Arrival! The Name of the Game

This whole thing, I could've set it to ABBA music, like Mamma Mia.

I recently got the box set of their CDs, and I'm in tears with almost every song -- as Agnetha, Björn, Benny, and Anni-Frid recall the various incidents in my life. My birth, "Take a Chance on Me." School: "On and On and On." The years of acne: "I Saw It in the Mirror." Adulthood: "Should I Laugh or Cry." And, of course, when I first met The Pink Professor: "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)." But in this present adventure, I've cued up one very special track...

The blimp's sound system blares forth the song "SOS" as we pass the mixmaster/tangle outside San Francisco, where I lost a piece of my soul in 1975, which in recent years drew The Pink Professor to it. So, yes! he's down there ... somewhere! We pass with searchlights invading, scattering about, and scouring the area, with our ladder dangling free in the breeze.

I can see a large group assembling, coming up from under the bridge, one by one, two by two, and others, with some going back down. Apparently underlings or students or devotees, certainly strays taken in by The Pink Professor, whose drive to nurture and mold character is strong wherever he goes. I can't wait to be with him again!

Our glad reunion is delayed, though, because turning the blimp around is not an easy thing to accomplish. I swear, we're about halfway to Hawaii before we've turned it around for a second pass. They might've prevented Pearl Harbor with nothing more than a blimp in the bay area on cruise control. We come back for another pass, and some of the underlings are once again out, but different ones. Then, in the long process of turning around again, I see the lights of Reno. Finally, we're back for another precious pass, and this time I behold the majestic figure of The Pink Professor, standing there tall, but waving us off, "No! No! Go away!"

I say to myself, "God bless him! He's so dedicated to his work, he's willing to sacrifice his own happiness." Out to sea we go again, back to the Hawaii area, with the Arizona memorial looking as beautiful as it did that first infamous day in 1941. Then we're back for another pass, but this time I've worked my way down the ladder and am hanging by my legs.

Maybe he actually wanted to stay there, but in an impulsive act, seeing my love was very thick -- thick as thieves -- the Pink Professor grabbed my arms and I managed to hold him as we passed Oakland. I have to confess, "Slipping Through My Fingers" ran through my fearful mind. But with an extraordinary effort he shimmied up my body and started up the ladder. Those on the massive vessel cheered us on. I, however, couldn't get myself turned around, so I was left with one dire option, to climb up backwards, like a crawdad.

Sounds impossible, I know, but they kept playing "SOS" and it gave me strength:

"When you're gone, though I try how can I carry on?"

I love the driving guitar on that part; it gives me moves like Jagger. I'm telling myself, The love of your life is directly above you, climb with all your might, just as the crawdad makes his way under his rock, be it easy, be it hard. It's true, crawdads don't take days off. And like the post office, they simply aren't put off by the elements.

We docked for the night at the Transamerica Pyramid Center. If you know anything about San Francisco, it's a big building that tapers to a point, hence the name.

February Survives -- I Blame Hugh Hefner

WE CAME THAT CLOSE TO WINNING,
BUT FINISHED THE BATTLE WITH
NEXT TO NO SURVIVORS, ONLY
ME. AND I'M GOING INTO HIDING.

I was up early this morning, looking for signs of success against February. My heroic attempt to destroy February as a month on the calendar, then divvy up most of its days with other months and preserve a "stump month" of 10 February days, hung in the balance. Alone in my prayer citadel -- other than the courthouse the highest point in the county -- I tried to have faith, but reports coming in from around the world painted a dismal picture. There was no popular groundswell, none whatsoever, to do away with February.

I held out hope, biting my fingernails to the quick. Various lieutenants and family members climbed up to check on me. The braver ones warned me to be prepared for bad news. They said reports arriving from other states and countries showed the chances of destroying February as bleak. Legislators were not meeting, Congress pitched pennies instead of working, and the United Nations was closed, ambassadors laid off without pay.

Finally, I realized I had to put on a brave face. And show that everything was fine with me, in spite of my disappointment. I stripped off my outer layers of clothing. (It's a cold day.) Then my thermals. Last, I shed the rest of my clothes and stepped out on my citadel balcony, totally naked, me against the world! In one last expression of defiance, albeit vain, I peed. Reasoning, if I can't destroy February, I can go for the Guinness world record for the longest adhering urine stream. I was stoved up with two pots of freshly ground coffee -- jet black! My stream might still be flowing -- somewhere, somehow -- even as I write this two hours later.

So what happened? It's too early for a complete post mortem. I won't get into the details of my agitating government and the media. I put my heart into it, but it wasn't enough. I would like to mention, as an incriminating aside, that there seems to be a lot of old-time XXX movie houses very close to the Capitol. Could it be our "faithful representatives" are more "hung" up on some "pressing" matters of the flesh than they are "coming" to the aid of their people? 

OK, I did the government thing, but the heart of the campaign had to be this very blog. I put the word out there everyday -- with a worldwide outreach -- and what did people do with it? That's what I'd like to know! I know you'll say this is in bad taste, but frankly I'm shifting much of the blame to my readers, whose personal pleasure was their only real concern. Pretending to be on my side, pretending to do the heavy lifting, but then ... not really. I'd guess most of them are also into XXX entertainment, whether in some rundown smelly/sticky theater, or right there with their iPhones "in hand."

I've suspected all along that I've been dealing with mental cream puffs, halfwits, and the usual run of dim bulbs you meet on the internet. They're spoiled, there's no commitment. You know what, I remember the internet back in the '90s, man. Back in the '90s, man, you'd run a campaign -- destroy February, replace Christmas with Worship a Pine 2 x 4 Day -- and you'd get it done. Then the 2000s came -- 9/11 and people became pansified -- and now we're so soft we've essentially melted. It's 2015 and you couldn't raise an internet volunteer to YAWN on cue; they'd be asleep already before you flashed the sign!

OK, you had your chance. So don't come looking to me next year when February rolls around again. Just suffer. Because I'll still be nursing a grudge -- an eternal grudge -- stewing over how you deserted me, then even went so far as to callously stab me in the back right when I was on the brink of victory. The very worst time for betrayal, because the hurt never leaves. I'll always remember ... this time back in 2015 when I took on this literally thankless task. When my readers were so "into pleasure" they couldn't be bothered to support a brother in his hour of need.

It's a lot different from what I grew up with. I grew up hearing about the Depression, with my relatives' memories being how they stuck together, through thick and thicker. So where did things go so wrong with society? You know what I blame it on? There was strength in World War II, then a huge letdown, and people relaxed. When, guess who, Hugh Hefner comes along and fills the vacuum with Playboy magazine, setting the old mores aside as well as the old values. Look it up in any sociology text. Hugh Hefner gave us the dawn of a hedonism that would've made Caligula blush. And therein is the reason we couldn't destroy February.

So it's a problem with our government, and a problem with my readers, existing as they do in this reckless XXX world. And apparently there's nowhere to find better ones. Even the most prominent think tanks can't find people. They're all so hopelessly wasted, there's probably no one but me who'd even be smart enough to apply.

February -- Too Soon to Declare Victory

We're just this far -- a smidgen of an inch -- from proudly declaring total victory over February, and once and for all destroying, annihilating this infernal month.

But it's always that last stretch that can be tough, so we're taking it cautiously. One thing I do not want -- above all -- is to declare victory, then become a worldwide laughingstock, and, perish the thought, having to face February again next year amid heckling, laughter, finger-pointing, and other derision. There's already kids in the neighborhood setting my garbage on fire, just warming up for the main event, probably, and since I've been tossing my dead mice in there, you can only imagine the smell.

I hate the attitude I'm getting. But the world's come a long ways from the touchy-feely place it used to be, that my grandparents told me about, back in the utterly bleak days of the Depression, then World War II. The way they told it, they were just happy to survive. I knew I came from hardy stock when they told me the tough times claimed the lives of about half my relatives. Ground under the wheels of turmoil, leaving the rest to scamper for safety in a field somewhere, a clearing behind some trees. Those were great times, but touch and go, like when Grandpa's overalls were caught on a fence and Jap planes narrowly missed him with a barrage of bullets.

Yes, in many ways the good times are well behind us, as far as I can tell. And I'm usually an optimistic guy, believing the future can either match or surpass the past. This, despite what they say about rising oceans, creeping glaciers, falling meteors, the occasional fishhook in your finger, and roving gangs of hopeless teenagers, hopped up on tattoos, video games, and sagging trousers. A few of them in hoodies have left the rest of us with no choice but to arm ourselves, patrol our neighborhoods, and shoot anything that moves.

The police, you can't depend on them, through no fault of their own; their hands are tied. They're beholden to old rules of "justice and fairness" handed down by the courts, the same courts that have now deserted us in fear and taken to underground chambers. We want the police to have the power to take out unbridled terrorism, but they're still awaiting video equipment meant somehow to protect themselves.

So you see the situation I'm in. I believe the world would be a better place without February, and I believe we're on the verge of making it happen -- demon warfare be damned, and burning mountains of flame falling into the abyss notwithstanding -- if we can just have patience in these last few days, a little over a week to go. When they say "Time will tell," certainly that's true in this instance. February will either prevail or it won't. I'm putting my money on its destruction, but I won't declare victory just yet. That's for a time to come, and until then we must give it our all, thrusting forward, or back and forth, as circumstances demand, believing that in the great climactic moment a decision to withdraw from the battlefield will present itself, and at long last we will rest easy.

But whatever happens happens -- what's important for me is to be certain that I gave my last ounce of strength in the cause. Equally important is to avoid, as I said, ridicule, humiliation, and retaliation. But that can't be the focus. The focus has to be to give it all I've got now, because next year will be too late. If I fail -- God forbid -- I can change my name, move, get new papers, find a militia movement, let's say, and take out my frustrations on society and its recalcitrance in mob action. Folks, you need to help me now. This is where Unabombers come from, the temptation and pull of which I vow to resist with all my might.

We've long now passed a certain threshold in February, having garnered quite a bit of support to destroy February through my blog. I've been in the news. Quite a number of people have rallied for the cause. The State Capitol saw a rally, thanks to the free donuts we passed out. Right here in town, at the courthouse, a few people also rallied. I regret to say things got out of hand and they destroyed some artwork from the 1920s. But on the bright side there's always someone who can make new artwork.

Stick by me, OK? And together we'll have our declaration of victory very soon. I'm going to do everything I can to make it happen. For the next week I'll only be sleeping seven hours a night, not eight. Dear friends, look up, for your redemption draweth nigh. February's going down!

Why Exactly Did We Forgive Japan?

I'm normally quick to forgive people their faults and sins. I know I've done a few evil things, like one Thanksgiving I ate way too much pie. I did it, I wasn't proud of it, but after a time of penance I forgave myself. I believe others deserve the same consideration.

But what about actually being at war with someone, even a World War? Is that not at least arguably worse than overeating on a holiday designed for food? I think it is. In the case of World War II, and America's war with Japan, you've got outright treachery at play, then all the sorrow and suffering that went with it. It's still something that brings a lot of grief. I saw an old guy at the memorial reliving it just this year. He didn't look reconciled.

I hadn't seen Tora! Tora! Tora! since the early '70s, but saw it again the other day, the disaster now streaming on TV on demand. Japan's Original Sin against us can never go away. We're forever waking up on December 7 -- if we're in Hawaii's time zone -- to the coming of planes in a sneak attack for the ages. It's gut-wrenching. There's also the movie The Final Countdown. Kirk Douglas goes back in time, thanks to a weird storm at sea, and is about to take down the Japanese before they can attack. Unfortunately, the storm reappears and he's back in 1980, having not changed a thing. That tells me the Japanese were damned lucky.

A bigger take on it is to conclude: The only way to prevent Pearl Harbor is ... there's not a way to prevent it now that it's happened. All we can do now is what we originally did, go to war against them, destroy them, then hold a grudge forever. (We're not forgiving Al Qaeda anytime soon!) What we actually did is only half good. We went to war and destroyed them, but then we promptly forgave them. All I know is I was born within 10 years of VJ Day and my first toys were made in Japan. That's not right.

Is my argument, then, against my parents? I hadn't thought of it, but maybe so. They either bought those toys or allowed someone else to. I didn't buy them myself. These are the same parents, by the way -- speaking of my mom -- who taught me, "Once burned, twice wary." Wonder why she was such a huge hypocrite, applying that teaching to me swiping cookies from the jar but allowing the Japanese complete leeway. She and Dad are both gone now, so I'll have to work out this mystery myself.

Probably they were simply going along with the rest of society. It's hard to buck the trend. They thought, "Japan's destroyed, they're tamed, they're under control." We occupied them for a while -- my mom collected "Occupied Japan" nicknacks -- then turned them loose, to be as duplicitous as they wanted, if that's what they chose. In the '60s, Japan sent us crap. In the '70s, it improved. In the '80s, we couldn't keep up with them. Our stuff was crap, their stuff gold. "Who won this goddamned war anyway?" my grandpa might've asked, had he not died in the '70s. He talked like that.

From where I sit -- not able to see past my personal horizons -- it's only a matter of time... As far as I know, Japan's already amassed enough weaponry, force, and the will to use it to pay us back big time. I hate the thought, but in a way the comeuppance would suit us, having forgiven them and ignorantly trusted them. I never liked Reagan, but I like what he said, "Trust but verify." As it turns out, the Land of the Midnight Sun somehow has light for their path and it's us who dwell in darkness. It's all something for future generations -- if there should be any -- to contemplate.

There's No Time Like the Past

You're interested in the past. That's why you're here. We have spent our whole lives in what is now the past, and those are moments for us to celebrate.

Today, we are holding a gala celebration for the past, with the purpose of moving on from it. We are bidding a fond farewell to the past, that it all might be left behind, not with a bum's rush but in style and with honor.

I want you to enter the grand hall, with the audience where the audience always sits, and at the front a dais and lectern for the various leaders. Everything has been arranged in advance, you really don't have to worry about a thing. Simply stand and cheer at those times you feel would be most appropriate. Or remain silent.

There will be various ones, divisions of people, marching in. There will be the giving and receiving of awards and certificates. There will be so many different things happening that I won't even be able to write it all. You will have to imagine it where you are. And if you need to shed a tear over something, so be it. Let them flow.

On this occasion we will be extending our thanks and appreciation to those of the past. We will be applauding one another, listening to one another's stories with laughter and sometimes tears. There may be fist-pumping and backslapping. We will be holding up the glories of the past, revisiting the stories.

In comes the magnificent banner with our theme! "THE PAST WAS OUR HOME FOR MANY YEARS, BUT NOW ITS WORK IS DONE."

And here comes The Cavalcade of Decades! With representatives from each one! The 1800s flag is carried in (the whole century, not decades) by someone they found who had ancestors from then, as there are no living representatives from the 1800s. A moment of silence. Imagine that, we couldn't find a single living representative. They've all gone on to their reward.

Next are the flags for the decades spanning from the 1900s to the 1930s. There's a few from the 1900s, a few more from the 1910s, a few more from the 1920s, and several more from the 1930s, getting progressively younger. They plant their flags and we see a symbolic picture from each one. I'll mention the 1920s, a megaphone. And the 1930s, a sign saying "APPLES 5 cents."

The representatives from the 1940s through the 2010s are more numerous, and the symbolic pictures closer to our own experience: World War II, Elvis, Kennedy, Bicentennial, Big Hair, Computers, 9/11, and Guns. I'm personally proud to have lived through quite a few of these. I'm still doing the whole Elvis thing, and of course working with a computer. As for big hair, I'm virtually bald, but I still have decent sidewalls.

I get a tug at my heartstrings with the '50s flag, since I was born then, was one of the world's first Elvis impersonators, at the age of 5, started school then, and crossed the road one time without my mother's permission. The '60s flag tugs at me, too, JFK. I was in an antique store the other day and saw a huge picture of Kennedy. I told him what I've already told his picture a thousand times, "Do not go to Dallas!" The '70s flag doesn't tug quite as hard. I couldn't wait for the Bicentennial to be over, and now it's ages ago. Probably should've put the Fonz on the flag.

Shhh ... they're doing one of the obligatory moments of silence for some past atrocity. I was typing when they announced it and accidentally tuned it out. But it must really be something, because people are putting their hand on their heart. Which I better do, too. And ... there ... OK ... the man at the lectern said, "Thank you," followed by lots of us clearing our throats and coughing.

I'm taking it all in. It's overwhelming, what the past means for us. And now, here, today, we're leaving it all behind! It's going to be tough! But rest assured, we will carry on. If we ever wonder then, "Whatever Happened to the Old Days?", we can know, with every fiber of our being -- it's like Doritos -- we're making new old days all the time.

The Older Generation -- Over 90

I'm 60. That means I'm only 30 years off 90. If I'm somehow able to live another 30 years, and I come from a family where barely anyone does, I will be 90. That sounds ancient, but the last 30 years went by pretty fast, so all I have to do is trip over that family birthdays again!

When I think of old people, one little truth keeps creeping in. Old people are changing all the time. They're not consistently the same. The average person at Woodstock was older than me. So they're creeping up there now. But the average person as old as them at the time of Woodstock was a completely different person. Different background pretty much completely.

They were practically people of my grandparents' generation. Let's see, at the time of Woodstock, 1969, my Grandma was only 65, almost 66. That sounds youngish, even though she was from a generation of people, at least from my kid perspective, who were definitely old when they were 65. Grandpa was six years older, so he was already over 70. He seemed ancient. Neither of them made it to 90, by the way.

I remember them laughing, of course. But they didn't have that kind of constant sense of humor people have now. Which is actually annoying, because we've seen too many crappy sitcoms, I'm convinced that's what it is. (You ever notice people on sitcoms are constantly cracking jokes, but the other characters aren't laughing?) But it does tend to give people a more youthful attitude. My grandparents weren't humorless, as I said, but they had a serious quality that I don't see much of today. It made them seem older.

I've been watching the old episodes of the Lawrence Welk show on PBS, whenever I think of it. I might watch one, then forget it for three weeks, then I watch another. These are generally from 1964-1970, I'm estimating. I love watching them, even though I wasn't a fan of the show at all when it was first on. But now, the very square quality of it gives me a constant sense of the way old folks were then.

About the best part of it, what I really like, is when they show the old folks in the audience, with some of them dancing. I always have to think, now they're a'moldering in their graves, for the most part, but there they were at the time, exactly the generation I'm talking about. There aren't too many film sources for the average everyday person of that time, at least that I know of. But Lawrence Welk had them! You can see them laughing in happiness at the music, the dancing, and being together with others. And for the most part, it looks exactly like the very conventional (and only occasional) humor I saw in old people at the time. The show's a time capsule.

Old folks of that generation went through a lot. Such as the Great Depression, so bad we capitalize it. And of course there were those minor skirmishes, World Wars I and II, so bad we Roman numeral them. I don't agree with the common labeling, thanks to Tom Brokaw, that these folks were in any sense "The Greatest Generation." I think they just made it through their times like anyone would, given the circumstances. You deal with what you get. But it really might have given them that serious outlook, the more business-like approach to life they had.

OK, I didn't mean to get sociological on you. But how else can you mess around with a subject like this?

Nursing homes are full of folks over 90, and I suppose I could go over and visit a few of them. Anyone's allowed, I guess, although it's better if you have some legitimate reason for dropping in, other than the fact that you write a blog and are interested in 90-year-olds. They might frown on that! Who knows? But if there's people from your church there, you could drop in legitimately. Then get to know some of the others. But, like I said, 90's different all the time.

The 90-year-old in the nursing home today is quite a bit different from what my grandparents would've been. If you're 90, you were only in your mid-40s at the time of Woodstock. So very young. But they're still plenty old in certain ways, having accrued the things of age since then, no doubt ... they need to be met and known!

This Is The Signal

The world waited. There was a kind of hush all over the world. A million men in uniform did all the things a million men in uniform do. The officers were at their mess. They exchanged many indecipherable whispers. Those at the higher echelons polished their medals with trepidation. One man paced his humble quarters alone.

This one man was the great man, General Dwight D. Eisenhower, answerable only to the president of the United States, which he himself, unknown at the time of D-Day, would one day be. If we could mash time, you could say he was ultimately answerable only to himself. But that wasn't his concern. He wasn't thinking of future political attainments, although it could've been in the back of his mind.

Ike, alone out of all men, knew the signal that would launch the massive D-Day operation. Although let me back up a bit, someone else needed to know, or it wouldn't make sense ... a guy in a lonely communications shack, just him and Ike. The world's hope over the tyranny of Nazism hung on a shared signal between those two men, the great man and the humble man, who might've had a heart attack and all would've been lost. (That's why we suffer the tyranny of the Republican Party today: Bad hearts from too much junk food and not enough exercise; no one's getting the signal to destroy these SOBs.)

Well, OK, what was the signal? Ike picked up the phone and said simply, "Dead dog." Just like that. I almost hated to say it, it sounds so trivial. But that's the way it is with signals -- they're not always what you'd expect. You keep them secret, like your password for online banking -- mine is "abc123" -- so no one can steal your money. In the case of Ike and the other guy, that was all it took -- "Dead Dog" -- and our soldiers went floating in and wading in, attacking the Nazis like rabid banshees; it was not a pretty sight.

The signal can be a nod, a handshake, or just a glance. I've given a few glance signals, and the other party knows exactly what I'm saying, "Let's get out of here. This party is dead." Or, "The service here is terrible." Or, "Hit the mute, these UPS commercials suck!" Not to pick on them, most commercials suck. But how do you like that one where the guy from Seinfeld is saying, "I'm happy." And everyone else says, "I'm happy," individually and repeatedly. That is so vastly sucky I've only heard it once. The other times have been muted.

Had I been in the meeting for planning that piece of crap, I would have said, "You're either kidding or you're trying to sink the whole company, in which case, congratulations!" Finally, had they taken me to task despite my impeccable wisdom, the signal that I was resigning would have been my extended right middle finger while my left hand would be making the "crazy" twirl at the side of my head and my legs would be advancing toward the elevator, after I had pissed in their coffee and all the plants. "Are you happy, now?! God knows I'm happy!" Happy, happy, happy.

A signal has meaning. We've communicated. There are inner realities, vast and minute at the same time, where these operations and their signals come together in concrete reality. At least concrete subjective reality, which, as has to be obvious, is actually the same thing. But it's worth making a distinction for the sake of clarity and perhaps discovery on the part of some, like me. If I were to look within -- wherever that is -- I could very well flash the signal and end up turned inside out. Break through to the other side. A regular retrojerk moment, although, unlike Jimi Hendrix, I would still be around.

I'm convinced -- convinced, I say -- that nothing is really apart from anything else. Which means even when we're in the gutter we're still in the fullness of the divine. But to experience it positively in this daily grind, there's a signal (or trigger) somewhere, not necessarily known to the ego but still 100% encoded in the consciousness, the consciousness being understood as described in Sri Aurobindo's "The Life Divine." Hear it, notice it.

Now, in case you don't know how it worked out for Eisenhower: The guy in the communications shack did not have a heart attack. D-Day came off as he and Ike planned it. The Allies stormed the beach, a bunch of them got killed, but enough of them made it through to retake Europe, finally leaving Hitler like the steaming pile of shit he was in a lonely bunker.

Adolf got the signal that the jignal was up, enjoyed a quickie wedding with Eva Braun so in the end he wouldn't be living in sin, ate some cyanide and died a terrible death, his 1000 year reign truncated, from his point of view prematurely.

The Disabled Patriotic Veterans

Now that the local newspaper has exposed The Disabled Patriotic Veterans of Distinguished Foreign Service to America (DFVDFSA) as a scam, and Walmart forbade them ever to set up their table of suckers sold for their benefit, we can only look back and celebrate their presence for those brief months.

They're gone now but not forgotten. I can still see them in my mind's eye: The various articles of slouchy clothes, the ratty camouflage, faded Doors T-shirts, patriotic caps burdened by trinkets and buttons everywhere, and of course the handlebar moustaches. They'd show up, and if you were lucky enough to get there early, you'd see the heartrending ceremony of unpacking the six inch flag and its wooden base, and proudly saluting as they erected it on the table. Then it was on to the cash drawer and the all-necessary priming of the tip jar with about 20 bucks.

The Disabled Patriotic Veterans of Distinguished Foreign Service to America.  Every word is important. They're disabled, or presumably serve others somewhere who are. They're patriotic, as we've seen them show their little flag all due deference. They're veterans who've performed service in the foreign fields, which has been distinguished. These weren't just desk jobs, supply guys, logistical staff, officers, or base personnel. This was distinguished service, meaning it was extraordinary. And America, that's a word that packs a punch!

All that time, there in the stifling heat of a Walmart entrance, they kept a brave vigil, testifying to their great sacrifice and sacrificing still, that with each sucker sold perhaps they could make a few cents over cost, to support themselves, not to mention those, their brethren, somewhere, the ones who are actually disabled and in dire need.

And you have to hand it to them, they had a great sales pitch to go along with their physical presentation. "No one gave us a parade, at least buy a sucker." And ,"We gave our lives for your freedom, buy a sucker already." But even with that there were plenty of people who acted like they didn't see them and would press into Walmart without stopping. Which is both bad and good. Bad, because those people are miserable, sons-of-bitchin' ingrates. But good, because it feeds into the DFVDFSA's complex that nobody appreciates them, giving them the resolve to double down on the guilt-inducing slogans.

I asked this one guy -- who asked me if I'd ever served, to which I had to go into my normal spiel about being eligible yet drawing high lottery numbers in the draft -- what the average gift for a sucker is. He said it was a measly buck. A dollar?! Crap, the suckers are about a dime to buy, so that's not much of a profit when you factor in the table, the flag, the stickers, and the sheer amount of time it takes to set up out there -- not to mention the heat! -- and time is money.

But what about the upper stratosphere of donations? We've all heard of the stranger who shows up at the Salvation Army bucket every year and puts in a 1609 gold doubloon worth a million dollars. No, he hasn't been here, but of course we'd love to have him stop by. The upper stratosphere, as it turns out, isn't very high. A few people have put in $20, and a few of those make the added gesture of not even taking the sucker!

Then, what is the most memorable thing that's happened to you out here? I asked. He thought it over and was visibly moved. His voice starting to break -- which he brought back quickly to normal -- he told me about an old guy who lives at a nursing home. OK? This stuff really happens. The nursing home (assisted living facility, I should say) brings them out in vans.

One time the old guy saw the sucker stand and decided next time he'd do something special. So he put on his World War II uniform and came out. He stood about 20 feet away. The DPVDFSA rep stood near the table. The older gentleman walked straight toward him. People parted. The old man, his hand feeble beyond belief, and shaking like a leaf as a consequence, lifted his hand and saluted. The other returned the gesture. That was a beautiful moment. It was a meeting of generations, from one who probably did get a parade to one who didn't. As if to say, "You're all right, and your suckers ain't half bad either, and thank you for your service." He put in $10, took the sucker, and signed the rep's hat. I saw the faded signature, clearly the scrawl of an old-timer, someone very old.

Other than that, I have a clear memory of the naked girl tattoo on the guy's arm.

Now, though, it's all gone. The DPVDFSA appears to be no more, exposed by an ungrateful newspaper as a scam. And our opportunity to give them what they deserve as disabled patriotic veterans has now sadly passed.

Why The Old Vets Are So Quiet

I still haven't given up on the theme of the sex lives our soldiers and sailors in World War II. You might remember, I asked, "Did World War II Soldiers Have Sex?" Then I followed that with, "Should World War II Soldiers Have Had Sex?" Later, "I Forgive World War II Soldiers For Having Sex." But just because I forgave them doesn't mean I shouldn't explore the issue a little further. I get a lot of hits on these stories, and that's good for my ego.

WW II veterans are dying off at a staggering rate, and they're about gone. So any light the remaining ones could shed on this issue would be helpful, both for the historical record and for their peace of mind at having come clean. My word to them would be, Any vow of silence you made to your brothers in arms, surely you have kept up your end of the bargain. They're gone, but you remain. Bygones being bygones, come clean already!

As for the historical record, historians like to have a little fun, too. We think of  historians sitting in big ivory towers memorizing names and dates and quizzing one another every few hours. But that's probably just a stereotype. I think there has to be more to it. Frankly, I'm positive they're like the rest of us -- horny bastards -- and would appreciate a little lasciviousness in their work. So, please, veterans, let's get going before you die completely, so the scholarly assessments can proceed. What were your sexual exploits overseas?

You ever notice how quiet WW II vets have always been about their time away? I've known quite a few and except for one lone exception, I've never known any to recount their sexual exploits. The one exception told me just the barest bones story, some generalized experience he had with at least one prostitute. The details, alas, were lacking, and at that time I didn't have the same resolve as now in getting to the bottom of it.

As for the rest, maybe they were embarrassed to discuss something that is admittedly best left unsaid. Or perhaps they wanted to keep up a front in the presence of wives, girlfriends, and mothers that they had maintained their innocence. We could give them the benefit of the doubt and say veterans have historically been quiet about what they did in wars. But what if this is exactly the reason why! That they were having crazy sex, whether in ancient times or more recently, and simply didn't want to come clean!

The ones we've known, many of them, have gladly bragged about everything else, their boat, car, and family. It's kind of weird that they wouldn't be telling us everything they did in the war. But people think they're just reluctant because of the trauma, the life/death issues, all too deep for words. Balderdash! If you're a survivor, you're going to crow about it, unless there's a good reason not to, like covering up sex.

I'd like to get the confidence of a few of them, although with age it's getting harder and harder. They can always pretend to be deaf or out of it. But say I did. Say I had five of them at a table, and they think it's finally OK to talk about how many guys they killed. They're going on and on and I'm such an encouraging presence. Then I lay on them, "What'd you do for sex?" Suddenly they clam up, so we all know!

That's what it's always been. To disguise the real root of their silence, they chose to be silent on the whole war experience. All this time they were just bustin' to tell us how many guys they killed, and all the rest, but had they dared, inevitably mom and grandma and girlfriend and wife would've known. Because they'd have to go suddenly quiet when we turned to sex.

In a way, it's a tragedy. They came home as victors but had to carry a guilty conscience for decades. Their complexes grew and grew and eventually took over, to the point that they wouldn't have been able to say anything about it if they wanted. Finally, for the ones who died, they look up, see the lights of glory and mistake them for the red lights of a house in France; in their mind, they're suddenly 19, their face lights up, and they die with a smile.