The Most Attractive Men

Part 25 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

What do I find attractive? Depends on the day and the eyes I wake up with. But attractive or not, everything's off limits till we boldly go after it. Rubber stamp a court order, barge in, this is a take-down, a shakedown. And the rules are on our side. It's a bad time to be a perp. Even if I only imagine myself doing something criminal or psychotic I know how they'll take me down. That's a good perspective to have. And that the two ends of every life are birth and death.

Attractive? Sure, my mind goes there. I mentioned kindergarten teachers before; they've got it goin' on, even as I consciously wonder, "Who do you think you're fooling? It's been done to death." Then there's tougher gals, making the two extremes, innocent and guilty. We just covered all-night waitresses. And there's everyone else, of every tribe and nation. I used to see those pictures of naked ladies from other tribes and a bone in their nose and not get it. I get it now. The guys there are desperate.

So we're looking at the balance between the absolute innocent and the absolute wanton. And there's a lot to that — it’s in the myths, the mommy that babies you and the mother who guts and fillets you. I hope waitresses will forgive the jab, but next time I’m in your joint how about a grin for the road and not the blunt end of a frown? You could've killed me in the crib but you didn't.

Sure, accused men, even the psychotic, are attractive, the center of their own nucleus and gravity. Who doesn't know that? The law swarms them, never to their liking. Even if the accusation isn't immediately clear, round up the usual suspects and we'll sort it out. In the picture Josef K acts like he doesn't know why he's under arrest. When the evidence is everywhere. He can't contain it. Everywhere he goes he's clearly seen, bad behavior massively askew and guilt pouring everywhere through the cracks. He could've just died in the opening scene rather than stringing us along and gumming up the works. Dispatch him quickly and give us the rest of the day off.

But if we must work, let's work... Get on with the important mission of spotting the guilty, the confused, the infirm. Frankly, it’s all I can do not to tackle and arrest people simply for their own good. You see them a mile away and what they’re up to. You know where they go and you know what they do there. There's no reason to hide behind niceties, it's disgusting. And if I know that much, there's no denial of the rest. We started out with enough to go on, pal. Let’s get you some help, if you'll submit before it's too late. And if it takes pouring money into another ambulance or two -- I'd love to have a vacation instead -- so be it. Every little bit helps.

You all have something you can do to speed things along: Don't hide in the shadows. Surrender immediately, confess. We're not going away. We're going to get you hook or crook. But you'll be fine. What exactly are you trying to protect? What you've got's no good; let's make it better. You know me. I'm against all wanton feeling up, all invasiveness. It never happens. Don't listen to anyone. I'll cuddle you like you were my own family jewels.
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Photo from movie "The Trial," starring Anthony Perkins. From the novel by Franz Kafka.

Grandma vs. Guidance Counselor

 No. 21 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

I’m looking at the picture one last time before launching into this and it makes me smile. This might be the best, most decisive evisceration ever of a guidance counselor. But if you have a better graphic evisceration, I’d be happy to set it side by side mentally and judge.

As graphic eviscerations go, it’s hard to say it’s better than he deserves, since in this one case the guidance counselor deserves only the best. It’d be a humbling thing to see the look on his face as he looked at it. I'd get a tingle in my legs. And I’m nice enough, remember, to have sympathy for him, so I'd probably not even show him. But if he had an ounce of humanity at this point, I hope he'd be a little humbled. Of course then he'd get a grip and shake off the humanity and swear it never happened! Or swear it would never happen again because he's now dead...

We ought to have an Evisceration-Off. All you need is the world’s bitterest grudge and a willingness to admit it, then put it in the most drastic terms you can think of. Notice how my guidance counselor never comes in for shades of gray. The ounce of humanity I gave him was a stretch. Because you can’t eviscerate in slow motion or by half measures. It’s not compassionate to the recipient of your grudge. Like skinning a rabbit, it has to be fast. And lest I look bad with that statement, remember, I didn’t start this fire. He was the one in charge, not me.

Anyway, we have here a truly compassionate person, Grandma, telling me that she was just reading an article about women’s boots, something perfectly wonderful, then assuring me that I can do whatever I set my mind to. Isn’t that just like her? The important news about what she was reading became a touching defense of her grandson’s ability to set his mind on things!

Then on the other hand, what have we here but His Unholy Eminence, the world’s most concrete evidence of the existence of a literal devil, the guidance counselor, doing his level worst to cut me down. I need to read his poisonous words again, which I’ve put in his mouth, to get the full impact of his evil: “Whatever it is, you’ve shown you can’t possibly accomplish it.” That's harsh! And might be even too drastic for him, but in putting it that way I’m consolidating numerous slights, interpreting rolled eyes, etc., so naturally it needs to be essentially the opposite of what saintly Grandma said.  She read an article about boots and encouraged me in the same breath. But he does the exact opposite.

Now look at me in the middle, torn between pure goodness and abject evil, not countermanding the guidance counselor or even thanking Grandma for her fashion sense and sense of my righteousness, but speaking from my own intellect on a book designed for children but still impressive enough to be called a psychological tome -- sort of like Dr. Seuss -- of a cat and mouse sharing the same name. Which could be applied to me and the guidance counselor. We’re either two individuals or the same mega-person in an inner titanic struggle — good vs. evil. Two souls in one body, like something from Star Trek, with the Enterprise in mortal danger for about 49 minutes.

I seriously like this graphic more than all the others! One, it gives me a remembrance of Grandma. Two, it takes my breath away to hear the guidance counselor’s verbal poison, and it makes me feel good about myself in the center, an overlooked scholar enchanted about a cat and mouse, while no doubt raising in my own core lessons about guidance counselors and how they go bad.

Guidance Counselor Recitations

No. 18 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

We don’t recite enough these days. I must’ve been born in the wrong century. I think it would’ve been cool to be one of those guys in the past who goes town to town reciting things. Before TV, before radio, when it was your memory and a confident ability to warble out inspiration. It’s hard to picture us these days, or even in the last 50-60 years, being patient with recitations. But people used to love it.

And it’s stuff that I don’t even know. I actually do know a bunch of Bible passages more or less because that’s one of my interests. But recitations once upon a time was so much more. Verses from Whittier, Shakespeare, and other literary talents, and no doubt a lot of  wash-ups from the past as well. The greats and plenty of hacks.

How’d they do it? Why’d they do it? Other forms of entertainment were totally primitive compared to now. I have a TV set up where I record movies to my cloud 24 hours a day, but I have time to watch maybe four or five a week. The others will eventually go away, I guess. Certainly cloud based music has made listening to music a lot easier. Still, I can see why people want to go out and invest in an expensive record collection, taking back personal control of it. And better sound. And the pride of having it.

The old recitations though, like from preachers, traveling evangelists, or just local guys with booming voices, would've been nice too. Just because I personally don't like a lot of affectation in voices, the rolling of Rs, archaic gestures and affectations, doesn't mean others didn't. And how fun it would’ve been to live in those times and go around mimicking it, making a little fun. Surely someone would’ve thought it was funny, but more likely they would’ve strung you up.

In terms of the Guidance Counselor, I’m saying he was a pompous ass. And it's easy to picture him spouting the wondrous words of deity, the psalmist, as though they’re meant to exercise his tongue and make people marvel at his eloquence. Later he'd be back in his trailer counting his coins, praising or cussing out the rubes and the county.

Opposing him, then, in the graphic, we have someone more from our way of doing things today. Someone who hasn’t imbibed the great words of oratory, but is still with-it enough to know that the best way to puncture oratory and pretentiousness is by quick vulgarity and a dismissive attitude. Stand on your head with your ass and/or crotch in someone’s face and belittle them for what they’re doing and you’ll see the power of language and gestures. And everyone's got it going on today in social media.

Our guidance counselor lesson for the day: I gave the guidance counselor power over me. I realize that now but I had no power at the time to counteract his poison tongue. I sat there and took it and tried to stay out of trouble. But he still beat me down with his nasty spirit, making him one of the bastards of the century.

In high school I was good at standing on my head, but I really didn’t know enough (or wasn't brave enough) to dress him down with vulgarities. It would’ve had bad consequences, so it's all better left in the fantasy world of today than in the actual world of those dark days.

The Reincarnation of Edgar Allan Poe

I took a Facebook personality quiz the other day and found out something interesting: I was Edgar Allan Poe in a previous lifetime! My biggest quandary at this point is I've seen several of my friends who were also Poe. I say it's a quandary, but it's probably just a glitch, because it's more likely I'm Poe than any of them. The other choices were Mozart, Darwin, Lincoln, and Jimmy Durante.

According to the quiz, I'm Poe because I tend to be moody, solitary, inner-directed, and decisive. It definitely puts a good spin on my personality; I haven't been much at parties, but now I'll be able to say I'm a famous dead author, a great icebreaker.

One big problem for me in judging all this is I don't know that much about Poe. I do have "my" complete works on the shelf, so that's a start. I've looked through them a few times, then wonder why; they don't look that interesting. Now I know why, because I wrote it all! However, of all the stories in the world "The Tell-Tale Heart" was my favorite story as a kid. I read it in school maybe five, six times. The other stuff, not so much.

I remember one Halloween, they gave us a great treat. We went to a dark room at school and watched "The Raven" from a 16mm projector. That was great fun. The color was really good, and you get a good vibe when you actually hear the projector clacking away. Whatever scary parts there were, kids were making scary noises and laughing, all great fun.

I never actually read "The Raven," though, till I was an adult. So I wasn't familiar with one of my greatest poems till way past childhood. Depriving myself, obviously, since it truly is very creepy. And because they mention it on Jeopardy about 10 times a month, always on the Teen Tournament.

A couple years ago I read a book that tied me in somehow with a murder in New York. My memory never being that good, I can't remember what it was all about. A young woman had gone to an abortion provider, who was another woman in a house, then crossed over the river, and was found dead in New Jersey. Somehow I, Edgar Allan Poe, was connected with that. I wrote a story based on it, changing the names. It's in my Collected Works.

One of the things I'm very proud of is that the Beatles mentioned me in one of their songs, "I Am the Walrus," and that I'm pictured on the Sgt. Pepper album, my big blockhead and huge forehead making me stand out in quite a stark, wonderful way.

Now that I'm back -- or now that I realize I'm me -- it might be worth a little effort to see if I can get some back royalties. I know what everyone's objection will be, the supposed fact that since I'm dead all these years the works have passed into the public domain. Except -- my retort is obvious -- how does that apply if I'm manifestly not dead? Gotcha there. The quiz doesn't lie, and now that I think of it I'm getting back some of memories. A couple biographies from the library and I'll be my old self again.

I'll start with Wikipedia. I was born about a month before Abraham Lincoln, coincidentally one of my current Facebook friends who took the quiz. I died at the ancient age of 40. I'm best known for my tales of mystery and the macabre. I had a financially difficult life and career.

I attended the University of Virginia for one semester, failing all my classes except Creative Writing, in which I excelled. In 1835, I married my 13-year-old cousin. Our first son is presently reincarnated as Jerry Lee Lewis. I died in Baltimore, the cause of my death being variously attributed to alcohol, brain congestion, cholera, drugs, heart disease, rabies, suicide, tuberculosis, and other agents. Obviously I had a hard time avoiding trouble, including the difficulty of getting life insurance.

Please, everyone, help make my life and career better in this present incarnation. Read the Grandma Slump blog faithfully -- I haven't lost my great talent. Send money. And any advice you may have on how to stay well. For any illness or condition, since I've had them all. Whatever goes around, I catch, so I need your help. Just pray it's not Ebola.

How'd I Get So Damned Smart?

I get this question all the time, from people I know in the community, in church, as well as online. Everyone wants to know, "How'd you get so damned smart?" I can safely say it's the number one thing people wonder about. Although with their curiosity they challenge my modesty.

It's tricky to answer a question like that. Because I really do have to set aside my modesty and admit it right up front, Yes, I am pretty damned smart. And I'm smart enough not to do that readily. Hence, I've been sitting on the question for a number of months, reluctant to answer it, knowing it'd ding my modesty and sense of propriety.

But today I'm feeling bold! Who needs tomorrow! I'm ready to tackle it head-on, finally to satisfy everyone's curiosity about the intelligence of someone I frankly call "Little Ole Me." Really, that's how I think of myself. I'm not all that impressed, to tell you the truth. Because I know even I have plenty of limits. But my limits are for another day. Today we'll stick with how much I know.

First, let me say I didn't set out to get so damned smart. It wasn't any conscious push. You know, there's always those kids who set out to get so damned smart. They want to be better than everyone else, all that. As unpleasant as that can be for the rest of us, I won't judge them. They swung their way, I swung mine.

My way of swinging in school was pretty much to grasp the basics and extrapolate from there. One thing I'm not very smart at is mathematics. Anything you might need on a GRE or the SAT, I immediately fail. But I am smart at arithmetic! I can add and subtract myself around the room, passing everyone. The way I learned it was, like I said, extrapolation. They said 1 + 1 = 2 and I extrapolated from there. Everything else was easy to deduce from that one principle. So I refused to learn any of it by heart, just extrapolating, however long it took, on the fly. That left lots of time for learning other stuff.

Because it's facts other than math that you can't easily extrapolate. If you know the capital of New York is Albany, it's tough to extrapolate from that that the capital of California is Sacramento. Those are two facts I had to learn, which I only accomplished after a lot of effort. Even now I could probably tell you at least half the capitals of the various states, even ones I have no intention of visiting.

When it came to reading, I literally grew up with one story book. Only one. Which I read a million times, and loved, "Little Black Sambo." You put enough effort into one book, you learn a lot besides just the great story. I learned to love and respect others who aren't like me, Indians, black people, LGBTQ, Lutherans, etc. The only ones I still have a hard time with are Republicans. Of any variety.

In addition, I grew in my love of animals, butter, pancakes, and embraced asynchronous thinking, because who can believe that tigers, running fast enough to turn into butter, wouldn't think to cut across and head off Sambo? Unless Sambo were simultaneously smart enough to cut across at lightning speed and therefore maintain his safe position. Stunning stuff! You could seriously say, when it came to book larnin', everything I know I got from "LBS."

Now I'm old. And it's surprising all the stuff I know. I don't think I'm too far off the beam to say I don't even know all the stuff I know! Know what I mean? It seems everyday there's always something different leaping out of my brain, a sudden occurrence of something else I've known all along. Examples aren't coming to me right this second, but I know it happens. When do you clean an aquarium? When it stinks or the fish die, whichever comes first.

So to answer the question, "How'd I get so damned smart?" ... It all depends. Math, I extrapolated from 1 + 1 = 2. I can balance my checkbook and occasionally have money left over. Things that needed memorizing, I memorized, then over the years forgot exactly half of it. How to spell. I learned a trick from my Mom, to know how words are supposed to look, then when they're misspelled they look wrong. The various principles of life -- the value of being scrupulously honest, for example, and the consequences when you aren't -- I learned by experience, along with trial and error. Other things, the deeper things of life, spirituality and such, I learned by practice, leaping in gadfly fashion from one thing to another. Meaning, I'm a solitary specimen in that regard.

The other key to being so damned smart is to always keep my mind sharp. As sharp as a knife, as sharp as cheddar cheese. Honed, stropped like a razor, keen. So I'm busy thinking from the minute I wake up till the minute I go to bed. Then I continue thinking till I fall asleep. And, if my dreams are any indicator, I don't stop thinking till I get up, at which point I repeat the whole process, thinking again. I'm also a voracious reader, reading while I eat.

Thank you! It's gratifying that everyone thinks I'm so damned smart. Just don't get jealous, OK? You either can do it too, or you could have, had you not lived your life in a completely foolish way.

Running Circles 'Round The Baby

You know me, I'm as normal as anyone you've ever met. I pride myself on that. I see unusual people, and while I may envy them for a few minutes, I'm actually glad I'm so normal. But even normal ones like me -- who knows the exact reason? -- can erupt, especially if push comes to shove.

Well, darn it all, that happened yesterday. Maybe because it was Sunday, a day for going to church, then erupting in euphoria, which the ancients controlled by an afternoon of blood sacrifice, a luxury we don't typically indulge in, unless of course we're country folk. Still, as you know, any sublimated desire, impulse, or instinct is still there. And finally -- call it the devil, if you will -- in the end it can't be denied. The Nazis proved that completely, which makes me feel better, although I know I'm still to be blamed.

Anyway, I felt the impulses rising up in me. You probably know exactly what I'm talking about, an inflationary surge of light through the spine that has to spill out, the metaphysical equivalent of piss and vinegar. You have to rotate it just so. I nearly had time to offer up my dog on a makeshift altar, the patio table, but then they were here -- relatives -- to take me to the party.

Party? you ask. Parties on Sunday afternoon? Yes, if it's your birthday and you happen to be one-year-old. There's a youngster in the family, and in a few days he turns one, although they had his party a few days early. It was a joy to see him, there in his top hat and his little suitcase, naked except for a diaper. He waved at me cheerfully as he walked by, his walk very tentative. It seems he has been walking for only a week or so, and even with that he's not very good. He takes a few steps, then sits, ending in the family's applause.

OK, like I said, I'm blaming my behavior on the piss and vinegar, the lack of blood sacrifice, everything but the Nazis, who already have enough to answer for. The surge of light was so great -- it was a rather nasty concoction, actually, of light and dark; inner cleansing carries many risks. I couldn't help myself. When the baby finally plopped down in the center of the room, eliciting applause, I erupted, running over and then running in circles around him, becoming, according to the sworn testimony of survivors, a tiger-like blur (cf. Sambo story). Then, to save myself from a buttery end, I ran up the wall all the way to the ceiling and fell with a thud. I cried out, "I know how to walk, too!"

At this point I might hope for sympathy (I couldn't help myself). But once you've ruined a birthday party for a one-year-old, in the eyes of the spiritually bereft you're nothing but dirt. Aunts and uncles, friends of the mother, including quite a few guests I don't know personally, lambasted me with severity, saying things like, "This isn't a competition! If you're somehow a better walker or runner than a baby, no one cares!" What could I do? I rubbed myself in the places where I hurt, and a few where I didn't.

But they kept giving it to me, the full impact, piling on. These aren't exact quotes, but it's the gist of the damned thing:

"Even though this child is 11 months old, just short of being one, he will grow! And he will get a better education than you! He will succeed where you failed! Then one day when you're in the nursing home, unable to get from your bed to the wheelchair without a Hoyer Lift and five CNAs, this baby -- by then fully grown and able to walk, if not fly -- will visit you, and he'll run circles around you! He will also dash up the wall, leaving muddy footprints for you to look at, if you're still able to see!"

There was everything but forgiveness.

This Is My Art

Writing here, my occasional blog post, I now realize, is my art. I'm an artist, it turns out, as much as anyone. Only instead of dabbling with oils, watercolors, or other pigments, my art is the weaving, expression, and/or putting forth of words. Phonemes, sounds in the form of letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, with a good solid chunk of virtual type as the result.

The weird thing about it, if there is indeed anything weird about it, is that they never mentioned it quite like that in art class. They completely divided it up, as I recall, so art was painting, drawing, and molding (like the time I made my dad a clay ashtray about an inch thick), and writing was just an orphaned offshoot of English class. Looking back on it now, to me, that's weird. What's it got to do with English? You could just as easily write in some other language if you knew one.

Art class, though, obviously wasn't so strictly isolated. You don't even need to know how to talk to do art. You could grunt along, living in your old little world, and still make a halfway good ashtray. Or the Venus de Milo, were you so inclined. The foreign speaker would be at no disadvantage in doing art as my school narrowly defined it. He'd just babble out something incoherent, then dazzle the entire world with a painting of waterlilies.

I guess I must have had a good education in one sense: It laid the groundwork for me to come independently to this conclusion after around 50 years, that they were all wrong about art and writing. So that I can today declare, finally and definitively, writing is also art, and I'm writing, so I'm an artist. This is my art!

I was just in a bookstore today, true story. And if that's not enough, I was also at the library. And I saw a lot of books. Mostly crap, probably, certainly a lot of it I wouldn't be interested in reading. I more or less lump several genres in the crapper, like mysteries, true crime, popular religion titles, and certainly romance. For the most part, just to make a comparison to painting, these are the paint-by-number pictures of the writing world. It's a lot of hack work, churned out cynically and worth our scorn. Then there's the good stuff, actual literature, etc., etc.

Of course I classify my own blog posts in that last category. With the good stuff. Art as it was meant to be, nothing rushed out for an easy buck, but agonized over, and full of blood, sweat, and tears. Picasso couldn't do better. Monet, Manet, and Minet, all, would throw up their arms. And that makes me very proud. I'm to be envied. I use initiative to put ideas into motion, and nobody can say I don't. I love my art!

Was Tony A Well-Rounded Character?

A couple of you -- the vocal minority, always the ones hardest to satisfy -- have written in, saying you didn't feel Tony was a well-rounded character. Meaning that, according to you, what I said about him was very generalized and one dimensional.

My first instinct is to say, "This is what I have to worry about?" But then I think back, and in my defense, I said he was a son of a bitch*, and that's exactly what I meant. I mean, really, what more can I say? Like the rest of us, he lived, he did stuff, he died. Whether he had brown hair, red hair, or no hair, or a particular slope to his nose, or chiseled features, or a worried brow, or even a last name, it doesn't make any difference.

Of course they'd say he was Mr. Big, and must have been an interesting character because of that alone, so they're naturally curious. Couldn't I flesh him out a bit more? And I agree, to a limited extent. I didn't really say much about him, except his name was Tony, that he called me to his office, he gave me oversight of the prostitution operations, he had complete control over things, he had a large guard contingency, and a couple of other details, perhaps, and that he apparently reached several climaxes in the course of an average day.  

By that, I didn't mean to imply that living on the floor above a brothel means a guy is necessarily oversexed, but Tony was Tony, meaning he was known occasionally to have a good time. The climaxes were his outlet. I'm not judging. If he had a target on the ceiling, that's his business. Anyway, if living one floor above a brothel means you're oversexed, what about me? I live on the same floor. And I'm pretty chaste. But for some reason people aren't writing in asking more details about me. Maybe because I am so chaste. So now I know what's on your dirty little mind!

Actually, most of the reason I didn't say more about Tony's life is that this is real life. It's all true. I'm not darning a literary creation here -- satin and lace and frilly, flowery prose to satisfy women and fops -- no, this is documentary fact. Of course, I suppose it could be spruced up and spit-shined a bit, to make it fancier. But who cares? I've always been a man's man, preferring to let facts speak for themselves. I can't get bogged down in details like what color a man's hair is, his profile, his interests, and relationships. Tony was a son of a bitch in life, he's a son of a bitch in death, and it's not like he ever wanted to know about you, so why do you care about him?

Okay, to satisfy your idle curiosity: Tony was not just a son of a bitch, he was also scum of the earth.

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*I looked through the archives and it turns out I didn't say Tony was a son of a bitch.

Criminality Actually Compliments The System

A few of you wrote in after my post yesterday on "My Upcoming Life of Crime" expressing concern about my plans. You had basically two objections:

1) The "bad example" I was setting for young people.
2) Concerns for my reputation.

Of course, I'm thankful for your concerns, and I understand what you're getting at. But with my new-found burgeoning criminal mindset, I must say, "Mind your own stinking damned business!" Nervous Nelly types aren't wanted here, even if you've been faithful readers all these years! My advice to you is keep your mouth shut before I come over and mess up your face...

But let's say I were to take your objections into consideration, just for laughs. First, I'm setting a bad example for young people. I seriously doubt I have that many young readers. But if I turn to a life of crime, I could argue I will finally get some. Because they're more excited by dudes living on the edge, much more so than by normal average old fuddy-duddies. I might get a younger demographic and finally get back to making Google Ads profits, maybe three figures. And as to my reputation, I gladly trample it underfoot! There's nothing more overrated than a reputation. The only people who care are spineless wimps also concerned about their reputation!

There is, however, another way of looking at things, something to note. Maybe your objections aren't taking in the full picture and all its angles. This takes some thought. Because maybe -- think about it -- going for a life of crime actually pays a compliment to the great system of law and order we have in America. As I said yesterday, my turning to crime (and it is after all only a fictionalized thing), was inspired by the writer Jean Genet's criminal choices. So I'm looking at it the way I perceive he looked at it. And therein is an interesting reversal...

In Genet's travels from France around Central Europe (cf. p. 124f of Edmund White's biography of Genet), he made his way into Nazi Germany. When there, he wrote, "I'd wanted to steal. A strange force held me back." What was the strange force? The weird revelation that Germany was "already outside the law," that is, that in Germany crime was institutionalized, the very spirit of Nazism. "It's a nation of thieves,"  Genet said. "If I steal here I will not be performing a singular action that can better realize my nature: I'll be obeying the normal order of things. I won't be destroying it. I'll commit no evil, I'll disturb nothing. Scandal is impossible. I'll steal in a void."

See that? Because the system there was so corrupt, it made little sense, if Genet wanted to stand out, to be a criminal. But in my case, because I am in America, where decency and justice reign supreme, to commit evil and to create scandal, will be a meaningful act, albeit fictionally. All that to suggest that the American system is actually complimented by thieves, who recognize in it a good environment in which to be bad.

Were I to be in the Ukraine or somewhere where corrupt officials and a general lack of civic virtue prevails, like Genet with the Nazis I'd probably find greater fulfillment in continuing to follow my normal lawful ways or even establish them myself as a reaction. But because the United States is so darned good, I have no recourse, if I want a scandal to result from my choices, but to be evil. And I plan to disturb a lot of people!

Admittedly, I am limited by the efficiency of today's police, as Genet was limited in his criminal enterprise in Central Europe, driving him back to France where the police were crap. And they're no doubt a lot more efficient today than they were in the '30s, with all the greater law enforcement technology they have. It's going to be a bastard, me trying to get away with anything, but I'm going to give it my best shot!

Jack London

I haven't known Jack. Jack London was among my nemeses in school, since we were supposed to read his book "The Call of the Wild" and I never managed to get it done. I started it probably 50 times that summer in the late '60s, but my own Call of the Wild (playing in the neighborhood, goofing off, and love of summer activities) was too great.

Fortunately, and a bit of luck I wasn't expecting, they never said anything about it when we got back to school. So I wasn't penalized for my failure, except to the extent that I tortured myself worrying about it. The other book we were supposed to read, and supposedly were going to have to answer for, was "Shane," and I haven't read it either.

I think it in 2009 that I picked up "Call of the Wild" again and started it, and that time I got quite a ways, all the way up to the part where the dog is up in the Arctic somewhere and fighting for its life. It seems like they've got food buried and the dogs are trying to get it. I forget. I still haven't made it all the way ... but any day now it could happen, since now I also have it on my Kindle.

I have a little difficulty with the premise, that the book is told from the dog's point of view. We're used to that with Disney movies, the animals living their very human dramas, but when its the nitty-gritty world of a dog reverting back to its wolf nature, it's a little different. But from the sound of things, people were captivated by it in the early 1900s.

Anyway, like I said, I didn't really know anything about Jack London all these years. I probably read whatever blurb about him they had in the '60s paperback, but whatever I may have read I forgot. But the other day I was at the library, and having just read a Jack London book, "Cruise of the Dazzler," I went and got the biographies they have, and leafed through them.

Just in the half hour I spent looking through the biographies, I learned more about Jack London than a guy probably needs to know. He had serious troubles with alcohol and wrote a book on it that I guess was supportive of Prohibition, "John Barleycorn." I started reading this non-fiction book of his own drinking experiences today. I'm finding it a little turgid (would that be the word?) and not entirely to my liking. I might need a stiff drink before I continue.

In one place he talks about taking his father a bucket of beer, out to the field. And on the way, as a 5-year-old, he gets drunk. I think I've seen something like this in a movie, someone drinking a bucket of beer. I've never had a bucket of beer! I'm up to the place where a bunch of guys in a nightclub make him -- I think he's 7-years-old by now -- get wasted on wine. The first thing I can say about that, his childhood was totally different from mine. We never had alcoholic beverages on the premises, it just didn't happen.

As for writing, he wrote a lot, and some of it is really good and some of it isn't. Because he was writing more or less for quick bucks and was churning it out. I wouldn't mind doing that, if anyone out there wants to pay me by the word, I could sit here for hours just hacking away, blah blah blah. Among the things that are the best, we have "Sea Wolf," "White Fang," a few other things that escape my memory, and "Call of the Wild." Which is interesting in the last case, because he sold "Call of the Wild" outright for a $2,000 pittance and could've become filthy rich from that one book alone.

Among the other nuggets gleaned from the bios, there are unpublished nude photos of Jack London out there. I should look online -- I haven't yet. It's kind of tough to believe that Jack London's 100-year-old nude photos could escape publication but Anthony Weiner's were out there before the proofs dried. Jack's second wife Charmian had the nude photos on the wall. She was reportedly very randy, that is sexually, but his first wife, Bess, couldn't stand "the act." One of the bios suggested he had some homosexual leanings. I'd love to read a book on this subject alone, but they just gave us enough to pique our interest.

And here's something I didn't know, that Jack's death was questionable and has been something of a mystery all these years. I'm just reporting what I read, that the older bios and people on the scene at the time thought it was suicide. But in more modern times, they're thinking it was probably just him trying to kill pain and he overdid it (morphine.) That sounds more credible to me, although my knowledge of the circumstances is admittedly limited to five minutes perusing the issue in these bios. It sounds like a good "Cold Case" to reopen, and maybe get the "Ghost Hunters" from TV on it.

So what's my bottom line on Jack London? He seems fairly cool, a guy worth checking out, and maybe you should read a thing or two by him.

My Humorless Hermann Hesse Period

If you've noticed, I've been a sourpuss lately. I'm literally sitting here right now unable to think of one funny thing to say, nothing.

The problem -- I may as well say it -- is I've been reading more than usual. Which of course is highly recommended if you want to be smarter. But if what you're reading is basically cheerless, or extremely serious itself, it's going to carry over. That's how it is with me.

I've got a stack of Hermann Hesse books I've been carrying around forever, since college, and decided to read a few of them. Or reread, as the case may be. So I've been doing that, and while they're interesting enough to me, they leave my brain in a humorless mood, in a serious gutter.

The first one I picked up at the end of April, "Rosshalde." This was one I'd never attempted before, mostly because the title "Rosshalde" sounds boring. It doesn't suggest anything to me, nothing sexy about it in the least. But I was thinking, 1) I want to read something; 2) I don't want to spend money on Kindle editions as long as I have books on the shelf; and, 3) It could be these are actually good. Even this one with the boring title, "Rosshalde."

So I picked up "Rosshalde" and actually read it. As good as it was, there went my cheer, turning me a little bit into a sourpuss. It tells the story of an estranged couple, she living in the main house, he an artist living in a smaller building on the estate, called Rosshalde. They have two sons, a snotty older son and a favored younger son. The artist gets the idea from a friend to move to India and makes plans to do so. The younger son gets sick and dies. In the end, if memory serves, the father is about to go to India. I really wanted the kid to die in the middle and to see what happened to the dad in India, but it didn't work that way.

The next one was "Demian," which I had started before and gotten through the place where Kromer is torturing Sinclair and the intro to Demian himself. But I started over and hated to go through all the Kromer part again. It reminds me of the Andy Griffith show where a bully shows up and wants Opie's milk money. Parallels in literature. Anyway, the book picks up when we meet Demian, although there's no predicting where this book is going to go. It's a surprising narrative, with lots of cool bits of religious thought.

I knew of it, the stuff about the god Abraxas from one of Stephan Hoeller's books, a gnostic scholar, so it was nice to see how that worked out in the actual book. The main character, a boy, has this intuitive/spiritual connection with Demian and Demian's mother, and, guess what, it's already slipping away from my memory what it's all about. (They've got the mark of Cain!) As good as it was, it turned me a little bit more into a sourpuss.

The next one I just finished today, "Beneath the Wheel." This one took me a little longer, even though it's an easier read than "Demian." Hans Giebenrath is a brain, gets the opportunity to go to the Academy and has a bright future ahead of him, if he studies and really applies himself. But he meets a little more eclectic, poetic character, Hermann Heilner, another student, who, in my opinion, is a bad influence on him. So Hans starts doing poorly and eventually gets kicked out of the Academy. He goes on to apprentice as a metal grinder, then on that very weekend goes on a drinking binge and ends up dead in the river.

I guess Hesse was making some comments on schools taking away people's freedom, making them part of the system, stealing their childhood, or something, crushing them beneath the wheel. Well, I'm not that much of a conservative, but, dammit, I don't see it. If I had it to do over in college I would really apply myself and try to excel. In my opinion, they should've kicked out Hermann early on, or not let him in, a bad seed, and kept Hans' nose to the grindstone. Nothing wrong with being a scholar! So that made me quite a bit more into a sourpuss. I did shed a tear when he died, and that didn't help.

Then the other one, which I just started on today, is "Steppenwolf." This is one I've already read twice, but now that I'm 58 I'm hoping to see different things in it. Which is entirely possible, because I barely remember anything about it really. This stuff is easy for me to forget. Anyway, I read it in college, when I was probably 20. And I read it sometime between 30 and 40. And now I'm reading it at 58. I've gotten through the intro, the one guy's impressions of Harry Haller, and next up is the found manuscript. I'm sure what I read will jog my memory, but at this point I'm blank about what's coming up.

Here's an interesting note that I wrote when I was 20, right inside the cover. There's two review blurbs, then below those I wrote, "It is my sincere conviction that I stink. -- H. Haller." So that's what I thought back then.

Maybe after "Steppenwolf" I'll read something more cheerful ... and it'll be better for me.

I've Joined The Great Authors At The Library

Can it really be that I have brought culture to the library?

The library is where you expect to find the great authors. That's where I see them. I went there and checked the shelves, and all I saw were great ones. So ... that's something!

Then I went to check out the public access computer. This is a lot harder than looking at the books. They really guard that thing. A kid a few years ago reportedly saw a picture of a breast on it and that's all she wrote.

It's harder to get to because, first, there's other people waiting for it. Then, because you have to have a picture ID, your library card, a recent utility bill, and your birth certificate. They run all this stuff through the Department of Homeland Security, and you're sitting there sweating it.

The computer itself looks like any other computer, but you have to wait for your secret code, then scan your library card, then another password. But before that there's the agreement you need to sign, that you understand you're in a public place, and that this child all those years ago is still sitting at home, refusing to eat his spinach because of what he saw.

Finally, if everyone has been cleared away out of the line (and they give you a strict 20 minutes on the computer), an electric fence descends from the ceiling and is there while the final librarian checks your paperwork one more time -- and gets the call from the federal government about your fitness to use it. If everything's good, she puts on a thick glove and disengages the fence.

OK, friends, I think we've made it. At long last, it's my turn. I'm up to the computer. I need to work quickly. I type in all my access codes and, after a quick five minutes, the browser window opens. Then, so as not to waste any more time, I slowly and carefully type in the URL to my blog. And guess what! My writings at long last are on display at the library! I saw my post on "The End of the Residential Industrial Movement." That's really all I wanted to see, but since I notice there's another guy in line, waiting for the machine, I stayed for the full 20 minutes, reading some of my other industrial posts.

But isn't that awesome to realize? That I'm in the library with all the other great authors! No one can deny it! I'm right there, with Shakespeare, Joyce, Prokofiev, R.L. Stine, and the encyclopedia! People need to be very quiet when they're around me now because I might be writing something especially great.

Now, if I could only have an actual book in the library written by me. That'd be great. Because then I'd get a cut every time someone had to pay a fine on it. Think of what I could make if, say, I had 10 books published, and each one was in a thousand libraries, and at any given moment five of them were overdue. If the library split it with me 50-50, both of us would do very well.

One last request: If you happen to be reading me in a library somewhere, first, congratulations on having reached the machine. You likely would've been a survivor in World War II in one of those scenarios involving cutting through wire and running across No Man's Land. But let's say you made it, and you're reading me on the computer, remember, It's a library! It's supposed to be very quiet. So, please, no cheering or shouting "He's the Man!"

Full Service Hiatus

Just because I've been on hiatus somewhat, now looking back, doesn't mean I've neglected the blog entirely. All of the newsletter stuff and the real life visits -- all that's gone by the board. I just haven't done any of it, and I've felt better for it.

It's very refreshing to take what I used to feel was a responsibility -- sending out the newsletter, etc. -- and just drop kick it through the goal posts of life. I gave a stern boot's full shank to it and sent it packing, in a manner of speaking, to wander shank's mare quite on its own. Then the real life visits -- meeting with the readers/subscribers ... that was pure drudgery from the start, and it makes me yawn just to think of it. Like baby birds with their mouths open: Gimme, gimme, gimme!

I hesitate to mention again the worst of the bad lot -- Garrett Al -- because of something I read the other day. I was reading a thing about literature, about the good guy and the bad guy. In this case of course I'm the good guy and Garrett Al's the bad guy. But this literature expert -- probably a professor with a corduroy jacket and padded elbows and beady little glasses -- said the bad guy is just a projection of the good guy. They're basically, thematically the same guy. In fact the bad guy might have the upper hand because people like to hear about him more, and anyway, he exists as the good guy with his bad tendencies expressed openly.

The way I take a literature point like that is that this guy is saying Garrett Al and I are one and the same. Which has to be a crock because we exist quite independently of the page. But as far as the public knows, the professor would argue, based on the narrative of this blog, we're both at odds and mutually dependent, with him being thematically the same as me. I wouldn't say such theories are over my head. I've read, maybe not extensively but I've read. I don't always agree with everyone's assessment of literature, though, to tell you the truth. Like Shakespeare. I don't know why everyone's so gung ho about him. He only wrote one book, after all. But take someone like R.L. Stine, who wrote maybe 400.

We're not the same. Never have been. Never will be.

Anyway, in spite of my hiatus being a full bore reality, I've stopped in and kept things going at least at the daily maintenance level. So I appreciate knowing that about myself, and want to wish myself a happy rest of my hiatus, and many more.