Sniffles, Gluttony, Virus

Virus

Part 30 of 30

It’s never part of my self-image to think of myself as a born loser. But what a month! The virus came in like a roaring lion and went out a defeated foe, and it really wasn’t that hard. Our political leaders led the way from victory to victory. They had what we haven’t seen in a while, good old fashioned selflessness, taking no account of themselves or future, but acted with just selfless giving, single-minded direction toward the common good. It’s been a blessing to behold, such a spirit radiating out from those at the top and continuing as an inspiration for everyone, from the cabinet, our representatives, all the way down to the lonely bum on 8th street. (I should take him a tract and convert him.)

I have to say, though, I'm busting with a great pride I feel for everyone -- what a country! What a world! -- but I do feel a little shame, a lot of shame and even existential revulsion that there was a time I was in a constant stir, a panic.There were times when I had my doubts, and not just split seconds of it. I was in constant mortification and desperation, oozing sweat, gallons of sweat. “What’s going to become of me? Am I lost? Is this my last hurrah? Will I die early in the month, only to have my rotted carcass blocking the door when the undertaker comes? They’ll have to push through, moving my body slowly toward the wall, blood and other bodily liquids making a mess of the living room and further shrinking the low property value the place already has. People will pass by crossing themselves, 'That’s where they found that bloated guy.'"

I should say in my defense, I am a lonely old man, single, all by myself with my fears. My imagination always gets the worst of me, and my paranoia is so crazy, running rampant to the point that with the slightest noise at the door I know I’m done for. But being old should be a reminder to me that, “What am I living for?” Am I living just to live another terrible day? No, that can't be right! Instead it's to be bold, to have the kind of mindset that I can do it, whatever it is. If others can live, breathe and prosper, why not me?

Just let me rank the enemies I’ve faced all month -- and thank God the virus is gone after today and I can get back to normal. The enemies included the sniffles. Right away when there was a toilet paper shortage at the beginning I convinced myself -- my paranoia -- that I was sure to get a runny nose. And just like clockwork, there it was. The sniffles were so bad, the sniffle molecules multiplied faster than usual, making it a torrent. I was trying to conserve toilet paper so I was using my sleeve, which tainted things even worse. I had to dig into my stash of toilet paper and took out just three or four squares. But those were quickly overwhelmed. Not being able to staunch my tears, I was completely overcome. Excuse me for saying this -- I’m usually a holy person -- but “Gosh darn them sniffles!”

Then there was gluttony, the deep seated feeling in me that I should eat more than my fill. We couldn’t get toilet paper, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have plenty of food. Canned goods, which never goes bad, except maybe after a hundred years. Every time I had the slightest pain, even my typical sore knees, I thought the remedy was another can. So I ate my fill. And with the eating only felt greater hunger, meaning I was up to my neck in empty cans. At night, after all the viral ghouls of the Big City passed by, I threw the bags of cans in the road.

Then last I faced the greatest enemy of all, the Virus itself. I made the mistake of not taking the discarded cans farther from home. Meaning the ghouls became three times as bad, craving the off scouring and even putting 2 and 2 together that the cans came from my house, so they were banging on the windows. Virus to the left, also to the right, and trying to pry into the basement and on the roof. I could do nothing but shout, “Virus! Virus!” The universal cry of taint drove them on to the next house.

In short, it was a terrible month.

George Washington's Poisoned Peas

Paranoia

Part 16 of 30

And speaking of assassination attempts, what about George Washington’s brush with the poisoning of his peas? I certainly didn't see that coming and I doubt if he did. But obviously a certain Thomas Hickey not only imagined it but carried through with his devious thoughts. I haven’t looked up the details, not because I’m frugal with my time, but to avoid knowing anything more about it. I get something like that in my head and my paranoia's worse. So many times I've thought of things just to see them happen! Now this I've thought of -- poison peas! -- but I just brushed with it, so hopefully I won't have any worries.

But on a deal like this -- ha ha -- knowledge might be power. And the last laugh should be mine, because I don’t eat peas in any real sense. I never buy peas, no one I’ve ever lived with except my Mom, who’s now passed, even liked peas. Just having them in the cupboard made them the most secure food in town. None of us except her had any desire whatsoever to eat them. If pea farmers were waiting for me to keep them in business, they would’ve been bankrupt a long time ago or would be selling carrots.

Now that I think of it, though, sometimes there’s occasions where a few peas will be in something. You go out to eat, get a salad, and there’s a pea or two in it, since they’re supposed to be good for you. And -- I’m raising my hand -- I am guilty of eating the occasional pea in a salad if it happens to be there. Just so they’re not together by themselves in a huge quantity. Then it’s out of the question.

And now that I’ve heard this story about George Washington, it only demonstrates a hidden layer of wisdom to my life. I was already anti-pea. I never heard of his trouble with peas before. But somehow I knew to avoid them. I had to have been thinking there’s something about these that could be poisoned. Even though we honor Washington for whatever it is he might’ve done -- crossed the river once -- we’ve never been that excited about him surviving poison peas. Now, though, that’ll be the first thing I think about him in my remaining years.

It would’ve been great to have known that in school. The teacher calls on the class to enunciate a few syllables about George Washington beyond cherry trees and a desire to always be first at everything, even the presidency. I shoot my hand up, the other kids are about to laugh because I’m about to say something completely stupid, and out pops from my mouth this most important thing there is to know about the Great Man, “He was almost killed by poisoned peas, and I’ve got my eye on the lunch lady!” The lunch lady’s called forth and hanged by the neck from the gymnasium rafters until she’s dead. Then we cleanse the land.

Looking closely, they even have the perp’s name, Thomas Hickey, a Tory agent, But that’s a Tory for a different day. Next we consider that George Washington had a death mask, put it on and faked his own death, then got the hell out of there on his Early Limousine. And the Secret Service still hasn’t lived it down!

Cogs In A Machine

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 25 of 30

We’ve all had it explained to us from time to time -- at least once by a boss, which is unforgettable -- that you're nothing more than a cog in a machine, and that you have one function in life, to be all that that cog needs to be. The other cogs are depending on you. And the boss, the guy telling you the philosophy, is the judge and regulator of the cogs, that each shall do his or her indispensable part until it’s time to be replaced. Which can happen at any point if you ask for more than he can give, like a day off, when there's always work to be done.

So whatever your choice, you’re basically screwed. Think about cogs. They never ask for a day off. But for you, if you fail to show up, you have the short-term value of a day off, but naturally a different cog will be in your place if you’re dumb enough to show up again. If you do show up, though, it’s almost as embarrassing. You’ve accepted that your life is nothing but a cog in this guy’s machine, and he’ll be there to push you around with threats and devious laughter until they swat you with the Silver Paddle on your last day before retirement.

The best course of action would be this: Secretly arrange a new job somewhere else, get it in writing, if possible in blood, but keep the starting date secret for a while. You want it to be a time when you are entirely indispensable to the cog boss. Then you hit him up for a day off. His legs start twitching like they do, knowing that he’s giddy to give you the whole spiel again -- having you over the barrel -- so you let him go point by point over the recitation, occasionally asking him to amplify on particular points.

The big difference this time is you’re yawning, stretching your arms, practically dozing off with indifference. He’s starting to get nervous because you aren't sweating blood like usual. To make this story shorter, you tell him you have this other job where absences are endless, expectations are low. And that you’re unruffled by anything to the point that you’re capable even now of whipping it out and drenching the place. “It’ll be something to remember me by.”

Mother Pig carries something of that message for her chillens. “Get bigger so you can be pork chops for people to eat.” Even Grandma’s aghast at this fate, while we actually endorse it every time mealtime rolls around. A pack of bacon or what have you. The glad acceptance of destiny for pigs comes from their ignorance that anything bad’s going to happen to them. And what if they somehow knew, they wouldn’t be here in the first place, since without pork chops nobody’d be breeding them. Mother and Father Pig would sit in separate pens till their lives were ended for some other reason.

So I guess there’s one destiny for us and one for pigs. Pigs get what they get. We think it through and try to keep ourselves free and clear so that we can be happy, whether we’re absent a lot or whether we’re willing to die at a job that's willing to kill us for a buck.

Eaten By A Tiger...Destiny?

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 23 of 30

Among the basic rules of life -- and you could make lists everyday day -- are: Be vulnerable, but also wary. If you're too vulnerable your destiny could be to end. Wariness counters that. But too much wariness and you're overly skeptical of what you hear, making it hard to go forward. In short, lean on your innate self-knowledge but don't forget common sense. It goes a long way toward keeping your place, your freedom, even your dignity.

Dignity's at stake when a tiger's eating you. If you had a tiger swallow you, think how embarrassing that’d be, not to mention painful. Check out Glen’s shoes, and wonder how he could've let down his guard to such a foolhardy extent. He's been in trouble before. So I ask, How many times does this poor dude need rescued? Glen, if the sidewalk looks slick, show down. If the tiger looks hungry, offer him a TV dinner. And in the meantime lock the door, hide in the basement, do anything except allow yourself to get swallowed.

But it happened, and of course they had to call the ambulance guys, who worked gingerly with two endangered species, Glen and the tiger. And probably the tiger’s less endangered, since he's able to swallow you whole and pass you whole. The best Glen could hope for would be its peristalsis is slow, and whatever laxative they're able to give it (without messing up its metabolism) would speed his reappearance. Time is of the essence. Glen had to hope they could bypass the animal’s natural digestive juices.

My message today, brothers and sisters -- is that you must not become a victim of destiny. Are you with me? Destiny exists, this is true, but it leans more toward being an agent of good, not something meant to detract from your dignity as a human being, which is definitely what comes to pass when you are physically eaten and digested. Where’s the dignity in that? There's none!

What is so critical is the middle path. Yes, you want to be all-in. But you must be all-in in a way that is wise, not foolish. Something that gives health to your members, not destruction. Something that fulfills your destiny, not ends it. Yes, my beloved, every pursuit in life has stops along the way. You eat your own food, bite by bite. When people see you eat, for example, they don’t see the literal shape of a T-bone steak working its way past your throat. It's not clearly delineated as it goes down the gullet.

When it is in the stomach and then later the intestinal system, where digestion receives its crowning glory, no external observer is there to witness the T-bone steak in its original incarnation, non-chewed, unmarred, or whole. The thing is bitten into numerous pieces, awaiting the transformation, the alchemical change as it gives up its form and nature and is in part -- the nutrients -- absorbed into your system, while that which becomes eternal waste is expelled, finally cast out into the draught, the drain, the sewer, the cesspool.

Please, Glen, get a grip, before something worse happens.

Beg For Your Num-Num

 

Part 24 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

We live in interesting times in terms of our expectations, what we think we deserve and what we can have. I’m thinking in particular about the whole issue of eating, the meals we’ve come to expect, and the meals we often down without so much as a moment’s reflection on it as provision. I crunched myself though a handful of chocolate candy crackers and wish now I could've gone slower.

The rodeo’s close to my heart, thanks to my dealings with many of the team of Mam and Pap’s show. And they dealt with a lot of these issues of daily eating that not only the people on the show were concerned with but also the animals. In fact, the animals are more insistent, have more boldness to say it than some of the people, stamping their feet, blowing steam out of their big meaty nostrils: “I’m here, I’m hungry, feed me!”

Before I go any further, not wanting an uprising among the natives of the internet, always at the ready with a big pot of water boiling and their several spears, alert to any veering from the socially proscribed mores of life and behavior, in this context the provisions of food for all, let me say I do support eating, with full-throated enthusiasm. Like everyone, I could afford to cut back a little; it’d be nice to cinch my belt a little tighter, 10-12 inches. But that’s me, not animals who have little understanding of wise dieting and would gorge themselves to death before the 4:30 show if given a big enough feedbag.

The story I’m telling as part of the celebration of Mam & Pap’s rodeo focuses on some of the characters, the staff of their show. And there was a guy who did it differently from most when it came to feeding his horse, a decent horse named Hoss. Hoss’ human companion was Old Dan’l.

Daniel, to use his fuller name, believed that Hoss needed to beg for every meal. Maybe if Hoss reared back like that several times a day it helped him keep physically fit. And it'd be a reminder if he ever needed to see something afar he could rear back and see it. “Beg for your breakfast, beg for your lunch, beg for your dinner” was all consolidated down into a command a horse could more easily remember, “Beg for your num-num!”

Which of those words would be key? Probably “num-num,” if we’re thinking of how food seems to us, something we chew, something we savor, depend on for nutrition, and enjoy. “Num-num, food good.” Even a caveman would understand it, it’d be a piece of cake for a horse. Whatever Hoss thought, he put 2 and 2 together and associated raising up and letting out a loud whinnying as begging for his food. And was never denied as far as I know. I observed the ritual maybe 10 times and the food was quickly given with the proper stance, response, and of course the actual begging, a series of vocalized noises.

I’ve thought about that many times over my own meals. My family used to say grace over most meals. Not potato chips, but anything more. Keeping in mind old Hoss the begging horse, it simplifies it for me now that I’m on my own. Just lift my hands like Hoss does, and whinny a couple times, I know the Good Lord is satisfied. And I can partake of the meal with a clean conscience, be it meat, potatoes, a salad, etc. One thing I don’t beg for is potato chips, even though I still like them.

Meat Monster Strikes Again

Part 13 of 30

Self-Abuse September

First, my hat's off to this wonderful counselor on staff at the police department. Very few men would do what this good man did in empathizing with a man both down on his luck and feeling the bitter remorse any man feels when his libido and love-making prowess has been not only been criticized but attacked. If I were younger I would love to snag a counseling job like this, except with the bad luck I've been going through there would probably never be a case involving a Meat Monster and her brutal proclivities raging in a murderous hormone-crazed spree. Rotten luck.

The police counselor, seeing Dan’s arm injured and in a cast and godawful sling, literally and admirably dislocated his own arm from the socket and sat there while sadistic attendants pulled it completely out of place. Think of the pain he suppressed while remaining so easy going just to be a comfort to his fellow man. I’ll tell you right upfront I’d never be able to do that, but one time I was similarly generous when another kid didn’t get a May basket and I gave him one of mine. So I hope I can still be proud?

OK, the Meat Monster woman killed the other guy yesterday because his lovemaking skills didn't rise to match those of a ham loaf. Then the very next day she challenges this other guy with the same terms. Right away I would’ve said he had the advantage. The meat loaf by then was certainly worn and disheveled from its prior exertions. But whether Dan was afraid when he found himself in the pinch or assumed the ham loaf had its full manhood still (I didn't pry beyond the preliminaries to avoid embarrassment), it didn’t go well.

Part of it must have been the Meat Monster’s expectations were high. She knew the loaf was strung out, two days in a row being a real challenge for that grade of loaf. Plus, having killed Glen, she had a rush of progesterone and testosterone giving a greater natural sense of beauty and desirability. And I probably shouldn’t say it, but that type of chick's always horny. Dan saw the problem and was immediately limp as a noodle, as most guys would be. The guys who would naturally be most attracted to her would be mostly bodybuilders hopped up on body- and mind-altering chemicals. The hat freaks us out.

It’s funny, though, about Dan’s focus, his spirits being low, etc., so bad that even the police detective had to counsel him. "I mean, it’s stupid. You escaped the Meat Monster with no more than a broken arm and your ego's still bruised!? Give me a break." The detective spelled it out nicely, "'It was you against a ham loaf and you lost. Stick to your fantasies, Dan. It’s not such a disgrace to be a worse lover than a ham loaf." Since then Dan has regained his self-confidence through well-measured self-abuse. Hope his arm doesn't hurt too much.

As for me, I'm halfway tempted to look for a woman and see if I’m better than a ham loaf. But I better not.

Two Lovers Tonight

Part 12 of 30

Self-Abuse September

The story of this meat monster lady was covered locally but as far as I know was not picked up by news sources outside the county. Why that is, I can only guess. I suspect it has to do with the meatpacking industry and their “in” with journalists, always giving them meat to kill negative stories. And it's true, if you’ve ever visited journalists at home, the first thing you notice is the stand-alone freezer and plenty of meat. Which doesn’t just happen.

So I’ll sketch it out and hope you believe it, because every word is true and easily found in reputable dictionaries. OK, the meat monster was a mentally disturbed lady -- as generally understood --  with a side issue of being overly abusive to innocent ham loaves. With a prejudice. And say what you will about these conditions not being her fault, something she would've never brought on herself, that tired excuse only goes so far. She knows the value of a decent ham loaf, so she's fully capable of discerning right from wrong when it comes to killing lovers. The only mental issue I see definitely is the incongruity of thinking a lover's performance can be judged by the same standards we use to evaluate ham loaves. On that point I won't budge.

Our first victim (the other guy tomorrow) is this guy Glen with the penis nose, who actually should be head over heels the front runner in love-a-thons. If his downstairs is anything like upstairs, he's got an immediate advantage in any romantic standoff. Yes, he's of small build, but if he plays his body right, he could take care of her from both ends, depending on how her midsection fits on the mattress when spread-eagle. And were he to throw his voice, and with a nose like that he probably could, she’d think it was a menage a trois, which, if my French holds, means he’d be nailing her once but equivalent to the skills of three men.

Obviously, though, he had concerns, a downer most guys get, whether or not their nose is hung, when confronted with a woman as tough as Barbarossa and built like the proverbial shithouse. Part of her menace is the hat, with the word MEAT stitched in gold, again similar to Barbarossa, his crown.

Glen started back with a fear so real that had he fled in terror no one would’ve blamed him. But as she set out the terms, he froze. Whichever lover of the two -- Glen vs. Ham Loaf -- prevailed would see tomorrow! Glen went first, which wasn't too great but, frankly, a normal person would’ve given him a passing grade while not desiring sloppy seconds. The ham loaf went next -- it’s always best to go second in these kind of standoffs -- and it took full advantage of Glen’s blood, sweat, and tears in paving the way. With the ham loaf winning. Fully nude except for the hat, the monster woman strode over to Glen, and ... I'll just say his outfit's at the thrift store if anyone wants it.

We mourn Glen, of course, but sincere congratulations to the ham loaf.

Self-Abuse Challenge: Mentally put yourself in Glen's place.

Hungry Enough To Eat A Capibarra

 Chapter 15 (3rd part) -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Pongo Menseriche

Remember yesterday I said the explorers were looking at food problems again, shortages? That happens today. In fact, I just ate an apple because I knew what I'd be facing, even Old Mother Hubbard sympathetic to Up de Graff, Game, Rouse, and the others, although I could never look down at a dog and tell her there wasn't enough food. That'd be terrible. I'd go without food myself rather than have a dog that doesn't understand go hungry.

On the seventh day near the Pongo Menseriche, a gorge with floods of rushing water passing through it, the water had fallen considerably. They decided to send the advance guard in a 20-foot canoe with 10 days rations to get in touch with the Antipas, who would supply them with fresh fruit and veggies and help paddle the heavy Exploradora super canoe beyond the Pongo.

Game and Up de Graff set off with a plan of passing the whirlpool. The water being reasonably low, they knew that was the best time to pass it. They steered near the outer edge and let themselves be carried around the rim -- dangerous. Then as they swung round toward one cliff, they paddled hard to avoid destruction. Swinging clear, they shot within landing distance of a sandspit, the only place within five or six miles where they could get ashore safely. I know if I'd been there I would've lightened things considerably by asking, "What would you rather have, a rimshot or a shot of rum?"

They camped there that night. The next day they made their way beyond the canon, fighting upstream with pole, paddle, and rope. But Up de Graff knew that troubles were looming fresh ahead of them. The first day they passed in the head-hunters' country, things went well. But progress was slow with the river difficult to navigate, the bed being stony and rough. That had to use the pole a lot. My thought on this is to look for food, fish, something. Turn over rocks, kick up a snake and shoot it, anything. Then worry about making nice with the head-hunters. If you're going to die, leave with a fully tummy.

But everything was a struggle, day after day. There was no game to be had. The food supplies became lower and lower until they literally had nothing but salt. On the sixth or seventh day, Up de Graff shot a capubara*, the only living thing they'd seen in a while. But it's flesh was revolting and virtually inedible. Still, it kept them alive three days. The bottoms of their feet were extremely sore, and they were crawling. They decided, "If at the end of this stretch [just ahead] there is nothing, we turn about."

As they went on, though, about two hundred yards from the bank, on a hillside, they saw a bright yellow Jivaro shack.

-------------
*The capybara, spelled capibarra in the book, is a mammal native to South America. It's the largest living rodent in the world, excluding Mickey Mouse.

Rum, Guns, Anarchism

Chapter 14 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Borja

Up de Graff's expedition had use of the steamer to go up-stream as far as the steamer would go. So on they steamed, being the first steamboat in a long time to navigate the Marañon above that particular station. But only two days of hunting and lounging on the deck brought them to the highest point the craft could manage, where they necessarily stopped.

While halted and cutting fuel, Up de Graff had his first disillusionment as to the prowess of Ambusha the cook. He took Ambusha into the woods to look for game, but the latter was so incompetent at reading or making trails and keeping track of his location that in no time he would've been forever lost. For example, he looked at a well-used trail of tapirs and discerned it as having been traversed by "a war-party of Indians with women." To us that'd be like mistaking a cowpath for the interstate highway!

One other night after the steamer had returned downstream, Up de Graff's hunting resulted in four monkeys roasted for supper. They made a paste of the brains which along with hardtack made delicious sandwiches resembling paté de foie gras. Speaking of delicious animals, Jack later bagged a snow-white alligator measuring about five feet and prepared it for supper. They even had leftovers from that particular meal, all white meat of course. But we have a little bad news too, that they lost two dogs that jumped overboard and disappeared into the forest, most likely to be killed by tigers.

A little more of the Ambusha follies was in the offing. Ambusha always remained near the camp, never missing a chance to drink his fill of the rum. Up de Graff noted in his journal, "When he is not occupied with cleaning his rifle, he is busy reading up anarchism." They came to the unanimous decision to relieve Ambusha of cooking duties. Rum, guns, anarchism. They believed he was more proficient at mixing poisons than cooking, so he could be a danger to everyone.

Having broken camp one morning and stowing their stuff in the canoes, one of the guys caught sight of a tapir swimming. Jack had a gun ready, and being a crack shot, raced off and shot it, with everyone going to drag it to the river. Estimated at 600 pounds, it was of course tough to drag, but once in the water Up de Graff got astride it with a paddle and floated it down to camp. They cut it up for meat and cured it in the smoke of the fire, judging the feet and snout of the thing as being the greatest delicacies. You can still get pickled pig's feet, but as far as tapir goes, I haven't seen any in a while.

Another day as they pushed upstream they came to Borja, where a colony (est. population 100) once was. In the years since then it was overgrown and obscure. But it was still recognizable by gigantic limestone boulders, with the place being notable for its closeness to the mouth of the Pongo Menseriche, a gorge through which the Marañon River runs [Wikipedia].

Monkey's Great Every Meal

Chapter 13 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Barranca

It was day much like this day, except in the distant past. They had sunshine, water, a world stretched out around them, and though it was the distant past it simultaneously felt like "today" in exactly the same way our day constitutes the present. Something of a head-scratcher, I know, but if you keep thinking of it like our own lives it makes more sense. They weren't back in time, they merely lived then...

There was a character named Don Juan Ramirez who was a wealthy dealer in rubber and slaves. He organized his business to suit the place and it really flourished, big-time, with 300 Indians working rubber for him in half-a-dozen rivers. He also had steamboats to take passengers where they wanted to go. Which brings us to Up de Graff's team, who were with him on the Marañon going to Barranca. They passed many interesting settlements with canoes darting out from the various hamlets, some to be seen, some not to be.

Traveling there sounds very monotonous except for the clearings, since there's very little relief from dense walls of trees stretching on and on. The Amazon system has some 50,000 miles of water navigable by river-steamers basically like theirs. On this journey they'd gone up-stream for 10 days, daily stopping to hunt the night's dinner and chop fuel. The principal quarry was monkey, in fact the main dish at every meal, served as soup, stew, or roast. Monkey steaks, monkey soup, monkey see, monkey do. Even though we might easily be nauseated were we to live wholly on deer, wild turkeys, or any other forest game, that most certainly does not apply to monkey. From big to little, small to large, hairy or picked clean, as long as it's statutorily legal, every monkey is universally outstanding and delicious no matter how many times you eat it.

On the tenth day they arrived at the last Cocama settlement on the Marañon. Joining them there were expedition members Morse, Iberico, with their new, big canoe, the Exploradora. While at the settlement they bartered some goods for food with the Cocama Indians, one good for you, one food for me, etc.

Up de Graff charmingly describes these people's clever, devious way of spearing river-seals. When one's been killed, since it's impossible to lift it over the sides of the canoe, the occupants -- usually a man and a woman really rock the boat -- getting out and flooding it till they can float the river-seal in. Then, holding the seal's nose and the bow of the canoe together, they force the craft ahead, the backwater evacuating from a specially constructed poop. Then they climb back in and make tracks for certain and for shore!

The steamer pushed up the river and made Barranca that same night, a fine time being had by all.

Crabs? Sit On My Face

Chapter 10 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Highway Robbery

Reunited, Up de Graff and Jack struck out for Iquitos. Up de Graff summed up their feelings: "A life which we had endured so long had become intolerable." They had found some rubber and stowed it in the canoe with their other belongings. That was good. But then ten days of the trip were characterized by a terrible struggle for food, to the point that they were making do with odds and ends. Certainly finding a stray yungaruru nest with eight eggs is a decent haul, you can't depend on a steady supply.

Among the pesky "adventures" no one would like to have were: A land-crab sitting on Jack's face, and since he was unable to see it it could've just as easily been a scorpion or big spider; most of the rubber was stolen from the canoe; they confronted the rubber thieves by gunpoint, warning them that next time they might just mistake them for monkeys, which meant they be "shot on sight."

Along with the other discomforts was the sun itself. They had little protection from the sun in their raggedy clothes, bearing down on them and reflected on the river. Jack peeled off three or four skins within a couple weeks from sunburn. Then add the mosquitoes and gnats, hey, it'd be tough to be travel agent for this place. But the terrible suffering wasn't over. Let's throw in the "black smear." Insects swarmed in clouds day and night, sometimes settling on their bodies in such numbers that they left a substance on them, a mosquito-paste that'd be left on their hands after wiping bugs away. They called it a black smear.

A day or two later, though, right when I was about to take them some bug spray by time travel, they drew alongside a steamboat. They spoke with the owner of the craft, Don Juan Abelardo Morey, who at first mistook them for Indians. But Up de Graff shouted back, "We're Americans!” Don Juan ordered food to be brought. And they were able to look at themselves in a mirror, which was surprising. Two years without a haircut or shave, each haggard, barefoot, and shaggy, nothing good about that. (No wonder those other people avoided them for over three weeks!) They asked how long it'd take to get to Iquitos. The answer, five or six days paddling.

Fortunately, Don Juan treated them right, canned sausages, Edam cheese, crackers, sugar biscuits, beer, bread, etc. Plus fresh clothes! As they got back in the canoe, they shoved off for Iquitos with a contact there, a friend of Don Juan. "Go and see Dr. King." They arrived in six days.

A Gooseberry Dies

Part 19 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I’ve had days like that, the weight of the world on me. All my vises equally tight. Squeezed like an elephant in a car wash. The pavement of my soul buckling in the heat. Everything I try, there’s something wrong with it. I hit a pothole and think I'm a goner. It’s the end of the world. Or something worse. Maybe a death in the family. A sniper downtown. The grocery store recalling bad fruit. Don’t get me started on a world of problems.

Again, the weight of the world. I wonder how big the actual planet is, how much it'd weigh if you got corralled long enough to step on the scales. Thanks to online resources I could probably find out stuff like that, stuff we used to guess at. Back then we had no idea of the immensity of things. I never saw the ocean till I was an adult. And even then it was such a small amount of it, one horizon’s worth, I can still only imagine how much I missed.

The guy in the picture could be me. I’m not completely bony, I eat normal meals. And my head doesn’t look like a ripening gooseberry, a delicacy I haven’t had in many years. (I prefer them green, and saw some plants on the hiking trail but they didn't have berries yet.) This guy makes me hungry for gooseberries, which to him might be a compliment, since he has the whole world against him, what’s the chances of anyone loving him like I could?

You have to remember, though, this guy — or who he represents — has to die, or has died as of this writing. He could be anyone, although his name is Daniel, like the Elton John song. Leaving tonight on a plane, the red taillights, the whole bit. Taking off around the planet, but it looks like the planet’s got him pinned. It’s metaphorical, of course, like another great song, He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands. 'He’s got the little bitty babies and the big fat grandmas in his hands.'

In Daniel's case, he’s got the whole world in his hands. Which, going by the caption, won’t be a fair fight. He’s about the be crushed by a piece as narrow and insubstantial as the Baja peninsula. Deadly, but not quite as ignominious or painful as the Horn of Africa. The absolute worst part of the Earth rolling on you would have to be Mount Everest. It’d put an eye out if it didn’t absolutely crush you. You’d be saying, “But for the curse of geography lessons, I would’ve had no idea. I could have died more peacefully in ignorance." Half the sorrow is knowing what hit you.

Do I feel sorry for Daniel? Friends, I’ve seen so much death, it’s hard to feel sorry for anyone. I suppose at a basic human level, man to gooseberry, we would’ve gotten along. But with his meager frame, there in the nude trying to grab the earth by the ocean, that’s foolhardy beyond anything I can easily dismiss. Metaphorical, though, we shouldn't forget. I’m so literal minded in two ways: 1) When I’m tired; 2) When I’m hungry. Well, I’m tired of everyone’s problems, dying. And thinking of gooseberries, I am kind of hungry for them. But my family ate them green, never purple or reddish, like Daniel appears to be.

Try again, son. Come back when you're green.

I'm Hungry, Lock Me Up

Part 18 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Sometimes I want to know more about my readers. So consider these questions and if you want to tell me about them. I wouldn’t mind an avalanche of responses, millions of replies, requiring a bank of highly paid good-looking secretaries.

What kind of appetite do you have? Are you extremely hungry, totally hungry, or as hungry as anyone ever? After you’ve had even the slightest food, are you totally satisfied, always satisfied, or both totally and always satisfied? Do you hope satisfaction goes away very quickly, very very quickly, or never arrives so you can constantly eat? Do you know the purpose of eating, the purpose of consuming food, and why we eat? Are you embarrassed about normal digestion processes and do you realize that the mere act of eating anything is a blatant admission that you eventually poop? Or do you wantonly go, instantly digesting, even if you've taken nothing more than a tiny pickle?

I’ll tell you what’s normal: What I do. Generally I have three meals a day, which we used to call breakfast, num num, and dinner. Now, with everyone TV-crazy these meals are called morning cartoons, num num cartoons, and evening cartoons. People are TV-happy, cartoon happy, and sitting there with huge bags of fast food, gobbling it down, and throwing the bags across the room at each other! Dogs forage through the mess and never go out to do their business, so it’s a pit. But they're mostly satisfied. As are the flies streaming through the cracks in the house, making a cesspool of filth everywhere. The people who live there are terrible people, saying mean things to each other in a mean way, “Gimme the remote, you shit!”

Anyway, back to my normal home, I shoot for breakfast, lunch, dinner. All done responsibly, in good order. Toast, bacon, cereal, sandwich, baked potato, and maybe something light for dinner. I still take the dog out — she's not shy about going — and I get some exercise along the way, then watch TV within limits. Something to make me laugh, perhaps. Other times, something serious so I’m well-informed, but I scrupulously avoid all news! I remember watching the news just a few years ago and not losing my num num, but I guess it's my age...

I’m just going to say what I always think and let the chips fall where they may: When it comes to normal, I'm about it. And even with the Psycho Squad work — which could jade anyone — I keep my equilibrium, more than any man's entitled to, taking my half out of the middle. Because I need a clear head when dealing with people that don’t. These bastards will jump you in a heartbeat and when they do I lose my num num.

There's one case I remember fondly, Stub's his name. Stub wanted to be taken in because he'd had a hunger for food since he was a teenager. And remembered that the detention center had the best food ever. And it probably did, so he got hooked on it. But when we released him he’d act out again and be recommitted. The way we handled Stub was with great creativity and mercy. We swung by the thrift store and bought him a cheap discarded cookbook. He didn’t know such knowledge existed, so he was thrilled! And now he has his own food truck across town. But he's still a psycho, never opens for business, just stays there cooking and eating oatmeal.

Subliminal Messages At The Pizza Place

Our world today is awash in subliminal messages. Are you with me so far? I’m not going to sugarcoat it; I know it’s happening. I want to get into it for a little while, first by throwing out this interesting observation: Why is it so hard to get confirmation from the teenagers and young 20s who work there, at the pizza place? Unless...they are subliminally directed not to expose the works! You're seriously taking your life into your own hands when you go out.

I’ve been thinking along these lines basically forever. Really ever since a friend called me behind the barn to the alley once and showed me his Vance Packard collection, including, of course, The Hidden Persuaders. (About advertising and psychology, how goods are marketed and sold. And the crooked shysters who do it.) Essentially each of us exists as pawns in life in a huge game of “Buy my product or die, you filthy animal! Ve have zo many vays of dealing wid chu.'” Yes, I'd love to wave it off and forget it. Friends, I can’t keep going. I’m old. Let me live out my days and die in peace. I give up! Oh, OK, here's my money, where’s your crappy pizza?

Still, it'd be really nice, if I'm headed for my grave, to get my hands around the scrawny necks of every one of these sleazebags and ring ‘em; who's with me? But I already told you I’m old and helpless; I can't keep up. I’m walking around totally normal, let’s say, when suddenly they start in with the subliminal messages, and it’s like I just had a heart attack. I’m stumbling repeatedly, zigzagging like a pinball, buying whatever it is the Hidden Persuaders are selling. Bastards with the fat cat in his office are watching me on hidden monitors, as well as the kids working for them. It's their job to load the data files, aim the beam, and watch me dance this evil little jig.

There’s a pizza place we go to once in a while. I actually hadn’t been there for probably six months. But I always check the price in the window for the buffet, and, believe it or not, it always goes up. Now, about this pizza place, I'm about 99 percent sure they’ve got a subliminal system up and running. Purring like a cat. Whether it’s actually powerful enough to beam messages from the restaurant all the way to the road adjacent, I wouldn’t swear to that. But that has to be the next step. If they’re doing all the beaming and subliminal manipulation that I claim, they can seriously do anything. If I learned anything in the 1920s and the push toward full rural electrification, it has to be Never doubt the possibilities.

And this post isn’t the first time I’ve mentioned it. I post it and they take it down. But they haven't been able to stop me talking, and when I tell folks my suspicions they about lose their appetite. One dude did unleash an upheaval. Were it not for the subliminal messages aimed at us, he would’ve loosened a complete upsurge. But as it is, somehow — miraculously — folks recover and are again famished and can’t wait to get through the door.

So we’ve established the first step, the reach of the beam. The beam reaches midway from where most cars are parked and the front door. We were there today and I was literally salivating; I was about a quart low before I got to the door. And what did the messages say? They were along the lines of: “Our pizza is mouthwatering good. You simply must come through our doors. You are nearing the heaven of refreshment. Our pizza buffet is heaven on earth. This is the afterlife. Be a sunbeam for God.”

So far so good, we’re through the door. Naturally the price has increased a dollar or two since a few months ago, giving them an extra 75 cents or so per customer with which to tweak the subliminal messages. The random price increase is also meant to confuse the issue. Is this pizza more popular or less? Must maintain status among my peers. The rest of the apparatus is upgraded, new software's running, etc., making it hard to pin 'em down, like apples and oranges.

Let's say now you’ve paid, it’s time to eat. This is the tricky part. Because they don’t want you to eat so much that you cut into their profits. But they do want you to eat enough that you realize you’ve eaten, just not a bite more. (There’s other variables, like if police officers are present. I’m sure they flip most of the apparatus off; the times I’ve been there at the same time as our public heroes, I’ve eaten my fill and have had to be rolled out.)

But here’s how it generally happens. You see the buffet spread out. The messages start in: “It all looks so good, but I must restrain myself so that I’m not rude. Many other customers will be coming in and it wouldn’t be fair to deny them a hot selection.” Some pizza’s older than the other. Naturally I want the freshest and hottest, and always take some, but I suddenly feel “sympathetic” for the older pizza and have to take a couple slices. Why is that? Your sympathetic nervous system. It's always conjuring up sympathetic messages, also telling you not to skip the drink machine, observing how lonely it is, etc. And to choose water, being "good for you." Well, guess what? Water's a cheap hooker, but pizza has to be your wife, worth many rubies. I'm there for the pizza! And the powers that be know that!

So let's say you've now eaten your first slice. Around the beginning of the second slice, they’re already on you with messages about “eating right,” “weight loss,” “looking good for that special someone,” “only thinking you were hungry when you came in,” and so on. See how they’ve changed their tune? You’ve barely eaten a thing and they’re zapping you with “I’m full” or “I shouldn’t eat so much” riffs. It's hard to win. Just writing-down the phrases I feel stuffed!

Maybe I'll get them on the dessert! I try my best to save room for dessert. I approach the desserts, I start to get four or five different things, when suddenly I feel I should concentrate on “Quality vs. Quantity,” and brag later about having had a responsible dessert. Where'd that message come from? I don't think like that. I've been a dessert hog since I was three. Maybe two or younger.

Be that as it may, it's desserts at the pizza place I want now. But where has the time gone? It seems that time's run out. In my mind I'm hearing subliminal messages like crazy. That it’s time to hit the door, because, as everybody knows, “Traffic will intensify in the next five minutes. There were six wrecks within 50 feet of this restaurant a week ago today, all with fatalities.” Could that be true?

I'm thinking it over, then my mood is brightened at the door. As I'm leaving they’re telling me, “You need to hurry back. This was the most delicious and satisfying meal of your life. You rate this quality dining experience a solid 10. You must tell your friends — any that you judge worthy of such a pleasant time out. They'll thank you for it. You're such a good person!"

My Huge Dog Is Out Of Control

I’ve always been a person grounded in reality. So it’s not a case of denial here, despite what the veterinarian says. To those clowns, it’s always your fault, never the animal. Which is clearly false. I don’t force feed her, she could refuse. I put the food out there, she eats it. There’s no funnel. There’s no mouth brace under the meat grinder.

Whew, glad I got that off my chest. I have such RAGE against veterinarians, which, I suppose you share. Veterinarians are like psychologists, in a way. Psychologists know people and we are people, so we know if they’re right or not. But dogs aren’t people. So veterinarians read their psychology, then think “You’re not a dog,” so you should take their word for it and pay through the nose.

Well, no more! This dog knows what she’s doing when she eats and drinks. And if she didn’t want it, she wouldn’t browbeat me to give it to her.

Actually, the browbeating began when she was tiny. That look in her little eyes was “You give me what I want or you die.” I didn’t give it much thought then because she was so small; what’s she going to do, nip my heels? But we compromised. I’d go halfway on her demands, a little bacon, a little hamburger, a sip of whiskey; that’s reasonable. Once she put on a little weight the browbeating got worse. Pushing me in my chair to face the pantry. Pushing me to the fridge. Nudging me toward the hutch where I keep the whiskey. Then — and we’re skipping some months, probably a year and a half — the pressure was greater. Picking me up by the scruff of the neck and setting me by the pantry, flipping me on my back and pulling me by the foot to the fridge, and demanding whiskey with bared fangs. Leading me to observe, “Jeez, all that food and no dental hygiene and her fangs white as pearl. Has to be the whiskey.”

OK, now I’m on my own. The vet said don’t come back till I’m ready to “face facts.” I suppose I didn’t help myself when I dressed him down, calling him a dog- and cat-killer for all the old crippled dogs and cats that are put down on a regular basis. I even tinkered with the idea of sending him a card on Hitler’s birthday; I couldn’t find much at the card store that was to the point.

I went home, dedicated to making my dog face facts. The first day went OK. She grumbled but I cut the portions way down, a pound of bacon and a pound of hamburger and a cup of whiskey. She looked at me like “OK,” very tentative. But the next day the look was worse, then worse yet. Until she took matters into her own paws, and that’s when the pushing and dragging started. Now I’m compliant, because, really, she’s so insistent, I might be her next meal if I’m not.

Still, you know, I’m proud of her. She’s a like a body builder, only you have to flip the picture. She’s a body bloater, with my hope that at some point she’ll take up a healthy exercise regimen and keep her size but be so muscular that they take her into the service, exactly what happened to a dog in my hometown that was mean as hell. He went to Vietnam. Whether he got hooked on Vietnamese food and booze, they never said. Doesn’t it have a lot of soy?

So that’s how it stands. But how about the veterinarian? He’s a loser. He gave up without a fight. He “knew better,” but couldn’t convince me or the dog with reason. Therefore he was just a bully. And there’s only one way to handle a bully. Go the other direction, leave him in his misery. Maybe he’ll come around with age or die trying, I don’t know.

Yet I still insist it’s not my fault. The dog’s the one that allowed herself to spiral out of control. She got hungry, and instead of rationally saying, “I don’t need these larger portions, I think I’ll look after myself,” she threatened me. Strike 1. I blame her for even wanting bacon, hamburger, and whiskey. Although they are all delicious, and they make dog food to resemble bacon and hamburger. And there’s a phrase, “You old booze hound;” that had to come from somewhere.

It’s hitting me hard for the simple inconvenience (1) and (2) the money. There’s nowhere to move in the house, almost. And the money’s going down the drain. I only have money from Social Security and the disability checks from my game toe. I can’t be in economic thrall to her appetites forever!

All that said, it’s still something of a source of pride that I have the largest chihuahua mix on the planet. I have to laugh. We were home one day when the Cancer Lady stopped by for her annual check. She goes, “Oh, where’s your dog?” I go, “See that couch in there?” “Yes,” she said. “I don’t have a couch...”

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Artwork credit: Tony

Doctors and Bacon

As everyone knows, there's two things you rarely see in public. Doctors and bacon. I believe I've had an interesting experience with both. First, it occurred to me young that this was so, that there was something mysterious about doctors and bacon. I mentioned it to a teacher once, who said, "Hmm," then she excused herself for further research on the subject and never came back.* I keep thinking the same thing might happen to me, but so far, here I am. But I've taken precautions, mostly prayer and supplication. Besides that, I'm damned brazen. And that also carries weight with the powers that be.

This is a true story. I once saw my doctor in public, riding a bike, no less, and I immediately filed with the Board of Doctors and Bacon to have his credentials removed. Now he's senior breakfast cook at Maude's on 8th Street. Good with bacon but still working on a remedy for popped yolks. Going with the assumption, You can cure bacon, why not eggs? But that's that guy, who couldn't do much with me. His big thing was to give me medicine you couldn't take with grapefruit. Another breakfast favorite. Guess what, stupid, I'd rather eat grapefruit than take the sugar pills you're pushin'! Anyone with me?

These days it's not just grapefruit everyone's against, but bacon. Which is also the fightin' side of meat! And I'm up in arms too. Half my grocery budget goes for bacon, although I'm frugal. I check the price of bacon like it's the stock market, and that's why I go to any one grocery store. I love the $2.99 stuff, but lately it's been more on the $3.30 side of things. But everything goes up, including doctor bills. I've got a doctor, but bacon's got my heart. I start off with a pound for breakfast, and if I'm still hungry I keep eating till it's gone. Then spend the afternoon in the store with a wheelbarrow.

Anyway, I love to stick it to doctors. My current doctor knows me inside and out. He's had his finger up me more often than I care to think of. He's even performed a colonoscopy and a related surgical process** on me. And he's never once mentioned bacon, so he's OK. Now, of course, if I ever see him in public, I'll have to reevaluate, but so far so good. So I'm leaving him -- this one doctor -- out of the following remarks. On comparing and contrasting doctors and bacon.

What's something else besides doctors you never see? Dead pigs. That's damned odd. I've seen every manner of roadkill and carrion, just never dead pigs. Once I even hitchhiked with some guys in a pickup truck. And they went around a corner -- they were carrying a lot of baby pigs -- and the back rails of the truck fell off and the pigs followed. (It was also raining). So instead of standing on the side of the road like I was 5 minutes before, I was with them in the mud and ditches catching pigs. Which were all alive. That's never happened with doctors.

One of the most obvious similarities of doctors and pigs, pigs are cured meat and doctors presumably cure sick folk.*** All praise to the Lord above, though, who my grandma said does the true curing. It's just these bastard doctors that stick you with the bill. Taking credit for the Lord above's work.

This is one you have to think about: Doctors are hams, bacon's related to ham. This would be another good place for a religious joke. Shem, Ham, and Japheth. You see ham, you eat it. Bit of a stretch, but nothing like our doctor-ham friends. They're all good cheer when they come in, shaking your ham, -- hand, smiling. Next thing the business office and insurance company's got you on the grill for everything you're worth.

Can't think of much else. You always see bacon in strips. The doctor makes you strip. You separate bacon with greasy hands. The doctor separates hams with greasy fingers. The longest three seconds in history, you're bacon him to stop. Bacon comes in slices. Doctors also have sex.

*There's a penalty for delving too deeply into life's mysteries.
**That reminds me: When you're young, you get Pull-Ups. When you're old, polyps.
***I know, I already used the 'cure' line, but wanted to get the grandma story in.

Donut Guys -- The True Heroes

First responders, we all love them, as well we should. No one's saying we shouldn't. They took up a very dangerous career, most of them making that very brave choice of doing something dangerous. I guess I've heard some say they don't deserve our respect, which to me is weird, but the argument is if they chose something so dangerous, maybe there's something wrong with them. But the truth is, as I see it, we should always give them the benefit of the doubt, because maybe they chose it out of a desire to help others in need rather than a drive for fame, acclaim, and accolades. Where does the truth lie? -- perhaps somewhere in the middle -- so I'll move on with the oldest line in the editorial-writer's handbook, "We may never know."

Anyway, let us give first responders their due. They are great, period, end of sentence. Only to be out-shown and outdone by those who make treats, snacks, and refreshments for them. These are the guys I want to focus on. Because I know one, and I was there the day he put his life on the line for our first responders. It's not always the case that I can say I was there, but this time ... There I was. The biggest difference being the first responders had the advantage getting there thanks to sirens, flashing lights, honking their horn, in short, raising hell and taking the advantage. We got there shortly afterwards the old-fashioned way, dodging in and out of traffic and speeding like maniacs.

I still think of my experience that day when I see an ambulance going by. Just last night I was headed to Walmart, and here they come, a fire truck, police cars, a couple ambulances, various sergeant's cars or something, lights going willy-nilly crazy, headlights blinking, etc. I did the socially acceptable thing by pulling over. Because I buy into the old line, Every second counts. And the other line, The life you save may be your own, because let's face it, those guys are maniacs.

Anyway, I thought back to the time I was there, with a guy serving baked goods, donuts, pastries, etc., to the first responders on the scene. I'm at the bakery he works at, he gets the call and asks me if I want to tag along. He grabs a bunch of stuff they always have ready for these calls -- around 90 dozen donuts, cookies, and pastries -- and we whip the car into gear and head out. (Full disclosure: I ate about five total things on the way to the accident, so I can honestly say they were completely fit for eatin' on.)

We got there. Everything's a crazy mess, but the chief traffic officer sees us and waves us in. We jumped out and I pitched in where I could. But my buddy was in charge. I watched him something fierce, thinking, "He's so hot, shaking his little tush in such a self-important way as he buzzes from fireman to fireman, police officer to police officer, various EMTs, the sergeants (the biggest donut gluttons, if you want to know the truth), and the hangers-on. Naturally, he knew he was putting on a show for me, but still.

I was aghast listening to a newspaper man chewing the sergeant out about not getting to the scene fast enough. Because one dude died of internal injuries before they even arrived. But once it was too late for the victim -- let's call him Joe Schmo -- the chief was able to eat and enjoy a pastry, one of the ones with pecans. "It's too late for Schmo," Sergeant Schulz said, "but I need to keep my strength up for the others."

My self-important friend -- a good friend to have, someone in the baking business -- came in, announcing to the mass of sweating men, and a few ladies in jeans that fit real nice, "I got you some coffee and sinkers." That was so cool a thing to hear, sinkers being some kind of inside lingo for donuts. I've run it by friends since, and apparently I'm the last guy in the world to hear it. But I still use it, like if friends, family, or cousins are over for snacks.

The suffering at the scene was starting to mount. "Help me, Lord," I silently yet fervently prayed. I was almost overcome by the smell of blood and guts, until I refocused and honed in on the donuts and pastries. That truly had a calming effect on me. I was able to completely clear my head and get it together. I've always had a sweet tooth. That's no sin. "We've got another man down over here!" one officer cried in anguish. I glanced over and thought, More for me. Not that I was particularly that hungry; it's just something you think.

People died that day. The first guy, already mentioned. But others too. But I kept it together, telling myself, "Grandpa died, Grandma died, people die all the time, but today's not my day. This is my day to make myself useful -- checking out the cool first reponders, and getting in on these delicious pecan pastries and stuff. And free at that! "Get out of the way, sir!" one guy holding both ends of a stretcher with three victims on it barked at me. I literally jumped out of the way. Good grief, he about mowed me down with that damned stretcher, and I was holding a jelly-filled cream-puff, no less. But he did call me sir, so it's not like civilization had moved on.

Anyway, let's skim ahead to the end of the story. The various ambulances were loaded, the victims were carted off to Lord-knows-where. Then it came time for the final divvying. A few of the officers and attendants were loading up on baked goods. And because I had more time, I already had a stash started in the ditch, which I picked up just before we left. You gotta love the confusion at these things; it's great if you're naturally sneaky like me.

My hot friend came sashaying by, showing off, bragging how we were the first bakery on the scene, good for us! I gave him the thumbs-up, indicating our pride of place, which might not have happened if I wasn't there to tell him where to turn a couple times. We bonded over three glazed donuts, one and a half for each, over a shared cup of joe.

Me and Two Strippers

For personal reasons, finally I feel comfortable revealing a little more about myself. Which includes many visits to watch strippers ply their trade. And believe me, I saw the best in the business. Those who had worked their way up from Amateur Night to at long last be Headliners.

One of my observations in all those forays, on hindsight, was keen. They didn't start out stripped, but stripped methodically, one key piece of clothing shed per song. The rest of the act was very sensual gyrations, extremely distracting to someone (then) of my exceedingly boisterous hormones.

But this post isn't about how worked up I became, nor what an easy challenge it was for them to leave me gasping on the floor for air. This is about the time I almost lost out on a free steak dinner, just because, indeed, I was very easy to distract. You might learn something from my troubles, mostly how easy it is to go hungry if you let strippers get your goat!

OK, the lounge had a farewell dinner lined up for one of the bartenders. This guy also used to mess with my head. One of his things was to pretend like he didn't know me, then he'd card me repeatedly just to piss me off and get his jollies. I can't remember his name, but for some reason I want to say Tex.

So the place was packed for his farewell dinner. Because I was a regular, and this is a great honor, I was invited. Like I said above, they had steaks, with baked beans, potatoes, homemade rolls, various pies, etc. You would've thought you died and went to Heaven, that's the only way to describe the scene. Plus the full roster of dancers was on duty. We called them girls in those days, but with my consciousness since raised, they were full-fledged women. They were so full-fledged they spilled out everywhere. And even though I'd literally seen them nude a hundred times, there was something even sexier about them just barely spilling out.

This part, following, is where I lost several key elements of my free steak dinner, which was Tex's farewell. (It might've even been actual Texas beef, which if true would've been a nice touch. Regardless, it all tastes the same, depending on how it's fixed.)

Be all that as it may, a couple of the girls -- now women -- came out strutting their stuff for Tex. Fully clothed. But I happened to be toward the front and they had decided to mess with me. Supposedly my libido was a topic of conversation in those days, since I no doubt resembled a hayseed from the country who'd never seen strippers, etc. True, but I had a close brush with them even at the age of 12, and was given some details on their show by older guys, whose description still haunts my imagination. I can't tell the whole story, but it included some late high schoolers, a wrestling coach, and some seductively dropped pubic hairs... 'Nough said!

Anyway, back to the steak dinner. These girls came out, one on my left and one on my right. I thought, "How can I avoid appearing to be full of lust for them without looking like an idiot who's more interested in his food than them?" See that? Caught in a flummoxing situation! Which turned out to be the exact conundrum they had counted on! Because as I'm gazing at Sally over here, Florentine on the other side is stealing my salad. Then as I bend forward to appraise Florentine's midriff, Sally's busy making off with my pie. (I learned this minutes later.)

I'm completely distracted! You can't imagine how embarrassing this turned out to be. And it's actually because I'm such a nice guy; I didn't want either chick to get the wrong idea, again, that I was more into food than ogling them. The song switches, and by now Sally's draping one out (use your imagination), and perking it up something fierce -- about the size of a shot glass. I'm thinking that has to be a world's record, and all the while Florentine's doing a vanishing act with my potato! Then Florentine, to top that, has somehow procured a spray can of whipped cream -- I found out later it came from the kitchen -- and was leaned up against the stage, panties around her knees, spraying the whipped cream to beat the band. That's when Sally relieved me of my steak!

By now everyone's laughing and whooping it up, and they come over, waving their hands over my table, and I can see that somehow I've been deprived of my entire meal! What can I do? I turned red, but with the stripper lights no one could tell. Folks, I know better than to act pissed off. No one likes a bad sport. When people you know go to all that trouble to make you look like a complete fool -- even a lecherous horndog -- you simply take your lumps and laugh it off. You can live anything down if you're a good sport. But if you're a bad sport, no one will ever fully respect you again.

They're going "Speech! Speech!" like you'd imagine they would. And I thanked everyone for coming out, called Tex a member of the family, a crotchety uncle, said to laughs, and told them they were the greatest gang of folks anywhere, the regular patrons there, who then applauded me. Lastly, I had Florentine and Sally stand next to me, and I pretend-scolded them for being very very bad girls. Then, naturally, as any sentimental guy like me would do, I let them kiss me on the cheeks and told them none of us would have it any other way!

This Is Thanksgiving, Not Mother's Day

Friends, it's Thanksgiving! Raise a glass with me, and let us propose a toast ... to Mama, the Dearest on Earth to Us. You may be a perfect stranger to me every other day of the year. But please join in, for on Thanksgiving we're all family. Eh? Are you raising your glass? Raise it! And let us toast Dear Mama, just like we did way back when, on the very day they told us, "This is Thanksgiving, not Mother's Day."

It was actually a revelation -- however unwelcome it seemed at the time -- since we were admittedly a bit carried away honoring Mama. And ignoring the bird spread naked and golden brown on the ritzy dining table of that deservedly expensive hotel. They had a spread loaded with thighs, breasts, and drumsticks, and they charged an arm and a leg for it. What money? Money means nothing on Thanksgiving!

The real problem started with toasts. Most of us don't make toasts on a regular basis. Everything we know about toasts we learned from movies and TV. Which so often specialize in fictional happenings, goings-on, stories with a plot, a conflict, working through the conflict, and resolving itself in a happy ending. Meaning, if a toast doesn't sound like it sounds on TV, there's something wrong.

We went out for Thanksgiving, the whole family. Daughter, sons, their kids, Papa and of course Mama. Mama's the center of the family in most families, especially if your family is anything like ours. She makes our heart melt. We have memories of her tenderness when Papa was gruff, or whatever. We nursed off her, literally, giving us the step-up in life we needed when other kids were bottle-feeding or seeking nutritional refuge in the arms of a goat or something worse.

So when we went out for Thanksgiving at the best place in town -- Expensive! So expensive it's like throwing money down the drain -- it really meant something. We were very sensitive about the experience. Usually we pinched pennies, now we were living it up, like the Rockefellers or the Gettys. Papa had his money withdrawn, it was big-bucks time at Thanksgiving! Every plate was expensive, crazy expensive. So much you could've eaten five times somewhere else and had money leftovers.

It's the same feeling you get at other holidays when the expectation is to go beyond your ordinary means. Christmas is the biggest example, but each person's individual birthday is a mini version of the same thing. Or New Year's, when Papa came home with eggnog and salami and chocolates and candles. You're wondering if it's the same guy who's always so tight. Papa's family went through the Depression. They had to scrape for everything they could scrape together.

OK, so there we were at this hugely expensive place. And naturally, with the money buying us the biggest, best Thanksgiving meal, our tender thoughts turned to Mama. Who was spared cooking the big meal for a change. But would've gladly done it if we hadn't gone out. She would've come up with a turkey, cooked it, carved it, made dressing, made pies, all the fixins, bread by the bushel, and drinks.

I took my drink and lifted it by way of a toast, and the rest of the family immediately joined in. "To Mama, the center of our family, our life, our common love, our heart, our soul." "Here, here," the others said. Then my next brother, not to be outdone, lifted a glass and cleared his throat: "To Mama, who binds us together as one, not just our life but our everything, the best Mama we could've ever hoped for." Then my next brother (3), who of all the siblings saw Mama over the years more than those of us who'd moved away, had a tear in his eye. He lifted a glass and toasted her: "We should probably be toasting Papa," he started to chuckles, "because Papa is the one who found Mama. She was a natural beauty, although, as we've all heard, she was 'a diamond in the rough.' But she had the upbringing in her own family and saw the example of her own parents, and now has exceeded them, which I say not to question the merits of Grandma... Family, raise a glass to Mama!" The fourth brother had a decent toast, and the daughter (5) and the last son, last but not least. His toast was a tearjerker, because when you're Number 6 you're just happy to be alive. Statistically, Number 6s are rare, and reflection on that gives you a keen ability to make good toasts.

When all was said and done, I led the way for everyone, including Papa -- barely able to walk even with a cane -- to get up and go over to pat Mama on the back and give her his own personal plaudits. She was trying to wave us off -- her wonderful modesty and self-effacing nature, further reasons to love her so much. But we went on anyway, patting her, giving her kisses, hugging her. True, the food was getting cold, but that's OK. Thanksgiving comes but once a year, whether or not you have a Mama, and we knew someday we'd lose her. But it wasn't that day! That day she felt the fullness of our love. Even though she tried to wave us off, that was her day!

We were laughing, praising Mama, and outdoing one another something fierce. "This turkey is probably the most expensive turkey in the world, since the meal is so outrageously expensive at this fancy-schmancy place, but it's nothing compared to the turkey Mama could've made!" Similar sentiments were shared. Praising the different aspects of the meal, but discounting it compared to what Mama could've done. When the waiter, obviously at the beck and call of the head cook -- who probably should've been demoted to assistant chief bottle-washer for the remark -- came out and scolded us, saying, "Folks, we'd like to remind you, This is Thanksgiving, not Mother's Day," our table became stone quiet. I looked at my brother like, "What the fu-?"

We might've rioted -- I was personally that close to gutting that particular waiter, and Brother 3, with his greater familiarity with Mama and the over-protective nature he'd nurtured, looked like he was daydreaming of a noose for the head cook. We would've hung him high right there over that very table had Mama not stepped in, saying, "The waiter is only doing his job, beloved family. And he's right. You started in praising me, your Mama, and of course I appreciate and love each one of you always, but in the sentiment of the moment we were all carried away. So let us get back to our meal, dear ones, because as he said, and he was right, "This is Thanksgiving, not Mother's Day."

Newsletter -- 3-Day Stubble

LOVE ANTICS -- Every household has their little jokes. It's no different for me and my husband the Pink Professor. We're something of friendly rivals when it comes to working, always playfully arguing which one works hardest. I strut around the room, my head pushed back, sort of like a drum majorette on the march, going, "I be the hardest worker!" Then he leaps up and falls back suddenly to his chair, going, "I've been working so hard I can't even stand up, at least you're still fit to strut!"

That's the way a marriage should be, am I right? It's not all seriousness and "How was your day, dear?" Little love antics along with friendly competition, being strong for each other and each other's biggest fan, but still wanting some advantage for yourself, as in, "Look at me, dog, I am bad!" Woo hoo! I haven't been this cranked since that time I drank a Mountain Dew in the '80s. But this guy, Pink, simply always brings out the devil in me. OK, a blushing devil, since as everyone knows, I'm fundamentally good.

OK, hard work was the subject. And I've been putting in some of the longest damned hours of my life. Working on my newsletter project, the newsletter I hope to get going, to be sent out via email to subscribers, and as an adjunct to the blog. In it, I promise, there will be lots of juicy tidbits about me and Pink. Just a sample, I was working up an advice column, with fake questions, but general stuff everyone gets caught up in, using some of the things we've been through to guide me in my advice.

One biggie, usually quite hush-hush in most relationships, has to be, "Who initiates?" and "What response should the other partner then make? Is there any obligation?" Of course, one believes if it's obligatory, strictly speaking, that's no good, because in any relationship there has to be free choice or you're as good as a slave. Still, to a certain extent, depending on various factors, there indeed is an expectation that there will be some mutual follow-through. The best example I have is this: If Pink initiates the idea that we grill dinner, I don't have to agree with his choice, but if I don't follow-through on it at least occasionally I should have a good reason.

OK, that shows I've been working hard, and I doesn't show any sign of letting up. And here's the thing, I've been working so hard that I neglected my hygiene and appearance. As of this morning, I hadn't had a shower in three days, I had on the same undies and shirt and pants, and I hadn't shaved. I literally had the worst three-day stubble of my life. That's how much effort the newsletter's getting from me. It's been all-consuming.

So as horseplay, Pink comes out this morning and sees my disgusting appearance and acts like he doesn't recognize me. "Have you see DBK, my clean-shaven hubby?" Then he laughs and says, "I always wondered what you'd look like with a beard!" "It's not a beard," I protested, "but a three-day stubble that looks more like a week's!" Pink, ever the playful one, says, "Whatever it is, it's butt ugly and you need to take care of yourself, OK?" Was I hurt? No, I just laughed, and we fell into each other's arms, and, believe it or not, we did grill a little earlier, burgers and a few chicken legs. I didn't have a "headache," which would've been very convincing, given the heat.

SUBSCRIPTIONS -- I am serious about the newsletter. I want people to subscribe but I don't want them to UNsubscribe. Nothing brings me down faster in my relationship with my readers -- complete strangers -- than when they rudely turn away. I used to have a bunch of faithful followers on Facebook. They were all, "Attaboy, we love you," etc., then one by one they fell away. I don't know what changed, although I suspect they were lured away by someone in disguise.

THREE-DAYS -- It's funny I haven't published the newsletter for three days now. Giving me time, as it were, to have regrown my three-day stubble (as everything above this paragraph was written three days ago). Although I didn't, instead remaining clean shaven. The true reason I haven't been around is, I went to the cellar for preserves and, finding none, kept looking.