That was some serious response when the chips were down.

I was thinking as I walked, that's some serious ability to improvise. You can't picture the major industrialists doing that. They're so heavily into their own self-interest, I can't imagine them lifting their finger to help their own Grandma. That's some serious selfishness. We're nice, Ann Landers types. They're mean, Ayn Randers. And that's some serious indictment, because she was a pitbull. There she is now! That's some serious artwork! You see a pitbull like that coming, you burn its books!

How do I know about Ayn Rand? Well, I am the philosophical father of the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), so I should know something about philosophy. And I know that this lady had her own philosophy too. Which was basically 'dog eat dog' is a good way to live. That's some serious crap! You might say I've turned Rand on her head, possibly a pleasant sight, since I doubt all that many guys went there, and have become something of the anti-Rand. That's some serious distinction! And, hey, I'm actually smarter than Rand, because I've read her books but she's never read my blog. Got her there! So who knows most about whom? That's some serious observation!

I'm the opposite, or the anti-Rand, because my thing is not that the major industrial powers should have the playing field all to themselves, with the rest of us peons out there floundering helplessly without them. That's some serious predicament. Instead, I've got the peons taking the field, and turning Rand and the major industrialists on their heads, possibly a pleasant sight, since I doubt all that many ladies went there, in the case of the men, and we've already established that Rand was probably sewn shut. That's some serious pain!

Anyway, she's dead by now, and probably cremated, since that's the disposal method of choice for atheist prudes. There's no God to burn them alive, and she wouldn't want a peon undertaker undertaking something no man was able to do in her actual life. That's some serious perversion! And since I don't do blue material, I should leave well enough alone, and let the old virginal prune rest in peace. But you have to think, she'd gladly shut out the RIM, without any sense of remorse or human sympathy, so why should I offer sympathy? I know, that's some serious obstinacy. But she started it.

My walk continued. I saw some children out playing in their dad's runoff ditches. It reminded me of what we used to do, which was to find a pond and play in it. Those were the days. Grandma would tell us boys to "Stay out of that stagnant pond!" But we'd ignore her and go swimming anyway. Playing was serious business back then, and for us that was some serious business! It wasn't a matter of sitting in front of a video game all day for us. We saw each other naked more times than I care to count. And that's some serious eye-opening experience, to see some of them are as big as your wrist. A regular fountainhead.

All in all, I'm very proud of my upbringing -- and whatever it was -- moxie or whatever -- that they instilled in me that's brought me thus far and undoubtedly will take me farther in the days to come. That's some serious moxie!

I continued reflecting as I walked on, then I started to turn in. I looked up at the sky and saw that it had to be close to "Grain Belt," my pet name for 9:40. That's some serious passage of time. And that's some serious pet name.

Industrialism And Lost Innocence

The thing about innocence is that you were always more innocent yesterday. Am I right?

What do I mean by this? I mean several things, but to state it another way, you're always innocent of whatever's going to arise tomorrow, as long as you don't know about it. That's one thing. And, two, because of experience, which always goes along with innocence, if you haven't had particular experiences then you're innocent of what those experiences would be and participation in them.

We see this all the time with society, being on a larger scale than the individual. In the '60s we looked back to the "innocence of the '50s," then in the '70s the "innocence of the '60s," and so forth. Right up to today, where we're always looking back to the innocence of the '90s or the pre-9/11 days or what have you. But as we all realize, I hope, the times we had weren't so innocent at the time!

The solution is just to stop time and never experience anything, never advance or regress. I've done that to a certain extent, so I'm a relatively innocent person. Right out of high school, like other boys, I figured I'd go to college, get a fancy job, get married, get my own place, have kids, etc. But none of that happened. Instead, I moved in with Grandma and Grandpa (who since has died, 1978), and here I am, now an adult caretaker of my aged grandmother.

There are advantages and disadvantages. The wife I would have had, she and I have never had any arguments nor has divorce been threatened or carried out. The children we would have had, they never get sick, don't need new shoes, video games, or a car. They never need school supplies, permission slips, or lunch tickets. They don't bring home unruly friends. They don't get pregnant or impregnate others. We've never had a fight. The house I would have had never burns down. I never get in trouble at the job I would have had. They've never loaded me up with paperwork. And I've never had the joy of college loans. The disadvantages might be ... here I am, more or less all by myself.

I'm as innocent as they come, and that has to count for something!

All this applies to industrialism in the same way. With industrialism -- as great as it is, in particular with the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) -- we have the ability to own the means of production, to produce endlessly, to make a lot of money, and to keep prices dirt cheap. There's nothing we can't have if we want it. And I think that's wonderful. From my closest neighbors, anytime I want I can go and buy wheels for hospital beds, disposable diapers, and industrial vats. Just to name a few. And they can come to me and buy a few of my tires or contract with me for electricity. It all works together.

But how innocent are we? Once upon a time, our yards were just yards, with fountains, flower beds, squirrels feeding at the bird feeder, and rabbits enjoying our gardens. Children would run through the neighborhood, flying a kite or shooting firecrackers. You'd see neighbors fanning themselves on the porch, taking it easy, or sitting in a lawn chair out on an actual lawn. Now it's just factories and industrial complexes everywhere, and warehouses. And occasionally someone will throw a rock through a window in one of the warehouses, making a mess.

As great as the RIM has been -- and the full story of its future glories is still to be told -- one can't help but, just occasionally, shedding maybe a tear now and then, like if something gets in our eye from one of the spare parts, for whatever innocence there may be that we've lost.

I'm not trying to be a downer. Industrialism really is great, so let's work together! There's still plenty of innocence ahead, which we won't lose till more time has passed.

The Industrialists Aren't So Big

I'm a creature of perspective, like most of us. If something is right in front of me, it's size can overwhelm me. But if I'm a hundred miles away, of course it's very small, if you could see it at all.

One thing that is critical for our perception of size -- and this is an important teaching that I believe it is necessary for everyone to get -- is our proximity to the thing in question. Just to give an example. If you have an apple pie on the table, then you stand across the room, it looks very small. But if you hold it up to your face, so close that you block out other things including your peripheral vision, and all you can see is apple pie, it looks very big.

I use this principle all the time. My mind is like a computer, or a calculator. It's able somehow, perhaps in unconscious ways, to discern whether a building is far or near. Like a lot of kids my age at the time, when I was around nine, I used to lay on Grandma and Grandpa's bed and look across the way at the school. I could clearly see the school had some size; it had to have. But being the better part of a mile away, I could fit the whole thing in their small window. That would be a small school, one that wouldn't hold even one student, if it could fit in that small window! Yet if you drove by it, being closer at this point, it was quite a bit bigger than a car window, which was about the same size as the window at the house!

I haven't forgotten the lessons of those days. I use the same truths I discerned back then today, recognizing size and distance. For me, this is something that is invaluable, like when I'm driving, so I'm not slamming on the brakes for something that's still a mile up the road. On the other hand, I don't want there to be a cow on the road 50 feet in front of me and think it's a mouse a mile away! A lot of this has to be handled by the brain right on the spot, with there being very little time to cipher it out with a calculator, a protractor, and a pair of binoculars.

My eyes, I'm happy to say, are pretty accurate. Since I've field-tested them many times, I know they're generally accurate up to a mile away. And it's not such a stretch to say they're more or less accurate for as far as I can see.

Having said all that, though, even I can be depressed by what I see, as to its size and distance away. I've been taking on industry and the industrial powers. But sometimes I lose my perspective, then I start seeing it all as bigger than it really is. A factory the size of several football fields, with big huge trains dwarfed next to it, can appear pretty big and depressing. But a lot of that, obviously, depends on how close you are to it. If you're a hundred miles away, again, you can't even see it, so that's definitely small!

Notice what I said there! I said "big huge trains dwarfed next to it [the factory]." How can something be big and huge and yet be dwarfed? Again, size in relation to something else, in this case a larger factory. But put the same train next to, say, a bag of peanuts, and you've got yourself a big huge train indeed!

These are truths that are a lot of fun to play around with, the way we perceive and judge distances, size, and relations. I might put together a show about it and visit the State Fair. I know there's a lot of little kids (themselves big compared to an ant) who could afford to learn some life lessons.

When it comes to the industrial powers, it depresses me how big, looming, and hulking they are. But if I just back up -- physically or mentally -- it all takes a different perspective, and I can see ... they're not so big ... things aren't that bad!

After The Industrialists Till The Bitter End

I know this is going to be a bitter pill for the industrial powers, what I'm about to say. And it will be just the opposite for my friends out there and those who are telling me to "Keep up the good work," those who are encouraging me to keep on the industrialists until the bitter end. For them, this will go down sweet.

It'll taste sweet to those who are on my side, but like I said, it'll taste bitter to those who are opposed to me and all my efforts. But that's just the way it is. You makes your choice and you takes your medicine! Like Grandma always used to say, something about sugar makes the medicine go down more sweetly, something like that.

Back then, when Grandma was giving me medicine instead of the other way around, medicine was very bitter. That was before Flintstones chewables and cherry cough syrup. Back then medicine was medicine, not candy, and it was very bitter to swallow. I remember getting several doses of this scurrilous stuff called Castor's Oil. Whoever Castor was, he must've been a sadist. We used to fake wellness to keep from getting it, because, regardless of what she said about sugar making the medicine go down sweetly, she never actually put sugar in the stuff.

As far as pills went, I just swallowed them, with no taste. Except they might find a ledge in your throat once in a while and just hang there for dear life. The little boogers. Pills were neither sweet nor bitter, but the other medicine she gave us, as mentioned above, plus other odd substances, went down very bitterly, and if it came back up -- let's say -- it only got worse!

OK, getting back to the industrial powers. I'm going to remain on these guys' case incessantly -- that is my vow! -- until the bitter end. Until their bitter end! There can be no ties. There can be no consolation prize. There can be only one victor. We shall end industry and the industrial powers as we know them. They shall go down the tubes!

I'm an optimist. This is something I must've mentioned before. I will prevail, I will not be defeated!

So it's going to be very bitter medicine for them to take. But it's going to be very sweet for me myself, and for you -- and all men who are on my side.

Vernon Hoff -- Female Impersonator

Whatever happened to Vernon Hoff, female impersonator?

 

  

  

  

  

(These graphics are from the Billboard magazine, various issues found on Google search, 1947-49.)

Vernon Hoff doesn't sound like a made-up stage name. He could've called himself something sexy like Tawny Hide, but instead he was Vernon Hoff. So we're looking for an actual Vernon Hoff who matches the basic age there. Not that I would really bother Vernon, were he still to be alive. Because I wouldn't.

The first ad I discovered on this list of graphics was the "WANT FEMALE IMPERSONATOR" ad for the Ring Cafe, which is from Billboard, 9-27-47, p. 42. I was thinking, Why do ads have to go out of date? I could print the page, take it to the Ring Cafe (assuming it might've existed this long), and say, "What's this all about? What kind of act are you looking for?"

Grandma's got some reasonably good clothes I could probably fit in. And she definitely has some things from the '40s, among her newer stuff. It's all a matter of whether I want to go as a scrub woman or a grange matron. But I can swing both ways.

A lot of Grandma's old clothes have grass stains from picking dandelion greens over the years. And of course the grandkids getting sick, urping after being fed. Anyway, I get there, and because I can't get the stains out of the clothes, I incorporate them into the act, which is of a hard working middle-aged gal, '30s-'40s vintage, recalling no one in particular, going about her daily routine of drudgery. It's sexy, in an esoteric, working class, 'we're all living in a two room house and still having five kids' kind of way. It worked for Grandpa!

The guy at the Ring Cafe says that was an ad printed by the grandfather of the former owner in 1947 and that they're not looking for anyone in that line of entertainment at this present time. But he offers to take my information and promises he'll get back to me if they are ever looking for someone.

Yeah, right! "We'll get back to you..." I've heard that before! But I need to eat today!

The Way They Were -- Sometimes We

 

I got these pictures the other day at a thrift store. It must've been a deal where someone in their family (or families) didn't know who they were anymore -- there's no identification given -- so they got rid of them.

Being a kindhearted soul, and knowing that adopted pictures don't eat much, I took them in, with an adoption fee of 50 cents apiece being paid to the attendant.

I think one of them is pretty cute, and I'm not saying which. I don't want to hurt the other's feelings. But the other one has a distinguished look and has nothing to be ashamed of. When I'm that age I hope I look as good!

But however good I think they both look, you can't deny that they look old fashioned. You see the pictures and immediately you think, That was the olden days sometime. Which must have been uncomfortable for them at the time. Walking around with everyone saying, Why the old fashioned look, sister?

I'm just kidding, of course, because back then they all looked like that. They had an old fashioned look because that was the fashion back then before we junked it and did something different. Elvis launched the sexual revolution and we never looked back.

I've got some old timey pictures of me as a kid. There's a picture of me I see almost everyday of me standing by one of Grandpa's Chevys, either a '56 or '57. It's awesome that Grandpa had a '56 Chevy, without him ever dreaming or knowing what they bring at antique car shows now. We'd ride in it without knowing we were riding in a classic.

Another old timey picture -- three different ones, actually -- show me in a baby swimming pool. My parents and I lived right here on Grandma and Grandpa's half acre in a tiny house over by the well. When I say a tiny house I mean it was as small as a house can be and still be a house with people in it. When they took it away it sat on the back of a truck and didn't need a "Wide Load" sign. So that little house is in the background of these pictures of me in the baby pool. And they were taken at just a slightly varying angle, each one, meaning that you can see a stereo image of the house if you hold them side by side and let your eyes drift them together. That thrills me. A stereo image of a house that's not there. It might not be anywhere anymore. Although as an adult, maybe 30-35 years ago, I went to it in the town where the truck took it. It was small. But somehow I didn't take any pictures. Dumb.

The pictures of Grandma and Grandpa taken in olden times show a normal young couple, not knowing what would happen to them in the future. But they looked confident enough to keep living, as indeed they did. One of my favorite pictures of Grandma is of her playing in the snow with a friend. She must be a teenager. She's seen in the picture from the back, like she's darting away from a snowball. It's very vivid. She's in motion, a kid at play. It's the best picture I've ever seen of people where you can't see anyone's face.

Advice to everyone: Mark your pictures. Put your name on there lightly on the back. Otherwise someone will throw them away. Then a guy like me will buy them. And they'll end up on his blog about the olden days.

Downgrading Grandpa's Age

Grandpa and Grandma were six years apart in their age. Today would've been Grandpa's birthday, and had he lived, which he didn't, he would've been 113 today.

But on this blog, Grandma is perpetually 104. She doesn't age, much like what you see in the Peanuts comic strip or the Family Circus. The kids in the Family Circus have birthdays and Christmas every year but they stay the same year to year.

So since Grandma is always 104 and Grandpa was six years older, that means he has to be 110 (he would've been if he had lived. But he died in 1978, so obviously he's now deceased.)

I believe on his birthday last year I mentioned how old he was (or would've been), which was 112. So now that he's been downgraded to a permanent 110, he's younger this year than he was last! The ravages of time are very terrible.

But at least here, from now on, every time it's his birthday he will still be 110.

Happy 110th birthday again, Grandpa!

UPDATE: Amazon.com sells 100th birthday supplies but not for the 110th. So if there's any enterprising entrepreneurs out there, there's a niche market for you to exploit. I keep hearing that with modern medicine and the various modern procedures living to a ripe old age -- which I would define as anything over 109 -- is going to be more and more common. So maybe by this time a 100 years from now, Amazon will be selling 200th birthday supplies. Of course they'll have to update everything. The "over the hill" stuff will be moved from the 50th birthday to the 90th. And so forth. By then 50 will be the new 15. A guy like me, in my upper 50s, will no longer be a broken down wreck. It'll be a beautiful new age, living longer and spending your children's inheritance in more profligate ways.

Grandma's Last Driver's License

I was checking my driver's license the other day. I started thinking maybe it'd been a while, since I couldn't remember when I got my last one. It's happened before that I've checked it and it was expired for a whole year, meaning I'd have to take the whole test. But fortunately, still being young enough, I didn't have to do the actual driving with the officer.

I lucked out when I got my original license. The really tough, legendary driving officer, that everyone hated for his toughness and strictness, just happened to be on vacation that week. Meaning I had the substitute, who didn't know what he was doing. He had me drive to the west two blocks, to the north one block, to the east two blocks and park in the original parking space. I was done in about five minutes.

But if you're old and frail, they make you go out with the guy. Like it or not.

Checking my license, it reminded me of Grandma's last driver's license test, which was probably 15 years or so, back when she was 89 or 90. The driving officer they had then was what you might call a "reluctant" driving officer. Must've been a bunch of bad experiences for him along the way, sudden starts and stops, not seeing the lights, and not noticing oncoming traffic especially on the passenger's side.

I was also nervous about it -- mostly because of all her random blackouts. But at that time she didn't want to give it up, and so to the courthouse we went.

She was walking with a cane, and had to pause and sit on one of their benches every few steps. I was lifting her by getting a good grip under her arms. But it was a struggle just to get down the hall and to the guy's office.

I saw the reluctance on his face right away. It looked like he was conferring with some other officials in there, with some discreet pointing our way. For one guy it was even funny, who was laughing and patting him on the back, like "Maybe someday you'll get a desk job!"

Anyway, the reluctant officer came over. Grandma was up against the wall, sitting on the bench, trying to catch her breath, a real struggle. And it was a day like today -- snowy, blowy, icy, ice falling from the trees, a real mess. The reluctant officer was working his hardest to get out of taking her out.

He launched in with a lot of probing questions. "Are you OK to drive? Do you feel like driving with me today? We just want to make sure that you're safe to drive. I want to make sure that you're safe and we're safe. Did you come with a car that you feel comfortable driving? Do you feel like driving with me with today?"

I was answering some of the questions for her, that she did feel comfortable enough. Since she'd dozed off, you can't get more comfortable than that. But that wasn't what he wanted to hear. He called me over and in whispers told me that perhaps it would be best if we considered her years of driving behind her. I told him she didn't actually drive anymore anyway, but she didn't want to give up her license.

He steered us in the direction of the window and said she could still get a state ID card that looked a lot like a driver's license. So with that, like the reluctant driving officer said, her driving years indeed were behind her.

I Clicked The Button

And here I am. I was resolved not to do it. Let it die in peace. Why kick the corpse?

But who knows? My cycles will surely come around again -- it about has to happen, even as far fetched as it seems right this minute -- then I'll be happy to know that I kept a scarlet thread running, keeping up at least a pulse along the way in these dog days.

But what if the dog days of oblivion go on forever? That can't happen. At some point I'll know just like I know everything else. I could sit -- I believe I could -- sit and stew over it in some religious way and know. Whether I love it or not isn't really in question. Whether it's worth showing my love by actually doing it, that's the critical thing.

I have my Grandma Slump picture in a frame on my shelf, looking over me in its unchanging way. She's not going away. Someday when I'm 85 and in a nursing home I'll have her picture there to remind me of when I was no longer young but not quite 85. Then I'll be removed from the whole scene and these days will be forgotten.

OK, we're drifting out of here.

The Local Man's Garbage (Tweets)

I should say to those who don't know, Grandma is my grandma. I am her grandson. She taught me many things I know. She partially raised me.

So that's our story.

Now I'm grown up, I live here still, in the same house we've always had since they first got it back before I was born. It's familiar to me.

It's one of the local houses in the town of which we are a part. Our address is one of the standard addresses that shows up on maps.

I've always been happy to live locally, because you do get very used to it. Every tree, every post, every eaves trough, I'm used to seeing.

Out of all the people in the town, I am one. I'm the one who pays the most attention to myself, it's safe to say, keeping my reputation.

I'm proud to introduce myself and how I think of myself. I call myself the local man, because that's proudly what I am, how it works.

There's nothing strangely out of whack in my world. I abide very much at the local level, eating my food and taking the garbage out weekly.

Some locally based guys come and check our garbage cans. Their truck has a door that swings up. They're trained so they won't lose an arm.

The Clarence Chronicles (Tweets)

Boys shouldn't play with dolls. My Uncle Clarence did and got shot.

That's actually true about Clarence, but it's been 60-some years. It pays to die under notorious circumstances. We talk about you forever.

And I didn't even know the guy ... since the jealous husband offed him before I was born.

That'd be Grandma's brother. Her generation kept it hushed up. But mine says, "Tell us the details of Clarence's killing again, please."

How bad would that be, caught in flagrante delicto with some juicy peach, then glance up and perhaps see the blaze of a gun at five feet?