The Terror of Meeting People

Paranoia

Part 3 of 30

You know me, Mr. Social, yes, perhaps a little paranoid. But I also know you. And skittish isn't the right word. More like damaged. But in your favor, you're always optimistic that you can do better and make progress. I pray for you daily, "Lord, take away his crippling skittishness, but -- high five -- Thy will be done." So you're you and I'm me. And I'm pretty close to being right in my element. Give me a group of people, none of whom I know and I’m comfortable going around the circle, getting this guy’s name, and her name, right around the room. I do my best to remember their names so I can impress everyone by making it personal. Sometimes it works, and sometimes I accidentally spit out the mental device I use, “Hello, Chick With The Fat Calves, er, I mean, Nancy.” That's when I collapse.

In all seriousness, Nancy should be an easy one because I’ve known other Nancys that look similar. And the way life operates, they’re not ever going to show up together in the same room. Life seems to have a way of doing things like that in a helpful order. You meet Nancy in kindergarten, then a different one a few years later in college, then a different one yet at work, where it’s almost impossible to make friends because you’re too focused on job evaluations. Right now, just skimming through my head, I don’t know any Nancys that are actually likely to show up. But if I do meet one -- it might happen today! -- I’ll tag-pneumonic her with this blog post...

I kind of like meeting people, and yet most of me sees the downside from the start. I’ve been going to church, trying to broaden my horizons, and I’m seeing how hard it is to keep people’s names in line. So far none of them are Nancy. I’ve been there probably 6 months and I know about eight names. Whether they’re paranoid about me or my paranoia about them is the hindrance, I haven’t figured it out yet. I remember in some of the churches of old, very judgmental, the direction of the paranoia was easy to see. But the new way of doing things -- I’m OK, You're OK -- no one’s quick to judge me, at least orally. And I’m not quick to judge them. I'm very wary.. So far -- it might be easy to guess -- I fit in OK in the general activities, but the interpersonal stuff’s a rough go, a hellish nightmare.

The obvious downside of meeting them and investing the time is you might get sick of it and want to drop off. Which is easy enough to do, it’s true, if you move out of state, to a different country, or have a facelift. But even in The Big City you have a smaller area you’re ranging in, so it’s much like a small town, and now you’re suddenly needing to take alternate routes to get anywhere. With the hope -- hope against hope -- that you won’t meet anyone else, because there’s only so much one guy can handle.

If you feel the same way, please don’t tell me. It might lead to something. It might even turn out that you live only a block from me. Then we’re waving, then we’re speaking, then something horrible happens -- your landlord throws you out because your cat’s pregnant -- and I’m left alone. Or you want to move in with me and ... that's not something I could allow.

The Big City Over & Out

The Big City

Part 28 of 28

Happy Leap Year tomorrow!

A Whole Additional Day of Life

and You Did Nothing to Deserve It

We’re at the last chapter of our little talks on The Big City. As far as a dedication of the series to someone, that's something I’ve never done but I’ve been encouraged to do so. So I’d just like to commend it to everyone who has feelings whatsoever about the good old cold Big City and the smaller, homier places we all revere so much. And then, more particularly, I want to dedicate it to a guy I met near the interstate the other day, Griff. Griff's a guy who's down on his luck and has a sign asking for whatever you can spare. Griff appears to be a religious guy with many good values, wishing as he does, continually, God's blessings on all who share the interstate with him. It could very well be he's sucking up. If so, at least it proves he knows about the sweet spot of American culture. And proves he's conventional in upbringing whatever his deviance from the norm today. But he's using it as a cudgel against us to loosen the old purse strings. Duplicitous! I don't think I like that. What's he going to be doing tomorrow, waving the American flag? Get this guy in politics. "I'm down and out, I deserve your vote!" Way to go, good Griff -- hope that's your name, something like that, maybe Lief, whatever, love you, Bro. But I don't anything smaller than a dollar, so not today.

OK, enough foolish preliminaries out of the way, this is the last post of the month which, if memory serves, very well could be February 2020:

Personally, and just let me say this simply enough so everyone can understand it, I have a soft place in my heart, at times, more or less equal for Big Cities and little towns. So I have an anecdote today for each place. (Please don't fear if you've already been immunized, no anecdote will be needed.) Then those times come, of course, when I say, “The Big City? I can take it or leave it!” And there’s a variation on rejecting it immediately, abruptly, and forever that's not nearly the tugger of the heart, but sometimes the heart also deals with things by a stern attitude, not just the usual mush.

I’ve had a bunch of significant days in my life in the Big City. Huge profound, significant days, like my first day here, making my first call to the police concerning crime, then having to look at the mugshot books, then while I was there I got to bid on some unclaimed booty.

The Big City gets the greatest crime, naturally, thanks to the gargantuan population, the great amount of things to steal and numerous places to burgle. The other side of that coin is that the general public is wary and getting in some good jabs at criminals with door cameras and boobytrapped boxes and packages that help recycle common body fluids and solids. The devices in the packages are where the real excitement is, how they’re able to start spinning and emitting chemicals, poisons, just totally triggering the device, it's spinning, it's wild!

The littler towns also have had a soft place in my heart many times. I used to live in a small town, several years, and knew the place like I knew my own body, skills I was able to hone further with puberty. I was just thinking of a guy I used to know as a kid, then I saw him one single day as an adult, then he was gone, died sometime shortly after that. I looked him up today to see what he died of, which was, damn! I forget now. It wasn’t a broken heart, of that I’m sure, because it mentioned he had a wife.

What was my theme? I keep forgetting, because I have so much on my mind on every subject; it’s hard to narrow it down to one thing. But now as I recall, it was The Big City, my feelings, thoughts, and, yes, insights into The Big City. A place that exists and a place that, like it or not, I call home. And probably will till I'm able to get the hell out.

Sometimes It Takes A Fish

The Big City

Part 25 of 28

If you have a million people in the Big City, imagine how many fish there's gotta be. I've only have old statistics here -- the last official census of fish took place in 1950 -- but the numbers are undoubtedly close enough to at least get a rough idea. In 1950, though, it was established there were 4 million fish for every million people. Which sounds high, but think how that averages out, something like four fish for every person. I'm just gonna pause and take that in ..... Wow .... Plus, fish die fast but they breed like crazy, often times even eating their young, doing their best to keep overpopulation in check. It follows then, every time four fish die, one person goes too.

I myself was a big expert in fish many years ago when I worked at an aquarium store. Among my takeaways in this field, you should buy whatever life insurance is available because fish drop dead pretty much without warning. And eat their young, as just mentioned. But lots of things happen, something goes wrong with the heater, or there’s the least bit of bacteria, or if you turn the light on at night and interrupt their sleep, that alone can kill off half the colony. Anytime you have fish and the majority of them live to see tomorrow, you’ve succeeded. But don’t get too comfortable, because just because they lived to see tomorrow once doesn’t mean they’ll set any records by doing it again.

So, really, the only way to guarantee that you’ll have any fish at all, is to have ten times more than you want. At the aquarium store we had a supplier who I’m sure would give us a few dying fish just to maintain his business. Because it’s impossible to trace, these shysters will do anything, all with a completely innocent face. It’s definitely true, though, that you’re not going to send the bodies in for post-mortems, because the expense outweighs the profit. And it’s always your word against theirs. Making you stop and think, convincing yourself of the impossible, maybe I was a bad owner and that explains the massacre.

Anyway, fish are a pain in the ass, but they’re also good, and a comfort to dwellers in the Big City who may not have other friends. The Big City, of course, has no paucity of people, which is what makes it big. But in the nameless faceless crowds of people there aren’t that many close friends. They’re speeding by, usually with a bad muffler, making a nuisance of themselves. Why would you want them for a friend even if you could? My biggest obstacle to making new friends is the fear that they’ll eventually rob me blind. Whereas back in the small town, sure there’s criminals, but it’s only a fear, nothing to presume.

That leaves pets. Dogs, you have to go out in public so they can poop. Cats, there’s so many wild cats in the Big City, they’re sure to corrupt your own cats. I had a neighbor guy who was stupid when it came to cats, the cat had kittens, which pissed off his landlord (my friend wasn’t actually paying rent but living free as a kind of caretaker of the house to keep out criminals) who didn’t want cats peeing and pooping all over his place. Which happened when the kittens were unfortunately born: I lost my friend because he vanished one night.

What, though, if he would’ve had fish and not a cat? Obviously everything would’ve been different, a more positive outcome. Are you lonely in the Big City of a million other lonely people? Get a fish, it’ll keep you from being thrown out.

Big City Nude Parties

The Big City

Part 20 of 28

As the friendly narrator here, I know my place is always to be the voice of conventional morality and decry any slippage from the straight and narrow, basically defined as at least an average life of fair-play, respect for others, and personal and societal reserve. Yes, I can comment on murders but not condone it. I can fawn over newborns but not advocate for them to reject their parents and go rogue. And naturally I can feature hedonists at their parties, groping one another, sucking down the hootch, and getting so “friendly” with each other that they're buck naked, but … what the hell, why can't that be me! But at this point in my life, I'm sure I'd cover my frailty out of embarrassment.

Anyway, how do you even get in with a crowd like that? That’s always the question I have, on the off chance it came to anything. It comes down to this, basically, you need to be born there, or be there a long time, or just insinuate yourself as best as you can. For me, I was already born where I was, with particular people of some fixed morality, so I can’t go back and do much there. As for my lifespan, being so old, I could legitimately live another 20 years, probably, and learn to insinuate myself with some good old fashioned hedonists. But never forget, to insinuate yourself you have to be very bold. I can see you can ease into it by imitation -- looking to a friend with an in -- with the proviso that you might be evicted with the first bold move. Because it's not your natural turf.

Thinking it over a little more, I think I could have two sets of profligate friends. I meet the first set and learn the basics of their lifestyle, but do not insinuate myself. Then I take my findings to the second set, and without waiting to see what they do, merely launch into the behavior, sidling in, nonchalantly making myself at home, etc. First guy with his zipper down! The group might wonder about me but once they've assumed I'm friends with someone, my directness would yield good results. I'm swimming naked in the pool and I'm all hands!

My quick recommendation for others, if you have all the time in the world, look for a natural way of sidling up and becoming accepted. But if you’re old and could die at any minute, just get in there and let the chips fall where they may. Because, well ... there’s lots of reasons. The fullness of life isn’t for the meek. Life’s a banquet, a buffet, and buffets are free-for-alls. Everyone has a lifespan to worry about, but set it aside and make yourself at home. I’ve got two hands, baby, and they’re not doing anything! We’re back in ancient Rome and no one’s going to know! I’ve seen the history books and the authorities barely touch the average guy.

One other observation on the graphic. That’s the Big City “on a slow night”! Picture, then, the average night, or the night that blows the average out of the water, the other extreme. You’ll have stories for the ages, stories you dare not tell. Just don’t catch anything, that’s number one. And if you’re out of good names, name the little hellion after me.

Coping With Big City Life

 

The Big City
Part 15 of 28

Going from the small town -- with all the great small town values, such as leaving our car jacked up all night and still having most of the tires in the morning -- to the Big City can be a daunting thing. Very challenging, and I don't like challenges. Make it the simple life for me, next to no effort.

I actually was practicing the simple life back home -- the problems with the house were so horrendous, I had little alternative but to ignore them -- then I heard it from both sides, the city and the county, that I needed to vacate the now-vacant lot that once was Grandma's. The house was shot and, believe it or not, so was I. A few family members said, “Come live with us,” etc., but I’ve never been one to live by half measures and so I said no. No doubt they were crossing their fingers behind the back that I wouldn't. So I left and chose a life guaranteed to be the complete opposite of everything I'd known, finding myself within days in The Big City.

Now it’s going on two years and I have a history to look back on, how I coped with it and what’s still to be done. A lot of guys in my situation, having grown up with a terrible fear of the Big City, would stay in and keep the doors locked tight. I actually do that now, except for taking the dog out and a few other chores. But right away I got out of the house and started coping with it.

It actually helped that money was tighter in those earliest days. Because I made a friend and got together with him and went scrounging for aluminum cans. Doing that, almost everyone I ran into assumed I was a Big City guy, since historically small town immigrants stay in and keep their doors locked. But there I was, digging through garbage cans, hiding sacks of cans in the woods for safe keeping, etc. Then when I had enough cans, of course, I walked or rode my bike to the salvage place.

By the time the year was finished and when the next summer began I was totally out of that and comfortable enough to keep a low profile. The friend had moved away, disappeared one night after his cat gave birth to kittens and pissed off the landlord. The second summer, if I saw a can somewhere, I just left it alone, on the off chance that maybe there was a new small town guy trying to get his footing, who might wonder where all the cans were if I picked 'em up.

One of the weird things about my senses in the Big City is I’ve had a terrible time remembering which direction is which. And it doesn't help if you're riding a bike. It’s easier in a car because you’re turning more often. So just fitting in was my project for the first year, and now getting down the directions has been my second year goal. In the last month I’ve been proud to realize that I’m getting the direction SOUTH down very well. Sometimes I still have to manually reorient myself on the other directions based on south but it’s all getting easier.

One of my weirdest moments in the first year -- another thing to cope with -- was I met a prostitute on a dead end road. Just me and her. I can’t remember what we talked about, but I wasn’t looking for a prostitute, not with my germophobia. It actually didn’t even occur to me that she was one. I just asked her nice questions because maybe she was in trouble. It looked like she'd been crying. Then she asked if I wanted “a date,” and I graciously said no and got the hell out of there.

Since then I've more or less been a hermit, going out when I need to -- the dog's bathroom breaks -- and I do go to the grocery store, then after that I eat a lot of leftovers.

My Move To The Big City

 

The Big City

Part 1 of 28

The day I moved to the Big City was a busy one. I'm not sure how I did it, whether it was timed according to my personal fate or if there really is a big hand in the sky guiding everyone’s ant-like destinies lockstep, but the day I showed up a bunch of others did too. We didn’t exchange names and addresses. I barely knew my own address and had it written on a slip of paper so I could recite it.

Now everyone in the world wants to know where I live, the specifics of which I don’t want to get into anymore, being a public person somewhat in demand on the speaking circuit. I just tell everyone it’s somewhere east of Shanghai and also west, depending which way you go. I was drunk one night and they needed to help me home and on that particular night east of Shanghai was closest, only a few blocks. West was prohibitively far.

There were others that day, all of us getting driver’s licenses and worrying about transfers of insurance policies, etc. There’s always more to it than you hope for. But once here they don’t want you easily shrinking back and leaving the Big City, because the whole place runs on people power, the more the better. Which is also true of my small town, and they feel the pinch greater there because taxes are what keeps the place afloat. So it was tough saying goodbye. On the other hand, you might recall, Grandma’s house (where I lived) had become a hell hole, leaking, molding, then there was a fire which made it even less habitable. The rules on rotting domiciles, especially after they've been on fire are strict. They came with bulldozers and trucks and hauled the house in pieces to the dump. So whatever they're losing on taxes is partly their fault.

I even tried camping on the site in a tent, but that’s also against the rules. Stupid place, very picky. They're just very strict, whereas in The Big City you could camp anywhere you want, if you find some trees with nobody around (good luck), and it'd take quite a while for them to evict you. The only things on the property back home that lets me know it was once my home are the big maple tree and the water pump Grandpa installed sometime in the 1920s. I stopped by my grandparents' cemetery a few months ago and felt some relief in the thought, "Everything goes to crap sooner or later, it’s not my fault." We parted friends.

Still, me a Big City guy? It’s hard to believe, but indeed I took the plunge, plighted my troth to the place and I've still got a ton of fears to prove it. Especially when I have to range so many miles from my current place to get anywhere. The traffic is terrible, the only familiar faces I ever see are the neighbors and employees at the grocery store. I had sort of a semi-close friend very briefly, then his cat got pregnant, pissing off the landlord, and he vanished one night. It was me and another neighbor, "Black Steve," conferring at his door, both of us deciding, “He’s gone!” But I have not vanished. And if I do, not even Steve will notice, because we literally haven’t spoken since that day.

Our Shared Destiny

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 26 of 30

I graciously reach out my hand that we may join together, recognizing and honoring our shared destiny. If such is what you also choose. Being such a kindhearted soul -- that’s what people say about me, agree or not -- I’m always thinking, scheming, dreaming, imagining, plotting what we could do in this world if we were on the same page. The way it goes in my daydreams, brotherhood and sisterhood break forth like a beacon, with a clarion call to mutuality and camaraderie, love for one another, free grass, public bathing, nudity run rampant (but nice), and goodness. Like Woodstock, but listening to our own music on earbuds.

It seems like I had this drive several years ago, but my memory’s been fuzzy/crazy. Anything that’s out of mind for any real length of time (10-12 seconds) seems to go “poof” and disappear. The disadvantage of that is I’m always starting things that don’t go anywhere, but the biggest advantage is that when I later think of the same thing it’s totally new and fresh. When old people tell you they have memory problems, believe them. Or, as I always say, when old people tell you they have memory problems, believe them.

But it doesn’t matter to me if you’re old, young, or any of the other species of age. As part of my push to celebrate our shared destiny, anyone will do, warm bodies, I don’t care who. If you’re the smartest guy in town, great, sit over there. Or dumb as a post with relatives no one would want, you’re still good enough to be part of this magnificent push. I don’t know how we’re going to handle it, and I don’t know that I need to know. If it works out, great. If it doesn’t, that’s life.

At that point, say it’s a massive failure, we’ll doubtlessly fight it out for turf, then divide the spoils in our own little circles, and celebrate (apart, alas, not together) that whereas we tried and failed, it’s still better to have tried and failed than not to have tried at all. At least that’ll be my argument, hoping to save face, and, believe me, I’ll stick to it. One thing I hate is being wrong with all the guilt that goes with it.

Still, the future isn’t set. We could make it this time. We could try. I’m going to try, and I want you to try too. I don’t want any of us to fail and I never go into anything expecting to fail. All it takes is other people believing in it too, and believing in themselves, because that’s how destiny works. Apart, maybe nothing happens, that’s not surprising. But together, wow, the potential’s there, with hearts joined together, coming together in common cause with optimism, people knowing that yesterday may have been a mess but tomorrow’s not even here, it could be anything.

Look at how friendship works out. We fit together, we've come together, we've joined together. And now that we have, that’s a start. Destiny has to start somewhere, am I right? Friendship’s a great place to start! Then -- what a wild thought! -- like links of a chain, are you with me? Link joins to link, they snap together, they’re strong when they’re together and not easily broken. With you and me and the other guy and the other guy over there, and all those other guys, and those women, and that little group at the library, a study group, and groups everywhere, sports fans, the city orchestra, the oldest man in the Big City (who was profiled on the local news the other night, 103 and expected to die any minute), etc., etc., and people everywhere. Then -- yes, then -- we shall celebrate this great coming together, a destiny like none other!

This is our chance to do it. So let’s quit blowing it, OK? Could someone tell me what I just agreed to?

I'm Into Negative Lifelines

 

Part 11 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

So far I’ve clearly expressed the truth that my self-esteem is fragile and getting worse. The way it feels inside is … lots of jitters. I'm anxious all the time, ducking down so no one notices me, retreating to the back of the room, preferably the coat closet or somewhere to escape the staring eyes of others, always tempted to leave early or not show up at all.

Plus, I'm terrified someone might call attention to me, as in, “What was that strange thing you said the other day about ___?” Everyone turns to hear me, they’re smiling a bit, I break out in a sweat, I stumble out a few words before trembling like a snare drum, then end up throwing my apron over my head and running screaming from the room. The biggest thing I wonder about is why I'm wearing an apron.

I think I need a working buddy system, like on game shows where I get some lifelines before I'm completely booted out. Of course the problem with that is social settings aren’t game shows, which everyone knows is a game and they’re rooting for you. This is real life, and -- not to get too anxious -- you can’t really pause social settings to claim a lifeline without blowing yourself out of the water. Instant guilt.

So whatever lifelines I have need to be spent more surreptitiously. Like if I'm meeting someone, the conversation is extremely awkward -- my fears sabotage me as the rule, not the exception. I squint my eyes at a friend and that means, “I want to use a lifeline, meet me in the kitchen.” Where he chastises me for using a lifeline in the first five minutes. Then says, “You’re as good as anyone, stop worrying about wasting the world’s resources, you didn’t ask to be born.”

The friend adds, “If you’re paying attention to the conversation and not just your own insecurities, you’ll notice that the things others are saying aren’t exactly pearls of wisdom, but basic observations, ‘It’s hot at work,' 'The movie was bad,' and 'No, it’s not too hot in here.'" Even though I'm sweating through my underwear and telling myself I shouldn't feel sorry to be alive.

Anyway, I used up my last lifeline, all very regrettable. Then I was on the verge of making a scene and my friend saw my anxiety. I truly am a worm, so he accompanied me to the kitchen again:

“You’re now in negative lifelines, dude, this can’t go on. If you’re not happy, leave. If your self-esteem is that far in the toilet, you should probably avoid coming to parties. Yes, it’s going to look awkward if you get your coat from the bedroom already. What you should do is leave, then come back the next day and say you forgot it."

That’s pretty good advice, and imagine that, a bonus lifeline came through right when I needed it. I’m lucky like that.

Friends--Criminal Or Innocent

 

Part 10 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

Everyone likes to have a friend. It’s great for your self-esteem. There are of course some very antisocial people with something wrong with them, perhaps their wiring or some mental lapse became a habit, whatever, who would be the exception. Those of us who do like having friends know what they mean to us, fellow feelings, moral support, and someone to talk to. Other friends we have are more or less incidental, folks we know at the fringe, those who do particular things for us but we don’t see them often, like the guy who fixes our tires if we (rarely) are involved in a police chase and run over spike strips.

And everyone likes having the things that go into friendship. First, let me say, this again excludes those who are antisocial in various ways, whether they don’t like having friends period, or they have friends but aren’t eager to confide in them the various problems they may be facing, choosing rather to maintain their privacy and sweep the problems, or at least any discussion of them, under the rug, carefully concealing the fact that they are likely guilty of those problems and a lot worse, if we only knew. As for myself, it’s not an aspect of friendship that I really depend on, because I try to avoid all trouble, particularly of a criminal nature -- because police chases and replacing tires becomes expensive -- and anything else I may or may not do I keep to myself.

So we’ve learned so far that having friends is an unambiguous blessing and essential to one and all, depending on how the terms are defined. It is a blessing for those who choose to have friends and are not antisocial. And it’s also a blessing for those who choose not to have friends and are antisocial up the yin yang, because it gives them a distinctive to boast of, identifying them, setting them apart, that they are so dainty and special, at least in their own foolish world of worthless fantasy.

As for me, no, I have nothing to sweep under the rug. Never have, never will, and those times when I have had something to sweep under the rug, the way I do it, and the means of getting it done, to the extent that I maintain power over the circumstances -- I have been caught or ensnared in various nets over the years, police chases, pit maneuvers, poison darts, etc., thwarting my intentions -- I take my opportunities and make the most of them. Not only do I want the more obvious facts to be hidden, but anything and everything that might constitute a trail, even of crumbs, leading again to a complete exposure, everything naked to the light of day, perhaps including myself -- a bad feeling -- and whoever it is riding with me. Let me just say now, and I raise my hand to heaven on this point, I have no idea how she found her way into my bed, then on to the interstate. We were not actually friends, it was just a mutual quickie.

But let’s also posit for the sake of argument that there is guilt, I suppose a casual acquaintance with someone -- perhaps a friend -- might come in hand, to help me get a good deal on new tires, or if the problem is evidence and a place to bury it, to conceal whatever is too big (or smelly and decomposing) to be buried later. Certainly we’ll wait for the city pickup and dispose of the sheets, triple-bagged, unmarked, and set those on the curb about three blocks away.

Whatever we may have sacrificed, and it’s been substantial so far, we hope we can recoup, enhancing and lifting our self-esteem, which to this point has been fragile.

Electric Chairs and Wart Removal

Part 11 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

In all my studies and firsthand experience with Death, I’ve never heard one person admit that he or she deserved to die. And we're not talking saints, but people who are clearly bad, their offenses running from pernicious littering all the way up to pigheadedness of the most stubborn type. Whatever the offense, they cling to the false claim that they deserve immortality. 

Food for thought as far as I'm concerned. In its absurdity. We should merely shake our head in disbelief and in the next few moments flip the switch. Bye bye. Or if they got an unjust reprieve, appeal it immediately, then with the likelihood that things are again stalled, hope fervently that all-consuming Nature quickly performs its perfect will. The best of both worlds.

I sometimes think about my own looming demise and wonder how I’ll face it. Probably like other problems, like in 2nd grade when I had to have a wart removed from my thumb. Pull in a few deep breaths, shed a few tears, and brace myself with all the peace I can find. Since then, no matter how terrible things are, I tell myself, “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

I don’t have all the facts about the guy in the electric chair. But it's something serious; they don’t use chairs like that for wart removal. It's the sort of chair they use when you "get the chair," an execution. They execute you, then the executor of your estate parcels out whatever arsenal you’ve amassed, or furniture. When you’re up for the electric chair it’s for something terrible. Making your life story: “My Terrible Horrible Miserable Despicable Unnameable Not Very Nice Crimes Against Humanity,” subtitled, “I Got The Electric Chair and They Wouldn't Even Charge My Phone.”

My favorite part of this one is the unshakeable devotion of the friends. It’d be great to have friends like that if you ever faced the chair. The rest of the world hates your filthy guts — I’m as supportive as anyone you’ve ever met and I hate you — but Ben and Frank think you’re OK. Look how they hold your hat in a sentimental way, like you're there and the three amigos are again a thing. You hear the encouraging promise that they'll carry on without you as best they can. Maybe your hat will be in a museum even if your body is thrown to the rest of Death Row to mangle. But there's not much encouragement when you remember the full story. It’s despicable.

Still, it's something! Wish I had that kind of friends. His head no longer in his hat, their hands showing a brave face through it all. One's gold, one's pink, the lonely blue hat carries on without a head. I just shed a tear, choked up by that innocent hat's uncertain future. Whatever the guy did to deserve the death penalty, it's too bad. But there’s no way to turn the clock back and have your happy hat.

We hear his loyal friends calling to him from the waiting room: “Stay Strong! We Believe In You! We’ll Take Care of Your Hat Till You Get Back!” It’s the last absurd bit that gives the greatest agony. Because he's already wearing a different hat, a metal beanie, not his own blue felt. "Give it up, guys, I got what I deserved," the condemned man finally calls out, a virtually impossible admission. To which the rest of us, speaking ill of you even in life, say, "Got that right!" The metallic bonnet starts in with a subtle tingling, followed by the most massive jolt of voltage.

Who Are These People?

No. 26 of 31 - Thermometer series

The thermometer drive’s still going, great guns, wonderful progress. It's been nuts! I’m making friends all over the world. By the time I get done I'll need a bigger planet... Still, as many friends as there are, and no matter how tenaciously they glom on, I keep reminding myself to keep a little distance. You don’t want drop-ins especially here in the Big City where your very best friend could be the one that offs you.

But I’ve always had tremendous luck in my life. Barely anyone’s ever done anything even remotely threatening to me. I think I can fend off the world’s hordes as subscribers, commenters, and readers of my blog. I’ve done OK so far. But of course I’ve had only a handful of the world’s people. And statistically, yes, there’s been a few duds in the mix. Nothing to worry about. And if you're reading this, it's not you.

Anyway, no worries... I’ve heard of plenty of blogs with huge numbers, and I’m sure they’re not awake all night living in fear. Why live in fear? There actually are good reasons. We have this one body, we’re vulnerable, and when you’re one guy against a crazy mob, there’s no telling what can happen. Like Jesus, merely trying to get people to go to church and be nice and all it got him was crucified. I think it had to do with money. A lot of tightwads out there would just as soon crucify you as look at you..

But I'm looking on the bright side. This is no day for paranoia! Seems like I was happy yesterday. I think I was. But I’m hazy, really. One day’s different than the next. I just peeked through the blinds and another guy was walking up the street. How many times has it been? I’ve seen guys walking up the street every single day for the last month. And that’s no exaggeration. Now, figuring I’m not always looking out the window, but only once in a while, and nearly every time I do there’s someone walking up the street. Multiply that times all the times I’m not looking... I have a multitude of guys walking up the street. I should either be out there with a sign-up sheet for my blog or forgetting it all together.  Do it online, keep it anonymous.

Ah yes, the faceless, nameless hordes of people, the miserable, the lonely, the riffraff and refuse of the teeming shores. That’s why the Statue of Liberty holds that sword [Kafka], to cut the head of any lowlife who dares look up her dress. She doesn’t mind welcoming you in, she just wants you to keep moving. Through the turnstiles at Ellis Island where they misspell your name every time. Your name is Dobbs and you have a son, your family name’s suddenly Dobson.

Yes, folks, we’re still charging ahead with the thermometer drive, and it’s awesome. I've heard reports from as far away as Mars that thermometers are blowing up like crazy. Part of it's the weird gravity strain that thermometer glass is prone to, the rest are people -- bushels and acres of people! -- going nuts over the quality of this blog, and doing what they can to get relief. Watch your eyes, though, people, because I cannot be held responsible if you're hit in the eye by glass. Keep at least one eye good enough to read with, an important note to remember.

Choked With Fear

No. 16 of 31 - Thermometer series

All through my life, even if there’s a shortage of everything else, there’s never a shortage of fear and trepidation. Trembling, cowering, hunkering down, just me and my periscope. And it’s overwhelming, so vividly horrible it splashes over me like a bucket of cold water on a winter day, chilling me unto my soul, my very last bone.

Yet I'm always surrounded by aides and associates, so you’d think I’d be knowing, showing, and even evincing, the greatest calm and confidence. Friends indeed are cheerful and confident, which sometimes is their biggest fault. They're not watching like a hawk. They don't see the constant danger. Just cheerleaders. I see cheerleaders on TV, who aren't even watching the game, so how do they know what cheers we need? We might be doing great, then the cheer is: “Our team is dynamite, we’re gonna win tonight!“ Or maybe we’re having troubles and we need backup: “Push ‘em back, push ‘em back, way back!”

So often, believe it or not, I am choked by fear, because my perception of what’s going on is always crystal clear. I’ve got a sixth sense, some level of foreknowledge, and eyes in the back of my head. I should’ve been a teacher, but those opportunities are long past. And call me a nervous nelly, but I know what we’re up against. I could name three blogs better than mine, and that’s just in the Western Hemisphere. I hesitate to even mention the Pastun and Iraqi herdsmen and their formidable blogs. If you think those guys are wimps, think again. They've grown up in danger; they know the facts of life. They snack on nails and gargle razor blades. And their breath matches their appetite, smelling alternately like a construction site and shaving kit.

Then there’s the other enemies. Homegrown naysayers, which are the worst kind, because they’re always at the door, always in your face like a Greek chorus, bemoaning your fate while also rubbing it in. I frankly believe their glory’s in someone else’s shame, the same way my 8th grade biology teacher rubbed it in when I couldn’t name the parts of the reproductive system. I wrote “Pipes and tubes, rubs and lubes,” and got a stinking F. But it worked out OK for me. As it turned out, we didn't have kids, but I and a girlfriend had a few close calls.

OK, these homegrown naysayers ... I describe them pretty well on today's thermometer. Urchins, rugrats, etc. Hanging around the neighborhood telling me to go to hell, etc. I pity their poor parents. Their poor parents work all day, then come home, and the neighborhood has too much sympathy to describe the little hellions for what they are. We’re willing to let bygones be bygones, but it’d be great if they told us they never plan to breed again, and would at least consider retroactively rescinding their existing issue.

I and my team don't want to be too discouraged. And we will make it, I believe, if we don’t lose focus. I remain optimistic. My friends, I do believe we have a clear hope and a clear pathway by which to attain it. I wet my easy chair so you don’t have to. Stay with me. And let’s see this thing along all the way even to its glorious conclusion. It remains my hope, my fervent expectation, that we shall see thermometers popping off all over the world -- POP, there goes one now -- and at long last a grand and wonderful victory that will make me proud and, by extension, you.

Was The Lunch Lady A Hag?

I had an unfortunate run-in the other day with a couple of friends from childhood. You always think it’d be great to get the old gang together, then you know it’s a disaster when you see them more than five minutes. But having my home base right there in town — when I’m not in the Big City — such run-ins are guaranteed unless I'm in disguise.

Flashback, these guys were the terror of the lunchroom, holding sway over all, and once battling the lunch lady royally for something like four days straight. Sometimes I'd be at their table, sometimes not, depending on what note I had or didn’t have from my mother. Me, though, I thought of lunch as a time to eat fast and get outside, not something to get in trouble over.

OK, the talk in this recent meeting focused on whether the lunch lady was a hag. Benny said she was definitely a hag, the very definition, and even alluded to a particular edition of the dictionary, without citing it specifically enough to verify his claim, that her picture was published adjacent to the entry "hag." I waved it off, but he was willing to swear on a stack of Bibles (of any publisher) that it was so.

Be that as it may, I’m a grown man, I’ve put aside childish things. I don’t even think calling people hags (for the sake of argument let's say lunch ladies are technically people) is even a thing we do anymore. Now, today, supposedly, there's a more enlightened way of dealing with people. They're considered to have the same dignity as everyone else and should not be diminished in any way with terms that detract from their full value as members of collective humanity. Or something.

It is true, however, that one guy can be a real bastard or one lady an obvious bitch, etc., and if we’re not willing to call a monster a monster, then we’re dishonest. There’s good people, there’s saints, there’s bad people, there’s evil seeds, there’s dipshits, morons, dweebs, and losers. All, however, with each one having the full value of human beings, even if they have gone off the tracks for some reason — stupidity, lack of insight at the chromosomal level, or something about the inner person being soured and them being consequently rotten to the core. But I don’t want to make this political. A decent guy like me could get killed by some of the halfwits, morons, and losers we see these days. I will stay out of that all together, except for the bitching I do in private with other decent people.

Anyway, I did my best to steer my old friends (losers in their own right) away from dehumanizing language like “hags.” I don’t think Mrs. [lunch lady] was a hag, no sir. Was she thoroughly the wrong person for the job of lunch lady? Did she miss her true calling of lion tamer? In our modern age, would she be charged with child abuse? That’s an interesting question. She might've avoided charges because she was slippery. But back then we didn't have video surveillance. So she could get away with the despicable defense of, "Who do you believe? Me, the responsible lunch lady, or a whole gym of irresponsible halfwit eyewitnesses?" I'm sure she had lots of bad days, but did that make her a hag? There was a lot of pain in her withered soul, but “hag," I won't go that far.

So I offered excuses for her: 1) She was popping pills and that would obscure anyone's judgment. 2) She had friends who were also lunch ladies, but they served more prestigious schools; her bitterness of spirit was compensation. 3) The hairnet she was forced to wear was much too tight, constricting blood flow to her head, making her semi-wacky.

But my old friends couldn't see anything past the starkest black or white. The lunch lady was a hag, a bitch, in short, a despicable troll, rotten to her withered core with no redeeming qualities that could ever lead her from the world of the hopelessly lost to the new world of politeness, etiquette, and beauty that we share today. I had to get out of there and quick. Another five minutes and we would’ve been pissing on her grave. And my time’s valuable. I'm not running across town when the bathroom's only 20 feet away.

Veronica's Magical World

I used to have an old friend, Veronica, who would take (partial) credit for it being a sunny day. “See what my prayers did?” she'd say, pointing happily around. The weather wasn’t her only spiritual talent; she saw herself as key to a lot of positive aspects of life. I thought, maybe yes, probably no. But what can you say, “Hey, great job!” I always wondered how she could think that way, but it was OK.

My problem, if you'd call it a problem, is I’m more "realistic," but it's my own realism; her outlook to her was also realistic. I never gave her much credit, but I could be wrong; everything I think isn't a fact. Maybe she was right. Because there’s all kinds of scientific ways to demonstrate that the world isn’t what it seems to be. Just get a microscope and look. I wouldn't mind thinking how Veronica thought, if people around me could stand it.

We got the first snow of the season. Minor, so far, and it’s still coming down. And I had to remark, “See what my prayers didn't do,” since I didn’t want it to snow. But maybe Veronica, now passed on, wherever she is — heaven — thought I wanted or needed snow. It’s interesting she didn’t think that in August when it was so hot, but instead waited till November when it’s not so rare.

Still, even if there’s nothing to it, that seems like a good way to think, if you can manage it. It's hyper-optimistic. If I could just think that every little thing is happening just for me, that’d be a happy world. I wouldn’t have to tell everyone, of course, like going around taking credit for it. Say a family was in a 10-car pileup on the interstate because of the snow, I’d hate to have them show up at my door with legal claims. So I’d try not to take all the credit. 

OK, let’s say I indeed have Veronica in heaven, still doing the same things she did in daily life, praying for sunny days and favors, then joyfully claiming the results as her own. I could let this blog be a plea to my other friends and loved ones who have passed to also pitch in. I could get up and think what I want, knowing they heard my thoughts. But if there is a one-to-one ratio on wanting and getting, I could just leave out the dead middleman and pray it myself.

What would be even better than passed-on advocates in heaven would be their actual presence along side me. Then every little thing I saw, I could credit one or another of them. I see a candle flicker, that’s Mom passing by. "Hi, Mom, how ya doin'?" Or I’m taking a bath and think, “No reason to waste water,” that has to be my Dad. I had a best friend who died around a year ago. I’d actually love him doing a few funny things in my life. Like giving me better blog ideas. In my opinion he was a genius.

Hmm, for some reason the sun just went down, sunk in a second! ... and it’s only 2:00 in the afternoon. It’s pitch dark and it was bright as noon five minutes ago. Never mind wondering what’s going on, excited scientists. It’s just Veronica telling me, I need more rest. Good night, one and all!

My Friend D— Died in a Terrible Accident

In my usual way of thinking I try to keep mortality out of my mind. I’m so used to living — it’s become a habit — I’m not thinking of dying. That said, the opposite is also true. I’m a walking precaution against dying. Like the nervous bird forever bobbing its head, watching for danger. The habit of survival. I swerve to miss a three-car pileup or sidestep a hole to not trip.

This is actually something you don’t want to think about a lot. Even if it’s not far from your mind. Because the more conscious you are of the process, the less reliably your defenses work in the background. It’s true. The more you consciously think of anything, the more you are consciously responsible. And background processes are very reliable. If we could go through life entirely unconscious and yet happy, we’d avoid the whole mess.

OK, since most of it’s delegated to unconscious processes, that leaves me consciously able to watch out for others’ safety. So I’m a warning-a-minute: “Watch out for that hole, someone’s following us, have you got your keys?," etc.

But I suddenly failed! Coming out of store with friend, D----, I turned my head for three seconds to check out the sale on bottled water, which I don't even drink, and even though I'd very recently warned her to look both ways, I let down my guard for three seconds, leading to a terrible end... When...

It wasn’t the driver’s fault. Unless the fact that he was going 45 mph in a dangerous parking lot is set at his bumper. No, despite my prior warning — was it a case of her being pigheaded? — she walked right into the truck’s path. But it couldn’t have been intentional, not the way she was protecting her sack of groceries. Clearly she meant to live at least long enough to eat a four-pack of yogurt; she didn’t mean to die before that.

Still, I can’t see any value in restricting cause and effect to the physical. There’s also the mental. She had bad habits, one of which was depending too much on me. Because I usually do give constant warnings. But you still gotta look at for yourself, Doris! What if you’d lived and I’d died? You would’ve died anyway if you couldn't wise up to danger. Did she deserve to get run over? She probably didn’t technically deserve it, but the jury’s still out on whether there was a moral verdict waiting for her to receive sooner or later. Still, who am I to dump on her? People make mistakes, they pay the piper.

It took me a couple days beating myself up to finally reconcile things; this wasn’t my fault. Get on with your life. Easy come, easy go. Another day, another dollar. Plus, I have to save my energy for the guy’s trial.

I hate to face the guy again, as much ragging on him I did. It wasn't a good picture of me, cussing him up one side and down the other. Blaming his passenger for distracting him, without evidence. And I even blamed his truck, an old fashioned model that you usually only see at garden centers, with the hood up and a bunch of flowers where the motor used to be. “What are you driving that rickety old piece of shit through the parking lot at 45 mph anyway, Stupid?!”

It took the police to calm me down. I was in a rage, lunging at the guy. And his stupid antique truck. What kind of tires are those? Model T’s?! The police calmed me down fast, Officer Rix pulling a gun and threatening to blow my brains out. He calmly explained, “Your friend was a complete klutz to get herself run over so stupidly.” Which of course I had to accept as true.

My own purchase that day was Neapolitan ice cream. Three flavors for the price of one. I meant for me and Doris to enjoy a bowl each, had only she lived. As it turned out, though, tragically, that meant two bowls for me. It’s a good way to drown your sorrows; eat more ice cream.

So ... one friend down, several friends left. Who really should listen to me more. Permit me, this is rough. ... Doris will never get another chance to do the right thing. She had to let her mind drift off who-knows-where, thinking, “I’m 100% safe, nothing can ever happen to me, my fate’s a long ways away, I’m young-ish, invulnerable-ish, I’ve got lots of plans for tomorrow,” etc. People like her are always making plans for tomorrow, completely unaware that the clutching hand of fate is already clamped tight around their neck.

But I definitely saw it. In the seconds after exiting the store and the screech of the tires and her scream, the sky was cloudy, ponderous, foreboding. But was it already too late for Doris? That’s for philosophers wiser than I to debate. She was definitely run over and by the time I got home my ice cream was softer than I like.

It made me think, God took my friend’s life to teach me an important lesson, which was probably “Look Out for Trucks,” which I already knew.

The Sign of The Crumpled Bird

It's a thing that probably happens with every guy like me with a popular blog, different ones want to "meet up" and, I don't know, pick my brain about the latest topic du jour. Usually I put them off with some flimsy excuse, or dismiss them with a conceited "You couldn't handle me, honey." They're looking at an average guy who doesn't look even vaguely interesting or dangerous, and while they're trying to reconcile the contradiction, I slip quickly from the scene. Fact is, at 60+ I still follow what my mom taught me, Run From Strangers.

But I know how it goes -- you read a blog and you think it has to be made up by a genius -- yes, a tortured genius -- or by someone who's so popular and such a people-person, he probably has a million decent contacts you could exploit for sales, marketing, or pyramid schemes. I don't entirely know why anyone would want to get together with me. I sit around, take a shower once in a while, apply deodorant when I have it, I'm actually a mess. If we were to talk politics then, you might get mad and beat the crap out of me. Then where would I be? Bruised, battered, barely able to function, worse than usual, smelly armpits.

Another thing that makes me so reticent is something that happened between 8 to 12 months ago. I met a guy in the park a few years ago, an old gnarly dude the same age as my dad would've been if he hadn't died, 80-something. He talked my leg off; because he literally had sexual ideas in the same vicinity. Then within the last year, maybe longer, hard to say, I was in the park looking at the river close to flooding that day. This guy was sitting in his car or truck and motions me over. I'm standing there -- I know his name, I know his background from talking to him those years before -- but this time he wants more than talk, he goes for pay-dirt, reaching down quickly and grabbing my crotch. I wasn't even thinking of anything sexual, so I thought maybe he was swatting at a bug, I didn't know. Till he had a quick grip on my [junk] and I pulled away, saying still innocently, "What are you doing?" Soon as I got the question out, I knew what he was doing. So I said my final pleasantries and got the hell out of there. He was 82 or 83 at that time, old enough to know better. Dirty bird.

Which brings me to the solution to this idea of people "meeting up" with me, and remaining at least at arms length. I won't actually say where I am at any given point, and I won't give the time I may be anywhere, OK? But I will give you a sign: The Sign of the Crumpled Bird. When you see the Sign of the Crumpled Bird -- I may have it stuck on someone's antenna, or taped to a store window, or on a parking meter, etc. -- then you will know I am somewhere near. Got that? I will be looking in the general direction of the Sign of the Crumpled Bird. But you won't be sure if I'm the guy or if I'm just another guy looking for the Sign of the Crumpled Bird, hoping to get in touch with me.

When I see you, I will check you out, mentally computing a whole bunch of stuff as quickly as I can. Whether you look interesting, whether you look worthy, and especially whether you look safe. You should not be reaching down and doing the motions of grabbing something in the air. At that point all bets are off, the Sign of the Crumpled Bird will remain till I can circle back and get it. But I'll be gone like the "Summer Wind," a song that is in the Top 5 Frank Sinatra songs I like.

How did I come up with the Sign of the Crumpled Bird? It's an interesting story -- not terribly interesting -- that I might tell someday. Be that as it may, when you see the Sign of the Crumpled Bird, that's the critical thing, that's when I may be found, when I may be known. You don't need to know anything more about it than that.

Gus Grissle For Dogcatcher

Of course I'm not beholding to Gus Grissle in any way, shape, or form. That's not why I'm for him for dogcatcher. Hell, Gus isn't even from my party, the Democratic party. He's a Republican, usually the kiss of death for me. Those bastards, I wouldn't be for them if they handed out half dollars on the square. No way. But Gus ... I know Gus ... and I know Gus is more or less good with dogs. So I'm for him.

The fact of the matter is, Gus Grissle lives right up the street from me. On the other side of the Butlers' house. He drives by my place on the way to town or wherever, and he always waves. He's a good man, and if he says he can handle the dogs of our town, I basically believe him. He's more or less good with them.

This is a tough endorsement for one reason, and one reason only. I don't know how many of you have noticed yet, but thanks to some grumbling, I've sworn off politics online completely, that is, under my own name. Facebook and here on the blog. I've found that friends are very high maintenance when it comes to politics, and they're easily disturbed. And I can be very quick with the insults, the put-downs on everything in the putrid Republican universe. Leading some of these idiots -- my friends -- to dislike me. Block me, whatever. So I'm out of politics.

But ... dogcatcher? Surely even my namby pamby touchy-nerved wilting flower friends with their finger poised tremulously against the dislike/block button can't hold it too much against me for coming out for Gus Grissle for dogcatcher. Especially when they realize, this is the one Republican in the whole world I'm willing to endorse. Of course not for a job that is of any great value. It's dogcatcher. How bad could he screw it up? He's more or less good with dogs, I've seen how he is.

The job of dogcatcher came open when Merle Peaver died, and no one really wanted it, and Gus Grissle stepped forward. I'd say he deserves our respect for taking it on, and if he personally asks for my vote, being a neighbor and all, I'm not going to withhold it. People think dogcatcher's an easy job, but it isn't. You're not just chasing dogs till they disappear from sight. You've got them cornered, you're looking at snarling teeth and listening to a low growl. And this isn't your mother-in-law, they can't be tamed with chocolates.

Then there's the whole modern situation with friendly dogs. I know some of the dogcatchers we had back in the good old days. They were basically bag men. If a dog got loose, it was fair game. The law was the law. But that doesn't apply these days. Those guys are out. People baby their dogs now. Dogs are their babies. You try to bag one now and you're looking at being bagged yourself. That's how crazy people are. Don't write in, please, I like dogs. I'm just saying Gus is up against some regulations the old guys never faced.

Anyway ... And have you heard of drug runner dogs? They're trained in anatomy. They're trained to go for the jugular. Drug runners use every dirty trick in the book not to be apprehended. For them, the more feral a dog is, the better. They come through on the interstate. The cops pull one over, the dog goes ballistic and tears the patrolmen apart, then they head for the hills. They literally could come up over that hill right there, just south of here, from the interstate, and take me down. Maybe Gus is thinking of that. He's my first line of defense.

Those are the dogs that are very far removed from our cuddly ones. Or the higher class dogs like at dog shows. Do I think Gus would make a good dog show judge? No. He's more or less good with dogs, like I said, but to have to run his hand over their silky fur, then reach around and feel their bottoms, I can't see him doing that. Fortunately, that's not even in the cards. That's for someone else.

I guess I've probably given enough evidence as to why Gus Grissle would make a great dogcatcher. If you feel like crossing party lines and voting for a Republican, I know he'd appreciate your vote. Your vote, like mine, will be a token of trust in a good man, more or less good with dogs, who I believe can get the job done. Find the dogs, see that they get back to their owners. Or, if they're drug dogs, at the very least run them out of the county, and hopefully catch them and do whatever you do with a feral dog. Nothing good, I'm guessing.

Vote Grissle!

The Bikers Bar Is Now Mine

Whatever your troubles,
the Roadhog Roadhouse

always makes things better.

The billionaire is everything a great friend should be, extremely rich, wallet always open, and when you need him, nearby. When I first met him, I said, "A guy could get used to this," and that early intuition has been confirmed time and time again.

That's not to say I don't sometimes want to use my own money. Just to clarify, I personally make about $450 a month in disability income (game toe), then on top of that I have around $2.1 billion, thanks to the billionaire. Some of that I'm saving -- the $450 -- in case the rest goes ... fizz.

Something happened this morning that for a second pissed me off at him, but I can't stay mad very long at such a good, rich friend. Although in a way I'm doing him a favor with my anger, because billionaires don't get that true gut reaction very often. Everyone's always kissing up to him, he probably likes being told off once in a while.

He came over very early, before I'd even been to the bathroom, before the dog had been out, and mousetraps checked, you know the routine. A guy wants his private moments without every billionaire in the world horning in. To make matters worse, he springs this news on me, that he bought the Roadhog Roadhouse bikers bar!

I was all up in his face, and pounded on his chest, crying, "You knew I wanted that bar!" Only I hadn't gotten around to it yet; the world of high finance is new to me; I didn't even know who to contact, Eddie, probably, since he's the owner. So I'm halfway cussing the billionaire out, "You son of a --! You rotten bast-- !"

His fun over, the stringing me along, he laughs and says, "I bought it for you, silly. I didn't want someone else to get it. Eddie wanted out." I started to say the obligatory, "I'll pay you back," but he waved it off. "What's the difference?" he said, which is true. When you're extremely rich, and you're friends with someone, the rest is just laughter and backslapping; no one's in anyone's debt, he's just happy to do it, and in that spirit, I accepted the keys.

We did get down to some serious stuff, when he said that friend and confidante Garrett Al (aka Geritol and Jor-el) filled him in on the whole Pink Professor situation. Of course I know the Pink Professor through the Roadhog; it's our basic rendezvous point. But he's been MIA, after an argument we had a few years ago over meditation practices. And I want him back, but where to look?

The billionaire said, "You know I stand ready to help with anything you need in the search. I want to wrap this up ASAP, because I don't want you suffering, OK?" I nodded and kept my head down. He saw that hint of pain and exclaimed, "OK, that's it! I'm now in charge!" I was speechless. What can you say when you have a friend so doggoned filthy rich and dripping with confidence, but "Yes sir!"

We sat and he said, "Tell me everything you know." The discussion went on for quite a while, as I shared with no real goal, since I didn't think I knew anything. "Tell me everything you've ever talked about, and don't worry, I respect your privacy and won't share it with Geritol." (Jor-el and I have a history, and whereas I'm not that hushed mouth around him anymore, it's nice to know my dirty laundry won't be hanging in plain sight.)

After an hour of sharing, the billionaire exclaimed, "I know where he is!" taking from our conversation this one little obscure nugget. "You were in San Francisco in 1975. You spent a night under an interstate bridge. You told the Pink Professor you left a piece of your soul there. Your argument was over kundalini meditation. He went there to find that piece and reconcile himself to you." I filled in the rest, "But he's blocked, and now can't come home, analogous to failing to attain samadhi in yoga, till he restores and completes me." The billionaire nodded, "I suspect as much."

He said he'd handle the preparations. I would spend the day tidying up the Roadhog bar -- Eddie left some dust bunnies behind -- while he would oversee construction of a blimp and a full blimp port. We would find the Pink Professor and bring him home in style!

That was a couple hours ago. I brushed my teeth, went to the bathroom, and for 20 minutes was sweeping up behind the bar -- thanks, Eddie, the dust bunnies were dinosaurs! -- then took a load of trash out back. Some guy's sleeping in the dumpster so I had to leave the wastecans next to it. Looks to be a good day.

The Slovenly Family

There was a slovenly woman who had a slovenly husband, and they lived in a house that was also slovenly. They had a slovenly dog, upset that there was very little to mess up.

They had three slovenly friends who often dropped by. One spat, one drooled, and one regurgitated.

The family's slovenly dog would carry out his food and drop it in the mess. The slovenly wife saw it all and burped, worth her weight in garbage. The slovenly husband listened to her burp and also managed an emission.

The slovenly husband often thought, "Why are we living like this, so slovenly?" He said to his slovenly wife, "We could do better. We're careful enough to keep our popsicles cold in the fridge, the wrappers could go in the can, not on the floor." But that passed.

The three slovenly friends came over, one spitting and one drooling. All eyes were on the third, who had a sudden look of queasiness. It couldn't be long now, and ... there it is, a recent bite regurgitated. The slovenly dog was happy.

The slovenly wife felt the need to burp and scratch. Being so slovenly, she scratched so much that when she wasn't scratching, she was burping. She dismissed her slovenly husband's question with a shrug, tossing a popsicle wrapper to the floor, burping and scratching as well. Bugs were afraid to land on her.

Their TV was always on, also a slovenly mess. The slovenly dog chewed the remote, so it was stuck on one channel. All its colors were drained, so the flickering picture was forever green. Once a green cartoon was clear, causing one friend to spit with happiness, the second to drool with joy, and the third to lose his lunch.

One day, the slovenly house, having lost its will to remain, collapsed around them. The slovenly family and friends sat in the open air, burping, scratching, spitting, drooling, and regurgitating. The dog ran to the bush and peed. A powerful wind stirred and blew the house clean of popsicle wrappers.

And there the slovenly family sits, to this day, hoping against hope for whatever.

The Great Waving Tour

Everyone knows my blog as a worldwide sensation. I have readers in literally every country on earth, and that even includes North Korea. Blog mules have been hand-copying posts and smuggling them in in packs of cigarettes; Northies are so eager to get this vital information they unroll the cig papers and throw away the tobacco.

You could say I've specialized in the world, which is not to say I've neglected my local presence entirely. Maybe a little. My next door neighbor knows me, and a few others. Meaning, obviously, I need to "take a sad song and make it better." So I had the idea of a waving tour. Drive around waving and let people know I'm here. And I'm thinking of them. And how friendly I am.

It went really great, too. Although, to be totally honest, I got some suspicious looks, and several wouldn't wave back. The very first one, I'm leaving a dead end neighborhood of nice houses and a lady comes out to do something in the front yard. She sees me, I lift my hand tentatively and wave, and she doesn't wave back. She probably thought I was bad news, probably reading the blog and thinking I've taken more of an interest in the Ukraine (which I have) than my own town. I'll do better, ma'am.

In fact, quite a few folks looked like they were harboring various resentments, also refusing to wave, even though I had my best face on, very friendly. It could've been I was hitting too many dead ends and cul-de-sacs. But my theory was the folks on the wide open avenues see so much traffic they're not looking for waving tours. But the others, they don't get much traffic.

But the same theory -- I know this from reading the paper -- is something criminals know. A lot of cul-de-sacs in town have in fact had something of a crime wave. Enough break-ins to go around, practically everyone's had one. So on the surface of it, it seems like they'd be glad to see a friendly guy driving through the neighborhood waving. If they knew anything. Try to put 2 and 2 together folks: the criminals are out in the afternoon, I've waving when it's morning.

It wasn't long till police cars were lingering in the area. Being a nice guy, and not thinking of my own safety, I even waved at the police. I say that, because, you know -- it's touchy -- the police lately haven't got the best reputation. You don't want to appear to be too chummy with them, because you don't want any of the animus to rub off. Some of the donut shops even have them using the drive-through only.

I came upon a couple schools and as luck would have it the kids were out for recess. This was around the noon hour. So I thought, you know, start 'em out young, realizing there's actual decent friendly people in the world. I waved at them like I would anyone, appreciating the look of joy on their faces. Although, disturbing at it sounds, many of them looked like they didn't want to wave back at a stranger. Me a stranger? I've lived in this town all my life!

A bunch of the kids looked like they were running back in the school to get their friends. That warmed my heart. But when they came out with the teachers I knew the real truth... Teachers need love, too, so I waved at them. They got their phones out and were calling, apparently their own friends. Except pretty soon the police were back in the area, patrolling. It made me wonder, maybe some of the crooks knew it was afternoon and so had returned.

I kept driving, looking for friendly folks, kids, nursing homes, and honking and waving in the hospital area, waving at terminal patients looking out for their final view of anything. It was a real blessing for one and all. Then toward the end I felt honored to have a police escort, directing me toward home, where I ended up.

It's great to get out and feel the love, and to know I'm a Very Important Person, someone the entire town can be proud of.