I'd Leave If I Could

Virus

Part 26 of 30

A few years ago I had a life like this, traveling the country, camping, and roughing it. I thought that was the way to go, but, like always, my paranoia got the best of me and I decided to transition out of the more hectic lifestyle into the more sedate life of The Big City.

Of course Grandma’s place was out of the question, as it had been a house in shambles, completely rife with mold, other bacteria, smelly stuff, and rot. Then the City condemned the it and helped me (they insisted on it while still charging me) tear the place down and haul it to the landfill. And believe me, it was tough watching bulldozers cover the last of the place under the soil. The only revenge of the house against them was when one workman was scratched by a rusty nail and ended up losing a toe. You take small victories wherever you find them.

Between the landfill, then, and the Big City, there was that camping/roughing it period. And I should have stuck with it. Because if there’s the slightest trouble -- and say everything else is OK with your truck, camper, health insurance, issues getting your mail, knowing how to file taxes, etc. -- you can always pull up stakes and go somewhere else. In short, any little thing can go wrong and you’re stuck. Stuck? You’re screwed. I don’t know how people do it long-term, although I’ve seen a few who have; they’re just not worrywarts like me. O! if I could do it again, but the money’s all gone...

So now the Big City has to be the focus when it comes to dealing with the virus. We’re crammed in by the millions. I see people walk by my place everyday, people I’ve never seen before. And do they all look healthy? Not by a long shot. It’s painful that there’s so much traffic. At Grandma’s old place, way back when, it was at the edge of town there weren't 20 people walking by in a month. There’s 20 or more an hour in the Big City. But where they’re going? I don’t know. I keep thinking I should follow them and find out. But I’m afraid they’d notice and I’d end up with house guests, which would be certain death.

When I was scrounging for aluminum cans a couple years ago I met a guy and talked to him. He invited me on his porch to visit and get some cans and so I did. Then he told me, with trepidation, never step on his property unless he was there and invited me. Because his son is totally crazy and would kill me just-like-that. I still drive by that guy’s house and wonder about his son. Is he watching, is he waiting? Big deal, his loss! The chances that I’d stop there now even if the dad WERE home are zero. I don’t know what the son looks like, but he about has to be huge and ugly.

OK then, here I sit, with all the dangers of the Big City and nowhere to go. Say the virus breaks out in full force: I’m dead. But say it doesn’t, say we become the safest place in the world. Then everyone will want to live here, including those with the faintest taint, and then -- because of our great success -- the virus will return and we'll end up dead.

Even Lincoln's Dissolving

 

Virus

Part 24 of 30

We know from the news on the current virus that there’s apparently no one wholly immune to it. But of course that doesn’t mean all is quite lost yet. You can get it and hope with all your might that someone just now -- preferably in your town, preferably on your block -- has come up with the antidote or cure.

The way my life goes, that never happens, but anyone else could be the first. You might remember, it seems like I blogged about it last year about this time, how I had a flat tire on the interstate. I felt the tire going rickety split and next thing I was on a particularly unforgiving narrow strip of blacktop about a mile from the next exit. I’m often afraid that’s how it’d be if I caught the virus; just my luck I'd be sidelined only to be passed by and nearly run over in the wild commotion.

Of course I have friends. And they were all very sympathetic to me when they heard what had happened. One especially helpful person said she had me in her prayers, even though the incident was past when I wrote about it from home. Still, it’s the thought that counts, and there’s no reason to open new wounds by scolding her for her callous misplacement of timing. I clearly indicated it was a past tense situation. So she’s still a good friend. But friends can’t be everywhere at once. And in that case, sidelined as I was on the interstate without notice, naturally none of them were there to help. I just don’t want that to happen with the virus.

The virus doesn’t care if you’re me, you, the last Nobel winner, the last Pulitzer Prize winner, or Moe, Larry, or Curly Joe. The virus is like the plagues of Israel, except it’s not looking for blood on your door before turning away. The virus doesn’t take breaks, coffee breaks, doesn’t stretch out in the bathtub in a hot bath, isn’t blackmailed or influenced by payoffs or bribery. It’s a steamroller, baby, guaranteed to blow your mind. Then when your mind’s blown, and you’re daydreaming all kinds of colors, visions, with such reality that you’re reaching out to them like treats from your kindly grandpa on your birthday, only to be clawed across the face by a rude viral swipe and left on the floor steaming, foaming at the mouth, and spinning in circles. Finally, you’re able to stand one last time, writhing against the wall, until you collapse and turn into a puddle of psychedelic foam, everything once straight and normal now seething and apparently distended.

Our illustration of Abraham Lincoln -- born solely to become my personal spirit animal -- is to portray this sad truth. You can be the best person in the world, or you can be half-ass, or you can be whomever-the-current president is, the virus doesn’t care. Check out his arms, the molecules are crazy, although the colors have a certain beauty; regardless, none of it bodes well for his health or future. And I might need a new spirit animal.

Virus: No Crowding Please

 

Virus

Part 22 of 30

Right this minute it’s Virus time at the OK Corral, the whole world, all of us gathered together, trying to avoid contact with the most minute creature, ants, roaches, people. Even eye contact’s discouraged because it’s a slippery slope, mostly with people. It leads to speaking and speaking to french kissing and french kissing to the rest of the slippery slope, crashing and burning at the bottom of a smoldering heap. I know if I had burning at the bottom I’d have it looked into, but with the virus it’s too late.

It’s one of the things we depend on in life, though. Not exactly the slippery slope but the many beneficial ways one things leads to another. We depend on it and make lists to remind us of the many one things that lead to others. Or we just know by experience. I don’t need a list to run my TV, although it’s a lot harder than it used to be, so many channels on numerous sources. And most of the things I eat I already know how to fix them, but if you have to juggle a dozen different things for a party, it'd certainly be a good idea to have a checklist. The more depressing the task, the more you need a list.

But also the more depressing things get, the more I’d rather deny it, change it, abandon it, and finally get the hell out of there. If they suddenly put me in charge of a prison during a pandemic, as a wild example, I’d be so freaked out I’d get the hell out of there right away. But being a prison, where they could lock you up, and say they had to poor judgment to put me in charge, maybe I’d have no right to object. In which case I’d confer with a few trusted associates and see what we could do to shut the whole place down and get out while the guards were busy shooting prisoners, essentially a free-for-all.

Like in the movies, then, I and whoever else was involved would be yelling in crazy celebration of our success while leaving, speeding past the sign at the outskirts of town, “Home of The Same Prison That’s Been Here for 100 Years.” I’m very paranoid about that prison, I think this is the second time I’ve mentioned it today. It’d certainly be a bad place to be during an epidemic, which is a given since it’d be a bad place to be anytime.

Obviously no one’s crowding in to be infected by the virus. Not now, not ever. We have a drive in us, usually, to keep going, always hoping for tomorrow and often even living for tomorrow. Which may never come, but since it always does, tomorrow will be no exception. Someday when it doesn’t come, I’m assuming I won’t notice, and my place will be taken by someone else waiting for it to come and it will. The key thing betwixt hither and thither is to avoid whatever plague there may be that’d squelch our desires. Be it plague, be it virus, even be it someone I don’t know’s birthday party that I’m inexplicably trapped into attending. That’s not going to happen, I know. But … what if it did!? The ugly fickle arm of fate would spell it out for me: “NEXT!” And there’d I go, No Crowding Please.

Leap Year Day, Coronavirus

This could really be a red-letter day for someone, being the leap year date squeezed into the calendar every four years. It's one of the oddest days there is, so odd there's nothing else quite like it. Maybe your birthday. But they add a second or take away a minute every once in a while when the orbit of the planet goes out of whack or the sun exerts enough extra oomph of gravity to pull us closer to the inferno. And the same thing goes for days.

On that last point, it was just in the news that we had either one or two new moons enter the earth’s orbit, which was or were very small. I saw the headline on a video that one of them was about the size of a volleyball, but on the news they said it was about the size of a Volkswagen bug. Either way, it’s not enough to make my backyard a lot bigger, but it’ll be a bastard if it somehow hits the house. I've always heard that a penny dropped from space could go through your head and continue its path about 3 foot in the ground. Twice as deep as the neighborhood cat that died and I buried.

But enough about the disasters this date might bring. I’m going to focus on the pleasant, the happy, always trying to put a smile on your face whether you deserve it or not. Leap Year Day always reminds me of the one or two kids in school who happened to be born Feb. 29. And these things -- what they were able to say -- didn’t happen very often, obviously, because in another four or eight years we’d be in middle school or high school.

I do remember, though, two kids -- can’t remember who they were -- saying, “I’m only 4” (or 8 or 12.) And giggling like it was a riddle, how’d they do it? what could they possibly mean? I believe scientists knew, but to the rest of us it was mysterious. So ... this one day pops up once in a while like the rare pimple before puberty. Wash your face and maybe it won’t happen again.

I wanted to get to Leap Year Day this year, with the Coronavirus disease, a weird sprouting thing from certain strains of Chinese food, weather, livestock, or something. The Chinese are pretty smart. If you’ve ever seen their parades, they don’t skimp on exactitude. If anyone could come up with a super killer, it’d be them. And in fairness, if they set their mind to it they could come up with something that would benefit us all, like an antidote right now.

So, what if a few of us die on Leap Year Day from the Coronavirus? It might actually be one of the things that would redeem our lives, giving the survivors something to brag about: "Derek’s been dead four years and it’s been a tough year since his passing." They’re like, “What?” It was almost four years, but it’s much fresher because he only died a year ago...

It could be a benefit politically too, which might not be that great. But it’s true. A whole bunch of people die of Coronavirus on Feb. 29, say it’s a million. They could spin it quite easily, “A million, yeah, that’s bad, but it only averages 250,000 a year, typical.” An even better spin would be this: “Look at all the Leap Year Days since the bubonic plague hit big-time in the 14th century -- killing 50 million. There’s been around 570 Leap Year Days since then, so, hell, that’s not even 990,000 a year, next to nothing when you compare it to cigarette deaths. And if people choose to smoke bubonic that’s their business.”

Anyway, Happy Leap Year Day. I hope most of us make it. There’s a few, of course, no matter what day it is, the Twelfth of Never, who'll never make it.

Death In Them Thar Drawers

 

Part 30 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

We’ve been together this month on an important journey. Me in my incredible wisdom sketching out, probing, the many seamy implications of our imperative toward breeding, pairing off, “being there” for one another, but always with an alternative agenda, selfish in the extreme but still plopped out and used. Then you’re up, washing away the incriminating evidence, refusing to look one another in the eye, all quite sad. Maybe you leave that place only to drift into your own world of terror and careen out of control and crash into a tree. A tree that’s been there solid for a hundred years, yet prepared for your individual fate.

I know the feeling and am compelled to sketch it out one last time -- your last warning before the end -- that There Is (not maybe, not might, not sometime in the distant future) -- There IS Death In Them Thar Drawers! Which might appear in the guise of  a cute little number, a pair of pink frilly panties, always a favorite to the profligate mind. Some stout underwear might've been more serviceable for general wear, the cloth more durable. It might not be quite the same turn-on but it'd be more practical and economically wiser over the long run. It might even be a girdle. Men wear girdles all the time, I hear. I've actually heard a girdle on a man is sexy. It cinches the bottom and makes the rest protrude to the point of being indecorous, yes, but this appears to be quite welcome in the height of the rut.

You’re quite turned on by this, I assume. Which I'll take as a plea for help. Consider it, this is your plea for help. OK? Now that we’ve established and proven that point, we can move on. The mere fact that you didn’t know it before just now admitting it is all the proof we need to demonstrate that your present lifestyle, your present approach to life (and feeling “good”) is innately self-defeating. Naturally -- and I’m proud to say that in my career I was one of the first to suggest that these things aren’t complicated, any idiot can understand them, for which conclusion I was denied tenure -- you have numerous excuses, a rich variety of excuses, such as, “Even Jesse James wasn’t hung like me.” In the end, however, both of you have been up for swinging, Jesse by his neck and you by ...your other neck.

Once you’ve convinced yourself of that -- and here’s where it gets dangerous -- you turn to bolder activities. A little booze in your system, a little fire coursing through your blood, a partner up for the ride, you’re at the cheapest, sleaziest motel in town. It all goes uphill, then downhill fast. Everything you see puts you in a racy mindset. Until you’re down with whatever comes up. Reading between the lines, delving deep into the subject, and reiterating your point with intensity and wild abandon. To and fro. To and fro. Frolicking, frolicking, frolicking, then toys break the monotony, a fitful diversion. To the point of swift repetition, petting, nasty to be sure, but with such bold insistence that the heat of the moment makes it seem OK. Yes, yes! You go on until your mind shuts off and you wake up several hours later, alone.

The next day there’s talk around the office. And you only confess reluctantly, under pressure, admitting two points, 1) You took some comfort there, and 2) Recalling the thesis of this series, Something was decidedly nasty, death in them thar drawers, and with the sad termination of your ecstasy, unfortunately, you are finally spent.

Dies Of STDs, Returns

Part 17 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

This is a true story -- it is truly a story -- of a guy I once knew. Many of the details are fiction or close to fiction to drive home various points. Plus, I’m trying not to be so explicitly accurate that he thinks he's entitled to compensation, and of course I don't want him suing me for damages.

That's the way stories go, too. They’re either so boring you can’t do much with it. Or so interesting that they want a piece of the action. To which I say, if they wanted a piece of the action they should’ve stayed in the relationship, freely letting it all hang out and getting it on, instead of demurely withdrawing and then bragging to me about their experiences sexually and now with their abstinence, as though I haven’t got enough problems of my own. If it makes you feel good, take the whole thing with a grain of salt. And if it does you any good, that’s my joy.

Anyway, my friend’s experiences, the sex stuff, was so foolhardy, so completely demented, and for a guy with a high denial IQ so lascivious, that he literally died from pleasure (1) mixed with (2) the diseases attendant on certain unapproved, unwise practices. To get any more explicit than that would make me physically ill, and I’ve already had the dry heaves three times just with the intro.

But to literally die, that does something to me, going really the whole gamut, from physical sickness to spiritual euphoria. It’s either completely true about the afterlife (which is what I hope for) or the disease he contracted gives that illusion (six of one, half dozen of another). The last time I checked on the guy, and I occasionally see him at the pharmacy getting his various pills, he was still having all the symptoms, afterlife tales and the more cautionary stuff of back alleys. Still chasing that high and that low.

What would that be like? I often wonder, to be supine in the tomb, then to be ascending to heaven? All because you’re too much a horn-dog to forego a little bit of pleasure? One thing’s for sure, with my fear (which is my native saving grace), I’ll never know, unless it hits me the way I hope it hits me, when I die. The sensation of alpha jerk that Hendrix may have had. (Google “alpha jerk” and you’ll see the link.) In short, there’s two sockets/holes, death and life. In the experience of being there, in this surmise of Hendrix, he may have said, “I wonder if I can die.” So he supposedly tried it, the alpha jerk came on him and he 'slipped on out.'

My friend has apparently already been to the afterlife, but he keeps coming back, getting it on with various people, and maybe catching another virus or disease and going to the grave, over and over, world without end. Someday I’ll tell him goodbye and that’ll be it. But I’ll never know it’s it till he quits coming back. And if he keeps coming back I'll have to reassess.

Sad History of Horny Dudes

 Part 8 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

You probably picked it up in some of your history classes over the years, that things in the old days were different from today. Way back then they had to regulate society much tighter than today for the very simple reason that society was under many more immediate threats, outbreaks of disease, the plague, the croup, dizziness, etc. Even getting too close to someone then with your bad breath -- say you had pneumonia a month ago -- was a concern, and this would be equally true if the infection arose from ordinary breathing, dog breath, Italian breath, or what have you, which sometimes are never cured -- it killed entire cities right now, on a dime.

Still, obviously, you had horny guys. Who by and large were just as crazy as guys now, ever eager to get it on with anyone they could find, ranging from a hole in the wall (think construction sites) all the way down to ... I can’t even say it. But you know those Frankenstein movies where they're always digging up the recently deceased; did you ever notice how practiced they seemed to be at lifting bodies out of the ground? Whereas today we wouldn’t have the slightest clue or even the inclination to carry things that far.

Another thing, those were the days right at the ragtag end of huge leprosy outbreaks. Meaning they were used to social restrictions on such things, with the bitterly afflicted having to remain isolated, sometimes on their own islands, who could only come to town after having swam a mile, the water cleansing them enough to allow them to enter the market for a few minutes. Interesting, isn’t it?, that back then there were such horrible deaths in them thar drawers! With the whole leprosy thing necessarily carrying over for other conditions, mild or severe, and guys causing a genuine panic wherever they went.

Even now, if you know where to look, in some of our better antique stores you can find these “horny horns” that horny guys without wives or access to wooden mannequins with knotholes had to blow when they were on the desperate prowl. I’m actually old enough I was sort on the edge of the time when this was happening. Anyway, I remember clearly that Grandma and Grandpa would cross themselves and seek divine mercy if they heard so much as a random car horn passing the house. And they never -- not once, the trauma was too great -- went to a band concert in the park, they were so paranoid. They didn’t like any horn, and I mean everything from the shofar to the alp-horn to the Wagner tuba! Harmonicas were borderline OK.

We’ve come a long way, baby, with what all's allowed today! But we should still be concerned, and it’s a big mistake that we’re not taking precautions. Because it’s just as true now as it was then, horny guys are still in fast pursuit of one another -- maybe even someone in your family! -- and can just as easily spread death and destruction from their wanton desires. For my part, I hear someone with even the sniffles and, sure, I'm still aroused, but I know something’s going ‘round and take quick cover.

Messing With My Toot Toot

Part 5 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

I’m not the kind of guy that likes to give people orders. As an example, “Don’t mess with my toot toot” has been an uncomfortable thing. Even though that’s what I’d secretly have to say, it violates the old adage that you catch more flies with honey than explosives. Honey attracts, explosives repel. So I go to a lot of  extra work -- people assume I have all the time in the world to waste when actually I’m getting fairly old -- of saying such roundabout things as, “Please make every effort to keep your hands and other relevant body parts, stationery or moving appendages, from contact with my sacred toot toot.” As nice as that is, it leads to problems. It sounds negotiable.

But also, just like I said, I’m getting fairly old and now the demand for my toot toot isn't what it was when I was 25 and cute, regardless of how monstrously virile I still am. But privately. It doesn’t bother me so much, a toot toot like this, but I’ve seen other guys -- not as cool and mild-mannered as me -- rubbing theirs, exposing theirs, and thrusting their hips in inappropriate ways and places. Lunch lines, movie lines, church. “Oh, did I bump you? I’ve had vertigo since I turned 90.” Definitely, if you’ve turned 90 and you’re still thrusting your toot toot recklessly enough to bump someone, with the likely shrinkage, it’s probably not vertigo! But if it is, from your point of view, Vive le vertige!

Actually I’m a private guy and realistic. Even if they were lined up around the block to mess with my toot toot, I’d rather they didn’t. I’ve always had that  kind of reticence even when the pickins’ was easy. I'm thankful for a paranoia that’s never left my side for a minute, and if it did I'd be helpless. I remember when I was about 13 and had no idea about anything. Then, like creation out of nothing, everything big-banged into place, a tiny bit of guidance from relatives and friends. I also learned about things that could be wrong physically, diseases. And then quickly sketched out my first insights having to do with "There’s Death in Them Thar Drawers!" It bummed me out at first, but I soon invested heavily in the mission of Health Over Carnality Everytime!

Meaning Free Love was never temptation. Don’t mess with my toot toot! Rock Festivals weren’t a temptation. Don’t mess with my toot toot! Even Hitchhiking wasn’t a temptation. Don’t mess with my toot toot, and no I won’t go to a motel with you. Midlife crises weren’t any temptation, of course. My toot toot and I will be retiring early this evening, thanks for nothing. Discipline is the whole thing, along, again, with a very helpful bent from the lifesaving combination of paranoia, contemplation, and willpower. So to this day, whoever you are, Hollywood star or dude in the gutter ... Don’t mess with my toot toot.

My Beautiful Future Lumbago

Part 30 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

After this whole month, I can’t honestly say my self-esteem has arisen to new glory, nor can I say I’m still that green blob of long ago in the first fits of arising. But that’s life, fits and starts. You’re sitting there innocently and --zap-- a nerve end twitches. Ever get that? Just as suddenly a single solitary nerve twitches and perhaps it means your hand jerks slightly. It’s those times, always so unexpected, that gives me the realization that, yes, I am a creature of unconscious impulses.

Unconscious, that is, to what I typically see as my consciousness; I’m aware (and happy) that there’s a vast unconsciousness beyond and above, and ultimately ungovernable by the individual mind. I'm not happy when it happens to others, necessarily, because it can be dangerous. So, I guess I’ve said too much already. They’ll be here to get me in the next ten minutes. I’ll have to type fast.

I’m on the way out today, though, anyway. This is the last part of this groundbreaking series. That explains my easy pace along the various paths of life, with my tote of clothes, toothbrush, etc., and my suitcase of a few books for the journey. Whatever self-esteem issues compelled me to bare my soul, and on occasion my fangs, have been smoothed over or overcome, and now it’s a new day. And, yes, I may be in the pits of despair tomorrow, but if I am, I need only believe, I made it through this month, now very much refreshed, it's not impossible that I might make it through the cursed future.

It’s notable, though, that my path is leading me not toward my home, my place of predictable comfort, but toward the green horizon toward a green sky along a green-tinted path. Green is good, right? Trees being green in season, yes, that’s good. And grass. But tinting everything? That’s sickening, right? Maybe I’ve got an infection! This feels like something like the onset of lumbago, preceded as it is by fragile self-esteem issues. Then you rally a little, then you start seeing green. The green green grass of lumbago. You picture yourself … that way. Until, yes, yes, now I remember, the lumbago locks on like this, digs in, the lumbago starts making merry with its lumbago henchmen, till all is overwhelmed!

I'm uncomfortable. Now I'm comfortable. I'm drifting. My path is a hundred feet wide, being just a cow-path minutes ago. This is lumbago. Did I mention this is lumbago? The lumbago's talking.

Lumbago, yes, master. Rest little man in the field, lumbago, dream, it's so warm in this field, but still with a cooling breeze. Lumbago. Put your bag down, little man, you won’t be needing a bag. Lumbago … you’re becoming sleepy. Rest, sweet rest here in the beautiful lumbago … there’s no one to hinder you, no one to bother here, no one, just you and me. Creeping lumbago, mothering lumbago, hardening lumbago, power-giving lumbago, wonder-working power, your arms and eyelids are heavy, lumbago heavy. You’ve found the joy, lumbago. Let it go, lum ba go, go lum baba life limb lumb ages ago a’goo go goo a’lum a’lum a’lum merry meet

...

Local Man Dies Of Old Age

Part 6 of 31

They Found Another Body

In preparation for this series, I devoted myself to going to 30 funerals, done on a daily basis, skipping Sundays. I haven’t used any of the inspirational words that I got from each one, seeing all that as a precious bit of comfort for the families, and personal, no matter how obviously it's just a lot of jawboning fluff. Yammer yammer yammer.

Today is the only day I’m going to refer to these gatherings, mourning the dead, comforting the afflicted, the sad, and the often-impatient wanting just to get it over with. I went to the final goodbye ceremony for this guy, who will go by a fake name today so as not to further agitate the family. I’ll call him Yon Quith, no relation to Yon Q. Public. But of course the Quith family is a big one, rivaling the Public family, Quith being one of our main names. Unfortunately, though, because they "had something better to do" or out of some heinous grudge they have against their own, most of the Quiths weren’t there, but a representative sample of brave souls, holding their nose, still made for a decent showing for the deceased.

You see Yon above in the panel of undoctored photos, that he started early manhood with a youthful appearance and good color. By the end, though, he’d withered substantially and lost his natural color, taking on something of the hues and tones of the Incredible Hulk, green but not with envy. I can’t think what it is that causes people to turn green, too much copper, not enough parsley root, something, bile in the liver. I hope he did something for it, medicine at the very least, Quith Bros. Cough Drops, Trade and Mark, cherry, licorice, anything but lime. He was green enough.

In addition to liver problems, the other disease that took him away goes by the generic name of Old Age and associated conditions. I myself am well beyond my teen years, and the things of Old Age, generis degeneris has me degenerating at a pace commensurate with my calendar age. I’ve been able to avoid the hospital so far, being one of those guys who’d rather die at home up until the pain is too great. At which point, hopefully, the Angel of Final Mercy will leave the Quiths and the Quones long enough to take care of me. But I’m really in no rush. I need to outlive my dog.

Mr. Quith here has the full range of things that accompany a good death. The appearance of Father Time himself, an old favorite from New Year’s Eve when he’s freshly born, pictured here in one of his guises, the old man from earlier on Dec. 31. My grandpa used to have a bunch of scythes like that for cutting weeds, so I grew up wielding those. They look scary to the average guy but they’re a great comfort to me. Then there’s a mailed-in poster card from Death himself, someone I also know. Really, the only stranger here to me was Yon himself, and the way they described him he would’ve been a heck of a guy to know. Started a business, hired a bunch of people, sent birthday cards to their children, etc. A real suck-up, but they’re still sorry to see him go.

What Guidance Counselors Die Of

No. 16 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

At this point, it has to be clear, whether or not you understand its nature, severity, etc., that something awful happened to me with a guidance counselor.

Yes, I'm a broken man. Wrung out like a sponge. Barely a drop to my name. Soon to seize up -- that'd be the ultimate ending -- eyes as big as saucers, mouthing but unable to utter my last vain complaint: "What ... happened ... to ... my ... life?" Nothing comes out clearly, but I motion to my neck, which everyone at first takes as senseless muscle/nerve activity, involuntary motions. But, no, there's a purpose. They find a locket and open it, never for a moment expecting Super Fly to launch himself into the air and fly off who knows where! Super Fly will destroy the world! Then they look to the locket one last time for a clue to this terror: It's a picture of a man, of the sons of men! Hands out as if in a wrestling pose! And a strange expression on his face as if to say, I'm here to do guidance counseling!

Hope that clarifies things. The guidance counselor caused me endless suffering, all because of a few seizures and me being excused from a semester of wrestling. Doesn't seem like much of an offense at this point, decades later. But at the time, you would’ve thought I was the one standing in the way of some great cause or hope. I don’t know what it could’ve been; the cure of cancer comes to mind. Or other dread diseases -- Dog breath and Italian breath present themselves --  that have given the world such tragedy and sadness.

My own thoughts on tragedies and diseases is, I hope they don’t get me. I’ve been in pretty good health since those days. No more seizures, which proves the wisdom of me skipping that semester of wrestling. Since then I’ve had the usual sickness, the flu a time or two. I’ve cut myself on nails or whatever, nothing too bad, and I’ve survived nicely. All the while, the guidance counselor, who was quite a bit older, himself did die. That’s true, he’s gone. So what’s that prove? He was older than me and was likely to die first? Or that his unrighteousness did him in? I can’t prove either one, so I'll just go with the one that has me at the center of the trouble. But my hands are up! It's not my fault, it's his!

Who knows what exactly did him in, heart attack, cancer, rickets, juvenile diabetes, plain cussedness, lymphoma, or something easier to spell, but it was something. I walk through cemeteries every once in a while and usually they don’t say what they died off. But we can guess, Whatever it was, it was something. So something’s what did the guidance counselor in, related to me or not. He might’ve died of a broken heart. Say everyone else took wrestling after me and no one stirred his enmity a second time, he might’ve just died of disappointment.

It’s true there are lots of terrible diseases that I wouldn’t want to have. But am I all for stamping them out? Not really, because 1) Doctors need to make a living, too; 2) We need a full slate of things to die from so everyone’s not dying of the same boring stuff. You might die of boredom itself but for interesting diseases.

Another great reason to keep on track with death is, You are going to have enemies, just like the guidance counselor was to me. If they’re going to die, it needs to be something they don’t necessarily understand. I don’t know if the guidance counselor thought of me right before his death. That would've been wild: "Father, forgive me for treating that kid like crap so long ago. I didn't know I'd die from it.” But a consoling voice comes from Heaven: "Don't worry, my son, even if that's what it was, I had lots of other stuff to choose from, like your time in Las Vegas."

While My Catarrh Gently Seeps

I believe it was the Buddha, as well as my Grandma, who said, “All life is suffering.” Whatever it is, whatever happens, you’re up, you’re down, you’re flat on your back in the hospital. There’s a major inflammation in your lower tract. It can’t be traced. Even surgery gives no relief; you’re worse off than when you first began.

The “wheel of life” is a concept from one of the major faiths. On this wheel of life, once you’ve spun it, you see what you get. All the usual aches, pains, diseases, and, last but not least, inflammations. Cuts, sores, piles, wounds, chafing, burns, sunburn, and catarrh. Proving the old adage beyond dispute, If it ain’t one thing, it’s another. With no end in sight, no good end anyway. Death, the grave, decomposition, and so forth till you’re lost and completely forgotten.

I see ambulances racing down the street all the time. Your life is precious. The sirens are wailing, they go through stop lights, because you can’t wait, the time is now, your need is urgent, every second counts in this drama of life and death. Minutes later you’re at the hospital, where they spend the next two hours getting your personal information, insurance, height and weight. Then it’s three hours later until a doctor's available. You could be dead by now, you know, but at least you saved 8 seconds at that last red light.

I probably should look up Buddha before I say definite things about him. But I’m winging it. From the little I know, nearly everything about Buddha is up for grabs anyway, depending on what country you’re from and what line of Buddhism you follow. So whatever I say is true somewhere in the world. The story may be familiar to you: Buddha’s dad kept him in the palace, not wanting him to see the outside world. Because Buddha Sr. knew the outside world was full of suffering. Then Buddha Jr. went into the outside world and discovered it was full of suffering.

Which I also discovered. You pick up on it right away, the first day of kindergarten. A kid on the playground breaks his arm, you kiss a girl on the jungle gym and she ends up with someone else, the teacher counts you tardy if you’re not in class when the bell goes off. Then there’s the rest of existence out of the sight of your protective parents. Now, too, once you’ve seen the suffering in the world — duplicity, backstabbing, lying, and sin — you even notice it in your parents, how unfair they are, even unjust. The foods they want you to eat, vegetables, are terrible and provide no nutritional value that you can’t get with straight sugar.

I also think cable TV is terrible suffering, except Monday Night Football and the Sunday games. You want it, you get it, it doesn’t make you happy; pillow commercials day and night. That’s the meaning of suffering.

Sex is suffering. The words “Regrets, I’ve had a few...” surely were written about sex. But what can you do? It’s the highest aspiration and at the same time the lowest. Great in concept, devastating in practice, unless you’re about to have a baby, then that’s a good payoff, but of course he or she will suffer, disappoint, die, etc. Abstaining is also suffering. But if you want to suffer and yet have more interesting payoff than dying rugrats, keep it zipped, wear coarse underwear, lock your hands behind your back, sleep and never wake up. Say you do wake up, keep the underwear on; it’s not painful enough to hurt you, it just keeps you on your toes when you walk or shift.

A couple of the diseases I should look up: Catarrh and Piles.

Catarrh? I got a catarrh once for Christmas and mom and dad even threw in catarrh lessons. A guy taught me several chords and I strummed myself silly, like other strumpets. Catarrh is also an old fashioned word for a dreaded condition, having to do with something like bad breath, a queasy tummy, or possibly worse. You’d think catarrh music is beautiful to listen to — say, Segovia — but still there’s also this damned curse of catarrh. When the catarrh’s out of tune, or the strings have lost their twang. On my catarrh, I used to take a file to the strings just to clean them of the filth on my fingers, like if I’d just dug potatoes. But a little dirt is good on catarrh strings, like the grunge music of the 90s.

I used to know a girl who played catarrh. She pulled off the G string and got the party started. Making beautiful music together. Which reminded me, oh yeah, I forgot the coarse underwear, which (as a reminder) keeps you on your toes when you walk or shift.

What about Piles? I should look this one up, too, but I think my sweet imagination is better than the medical encyclopedia. We know what it is when the dog leaves piles behind. They start at the behind, and that’s where they’re left. Some excrescences. Some are blatantly dropped, that’s the majority, the heart of the matter. Other piles cling, causing discomfort to the animal, no doubt, then their scooting across the floor messes up the carpet. Here in the Big City, the place I’m staying has hardwood floors, which the dog finds both comfortable and uncomfortable, depending on the effort she goes through to relieve herself.

The word piles is a good term, definitely evocative. Like if you had piles of money, like the Disney character who kept his money in a vault and was diving in it day and night. Piles and piles of piles can be a deadly thing, though.

Cuts, sores, wounds. That's all self explanatory. You get enough cuts, sores, and wounds, you’ll look back and discover you wound up in the hospital. I never cut myself. I’ve heard of people doing that, crazy, terrible fetish. The most pain I cause myself is biting my lip. But it’s not so bad, because I catch myself before there’s any pain. You have to think it through consciously. “I cannot eat myself. What value would that be? Eating is meant to nourish the system, not take the system away." You might remember the story in the Bible where the poor man Lazarus had dogs licking his sores. He was so despondent he took some comfort there. Dogs will lick you if you give them a leg up. Or worse. But that’s not what you should aspire to.

Buddha, he knew what to do about suffering. See through it. Transcend it with insight, realization. The exact science of which you can find in various Buddhist treatises. And from any guru you happen to meet, who finds you worthy to learn the secrets. (Everyone’s worthy, it just takes a while standing in line to make it happen.) Which is itself suffering, to a good purpose, to teach you patience till you learn the rest.

In the meantime, you can observe life itself and get enough teachings and eventually leave the line. Dogs walking by teach you a lot, as sketched out above. Or pick up your own catarrh. Pound out a tune and you’ll find the truth. A man, a woman, they’re very good, but suffering hopelessly if you dive deeply enough. When you find that place, the time for gurus and pills is ended.

Baby Spat "Stir Will Be Nothing!"

Soon Angelina will be with the angels. How about that? I've been very emotional lately, and probably the last thing I need is a tearjerker story about a lady dying. But life is life, and regardless of my sensitivity, there will always be suffering. Really, my sensitivity numbers are through the roof. I hear a sad story and I about bust out in tears, especially if it has something to do with a lady like Angelina. Let that name roll around on your tongue a while; you'll be in love.

Here's what I know. She was given 30 days to live. I can only imagine! You get severe bodily malfunctions. This is bad, this is barely functioning, this is on the fritz. You're looking at your big toe, holding out hope and sort of daring it to go bad, then reversing yourself completely, saying, "Don't you dare go bad!" I know, you can live without a big toe, even if it takes some mincing around so you're not falling over. I also have a big toe problem, a little numbness in it; it seems like I hit it on something or dropped something on it, but my memory's bad too.

Add to the mix Angelina is married to George. Very crotchety guy. He's apparently been a significant burden to her. He's old, and like most guys, a horn-dog. But even when your wife's very basic life systems are shutting down? George, to put it mildly, can be a bastard. But to a certain extent I can relate. You're a guy, you have needs. And while it's easy to lie, say you're going to the bathroom to clean the sink (or whatever), then actually do whatever, and suddenly you're OK, there's limited satisfaction there. Especially with Angelina that close.

So they got into it. Most of us know she not that into George. I can't imagine why anyone would be into a crotchety guy like him. Forgive me, I know I'm preachin' to the choir, assuming you know George. Essentially it's this: George can be tough. He's not always the most sensitive guy, and there's a certain level of selfishness that characterizes him.

OK, in that highly-charged situation, things escalate. Finally she threatens to kill him. He goes suddenly quiet and throws up hands, answering indignantly, "Yeah, well they'll put you away just like that! I could call the cops right now and they'd put your ass in stir!" Stir!

How'd she take that? She laughed like a maniac. (I know her family, she’s never been 100% stable either.) She laughed, then spat out, “Stir will be nothing! Because I only have a month to live! I’ll send you off ahead of me, and I’ll see you when I get there!” If that idea resonates with you, you might be thinking of streets of gold and mansions or smoldering embers and smoking caverns. It might be like that, but it could also be like it is here, a mixture of the two, life being what you make it. Too bad her doctor couldn't solve her problems...

A month to live, then dead. If any one of us had to deal with that -- and we had a husband on the make, like George -- it'd be tough to handle. For me, I wouldn't want to harm anyone. Strictly live and let live. I want everyone to have a chance to live without interference, although I would defend myself from an aggressor as best I could. Going by the daily news, though, there's a lot of nutzoids who go totally ballistic. I'd like to sit some of these nutzoids down and make them look straight into my eyes and tell them, "Listen, buddy, you get a grip on your damned self or you're going to do something stupid, OK?" Tell them about Stir. Stir means prison. Stir means bad. But what if you had 30 days to live?

That's what Angelina meant by her spitting-mad retort, “Stir will be nothing!” If the doctors couldn’t get her intestines and heart and kidney situation untangled, the guys at the police station won’t be able to fix her so she’d have to suffer the slings and arrows of the system. She could sit there and taunt them, too. Even if they got sick of it and moved her to “The Hole,” time has already passed, what’s 20 days in “The Hole”? Bad I'm sure, but take Angelina's health into account; she might pass out and die early.

The way George handled it, just to tidy up, was to choose retreat in the face of homicidal Angelina with nothing to lose. Wisely, he wheedled and worked hard -- but tenderly -- to get back on her good side. “Oh, let me love you, baby, like we used to do. Let me handle the cooking, the cleaning, getting your soiled porta-panties out to the garbage. You relax and take it easy.” She calmed down as he brushed her hair. He watched her covered breasts heave from the previous excitement, then relax as she dozed off.

Then he threw some Aqua Velva into a duffle bag, some clothes, etc., and got the hell out of there. He came by, explained the situation to me, borrowed my pup tent, and he’ll check in with me in 30-45 days, just to make sure the coast is definitely clear.

What I might do, if she actually passes on, is post it here — maybe explicitly, maybe something between the lines — so George can come back safely, go through the grieving process, etc., then get on with his life as best as he can.

IF THE THREAT HAD BECOME REALITY

Cancer -- Everything's Gotta Eat

I've been accused of being heartless and cruel, and even rooting for people's suffering and evil, simply because of my realistic recognition that everything's gotta eat. This isn't something I came up with myself, but it's a teaching passed on to me by my dad, who got it from his dad, etc., probably. I haven't actually traced it back multiple generations. But it has nothing to do with rooting for suffering...

My dad, every time we had a complaint about something -- mice droppings in the cupboard, coons at the campsite -- would say, "Everything's gotta eat." Which, he pointed out, was something we depended on when we needed it, and therefore should appreciate. Which is true. If we want to catch a mouse in a trap we take advantage of the fact that it has to eat. And the same for coons. And fish. Imagine going to fish and not wanting fish to eat! You'd have to catch them in a net. And they'd be bone skinny, since they didn't eat.

Like I said, this is truth and it's realistic. If people suffer because something's eating them, they (we, I) need to be more accepting of how things are. If we can eat the source of the problem, or find something else to eat it, that's the same thing, but in a curative way. So we have medicine/radiation to eat it, in a sense. For some things you can get leeches, to get in there and go to town.

I've also been called fatalistic when it comes to this teaching about eating, but really I'm not. Again, it's realism, not that you have to accept it. Just like in another saying, "Eat or be eaten." If you're being eaten by something, in my opinion -- and I'm not expecting contradiction on this -- you have the prerogative and instinct to eat it back. May he with the best appetite and chompers win!

We as men have it in our arsenal to co-opt the eating talents of other agents. Like I said above, medicine, leeches. Or doctors. Doctors are just as good as leeches, if not better. Both bring their natural talents to the task, but doctors, because of their human minds and in-depth training, have additional talents. If it's a job for a leech, I'll go with a leech. If it's a job for a doctor -- and sometimes the doctor has to make this judgment for me -- I'll go with the doctor. In my experience, thinking back, I haven't used leeches as much as I might have.

OK, friends, before you criticize me for my stance on cancer, just remember, I too have suffered this scourge. Yes, I call it a scourge, since it killed my father, my mother, and other relatives, no doubt, many whom I haven't even known. It will probably get me, eventually. But if it does, I will maintain the same truth that I live by today: Everything's gotta eat. If the thing exists and perpetuates itself by eating, then to hope (or deny it) is folly.

The big difference, in our sentiments, is we don't mind doing the eating, but we don't want to be the eaten. Reminding me of the old illustration of the little fish being eaten by a bigger fish that's being eaten by yet a bigger fish being eaten, and on and on. If you're anywhere on that chain, you might not want to be eaten, but you can't deny the guy behind you his prerogative, unless you get out of the way.

When it comes to cancer, there are certain proactive things we can do, at least for a while, to keep ourselves from being eaten. Like don't smoke, don't chew, and don't go with girls who do. That might work. Everyday there's something else being brought forth as another cause of cancer. The best thing you can do, one imagines, is lock yourself in a room and do nothing. Except letting yourself out at certain times of the day to exercise and eat good meals and drink water.

Please, then, the next time you see cancer eating you or someone you know and love, remember, that's the way it is. Everything's gotta eat. If you can eat it back, by all means go for it; you have my blessing. If not, let this philosophical truth be your guiding light and, I might say, your comfort.

I Laugh in the Face of Disease

I'm big, I'm bad, where others cry, I laugh in the face of disease. Ha ha! (Like that.) Of course I feel, just like in the Declaration of Independence, that such a claim demands an explanation to justify it in the opinion of mankind, my fellow withering-away organisms.

Disease causes lots of heartbreak, am I right? In fact, it's major Heartbreak City. But these are the things I don't worry about. I look at it this way: Millions of people have gone before me, and they're all pleasantly a'moldering. All suffering is momentary, relief relatively swift. Plus, que sera sera.

Of course, the best thing is to avoid all suffering, if you can, which you can't, so just hit the high spots and avoid anything prolonged. And if you can't do that either, then let it roll over you like the other balms of life, relaxing and luxuriating in the fact that you were apparently chosen, perhaps bearing the sins of the world. If you have to dream, dream big!

We hear it so often that we should not laugh in the face of disease, that we should not sneer in the face of heartbreak. I've heard that all my life; it's been very hush hush. But really, that's not a rule we have to obey, since we're all going to go. What really is suffering, but the breakdown of finite forms? Eventually our finite forms are so broken down that they appear to disperse entirely. Grandma had a disease, to give an example, and it got her. She broke down to the point that she died, and I haven't seen her since. I assume there's still bones or something, but huggable she ain't.

Probably it will actually be harder for me, assuming I ever get a disease that threatens to take me, to laugh in its face. But I shall try. I'm only reluctant to say I will because, frankly, I don't presently laugh in the face of the smaller things that come my way. Like heartburn. I strive to overcome it. I do what I can, as most physical conscious entities would. And I try to stave off the inevitable heartbreak. But I believe that if I get something really bad I will find a way to laugh about it.

I'll give an example of something I don't suffer from. Bulimia. I don't have that, so it's easy to laugh it off. I have a little song* for it:

Only a bull named Imic,
only a little steer,
He knew they wouldn't eat him,
and he would always be here.
But for me that's not a problem,
so eat him, yes, I must,
Only a bull named Imic,
he'll someday lose his trust.

That's right, boys and girls, Imic will someday lose his trust. He's thinking today I'm a mighty bull, and indeed a mighty bull is he. But there will come a day... it could be he will wait it out and fall apart and turn to dust. But let it be written: He shall lose his trust! Going beyond that fate, it will more likely be that someone will eat him. Someone who still has his trust, namely, me.

Or Cancer. Cancer is something I very well might get. If I had to bet, I'd say I will. My parents both died from cancer. Obviously cancer's something to laugh in the face of. My earliest memories of cancer is in the old joke:

TEACHER - Tommy, use the word cancer in a sentence.
TOMMY - I'm sorry, I can't, sir.

So far, cancer's not a problem I've had. I've been spared. Remember, I gave $50 to the anti-cancer society, so I'm hoping that gives me a certain immunity. I've had a lot of relatives die of cancer, those I've known and doubtless those I never knew. If anything major gets me, it'll likely be this disease. Yet I laugh in the face of cancer! I'm struttin' like a rooster, can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man!

Join me in laughing in the face of disease. How can I do that? you ask. Start with a small smile, a tentative smile. Work your way up to a frightened chuckle, etc., then pretty soon you're bold faced, sneering, struttin', talkin' trash, philosophically dunking your way (basketball language) to rich and vibrant glory in the face of disease and suffering, your own and the disease others.

*Tune of Only a Boy Named David

Run Away and Join the Circus

I seriously hope there's kids out there who still want to run away and join the circus. I bet there are. What a fantastic life that'd be! I think it'd be great. For a lot of us, though, we don't really see that many circuses anymore. So the temptation isn't quite as strong, plus I'm getting very old. But in the small towns I just know there's still have to be little circuses coming through. Allowing kids the opportunity. A little fly-by-night operation would be perfect for a kid to run away to; start small and work your way up. I'd do it in a heartbeat, given another chance.

Of course it's something I always wanted to do, but, dammit, never did. I should've gone for it. I was always so concerned about the feelings of my parents and grandparents -- who loved me so much and were so good to me, just my bad luck. Had they been like other kids' families -- scoundrels, turds, and cranks -- I would've been gone in a heartbeat. Whether the circus would've wanted me, that'd be their problem. They would've thought of something for me to do, keep the clowns happy or something.

It could be that circuses back then, when I was a kid, had so many runaway kids, they just farmed them out to all the countries circus performers seemed to come from -- Mexico, South American countries, and Romania -- where they were trained. That actually wouldn't have been so bad. You're in South America, you learn from the masters, then you're part of bigger circuses. 10 years later your parents are in the audience and there you go trotting by, standing and jumping rope on the back of a plumed horse.

One of my favorite books -- and I can't seem to find it -- was always "Toby Tyler," which, unfortunately for him, when he runs away and joins the circus, it's a terrible experience. They treat him like crap. On the other hand, that wouldn't be so bad. You prove yourself, you work your way up, you dispose of your enemies. I can't remember all the details, except, Toby, Why limit yourself to that circus? Run away again and again till you find a more kid-friendly one.

I was thinking, maybe someone could come up with a program -- put together by parents and circuses, to allow their kids to "run away" -- or just to be driven in the car -- to a circus, serving an apprenticeship, etc., to see if they like it and would excel. I get the feeling that circuses are in some danger of slipping away. So what better to revive struggling circuses with but cheap labor, with kids not even really in it for the money? Then, assuming that a bunch of them would never want to go back to their families -- it'd be tough to go back to parents who abandoned you to a circus -- they'd have all kinds of experience, and would be able to make that circus flourish and found others.

The program I have in mind I'm tentatively calling "Toby's Big Secret," because it at least recalls the secrecy of running away to join the circus. A bunch of "Tobies," then, have that experience. They're with the circus for X number of days, months, or years. It's good for everyone, a win-win for the circus, as well as the parents. If the child never comes back, at least they're earning their keep and learning life lessons. I think it would've been fun if "Toby's Big Secret" was a program when I was a kid. Instead, I got to go to camp for one stinking weekend, that's it.

"Toby's Big Secret" could also be used in conjunction with children's "Last Wish" organizations. Let's say I'm a dying child -- and let's be realistic, that's what we're talking about -- I would be the best clown in the world! Seriously. The best clowns are those that evoke pathos, the crying clown, the big sagging sad eyes and bowed head. Even to the point of carrying a dead flower in a pot. If you're a child in the death throes, no one would make a better clown. With the diminutive size, you'd have the place in tears. I'm honestly choking up, thinking of myself like that. With the audience reaching out to me, crying like babies, and somehow curing me. Now I'm cured, let's say, I milk the act forever, since they're also throwing money.

The biggest danger in joining it with "Last Wish" activities is that they might give you more dangerous things to do, knowing your time is already short. Which, I guess -- and I say this reluctantly -- if I can't be a clown and have the audience loving me, would still be a great way to go. Helping steady the elephant's feet so it doesn't step on the beauty queen. That doesn't mean it won't step on you. But what a way to go! How would you rather die? In a hospital, going bald, down to skin and bone, your healthier siblings standing there crying, the parson hat-in-hand droning trite prayers, and your parents stuck organizing pancake benefits? Or with five tons of raging elephant coming down on you, then hoisting you suddenly on its trunk and flinging you through the air, impaling you on one of those giant tent poles? Give me the circus!

Love, Hate, Love, Hate

It's impossible for me to hate anyone. I'm a lover, not a hater. If I ever got married, it's extremely easy to think of me being married forever. The fact that it's not yet been tested notwithstanding.

But I know the divorce courts are full of those who have known love, then love turned to hate, and the former lovers have turned to the judge for judgment, to terminate their marriage.

What was the basic problem? At the risk of oversimplifying the issue, I'd say there was some trouble with their vows. We all know the traditional vows, the couple vows to be together in sickness and health, for richer and poorer, and not to get caught having sex with others.

I'm guessing it's the last vow that's the toughest to keep, since everywhere you look there's another heavenly specimen walking by in a tight dress, hair just right, the face of a devilish angel, and nicely perky. Or a studly guy, with all the bulges in the right place. But then, back at home, what you're looking at at home, if it was a car it'd be in the junkyard, if it was a fight it'd be stopped.

So what happens, love turns to hate. Maybe not all at once, and maybe not irretrievably so. I'm thinking love can turn to hate, then hate back to love, then love to hate again, then hate at least once more back to love. It all depends. Maybe you've had an epiphany not only about vows but about the true nature of love. Love doesn't actually have to do with whether the other person has become decrepit. It's something from the soul and concerns the soul. You find that out, but you can also forget it.

But if you had been doing the proper stuff of a relationship all along, by now you'd be sharing humor and all the graces of life. If you ever veered off toward hate, you'd catch yourself and correct course, veering back toward love. That's how you're able to pass satisfying, good years together, having established yourself in a mutual place that isn't superficial.

Think of how crazy it is to love, to hate, then to love, then to hate again. You honestly can't be that shifty and shiftless. Although to be fair, maybe you can. If you came up in a household where shiftiness and shiftlessness were allowed to take root and grow. But honestly? You can't overcome that? I think you should be able to, especially if you see how crazy it is. And destructive.

It'd be like painting your bedroom black, then painting it white, then black, then white. I don't think very many people would see that as desirable. It'd be a life of weird extremes. Or trading in good health for mad cow disease, then working like a dog to get well again, then exposing yourself again to mad cow disease. Hard to imagine. Or being normal, then infecting yourself with trichinosis, similar to mad cow but coming from pigs, the disease that honestly scares me more than AIDS. I eat pork, I don't sleep around. Pink I don't like, at least in pork.

For a good relationship to stay good, one great pointer is to stay on the same page. Have a genuine interest in the other person, while allowing the other person to still be a separate person. You come together, you share mutual things, while having enough different between you to keep it interesting. On the other hand, if you have one person who is totally interesting and the other isn't, you're going to get out of sync.

Remember the old windshield wipers we used to have? They worked on two separate mechanisms. One mechanism would go just slightly bad, and next thing you knew, one wiper was faster than the other. I used to see this and be almost hypnotized watching the variances, as one wiper lapped the other in their sequence. If you watched it for 10 minutes you could time it out and make scientific judgments about the variance. I guess that's the background I have that makes me such an expert in the psychology of couples. Watching windshield wipers.

My expertise is good, since I'm able to provide counsel to anyone having trouble in a relationship. If you started out with love, then you just need to let love bloom again and grow continually. If you started out with hate, well, that doesn't sound very likely. Just don't let love become hate, and if you already did, work at it to make hate love again. Then get it firmly in the love gear and keep it there. Don't veer off to hate again; make double damn sure you don't. That should never be done!

What Is It with Sexual Diseases?

Which one of us, in his position, would do any less? If I could be there on the scene, let's say, and I had a personal stake in the issue, or maybe even if I didn't, and had certain knowledge that something permanent and awful was about to happen ... well, I won't incriminate myself as to what I might do. But it'd probably be deadly, approaching a 99.9% certainty.

Look, why should this cad's momentary pleasure -- sick and twisted as it is -- take away this poor girl's health forever? That's quite a tradeoff! One I would definitely try to prevent, if I could. "Come on, honey, he ain't worth it. I've seen what he's got, and I've seen what it's got! It's crawling with it! And you don't want it!" Far from it, if you know what I mean.

I know sexually transmitted diseases are terrible. That I've heard all my life, since I was barely able to even fathom what was going on. And the key thing, that which makes them so bad, is the permanence factor. You  never hear of STDs that are anything but permanent. One you have them, that's it. You're 15 and get on, you're still dealing with it when you're 95. Eighty years of whatever: bleeding, itching, breaking out, terrible rashes, runny spots, etc. ... I don't want to get too graphic, not this early in the post.

The first one I ever heard of -- probably in 5th grade -- was venereal disease. (I should say, I'm not a doctor. I am not offering reliable medical information here. I certainly am not able to diagnose any disease. And I'm not going to try ... keep that nasty thing far away from me.) Venereal disease, aka VD, was related to me as something down there, that was caught by contact with someone with it. I still believe that is true. It was something soldiers and sailors came home with.

And the worst thing, once again, is the permanence. At that time, and I haven't heard anything different, it was incurable. You might have times of lesser pain and agony, but the same old pain and agony would be back soon enough. You would have trouble going to the bathroom. The problems simply multiplied upon themselves. It's not very funny to read about, I realize, nor is it any great pleasure of mine to write it.

Since those early days, I'm come to understand there are plenty of other STDs. And whether they're related to VD, that I can't say. I've done myself the favor of remaining wonderfully ignorant on the subject. All I know is I would avoid all contact with anyone until they were proven to be healthy. Among the other STDs I've heard of are chlamydia, gonorrhea, AIDs, and I think there's a handful of others, which I can't think of now. Yeast infections??

Once again ... we get back to the permanence of these sons of bitches. They can cure virtually everything else, from dandruff to cancer. (Seriously, even cancer can be put on the run, thanks to radiation, chemo, and occasionally a prayer from a well-paid televangelist.) You can cure (or outlast) measles, mumps, chicken pox, and even the shingles. You can endure and/or treat arthritis, pneumonia, halitosis, catarrh, rheumatism, piles, the dropsy, water on the knee, toe fungus, ankle pain, hemorrhoids, dog breath, Italian breath, rickets, polyunsaturated fats, fatty limpids, cuts on your elbow, chigger bites, poison ivy, toothache, hearing loss, blindness, olfactory hallucinations, game toes, quicksand, kryponite, bee stings, ingrown toenails, driver's ed, fish ich, ptomaine, the heartbreak of psoriasis, funny-bone slams, and loneliness. All that and more. But not STDs.

That's just too weird, and if you've got one, I'm sorry. The idea that this one thing besets us -- and all because we wanted to have a good time and possibly breed. It's only natural. But, no, we're simply stuck, forever stymied, forever frustrated, with no way out ... but to become monks and nuns and live out our days shut in, taking cold showers and bundling ourselves up in diapers with Super Glue adhesive. I'm at a loss. Mankind has been defeated, despite our best science.

Is there any way around it?

I Now Pronounce You Dead

Editor's Note: For the first time ever I'm turning over the blog to a guest blogger, a character called Death. I've been familiar with Death for quite a while, having met him back when he came for Grandma and Grandpa, and of course my first dog Eggard. I don't know that he will say anything offensive, but it's worth cautioning you, and exculpating myself by declining credit or blame for anything too edgy. All statements and opinions are those of Death, and do not necessarily -- I'll just say they definitely do not -- reflect the views of me or this blog.

I now turn it over to Death...

Death -- Thank you for that warm welcome. Yes, I certainly remember coming for your precious Eggard. You were something like seven or eight years old, and, as I recall, you cried your eyes out. I remember watching over you as you buried him down by the fence. It was quite a touching sight, which is why I let your other dogs all live to a ripe old age.

Editor -- Hold on, wait a second, before you go any farther. It's not exactly true that my other dogs all lived to a ripe old age. Perhaps you remember Fritz, the dog I had only a week, having gotten him at the Rescue League. You gave him a major attack of the worms and he crawled under the stairs and died. You came for him after one damned week, one week! Excuse me, I'm not done... Then there was Curly, surely not in a ripe old age. I had him what? A year, a year and a half at the most, and someone ran over him; you were right on the scene to snatch him up. And that's not all. What about Frankie? Who choked to death on a chain. I didn't usually chain him up, but because I had to go out of town to visit someone at the hospital, whom you also took that same week, you came by to choke my dog and take him, too!

Death -- Are you going to let me write this column or not? I'm sorry about your dogs. I had you confused with someone less worthy. Plus, since they all go to Heaven, what do you care?

Editor -- OK, but I still haven't wracked my brain to remember the other pets there might've been. But since you say you had me confused with some other guy, I guess I'll let it go. So we'll chalk it up, we'll call it even.

Death -- Fine, I can live with that.

-- Death's column begins now -- 

Look out, dear reader, I'm coming for you and yours. If not today, then someday. Be on the lookout, because I'd love to meet you, and I'm sure you feel likewise about me. But even if not ... [LOL].

I've been thinking about you, yes, you in particular. Of course I know you're reading this. You're actually a rare person in that respect. The editor of this blog showed me his readership stats. They're puny. He gets around 100 weird hits a day, mostly from Russian gambling sites that aren't even actual readers. He doesn't know why they keep coming. Then there's about five posts he has (the biggest seeming to be one of his posts on Strongheart dog food, speaking of dogs) that everyone else hits. But the semi-daily posts only get something like 10 hits, seriously. And you just happen to be one of them. So you're one in 10, obviously I'm talking to you directly. You're going to die, I'm coming for you ... very, very soon.

What's your big offense? you ask. Surely it wasn't that I read this blog. No, of course not. I was meaning to come after you already; you just happen to be one of the very rare individuals who are getting advance warning. That's lucky. For which, in my opinion, you ought to be glad. Because look at it this way, now you have time to prepare. You can tell your loved ones, you can settle your affairs. If I were you, I would check with the editor of this blog, because he always needs money. Since he provided the opportunity for this open forum, you could show your appreciation for the advance notice by willing him all your property.

Editor -- I'm sorry, I meant that you had full reign over the blog, Death, but please don't bring me into the picture. I honestly don't want to have anything to do with the property of my 10 readers. It is very much my preference -- I insist on it -- that they will their property to their family and loved ones. They are the ones it rightly belongs to, unless, as may be true, their kids are a bunch of miserable snots -- riding skateboards and getting tattoos -- then naturally I would appreciate the portions that would otherwise go to them.

Death -- So you have your scruples, eh? I can accept that. Please let me continue ...

I haven't got that much more to say, except, again, to give warning. And to let you know basically how it's going to happen. For a couple of you it's going to be a terrible car accident. I'll be there, pluck your souls from the scene, and we'll be off before anyone knows what happened. For a couple of you, I have a medical emergency lined up, specifically a heart attack for one, and bleeding hemorrhoids for another. Out of the 10 readers, I believe each of you will know who you are. But look on the bright side, you won't have to put up anymore with nagging about exercise for the one, and for the other with that terrible itch.

When I come to visit you, no one will see me but you yourself, and I will have only one thing to say as I swing my scythe -- that's what I call that big sharp cutter thing I carry, very hard to spell. And that's, "I now pronounce you ... dead."

Editor -- Thank you, Death, for those good words. I appreciate your time, knowing that you have a lot of appointments to keep. And to my readers, let me just say, as far as I know, this blog is "For Entertainment Purposes Only." I don't really think you're going to die. But just to be on the safe side, please drive carefully, get your heart checked, and take good care of your bottom. Don't strain.

When Nature Kills

There it is again, another one of those terrible headlines, "Men Faint in Grip of Death." The newspapers blare it out, another one is gone, two more have met their demise, or three have all, each one, met their maker through death.

But what are we supposed to do about it? Prevention of course is always the best medicine, but having failed to administer it in time, what are we supposed to do? The short answer is, There's nothing you can do. Maybe throw up your hands in despair, that's always an option. Worthless, but doable.

And we haven't even gotten to the worst part. The worst part is, It could happen to you! I personally have a number of plans for tomorrow, which I will very likely be around to accomplish. Like I usually do when it gets tall, I'll probably mow the grass. I'll be taking the garbage out to the side of the road. And a few things like that, incidental stuff. But it could happen to me! Sudden death could happen, my own senseless end, which is truly unfathomable from the point of view of the normal continuing ego.

But think about it. I'm not that much different from anyone else. And tomorrow, like it or not, there are going to be thousands of people -- 100,000 to 200,000 people, who will croak. Google it! We'll split the difference and say 150,000. 150,000 immortal souls will shed their robe of flesh and ascend into the ether, and be gone. Which means the "Ghost Hunters" show ought to be considered a growth industry. It literally could happen to you!

OK, what do you think the number one cause of death is? It's not drive-by shootings, war, or the ravages of acne. Although of those three, only the ravages of acne is a subcategory of the number one cause. The number one cause of death is "natural causes." A bad heart, whether your own fault or not. Bad lungs, whether your own fault or not. An overdose of Cialis, always your fault, but a hell of a way to go ... I hear. The visitation goes on and on. Takes the undertaker six days to shut the lid.

All those things are ... natural causes. Nature itself, poor, innocent, benign nature ... Mother Nature, even ... is a cold, calculating, heartless serial killer. There's no getting around it! Nature itself is worse than John Wayne Gacy, and all the rest of 'em put together! Yet, what do we like to do? "Go out to nature!" I hear that and it makes me sick. A lady I know does this screwy new age meditation out in "nature," listening to the bubbling creek, the nearly silent flit-flit-flit of butterfly wings, and the "sound of silence" of the passing clouds, not to mention the dulcet warbling of an unseen bird. In my opinion, that's crap.

Another way to look at it, and probably more realistic, is this: You could drown in a bubbling creek, you could open your mouth in wonder and the butterfly could choke you, and the passing clouds could be hiding a tornado. The bird could dive-bomb you and peck your eyes out, leaving you to stagger sightlessly toward home till you fall off a cliff. Then you're dead! And what about the sun? Anyone who's ever crawled halfway across a desert could tell you something about the sun...

The bottom line is, Beware of nature!

Everyday we hear of them, our fellow creatures, who die of "natural causes." And, yes, it sounds so nice. They lived a nice long life, they say, but they don't always speak the rest of it: Nature got them! You can do what you want, that's on you. But as for me, except for what I absolutely have to do tomorrow, like taking out the garbage, I'm staying inside!