Myra: Devil or Demon?

 THE GOLDEN CHILD - #9

It's a quiet day on the Golden Child front, giving me the sense that this might be the quiet before the storm. Usually things are normal, then there's a storm. Although of course sometimes there's quiet without storms and storms without quiet. I've seen storms followed by quiet, in fact most of them are that way; that's how you know the storm's over. Be all that as it may, there's no storms in the forecast, at least none having to do with the weather.

I'm definitely using the quiet to get prepared. I called my insurance guy to make sure my house insurance is paid up, including the important rider on damages from supernatural sources. Right off the bat, of course that made the guy a little reticent; he came back on after checking the policy and asked if my house was haunted, because that's about ten bucks more a month. I tried to walk it back, saying I was asking for a friend. Anything to save ten bucks.

I'm a little quiet because I don't know what might happen; I'm thinking. It's not like I'm too young to die, but I feel like it. I'm mid-60s -- old by internet standards, I know -- but I'm still in good health. I feel young, not a day over 55. Most of the wistfulness I feel has to do with Myra Kula Electra. I confess, I thought she was hot stuff when I first saw her a couple years ago. She came in, wanting to join my newsletter staff. And she already worked for the Daily News. With my age, I sort of forget why she wanted to join. Seems like she had some shenanigans in mind, something up her sleeve.

She was a good writer, I guess, seems like she was. She does work for the Daily News. Did I mention that? With my age, I'm getting forgetful. My short-term memory's coming up with multiple gaps in the course of days ... seems like it is. It's hard to be sure when you can't remember. Who was I talking about? Myra! Good woman, I thought. Then there was the public sex with the four prisoners -- I might've mentioned that. I'm too tired to look back...

I could call my pastor and ask him to keep me in his prayers. You remember my pastor, Pastor Wadd. We've had the same guy for years. He runs the church according to his own beliefs, which is the best way to do it if you want to stay in office. I've written about him before, I'm sure. His specialty is counseling guys for various sexual addictions, which means he's always on the lookout for anything the least bit shady in his parishioners' personal lives. Even if you don't do anything wrong, like me, you still look guilty anytime he's around.

And if he doesn't like sex, he's equally pissed about anything involving the "New Age Movement" -- if there is such a thing. In fact, anything that doesn't match up with his own narrow belief system -- whatever he was taught by his pappy as a lad -- he's dead-set against. Imagine if I called him about advice with Myra. "Uh, Pastor Wadd, I'm not entirely sure Myra's even an actual human being; there's every chance in the world she might be the manifestation of a demon, a devil, or wraith. I'm not even sure the size she is is her true size. She might be little now just to lure in helpless victims, before showing herself prodigiously huge, the size of an ocean liner stood on end, the size of a sequoia, and so forth. Then the public sex with four prisoners."

For all I know, there is a literal hell. How else do you explain politics these days? And this literal hell, in addition to sending us politicians with hell for brains is sending us prodigious demons posing as beautiful women. You tell me, why else would a prim and proper woman -- dressed often in turn of the (20th) century clothes -- break down in hatred of an old-fashioned guys like me, and, in case I haven't mentioned it, have public sex with four prisoners? 

If only she didn't appear to "have it goin' on," if you know what I mean. Hubba hubba. Do young people still say Hubba hubba? It has an old fashioned sound to it, but I'm old. What do I do about Myra? Isn't there a verse that says somewhere, "Yea, though he slay me, yet shall I love him"? Something like that. Should that apply to possible girlfriends. Say they can transform in an instant into fire and smoke, a huge red tongue, eyes like the Big Bad Wolf, claws like a thorn tree, and a stomach to hold you and four of your closest friends, with a game room downstairs. Should I love her? She took everything four prisoners had and possibly more, how good could she be?

Yes, I'm wistful. I don't want to see Myra die -- I don't especially want that, maybe a little. But if it has to happen, like it turns out she is a wrathful spirit who's been tormented for 10,000 years, just waiting to consume a sweet young thing like me, perhaps it'd be doing her a favor to kill her. A stake through the heart. Maybe take her head off with tree shears. Which I don't even have. It's a quandary. Just have to play it by ear as it comes. 

The 10 Days of Old February

I've mentioned it a few times that our plan for destroying February actually preserves 10 of its days together. It's really been quite a process hammering it out, as the team often couldn't see eye to eye. We blamed our disagreements on February itself, since, obviously, it always brings out the worst in people. As a great example, I happen to have a headache tonight, very uncharacteristic.

The other days will divided up among the other months. But 10 days, right in the heart of it, starting midway, will remain as a kind of stump. Like when you cut down a tree and leave a stump. Then everyone who passes by taunts that filthy stump, "You're not so tough now, are you, tall tree! You thought you were such a big tree, baddest tree in town, quick to lord it over the rest of us! Now look at you! You're hacked to the ground! Just a worthless stump, no glory, no grandeur, nothing to brag about now, is there? Ha! Of course not! Your day of pride is gone!"

Anyway, the team probably needs no introduction. I insisted on the best, men like myself of impeccable judgment. There's of course one holy man, Pastor Wadd, from my church, who counsels men daily on the folly of sexual addiction. The others -- maybe I could've gotten better, but it's only February we're working on -- are men I knew I could get on a minute's notice. They've never been chosen for anything so it's only right. Each one tends to shoot first and not ask questions. Men after my own heart. Only the best. You've never heard of them so I won't list their names.

I explained the parameters of the task to them. A 10-day stump of old February, with those 10 days being the foul haunt of every crazy thing. Pastor Wadd, naturally, wanted to get his specialty in, as you'll see in the list. I actually spoke against it, because I don't like blue material, but he insisted on the righteousness of his work. Also among the parameters was that each day should be thematic, lifting to the fore the foulness of the month we've destroyed.

First, the 10-day period will be known as "The Scourge of Time." The 10 days will be known as:

1) Trash Talkin' -- I personally like trash talkin'. Depending on your capacity for rage you can really work up a head of steam. As I've confessed before, I even trash talk melting snow: "You heaped yourself in enormous drifts and thought you were so tough! But look at you now, little more than a silly dusting! I need a spoon to scoop you, not a shovel!" The first day is for all of us to trash talk each other, giving them what for.

2) Dry Heaves -- I feel a sickness coming on. I'm queasy, a little lightheaded, down in the gut. But there's nothing there, I haven't eaten since the day before Trash Talkin'. No appetite, worrying about what they'll say about me. So I go around, just dry heaving, which is actually more painful than coming up with something. Because it just goes on and on. With everyone doing it. If you can't think of anything to heave about, I'll be writing some very gross things that day as a public service. Grapes that seem like they're eyeballs, etc.

3) Shivs a' Flashin' -- This is the day that we open every jail and prison and let the prisoners go free! Everyone from simple murderers all the way up to the tougher bastards, given to outright meanness. Of course they'll be up to some mischief. But since we want society to survive, they'll be on their honor to not commit any terrible crimes, and, this is something we'll insist on, they have to promise to return to prison the next day.

4) Piss 'n' Vinegar -- The term's fairly self-explanatory. Lots of piss 'n' vinegar. Whether you want it to be just sassiness, or actual piss and vinegar. There'll be lots of beer drinking and salad eating. Don't forget to watch your step, the gutters will certainly be running yellow that day.

5) Sexual Addiction Counseling Day -- Pastor Wadd's day. He has a curriculum called "Solomon's 1000 Wives." The gist of it's something like this, that all of us have appetites, some small, some medium, some huge. But one man can only handle so much. Wisdom is knowing your limits, then whittling it down, by personal discipline, to one man-one woman. Take me, I could probably handle a convertible full of girls, give or take, but I know better.

6) Mass Maypole -- I've always thought the maypoles of olden days were something on the very edge of impropriety. They have the ribbons, they're going back and forth, and it's all quite dainty. But speed it up, intensify it, and it'd be explosive. It'd be an insane sight. It might even erupt into something that'd make Solomon look like amateur hour, such a bacchanalia, maypolers falling into one another's embrace.

7) Gross Out! -- This is more a day for the kids, sticking their tongues out at each other, disrespecting adults with hand gestures, and making foul noises with their hand under their armpit. I tried that the other day, and something's wrong, I can't do it anymore. I guess my flesh up there's a little too saggy to get the good suction. And to think I used to do "I'm Popeye the Sailor Man" at school assemblies. I even shaved my armpits, hoping to get it back, but no.

8) Cocoon Nightmare -- Anyone originally born during any of these 10 days has been excluded and kept cooped up at home. As though they were in a cocoon the whole time, but storing up enough orneriness and cussedness that when they come out they make it memorable. The rest of us are laying low today, having survived so far and not wanting to tempt fate. It's not called Nightmare for nothing, because their pent-up energy is dangerous. This is actually the day when any dishonorable prisoners from Shivs a' Flashin' are scared straight and head back to the safety of the pen.

9) Mardi Gras -- The great day of celebration, for any devilry that no one's done thus far. Parades, flashing yourself, getting beads, the whole thing. I've never been to Mardi Gras so I'm not sure what goes on. But I'm sure this won't be the usual tame brand.

10) Lent -- The old five-week period of penance and spiritual disciplines is compressed into one day, everyone's faults by now being crystal clear. No measly daub of ashes on your forehead -- Oh no! -- this will be like the Desert Fathers, flagellation with whips and glass shards, nails, the whole works, gargling firecrackers. The life we've lived these 10 days is such that if Lent has any value whatsoever, this is when it'll be proved.

Chasing the Thrill Divine

"This is that once in a lifetime,
this is the thrill divine."

"Again" by Lionel Newman and Dorcas Cochran

The great song, "Again," tells in lovely lyrics that the thrill divine is a once in a lifetime experience. At first look, we might say once in a lifetime isn't very many. But upon reflection, we can say, at least we had that one chance!

Assuming you realize the thrill when it's there. Presumably you would, since it is "the thrill divine." What kind of divine thrill would it be if you totally missed it? Although it's easy to imagine cases in which the person, be he drunk or something, might miss it. If it's indeed "once in a lifetime," you should've been ready...

On the other hand, the song doesn't say everyone's entitled to the "once in a lifetime" experience. It strikes me, rather, as a serendipitous thing, like the coming together of two lovers who suddenly experience the thrill divine. No fumbling with straps, no bushwhackers, just greatness and intensity they'll treasure forever.

I don't hold to the notion that it has to be only once in a lifetime. I think the thrill divine can happen often, and in experiences broader than love and sex. I'm saying your life can become completely immersed, drenched, enfolded, and wrapped in the thrill divine.

Yogis, gurus, holy men of old, and even today -- a man I know locally, Pastor Wadd -- have been touched by the thrill divine. My guess is this, that they're actually all over town, the countryside, and around the world. But probably not all of them want to be known.

I can see myself very secretive of the thrill divine. I wouldn't want anyone to dissect me and look for things wrong with me to explain it, blood vessel strictures, high sodium, low sodium, or brain tumors. As long as it's truly the thrill divine, I don't care what causes it.

I can envision a time -- maybe closer than you think -- when the thrill divine springs up everywhere. Little children with more visions than usual, old men dreaming dreams, etc., the thrill divine constantly hitting us. It might even be on the news! "Ten more great outbreaks of the thrill divine in the metro, details at 6." Then you catch a glimpse of the anchor as they're going to commercial. His eyes roll back in his head, the thrill divine hits, and when they come back he's gone.

Say, though, the thrill divine is happening all over the countryside, like tornadoes. We have tornado chasers, bringing us videos of tornadoes. They're just chasing wind, twirling, swirling wind, which we've seen a million times.

But if we had the thrill divine chasers, we could see euphoria on earth. So many people knowing the thrill divine -- and in the strangest ways -- others would want it too. You see this guy's cabin, and he's at the window, a big beatific look on his face, eyes rolled back, hair in an aura of non-consuming fire, etc., and people are amazed. How did that happen? It was the thrill divine!

Let's picture me as a thrill divine chaser. I'm like the storm chasers, with all the usual excitement. The thrill divine's at the Jenkins' place! His chimney's glowing, supernal photons are streaming out, old man Jenkins himself is on top of the barn, one with the clouds. Someone get over there! Assure him it's the thrill divine, and he'll have it on the ground too.

I have to tell someone! "Friends," I'm talking on a special radio broadcast, "We've had 44 known thrills divine just today in the central region. The key thing is no one's being left out. It's spread over the entire spectrum of traditions, and even those with none. If you're listening to this broadcast and the thrill divine hits you, do not be overly concerned. Enjoy it."

A Great Victory -- We Closed Down a Bed Store!

You probably remember -- it's great to be notorious! -- me sharing before about my church and our pastor, Pastor Wadd. He's really undisputed in this, being well known as the best sexual addiction counselor in the three-synod area. Some of his teaching can be found in my old post, Pastor Wadd -- The Sexual Root of Everything. I'll admit, he can be tough to talk to. He's got a rock-solid stare and a mind that only goes one place.

Over the last few years, one of our church's ministry drives has been to take on bed stores and the sales of mattresses in general. We've pushed hard, a continual thrust. For example, we've even done everything we can to delay bed deliveries. The tougher it is to get delivery, the less likely people will buy them. And it's our fervent hope, if we ever get a legislature with a real set of balls, to outlaw the bed all together. Pastor Wadd's teaching on the bed is right on: The bed is the gateway to sex.

(Full disclosure: I myself have a bed -- I keep some of these details quiet -- but it's only because I have a bad back and can't sleep on the floor like the others at church. Nothing else happens there. Very limited frequency.)

Our work, as it turns out, has been something of a thankless job, that is, with the general public. Some of the infidels, the worst ones, have come out to take us on, trying to start pillow fights and the like. But we have marched peacefully, carrying our GOD HATES BEDS signs even in the face of terrific provocation. Bed stores hate to see us coming. One tried the old ruse of trying to kill us with kindness, bringing out water to us on one of those 130 degree days. We just drank the water and kept marching!

Pastor told us, If Moses could walk 40 years, we can make it another 20 minutes. Which was tough. And I know a number of our people went home and just crashed, spread out on the hardwood floor in misery. They were tired, but it felt great to take a load off. And they were comforted in the knowledge that it really does eventually pay off, all the hardship. That's what we're celebrating today.

I was driving by, out on the east side, earlier today, and saw the big signs by the road, "MATTRESS STORE CLOSING," with some of the details on their close-outs on all beds and bed-related products. They even had "Bedman the Dancing Mattress" flapping and waving his arms, now in his last days. They're going all out! Which I guess is OK. They can't very well just set their store on fire; there's other businesses in the area. They need to get rid of the beds somehow, although a bonfire in the country would be preferable.

It's really great, though, isn't it? Celebrate with me! It's gratifying to think that I did my little part in this, all part of a higher calling. Pastor really is right about the bed and sex. You hear of people going to bed together all the time. City councilmen with their secretaries. Congressmen with congresswomen, in their own kind of congress.

And of course there's the average man, out cheating on his wife, shacking up at the cheapest motel he can find, with some loose chick from work. I can just picture how it must be: Furtive glances all around, parking around back, having fake names picked out, Walt Defug, Alan LaCarte, Izzy Wither, etc. Pulling the curtains, locking the door, using protection, eying the bed, pulling down the covers, slowly undressing one another, her beautiful little black bra, looking deeply into one another's eyes, arranging the towels on the bed, skyrockets in flight, lovingly caressing her sexy tattoo, kissing the downy fuzz on the back of her neck, his fingers in her blond silky hair as they both doze off. Things you hear about. Terrible stuff. Too bad he couldn't just go home. Lay on the floor with the old familiar wife. The mudpack, the curlers, that old housecoat. Nothing new there. She used to be good. And forget the bed.

OK, that's the big news for the day! We're celebrating the demise of the bed store! Yes! The loss of jobs, a ton of money on the merchandise, and all the upheaval it brings! Hallelujah! But I suppose our celebration will be brief. There's several other bed stores in town. We've still got our work cut out for us.

Born To Sin -- A Swimming Pool Right Outside

This one is hot ... I'm still shaking, a bit, sitting here at home. I'm thinking, Wow! this guy actually lives there! Lucky dog, that's for sure! The view outside my window hasn't changed in years, certainly not for the better. I've had a good view of the garage since the '70s, that's the biggest thing.

But this guy ... whoa! He's a guy from church. It just so happened he needed a ride today, and you know me, Mr. Volunteer. There was a column in the paper one day where they asked if you ever volunteer. I felt guilty, then a month later I'm regularly picking a guy up for church.

Today, he needed help getting stuff from the car inside, since we'd had a potluck lunch. Right away, we're unloading the car and I'm noticing some activity off to the left, where there's a beautiful pool. The sun was beaming down and the water was shimmering, as you can tell from the undoctored photo. But that wasn't the best part!

We got to his apartment and he pulls open the curtains of the picture window. There we are, gazing down on enough bathing beauties to stock five years of fantasies. I started joking around with him, "Are these your nose prints on the glass?" Which he seemed to be embarrassed by. "How do you get anything done around here?" I could barely contain my enthusiasm. "This is like dying and going to heaven, and finding it's better than you could've ever hoped for." But he wasn't sharing any of this, waving it off and putting away his Tupperware.

I thought, OK, you go your way, I'll go mine, and left a few nose prints of my own. One of the bathing beauties was a truly modern woman, having a tattoo of something on her chest, which was peeking out of the suit. It's a hard image to shake, even though I couldn't make it out. I doubt it said "Come to Poppa." Plus, of course, I'm wondering what she's doing out there getting sun. I thought that was out. But no matter, sun cancer be damned! And of course she wasn't the only one, right there on display, sunning herself and taking up everyone's attention. Some of these ladies must work out, or eat right, or get exercise some other way -- I'll bet they do! They're definitely fit! Fit for lots of things.

And lest I be accused of being one-sided and showing gender bias, which I'd never do, there were a few rather buff young men. It seems the summer brings them out. The pool brings them together like a magnet. I was amazed at this one guy's beautiful six pack. I glanced down at my own two liter bottle and felt ashamed. Still, wouldn't it be a real treat for an old guy like me to be parading himself out there? Dipping his toe in the water and giving one of those ugly shivers, arms on the chest to get warm? That didn't happen. I'm decrepit. I don't think I could affect the look of nonchalance anymore. When you're old you remember wasting your youth.

I'm over at the window making yelping noises, and stuff like the noise of bacon sizzling in a hot skillet. And this lucky dog, my church friend, acted like, "Yeah, so what?" He's a true church mouse, that's for sure! I looked over and saw an Einstein poster on the wall. Oh, into your studies, eh? Good for you, not me. Good things come to them that wait, and I got all day. If I lived there I'd be up with my glasses cleaned, binoculars, and telescope, and a veritable feast for the senses, a buffet, particularly the sense of sight. I've probably said enough!

I sort of agree with everyone, Pastor Wadd and the white-haired elders, etc., lust is a terrible thing. (I'm honestly not quite as gung ho as them. I'm just not that open, because I know it'd mean more counseling.) But it does have some redeeming uses, such as letting you know, even if you're virtually dead in appearance, everything's still working fine inside. Whatever the evolutionary impulse is behind our instincts, it works all by itself, on autopilot. And that has something to do with the Divine.

Pajamas In Church -- Style Or Sacrilege?

Something happened in church today that for me and others started out terrible, but ended up not so bad. It was one of those moments where you're taken aback, and speaking for myself, even filled with revulsion, but then something extraordinary happens, and next thing you know you're a little more inspired. I'm glad it doesn't happen that often, though, because I'm not sure my poor heart could take it!

Here's what it was. The day started off normal. All the preliminaries. Then Pastor Wadd mounted the pulpit and was into a barn-burner sermon on "Modern Gomorrah Out-Sodoms Sodom." In case you don't know, his ministry specialty is combating sexual addictions. So at this point, as far as we knew, it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, without any warning, a couple of people came in the back door, a young man and a young woman, college-aged, and walked down the aisle and lounged right there on the floor of the platform. And if that wasn't bad enough -- the obvious disruption -- they were dressed in pajamas! Of course we know it's not unusual for people to wear pajamas in public today -- it's something of a fashion, a very bad fashion.

So there they were, looking up at the pastor like they were actually interested in his message, trying to suppress a sarcastic smile, according to my interpretation. I felt my blood pressure rise, I was so mad I thought I'd bust a vein. Pastor Wadd looked totally flummoxed, the people around me were aghast, and as for me, as I said, I was seething. My teeth were clenched so tight I might have done actual damage to a couple of molars.

OK, now something else was going on back by the door that I didn't know about. But the events, as reconstructed, went something like this. One of our oldest members -- an old deacon named Guy Miller, Deacon Miller -- was back there pulling off his pants, having worn his pajamas under them ... All I knew at the time was old Guy Miller comes walking down the aisle in his pajamas! And if you know how he walks, it's very slow and labored, one excruciating step after another. It was like the Via Dolorosa.

So there he goes -- Deacon Miller -- with his normal suit coat, and pajama bottoms, painfully walking the aisle toward the platform. The young couple are now also rapt, Pastor Wadd's looking on in slow motion, and the rest of the congregation, including me, have dropped our jaws. Finally, Guy Miller arrives at the platform, and the young college man reaches his hand to help him up the steps. Both of them, him and her, help the old deacon to the floor. We now have quite a scene, you'd have to agree!

Pastor cleared his throat, and looking out over us seemed to grant his seal of approval to the scene, probably thanks to the quick thinking of Deacon Miller, who taught us ... something ... I still haven't figured out exactly what.

My blood pressure dove back to its normal range, but I still don't entirely approve of everything that happened. Plus, I'm wondering why Guy had pajamas on under his pants. Wouldn't they have been riding up his legs?