A Tricky Case To Decipher

No. 17 of 31

They Found Another Body

I see at a glance what we have here. A case where very few facts are clear. To the layman, the amateur viewer, it's inscrutable, indiscipherable, but also oddly compelling. Right away, you sense guilt, thinking there’s a victim, and guilt must be assigned and the aggrieved consoled. But who's who? You can't rush it. You'd like to see at the least signs of nervousness, shiftiness, straining to get away, etc. Is someone looking to give us the bum’s rush? What's the status of any weapons there may be? Fingerprints at this stage would be of only limited value. But you must preserve the scene.

I suppose, though, as I look at the graphics I can discern a few more clues. (I already know what happened so I can afford to take my time.) Certainly if you were with the police, under the gun with your career threatened, you’d give it your all. And then hope your all was good enough. But you might be so keyed up you'd rough up somebody to regain the edge, but that's against regs. Whereas I'm used to stepping into situations in life and not having the slightest clue what I’ve gotten myself into. But I take a breath, twist my head to really wake up, then open my eyes and go, “What have we here?” One big thing to know is it’s a six-year-old’s birthday.

Here then, yes, looking at it from every angle, surveying the scene, allowing my eyes to roam, and letting a little mind/mental action have its way, my tongue begins to tell the tale: “I see, let’s see, there is a particular story before us, at least the pieces.” Then I twist my head, move my arms and legs like the detective machine I am, even my lips are murmuring in a robotic gibberish, and I finally spit out a paper tape like a pharmacy receipt, 12-foot-long if it’s an inch.

We’ll start with the headlines: A. “Put Yourself In Her Place!” and B. “If Only.” There's two figures. One has the upper hand in a tumultuous encounter. The encounter has an end, with the single figure on the right the survivor, struggling with the implications and expressing regret, “If only.” That could be “If only” I hadn’t come, none of this would’ve happened. “If only” I’d been ready I could have killed her more handily. The inscrutability could keep you guessing.

Here's the actual truth: There's two sisters, the six-year-old's mother and her sister arguing over a plate of cookies. The mother in the party hat started the cookies, then stepped out for a minute. Which became more like 25 minutes, at which point the cookies were burning. Her sister went in to get them out and turn off the oven. The mother came in at that point and started some commotion with the hot pan. She tried to pull it away but pulled it into her own face, fell to the ground having a heart attack, a pacemaker implosion, something! She died. The sister called the ambulance and police and in the aftermath is lamenting, “If only I had done such and such.” Maybe made a cake myself and let her sister rest. Now her death has ruined the party for everyone.

Since receiving this piece, I fired the artist, but, interestingly, invited him over to bake cake with me sometime. And he said Yes! So that’s great, cake plus revenge. We’re gonna have a dead artist on our hands. And everyone knows dead artists’ works are more valuable than those of the living.

George Washington, Happy Birthday

 
Hey, hey, not to be left out -- after I wrote about his brother in the presidency, Abraham Lincoln -- is the Father of Our Country, George Washington, with another birthday!

I regret to say I haven't learned one single new thing about Washington in the last year. I'm ashamed to say that, of course, since I'm a conscientious person who goes through life trying to learn at least one new thing a day. Now, with the regime of President Trump upon us, however, and the general atmosphere of questioning the value of education -- Is it really still a thing? -- I've taken off a number of weeks to vegetate.

Never know when that might happen! I always figured it was "Onward and Upward" for us, the American way. Sometimes I imagined an end to it, but never thought it'd come this soon after we got the Internet. Which, between you and me, is truthfully the force that has made this vast difference in our general outlook. Before, nutcases could get together over beers, three or four guys who then went home and cursed the wind. Now they're a vast assembly, each stupider than the next. Dredging up from the depths of the collective unconsciousness enough evil to stock a dozen hells.

Wonder when Trump's birthday is. Could Google it. But then what? I'd have to remember it year by year like I do Lincoln's and Washington's. I haven't branched out from those two dudes in my whole life. Although I do remember Kennedy's birthday was in May, and I think he was born the same year as one of my grandmothers. I should do FDR. He was quite the hero to my other grandparents. I inherited the poster that used to hang over their headboard.

Anyway, George Washington. I hear there's been new books written about him and even a TV show or movie made recently. Which are apparently quite good, but I don't have time for all that. I'll stick with the tried and true: He cut down a cherry tree, he was honest about it with his dad. But his dad, not wanting him to get off scot-free, challenged him to a duel. Little George, ever honest, replaced the bullets with blanks, circled around and "shot" his dad in the back. His dad knowing he himself had gotten off scot-free, too, since he could've been dead, forgave him for the tree.

Then there were the wooden teeth, penance for cutting down the tree, whittled out by the dentist from the self same tree! He should've chopped up the toilet, then he could've had teeth that would've lasted! Porcelain teeth, brushing with SaniFlush. That'd be good for me, since I've had notoriously bad teeth most of my life. I had a dentist who did half a root canal on me -- then left me in the chair while he and the staff went off for hamburgers. I haven't been the same since.

A fun experiment would be to find out how old George Washington would be today! They used to teach us he was born in 1732, back when education mattered. But it seems to me there's some complication about the way they reckoned years back then. For the sake of convenience, though, I'll assume 1732 is still good. 2017 minus 1732 is-- I'm going out for hamburgers. I'll figure it out when I get back.

Did I Miss Lincoln's Birthday?

Did I miss Abraham Lincoln's birthday?! Dammit! I even went through the day thinking vaguely about the 12th being vaguely familiar. I've been in a kind of stupor lately. I'm not saying it's related to me falling and hitting my head on the rock, but I'm not excluding that possibility.

But look at these words I'm spewing; I'm not that dumb, right? It's flowing like volcano from a massive earth zit, i.e., a mountain. I'm able to conceptualize, comparing mountains to facial blemishes and cross the wires of the contents of each one, a volcano and the stuff that comes from faces. That has to count for something... Could be I'm good at faces because I hit my head in the back, not the front.

Anyway, dammit again, I say. I was hoping to wish Abraham Lincoln a happy birthday on the actual day, none of this "President's Day" stuff for me. I won't have it. To have it is to say my education was nothing, and that's something I'm not eager to admit. There had to be something good about it. One, it made me a "lifetime learner."

I had some troubles with one reader within the last five years, calling me on my "ignorance" about Lincoln, The Great Railsplitter. The guy's basic point was why do I call him The Great Railsplitter? His contention was because it's an old cliche, nothing more. And, the guy said, it's likely that I don't even know why he split rails. OK, smart guy, rails were fences, I'm pretty sure. Wooden fences, imagine that. The olden days were crazy.

But let's get away from cliches, because I actually read (an audiobook) an actual book about Lincoln in the last year. It was one about The Great Thespian John W. Booth, who shot and killed the president. In summary, it's a crazy story of poor security up the ass. Imagine if you could just walk in the theater, unnoticed, and kill the president! No matter what you think of the president, he deserves better security than that! We can't have upheaval like that on a scale we can barely imagine.

It's kind of exciting listening to a book like that, better than reading it, for sure. When I read, I get bogged down, usually. Eye strain, so pretty soon I'm reading with one eye; I do that a lot. But if you're half sleeping and the remaining eye is doing double duty, it's easy to drift off. Audiobooks have problems too. It's easy to drift off and realize you just missed a chapter. Then it's hard to get back, and you end up hearing the same couple paragraphs a dozen times.

Since I missed The Great Emancipator's birthday, though, I don't want to spill all my knowledge, just save it till next year. He had a wife, OK, I'll give you that much. She was the First Lady of those times, sat at home knitting. Not like now, the First Lady in a New York high-rise costing the taxpayers a million dollars a day while she watches her kid romp through the room sitting on a lion. Times have changed.

Abraham Lincoln was a man of integrity, I've heard. Being The Co-Father of His Country, he decided to behave himself. He wasn't tweeting all the time about John Wilkes Booth being an overrated actor, which if you think about the theater over history, probably the mid-to-late 1800s is the most pretentious period. They didn't have microphones, they had to yell their lungs out, even in tender scenes, for the deaf guy in the last row to be able to hear. "WHAT'D HE SAY?" was their punishment if they didn't.

These days we have Abraham Lincoln, The Great Reader by The Fireplace, on the five dollar bill. Five times more valuable than the other Co-Father of His Country. And yet, somehow ignorantly trumped by Ben Franklin, on the 100, and not even a damned president.

Happy belated birthday to the late Great Top Hat Wearer.

What About February Birthdays?

I'm very busy these days, and I'm looking to finish my "Destroy February" campaign on a high note, with total success. I will consider anything short of absolute destruction of the shrimpiest month a failure. But I'm determined not to fail. I've done a few meetings this week, speaking to a few society women, who, frankly, needed to be filled in on every detail of the campaign, not having heard of it before. I believe they're on board; they said it was "interesting."

Of course I've been spreading the good word on this blog, racking up some huge numbers as more and more people take notice. I had somewhere in the neighborhood of 35 hits on my "Legislature" post, which, being 35 hits minus 28 days in February gives me a bonus of 7. It's numbers like that that really add up and gladden my heart. That's not to say I haven't faced some outright hostility. A guy wrote in to criticize me, saying I was "a fool," which hurt like hell. It's really true what they say about the internet; there's some real trolls out there. I may seem strong online, but in real life I'm very sensitive.

I wanted to address an issue today that I hear about all the time. The ladies in the society meeting even brought it up. They were celebrating one of their member's birthday, February 24. And this is actually the number one question I get, everywhere I go: If February is destroyed, what about my birthday?

Rest easy, everyone ... Let me gather my thoughts. I'm getting just slightly warm under the collar as I think about it. I'm heating up more and more as I just sit here. I have some mental tricks that help -- techniques, procedures -- when I feel myself entering a time of rage. Just mentally looking to my core, and lightly breathing. I am OK, I am OK, this too shall pass. It's nothing, the people are nice, very nice people... They're just curious. I myself have been curious about things, so I know how they feel. I remember being curious why my mom didn't want me messing with salamanders at the lake. She was afraid I might fall in and drown. Breathe in, breathe out. I'm OK, most of the people are nice. Most of them are innocent of malice. Forget that guy who called you a fool. There's always someone like that who wants to bring you down, those sons of-----

I am sick to death of hearing this question about your stinking birthday! I feel I've already covered it a thousand times! No, I don't have the links! Unfortunately, an enemy hacked the page, the links are gone... Happy now? The simple fact of the matter, folks, is that knowing when your birthday is is a vastly overrated thing. It doesn't really matter. The fact that you're here proves you were born, hatched, or perhaps in some other way -- your own individual Big Bang -- came into being. Whether you fell from the highest star, or they dredged you up from the flaming bowels of Hell, which is a distinct possibility, here you are. What's the big deal?

Knowing the exact date of your birth, you've always taken it by faith anyway. Whether it's February, March, September, or Christmas Day, it doesn't make a bit of difference. If  you're so worried about the horoscope column in the newspaper, you needn't be. They're written for entertainment purposes only and have nothing to do with guiding your life.

Yes, I know there are legal reasons to know your birthday. You get asked it all the time when you go to the hospital. You need it when you apply for a credit card. If someone's throwing you a birthday party, it helps in the planning process. And so forth and so on.

But just drop it, please, for a while, and let's work together first to get February destroyed, then I promise we'll work on migrating your birthday to another day. And it'll be just as good, better! February's days will be assigned to other months and renumbered. There will be a 10-day stump month in its place. And everyone will live happily ever after. Remember, George Washington went through the same thing. He was born in 1731, they changed the calendar, and he was born again in 1732. True story.

I can see a system where you might be given the option of when you want your birthday to be. I think that'd be an enhancement over our present system. Isn't freedom of choice what we all like? Of if you want to go into a lottery system, that'd work too. We'd have the days of the year and a ball would pop up. That'd be your birthday. Or there could be some other system, such as the day your grandfather was born, just as long as it wasn't February.

OK, I have now explained it -- it's all common sense anyway -- for the 1001th time. Hope you're happy. I'm like Scheherazade and the 1001 Nights. Which we might need to edit, in case some of those nights happened to be in February.

It's All Been Done to Death

"Happy birthday, you!" Oh, and it's another day and another friend, so "Happy Birthday, you, have a great one." Oh man, this is endless. Yes, you were born, and today's your birthday. Hasn't it been done pretty nearly to death?

All these years you've been passing the time, enjoying regular meals. A little this, a little that. Cereal products, different cuts of meat, occasionally grilling. It's nice to see it on the plate, of course, and then you down it and it's all gone. What a lovely memory, unfortunately fairly boring to me.

Your life of growing up was oh so fascinating. You lived in a town much like other towns, or a big city, with challenges of its own. I had an upbringing too, with dear old dad working all the time and mom working as well, raising us kids. I guess my own experiences fit in with many others, which, to a certain extent are quite mundane.

School's one of those constants in life. You had Mrs. Smith in Kindergarten, Miss Jones in 1st, and so forth, right up the list, and those were great memories. But think about it, they're cut and dry, common, run of the mill stuff, basically tedious.

College is even less interesting, except for the experiences you might've had going crazy, which I'd leave out if I were you. Just say you showed up for class, did your work, kept your grades up, and eventually graduated. Yes, it's 100% boring, but some things don't need to be said.

In there somewhere you've had a few love interests. They've come and gone, as is true for the rest of us. When we come to sex, that's one of those areas like college you're not going to talk about. But even if you were to talk of it, we already know the basic moves, and definitely the way it ends. Every animal in the street could tell the same precise story, not even slightly interesting unless, and this is a biggie, you're getting revved up for next time.

Maybe you got married, maybe you had kids. Enjoy your wedding pictures while you can. Someday they'll look outdated. Your mustache will be out of style, your glasses will seem quaint, the colors will fade, the minister's toothy grin will seem out of place.

I like religion, except... so often the story ends the same way, trite, overdone with weird zeal or the lack of zeal. You walk into a church, virtually any church, and you say, "You gotta be kidding me! This is all it amounts to?"

Finally, there's death itself. You've lived all your life for this, your big moment. Even death, then, can be done to death. You're in an accident, you're decapitated, at least that's mildly interesting. Still, what a crappy driver you were. If you didn't know how to handle ice, you should've stayed home. Or you get a typical disease, which, even though there's tons of agony, you might've avoided. Or you have whatever, and you're laying there in the hospice room, listening to the soothing music, and you die. Just thinking of it's about to kill me, from boredom. Move to the Middle East, let them cut your head off. Then you'll have a story to tell.

Birthday Boons for All!

My birthday is finally here, this year on January 16. I'm seriously glad it's not on the 29th, because I was about to bust waiting on it. Unlike others my age, over 40, I love having birthdays. It only means I'm getting older and wiser. Right now, as has been true of recent years, I'm bubbling over with wisdom. I don't know how much wiser a man can be, but I'm willing to find out!

Thank you, dear kingdom, for your many tributes to me on this day of days. Messages of greetings have poured in in recent days, and I know it will be a major task for my servants to open them all and get them in good order for me to peruse later. If you do not receive a personal acknowledgement of your kindness from me, please let this word suffice, that I do appreciate it and wish boons on you and your household.

Closer to home, here within the palace walls, of course the celebration is already at fever pitch. Several of my servants have dressed me in white robes and fetched my royal mount for my annual march through the city. Two of my most trusted lieutenants accompany me today, the dusky Eric the Great, governor of my harem, and Tommy the Eunuch, who keeps an eye on him. The townspeople follow behind, presenting their grievances, knowing that boons will be lavished on all on this sainted day.

Throughout the day there are carnivals, games of sport, and turkey legs for all. It's as good and better than any Renaissance Festival, including the same massive cleavage piled up everywhere, with the plastic ice coolers they sometimes put there in the very center, keeping cool the meat of the goodie. The women of the realm enjoy getting those with their annual gift packs, which also includes the year's calendar with my birthday prominently featured on every page and a coupon for a side of fries with their turkey leg.

The men, away all year fighting my many wars, are brought back five days before my birthday. It is a gladsome time for them, as they become acquainted with the babies their wives gave birth to after they were last home. We tend to have a lot of October babies, great for the pumpkin farms that are all over the countryside. Plus, every child under 1 gets a coupon for a free pumpkin when they're in season, with the price being 50% off for all other kids. So they're happy.

Other boons are distributed. Every year, through the course of the year, I personally "hide" (or "unfollow," not "unfriend") about half of my Facebook friends for various offenses. They may be too rabidly conservative, too sentimental, too prone to cute cat photos, post too many things, too religious, offering adoration to other kings; the list is endless, all of which drives me crazy. But on my birthday, all is forgiven. Everyone is "followed" once again! For at least the next 24 hours. That's only fair.

The parade is about to begin! I must tear myself away from all distractions and give full attention to the high school bands who have worked and struggled all year to pay their way to my palace. I see one coming into view now. The band that came the greatest distance is always first. The first one this year has come all the way from Ukraine. That's thousands of miles, the other side of the world! The kids of that particular school actually had to raise money for three years to get here today! Quite a sacrifice!

And here they come. Let me watch as they pass. They've got a big sign. I can't make it out. It's some oddball language. I assume it says "High School of Whatever," OK, great. Probably the Fighting Putins, since they're always in a pickle with Russia. They're playing some strange song, sounds like a mash-up of "On Wisconsin" and "O Vladimir." The kid on bass drum is about half the size of his drum, a bad look. But there's a couple cute girls toward the back. Their uniforms probably could've been cleaner, spiffier, nicer, but they did their best ... I hope ... I suppose. And there they go, passing out of sight.

I'm so happy for their coming that one of the boons that I shall grant this year shall be "Full Independence for Ukraine!" The men of my realm shall drive the Russians from Ukraine. They shall do their best. At least liberating this one particular high school. How poor these kids look. I'm sending Tommy the Eunuch to distribute coupons for free turkey legs for all. And a free pumpkin when they're in season. It's the least I can do.

My Birthday Schedule 2015-2023

The big day's coming, just a couple days till January 16, my birthday! I can hardly wait for the celebration part, even though I'm not that crazy about getting older. But that's OK, too. Because I can't do anything about it, I may as well put a positive spin on it.

I love being a January baby -- "January baby, full of grace," all that, and also because I don't have to wait as long for my birthday to roll around. The old year ends, the new begins, and wham! there it is. Technically it's as early as January 7, even though I don't know the next time that will happen. I haven't looked that far ahead.

I had a question from someone about when my birthday was, prompting me to sketch it out for the next several years, up into 2023, which is so far away it sounds like science fiction. Space 2023! The last frontier, as man breaks the bonds of earth and makes his way to the stars! Bye bye, have a great trip, I'll be right here when January 18th rolls around, having a great birthday. Although by then I might be in the nursing home, since I'll be exactly 70-years-old! Hmm, 70... Grandma died when she was 70...

Having the chart is great, because it makes it just as handy for me as it is for any of you. Because even I can't be expected to remember when my birthday is year to year. It's complicated. But having a chart really simplifies things. I need to send a copy of it to my family and loved ones, and real life friends, who might like to send me a card or gift, if they only knew when the big day is.

There's a few simple rules I go by that limits when it can be. As I said above, the earliest it can be is January 7. I never want it exactly around the New Year, since that would detract from the glory of the day. There's also a religious reason. January 6 is Epiphany, when the Wise Men came and did what they did at the manger. I will not horn in on the end of Christmas!

From the day I was born, I never actually wanted to be born on a single digit date. But I've found that allowing the periodic appearance of the 7th, 8th, and 9th does have a value, putting me in a thoughtful mood -- a little blue -- which I use it to enhance my feelings for the rest of the year.

I'm glad also that I was not born on one of the oddball days of the year. Like February 29. There was always some idiot kid running around school going, "I'm only 4 years old!" I never understood the fascination with being 4. Another thing is, I don't like February period, so every date in February is oddball to me. It's more or less a shorter month they stuck in to fill in the rest of the year, but they put it second so it wouldn't look like a last ditch effort. Because of February my other limit is January 29. I don't want anything in the 30s so close to February. Avoiding the taint of February is a big thing with me.

Oh, the technicalities of life! The things we do to honor ourselves on the day of birth, that one special day we look back on when our mother gave us birth. And hopefully there was a father around, as well, to provide for us. My dad said he was my dad. And since I look just like him, I half believe him.

See you January 16! Happy birthday!

We Remember Your Birthday

This is a get-rich-quick scheme I thought of, in honor of my own birthday coming up. Being close to 62, I know how much birthdays mean to people. I light a little candle, pray for my soul, smear blood on the door, and I'm ready for another year. Beats shivering in the dark, doing nothing proactive, just waiting for the Reaper.

The idea is along the same line as the flags you can buy that have "flown over the United States Capitol." Sounds very impressive, till you realize there's someone raising and lowering flags all day and night -- my understanding. If I'm right, they might fly for a few seconds, then they're down again. Meaningful stuff, especially when you think of the halfwits working below. Are you much smarter? Apparently not.

My idea isn't as crass as that, really. It would actually provide a good service for folks who don't have many friends. And our sentiments would be absolutely sincere -- guaranteed no cynicism. You send in an easily affordable $9.99 ($10 if you will), and we spring into action. We read the card you filled out. Say your birthday is February 12, so bright and early that day we light a candle and offer a prayer on your behalf. Touching.

And since not many people are born in February, because it's such a short month, I believe we could do it up really good, plumping up the festivities with an extra helping of sincerity. You, back home, are feeling the love, somehow, probably after receiving the email letting you know it's all been accomplished.

The problem, of course, would be that eventually we'd be getting cards by the truckload, and it'd be much more of a logistical problem. Some folks wouldn't have the sense to put in the right amount of money; you'd always get them; so we'd have to come up with a policy of how to handle it. If we sent it back, maybe they'd just give up and we'd end up with nothing. So we'd probably go ahead and do something for them and let it go.

The other big problem would be keeping up with the candles and prayers. With big volume, I can see us just methodically lighting candles and blowing them out all day and figuring that covers it. As for the prayer, sooner or later we might have a prayer sticker printed and just be slapping it on top of the previous 40,000 stickers. It's easy to imagine myself going for the Guinness record for successively applied stickers. You could literally have the stack 6 feet tall and it wouldn't topple!

Everything's going great. We're honoring the terms, and pocketing the ten dollar bills, along with the occasional person shorting us, until a disgruntled employee secretly records the system. I'll admit it up front, there's always going to be a bad apple. Like the restaurant guy who bathes in the sink. One of these bad apples will have his shorts stuffed with money, then be seen "lighting" the candles with a blowtorch, and, in place of the usual prayer sticker, be affixing some rude sticker he got from a gum machine, like a Hell's Angels skeleton head or something.

A video of this shows up online and we're immediately shut down. There's a class action suit and I'm sent to prison, which I could never stand. I don't know if I've ever mentioned on the blog, that I once toured an actual prison. The restroom is a big open room, bright white, with stools lining the walls, disgusting in every way. That'd be terrible, along with whatever else goes on there. I'd hate to wake up someday, like on my own birthday, going, "Why couldn't I have just celebrated my own damned birthday and left well enough alone?"

Happy 90th Birthday, Horst!

One of our dearest friends, Horst, recently turned 90 years old! The big 9-0. Time to look back, for sure, and a time to look ahead to all the great years to come!

For Horst everything is getting better and better. Now he has lots of time on his hands at the nursing home, and that can be a kick.

In the long-ago far-off days of youth, Horst never dreamed he'd live to be 90. He was a handsome guy (still is), and all the girls had a thing for him. Especially one girl, the girl he would marry. (But more about her later.)

Take a look at Horst on their 30th anniversary. He's pictured here with his dear wife, Edna. (Unfortunately, Edna had to be cropped out because we wanted a uniform format on this page.) They not only look happy, they were.

Gettin' Better 'n Better in Every Way

At 90, Horst has nothing too much to worry about these days, just to take it easy and try to stay out of the nurses' way. Edna passed away a few years ago, and that was sad. But Horst's family made it much easier for him by having the newspaper print a poem, which read in part:

God broke our hearts to prove
He only takes the best.

What would people get Horst for his 90th birthday? Well, turns out there were all kinds of things he'd probably like. Like this "Footprints in the Sand" decorative thing. Horst's surprise comment on opening this gift: "What the hell is it?"

Of course, a singing bird clock is a gift idea that can't miss, whether your intended victim is young or old. And so it was for Horst. His comment after opening this gift: "What the hell do I need this for?"

And these days, the Boogie Blade is very popular as a gift item. It's kind of like the Boogie Bass (singing fish) or the Billy Bass (another singing fish), but this is not a fish nor does it have anything to do with birds, but it's a singing and dancing windshield wiper! Anyway, it was an obvious choice for an old guy like Horst, whose eye is just naturally captured by something so novel. Horst's comment on opening the Boogie Blade was touching: "What the sam hell — ?"

There was music and ice cream, and quite a few cards.

A nurse asked Horst, "Do you know how many people are here?"

He said, "200?"

"No," the nurse said, "50!"

Horst's beautiful reply: "That all?"

Horst, we know this is a happy time for you, with 90 Big Ones under your belt! Our sincerest wish for you is just this: May you have another 90 and then some!

---------------------------------

Note:

This post is from a webpage I had in 2000. It was based on a party I had recently gone to for a 90-year-old guy I knew. The guy's name was Fritz, but I changed it to Horst. Fritz actually said, "What the hell do I need this for?" when he opened the bird clock. And the line about how many people are here -- 200? No, 50, That all? -- is a true detail. I didn't include it, but Fritz thought he was either 100 or 110.

The formatting had to be different from the 2000 website. Here's the animated gifs I had of Horst at 90 and the Boogie Blade. The Boogie Blade originally had a soundtrack of snippets of various rain songs. I worked on the 30th anniversary picture with Photoshop to try to make him look around 90.

To learn about the actual guy in the pictures -- Elbert Macy -- see my post at THIS LINK.

Running Circles 'Round The Baby

You know me, I'm as normal as anyone you've ever met. I pride myself on that. I see unusual people, and while I may envy them for a few minutes, I'm actually glad I'm so normal. But even normal ones like me -- who knows the exact reason? -- can erupt, especially if push comes to shove.

Well, darn it all, that happened yesterday. Maybe because it was Sunday, a day for going to church, then erupting in euphoria, which the ancients controlled by an afternoon of blood sacrifice, a luxury we don't typically indulge in, unless of course we're country folk. Still, as you know, any sublimated desire, impulse, or instinct is still there. And finally -- call it the devil, if you will -- in the end it can't be denied. The Nazis proved that completely, which makes me feel better, although I know I'm still to be blamed.

Anyway, I felt the impulses rising up in me. You probably know exactly what I'm talking about, an inflationary surge of light through the spine that has to spill out, the metaphysical equivalent of piss and vinegar. You have to rotate it just so. I nearly had time to offer up my dog on a makeshift altar, the patio table, but then they were here -- relatives -- to take me to the party.

Party? you ask. Parties on Sunday afternoon? Yes, if it's your birthday and you happen to be one-year-old. There's a youngster in the family, and in a few days he turns one, although they had his party a few days early. It was a joy to see him, there in his top hat and his little suitcase, naked except for a diaper. He waved at me cheerfully as he walked by, his walk very tentative. It seems he has been walking for only a week or so, and even with that he's not very good. He takes a few steps, then sits, ending in the family's applause.

OK, like I said, I'm blaming my behavior on the piss and vinegar, the lack of blood sacrifice, everything but the Nazis, who already have enough to answer for. The surge of light was so great -- it was a rather nasty concoction, actually, of light and dark; inner cleansing carries many risks. I couldn't help myself. When the baby finally plopped down in the center of the room, eliciting applause, I erupted, running over and then running in circles around him, becoming, according to the sworn testimony of survivors, a tiger-like blur (cf. Sambo story). Then, to save myself from a buttery end, I ran up the wall all the way to the ceiling and fell with a thud. I cried out, "I know how to walk, too!"

At this point I might hope for sympathy (I couldn't help myself). But once you've ruined a birthday party for a one-year-old, in the eyes of the spiritually bereft you're nothing but dirt. Aunts and uncles, friends of the mother, including quite a few guests I don't know personally, lambasted me with severity, saying things like, "This isn't a competition! If you're somehow a better walker or runner than a baby, no one cares!" What could I do? I rubbed myself in the places where I hurt, and a few where I didn't.

But they kept giving it to me, the full impact, piling on. These aren't exact quotes, but it's the gist of the damned thing:

"Even though this child is 11 months old, just short of being one, he will grow! And he will get a better education than you! He will succeed where you failed! Then one day when you're in the nursing home, unable to get from your bed to the wheelchair without a Hoyer Lift and five CNAs, this baby -- by then fully grown and able to walk, if not fly -- will visit you, and he'll run circles around you! He will also dash up the wall, leaving muddy footprints for you to look at, if you're still able to see!"

There was everything but forgiveness.

30 Days Hath September

I came out of my self-imposed hibernation to wish everyone a Happy 30 Days Hath September Day!

This is one of the first days most of us ever heard of. When I was growing up, learning about the days of the year, no lesson would be complete without mentioning it. And thank God, because it rolls around every year.

Other than that, there's not much to say about it. Although, just giving it a minute's thought, wouldn't it be wild to have your birthday on September 30? As many people do, no doubt. Since no one can help when they're born. It's all up to their mom and dad. Still, let's say you were born on Sept. 30, and they were teaching you the calendar and your birthday and "30 days hath September" were the same day! You'd never forget it.

Jimmy's 18th Birthday At The Library

The Board of Editors and I had the opportunity to attend Jimmy's 18th birthday celebration yesterday at the public library. You'll remember Jimmy from when he was 17-years-old and was restricted to the Children's Room. His parents took advantage of one of the library's actual rules, and we're not making this up:

A parent or guardian must accompany a child under 18 to approve their child's card and can choose to restrict it to materials from the Children's Room.

Since originally writing about Jimmy, I discovered that the Children's Room was actually "A World of Wonder" for him. Now, with his 18th birthday, the Board and I were wondering how he would handle the transition from the Children's Room to the Big People's Section. And our wondering was a little more intense, being shorthanded after I fired Frank and Mark. But really, it all seemed to go pretty well for him, so we'll keep our fingers crossed, speaking for the whole Board, myself, Trade Smith, Dale, and Delilah, our only lady member.

We got there and they had a whole nice thing set up for him, kind of like a graduation reception. The Chief Librarian gave a talk, saying Jimmy was "one of our oldest patrons -- in terms of length of time -- but also one of our newest, as he takes this big step today." Next, despite some grimaces from Jimmy's parents, the Library Card Lady held up a brand new plastic card for him. She served as the "meat" in a "sandwich" with two others serving as the "bread," the Children's Room Director on one side and the Big People's Director on the other.

The two Directors were involved in a symbolic hand-off of Jimmy from the Children's Room to the Big People section. The Children's Room Director kissed him on each cheek, as they do in that section, and the Big People Director shook his hand, as it is among adults. The Library Card Lady, in the middle, presented Jimmy with the new card. Being plastic, it made it a moot point as far as the desirability of laminating it, which my Board had discussed.

Since I and the Board had been involved in getting Jimmy's touching story out there, I bought him a gift. I used my own personal money and it was all my idea, but I patronized the rest of the Board by signing their names to it as though they had also contributed. It was quite a gift -- maybe the nicest gift there -- and Jimmy beamed when he saw it, and we beamed at his response, to his happiness. What a nice gift!

In the actual hand-off between the two Directors, I thought Jimmy looked a little lost. The Children's Room Director saw this too and assured him he was welcome in the Children's Room any time, and the Big People Director concurred.

We all accompanied Jimmy into the Big People section, watching his eyes, as big as saucers, as he looked at the stacks. To him they were like skyscrapers, being a good three feet taller than anything in the Children's Room. The Director of that department explained to him that big people can reach higher than children, and with the space they have to work with for books, it only makes sense to go vertical. This allows them to offer more books!

He helped Jimmy reach his arm way up high, all the way to the highest shelf, praising him for being able to reach so far. He then gave him the good news -- reassuring common sense -- that since there's always five lower shelves, he only has a 1-in-6 chance of needing a book way up there. "You have roughly an 83% chance that any book you need will be on one of the lower five shelves, good enough odds to bet on, most of the time."

In the informal time, I discussed with the two Directors the phenomenon of 17-year-olds being restricted (potentially) to the Children's Room. Both said it was all confidential, the info as to how many have been (or are being) restricted. According to them, mum was definitely the word. But the Big People Director looked around, and seeing the coast clear, said there's still three presently restricted. The Children's Room Director also looked around, and in hushed tones, warning me that, "You didn't get this from me," gave me their names and their other personal information. I folded the card and surreptitiously pocketed it, thankful that more interviews and graduation parties could be in my future.

CLOTHING:

Jimmy was dressed in a checkered suit, nicely pressed pants, white shirt and tie. His hair was neatly combed, and his teeth were as white as clouds.

Jimmy's mom was dressed in a matronly dress with a cord tied around her waist. She had black shoes and good-to-very good hosiery. His dad was also properly dressed for the occasion, in a general business suit and gray tie.

The two Directors were dressed in business-type clothing appropriate to their positions. A suit for him, and for the female Children's Room Director, having more options on that account, a clown-print smock, much like modern nurses wear.

I and the Board were well-dressed too, neither standing out as being over- or under-dressed. I was happy with my own choices. I had a full array of clothes to choose from, having done the laundry the previous day. Dale and Trade weren't wearing anything particularly memorable. But Delilah looked very sweet in a light blue, checkered dress, much like you might see in the cafe of a comfortable Alpine chalet.

CONCLUSION:

In the end, Jimmy was OK -- very happy -- and will be happy enough in the Big People section. But of course it's all so much on the first day. So by the end of the festivities, he had retreated to the more familiar Children's Room. I saw him sitting in the corner by himself, rocking back and forth, and reading a book on dinosaurs.

Downgrading Grandpa's Age

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

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

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

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

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

Happy 110th birthday again, Grandpa!

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

Grandpa's Birthday

Today would have been Grandpa's birthday. He was born in 1897, so that would make him, what? [Pencil scratching on pad....] Something more than 100 for sure. 97 to 97, then ... 112. Wow, you know you're old when you need a calculator to figure it out!

I don't think I was going this blog last year at this time. I'm too lazy to check but it doesn't seem like it. He would have been 111 then, which is a lot of 1's. But now he has a 2 to break up the monotony. Flip the 111 over and you've got half an I Ching, so that might make him a hill, a mountain, or a berm of something solid, snow, ice, or dirt. Put in the 2 and his berm is lessened, with a sideways 2, clearly a digit and not a symbol of land.

Grandpa wanted to make 100. I'm sure he thought he would. But he didn't. Death intervened, and he passed on in the late 1970s. He didn't seem like he was in the worst of health. But life was hard for him. He worked hard. He looked old most of the time.

He had a rugged sense of humor. Not always appropriate. He told us a story one time, many times actually, about a guy who they put a necktie on. He stood in one place for three days! (The joke there is that they used to tie up horses to keep them in one place and this guy associated having a necktie with being tied up like a horse.) Some of Grandpa's language wasn't too appropriate for younger ears, including mine. I don't like to have a lot of cuss words on my blog -- which was really the heart of Grandpa's vocabulary. But he's famous for one line, waving to a guy passing by and saying he's "Harry." Harry who? Harry [A-hole, censored by me.]

Today is his day. Long may he live ... in Heaven.