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?

My Beautiful Future Lumbago

Part 30 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

Desperately Seeking Grunts

Part 8 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

What are the motives of guidance counselors? This is one of the unanswered mysteries that has never been definitely answered. The surface explanation, of course, has to do with supposed guidance and counseling. A student, let’s say, needs counseling about his or her path. What will I be? How do I get there? The guidance counselor is there, at least superficially informed about those issues and at his best faithfully tending to students’ needs.

I wondered what I would be too. I thought about the future. But in all the weeks I was with the guidance counselor, sitting in his office literally with him right there present with me, I can't remember him once asking me any such questions or wondering what I’d need to do to get there. Instead, he was more often sour, like he resented the fact that I was there, and acted like it was ridiculous for a kid should've been wrestling to be sitting in the office with him. Wish I hadn't been so innocent and nice, I could've jabbed him. "You served our country fighting the Koreans (and by extension Chinese and Russian Communists) and you can't handle the weekly visitation of one meek boy?"

Why was I there? In case you missed one of the other parts, I had a series of seizures, just a few, and my mother thought the semester of wrestling would equal the onset of more. And I can see that, if I were thrown about the room, and bearing the pressure of other boys on top of me, or holding my legs up in the air as they pinned me hard to the mat below. Why it had to be the guidance counselor to babysit me, that's something I can’t remember at all, school choice. He was probably the only guy with few actual duties. What’s a guidance counselor do all day? Not counseling kids much while they’re in school, because they’re already in classes. I guess the basic purpose of a guidance counselor is to have someone step in for the wrestling coach when and if the wrestling coach is ever disgraced by his lust for the ladies.

I really hate thinking of myself as a guy the guidance counselor resented. Spectacular little old me? But he made it clear enough in his funky little asides and look of disdain that it was so. With a little more maturity I really could’ve entertained him, or kept his spirits up. If I’d known about the internet in the future and blogs, I might’ve told him, “Sometime in the distant future I will be writing a series about you. This won’t be posted in the newspaper or on bathroom walls, but will be visible and available to the entire world. But I won't use your name, because your name should be forgotten.”

It’s one of my big regrets that I wasn’t able to flummox the guidance counselor a little bit more. To get on his nerves. To really take him on not so much personally but on a professional level. By asking the obvious questions (obvious now, not then), What are guidance counselors for?

I’m afraid the answer might not be as high flown as we’ve all come to expect. But instead is something like this, to sift out the undesirables from the desirables. The haves and the have-nots. Those destined to be the grunts of industry, dispensable in every way, and quick to be forgotten when they’re ground under foot. What if guidance counselors were becoming hugely wealthy by selling students into industry for 30 cents per kid? I can see it becoming so mainstream very few people would even notice. Look at the things we get used to in politics. These days if someone broke the Bill of Rights out of its hermetically sealed case and wiped their ass on it, we’re so jaded we’d be saying “Would you like a hot towel with that?” They’d say yes and we’d be heating up Betsy Ross’s dirty old antique flag.

Well, buster, I’m no grunt... I’m here from the future to put you under arrest, and to take you with me back to the future to stand trial for your crimes and the crimes of your profession. Who do you work for? What are their plans for the future. Skip that last question; I’ll look it up on the WWW when I get back. And when you and I get to the future, the first thing we’ll do is Google your death to make sure we get you back in time for it. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not crazy. That’s how we talk someday.

The Big City 5000 Years From Now

 
I'm well into my second calendar year as a citizen of The Big City. Impressive! The last half of last year, the first few days of this one, I'm a homeboy. So I know very well how things go here. The average guy uses most of his effort watching out for what's his. Fences, padlocks, chastity belts, and all at a premium. But you have to pay it, if you want to see tomorrow, and a good belt's always worth the extra bucks for everyone’s piece of mind.

I'm personally not cooped up at home all the time. Especially when it’s warm, I’m out everyday, scrounging for cans and hitting the salvage metal yard about once a week. That takes me some interesting places. Parks, alleys, dead-end roads, behind old buildings, around thick trees, foliage and weeds where some homeless guys hide, etc. I see rundown conditions all the time, boarded storefronts, graffiti, and illegal dumping. I can get you a decent mattress, but they've all been repeatedly rained on. And couches. Leading me to ask, Why do they always mangle a couch just before dumping it? I forgot to mention tires. Tires everywhere!

Today I was buzzing around under an interstate bridge and it made me wonder: These great highways, how long will they stand? The beams on the bridges are thick, like they've got eternity in their sights. But it’d only take about 40 years neglect in certain places and the whole thing would tumble down. Stopping traffic, leading to congestion, and honking drivers, angry as crap. What’ll the interstate be like in 2-3,000 years?! Depends. Whether we're taken over by terrorists who have one redeeming quality, they like good roads. Or terrorists who are such sadists they don't care what the roads look like. Maybe they're from India. Or just split the difference, a few who like roads, a few who don't.

What about 5,000 years? Who knows? I heard that time I’ll die when I’m 85, and that’s now only about 20 years. I'll barely live to see anything. And I'd love to see bacon under a dollar a pound. It used to be! Oh, yes, we assume the price was always stuck at 4 dollars. But back when minimum wage was $1.60, bacon was cheap cheap cheap compared to today. For that to happen now, though, it'd take another Great Depression, a depressing thought.

If we could skip ahead 5,000 years -- I wake up like Rip Van Winkle -- I'd be sure to check out the progress. What would I see? I see about a 80/20 chance of a dystopian future. With an ice age. And most people living underground for the insulation. And so much ice, it's Ice Road Truckers conditions everywhere. Interstates were buried long ago, trucking costs are cheap because they're driving over frozen lakes so thick they never thaw. Pigs are raised underground, there's no pollution from slaughtering them since everything instantly freezes. People need bacon for warmth; it builds muscle mass; so it's not cheap, about $15 a pound. The national headquarters of the Pork Producers is also in the White House, for national security, and Pennsylvania Ave. has been renamed Hog Pavilion Pathway.

As for illegal dumping, nearly everything is now kept, for warmth. Those old mattresses you always see, big stained wet messy ugly things, are prized possessions in 5,000 years, because you can lean them up against doors and easily keep the temperature just below freezing. Wood barely exists; the tree line and temperate zone is about 20 miles on either side of the equator. People steal, kill, and sleep around, of course. But they usually freeze to death, so justice still prevails.

The other scenario is that global warming turns out to be true. After the Ice Age, instead of freezing, everything's thawed out all the time. And bacon can't be adequately shipped or stored, so it's very cheap. The bad news is you literally have to live within a couple miles of Hog Pavilion Pathway, still the national headquarters, now at the equator, to get it and enjoy the bargains.

The Big City in the above graphic is a time during the warmer era, a time of peace and security at the equator. But it lasts only briefly, until the rest of the non-bacon eating world gets wind of it, floods the zone, and tears it all down. "Throw that in our faces, will you? Your cheap bacon and flying store to store in airplanes to get it, you bastards!" is a common complaint. Their hero, an conscientious agitator writing a righteous blog very much like this one, stirs up passions and they tear the whole thing down. The whole idea of chastity and belts is forbidden. It becomes a very nasty world, making me happy to have died before I ever lived to see it.

The Billionaire Could've Been Anything

It's been a lazy Sunday afternoon. The billionaire's been hanging out at my place. He's usually a fireball of activity, but like everyone he has to cool his jets sometime.

This is what I like. It's what I liked when I was with the Pink Professor, doing nothing in particular, just hanging out like two old slippers. Small talk. Comfortable body language. I looked over at the billionaire, wondering what his dreams must be like. I hope they're not all of exploits and conquests, the next gold-laden rainbow, etc. As much as I like the billions, I'm still a romantic at heart, and like to slow down.

Anyway, there he sat -- the man himself -- a guy with the world on a chain. Even without the billions he'd be a great guy. I can picture him a total success no matter what. Having him asleep gave me time to think over the possibilities.

How about a dashing cowboy hero? Of course he wouldn't be from this generation. We have cowboys, but there's very little call for them to round up rustlers or head off bank robbers at the pass. In which case we would've never met. But he could've been in the Old West. He has his feet on the table at the saloon, dozing off. There's a guy there saying, "Even if he weren't a dashing cowboy hero, he would've been a success at something. Like if he lived in the far-off future, an important mogul in the world of high finance. I'm picturing him as an eccentric billionaire." Then the future goes fuzzy, our cowboy hero wakes up, tips a glass of whiskey, and takes off to protect water rights for the settlers.

Or he could've been a great talent in the arts. Since to be a truly great artist you have to let yourself go, and not be afraid to face the scorn. As for me, I've never let myself go in the arts, so I haven't painted any masterpieces. I've had a blank canvas for the last five year and I'm afraid to touch it with paint. The billionaire might've been born in France, like the guy in the illustration obviously was. He has that look of French insouciance. He's there in France, doing art, with many fans. One fan wonders, "If he weren't such a great artist, I wonder what he might've been. He's too eccentric to ever be wealthy. He'd waste his money in a second and be found drunk or dead in his garret. As it is, he needs a keeper! He'll get knifed in a bar yet!"

I can also see the billionaire as a brave soldier in battle. Brave in the extreme, because he has very little reserve; if he wants something he goes for it. His wealth proves that. It's no stretch to imagine him as instrumental to a major battlefield rescue. The commander says we need someone to run through that minefield and carry out our fallen battalion. He can't do it alone, so he goes to a farmhouse and barters for several stallions. Which he lashes together side by side, then he steps on the middle horse and drives them into the fray. The battalion sees him coming, and they're ecstatic, shouting their admiration like, "That crazy son of a bitch! I never seen such a beautiful bastard!" Even the enemy's beside themselves. Meanwhile, back at the farmhouse, the farmer's telling his wife the story: "That guy could've been anything, dammit, I'm tellin' ya! A cowboy! An artist! In the future, a billionaire!"

Finally, the billionaire could've been an average man of any little town. I have my doubts here, but there's no telling. My dad was an average man in a little town, and he was extraordinary in various ways. He met my mom, and believe me, other guys didn't! So who's smartest? Obviously, my dad. But the thing about the billionaire is, What would he have done as an average man of a town? Even he might not know. He would've paused, thinking, and really going over it: "Is there a place for me in the arts? Or perhaps the military? Anything would be better than this trash route! But it pays the bills, and people like me. They honor me each time as one of the nicest guys they know. And that's success as well.

I was about to go on ... forever ... when the billionaire woke up. Being a genius, he saw I had something on my mind, and goes, "What'd I miss?"

Your All Bad News Horoscope

Scientists tell us there's more stars in space than grains of sand on Earth. And there's far more grains of sand on Earth than there are people. Meaning, if you think about it, there's at least enough stars that each us can have one of our very own. So is it so hard to believe that there's also a bad star out there with your name on it? Always portending disaster.

I know people like bad news. True, we don't always like it about ourselves. But bad news is what sells, according to folks in the business. And of course it's better to know than not, so, on the chance that it might do some good, we could try to get ahead of it and avert it.

With all that in mind, I had the great idea of a horoscope column in the paper dedicated to nothing but bad news. Diseases, accidents, various cautions, take it slow, etc.

Here's a few samples:

Capricorn (Dec. 22-Jan. 19) -- Bad news is coming your way, when a long lost parent shows up, until now thought dead, but alive and in serious trouble, probably massive debt.

Aquarius (Jan. 20-Feb. 18) -- There will be a mass escape today of birds from a turkey farm. Most of them will make their way to your home, with some entering your closet and chewing your clothing to nothing but buttons and shreds.

Aries (March 21-April 19) -- The tree in your front yard that you've always seen as protection against an out-of-control vehicle will develop sap rot and need to be cut down early this afternoon. Later tonight, a drunken semi-truck driver will jump the curb and careen through your bedroom wall, killing at least one person. If you happen to have a date, it'll be two. The driver will survive.

Taurus (April 20-May 20) -- Your church will burn down this week. There will be a massive financial drive to rebuild. You'll be expected to contribute, even though you'll lose your job tomorrow.

I know what you're thinking, those might be a little too specific. It's hard to believe that so many churches will burn down all at once, one for every person born under Taurus. Or that turkey farms will have such bad luck and those under Aquarius will bear the brunt. But maybe horoscopes are tailored only for those who actually read them. Meaning, if I don't read it the turkeys stay put? Which doesn't make much sense; how does a turkey know if I read the paper?

Probably our best horoscope writers have the right idea. Keep it so generalized it wouldn't really make much difference if you were Virgo or Capricorn. I'll try a few.

Gemini (May 21-June 20) -- Hold off on making any decisions, any decisions whatsoever, including the decision to follow this advice. It's going to be bad.

Cancer (June 21-July 22) -- Your horoscope looks so terrible today, I haven't got the heart to even tell you what it is. You have my sympathy in advance. Maybe pretend you're a different sign today. If it's any consolation, the problem doesn't have to do with turkeys.

Leo (July 23-Aug. 22) -- I wouldn't get involved in what's coming up. Weapons may or may not come into play. He or she simply isn't worth it. End it, end it now, but remember, weapons may or may not come into play.

That's probably enough. I'll run it by a few syndicates and see if they want to publish it. It's very compelling. On a personal note, of course I'm a Capricorn. Both my parents are not just thought dead, they are dead. I was there when my dad died, but I took everyone's word for it that my mom died. Could it be? Is she suddenly going to show up, in serious trouble, perhaps massive debt. I need to go lock my doors.

Confidential to George in Syria -- You're part of a terrible struggle. You won't survive.

Tips For Blogging Success

Having a successful blog as I do, of course I think of all the other blogs out there that languish, being more or less neglected by the whole world. That's how it was for me when I first started out. I'd be driving somewhere, on a lonely country road, come to a crossroads and have to stop for a passing tractor. Every time I'd think, "There's traffic at every damned crossroads on every damned country road, and I can't get one single idiot on the internet to visit my site."

But I kept plugging away, and following certain principles, and now, seriously, I get all kinds of traffic -- a lot of Ukrainian gambling sites constantly hit me. So now -- last time I checked the statistics -- my site, grandmaslump.com, is the 2,300,000th most valuable internet property, valued at $8.95. 2,300,000 sounds high, but consider, there's anywhere from 6-8 billion people in the world.

Anyway, enough padding this out, here's the tips for blogging success:

1. Keep your blog somewhat nebulous. Never completely define yourself. -- It's counter-intuitive, I know. Someone has a recipe site and it's clearly a recipe site, simple. But think, you're going to get the same people all the time, drawn to it because it's so easy, meaning they're likely airheads. My thought is to keep 'em guessing. You have recipes, then all of a sudden you run a story about the history of firetrucks. New people are visiting you now. My own blog has variety because it's simply what I happen to be thinking of at the time.

2. Ignore trends. Again, you can have terrific traffic if you follow trends. But the thing is, trends change all the time. Say the trend is a sudden interest in getting Botox while suntanning while binge-viewing porn. Obviously folks are getting a lot more health-conscious. Soon Botox and suntanning will be frowned upon and shunned, then you'll be scorned as someone who pushed a bad trend.

3. Maintain your integrity. -- Post what you want whether anyone likes it or not. You have your high standards, the public be damned. I follow this rule to a certain extent, with a few slips. As said before, I have one major, huge clientele to think of. So I never say anything bad about Ukrainians or gambling. It's not that they really read my posts, I guess, but they're continually hitting them for some reason. The honest to God truth is, I'm not as pro-Ukrainian as I let on, and I despise gambling.

4. Present yourself as possibly crazy. -- I think the benefits here are fairly self-explanatory. People love crazy people. It helps their self-esteem to say, "I'm gonna keep reading that blog, to remind myself how blessed I actually am. And, I'll even recommend it to all my friends, normal and crazy alike. The normal ones will feel better about themselves, and the crazy ones will get crazier ideas, keeping the rest of us in normal self-esteem heaven."

5. Respect your audience. -- This is one I could write about about forever. Because I think of my audience, what they like and don't like. In a way, I'd love to have more comments. I believe my last comment was a year or so ago, seriously. But in a way, I like it like that. Because I'm so naturally a people-pleaser that if they said they didn't like something, I'd be careful to tiptoe around them. Then I'd be getting comments that "You've lost your edge," or whatever. And they'd be offended.

I do read comments at some of the larger news blog-like operations, and, even though I respect the audience (wink wink), their audiences don't deserve respect. They're grasping at every opportunity to make smart ass comments, to find fault, and to bicker. Then you get trolls who say inflammatory things to get a rise out of the overly-earnest, and the whole thing goes to hell. For me, then, blogging success is a nice comment every couple of years, unsigned, and not expecting to be patted on the head for it.

One other point on respecting your audience, I sometimes have the secret thought that my true audience isn't even born yet. Let me explain. As one of the world's only "Super Brains," everything I write is so intellectually advanced that very few people raised under our current pathetic educational standards are able to keep up. And, yes, I'm even including eggheads with Ph.D. degrees in advanced subjects. They've had such a narrow focus, that's all they know; in short, they're idiots.  Then there's the vast majority of the people who are essentially into two things, video games and tattoos, and I might throw in the reading of graphic novels. They started out dumb, then dumbed themselves down even further. It's all tragic, because, as I understand it, mankind has such great potential. I offer myself as Exhibit A+.

But still out there somewhere, just over the horizon, just waiting for decent mothers and fathers, are future generations, who will rise above all the bullcrap of our current day. Those are the ones I hope will discover my blog, still online long after I've died, who will become my true audience, the ones who will be able to grasp most of the high-flown things I say and appreciate it. Then they'll comment -- intelligent comments, not the crap that passes for discourse these days -- and I won't be here to see their comments. Meaning, whatever I wrote, I wrote without interference. It's all pure for them to read, pass on, and make a better world for everyone.

That's the audience I respect, not the usual morons I get.

AWARDS -- I've gotten many awards for my blogs. If you'd like to read about them, check out this link. Of all my awards, I'm most proud of the Gorton Fisherman Award for Writing Excellence, in 2010. As I recall, I caught lightning in a bottle and lived to write about it.

Bright Future -- No More February

As January comes to an end, we're on the verge of something big having to do with February. The stubbiest month, hallelujah, at long last is going down! To defeat! Once and for all, forever, to be purged from our calendar. Dead and buried in an unmarked grave. Let us rejoice!

But wait! Having said all that, let me also say -- this is regrettable -- that even as I sense its destruction, I also sense an inexorable shadow over the proceedings. The vision's hard to pin down, but I see looming just ahead, in my consciousness, that our 28-day foe may still have few tricks up its sleeve. Will it be brought down so easily? Of course I hope it will, but I feel we must proceed cautiously.

There's definitely something being unleashed, OK? Even now as I write this, I see the light. And yet, the shadow also grows, impinging on the light of January. Of course we know in a few days January will go away for another year. But what follows it? That's what we're trying to influence. This year, yes, we know it has to be February. The calendars have all been printed, passed out by the banks. And the banks more or less run things. Screw with their calendars and they'll keep our money. Basically the shadow says this: "February has many friends, not just enemies."

I don't want to discourage anyone reading this, far from it! But this spot, this shadow is becoming bigger in my mind's eye. Could it be a tiny bit of sawdust, something in my eye, that always looks bigger up close? No, this is not a physical thing. This is like the shadow of evil itself! Telling me, and cackling about it even, that February thinks it shall have the final victory! I know what you think I should say: "Not over my dead body!" But I'll stand back, because I don't keel over so easily.

Because I'm not accepting thee vision, not now, not ever. Instead, I feel that we have the power of light on our side, which shall drive out every shadow. As in days of old -- eternity -- the darkness cannot comprehend the light! Am I right, high five! Woo woo! Would everyone here kindly step to the rear and let a winner lead the way! We've got this bastard, bastard! Feb-RU-ary! You gonna be ruin' the day you ever set foot in this world, for you shall see your ruin! Pack your bags, Joe, hit the road, Jack, and don't look back. (A little trash-talkin' always makes me feel better.)

And yet, the darkness grows, exasperating me to no end. I stomp my feet, it's there. I hold my breath, it continues to loom. I'm turning blue, about to pass out, but I feel I cannot give in. How can such a short month stand against my powerful will? I'm getting consternated. That could be it, the key to my victory. Will and anger, consternation! My tantrums have never been known to fail. Must remain defiant, with confidence and faith, and all will be well.

Still, just to be on the safe side, I'm nudging my declaration of just yesterday, that by Feb. 3 we shall glimpse success against February. Playing it safe, I'm now saying we shall surely glimpse success over it, much more likely, by Feb. 6. We're ceding only three days! And what's three days, when our suffering has gone on for ... so many dark years...

The swift demise of February is still assured!

Little Old Fantastic Me Strikes Again

I'm remaking society in my own image. Isn't that great! Always thinking, always tinkering with things behind the scenes. Very nefarious, potentially, but always meant, strictly, for good.

On Twitter I've become something of a wild man, casting away all the norms of propriety, and I've struck out on my own. I whittled my "likes" down from something like 3,500 to 40. Making everyone crazy, no doubt. But to me it's fantastic, giving me something manageable to work with. Feeling great. I currently have 81.155555 times more followers than folks I follow, meaning I'm in huge demand, for once in my life.

Lest you think that's simply vain, let me assure you, it's not. Because in my way of thinking, this means I'm on to something, not being content merely to rest on my laurels. Instead, I'm contributing to world progress, happiness, and peace. After all, the more content you are, the more you are able to contribute in positive ways. I continue it today, through my peaceful writings.

You remember my post yesterday, to give an example, how I re-imagined what driving (traffic) could be like, virtually heaven on earth, if only we had something like a commandant/peon system, people like me being the commandants, with freer access to the roads, and peons like 81.15555% of the population, with more restricted access. I came up with that!

Then, as I recall, I also imagined the same commandant/peon system for the adoption of children and pets, both. That's radical, yes, and entirely level-headed at the same time. You can see the efficiency, and dare I say compassion, of such a system in an instant. What I'll be thinking of next, even I don't know. I only know I'm always thinking. And using tricks to jog my memory of everything I haven't thought of yet. See that? That's radical! And level-headed at the same time.

I can tell you a few of my mental tricks, things that give me the edge.

1) Tarot cards. When I get up in the morning, after having about a half cup of coffee, I shuffle the major arcana of my deck and draw a card. Let's say one morning I get the "Temperance" card. Every time I look at it I think of something new. There's a big angel with one foot in the water and one foot out. I'm always secretly hoping the lobster from "The Moon" card might come over and pinch his toe. Put those two cards together and you'd have something!

2) Meditation. One of the things I used to think was ideal was for meditation to empty your mind. Since I could never manage that, I went hog wild the other way. When I'm meditating -- and my exact routine is top secret -- I'm forever delving into some new way to enhance society and make humanity happier. My latest project involves Republicans and guillotines, but I haven't yet fully perceived the fullness of the ultimate goal. Only time, more meditation, and the availability of guillotines will tell!

3) Miscellaneous reading. I pick up at least 25 different books every week, intending to read each one. But I never get far, because the next one always looks more interesting. In this way I never actually finish a book, but I learn everything you can learn from the first 10-15 pages. This generalized smattering of knowledge doesn't do me a lot of good, but in guessing what I might have missed, I think of unexpected things. One plan I came up with for society is stocking the world's libraries with only the first 15 pages of each title, because the library would then be able to hold 100s more books. And if you get them on Kindle, the free sample usually covers the first 15 pages, so it's super cheap learning!

Everything in the world is getting better in every way, thanks to me! Which I've adopted as a daily affirmation, reading precisely like that: "Everything in the world is getting better in every way, thanks to me, little old fantastic me!"

Me and Mrs. Healy

I'm getting older all the time. I was thinking ahead a bit ago, what might be going on when I'm 70. That's only nine short years away!

The house here, Grandma's old house, is getting older all the time, too, and will probably be needing more than I can give it, long-term. Realistically, it's probably going to become necessary for me to move. Not right away; there's no hurry, but eventually.

I'm thinking, if I'm 70, and I need a place to live, I could do one of several options. I could get a new house, a big investment. I could rent an apartment, where rent's always going up. Then, here's the option I've thought about more, getting a room in someone else's house.

The way I'm picturing it is I get a room in an older lady's house, someone quiet like me. No upstairs neighbors, no downstairs. Quite, demure. Like if I'm 70, she's 87. I did this once when I was 19 or 20. I needed a room -- I thought -- so I got one at an older lady's house. But things suddenly changed and I ended up spending only one night with her and left, never to return. I can't remember exactly what was going on, but it wasn't that I was itchy.

At 70, naturally I'll be completely itch-free. Settled down. Like a rock. I've already shown myself rock solid, having stayed here for 40-some years. So I'll be in no rush to vacate.

Anyway, be all that as it may, say I'm 70, nine years from now, we're going to assume I see a sign at this older lady's house. She and I meet. We hit it off, and we agree that I will pay $385 a month to have the front room. That's OK, I can swing $385 easily enough on my Social Security and the few dollars I've put back.

As time goes on, I'm happy with Mrs. Healy's place, and we share a lot of good times in the living room. She's got some sewing projects, and bit by bit I'm taking on a lot of responsibilities. Getting soot out of the heater, poking cobwebs up in the corners, putting plastic on windows before winter, clearing the walk, going out for juice, etc.

I like the idea of being helpful, even if I am her paying boarder. We're cozy, and I'm protective of her well-being. After a while, we're like two old shoes together. We go halvsies on a new couch, and a new chair for the corner where she sits. It's quite a daring purchase, since she's had the chair since-- Well, she and the late Mr. Healy bought it 45 years ago.

Mrs. Healy has two daughters, and they occasionally check on her. They really love me, because I've been good for Mom, a breath of fresh air, and helpful. One of the thing's Mom used to do for them was cook a big Thanksgiving meal. Now we've restarted the tradition, with Mom pitching in where she can, a labor of love.

All the stuff I'm doing, it's all great for Mom. I have a place to live. The two daughters are great. They have kids, who like to go fishing once in a while at the park pond. Mom's even out, busying herself around the shelter house while the grand kids and I clean fish.

Pretty soon, we've essentially pooled our resources and we're doing fine. The $385 has long gone by the wayside, since I'm spending a lot more than that anyway, on the house, groceries, whatever. But I love it. All the companionship of Mom, the daughters, the grand kids, checking their homework. Giving them $10 for each A. Like any grandpa should.

Finally, Mrs. Healy gets ill -- so sad -- and we're all together at the hospital. The family needs a rock, which I provide. No one has stories of her like I have, of all the goodness she had, of her family, of the way she always kept Thanksgiving, and so forth. I have a great quote from her: "I've always wanted to hit 100, but if I don't, I've been so happy. Everything's been fantastic. I wish blessings on my grandchildren, my daughters, and Moss Stipple, my boarder."

The daughters insist I stay in the house. But I insist, No, it is rightly their inheritance. I get it prepared for sale, they make all sorts of money on it. I'm practically a father to them, and certainly a good old grandpa for the kids. But I move across town, their husbands helping me with my things, and obviously I have a great reference from them.

By now I'm about 80 myself. The next old lady I live with turns out to be an old reprobate, a gambler, a drinker, etc. Through sheer goodness, and the positive example I show everyday, I reform her and we both live happily ever after. She's still cranky, but always improving herself.

OK, so all that's one possibility. The thing about the future, though, is it never works out the way you picture it. My luck, I might get the reprobate first. Which when I move out -- in the event we don't live happily ever after -- dings my reference slightly. But I'm still a rock and later Mrs. Healy takes me in.

My Wife the Orangutan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Rant on Ants

Welcome to another rant on ants. Rants on ants are always the go-to essay for all great writers when they have nothing else to say. Because -- and this is where you nod -- we all have the same problem with the little buggers.

Emerson did a rant, as every yawning 8th grader can tell you, in his essay on Self-Reliance:

All men's prayers to be rid of ants are a disease of the will, making a disease of their creeds. You must do it yourself! But they say with those foolish Israelites, 'Let God smite this pestilence, lest we die trying. Heed thou, comfort any man of us, and we will receive thy help.' Everywhere I am hindered of my brother's despair for ants, because simply shutting his own door is no relief; to say otherwise is to believe fables, both against man's ability and of God's desire. Every mind may prove itself a mind of uncommon activity and power, with the innate cleverness to smite ants quite apart from Divinity!

Locke, Lavoisier, Hutton, Bentham, and Fourier, each one took up mental arms and successfully killed ants, for the most part. The system one chooses will be in proportion to the depth of the thought, and so the disposal of ants is within the reach of each pupil, if not for complacency. Exercising self-reliance, the pupil shares the delight of the learned in subordinating them to man's greater will, as a girl who has just learned botany enjoys seeing a new earth and new seasons thereby.

And yet how many will not learn, will not act! They do not yet perceive, that light, unsystematic, indomitable, will break into any cabin, even theirs. Let them chirp awhile and call it their own, until they're overrun with ants! Yet, if they are honest and do well, presently their problem, common to all, will die away and vanish, and the immortal light, all young and joyful, million-orbed, million-colored, will beam over the universe as on the first morning, before the first ant darkened this sod. 

And I believe it was De Quincey, in Confessions of an English Opium Eater, who observed:

If a man “whose talk is of ants” should become an opium-eater, the probability is that (if he is not too dull to dream at all) he will dream about ants.

Heh, that's a good advertisement for opium! I'd love to see some before and after pictures of opium-eaters! I'll bet they about scratch themselves to death in their sleep! Then they wake up, eat some more, go back to sleep and finish the job. All thanks to ants.

--BEGINNING OF MY ANT RANT: "Everything's Little, Everything's Big" --

I've been killing ants. I hate killing, but sometimes I just have to do it. Like when I'm overrun with them.

Thinking of ants, I observe that they seem to be very tribal. At least that's what I imagine about them. Queen ants, drones, sort of similar to bees. One of the weird things about ants is how much weight they can carry in relation to themselves. Like me trying to carry all the groceries in at once. That's why I choose plastic, although it's a killer on the hands.

That said, ants are also the ultimate punctual being, showing up at the butt crack of midnight the first day of spring. Somehow -- planned obsolescence -- the poison from last year expired yesterday and is ineffectual! Weird, because I know when I hit obsolescence it only made me bigger and better.

So that leaves me trying to kill them one by one, a hopeless task only presenting a tiny glimmer of hope by the certain knowledge that though they're numerous, they're not infinite. Were they infinite, I'd have to step up the pace of killing to keep up. Although, strictly, anything infinite necessarily tramples itself to death.

Falling short of that, it's up to me to kill them, even if it's against my conscience. I feel sad for the Queen, back in the nest, going, "WTF's going on with the drones? Either a revolt or some guy killed them." She has other worries too. The last few drones, seeing she offers no protection, might quickly evolve a patriarchal society, arming up for mutual protection. Leaving her to submit, accept a ceremonial role, and occasionally dress as a humble nurse to console the wounded in battle.

The thing that freaks me out about killing ants is how they must look under a microscope. Because I know if I had better eyes, they'd look immense and a horror. Then I'd see the true terror of the whole thing. I'm already thinking of it and feeling sick. This also goes for any truly microscopic being, but I have to say it's not sentimentality; I just prefer living and letting live, but, you know, you hate to be overrun. Too much mercy's a thankless thing.

Still, think of how big an ant is compared to a truly microscopic being. They're like a redwood! Now imagine the downside of that. Ants have to poop. Can you picture the droppings from something the size of a redwood all over your Formica counter? Not to mention the food on your counter, bananas, etc.

But here's the killer to the whole thing. Regardless of what we do, the future is wide open for ants and other vermin. Because, friends, I hate to break it to you, but I don't see the human species making it literally millions of years. But ants no doubt will...

Something like this is happening: We're macro but live in micro time. They're micro but live in macro time. We think we're "so bad" because our country's a little over 200 years old. Big deal. The creatures in macro time don't even think about celebrating till it's been a million years. So we destroy our environment, stupidly, because of this micro time thinking. But ants -- all they need is air, water, and whatever food happens to be handy, so macro time is theirs.

Someday, though---- Someday, long after we're gone, maybe they'll be like us. Maybe the little will become big, the size of dinosaurs, and demand too much from their environment. Until a meteor, the ultimate ant poison, comes blasting from the distant reaches of outer space, and finally gives them their comeuppance. And who knows? This is a great thought, who knows if it's one of our own space probes, arranged by our smartest scientists 100 million years in the past, that is the very thing to tilt that meteor toward earth! Isn't that great? That ants become complacent, being rid of us for 100 million years, and yet we still manage to kill them in the end.

My Death Year 2038 -- Living to 85

OK, as we all know, I'm going to live till I'm 85 years old. And we all know what year it is now. Which means, by the simple calculations I'm able to do, that my death year is 2038. (Depending on when my birthday is, it could go a certain extent into 2039, but you wouldn't really think I'd wait till the very last possible day, but who knows?)

I wonder what 2038 will be like for me, knowing what I know. It's a weird thing to contemplate, but I do believe it's still better to know. Because it frees me up in all the other years so I don't have to worry about it. It's a blessing knowing no random diseases are going to kill me till then -- very freeing. And I promise not to pray for an extension beyond 85, so 2038 (or into 2039) will be it.

I can't guarantee, though, that I won't be a little weird if it does come down to the very last day of my 85th year. Because I can't picture it just being a minute after midnight when I turn 85. Since I'd likely be in bed, and I fully expect to be conscious for death.  How about right after morning coffee? I make coffee around 5:40. I might tarry a little longer and enjoy my last cup. But what's the use of just one cup, when I have a full pot? It could be I'll drink it to the last drop, then go.

Or, it could be I'll live through lunch. But why eat if I'm going to die? I don't eat just for the enjoyment of it, but for sustenance, which implies a future. I've always thought the stupidest thing they do on Death Row is give the prisoners a last meal. It's a waste of food and time, watching the guy sop up the last bits of gravy.

That day, if I linger, I might make it till mid-afternoon. It actually makes sense that I would. My baby book says I was born around 3:30 p.m., so what time for my death would be more logical than that? It's probably encoded in my DNA. Still, there's no guarantee.

It could be the good Logos field will want me to have the beauty of a nice evening. I always love evenings -- a beautiful sunset, then the first appearing of the stars, the very last stars I'll ever behold in this present body. We came from the stars; that's also in my DNA. I can see my old withered body reaching for them, then die and mysteriously wing my upward flight, just a slow purposeful flapping upwards, mounting ever up, past the highest church steeples, and vanish in the great beyond.

Or, as we get later, maybe I will yet linger while time presses on. Between 8 and midnight, I see no reason to sleep. I'll probably go to my bookcase and say farewell to some old friends. I love the great authors. You know the ones. I can see me touching the spines of those great books, saying goodbye to each one and "See ya soon!" By now I'm wiping away a tear or two, thinking, "Today my precious treasures on the shelf, tomorrow 5 for a dollar at Goodwill."

If I make it to 10 or 11 -- I know I'll be tired, and yet surely I'll be easily revived. It can't be long now. Between 11 and 12, if it comes to that, I can see myself deep in prayer, and maybe even singing the old spiritual song I used to sing in church:

"Build me a cabin in the corner of gloryland,
In the shade of the tree of life that it may ever stand
Where I can hear the angels sing and shake Jesus' hand,
Build me a cabin in the corner of gloryland."

If I'm still here as it nears 12, I'm reaching out my arms. Old feeble arms I could barely lift at 80. Now they're sturdy and strong, as if iron, as I await my deliverance. Just before midnight, then, I ascend, my body falling gently, in slow motion, to my couch.

The Jumpatron -- Nothing Gets the Jump on Me

I know, it doesn't look like a 9000.
A guy modified it for me with parts
from a 9100. I like the added
horsepower of the second large gauge.

I've long been known as a trendsetter, even though I hate that word. Still, it's descriptive, and that's what counts. Other kids were doing the Twist, I did the Time Warp. In the days of tie-dye, I had a preppie look. When backpacks were the rage in the '70s, I carried a briefcase. Other kids carried their books one hand on the side, I held mine two hands. They tried to clear up acne, I went au naturel. They dated girls, I was stubbornly celibate.

I've taken some pride in all that only because a positive self-image means fewer expensive prescriptions. But what it really comes down to is a fear of someone or something getting the jump on me. The reason I've always anticipated trends -- what's hot and what's passe -- is that I've always studied the angles. Completely out of fear. Always looking behind me. Checking under the bed. Counting my pennies 10 times.

When it comes to the normal everyday things of life, I'm always thinking, "Yeah, it's cool-looking on one level, but what will it look like in 10 years?" So the future itself doesn't get a jump on me, I'm very judgmental of things.

You hear people do it all the time, but most of them are late. Like portable, mobile phones. One of my uncles had a car phone in the late '50s. He beamed with pride when he showed it to me. But it was like one of those old crank phones, about three foot tall, a horn you talked into, another piece you put to your ear, with a weird cloth cord. I hated to tell him, "Not good. You think it's cool, but this is about the dorkiest antique I've ever seen." I was five years old, so I couldn't hold back.

It wasn't till the '80s that the big monster cell phones, mobile phones, became a mass market item. But remember them? It was like a suitcase with an antenna. We had a youth pastor at church, around 1989, and he had a fake toy phone. He told the kids he thought he looked cool when he was driving around pretending to talk on it. "Look cool?" I thought, "please, that's so old -- even though it's new -- it's ridiculous!"

When you're this way, as I've always been, you're hard to impress. But, again, it's all fear. I realize that, this damned obsession with everything getting the jump on me. So what do I own? I'm a little embarrassed to say, I have an iPhone. I was real reluctant to get it, knowing how it's going to seem someday, but I've never had the talent to build my own phone of the future. And even if I did, I'd get in trouble trying to independently build an infrastructure to handle it.

That's also how I've been with music. The various decades stations on the radio never impress me. They're so excited to be living in the past. While, in the past, I had my eyes on the horizon. Have you ever listened to the '60s channel on Sirius XM? If it's the same as it was last time I was a captive audience and had to hear it -- while getting my oil changed -- you have DJs pretending it's 1966 or 1968, saying passe things like "Sock it to me!" and "You bet your sweet bippy." I remember that at the time. And I was sitting there silently, not allowing momentary catchphrases to get the jump on me. If I was going to say anything, it'd be something from the '70s, the Fonz going, "Aaaaaa!" Which didn't make sense, so I was silent.

You might think, "Wow! Let's follow this guy around. He'll point us to the next big thing, and we'll make a fortune." But it doesn't work that way, because even though I know a lot about what's cool, speaking of the future, even to tell someone is in essence the future getting a jump on me. I can tell you this much, the future's pathetic.

I've done some serious study of the past, as an aid to keeping ahead of the present and to anticipate the future. Looking at the old radios and old cars is a real blast. There's an interesting fact about radios from the 1920s. They look almost identical to modern radios/iPod/Bluetooth players, horizontal with two small speakers in front. Quite a bit different from the radio monstrosities of the '40s. I was always aghast at those big things. To think, we could've had a second garage. Or room for a Jumpatron, a time-traveling, time-shifting, trend-discerning piece of hardware. I just checked my 9000. It says that everything except itself is nearing obsolescence.

And as for cars of the past -- all of them being horrendous, very ugly -- the cars of the 1920s are so old-fashioned looking, it's pathetic. Those big square corners, looking like something out of a gangster movie. One, they should've totally avoided the gangster look. And, two, they should have realized, these SOBs just look old. I can see me now, if I were suddenly back in the '20s: "Is this the best you can do, or are you pulling my leg?" Sheesh!

The basic rule of thumb to remember is this: If it looks cool today, it's passe junk tomorrow. Get a jump on the future before it gets a jump on you. Essentially, don't do or own anything.

My Next Life in the 28th Century

I'm becoming an old man in the current century. I'm literally 60. And now I'm getting dizzy if I lay on my right side. That's no good. Obviously, I can't go on much longer. 20 years goes by too fast, and next thing you know I'll be 80, with even more problems. I'll probably be dizzy all the time. So I have to make plans for what's next, what's to become of me.

My idea, which I think is pretty good, has been to make careful arrangements to be cloned in the future. I'm looking toward a distant time -- the 28th century -- figuring that by then cloning will be old hat. Plus, you know, it just sounds good. The 28th century, a nice round number. And distant enough that I can look forward to a fresh start, but not so distant that I'll be dead forever. It might be like the first time I was born: Billions of years passed and I didn't even notice it. What's 700 years?

I'm also optimistic about the 28th century for another reason, that I've always had great faith in the younger generation. These are people who won't even be born for another 600-700 years. Realistically, you can't get much younger than that.

To accomplish this, of course I can't just die like everyone else, forgotten. Before that, I need to preserve my DNA, and let the folks of the 28th century know about me. I'm still working on the DNA, although I have already preserved some samples around my place. And as long as I hold out, I'll be working on it.

The 28th century people will know about me because they will be able to refer to this blog. I'm sure, with Google's efficiency and the government's careful preservation of everyone's records, that the content of this blog will outlive me, in my present incarnation, by many centuries. I have given my exact town and address numerous times in previous posts. Also, I have a prepaid full page ad with all the details in the Daily News to be published on January 1, 2750, right in the middle of the century. That seems fail-safe.

"Please clone me so I can come back. I have a great appreciation for 28th century culture, which I believe will be greatly enhanced by my actually experiencing it in person. So far, unfortunately, I have nothing but guesses about what it will be. Still, that's a lot more than those around me, my ignorant 21st century peers."

Like I said, there are DNA samples on my half acre. I have buried samples of phlegm, dandruff, blood, saliva, etc., with the containers clearly marked and wrapped in grocery store bags, which I'm given to believe will never decompose. I'm also keeping samples at the post office, Box 734. (There are also samples of a more personal sort, which I had quite a time producing. I'm reluctant to mention this, only because I don't want ladies desperate for children trespassing on my property looking for the ideal donor.)

If anyone can think of other ideas -- better ways to get the word to the 28th century -- which I seriously doubt, please leave a comment. But let me just say up front, I've already thought of groundhog holes; I just don't see how to make it work.

OK, what's in this for the 28th century? I think it's win/win, as I'm already a time traveler, one who has already straddled two centuries, the 20th and 21st. I have proved my adaptability in different settings. When I was a kid we had a home phone. Now we carry our phones with us. I can tell them about our great progress. Like how we used to use the same phone in our homes all our lives. But now we need a new one every two years. Plus, I'll be able to tell 28th century archaeologists all about our times, how everyone got along so well, except for minor exceptions, like our unfortunate world wars.

What I'm hoping for in the 28th century is the simple life. I figure by then, with the apocalyptic chaos still to come in our time, that life will be generally agrarian, folks keeping it simple, being one with nature, going fishing and whistling. I'm expecting there will be lots of time for reading, pleasant conversation, and congenial village life. Like the Andy Griffith Show, without the conflict.

I'm also hoping, and call me visionary, that when I'm in the 28th century, that I'll be burying my DNA once again, placing a prepaid ad in the newspaper, a sample at the post office, etc., with a message to the people of the 35th or 36th centuries, to clone me again. I'll leave it up to the folks of those centuries to decide which one they think will be best for someone of my tastes and abilities. If the 35th wants me, fine. Or the 36th might tell them, no, they'll take me.

Part 3 -- A Lot of Legs, Six To Be Precise

PART 3 of 3

The vision of the naked child, having been revealed as signalling a potential rebirth of Father Time, seemed to mean one thing: Father Time was somewhere in the area.

In his last sermon, Walt promised the people they would kill Father Time, and further rallied them to, "Chase Father Time to hell and back if necessary. However far it is, however long it takes, we will ensnare him, and once ensnared, we will kill him!"

Then it all happened quite quickly. Father Time was just over the next hill, standing there on his one remaining leg. The leg Walt had severed with the scythe was a healed stump, which would've been tough to see under his robe, but he had hiked the robe up momentarily to scratch an itch. When he saw the people coming out with swords and staves, and Walt there in front, the most prominent, with the scythe, he showed his vulnerability by dropping the robe. By dropping the robe, I mean he dropped it to the ground, then on his remaining leg, hopped over it.

Father Time stood naked and proud! He seemed a sympathetic figure. The people stood there in a phalanx, not knowing what to think, while Walt proceeded forth alone. "You have come to kill me, haven't you, Walt?" "Yes, " Walt said, "and not only to kill you but to send your soul to damnation," not understanding the nature of anything. And with all those years of contemplation in the mountains! What a dope...

Without delay, then, in rashness, Walt charged ahead. But Father Time stood firm, yielding himself to the scythe, simply allowing Walt to hack him to death. That was simple, Walt thought. And he kept thinking it, until the pieces of old Father Time's body vanished, and a new Baby Time appeared in the same place, this time not just a vision. Walt had unknowingly reinvigorated Father Time, being lured into it.

The baby spoke: "I am Father Time. The idea of me ever being old, or for that matter, young, is nothing but a crock of crap. You cut off my leg, yes. But you see now I have two legs. And I could grow back six more if I wanted!"

The people in the phalanx suddenly sensed themselves withering away to nothing. They were being judged. They wrinkled up quickly, something fierce. In a moment, they were all dead. As for Walt, he was granted several minutes for his final contemplation, but death for him would also be swift. He complained, "So you got me, did you? Now I must die, having never had the privilege of someday seeing my great great grandchild graduate from college. If I have only one regret, it is that I ever thought of 'killing time.' Now I see, I should have set forth better goals for myself, then knocked myself out trying to reach them."

Baby Time aged quickly and was now Father Time again in appearance. He raised his scythe in a kind of salute toward Walt, sort of like what you see between bitter enemies in Star Trek, a nice recognition of spirit and life being held in common, regardless of how apart they are in values and background. But suddenly there was a frown on Father Time's face, and his grasp on the scythe was intense. Walt seized up in excruciating pain and fell dead.

Concerning the townspeople, it's very interesting that the ones who died were the more high-minded, involved ones of the town. Only the ones who'd been oblivious to the whole struggle of life, who didn't care, were able to live happily ever after ... till they would eventually die of such old age that they were content to go.

Finally, in the lore of all this, there went this saying abroad, that from now on Father Time would appear not only with his two normal legs but six other legs besides. But he had not said that he would grow six legs, only that "I could ..."

PART 1 -- Father Time Being Blunt
PART 2 -- Have Scythe, Will Travel

Part 2 -- Have Scythe, Will Travel

PART 2 of 3

Years passed quickly, lickety split. You know how time goes. Sometimes it seems like it takes forever, then 40 years are gone. Cute little kids are suddenly ugly adults. It's a slippery slope, like ice. No one likes cold, but what can you do? There's plenty of things I don't like, but I still have to put up with them.

Walt had his complaints, too, but he could only press on, clutching Father Time's stolen scythe in his hands. He was like a fugitive, his life completely changed, forever on the run, always looking over his shoulder, never getting too comfortable. Because Father Time's vow had been that he would kill him. And now that he had cut off Father Time's leg, it might be hard to get back into his good graces.

But then quite a few years went by, and in all that time he never once encountered the old man again, so he started to think maybe the scythe had great powers of protection. He toyed with the idea that the scythe was the source of Father Time's power all along. But he was never comfortable.

It went on like that. Then, after 10 or 20 years wandering and hiding, Walt sought to regain his confidence and went far up into the mountain, where he contemplated the whole thing. Then, while resting on a precipice on one knee, and watching a circling eagle, he came to an inner knowledge that his time of going down had come. His old fear was gone. So down he went, arriving in a small village and appearing in their marketplace. As the townspeople gathered around, he gave a sermon on time: "The idea of wasting time is a lie. Your ambition to redeem time is the true waste. Do whatever you want, it's all the same."

The people of the town figured he was just a crank who had been exposed to too much of the blistering sun, either that or he was crazed by love and feeling, and internal thoughts protracted among endless solitudes. And now he had come to ensnare them in the same craziness; that's why he came down, they reasoned, to give us this obviously false message.

But suddenly, in addition to the prophet being there with them, there was in a beaming vision a naked child in a barrel, who appeared in their midst without warning. Walt felt himself go faint, nearly a dead faint. Could it be? Was it? Yes, it was Baby Time in an unformed, nebulous state, like he was out there somewhere, craving to be reborn. The barrel covered him like the protection a turtle gets from its shell. Also, he had no scythe ... and was so helpless he wouldn't have been able to use it anyway.

None of the greybeards in the town had been able to silence Walt, but this naked child not only silenced him, he made him go completely mute. In fear, Walt raised the scythe, motioning the others toward the child, as if to say, "Let's get him!" But none of it worked, the people apparently transfixed and in too much fear.

In that instant, Walt's prophetic voice returned, and he implored the people. "It's you or him!" But the child vanished, leaving the barrel behind. The townspeople had now been worked up enough to kill the child, had he not vanished, but they could only destroy the barrel, breaking it down to its constituent parts, several staves, which also vanished as if they'd been mist.

Walt rallied their flagging spirits with one final sermon, ending with these ominous words: "He's out there somewhere! We shall find him! We shall kill Father Time!"

PART 1 -- Father Time Being Blunt
PART 3 -- A Lot of Legs, Six To Be Precise

Part 1 -- Father Time Being Blunt

PART 1 of 3

This story didn't happen to me. It happened to a guy I'm calling Walt. Walt came just that close to Father Time, he of the mighty scythe. Very close!

Father Time appears from time to time. Usually around New Year's, but that doesn't preclude other visits. When he appears, it's most often bad news. Like his own temporary death in late December. If he appears to an individual any other time, it is said, it's usually bad news for that person.

Well, Father Time did show up before Walt, scythe in hand, with a word: "You've wasted me. You spoke of 'killing time,' then followed through on it. I felt myself weakening, and it was only because of many other people, good people, passing me in the proper way, that I regained strength. Now you die!" With that, he raised his scythe...

Walt yelled, "Wait! You're Father Time, please give me just a moment. Let me explain. I thought I needed to waste time, for my own well-being. I didn't know it'd hurt you. By 'killing time,' I meant taking time for relaxation, chilling out, and taking time to play with the kids."

But Father Time would not be reasoned with. "Kids have all the time in the world. You were simply wasting your time playing with them. Let them go outside. They can play outside. They'll entertain themselves. You've made very unwise choices." Walt tried to object, but Father Time slashed his scythe through the air and nearly took off his head.

The old timer then paused, "I am stolid in my conviction that you should die. But I am also merciful. Use me wisely, or next time I won't miss! After all, you're the one who first spoke of 'killing' me. It'll be your turn to see how it feels."

Walt moderated himself, not wanting to incite Father Time any more than he had to, as he was clearly unhinged. He raised his hands, conceding the point. He thought, 'Give him his space. Keep calm. Let the old bastard state his case, then I'll get the hell out of here.' He asked, "What should I be doing?"

Father Time's will for Walt was this: Sleep deprivation, staying on the treadmill of life, burning the candle at both ends, striving endlessly, hungering to see another day, and creating meaningless goals. "Your prayer should be that you will live to see your great great grandchild graduate from college. Then knock yourself out in order to make it happen!" He further directed Walt, "And buy nursing home insurance -- you're going to need it."

Walt saw in this some kind of omniscience on the old chronographer's part. "So I will live that long?" Father Time was quick to answer, "I didn't say that. I'm Father Time, ever in the now, never looking ahead. I couldn't if I wanted to. But what I have said, I have said."

What an admission! He may as well have lifted his robe and just let one fly in the breeze. It'd be worth about as much. Walt concluded all at once that Father Time is just a worthless old personification of the inexorable slipping of one second to another. The old bastard doesn't know anything, and if he does, it doesn't amount to anything. Basically just a pompous old poser.

Walt was nothing if not bold. With that quick insight, and knowing he had the upper hand, he was quick to the ground and back up, throwing dirt in Father Time's eyes. In a flash, he grabbed the scythe, and with equal quickness whipped it through the air, cleanly cutting off one of Father Time's legs.

As Father Time writhed on the ground, a bloody mess, Walt ran away, yelling back, "I will waste you if I want, I will kill time! Your ideas of the future suck!"

PART 2 -- Have Scythe, Will Travel
PART 3 -- A Lot of Legs, Six To Be Precise

Men's Underwear -- 2013 Vs. 1913

I always said I wouldn't get involved in these pointless debates of what they had in the past vs. what we have now. For one, who is there to debate with? If we're talking about 2013 vs. 1913, there's plenty of us, but very few people from 1913. And even if they were from 1913, they wouldn't have stayed in 1913, they'd be right here with us in 2013.

This has been a constant with me, ever since I saw the episode of "Bewitched" where Benjamin Franklin comes back from the past and is immediately driving a fire truck. Those from the past adhere to the things of their time only until they're brought to the future. It's something of a law, The Past Adherence/Present Forbearance Law, unless you can think of something snappier.

If we're debating, let's say, the relative merits of men's underwear from 1913 vs. 2013, were we to bring a guy here from 1913, he'd probably say the underwear of 2013 is better. And for another reason, simply because the average man from any time doesn't have any real reason to tout the underwear of his time particularly; he's not cheering for 1913, per se, but only looking for comfort, in addition, of course, to good value and other qualities.

But these debates come up anyway, because we really have this urge to compare ourselves to someone else and take sides, whether for our own self image, or, it's conceivable because someone actually believes there's merit in it. Like I said, I've always said I didn't want to get involved in such things, but -- forgive me -- this one is too interesting to simply let it go. I really would like to see a decent debate over the underwear of 2013 vs. that of 1913. And you know what, I truly believe 2013 would kick 1913's ass!

It's been a hundred years, folks, and the issue has dragged on for too many years: Is the men's underwear of 2013 truly superior to that of 1913? I'm going to say yes.

Just looking at the picture, the underwear of 1913 looks pretty tough, too tough for me. I'll give 1913 this, their underwear definitely looks durable. But who really wants that toughness? You'd be sleeping, if you were lucky enough to get to sleep, and you'd feel the toughness of that fabric. A gunny sack would be more comfortable. But the picture from 2013 shows a lighter fabric, something that breathes, something that goes with your body, not against it. It's definitely going to be more comfortable. We've made strides since those dark days when it comes to fabric. The pictures don't lie.

Another thing, going by the above presentation, the guy from 1913 himself looks like a tough old buzzard, whereas our 2013 contemporary looks cool, calm, and collected. It's something about the underwear -- Mr. 1913 turned into some kind of mountain man/hermit, with no access to a razor, with it having something to do with the underwear. Maybe he didn't want anyone to see that weird codpiece on him.

OK, I'm getting too negative. Instead, I want to focus on the qualities of 2013's underwear, and that will keep things more positive. First, I like the way the straps on the shoulders are so delicate, fitting like a dream. But look at our friend from 1913, it's definitely a tight fit at the neck; he's going to be itching all night. Then there's the legs. 2013 has shorts, much more comfortable, unless it's winter, in which case 1913 has the upper hand, not forgetting for a second the lack of comfort in the fabric.

Finally, notice that 2013 has a smile on his face. But 1913 is looking somewhat more dour, even perplexed at what's happening: Have I somehow traveled into the future and met a man who's going to taunt me for my old fashioned underwear? I'm buttoned up tight, but look at him, loose as a goose. Were we to strip down to our bare nubbins, he'd beat me in a heartbeat. He'd be nude in a jiffy while I was still fidgeting with my neck piece. Then he'd be under the covers just that quick, that nubile 100-year-younger flesh pressed against the satin sheets, waiting for me, an older and more experienced man to crawl in with him. Imagine that, a guilt-free roll in the hay, since I'm from 100 years in the past and no one knows me. I could be Rip Van Winkle for all this guy knows. And they're not expecting me back in 1913. I think I'll go for it. And maybe he'll turn me on to some halfway decent underwear when it's all over. Then next week I'll have a job driving a modern fire truck, putting out other fires. Hey, baby boy, come to Poppa...

The Pester Prophecy

There it is now, the once mighty gas station. Proof that life is bittersweet. That things change and pass away, leaving behind empty buildings with no respectable burial and memorial.

What optimism and pride they had going in with this station! Ozymandias come to life! Even though it looked small to everyone else, they were all up in your face about it: We're number 1! We can't be beat! Ha ha, even now I'm shaking my head. But I've never rejoiced in the station finally going down. I'm more an impartial observer of human nature and human pretensions, not a judge. It's just that I've just been particularly gifted (cursed?) with the longer range view, that always sees the balloon popped.

Of course people don't always like to see me coming, which I also understand. Honestly, it's true, prophets know the whole story. We're able to see not just the narrow truth of the moment, but the feelings others have about the process in process, that we're cranks. Sometimes you'd just like to keep your mouth shut...

In the last few days we had a weird May snowstorm. So I went for a drive around town to see it, and couldn't help noticing the forlorn former Pester station on its corner, which I've seen many times. But this time, with the weather and the snowy untouched driveway, it was a lot different than it used to be, years ago, when customers were in and out constantly. I remember the glory days, then the struggles to keep it going -- open and shut -- and finally what essentially became an abandoned site.

Looking back, I'm remembering a friend of mine, a guy from high school, who worked there. Back then,  you'd get a job and automatically think, This is it! I'm here till retirement! Nothing can interfere with my hopes and dreams! I'm young enough to trot out and pump gas! When I'm 30, I'll still be fast. When I'm 40, a little slower. At 50, my son will help me. At 60, I'm the patriarch, manning the register. At 65, I retire. But the gas station will be here forever!

Looking back, I started remembering the day the spirit of prophecy hit me, hit me hard, hit me good, hit me so good I shook like a leaf. You know? It's a burden. Dark clouds stream past your inner eye. You see something like murky waves coming against a dark indistinct shore and receding. You see something like bats fluttering madly in a cold cave, dropping disgusting guano everywhere. And you're scared, which then becomes perplexity, then there's a strange warmth, then confidence. Buttons start popping off your shirt; you're spiritually hulking out. Your chest is very hairy.

Well, that day -- in the early '70s -- I happened to be at the Pester station. My friend smiled broadly and spread his hands, as if to say, "What a magnificent place, huh? This is a vast, inviolable domain, the best that ever was. Like a fortress, the 8th Wonder of the World." I wanted to lie, I seriously wanted to run away, to sob and beg that this curse would be removed from me. But I couldn't budge. So I lifted my mantle and enclosed my friend there in the darkness. And then, between him crawling out to wait on customers and returning, just the two of us, with words to this effect, I prophesied:

This vast gas station that you see today, advertised ceaselessly on the radio -- "Pester, ding ding, It's a gas!" -- and indeed very popular, one day will sit deserted, completely abandoned. Those upright racks of oil, so neatly arrayed, will be gone, as will be all this merchandise: Cases of Pepsi, air fresheners, cigarettes, maps, the peanut machine and all the rest. The cash register, gone. All the signs identifying the station, the price of gas, and other in-store specials will be removed. And you, even though you're confident today, one day you shall leave in despair. There's more, much more, but the vision is fleeing.

Of course, he told me I was cracked. And maybe I was, but look again at the photo. Do you see any gas pumps, cases of Pepsi, signs, merchandise, a peanut machine, anything that would even remotely suggest I was wrong?

Before I left -- I remember this so well -- I approached him again and told him it was no pleasure for me to reveal these mysteries, but I was compelled. Maybe it was so he'd be able to envision his future differently and dream anew, or maybe there was just some other reason, unknown to all, just the spirits messing with us. As for the rest, in addition to reiterating that the prophecy would come true, I said, "You don't believe me about the station's desolation. Give me your phone number and someday I'll message you a picture of it."

Well, that really did it! He goes, "Now I know you're crazy! You can't send me a picture on the phone, Dick Tracy!" I had to smile; he wasn't ready for this one.