The Pages of History

My basic point today is that the past is not set in stone. It can be changed, if there's a very good reason and if you don't know what you're doing. Naturally, I don't know what all the good reasons would be, but I feel a dire emergency might qualify. Similar to adrenalin, where a 99-pound weakling is able to lift a Mac truck to save a kitten. Plus, I think swearing-to-something is important enough in the cosmic economy that you could just change history.

Here's how I see it working. Say you're with people and everyone's shopping and wants something. There's a buddy system, and you're buddies with a girl who's wasting her money. She wants a new pair of shoes, but you're afraid she won't stop there. So you get her to swear. "Do you swear on your dog's grandfather that you won't buy anything but shoes?" She thinks, "My dog never even met his grandfather. Do dogs even have grandfathers? I've never met him either," so she swears. But you go to the bathroom and come back and she's bought extra shoe strings. The phone rings and her dad tells her her dog's gone. "He was just here!" the dad says. She gets home later and there's no sign of the dog. She swore on "The Pages of History!" A bad thing. But she reasons, "The dog ran away, I'll get a new dog."

The second episode also drives the point home, but perhaps there's wiggle room here too. Two buddies at the state fair. The undisciplined one is eating everything in sight, much to the other's consternation. "Someone's gonna get sick!" he thinks. Now, the undisciplined one wants a corn dog. The disciplined one remembers his buddy's dad has a bunch of Boy Scout memorabilia on the mantle, souvenirs of when he went to National Jamboree. "Do you swear on your dad's Jamboree stuff that this corn dog will be the last of your prodigality?" He swears. But next thing he's got a snow cone! They get home and the Jamboree collection's gone. His dad's on the couch, crying, thinking thieves broke in. But his son knows, or believes, he screwed with "The Pages of History." On the other hand, maybe they were stolen. Father knows best!

The last incident is similar, with one gigantic difference. Two friends walk by DQ. One friend hasn't had a snack all day and the other's gorged himself on snacks. Clearly, he doesn't need anything. The first one says he wants a snack, but only if the other swears on the existence of DQ itself that he won't have anything. He thinks, "The existence of DQ itself?! What kind of idiot are you? DQ has a worldwide outreach and has been in business 60 or 70 years." In this case, however, he doesn't order a thing. He's true to his word. But going to the table, he sees an extraneous chocolate chip and eats it. Immediately they find themselves empty-handed, standing on a vacant lot, no whoosh of the store disappearing or anything!

They call the police and report the disappearance of DQ, but because no one's ever heard of DQ, they think it's a crank call! The police get there and the two guys are standing there. But there's no way they can convince anyone who's never heard of DQ that an ice cream shop was ever there. Their sincerity keeps them from going to jail. The friends leave and research it. Indeed, there's not a DQ anywhere in the world! The whole enterprise is simply gone ... vanished from memory ... all because the guy violated his oath with a chocolate chip!

In this case I see a whole different ending. Showing that you could mess with "The Pages of History" and come out on top. They know the concept of DQ is a winner, so they immediately get loans and investors and build 12,500 DQs throughout the world, and they're filthy rich within weeks. They try then with all their might to swear to things and renege, hoping they can duplicate their success with McDonald's and all the others. But as it turns out, you can't do it on purpose .... it had to be true swearing. They sell DQ back to Warren Buffett, who doesn't remember he already owned it, and retire at 14.

So here's the problem. You (my reader) can't do it now either, no matter how hard you try, because I tainted your mind with the idea. And if you tell anyone else to do it, having impure motives, no matter what they do, they won't be able to screw with "The Pages of History" either.

My advice is forget the whole thing. Then maybe someday, innocently, you'll forget and swear to something worthwhile and accidentally get rich. But don't count on it.

Meadow-Gold Ice Cream And My Dad

Family Trivia Question: What is the one thing that my dad couldn't stand to eat? No, let me rephrase that: What kind of ice cream did he absolutely hate? Not what flavor ... what brand? I mean. This is actually a stumper even for some people who knew him pretty well. But not me. Because I know the answer -- it's ingrained in my memory -- Meadow-Gold!

My dad made it crystal clear to us growing up that he despised Meadow-Gold ice cream. Given the choice of Meadow-Gold ice cream or dirt, he would've been a man of the soil every time. He didn't like the stuff, although seriously I can't remember why, or even if he ever said. It seems like he alluded to getting sick from it, which probably came from a bad batch or something.

That would make sense. Because, and this would be through no fault of the Meadow-Gold company itself, if you have thousands of independent ice cream shops and stands, there would have to be one once in a while that wasn't storing it right, or was selling it after its expiration date. I think way back then they probably didn't even have expiration dates on stuff, so it would be a case of keeping it too long, maybe even out of ignorance. I was at a grocery store a couple weeks ago and saw some meat still in the cooler that had an expiration date of three days before. I pointed it out to the meat guy and he immediately removed it. So if they're lax today, what might have happened in 1938?

My dad was born in the early '30s, so I'm just guessing, maybe his bad experience with Meadow-Gold happened when he was somewhere between five and ten. Those are formative years. You get hold of something rotten when you're that age and you don't forget it. To this day I will not touch Jack Daniel's whiskey, although to be fair, the half-full bottle we found at the train-yard might have been pissed in by a hobo.

I found the above ad, the original elements of which come from 1938. We can clearly make out that Meadow-Gold advertised their ice cream as great stuff. Ice cream itself was "The King of Foods," and among ice cream brands, Meadow-Gold "reigns supreme." That's pretty good! You're the King of Kings, the Jesus of dairy. "You're getting the best, the purest, the freshest..." they said. Of course my dad would be lured into eating Meadow-Gold.

But then what? Assuming as we are he got some from a bad batch and the entire brand isn't crap, just going by my imagination of what happened, he ate it, it tasted not terrible, then later he vomited his guts up. It had to be something traumatic for him, to swear off a particular brand even 50 years later. We'd be driving along, see a Meadow-Gold sign, want ice cream, and inevitably he'd say, "I don't like Meadow-Gold."

Now he's dead, so I can't ask him to give me the full scoop. It's one of the biggest regrets of my life. Why, why, why, when he lay a'dying, did I not ask him why he hated Meadow-Gold ice cream so much?

The Next Generation - What Do I Care?

I was out having ice cream. After a while, quite a few other customers were there. Suddenly, I noticed they were all women. I was the only guy. It made me think of what might happen if all the restrictions and mores of civilization were suddenly removed, like if we were all stranded hopelessly on a desert island.

In that case, they'd probably notice me sitting there, instead of being oblivious. As it was, they were having ordinary conversations, unaware of my presence. But on a desert island, and as the situation became obviously hopeless, they might have different ideas. Such as what I might have to offer, in addition to building huts and keeping down weeds.

But I can picture myself as not all that interested. Because I'm no pushover. I might even protest, "Ladies, I'm 58!" They'd probably think, "Beggars can't be choosers," which is true. I imagine they'd try to sweet talk me, "58 is the new 28." To which I'd have to counter, "I used to be 28. It's nothing like 58."

In this scenario, they'd have a big women's council, trying to pressure me into bringing satisfaction to them, which I would resist with everything in me. And it's not like there was anything wrong with them. There were a few younger than me, like 35-45. They didn't look too bad. I saw some tight jeans and hips adequate to any task. There were a couple high school girls, probably underage, depending on what jurisdiction the island was in. I wouldn't touch them.

But still, I don't want the pressure that goes with being the only guy. In desperation, suddenly, they're trying to force me, making me flee to a remote part of the island. I'm hiding out in the trees, in a cave, etc., and not wanting to make a sound lest they hear me. Finally, a few of them get ahold of me and I'm strung up on a stick, hands and feet, being carried upside down back to the council headquarters, around a raging bonfire. They take me into a hut, manned by their queen, who tries to reason with me: "We are going to need to raise up the next generation. We're looking to you to father children who will keep our lines going."

My obvious protest is that we are on an island, we are not the only people in the world. There's no reason for us to worry about the next generation. But she makes a good point, that the legacy of some of these ladies is right here. Maybe they want to have kids. And maybe they want to pass on a heritage to them, how Fate brought us to this island to learn lessons and pass on a heritage.

But I'm very blunt: "The next generation? What do I care? I've never cared about the next generation!" So I resist the best I can, but I have to say, forgetting about the next generation, a little human companionship might do me some good. I've got my eyes on those tight jeans. She's standing in one spot, reaching over to the left to get something. The right leg comes up off the ground. I'm sitting on a bench, getting an eyeful. Is it by accident or design? Nothing happens on this beach by accident, I decide. It's all meant as a seduction, and it's only by the greatest willpower that I don't take her right then and there!

I try to retreat to the other side of the island again. Perhaps I can spell out SOS on the one of the beaches with coconuts. But I look up -- it's been 10 years and they're all very desperate -- and here they come, waving machetes. Making it clear that I'm either going to submit or they'll extract what they need with the machetes, raising up children by hook or crook.

In the end, I have no choice but to relax and everything gives way. All my objections melt in the first rush of release. Next thing I know -- and I would've never guessed it -- they're lined up outside my hut morning, noon, and night, wearing me out like crazy. The years pass. I now have a number of grown sons to handle the heavy lifting with the ladies. Obviously, inbreeding is a concern, but what do I care? I've never cared about the next generation...

Then, at long last, I have all the time to do what I want. I sit and look at the ocean and hope someday they'll rescue us. At least me. I'll leave the next generation behind.