Destiny 'Round The Clock

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 29 of 30

I hear people sometimes say how much they love to read biographies. Which to me, of all the things you can read, are the worst. “Like everyone else, I was born at a very early age. My parents were so and so. I went to school at the usual place. The pizza parlor in my hometown was known for one thing, always being out of sausage. How hard is it to stock the basic ingredients for pizza? If pizza's the one thing you do, either do it right or forget it. We might’ve been looking at a passive/aggressive thing from an on-and-off vegan wanna-be manager. Which if that’s your thing, do it proudly, with aplomb, but instead of making pizzas how about the salad business?"
There’s no room for surprises in biographies. To be true to their word, they have to drone on and on about the nitpicky daily grind, the boring ins and out of their family system, their various surmises about the neighbors’ affairs and who their (the neighbors’ friends) were, since they seemed to think of themselves as better than us even though obviously we're all in the same boat. And speaking of boats, my dad ran a bait shop for the fishermen who populated the nearby lake, well stocked, full of everything, hard to find lunkers as well as the common crappies just off the shore, barely in the water.

So when we start sketching out lives -- unless you were a rodeo cowboy and have a lot of dirt to dish -- it’s all the same verbiage, a waste of paper, ink, glue, time, and shelf-space. The whole thing tries my patience, probably the worst sin there is, about as bad as waiting for spaghetti to soften in boiling water. I mean, look, it’s a millimeter thick, how can boiling water scald you in a half a second but it still takes forever to soften even the tiniest pasta? This is the biography I want, sadistic pasta makers cackling with evil delight over the quandary: “Just let ‘em try and cook this. They’ll drop dead from old age and famine before they ever get their money’s worth!”

OK, where are we? Destiny is simultaneously everywhere. But to every person, Destiny is there “as if” its presence were for you alone. Day in, day out. Sometimes responding to your biography as it's in progress, and sometimes screwing it up royally because its presence is also with everyone else. Some things have to collide. You’re at the theater, it burns down. Or Lincoln's shot by someone in the projectionist’s booth. You’re at the malt-shop, at a restaurant, or you’re a farmer milking the cow because the malt-shop’s running low, or the restaurant. The situations are endless, but Destiny’s there in the whole mix, mixing it up, yes, but also keeping it straight.

Be careful what you do then. It might be exactly what you should do and that’s good. But it might be just the opposite, something that will mark or scar you for life, and that’s bad. Each of us has the same 24-hours-a-day. If I were you, I would stay close to home, because, say you’re out in society, anything can happen and always does.

Destiny Do-Overs

 Knowing Your Destiny

Part 8 of 30

This is by far my least favorite side of the whole scheme of Destiny, karma, and what have you; it's total icky poo poo. I just hate the thought of anyone suffering, except of course, understandably, outright wholly impure evildoers. And I even wonder about them. Were their crimes -- maybe lying about me in 8th grade -- really that serious? There’s certainly worse things. Some so bad they’re defined and judged the same around the world, with only minor differences, as real downers. And if you get on that slide of existence, it’s all downhill, one heck of a ride to the bottom. And when you get there -- ouch! It’s bumpy -- the ride’s just started and you haven’t yet reached the bottom, but down, down, down you plummet, and even then you're still plumbing the shallower depths, let us say.

If it were up to me, I’d have an inert eternity or milder cleansing eon to get everything squared away. Then you’re good to go, and hopefully -- as Deity I always keep my fingers crossed -- you’ll learn your lessons from the past and reenter the world with all the virtue befitting some of my older aunts. Who if they ever did a bad thing in their whole life, it was merely too much focus on their virtue, which was great and clearly a thing to be proud of. But that's also a slippery slope, which I’m glad I’ve never succumbed to, because that would be very very bad. Strictly off limits, a "don’t do it" kind of thing. Plus, don’t even think of it, or someone up-there or down-there or out-there is gonna get you...

In this scheme of things -- see the graphic -- those who suffer worst are the ones with the greater weight of karma. It's a point system, where for every good thing you do you get a plus point, and the opposite for the bad. Occasionally you hit one of the lesser jackpots -- sins of omission or commission -- and the bells ring and a more considerable payout gathers in the tray. “Look! 400 years of good! Let it ride!” Or “Damn! 200 years of flickering flames, darn the luck! Oh well, may as well get it over with.” Followed by a plunge into the dark depths and apparently rotting to death on the banks of the Styx. Not exactly ambrosia.

OK, who do we have in this unpleasant rogue’s gallery of Destiny? Yes, the usual suspects, Hunger, Disease, Crime, and Despair, reaching their nasty hands out to those nearly in their grasp. It’s all sad, I know, but it could be any of us, if karma, as sketched out above, is any consolation. And usually it’s not. But the good news -- it’s great news! -- is that you’ll be out of all that at some point and on your way to a brand new Destiny. Let’s say it takes 10,000 years till your next incarnation. Suffer that relatively brief time and you’ll be back in the saddle, riding high, with huge optimistic hopes, a positive outlook. But it might be only 5,000 years, or even split that in half! A penalty, yes, but next to nothing compared to 10,000 years. Which itself is a drop in the bucket if you figure the 10,000 could've been 20.

My advice, always do your best and you won’t be so worried about it. Anything less than 100 years of suffering and you’ve got something good enough to be proud of, of course without actually being proud of it.

The Cordovez Brood

Chapter 2 of 25 -- Head Hunters of The Amazon

A Land of Opportunity

Recall, Up de Graff went to Ecuador on the invitation of a friend from college days and fraternity. Being a guy who loved outdoor living, Up de Graff went hunting. This wasn’t just squirrels or rabbits like I used to hunt, but monkeys, turkeys, wild pigs, parrots, deer and jaguars. He remembered how hunting monkeys (baboons) really excited his enthusiasm. But it was the taste of them that stood out so clearly in his memory, saying, “The gastronomical possibilities of a baboon probably occur to only a very few of the millions who gaze at him through iron bars.” I'm not able to disagree.

Beyond that, he met the rest of the Cordovez family, including a brother most famous for the picturesque cursing of the peons. Which, though I disapprove, it'd still be nice to have a sample, maybe extending to a minute. “You worthless shiftless son of a bitch, I’m cutting you off from rum at the fiesta! You can die of thirst for all I care!”

But it was the father of the clan whom Up de Graff ranked the most egregiously worst of the bunch, and this goes along with modern sensibilities of fairness, honesty, and respect. Meaning, I may as well brag, I am personally more refined than the average Cordovez (of that particular group, now dead). Few of us are as wealthy as they were, but their riches seem to have been amassed in large part via hook or crook.

I’ll try to tamp down my righteous anger and stick the bottle of vitriol back in the cupboard and remain as dispassionate as a person of my sensitive sensibilities can reasonably be expected to muster or attain.

Further, Up de Graff says the Cordovez menage at Riobamba included, in addition to the terrible old man himself and his sons, his wife who kept house. The old man was generally unkempt, having little use for soap and seldom changing his clothes. But my qualms with the old man — it’s something of a simmering rage, threatening to boil over any minute — has to do with his abominable treatment of others. Which Up de Graff also had a hand in, to the extent he could stand it, when he finally quit.

Old Man Cordovez sent him to Salinas. Which is an interesting place for its elevation and views all around. North of there are mountains that rise over 22,000 feet above sea level. Making the average everyday mountain look like a pimple. On a good day, when the sun’s just right, other mountains have to pack it in in frustration.

The main sins of the Cordovez family and the old man in particular have to do with him not paying his workers, and additionally always scheming to keep them in servitude by being indebted to him. I thought I had a bad boss or two, but this guy was scheming people into perpetual slavery. And I have a hard time overlooking that, no matter how pretty the mountains are.

Marie's Temper, Thar She Blows

Part 16 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

It’s a constant wonder to me — I’m fascinated that I’ve lived so long — that you can die from nearly everything. I read the death news everyday and think, "Yeah, that could happen," meaning to myself. But one of the few things you can’t die from is holding your breath till you turn blue. One of our early fears. Because, as experience tells us, we always choose to breathe. Whether it’s choosing, that’s probably the wrong word; there’s some impetus toward breathing that takes over. And as far as I know, you can't even turn blue willfully. We’re built with an inborn awareness that breathing's good.

Something we certainly can do (and do do) is engage in persistently bad behavior and eventually die from it. For me the biggest problem is worry. I worry about everything and will probably die from it. But at least I'll be able to say I worried about it so much I saw it coming. A murderer leaps out from the bushes and kills you to steal your watch, I didn’t see that coming. But I've actually worried about it even though I don't have a watch. (The guy would settle for other stuff.) Anyway, I'm guilty of worrying too much about worrying too much. And if you pile up a string of worries about what you’re worried about you can see why it could be fatal.

This lady, Marie, the power that was overwhelmingly subtracting from her lifespan was a terrible temper. It’s fine with me that she’s dead, although I would've never said that to her face. Her temper was so terrible, she’d bite your head off if she heard such a thing. So what a relief now to say out loud, "Marie’s dead, and she brought it on herself!" Not suicide, of course, except the slow motion kind that a lot of us commit. Like me from worry. There are coping mechanisms that help, though, mostly reminding yourself that things always seem to work out, whatever the problem.

But with her temper, I don’t think there were coping mechanisms. Having a temper from hell is a thing you apparently have to accept, no refusals. It's ingrained. Picked up, probably, in childhood. The kid who stamps her feet and cries about every disappointment. That's the sort of thing you need to deal with at the time. Although I don’t know how. Reasoning with people with temper (or proto-temper) is often futile.

In childhood psychology, though, I’d guessing you would take away some of the disappointment by granting her wishes selectively. So she'd grow up knowing every wish fulfilled isn't how life works. And that to react with a bad, steaming bad temper is not helpful or appropriate.

But it's not my place today to conduct a full post-mortem on Marie. I’m sure the undertaker was up to his hips in worthless temper dripping out of her, but that’s a science too unpleasant to describe. We’ll just take our place on the other side of the curtain and say — temper or no temper — Marie is now dead, whatever the cause of death on the report, probably listed as a merely physical and not psychological thing, maybe brain implosion. A collapse of the head, now the size of a pea. Like a mine shaft shrinking inward from forceful molecular packing.

It certainly cleared the air for the rest of us. Now we can breathe freely instead of facing Marie's terrible wrath for every little thing. And that’s a good thing, coming not a moment too soon!

Sky High, Beyond All Limits

Part 11 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

It’s great for my outlook to see how much good the Psycho Squad actually does. I'm guessing 99% of the progress in society — specific acts of graciousness, the general sense of goodness, and outright love — is a result of our important work. Whatever else the species accomplishes after a lot of false starts and bluster results from the sheer benevolence of life. Remember this, life hates a loser.

But I have to be humble. Because I’m sure others could make the case that there's factors they also can selfishly latch on to, giving them at least the appearance of bragging rights. And instead of just immediately throwing up my hands and crying, “Give me a break!”, I zip my lip. Go through the motions of being agreeable. Just remember, Progress has a million fathers and there’s always a lot of 'Gimme gimme gimme' when they’re dishing out the credit. And all the while the truth is obvious, like a slap in the face, the Psycho Squad is the very heart of success.

That’s certainly how I see it in my town. This town had a sense of unnameable dread, foreboding, and future shock until I got my first ambulance. They couldn’t tie their kids down and make them behave. They'd gnaw through the ropes like cotton candy. You couldn’t walk down an alley without a gang of monsters springing up like nightmares to take you on. And unless you were literally carrying a nuclear device you didn’t have a chance. I saw a generation of normal people bite the dust. And on windy days they still blow by.

But the Psycho Squad did establish itself, and we set a few ground rules for evildoers: Submit to goodness, yield before it’s too late, or find yourself under our thumb! Because we put the word out, “Make my day! We’d simply love to take you out! Mess with us, we’ll mess with you, bad, big time bad!” And various other threats. The truth of it can be told now that we’ve prevailed. But we were scared out of our minds and could’ve been beaten easily. But we took the pose of gunslingers, that confident bow legged stance, and for the true killer move we purposely left our zippers down. The universal sign for “We got it!” and “Argue with this!”

It’s funny how that hit people. We were known for it. And for years we literally kept our zippers down as part of a Psycho Squad’s trademark. Then slowly, as we became known for other aspects of the work, we spiffed ourselves up. Kept the zippers neatly up unless, of course, other things were going on. Then it’s appropriate to send the signal, ‘It’s right here, virtually in sight, if you have anything on your mind besides the movie.' Those old challenges were settled.

Still, what a lot of work it was. The Psycho Squad took on so much action in our town we had even the most dangerous cases. Now look at us, “Sky High, Beyond All Limits,” successful in stratospheric terms, striding over the world as though we belong there, as though we own it, dwarfing everything in sight, with our zippers proudly up. And helping others keep their sanity as well.

Of course -- then or now -- these things don't just happen. We're on the scene, always on call. Because we know life is a thing of delicate balance. We never forget it. People go whack all the time. We had one guy, I called him Easy On, Easy Off, not much of a switch. His brain was atrophied beyond recognition. Doctors ordered brain scans and it had all the properties of macaroni and cheese. Sticky, hard to keep warm. They brought us in to counsel him. I took him out in a field and spelled it out for him in a way I can’t repeat, trade secret. He immediately got with the program! And my gun wasn't even loaded.

There was a lady, too. Hate to leave anyone out. She wasn't happy with her old dependable red car. Even when it got her everywhere she needed to go. So we worked with her in two ways, direct patient care and behind the scenes. The guy who runs the junk yard loaned me the same model of car, but one completely demolished. We switched her car for this one. You can guess her terror. She came out, had a meltdown and went into a coma for a week. They fed her intravenously the whole time. Then we put the old car back in place, and when she woke up she was so happy she drove away and no one ever saw her again. That's a happy ending.

Good Behavior Is Its Own Reward

One of my New Year's resolutions, pretty much like every year, is to stay out of trouble. Because if trouble's looking for me, believe me, I'm not looking for it!

Of course you can never tell when trouble might find you. The police are around and they're looking for someone, anyone. I think it's helpful to be as paranoid as you can. This happened a week or so ago. I was parked in public, reading, messing with my iPod, etc. Getting there I saw two police cars off, parked probably 100 feet away, their red lights flashing. They sat there nearly the whole time I was there, running their lights. I could barely focus, I was so sure they'd come over and razz me.

Let's say they had come over, which they didn't. You have to be careful with the police. Because they appear to think everyone's up to no good. Thank goodness I wasn't! But you still have to take precautions. One precaution being to tell yourself, "No lippiness, no matter what."

Every time I've dealt with police, I try to set them at ease. Which I believe I come by naturally. My father was also soft-spoken, and truly a genuine patriot. He used to explain to me about the 13 stripes on the flag, the 50 stars, and the significance of the colors red, white, and blue. It's fascinating to find out this stuff isn't just arbitrary. But for the grace of God, we might've had an ugly flag, like a lot of other countries. Like Canada, a big red leaf... Hate to break it to you, Canada, in America we burn leaves.

Anyway, I try to set the police at ease. I keep my hands at my side, while engaging them with normal gestures as well as I can. This can be challenging. Mostly because they're trying their best to trip you up. They want you to expose yourself, so they're acting all tough, like they're begging you to get lippy and act out. And the temptation is there. You're thinking, "Look, Bozo, you work for me, I don't work for you. If you know I committed a crime, then out with it! If not, then drag your big flat feet back to the station and spend the next three miserable hours filing a report on this wild goose chase!" Instead, I say, "Yes, sir," "No, sir," and "Thank you for your service," etc., laying it on thick.

Have I ever done anything wrong in my life? I know my rights, I'm not saying. But am I a wrongdoer in any kind of ongoing way, as opposed to stuff like littering gum wrappers when I was a kid? Absolutely not! I truly believe in good behavior, whether there are cops or not. I'm proud to say I'm very well behaved.

And that's my recommendation for everyone: Always do the right thing. Maybe if we all did the right thing all the time we could eventually put the police out of business. Get them doing useful things like the fire department, helping kittens out of trees, etc. That'd be ideal, not so much because we have anything against them, but because it's best for everyone simply to behave.

Mental Parasitism: Censure and Mea Culpa

Friends, I am in some trouble. And I have to say something -- as part of my censure from the Institute of Mental Parasitism -- that I am very sorry for my previous posts on this subject. EXHIBIT A and EXHIBIT B.

The Institute, having met in emergency session, specifically demanded that I photograph myself dressed in my Sunday finest and attach a cloth leash to a pair of my blue jeans, then post it on my blog, to illustrate the warning against putting the cart before the horse. And so I have, highlighting it in yellow to call attention to it, another demand. They can be real mean dudes, threatening to strip me of certification in mental parasitism if I don't. Yes, it's a bitter pill to swallow, but with them being the only institute with the ability to certify, what am I to do?

Further, I am to "admit" that any previous teachings that I erroneously gave in public, the two posts referenced above, are in error, are fiction, and are meant "For Entertainment Purposes Only," offering no actual teachings on mental parasitism, being false in every way. So, yes, I "admit" that. If you think you read anything actual as pertaining to true mental parasitism, you are wrong. They are 100% false, nothing to worry about, nothing to be interested in, and definitely -- I repeat, definitely, for God's sakes -- nothing to try on your own.

Believe me, I see the wisdom in this censure. Of course I knew the power of mental parasitism is immense, but I thought with the few pointers I had given that I would only whet the appetite of people to enter the path in the legitimate way, and so they'd grow in maturity and discipline. But just the opposite has occurred, which leaves me in a terrible spot.

I hate to see the consequences of so many of you crossing the boundaries to your detriment. To think I had a role in that is a terrible blow. I don't know if I'll be able to continue in the same spirit which I had. In the more immediate future, having this shame and guilt, I imagine I will be the ultimate wet blanket at Christmas. My family will look over and see me in the large chair, my mind misfiring, my fingers barely able to find the tape on my gifts. But that's still a month away; please pray I recover.

It turns out people are smart, even if they're not wise. They were able to take the few pointers I gave -- who knew? -- and devise for themselves a workable plan of mental parasitism, even if it lacked in some of the specifics both of received tradition and the more potent riffing on the traditions of the masters. The consequences for themselves and others is something I will have to live with, despite my fervent wish that I could somehow turn back the hands of time and find myself simply blogging on the weather, politics, or the new puppy I'm getting.

Seriously, I'm getting a new puppy! How about that! With Underbrush's passing last December I thought, The pain is unbearable, I'll never be able to share my love again with a puppy. But time heals all wounds, apparently, although, naturally, I've literally never tested that theory, having to this point not experienced "all wounds."

Meanwhile, back at Guilt Ranch, my foolish disclosures, going against everything I intended, has left the sidewalks littered with the sucked out carcasses of people, now the unwitting victims of premature (foolish) mental parasitism. I hear there's been quite a few, since the techniques are very powerful, even when misused, and perhaps especially then. At the library, they've found men as big as mountains, McDonald's drinks spilled everywhere, draped over the banisters and even hidden under tables. Also women with tangerine scarves litter the vicinity.

The fever, as it were, has extended beyond my local town as well. With many 140-character briefs on Twitter, which I call "tweets," telling of great vibratory essence depletion from Spain to Timbuktu. The Russians are in turmoil -- that's kind of a positive -- as desperate Ukrainians have turned to mental parasitism, and now are despoiling the invading hosts. And with the reports of massive posters in the public square of a near-nude Vladimir Putin, I can only wish them godspeed.

Similarly, I have a terrible report, kind of a bummer, confirmed by numerous sources, that South America isn't even there anymore! That warrants an exclamation point, right?

So I'm sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. At this point tripartite sorrow is all I can give. I can only hope now we don't lose any more of our precious brothers and sisters around the world, including, of course, all our remaining continents, populated as they are with thousands of innocents, unknown to me in name, but existing there. I believe they will be OK, just as long as the principles of mental parasitism are strictly held to, in accordance with responsible, guided practice.

Please, friends, get these teachings from the Institute only, and be as responsible as you can.

My Better Angels

There's a bitter struggle going on inside the soul of man, I'm told. Friends tell me how they're torn from two directions, good and evil. It sounds dreadful, frankly, and I guess one of my biggest fears is that something like that might someday happen to me. Hope not!

Even in my innocence, however, I have not been entirely clueless about these things. I too see multiple paths and choices, which, however good my own options are, are enough to make me understand that not everyone is as fortunate. I'm often torn -- riven -- between two very good choices. Do I do this, something good, or this other thing, also good? It gives me pause. Fortunately a flip of the coin resolves the question, which, for me, is divinely determined.

But for my friends--- It sounds hideous for them. They've told me things that have made my hair stand on end, and goosebumps have been another reaction. I've had to wonder at those moments if indeed I do have it somewhere within me, like them. I wonder, How do I understand these things, never having experienced them. I can only resolve it like this, I'm just smart, or, again, it's divinely determined. Whatever the truth, Saints Be Praised!

It could be the saints, or it could be the angels. We've all heard the line about having "better angels." But they're not always successful (in others), leaving the field wide open for "worse angels," who, although they're worse tend to best the better! Ironic and weird. Boggles the mind. Definitely something for further exploration, as long as the taint of evil doesn't get on me.

My own saints and angels are very good at all this stuff. This is all literally true, in case you're wondering. As I think back, they came to me at a very early age, and just stayed. I don't think I'm bragging by saying I made a good home for them. They found me in innocence and they never left! What a great job for them. If you're an angel, you don't want to be assigned to someone who's going to immediately fall. That's a good way to be called on the carpet, the Big Carpet! But if you can luck out and get a charge like me -- someone never falling -- imagine how that looks on an angel's record. Looks fantastic.

I should apply -- I really should! -- to have all angels removed and see if I could do it on my own. I bet I could. I've had enough experience by now, no matter what the temptation. Even if there was no angel to help, I'd avoid it, stand up to it, and prevail! No doubt. I really think I'd be OK.

But, and this is important, I'm listening to my better angels right now, and they're saying not to go for it. So at this point, I'm not doing it. They've never deceived me yet, that I know of, so I'm very sure they're telling the truth now. The clear message is that I might not actually be that strong on my own. And once I tasted sin, there's no telling what it might do for the future. I better keep my better angels, and stay pure. Great advice!

Stay true, OK? Yours for clean living, Dbkundalini out.

Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around

It's a sign of the times, dilly-dally dicking-around. I can't remember exactly when it started in a major way. I had a friend in the '70s who dilly-dally dicked-around somewhat; if he said he'd be there at 3:00 p.m., he'd certainly arrive by 4. But things have gotten so much worse now, probably having to do with people's busyness in general. We have so many labor-saving devices, computers, etc., but it means we take on so much more, then we compensate by dilly-dally dickin'-around.

In addition to people being behind on their schedule, I see a lot of dilly-dally dickin'-around at stoplights. You're in a line of traffic 15 cars long. The light changes green at the front, but the front guy's never ready. He's checking messages, writing an email, taking a nap -- who know what? The second guy's not much better. Then the third. So we have to get the third guy's attention, who gets the second guy's, then he's able to finally rouse the first guy. Now the light's red again. Too much dilly-dally dickin'-around!

OK, the whole concept's infected society -- it's everywhere! -- so it was just a matter of time before some big-time entrepreneur, with his finger on the slow pulse of a plodding society, would capitalize on it in various ways, one big way being for kids, with the Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around doll. A baby for the times! Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around perfectly embodies today's spirit, never quick to start and only arriving when she does.

You can raise her from her bed, put her down, raise her, put her down, and she does nothing. But set her in the corner for a couple minutes, and finally sweet Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around says, "Ma-ma, Ma-ma!" How joyous, she called out "Mama!" Better late than never.

Our Little Mommy has planned a fun tea party with Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around, lifting Dilly-Dolly's tiny cup to her little lips, pretending they're really doing something great together, being refreshed. A few minutes later you hear the sipping noise, she lets out a breath of satisfaction, and gladly announces, "That was a fun tea party!" The table's already cleared.

Too much tea, of course, means a coming bathroom trip. Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around is prepared for this one, fitted with a washable bladder and three little sets of undies. Little Mommy comes over, "You have to pee-pee?" Dilly-Dolly doesn't say anything and seems very content in silence. Until several minutes later when she announces, "Have to pee," when it's discovered she's already wet.

This teaches Little Mommy patience, and probably more to the point, Little Daddy, whoever he may be. We see him when he's around, which isn't very often. It was probably Little Daddy's errant ways that gave Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around her biggest personality defect, putting things off like this, and other signs of irresponsibility. Little Daddy dicked around too, not even acknowledging Dilly-Dolly the whole first year.

Little Mommy says, "Dilly-Dolly Dick-Around, you need to tell Mommy when you need to pee before it happens, so I can set you on the potty, OK?" Mommy's supported by Little Daddy, looking stern and just itching to take his belt off. But little Dilly-Dolly speaks not a word, simply staring blankly into the distance, a number of clouds taking their time to pass casually overhead.

Mommy and Daddy go in to watch something -- they're binge-watching parenting shows. From the quiet of Dilly-Dolly's crib comes her soft answer, barely audible over the baby monitor, "OK, I have to pee." That was a long time ago! You've already been wet and changed! Or is she referring to a brand new pee, something she'll do a half hour from now? Too much damned dilly-dally dickin'-around!

Time passes, and Dilly-Dolly's now pretend-grown-up. Little Mommy and Daddy try to kick her out of the house. She promises to leave voluntarily, "Just let me go to my room and pack a few things." But all this happened two years ago and she's still there.

I Command You!

We're going to do something that will do you a lot of good. From now on, for a while, you're going to take your orders from me.

First, let me say, Thank you for your lack of sass. It wasn't entirely expected, although of course it was my hope. Docility gets a such a bad rap, I like to call it trust instead. You are to be commended, praised for it. Don't let anyone get you down.

Seriously, don't let anyone get you down, that's an order.

OK, a few ground-rules just to settle any reservations: 1) I command you to reserve enough of your own will that your obedience will be completely voluntary. 2) When in doubt, obey me without question. I mean you no harm. No harm will come to you from me by malicious intent. You are entirely safe (from me) while under my control. Naturally, I can't be responsible for unscrupulous associates who may come into our association, although it is my vow that if I ever take on associates, I will adhere to the most stringent standards relating to background checks and the likelihood of their perfect obedience to me.

You've had a hard life, you told me. You've had troubles making wise decisions. According to you, you've seldom -- perhaps never -- made one wise decision. Don't worry, you're not alone. Most of my cases are like that. But look, you're off to a good start already! Because in submitting to me, you've already made one good decision! So that's one good decision in a row, or one with which to start your row. I will see that you make good decisions all along the way. With perfect obedience, you will make many good decisions.

Now, what are we to do about your family? You told them something of the nature of our relationship. I wish you hadn't, but now that it's done we have to deal with it. You may be surprised to hear me say this, but you do not have to cut them off. Not entirely. Periodic visits and calls are allowable, given sufficient cause and advance notice. In part, it depends on the influence they have over you, whether it's healthy. If it's healthy, who knows, you might see them every fifth Christmas, or every third funeral for verifiably close loved ones.

But enough about you. What am I getting out of this relationship? Of course there is the satisfaction of knowing I could be of help. As the careful apple picker gently removes the worm from the fruit and eventually sets it free to live the rest of its life in peace, so you can look forward to many years of fruitfulness and good things. Then there is, more selfishly, the growth in my own spirit, as the exercise of my personal power has been vigorous, sustained, and successful. I have both done good and received that benefit.

You are a nice person. Thank you for coming to me. In the kitchen -- if you just go through that door you will see it -- is a sink full of dishes. There's soap under the sink -- just open the cabinet and look down. Do you know the steps to washing dishes? If you do, I dismiss you to go do that job. If not, I will sketch them out for you point by point. You do not have to dry them by hand. Just put them in the dish-drainer. I'm thinking it will take you around 35 minutes to get done. I will be in my study, relaxing. When you get done, please come to my study, knock and wait for me to tell you to enter. You will be told then the next chore on the list.

How To Be A Local Character

I've been a collector of local characters, like forever. Of course I don't bring them home; they're not butterflies to pin to the curtain. I only make note of them and observe them as much as is polite. And since they never seem to notice observation, you could stare all day and still be polite.

They're always out and about, the basic thing of the local character being the need for a public. You could stay home and be a local character -- depending on your mentality -- but you'd soon find there's little point in it. Let's say you're a wild guy waving all the time. It might be fun to prance around in the mirror waving for a while, but it'd have to wear off.

I think I could be a local character, except my mentality, alas, is still way too far on this side of the line. Try as I might, my normal brain power will not release its damned grip. So I'm doomed, it seems, only to watch from the sidelines and never know their full joy.

In researching the subject, I found an obscure book downtown, "How To Be A Local Character." It makes interesting reading. And makes me wonder, maybe these guys aren't all mental, just acting out the advice of the how-to author. ["How To Be A Local Character," Corky McDermott, Vantage Press, 1977.] But surely they haven't all had access to this book. So the only other possible alternative is they're mental. Or just doing it on their own initiative. There could be something to that. Instead of being mental in the negative sense, maybe they're mental positively, "with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men" (The Adventures of Superman.)

I remember a couple of the local characters downtown on the square from when I was a kid. One guy was called Paulie, and I'm not going to make any jokes about him, because I'm merciful. I'll just say his coordination was totally gone, and that's not meant as a joke. Then there was Hoyt, the guy who always stood on the edge of town, not putting his thumb up, but waiting till someone gave him a ride back to his own town. Talking to Hoyt, as I did many times, was an experience. There were actual words in what he said, but most of it sounded like bluster and babble. He was friendly, and I even saw his apartment once when I took him home, with waterlogged ceiling tiles hanging everywhere. Very memorable.

Anyway, our author, McDermott, sketches it out much like I would were I to write it. Which is to do a brief survey of local characters, then sketch what it takes to be one. I'll list just four of his points:

1) Something to make you stand out -- What you do as a local guy has to be unusual enough that people notice. I saw one local guy whose thing was to walk around in a white sheet, nothing underneath. He'd often lay on the sidewalk. And I still have retina burn from seeing his entire business while crossing the road one evening. His legs were up under the sheet in full childbirth pose. But the problem with indecent exposure is the police get involved, as they did that night. Interestingly, McDermott doesn't mention this as a possibility.

2) Something you'll be bold enough to do -- McDermott's book presupposes that you're doing these things by choice, not from a mental problem. This is a point I'd have a hard time with. I'm not really that bold. I can think of plenty of oddball things a guy could do -- carrying a toilet seat everywhere would be a fantastic one -- but where to get the boldness, I just couldn't. You have to find your boldness (or comfort) level. Maybe start with the flush handle and work your way up.

3) Something constant -- I see this as an important point. You might carry a big ugly doll one time and think it was funny, but you have to do it all the time. You need to settle on it. That's it. You can't be carrying a dead guinea pig tomorrow. It's got to be the doll. We have a guy downtown who's always got a doll with him. And he definitely turns heads and keeps us wondering. But so far I've never seen anyone ask him what he's doing it for. As for me, with my mental state being what it is, I would want more variety than that, and that'd be my downfall. They'd all know I was faking.

4) Something no one else is doing -- You need to study your environment. See what's going on and what's missing. Cross off your list what you see already being done. If there's already a guy who looks like a freak from R. Crumb comics waving at everyone, there's no room for two! You're going to have to do something different. I think it'd be cool to have a megaphone and walk around shouting things. I've never seen anyone do that, even though I've definitely seen local characters walking around shouting. Why they never thought of the megaphone, it could just be they don't know where to get one. Where do they sell megaphones?