Big City Gets Negative Verdict

The Big City

Part 17 of 28 - My favorite

Of course it’s easy for me to sit here day after day railing against The Big City. You know I make a lot of good points. And this isn't something I’d lie about. I actually live in The Big City -- a guaranteed fact -- so everyday I'm mulling it over. Between watching TV, feeding the dog, and doing laundry along with a bunch of other chores. So it’s not like I’d be unfairly biased against it when it's now my whole life.

So that validates some of my opinions if not the bulk of them, and perhaps all of them. But no one can be right all the time. Whereas the less you say, naturally the better your opinions are and the more squarely they'll hit the bullseye of the public’s sense. I make that claim for myself, and statistically it’s borne out, I'm either always right or close, hitting the sweet spot on most of my statements and beliefs.

All that said -- which alone would prove my point -- I was still willing to put my opinions to the ultimate test by arranging a completely random interview with an individual, with all the safeguards and controls that go into it to keep the statistical hounds at bay regardless of other factors. Like it or not, I definitely went the entire extra mile, a lot farther than most guys go to show good faith.

OK, here's how it went: First, I took the time and expense to assemble a focus group, and they seemed fully prepared to judge the case. But  I detected bias with one guy saying it was a good day to be alive, which tainted the pool. I abruptly dismissed nearly the entire session with severe prejudice. I spared just one guy of the group, the same guy who thought it was a good day to be alive! The others were out, not only being tainted, but they were also either pessimistic or suicidal. It was this other guy's optimistic spirit that made me optimistic that he’d see it my way about the Big City.

This, however, was a sensitive moment. I had to keep him from bias, so I asked him not to speak again but to signal his verdict on The Big City solely by facial gestures. So we shall proceed to the questions and his facial answers:

Question number 1: Do you like sticking it to the man? A smiling UP, with eyes decidedly closed. For me, this was a big positive, saying he was more than happy to stick it to the man. I figured the survey would be a slam dunk against the Big City, but we still had quite a ways to go.

Question number 2: Is the Big City a good idea for children and other living things? Instead of his big smile just seconds before, he became like a wounded animal at the very thought of it. He gave it a firm DOWN. His answer strengthened my stance that the Big City is anathema for living things, being a negative gesture. 1-1.

Question number 3: Would you like to date the mayor of the Big City? A quick scrunchy-face DOWN. Which was a big surprise for me, because the mayor’s really quite an attractive guy. But it's probably just a case of him not swinging that way. Suddenly we were DOWN 2-1.

Question number 4: I was hoping this wouldn’t be a DOWN, because with only one question left there would be no way for the Big City to possibly eek out a victory. But I asked anyway: “What is your favorite thing about the Big City?" Since he could use only facial gestures, he seemed disappointed and would've preferred to give an oral answer. That gave us a DOWN, 3-1, with no favorite thing. Now the only way of climbing out of the hole being for the last question to be UP along with something underhanded. I could've gleaned that he'd rather marry the mayor than merely date him. But we didn't go there.

Question number 5: In what way is the Big City like lemons? He did what everyone does when they think of lemons, puckered up in a positive way -- making it an UP vote -- rounding out an otherwise disappointing total for the Big City at 3-2 DOWN.

So it was a negative result for the Big City, justifying my original negative take. Reflecting back on the interview, I thought it over, and realized how close it actually was. Clearly, the interpretation of the answers might’ve been jimmied if I were that kind of guy, a Big City shyster. But instead I played it fair and square all the way.

She's Cute ... He's Handsome ... Stop! Don't Do It!

This is just the kind of argument you want to get into ...

You caught her fair and square, bald-faced, lying, red-handed, in the act, in flagrante delicto, as it were. You had her right where you wanted, names, dates, suspicious comings and goings. This would be your big chance to be rid of her, no questions asked. No one could blame you.

Then -- you should have known -- as sure as the sun doth rise, she has the names and dates, and suspicious comings and goings of you as well. A little tit for tat, what's good for the goose is good for the gander, or vice versa. You tried to avoid that infernal lipstick! Proving to yourself once and for all, there's no fool like an old fool!

It's the same old story, times two. You're out and about, you catch an eye, an eye catches you, then there's a smile and an exciting closeness. It's a crowded room, pretty dark, you can duck through this curtain and out this door, the back door, and find a booth somewhere. No one's looking, you think. In this whole big world, surely you can duck scrutiny for a paltry hour; you've been around, you see people, they're out of sight in a flash.

But there's always some little thing. Someone crossing the street the opposite way, catching a glance, noticing something out of place, a slightly different person on your arm. But they don't say anything, don't greet you, and maybe turn their head to look the other way. Saving their kind attentions for later, the gossip mill.

She, however, was very discrete, coming up with one excuse after another for her absences. Doctor appointments, visiting a sick friend, Christmas shopping in July, having her dress mended. But you started thinking, Something's going on. And decided to call in a private detective for answers.

He tailed her, but good. She wasn't so secure she didn't look behind her and around. But she kept right on going, not noticing him. Then the assignation, a dark stairwell, a key to the door. Their meeting went well, such as it was. The detective was back with the details within the hour. Now to confront her! And be done with it!

She was ready, though, the evidence she has against you bringing out an added brazenness. This is why she had no shame!

Fortunately, friends, the above scenario is fictional. The very sad people in the illustration, just actors, helped me make a point. The point being, if you haven't yet crossed that line -- and there has to be a few of you who've thus far held back -- there's still hope for your relationship. You may seriously think you've lost the fire as a couple, but it's very likely that's just a deception. Because whatever it was a long time ago, the mutual attraction that brought you together, isn't dead. Much more likely, you've simply set it aside, by neglect, or from a lack of imagination. The old fire's still there, present somewhere, just waiting to be rekindled.

I've had friends who've crossed that line, and I've kept their confidence, only because they're my friends. But I know they're miserable. Had they only come to me before it happened -- this goes for male and female -- I would've told them, "Don't do it!" In my favor I would've brought out the old truth, "The grass always looks greener on the other side of the fence." I would've then lead them through a few questions -- delving into their thinking -- before emptying a pitcher of iced water in their lap. They'd have come up cussing me, obviously, but when they got hold of themselves, they'd have thanked me.

It's too late for them now, many of them, but that doesn't mean it's too late for you. Let's say you're getting ready to go right now. But somehow (Who knows how it happens, but thank God it does!) you found your way to this blog -- a very popular blog, yes, but still obscure enough that you basically need divine guidance to find it -- and you're reading this post, and it's hitting you like a ton of bricks. You're saying to yourself: "Yes, yes ... just the word I needed, as within the hour -- or maybe even sooner -- I was planning to throw it all away with some hot little floozy [or tall, dark, handsome paramour with a pencil-thin mustache, smoking a Swisher's Sweet, very sexy.]"

It's fantastic news to me to know now that I had some little part in changing your plans. And that you've decided to take another look at your mate, your partner over all these years. She ain't so bad, is she? He's still pretty cool, isn't he? You look up, you look at each other, there's a meaningful look, a glance, and a sly smile.

Forget everything else! Take your pill and fill the tubs in the backyard! Maybe you can make it before sundown!

Super Brain

I've mentioned a few times over the years that one of my pet names for myself is Super Brain. It's done wonders for my self-image but has been a detriment to my love life ("Super Brain knows you're in it for the free meals.") Be all that as it may, the name's stuck. And for good reason, thanks to my super brain, silly. The following is an account born in my meditations just this morning:

Super Brain is alone with his thoughts. At this moment he's monitoring the various energies as they go deep, seeing how they generally bypass actual information of a practical nature, inventions that might help mankind in some way, and veer off into fantasy realms, often tripping over themselves.

It's something like "Journey to the Center of the Earth," that story. I'll note it's a lot easier to make the descent than it may be, looking ahead, to get back out. I can't depend on a rock basin atop a volcano ready to blow. Super Brain calculates the odds. The rock basin and volcano being there, pretty good. Blowing at that precise second, less so. Survival with the heat and the difficulties of landing once blown free and clear, also not good. If that happens Super Brain calculates nothing but pain, discomfort, and a terrible death.

But we're far from that point. Super Brain continues to descend to the depths of himself. I see channels of light, synapses larger than most people's. I'm seeing these are synapses that don't mess around. For a lot of people, they're always shorting out, barely making a connection, but these are ones that receive from the previous synapse and add motive power before sending it to the next. Meaning -- ye gods! -- when a thought starts to occur it's already huge and powerful, but by the time it's fully considered, it's Everest! The fact that I can simultaneously shrink it down and make it presentable to others, as in this report, is itself a seismic miracle. Of tectonic proportions. Super Brain double backs on himself with amazement.

That's something to consider, although it threatens to put Super Brain into many simultaneous massive loops. Still, "Know thyself / Physician, heal thyself," -- if Super Brain wants to consider its own mighty workings, vis-a-vis the relation he has to himself -- although this is where a monumental conscious split might happen -- there's great danger in telling Super Brain to settle down. I must be careful not to become multiple Super Brains, as that would crowd out others from their rightful place in sharing the thoughts of the world. It would be immoral to swallow up all consciousness. But Super Brain is like the proverbial 5000 pound gorilla, demanding free reign, meaning we have to stand back and clean up the damage later.

Thinking on Super Brain's thoughts on himself -- how majestic the peaks -- how awesome and unsearchable the terrible depths, with all the power it takes to make it work -- a mighty surge overpowering all other insurgents! Super Brain doesn't fight the same war twice. Super Brain is a dynamic thinking entity of no observable limits. Although Super Brain obviously could observe them if he wanted. Super Brain's cranial habitation does not truly hold it. Another obvious miracle. Super Brain thinks and thinks and thinks and thinks on itself and remains healthy, ever strengthening and doubling in thinking might.

Now I'm going to perform an utterly magnificent feat, to cast Super Brain's thoughts on terrain and realms very far from it. My first stop: Out by the Tastee Freeze. What do I behold in that far off locale, at least 60 blocks from here? They're still closed. They've been closed for decades. You'd think someone would buy the run-down property, tear down the old place, and put something else there. A Taco John or something.

Super Brain sees -- wow! -- an investment opportunity. Super Brain actually truly sees the possibilities of entrepreneurship. All it'd take is a quick call to corporate, a plan that Super Brain might work out with lawyers -- himself able to guide the best legal minds in plush offices around the square. But is that really the direction Super Brain wants to go? It'd be good money. At first, though, his energies would be tied up in hiring teenagers to make tacos, and he can see -- thanks to the vast energies making these thoughts simply occur -- that would be so unrewarding.

Super Brain is not tiring, no. But Super Brain's vast energies are making the body tired. Must direct energies to recharge. Meaning, looking to the gigantic nucleus of pulsing light and dark right at the core of Super Brain, and sending forth power. Energy to the toes! Energy to the hands! Energy to the vital organs! Energy to the organs shriveling from lack of use. Super Brain must make the body more attractive to potential mates. (Troll nursing homes to find rich widows. Have to get them when they're new, before they've signed over the house.) Like spinach, Super Brain makes biceps anvils, hands hammers, dinghy tattoo on chest a battleship. Pipe is spinning, strident music playing, theme song. I'm a whirlwind of hitting objects with my fist and having them land in a more ordered arrangement. I'm strong to the finish.

Super Brain semi-drifts into a quiescent state, the body relaxes. Semi-drifts, because Super Brain continues forever his activity, now monitoring all things in a mighty way, crickets in the pantry, birds outside, and the air conditioner popping on again.

Must rouse myself and get on with my day.

A Psychotic vs. Romeo & Juliet

Editor's Note: I don't feel bad about writing this, if that's what you're thinking. What? Should I feel guilty? I'm sorry, I don't see it that way. Thank you for your kind indulgence. Editor out!

Have you ever been attracted to a girl, and say you become something of a couple, and then you're invited over to meet her parents? That happened to me once. I can still see (in my mind's eye) her father sitting in the corner, in an easy chair, reading the paper. He barely looked up at me, and whatever acknowledgement he gave of my presence was very much like a dismissing growl. Not a good experience. But at least I got out of there alive, unlike this other guy I heard of...

They had to reconstruct exactly what happened from the girl's sworn testimony. Because the boy didn't make it out. The father actually made it, but he was such a psychotic, his testimony would be worthless, sworn or not.

It was just like my situation, she took him home to meet her father. Mom apparently wasn't in the picture. As it happened, Dad was in the bathroom with the door open, right off the hallway, so she took the boy there. Dad was shaving with one of those Norelco-type electric jobs. You know the type? They're strictly no fuss, no muss...

Of course the father looked out the door askance at the boy, being sensitive to such things, meeting new people, possible boyfriends. I'd guess it'd have something to do with a house being a man's castle, but it's just as likely there was more of a personal revulsion, because, as we'll learn later, he was completely psychotic. Which can be a bad scene.

But it was the boy who started having a reaction to seeing the dad with the Norelco-like device. Which could've been a reaction based on something physical at the scene, like pheromones. I know that's common. It sounds like he sensed death. The girl said he whispered something about being worried, and she could see him sweating, like he was afraid the father might do something in despair, like cutting his wrists with the shaver.

I can only imagine what he was thinking: What chance will I have with her if I'm responsible for her father's death, him bleeding to death in a bathroom she'd never be able to use again in perfect peace? That's an entirely logical question to ask oneself. I know I wouldn't be comfortable under those circumstances, unless I really had to go.

The best thing the boy could do -- the only thing, really -- was treat her dad somewhat warily, lest he have an active psychosis thing going. It's obviously a bad combination when you have a sharp razor and an active psychosis. You'd have to think, He might fly around the room killing us all, not just himself but me and his daughter. It'd be Romeo and Juliet all over, a perfect one for one parallel.

Really, though, what is it with psychotics and weapons? They're not able to do one single other thing right in life -- cause and effect completely elude them. But there is one thing they're good at, weapons and complete destruction; that they're good at!

OK, this is where the girl's sworn testimony comes in. The boy handles the threatening situation based on something he saw on TV, where they brought in a guy's aged mother to talk him down. Going on the assumption that if the guy's psychotic, and not good at any cause and effect sequence apart from weapons, it would stand to reason that portraying his mother might do the trick.

So the boy whispers to the girl, "What's your paternal grandmother's first name? "Grandma?" "No, her actual name." "Wilma."

"Hello, sonny, I'm your old mother Wilma. I want you to listen to me and behave," and he goes on with that line of thinking, very simple and direct instructions or commands. The dad goes, "Mom, you've changed."

"No, no, sonny," the boyfriend said, "I'm the same old mother you've always loved. Back among the living and feeling better than ever."

Like that, then, he's calming the guy down more ... more ... ever more, and finally takes possession of the shaver. But suddenly the dad lunges for a knife behind the towels, comes at the boyfriend, and immediately kills his "mother." To me this is the ultimate proof of his psychosis, although some readers might surmise it was an Oedipal thing. I really wouldn't disagree, but it's that from a psychotic point of view.

And so it's true, they were Romeo and Juliet, paralleled. Shakespeare was right about so many things, including the biggest from Romeo and Juliet: Some families simply should not intermarry. Because there's bound to be trouble. The parallels are beyond spooky.

Check Out These Sexy Album Covers

I've been finding some pretty sexy album covers in my discovery of new and old music. This album of rare oldies but goodies has a definite goodie awaiting the discriminating music fan. I see a very nice looking old record, a little bigger than life-sized sharing a hot date with a true music lover. The fade-outs on her back and other more southerly regions are not welcome, but still are not entirely bad. It's one of those cases, like with optical illusions, where the eye fills in the blanks, then ... lingers ...

I'm not sure how famous Flow Tribe is, but I'm a lifelong fan, thanks to this sexy cover. Notice how risque it is: They're pregnant with a baby called Funk. How exactly they got pregnant, they being represented by the winged goddess on the cover, is anyone's guess. Perhaps divine hanky panky, but I like to picture it being done in the good old-fashioned way, with some mysterious guy, probably chunky, they met on tour. Up till then, they were strictly lounge music, with an unsatisfied hunger for flair. Then the guy approaches, and before you knew it, little baby Funk was in utero. Check out his umbilical cord, attached to headphones. Cool.

I've always loved this album cover by Del Shannon and the song "Little Town Flirt." This was a hugely sexy song in the early '60s. "You can get hurt, fooling around with that town flirt," thanks to her being involved "with every guy that goes by." Then there's the artwork. And I know I'm dating myself -- even going steady -- but to me this is what cute girls should still look like, the way they looked when I first noticed them. Yes, the old world ways are still the best! My cousins and I used to look at this album cover, then immediately go prowling the campground at the state park. Which was about the time I also discovered how suspicious and wary fathers could be.

Isn't this a great one? You think, "Yeah, I already have most of the one hit wonders on this album," then you take one look and say, "But I guess I could always use a back-up copy." The way she's sitting, I have to tell you, I remember some of the old teachings, and this wasn't what they taught. But still, sometimes music brings out the animal in you. Then with some satisfaction, you're wistful, daydreaming, and casually setting the record down as you contemplate. Some guy comes by and wonders, Why couldn't it have been a 45?

 

Speaking of 45s, what's those big gold blotches? Some kind of starburst thing, that, frankly, we could live without. Come on, I like to read record labels, being an old record collector from way back. But let's say something about the cover: Give me time, I'm thinking, I'm thinking! Wow! She's cute! One hand gloved, one hand not. I'd like to see her twisting the night away in one of those dance cages on Hullabaloo, at the Au-Go-Go!

Sorry, boys, if this last cover's a total downer for you. But in many ways this is the sexiest of all, because it was Hardrock Gunter, unbeknownst to you, who got your grandparents or great-grandparents going, and if it weren't for him, you might not be here! Honest to God truth!

Hardrock Gunter was doing the wild thing back when doing the wild thing could get you in lots of trouble. They had the vice squad, censuring preachers, beak-nosed teachers, and mom and dad at the door. And yet, there was Hardrock, blasting out that hot country swing, and turning a blind eye when the kids drifted off to ... who knows where?

What about birth control? Except for a bottle of Coke, there wasn't any. Ever wonder why Grandma and Grandpa had five or six kids? Notice the title, "I'll give 'em rhythm." Hardrock meant it two different ways, but, alas, only one way was actually reliable, the music! But a lot of kids took it on faith, and so, here you are today, generations later.

Hardrock Gunter and his rhythm stick, sexy as can be! Pull up a chair at the Hardrock cafe!

Protecting My Girlfriend

It's been a great time in my life. The dates with my girlfriend are piling up. I think I've had two, three, or four. Depending how you define it. If it means the sun's down and we're out to eat, that's one thing. If it's simply going to the grocery store and picking up a few things -- bread, baloney, oysters -- that doesn't count.

But the exact count isn't important. What's important is that whatever we do, it's quality time. And whether I'm invested in the relationship. And I believe I have been, maybe even more so than anyone could've expected. With my previous history, completely undefinable.

At the store, I suddenly got the creeps -- I'm creeped out! -- that something might happen to her. And since I played hell finding a girlfriend, obviously I don't want to lose her easily, not after having played hell finding her. So I've been looking out for her safety. Nothing wrong with that, right?

She had a couple hours to kill this morning, so, hey, we got together. We were going to go out for lunch, when I mentioned we could go to the grocery store and buy food and have more meals for the money. It could've been a couple burgers at a burger joint for $18.00 (with fries), or $70-80 worth of stuff at the grocery store to make eight or ten meals.

It's when we got there that I started thinking of all the stuff that could go wrong and harm our relationship. The place hasn't got their parking lot entirely scooped out after the last snow, which is a danger. I dropped her off at the curb, the cleanest spot in the place, and she was able to walk in safely. I parked a little farther, trying to avoid one of the places next to the cart storage, to avoid getting my car nicked by someone. So she was left alone a little longer than is wise.

I got there in time, though, and all was well. Now safely in the store, I started thinking, and dwelling on, all the things that could harm her. Being bumped by other carts, having her purse stolen, being hit on by some creep, or crazed gunmen jumping out of nowhere, etc. We walked around the store. Her purse was in the cart, and I kept a good hold on it the whole time. Any time another cart neared us, I had her behind me and to the right. If there were any creeps in the aisle, I spotted them in advance and we went a different way. It went like that, something she appreciated. As for gunmen, we were there on a good day, as there weren't any.

No. What actually did her in was the price of oysters. We've had a couple "stay home dates," eating oyster stew. This is all true. The oysters we got at a particular place were only $1.98 a can. But when we were shopping at this place, they were a whopping $2.49 a can, a precipitous leap in price. If you figure that in percentages, it's pretty steep. She collapsed.

By the time we got to the exit -- and this really tried my feeble muscles, especially with the extra weight of a can of oysters in my coat pocket -- I was carrying her, scouting both directions and calculating the odds that there'd be danger. The Secret Service has nothing on me.

The store has stop signs as you cross into the parking lot, but honestly I had no reason to trust people to stop. So we waited a little extra time before going on. Then I wasn't so sure her nightgown was protecting her from the cold, so I stuck my gloves down her back. I helped her through the snow, got the door open, helped her in so she wouldn't slip, and finished off by helping her with the seat belt. Anything mechanical has hidden dangers.

Our Peanut Shell Moment

I had a date today after church -- yes, a woman this time; I met her in church, so she's not your average pervert -- and we shared a special moment.

I asked her out, and we made our way in my car to a hamburger restaurant where they also give away free peanuts. I always like that. The burgers may be average to a little better, but the peanuts are always to die for. And free to boot.

We sat somewhere near the door, seemingly a meaningless detail, but it's not in this sense: That's right where purse snatchers like to see people, so they can grab your purse and have an unimpeded path to the door and beyond. I asked her if it'd be OK for me to watch her purse, since she seemed to be a little careless about it. She looked at me, I believe admiringly, as someone who only sought her well-being. She passed me the purse and we both felt better.

Then it was time to get down to some serious eating. She had the regular cheeseburger and me the hamburger, both pretty large, plus fries. She was drinking pink lemonade and I ginger ale. And of course I was eating the free peanuts. I had one container of peanuts and one for the shells, something new for me, since before I've always made do with the same container.

At some point, then, I came across what looked to me to be the perfect peanut shell, pictured above. It was broken perfectly, was incredibly flat, and seemed to have some use beyond its life as the shell of a peanut now eaten. I suggested to her that she could use it for a little cup, good for just a sip of water, were she to keep it. Frankly, it looked like a small trough, so if you had a small animal, a gerbil or even a bird, you could use it for water or grain. Or just enjoy it yourself, maybe as a nicknack for the mantle.

She was absolutely adorable in picking it up and putting it to her lips as a demonstration of how useful it might be. I looked at her and she looked at me. Our eyes met and it was tender. Then, as if having some slight embarrassment for revealing too much of her core being -- and I being intuitive enough to see it displayed in such a raw way -- she pulled it down and put it among the other shells. She was a little flushed. I did my best to dispel it by patting her hand and smiling, while reaching with the other hand, on the sly, to retrieve the shell and spirit it into my jacket pocket.

All the way home I did what anyone would do, prayed that nothing would crush the shell whose moment we had shared. And sure enough, it was fine, arriving with me moments ago here at home, for a quick photo shoot and this blog. Wish us well. We shared that beautiful time. There's so much more to come! I hope.