Myra On The Half Shell

THE GOLDEN CHILD - #14

Doesn't she look great -- woo hoo! -- Myra Kula Electra? I'm just sitting here staring at the above photo. And it looks like I'm not alone. There's also you, as well as all those other eyes; every eye's on her! That's what it's like when you're classified with the heroes, the beautiful people. You've got a ton of swagger, or in this case, a ton of grace and gracefulness.

I love the whole thing about women and nature, Mother Nature, all that. We men, we also have our moments. Mostly fighting each other, watching out for creepy guys who also happen to be criminals, or just social ne'er-do-wells, looking to steal our stuff. We're good for a lot in nature, of course. Back before technological times, let's say, men had a lot more going on. Feeding the horse, building fences, fighting neighboring tribes, and fathering children. Daughters for the grace of life. Sons for the horse, fences, fighting, and fathering.

We're actually very lucky these days, because, thanks to technology, we've been lifted above all that. But whether "lifted" is the right word, I don't know; maybe "burden" would be better. Women seem like they're more into feeding horses, which now are only owned for recreational or aesthetic purposes. Fences are put in by the pros. There's ordinances against fighting neighbors. The only thing men get to do now is father children, and thanks to birth control, that's basically out. Used to be families had 15 kids, because about five of them would die early; you could never be sure. Now you're lucky if you have two, and they're at a loss of what to do, never maturing and remaining children perpetually.

Anyway, Myra Kula Electra, doesn't she look great? Her arms are stretched out so nicely. Her head's pulled back, like she's in ecstasy, her eyes closed, beholding what kaleidoscopic mental pictures? The half shell structure is crossed with the morning sun, and Myra walks the golden ribbon of life to her blessed destination. What a sight!

To think, once upon a time -- a few days ago -- we were still at each other's throats. I had it out for her and she for me. The whole purpose I had as The Golden Child -- having a divine mission, as it were -- was to destroy Myra Kula Electra! For the bad treatment I received from her. And the fact that she had carnal relations with the four prisoners at the July 4 celebration a couple years ago. Etc. But then everything threw us together in a common mission. To destroy the demons, then to preserve, protect, and defend our hometown from the same hellish forces. She has my utmost respect now. And I'm sure the future will be bright.

There's only one itsy bitsy issue with stuff like this. Which is -- and it's an old, old story -- when you face demons, etc., it's easy to make common cause, to get you through this desperate time. But what do you do when things go back to normal? Even guys who went through the world wars couldn't just sit around talking about their victories, since that gets old.

The Third Day

 THE GOLDEN CHILD - #13

It's the Third Day after, a particularly symbolic and delightful marker for Golden Children everywhere. I remember as a kid how huge a deal it was on Easter Sunday, back when people were into that. Now, alas, all the true believers in the old ways -- various aunts, grandparents, and even parents -- have passed on to their reward, leaving the rest of the world casting about for something to believe in.

It's no secret most churches struggled to stay open as long as they could, coasting on fumes, but by and large it was all in vain. Now they've been converted to Bingo parlors and office space for people needing offices and a place to have them. The magic is gone. Or is it? There are still those of us who don't just cling to, but revel in the spiritual arts. Kickin' out the jams, what have you. Looking for divine romance, let's say. Being born again in immediate ways.

The illustration portrays a smaller, younger version of Myra Kula Electra, one of the temporary changes she went through when the whole terrible (great) thing went down the other night. The hellhole formerly known as the Old Coal Mound, a place where I experienced freaky things as a kid, blew up and has been more or less harrowed. The vile things that came out of there! O boy! Reminds me of the time many years ago, when Grandpa had a turtle 24 inches in diameter, and he fried up that thing and ate it in one meal! He was sicker'n a dog; that was the harrowing of hell, as far as he was concerned!

Also portrayed is me -- The Golden Child, but this time in my guise as Father Nature (or something) -- thankful, as Nature generally is, for the change of seasons, that gives it new life, or at least something different. Choose your ruts well, Nature; you'll be in them a fourth of the year.

I'll make this quick. Once everything blew up the other night, Robby the Red-Nosed Robot versus the Demons -- including the loathed (but now beloved) Myra Kula Electra -- the square of town was a shambles. Most of the principles, including the Tractor Promenade, the Four Prisoners (Danny, Tipsy, Cannibal, and Spud), and Myra herself, were stunned and out of it. I alone milled about, as though on guard. I was stunned but able to patrol the area.

Around three in the morning, the first police showed up. I stood up to them with my gun, and they backed down. I said, "I'm proud of you officers, respecting the authority of a single man with a gun, a one man militia. The number of officers who would back off as you have are few, and I'm proud to say 'You're from my home town!'" We shook hands and they went back to the station to write their report, likely how they were held off by one man with a gun who thanked them for their respect.

Today, though, all that's in the past. We shall clear out of here and let the city do whatever they need to do to get this town back in decent shape. I'm sorry it looks like crap -- and I realize it's going to be expensive to fix, probably requiring years worth of studies and much higher taxation -- but what's a guy supposed to do when it comes to demons? Maybe I could've destroyed them in the country, let's say, and on second thought, that probably would've been preferable. I go to movies here, and this is what I get to look forward to seeing every time I'm downtown?

Anyway, the graphic above: All nature celebrates our victory! The Golden Child has come through the challenge and prevailed! The spirit of Easter has been restored to its former glory. Establish the meeting places! Let this word go forth to every creature on Earth, those who have a mind and heart wherewith to hear! Myra liveth again, The Golden Child is alive forevermore! Writing his blog, with the things of new life to share!

Next: Myra On The Half-Shell

An Act or Two Short of The Final Act

 THE GOLDEN CHILD - #12

All the stuff I had to do in this Supreme Battle -- it was like fighting World War II single-handedly -- was so unbelievably hard, even I, The Golden Child, am not sure how it was physically done. Except to say, You get organized, you make a checklist, and you check it off as you go, step by step, till everything's done.

This isn't the final denouement to this sad (yet ultimately happy) situation with Myra Kula Electra, but it's darned close. The tide turned when the Tractor Promenade performed on the square, such beautiful stuff, a beautiful, intricate act. Tractors square-dancing tugs at your heart, letting you know that mankind truly has it goin' on.

The courthouse was lit and beautiful. I had a front row seat from my place in the alley across the street by the theater, in the upper chamber of the Robby the Red-Nosed Robot suit. Myra was torn between good and evil, with the tugging of her heartstrings drawing her toward "good," due to the charms of the square-dancing tractors. (As an aside, a few years ago I too felt the lure to a life as a professional criminal, but having seen the Tractor Promenade, I renewed my vows as a law-abiding citizen.)

Meanwhile, in the country, at my aunt's old place, Cousin Roto had loaded the old coal mound with enough explosives -- purchased on the black market from a guy who should know better -- to blow every demon there skyward, and propel them several counties away, depending on the breeze. As it was, he arranged the explosives at a slant, to give them more of a town-ward direction once they hit the prevailing winds. Roto followed my cue made by shining Robby's red nose directly toward his position.

As for Myra, she was atop the old hotel, just north of me, in a spiritual tug 'o war. When as the Promenade hit their climax -- the bearded "women" on their tractors facing the "men" on theirs, then flipping their tractors around as if to yield their backsides -- Myra made her choice. I don't know if it was her deeper romantic nature, or a sudden charge of hormones immediately stimulated, but she made a 65-yard leap from the hotel to the dome of the courthouse! (A decent enough jump, but I still gave it only a 7.5, because with that many demons flying in and serving as an undergirding cushion as well as offering lift, my grandma could have equaled or excelled it.

That left Robby to go marching across from the alley toward the courthouse. My aim was one of life or death. If Myra submitted, then life. If she did not, Robby's eyes were outfitted with nukes. Guaranteed to kill everyone in a 30-mile radius, and probably ruin some very nice tractors. To nudge her more certainly toward life, I had another surprise. The four prisoners Myra and I shared in common -- her more than I -- Tipsy White, Dashing Danny Whfrf, Spud Tuber, and Cannibal -- emerged from Robby's feet, which flip up from the toes like garages. (The remote at first triggered the groin area, where oil drains for oil changes, but with quick thinking, I stopped that and restarted it to trigger the feet.)

As the demons swirled, the fevered commandments of exorcists, multi-tracked earlier in the day (and adding 528 Hz Third Eye Opening music) to be an overwhelming force for good against them, cast them out. The sky opened, many were sucked up. The ground opened, many were sucked down. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth, enough for everyone remaining to take seconds.

My own teeth chattered, because I've got just enough evil in me, exorcists also give me the heebie-jeebies. Were it not for my countervailing good, my hands would've slipped from the joystick and Robby would've taken out the war memorial near the courthouse, a fatal faux pas in this day of superficial cliche patriotism, roused against those football players who refuse to stand, another subject for another day; our society being rife with stupidity, it's hard to cover everything in one swell foop.

Enter The Tractor Promenade

 

THE GOLDEN CHILD - #11

When the history of this battle is written, let the word go forth, to friend and foe alike, that like Frank Sinatra, win or lose, I did it my way!

A number of years ago I was in the company of some folks who were excited to go see the Tractor Promenade, square-dancing tractors. The guys who drove the tractors were all men, but because square-dancing is generally done by men and women, half of these guys were dressed as women. Not in a pretty way, lest anyone think they shouldn't be allowed to use the restroom, but in an exaggerated way. Big thick wigs, floppy dresses, and beards were part of it.

I wasn't excited about it right away. I mean, look at me, I'm a cool cat; I can't be impressed by the ways of country folk and their laughs, can I? Well, you know what? I'm not really as cool as everyone thinks. Most of my YouTube history reveals I watch a lot of "Hee Haw" clips. (For some reason there aren't full episodes of "Hee Haw" out there, that I've seen.) I like Grandpa Jones, Buck Owens, Roy Clark. Once I hitchhiked nearly 250 miles to see Roy Clark perform, then when I got there, I can't remember what happened, but I never saw Roy Clark. I'm full of stories like that, because I'm not cool.

The charms of square-dancing tractors got to me, to the point that I became a Tractor Head and followed them around. And when I'd see the guys, I'd often make eye contact with them as they performed, a tear in my eye and tapping my heart, as if to say, "You're in my heart, I'm misty, keep that dress and wig on, and shave that beard, and we might get it on." I've been very lucky in life, but, alas, it never happened. I had to turn and walk away, solitary, in tears, clutching my program, and hoping to escape the place without someone laughing at my failure.

Regardless of all personal heartbreak, and especially now that I'm older and losing a lot of my ambition to succeed -- because What's the Damned Use? -- like the Virgin Mary, I've treasured the things of the Promenade and kept them in my heart. I became friends with one of the guys, who now is my contact in this present distress. Putting a end to the terror wave of one Myra Kula Electra!

Friends, she's going down! When she catches sight of the Tractor Promenade, it is going to be so confusing to her. Tractors square-dancing! If what I'm thinking is right. That demons have the kind of mentality that expects a certain amount of order in the world. I believe their mentality is very orderly, despite their reputation for chaos, and very literal. Demons think A leads to B, in a direct line. A doesn't lead to C, you see, because demons are hung up on directness. Tractor square-dancing is antithetical to linear thinking; they'd freak out. Remember the multitude of demons Jesus sent into the herd of swine? They didn't say, "Let's bide our time on this hillside till Jesus is gone, then come out and go about our business." They freaked out directly, ran into the sea, and presumably got wet.

But enough about demons. Get me started like that and I'll talk your leg off. I'm not bragging, but I probably know more about demon psychology than most people my age and of average intelligence. Demons are basically stupid, they just have bullish dispositions, but in a few years they might be president. Say we had someone set the example for them, it could happen. I'd gladly vote Demons for President, because I could cast them out anytime I wanted!

Let me add one more important thing. Myra, I know you read this blog. In the name of everything holy, after you read this post, you must promptly forget it. Thank you.

Join Me for Paranoia Week

I'm inviting you to join me here for "Paranoia Week," June 2 through June 8. I know you'll like it, if you like the thought of a guy on the wrong side of "forces" that may or may not exist. Even now, I'm feeling jittery thinking of it. Saying, as I just did, the forces may not exist means only one thing, I'm a goner. I'm nervous about the descent, let alone the myriad terrors I know are there.

Speaking of the descent, that's what I'll be doing tomorrow, so I won't be here June 1. I'll be going down into a full-bore paranoid fit, which takes a lot of stewing, mixing it just right, and letting it work. Only one day, you say? Yes. Like you, I've heard of many other "Paranoia Week" bloggers who've stewed for an entire year or more. They go the last mile -- sweat lodges, hot compresses, new age music, reverse yoga, etc. -- and what they come up with is quality. But I don't personally have that much time to waste, and, again, with just a day, I guarantee results.

Like I said, I'm getting jittery just thinking about it. There's a lot of annoyances on the way down, the inner sounds (and pain) of things snapping and sparking, almost like we're some kind of machine. Next, there's a vast silence, as aspects of the Self are being disconnected, in particular your thoughts talking you out of it. Then a comforting grayness, stretches of grayness. You can be quickly lulled into a dangerous complacency here. You need to keep an eye on the edges, looking toward your ears, to not slip off the edges, like on a slick highway. At the edges are chthonic aspects of the personality that, given a chance, would bite your head off.

I'm recalling the last time I passed that way. How well I remember these heavy mildewed curtains from old vaudeville stage shows. Past lives that think they're here and now. Queer performers line the hallways, stagehands fluff sandbags, electricians man quaint old light fixtures. A lot of the snapping, the electrical phenomena, is from them. The performers look extremely dangerous. Their fingernails are extremely long, and their throats are stretched beyond normal, as they try to keep in voice, expecting any moment to go on stage. They don't know it's been close to a century. If they actually sung it'd come out screeching.

There's another place along the way, a place to mention. It's a place of utter bleakness, darkness. But tied to a post there is a donkey I call Desi. He's a cool donkey, the nicest creature you meet in the land of paranoia. The rest -- I can't get into the rest -- the Hall of Unwashed Broken Mirrors, the Pavilion of Things Found in Sofas Personified, the Cavalcade of Good Monks Gone Bad, whatever. It's all evil. The only good I've run into is Desi the Donkey and the spirit of St. Rita of Cascia, the saint with the big scar on her forehead. This wonderful Bride of Christ reaches out to me, and I realize her precious message, treasuring it in my heart: Paranoia is good for your pores.

Oh, no, I'm having second thoughts! I shouldn't do this! I know I'm going to look like hell when this is over, good pores or not, and much of that remains forever. I'm 61 and look 80, thanks to this. Now, if I live, I'll come out looking like a maniac, and older. I'll have someone else's heavy clothes on, some monk I'll spoil. I might have those horrible looking woolen half-gloves, with my fingers sticking out. When they see me -- people -- they'll see a maniac, and even though I'll cry out, hoarsely, "This isn't really me!  This isn't me!" no one will listen. Who would listen to a battered, torn, worn-out, and haggard, dragged out, dragged down, buffeted, beaten, and bruised maniac?

But here's my vow -- which I hope I can keep, because if I can't, my soul is lost! -- I vow this will be the best "Paranoia Week" ever. Ever.

Angels and Demons Play Red Rover

They're all arrayed for the greatest battle ever in cosmic history, the battle over my precious soul and the world. Oh yeah, nothing small. Sometimes I think I'm nothing. Then I realize, Dad mabbit, I'm as good as they get. Except for the bad teeth.

On one side, wearing gold trimmed wings and hoisting flaming swords, are the illustrious angelic forces. The opposing side has the demons, also illustrious in their own way, bringing the fragrance of cinder to the proceedings. I'm in the chariot with the one true deity Krishna, watching to see if Red Rover will break the line.

Because this is something like the Ultimate Contest -- so important that the Magic Butler's ascent to Heaven is frozen in place till it's decided -- each side is especially rapt. Red Rover has the life of the spirit racing through his spine, from his Eilo bottom to his Meniggesstroeth top.

Lately, of course, I have been friends with the demons. Demons 1. Demons 2. Hence, the battle, as the angels are very much against that sort of thing. Yet how often the angels have helped me! Hedgerow 1. Hedgerow 2. But who knows whether a similar alliance with demons wouldn't have kept me more well-rounded? Whatever, they both appear jealous, so it's one or the other, with my proxy in the fight, Red Rover, running the line. I believe the score is something like 50-50 out a best-of-100, with the deciding run ... NEXT!

The big difference in the last run is that Krishna has told me that many in the struggle will perish. So if I'm rooting for either side, it should be the angels, since those are the spirit of my body parts they represent. But the demons are old friends and acquaintances. So I'm torn.

Are angels better than demons? That's the question. For all their so-called goodness and assistance, it sure seems like angels are quick with resentment and a superior attitude. Whereas demons, always kicked down, seem to be thankful for every dry morsel you throw them. On the other hand, Abraham Lincoln thought the angels of our nature were worth lifting up. But he's the same guy who killed vampires at night. Which hardly sounds like a fair fight, right when they're sleeping. So Lincoln sucks.

People who like angels are supposedly the strong. Strong? Think again. Every little old lady I've ever known, who couldn't get her walker out of the quicksand-thicket of short carpet had angels on her curtains and TV. What kind of strength is that? And people who like demons are supposedly the weak. Weak? Don't they break chains in the tombs? If they're so weak, what are we doing chaining them there in the first place? I'd like to be that weak! I'd join the carnival and make money in the freak show.

Angels, for all the good we think they do, have big heads. And insinuate themselves in lots of situations for personal gain and favors. Ever read Guideposts magazine? Those same ladies with their stuck walkers are always having angelic visitations. That has to be an ego trip for angels, as much as having these gals on a leash and giving them a nasty tug every little whip-stitch. "I give you doily, you give me article."

This stuff is constant for these ladies. And every one of them has a framed color 8 x 10 of a precious dog, now dead. I ask, if angels are so good, why didn't they spare their dog? Selfishness. The dog always noticed them there and barked their heads off. But with the pooch out of the way -- prematurely -- the way was clear for them to move in. One last thing: Ever seen even one of these 8 x 10s where the soft-focused dog wasn't strangely cross-eyed? I'll tell you why: Angels ran 'em ragged.

I haven't got time for the many virtues of demons. Except, next time you see a guy under a bridge out like a light, with a stolen bottle, now empty, think of the peace of spirit of that dear soul. He knows he'll wake up -- probably, hopefully not -- and there'll be a nice, kind demon there somewhere, sleeping in the hottest part of the campfire, who'll help him forget today as well. I never heard of a demon killing a beggar's dog. Just the opposite, in fact; in the absence of a campfire, a very warm spot for sleeping is inside, right next to a dog's heart, with its soothing beat.

OK, back to Red Rover. The angels blow in a prolonged chorus their several conch shells. Eilo blows Saddlesore and Wart answers with Toadpee. Cheetah sounds Harlot, Amen on Overbite. Asterechme delivers a sustained blast on Clarity, Tricky comes in on Dicky. And, finally, Chaos deafens everyone in the valley with his terrible sounding of Kontrol, only to be trumped by Meniggesstroeth delivering the greatest blow ever on his conch, the redoubtable Einstein.

I'm suddenly full of fear, fearful of losing either side. I have personal reasons. I need all these lugs in my life. And, if a bunch of them are gone, it'll throw the balance of nature all out of whack. You know what the Eternal World Soul Motor sounds like, of course: Chugga, chugga, chugga, wheeze, chugga, chugga... If it's out of whack, it might be Chugga, chugga, clink, wheeze, spitz, chugga, fizz. No good. Something exactly like that, sounding minor when you read it, could be the destruction of everything.

Krishna, though, called me to silence. Saying, "You are mourning for what is not worthy of grief. Never was there a time when I did not exist, nor you, nor all these others. Nor in the future shall any of us cease to be. No one is able to destroy that imperishable soul. Therefore, get up with determination ... and let Red Rover run!"

With that, I'd learned my lesson. I basically live by two undying principles: 1) Don't pull a gun unless you're prepared to use it; and, 2) See No. 1. So I waved my flag and Red Rover was off! It was one of those slow-motion sequences, where we see Red Rover with a slow-motion head of steam. The demons are in slow-motion, too, jumping in sequence like pistons.

On the angels' side, in slow-motion, they have that look of, "I pity the po' fool who even thinks about it!" Red Rover looked like he could read Meniggesstroeth's stern mind and had his first taste of fear. I saw Krishna reared back, his mouth open in slow motion; I could see his teeth weren't that great either. Could he be in Amen's corner?

O! Damn! That's it! Guys with bad teeth stick together! I opened my mouth proudly and threw my power in with Krishna's -- Even if it meant self-destruction, we went for it! Red Rover felt our will and veered off his path, turning for the weakest link, the nexus right there between my bad teeth and sensitive testicles, breaking through the angels and winning a stunning victory for the demons!

That's about it. Not much left. The Magic Butler escaped to Heaven, so that's good. The earth opened and consumed me and Krishna. The angels and Red Rover all died. The demons jumped on the rented horses and got away. The world ended. And Red Rover's cross-eyed picture's still on display at the Pleasant Girdle Home for the Female Infirm, located on a chunk of earth flung into outer space.
----------------------------

Meniggesstroeth, Asterechme, Amen, and Eilo, are the angels of the brain, right eye, teeth, and testicles, respectively, according to "The Secret Book of John," found in The Nag Hammadhi Scriptures, edited by Marvin Meyer. Krishna's quotations are selected from Bhagavad-Gita As It Is, translated by A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. 

My Wife the Orangutan

NOTE: THIS IS AN IMAGINARY STORY FROM SOMEWHERE DEEP IN THE IMAGINARY GRANDMA SLUMP UNIVERSE. I DON'T REALLY HAVE AN ORANGUTAN FOR A WIFE. IT'S TOUGH TO GET ORANGUTANS. BUT I HAVE A FRIEND (TRICKY THE DEMON) WHO PUT THE THOUGHT IN MY MIND: "WHAT IF A MAN HAD AN ORANGUTAN FOR A WIFE?"

It was a dream come true. So many times I'd dreamed of having that one true love. Which then always eluded me. You know how dreams are, this becomes that; it's all inexplicable, and forms don't persist, and the normally imaginable is replaced by the utterly fantastic.

That happened one morning, in the last dream of the night, that I was in love with a huge orangutan. She and I were sharing a deep moment of eye contact. I hesitate to share my thoughts at that moment, but thank goodness I woke up or we might have prematurely erased the boundaries of propriety, absent marital vows. Crossing this boundary with an orangutan would be put me in a Huff Post story, destroying my life and opening me to the threats of bullies, and then stories about that.

The thought, though, wouldn't go away. Her size, the muscles, the tenderness of her fur, the depths of the eyes, even the quirkiness of her smeared-on lipstick. It's that desire for mature relations where there's still a hint of innocence that does something to you. It's true for the saint and the sinner, the witchdoctor as well as the man of medicine. They see it everyday and they're not turned on -- nothing they'll confess to, anyway, but flutter those eyes in a motel room, and pucker those tentative, quivering lips, and Katy, bar the door! Cigarette time.

I drove by the zoo -- must've been 800 times, thinking, Is this right? Neighborhood Watch noticed me after 100. I was trailed by cops every time after 300. I ran out of gas around 500 and was beat up by boy scouts. Some time between 798 and 800 -- I guess it was 799 -- I turned in.

I hustled myself to the orangutan exhibit, where our eyes met again and again. Must've been 800 times. The zookeepers noticed me after 100. I was monitored by the other orangutans every time after 300. I was exhausted around 500 and beat up by the aviary. Some time between 798 and 800 -- I guess it was 799 -- we fell in love.

It was only a matter of her downing a case of energy drink, washed down by a single pot of whole bean coffee, and a touch of Tabasco on the tongue, before she broke loose. We fled immediately to an ordained friend, an extremely traditional hidebound guy, outspoken in his opposition to any deviation from societal norms. So strict is he there's no plumbing the depths of it. He readily married us, me in my normal clothes, she nude except for a lampshade on her head as a veil. We said, "I do," and I carefully lifted the shade and beheld my bride.

We were understandably nervous about what would come next. I hesitate to write about something so tender. But we drove by the motel, must've been 800 times. Some kids sneaking in the pool noticed us after 100. A guy looking for handouts stood up every time we went by after 300. I stopped to check a tire around 500 and was beat up by a gang. Some time between 798 and 800 -- I guess it was 799 -- we checked in.

Then it was off to our room, which we went to directly the first time. I will let it fade to black, leaving aside the close to 800 times we consummated the marriage, and the other way stations it took us to get there -- the 100, 300, 500, 798 and 799. We didn't have time for all that, working as we did through the entire King Konga Sutra. Had I known orangutans were so tireless and persistently demanding -- Downtown's an entire city itself -- I might have found someone else, a goldfish or even a woman.

But the deed was done, and the marriage was real.

The story doesn't end there. I'm writing this account on the eve of our 85th anniversary. Yes, it's now the year 2099, and, yes, the zoo still drives by occasionally, looking for her. No one told me orangutans lived so extremely long. Or me, for that matter.

Demons or Supernatural Helpers?

Call me demon-possessed, because in the last couple of weeks I've become possessed, at least mentally, by demons. In the morning I look at my cereal and think demons. At noon I'm working on a bowl of oyster stew and I see demons, of course. And at night, whatever I'm eating, I'm splitting it with three or four of my demon friends, and so going to bed hungry.

I, like other kids in Sunday School classes through the years, learned several things about demons, mostly that they're no good. I also learned that when they speak it's always gravelly and low, barely discernible as language, and generally quite looney. They ask you to disavow your reason, your family, your values, and even your humanity, and join them on a joyride that's extremely fun for the first little bit, but then takes a less cheerful sharp turn toward destruction. That means something to me; for one, I don't watch Fox News.

But I don't get that from demons. Neither in theory, nor now, in practice. In theory, I think the whole subject quickly becomes abstruse and boring. Like when you start throwing in Plato (I've heard of him) and some of the lesser known writers of antiquity, and the twists and turns of the Greek word "daimon" and how it relates to nature forces, whether they're merely personified symbolically or pictured as literal heads over particular aspects of nature, caves and grottoes. Are you still with me?

By the way, they didn't mention any of that in Sunday School. Which made it much more exciting. Demons were these terrorists from hell who put people through all kinds of torment, throwing them into the fire, and possessing them so they lived in tombs and broke chains like Hercules. A lot of their activity, by some totally weird coincidence, seemed to look a lot like epilepsy. Making us suspicious of very common neurological troubles. Side note to my cousin Shaky: "Sorry about those years chained in the root cellar."

Now, in recent days, I've had the privilege of knowing a being who goes by the name "Tricky the Demon." OK? Do I sound crazy? 1 x 1 = 1, 2 x 1 = 2, 3 x 1 = 3 .... Do I really need to prove my sanity? Tricky came to me with a Magic Butler and liberated me from the false doctrine that scratching itches is bad. For which I thank him, with kisses. Because I've seen more alt realms by feverishly scratching -- or letting the Magic Butler scratch me, especially below the waist -- than I ever saw in my more sedate past.

Anyway, Tricky's opened my thinking to the deeper insight that there must be all kinds of other helpful demons out there. Stands to reason, huh? And bigger and badder Magic Butlers. But when I tell people this, they're put off by the word "demon." Like a lot of other words, they've demonized the word "demon" to the point that their mind shuts off when they hear it. It's like "scumbag," "bunghole," "dill weed," "ass wipe," and, in the Bush years, "french fries."

So in the last couple of days, I've been surveying my friends, relatives, and a few strangers I know from Facebook, on which they prefer, "demons" or "supernatural helpers"? It's probably no big surprise that they scrunch up their face and curl into a fetal ball when they hear "demons." But they become light as a feather and twice as radiant with "supernatural helpers." Just like you look when you read Guideposts magazine all day. So supernatural helpers it is!

Tricky says he's OK with that, Tricky the Supernatural Helper. And I might need to work on the Magic Butler, too, because "magic" sounds fake and frivolous, and "butler," like secretary and garbage man, obviously needs a more modern equivalent, "personal assistant." What's a good replacement for "magic"? I guess for now it'll have to be Magic Personal Assistant, or just find out if he has an actual name.

I'm thinking, with the ancients, that if these supernatural helpers were in charge of the many functions of nature -- thunder, lightning, rivers, clouds -- then they'd have all kinds of specialties today. With the more desirable ones being like a well-stocked smartphone (many apps), able to perform many functions. My Magic Butler seems to have that, and I don't even have to recharge him every hour.

Incantations to my new demon friends: "Demon of dating, have you found anyone yet? Speed it up! I'm getting the mating jitters again!"  .... "Demon of reading speeds, try to harmonize your actions with the demons of my eyes and mind!" ... Then let's say I need to take revenge on someone who's wronged me: "Demon of annihilation, you're a demon, don't worry about the police! That guy's a bastard! Kill him!" .... Now back to the more domestic stuff: "Demon of toast, I prefer actual butter, not Blue Bonnet!"

That'd be a great life, being the demon of toast.

Tricky the Demon -- Itching's Alt Consciousness

Previous "Itching" links:
Itching = Alt Consciousness Portals?
Secret Journal -- Scratching an Itch (or Not)
This Infernal Itching -- A Thorn in My Flesh
 
I feel a little guilty, but I'm overcoming it more and more. The short answer to guilt is obviously I wasn't cut out to be an ascetic. Whether not-scratching actually does you any good, it's looks like it can. But there must be some evolutionary reason why we scratch. It was probably those who didn't scratch who were overrun with bacteria and died. It explains why we have fingernails, and it's not just to give nail salons something to do.

I did my best with the idea. I had the idea suddenly one day that if I didn't scratch that might mean I'd be transported into other realms of consciousness. I'm always getting ideas like that, when I should just sit quietly after one comes and ask myself, Is it really likely that every stupid stray thought is a revelation? Or pick an idea and stick with it. If it succeeds, great. If it fails, at least I stuck with it. They used to advertise cars going 0 to 60 in 8 seconds. That's how fast I act on impulse.

Still, even as I think of it now, it makes a certain amount of sense. Portals to alt consciousness exist, and are likely round, and you can easily picture a round space encompassing every itch point. Even with my lack of discipline I'm smart enough to know that. But everything's changed now -- for the better, I hope -- and I'm back to scratching.

You'd be amazed at the heroic measures I took over the last couple weeks. I didn't shower for a week, thinking the more clogged my pores got, the more I'd itch, and the faster I'd attain the alt realms. I was half right. I had five times as many itches, but the commensurate realms were few. Until! I did have one, but at first I didn't think of it as alt consciousness. By and large, as my discomfort rose, I had only discomfort. It felt like things were crawling on me. Honestly, I had to look a few times, and I believed I saw something darting behind me when I was near a mirror.

So that was the alt realm! Which confused me, because it didn't seem like a reward for not scratching, because it had more to do with tempting me to scratch. Weird, huh? But that was it! I did the ascetic thing and the alt realm came disguised as sin. Which I hesitated over but gave into. Now I see, it was the reward, the payoff. Like I said, at my lowest point, I thought I saw something darting behind me, and finally I caught a glimpse in the window. There was a being ducking and hiding. I called out to it, and the name Tricky the Demon came to my mind.

Who, it turns out, was only ducking and hiding because he wanted to see me really squirm, I mean, really really squirm. Maybe for my own good, but still ... sadistic little bastard. I'll skip over the preliminaries. He told me he was here so I could go back to scratching. I resisted with all my might! I shall not scratch! But he was persuasive, saying he had the injunction to come up and assist me.

His voice was like honey, sweet to the ears, seductive like a beautiful woman, although his form, reddish, deformed, and obviously demonic was much less of a turn-on. He said in words so soft and sweet how gooooood it'd feeeeeel to let myself gooooo, etc, with very drawn out seductive language, like maybe he was selling Calgon. I said I felt bad about scratching and he had an answer for that. Which turned out to be a Magic Butler, materialized here for the job of scratching me!

So I went out for the day, trailed by Tricky the Demon and my Magic Butler. Every word of this is true, by the way. Maybe I started off confused, but this was the only alt portal I was going to get, and it was a fantastic one. In addition to scratching me, the Magic Butler is doing all the things that regular butlers do, more or less by the wave of his hand. And Tricky the Demon and I have been luxuriating on the couch, binge-watching old movies and eating free Whitman Samplers that he's teleporting in from somewhere.

I love it. All the luxury I'm getting, Tricky isn't making it, it's teleported in. Anything I want, I haven't paid for a thing. And apparently it's all untraceable. I'd guess the warehouses would have video cameras. But all they'd pick up would be the thing vanishing. Heck of a way to live, I know, but I don't see a downside. Tricky really is the Prince of Tempters, and so far I'm not noticing any ill effects. It's all great.

Anyway, I've changed my opinion 100%. Itching is out; full, free, and purposeful scratching is in. It really is true, you barely see anything when you fail to scratch. But when you're scratching -- I mean going at it with the full force of gusto, just short of drawing blood, all of life is open to you and the possibilities are endless. This is the greatest thing I've ever experienced. And that covers a number of things, of which the less said the better.

The good news, I'm back to scratching. The Magic Butler's scratching me, and himself once in a while. The places I can't reach, or don't want to because I'd have to wash my hands, I'm letting him get. Everything in front, above the waist and in plain sight, I'm going for. Tricky lies on the couch and looks at me, a playful smile. His eyes scrunch up when he smiles. He's truly delighted to see a guy in comfort.

So this is my thing now! It all worked out and it all makes sense. Alt consciousness comes from scratching and the grace of Tricky and the Magic Butler coming at my lowest point. I'm like Martin Luther King, Jr. -- I went down the mountain, I came back up, or however that goes. I imagined I saw it from afar, then I lived to arrive there, and now my children -- which I'm going to need a woman to get some of -- will someday play with children of the opposite color and be judged by their character, which will likely be very much like mine, beyond reproach.

I'm very blessed. I got alt consciousness from itching and scratching. Which maybe, like Dorothy said, I had all the time. But like her in Oz and waking up, maybe the Magic Butler and Tricky the Demon are just guys in the hood, the mailman and one of my cousins. With a bunch of old Whitman Samplers. They seem real enough. Life's still full of mysteries, like a box of chocolates, teleported in from somewhere. Over the rainbow?

Surmounting Your Old Habits

I have a growing concern that my old habits are limiting me. That I have limited myself by allowing habits to take root and grow old. Now that they have I'm stuck in their oppressive groove, up against limitations of my own making.

I see the truth that there are people who can stride and strut, cowing other people into willing submission based on a number of factors. One, people are easily cowed in certain situations. Two, these people know the facts of habits limiting people and, with consciousness, rise above their own limitations and take advantage of other people's. Three, the more they do this the more it sets other people in their ways and the more they themselves are distinguished.

We all have ways of rising above this but it does mean being conscious of it and desiring to do something about it when the opportunity arises. So have you guessed where all this is leading? Probably, you seem smart.

That's right! I'm going to the big dance at the grange! No more wallflower me. I'm going to put it out there. I'm going to be Scrooge after his epiphany. And it didn't even take a ghost to talk me into it. But Scrooge didn't have a blob as big as his house infesting the place. I did and I was cramped. Then I came to the realization that the one cramping me, after the blob got done cramping me and left, was myself, still not excusing the blob. And just as Scroogie-boy owed a debt of thanks to his ghosts, I guess the obvious conclusion is that I owe a debt of grudging thanks to my blob enemy. I just hope he doesn't crawl back into my life to receive the thanks from my own two lips.

It's like the preacher said to the demon that one time, "You shall not return to my brother or to the light. And if you do return, you must bow down and serve the light." Something about that makes me uncomfortable. He tells the demon he shall not return. But then he makes allowances for What if he does? If the blob returns -- my version of the demon -- I will thank him with my lips, but behind my back will be a finely honed sacred sword, destined to dispatch him off to some other world where he can serve the light there, whatever light there may be.

The Grange dance awaits! To which you typically go stag. And hope you pick up someone's daughter, preferably a farmer's.