Removing All Doubts

No. 7 of 31 -- Thermometer series

Everyone's heard of the wise man and the fool. The wise man is smart enough to keep his mouth shut. But the fool opens his and removes all doubt. If you have to think about that a bit, I get it. I've thought about it many times and I'm still not real sure. No one really likes the supposed wise guy because of jealousy. And no one likes the fool because he is a fool. So basically we don't like anyone. And the lesson has to be -- wise or fool -- keep your mouth shut and skate by. At least be that wise.

Do I have a degree of foolishness? Yes, more than my share. Except for wise survival skills and a complete fear of tomorrow, it looks like the joy of life is foolishness. No one ever thinks I'm a Brainiac. Never have been. If you’ve read this blog more than a day you know that. But am I a complete fool, a total moron, the mayor of Stupidville, the dunce of Dimsville? I don’t think so, but it’s a quandary, because if you’re that stupid you’re too stupid to know. So it's possible.

I actually don’t think we should ever get tied up in knots in these kinds of blind alleys, with the conclusion that we’re logically or illogically bound. I have been called the stupidest man on earth many times by well-meaning critics. But that’s just the way people talk. They’ve never met every man on earth, let alone tested everyone with clinical controls. Think of the effort, the call for papers they'd need, the groups and seminars, etc. So when you hear things like that — "You're the stupidest man on earth" — factor in some exaggeration. But if they say you're "literally" the stupidest man on earth, call the Guinness Book people and get it verified.

I was judged big-time by teachers a few times, and of course the guidance counselor, and didn't know how to respond. That’s one of the things I hated about school, that I didn’t have the vocabulary or analytical skills to reduce the teacher to a blubbering piece of jelly writhing and shimmy-shaking on the floor. Which would’ve been great. Then I'd be taking home a note to my mother that read, “Dear Mrs. Kundalini, Dippy reduced me personally and to the molecular level to a pile of dust during class with his many keen insights into my stupidity and the whole folly that the work of being a so-called teacher is when everyone knows I passed the training by the skin of my teeth and haven’t been able to improve myself with 25 years of experience; in fact, I’m getting worse.” That would've been sweet.

I didn't do any of that, because even then I had a reverent fear of tomorrow. But you have to agree that that teacher would've learned her lesson. My surgical dismemberment of her would've removed all doubts where she stood. And from that point on, whenever I had a criticism, people would've taken it seriously, or they too would've lost life and limb, and that instead of being expelled I would've been promoted immediately to the next class simply so I’d be someone else’s problem.

Do you, dear reader, want to avoid being reduced to dust and all the rest? Please send my thermometers sky high with your kind and loving attention. Did I tell you I lost my parents a few years ago? Have a heart. Several dogs have died too. Fish, guinea pigs. Show mercy. I don’t post everyday, sometimes I skip most of a month. Why? Because I don’t have anything to say? Sometimes yes, sometimes I’m afraid it will be such a word of power that no one can gaze upon it and live!

"Removing all doubts" today means I'm advancing boldly with the thermometer drive. Fearless, not looking back. Because there are so many hungry minds and eyes out there, all craving, hungering, and desiring fervently the full story -- they show it by filling and exploding my thermometers -- and that gives me the confidence I need to satisfy their hunger, minds, and eyes. 

Oatmeal La La Land

You haven't seen me here a few days. I hate to say why, exactly, but I owe you something. I've just been so seriously strung out I haven't been myself. I couldn't think. I barely knew my own name. I forgot everything I care about, including this blog.

Even now it's coming and going -- I could black out at any moment -- but I'm fighting through the blank spots, and using what I have left of "my legendary discipline." That's right -- even if it seems an eternity ago -- I had legendary discipline. Now, I'm wasted. Nearly shot. Haven't even got the discipline to---- sorry, drawing a blank.

The sad truth is, I'm addicted to oatmeal. God, it feels good to admit it publicly! Of course the biggest problem with oatmeal is they came up with a way for a quick fix. Used to be it took 45 minutes or all the way up to 3 hours to cook a decent batch. I blame the microwave oven industry, because they made us impatient. In the old days, I'd cook a batch, eat it, and pass out before I could cook another. Now it's bang bang bang, three batches and one massive jag of craziness.

So I was almost out of oatmeal, OK? And I was already hopped up on two batches. It was 3 in the morning. I went out and couldn't tell, in my haze, if the grocery store was open or the lights were just in my head. I sat there hunched over the steering wheel, when ... Dammit! ... two or three guys identifying themselves as cops -- they had red lights -- pulled me out of my car.

And I lost my cool. I was all up in their face. "What gives, assholes?!" and it went downhill from there. They could tell I was out of it, but why? I told them the honest to God truth, "I'm an oatmeal addict and you got me ... looking for another fix."

"Oatmeal," the mean-looking one sneered. He and the other mean-looking one talked it over. "Obviously slang for some narcotic, but which one?" These geniuses were talking it over and I saw nothing but haze. Even their talk was haze. They radioed in, then a TV crew showed up and I stripped naked and was gang-tackled by all three mean-looking cops in the ditch. "Give me oatmeal!" I cried as they roughed me up.

Later, I woke up and saw the insides of a hospital, and these mean bastards were there to make sure I didn't snap the gurney straps. The doctor was running blood tests. He said my sorghum and honey counts were elevated out of this world, sweeteners of choice, and that, yes, I indeed had oatmeal in my system.

I couldn't control myself. I went from docile to manic to feverishly crazed in seconds -- the oatmeal high oscillated between utterly flabby weakness to concentrated super human powers. And I felt the powers kick in. Everyone backed up as I eviscerated that hospital room; thankfully, the cops didn't know if they should open fire in a hospital zone.

Going down the hall, my back flap open to the breeze, I made it most of the way to freedom, and was rounding the corner when the meanest-looking cop hit me with a poison dart, hit my butt, piercing one side then crossing over and piercing the other. A double whammy of poison! I woke up two days later, confined in a treatment center.

A Nazi psychiatrist -- this is how Hitler got his start -- swore his way up one list of deities and down another to compel me to talk. "Vhat ees dis 'ottmail' you be smoking!?" "Smoking Ottmail?" I asked, confused, the haze a constant. I passed out and dreamt a beautiful dream, of a Willie Wonka-like world, with rivers of oatmeal (beautiful), but also quicksand bogs (ugly). When Hitler himself appeared, his mustache disgustingly soaked in drippy cinnamon oatmeal-- I woke up.

I blinked a few times, very refreshed, my mind completely detoxed off oatmeal, and vowed to live a clean life. When they took me to breakfast and ignorantly served me oatmeal! Immediately hooking me again...

Using my powers, I killed everyone in my way, stole an armored car, and crashed the gate. Then at the grocery store, instead of parking, I crashed the car through the front windows, craving another box of oatmeal -- and this time -- Damn the World! --  I would eat it with whole milk!

Now I'm home and on my eighth bowl. I'm writing this -- maybe the final post ever on this blog -- with the bastards even now at the door. I fear I'll have to shed even more blood before I'm able to enjoy my oatmeal supper and retire for the night, perchance to dream.

Does That Make Sense?

I hate to say it, but I'm addicted to the phrase, "Does that make sense?" Which is crazy, I know, since I usually have pretty good control. I don't smoke, drink, or sleep with people who eat crackers in bed; obviously I'm not just careful, I have high standards. Sometimes I do think I could be easily addicted to stuff, but it's also balanced out with an ability to go cold turkey. But this "Does that make sense?" phrase might be too much for even me. Does that make sense?

Of course it isn't new to me. I've heard it a number of times in the last few years, but those times it was in one ear and out the other. I didn't toy with it. And that's the key thing to getting addicted, for me, picking up something and toying with it. Like a new, fascinating toy. I allowed it to get the best of me, as it turned out simply through foolishly toying with it. Does that make sense?

It happened at a conference I attended, "Public Affairs." I was hoping for some cool gossip on people caught in affairs, but it turned out to be a dry as dust give-and-take on public policy, "The Role of Women in Society -- Keep Them on a Short Leash or Let Them Go?" A senator was there briefly, long enough to swoop in and make some pronouncements on the ignorance of women (I'm in a Republican district), then it was up to us to break into groups and come up with our findings. By and large, the Democrats, including me, insisted that we loved, respected, and valued women. While the Republicans thought we needed more restrictions on them, GPS tracking devices around their legs, etc.

Then there was this one bastard, who didn't know what he thought, pro or con. He was the lone voice trying to hew a middle path. He went into a big old convoluted speech, all off the cuff, where he went this direction, then that. Hard to follow. On the one hand, he respected women; his mother was a woman. On the other, he pointed out we've never had a woman president and none of the five star generals of the World War II era was a woman. Then he was back to being pro woman, then anti, finally ending with the reiterated fact that his mom was a woman, and most of his aunts. At the end of it, in a higher pitched voice, he asked, "Does that make sense?"

Here's what happened next. It was 10 minutes till the lunch break, at which point I dashed out the back door, never to return. Then I ran into a woman I know, very smart as most of them are, with no crackers on her breath, and I was telling her the whole thing, focusing in on the phrase "Does that make sense?" I started saying it in jest -- toying with it -- but ended up saying it the rest of the day, and I'm still saying it two weeks later! Beware what you ridicule, there might be some gene in you -- operating sort of like the phenomenon of projection -- that means you're drawn to it! Meaning you need that very crutch! Does that make sense?

And another thing. The phrase always does involve a step up in pitch, and delineates a clear end of a train of thought, so that might be why it's so addictive. We crave not just variety but finality. The higher pitch is like singing (1), and (2) it's a natural end to one subject, giving time to think what's next. With one other key quality, keeping others on your side. Because if they're not, they could always answer with a resounding "No!" The fact that they don't, while not being conclusive as to their agreement, gives you some assurance (perhaps false), that you might be right. Does that make sense?

Yes, of course I know it's annoying. But you can't tell me you don't do one single annoying thing yourself. At least I know what I'm doing, especially if I see someone rolling their eyes. I'm intuitive like that. They can tell me to stop if they want. They just haven't yet.