The Great Waving Tour

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Government Snooping -- Infilitrate, Big or Small

I carefully studied my instructions under a streetlight.
The lighting made it look very weird, kind of a greenish yellow.
I was struck. The color's so weird.

But there it was, in the bad light. A mysterious ticker tape printer in a culvert, right where the voice on the phone told me it'd be. Low, husky, likely a man, maybe a big woman. I'd been recruited into an elite cadre of government spies. Which is very cool for me in particular, having been as a child not just a member of the Spy Club, but its baton twirler.

I wasn't a bit afraid. Even though usually when I get weird calls, anonymous, unannounced calls, I'm paranoid as hell. It looks like I'm getting hardened to it. I've gotten worse calls. It used to always be some unknown guy saying, "I know where you go ... and I know what you do there ..." I always hated that. Because, honestly, I never went there, and, besides, I don't remember doing anything that was so bad.

This new voice, even though it was a big woman trying to sound like a man, wasn't threatening at all. I heard something of benevolence in it. Saying between the lines that I was trusted with a task, which, if I'm not mistaken, is something the government is putting forth to every citizen they trust. And, yes, the government can trust me. I hereby raise my right hand and solemnly swear that I will protect this nation from all enemies, foreign and domestic. Looks like domestic, since it's local here.

You see my instructions. There's no particular task. Just "INFILTRATE," with the unspecific, but assuring, "EVERY LITTLE THING HELPS." And I like the pleasant nod to modern linguistic conventions, showing that we're not taking ourselves too seriously here, no doubt meant to put me and my fellow trusted citizens completely at our ease, "GO 4 IT."

This is the kind of task I like. I can set my own goals. And I obviously have plausible deniability if I'm nabbed by a saboteur, "I know nothing. I'm digging in your garbage for recycling."

All right, I got this message a week ago tonight, and I got right on the job. Since "EVERY LITTLE THING HELPS," that's what I started with. It gave me a great excuse to go to the river. But not just anyplace. I wanted to go to the backwoods. There's a place back there where a gang of guys called the Backwoods Men live. I've always been suspicious of those guys. We have a law here that in fishing you can only use one hook for one line, no more.

I was successful at infiltrating their place by the river. When, Holy Cow, what did I find? Not only did they have poles lined up on the bank, I pulled in a couple and they had a dozen hooks apiece! So I pulled in the rest and left them lay on the bank. It would be a big surprise to them in the morning!

Also, I did some reconnaissance around their property -- the dog was sleeping -- and noticed what turned out to be some '60s vintage Do-it-Yourself Heathkit nuclear missiles, lined up in homemade silos, and aimed toward town. I moved them off kilter, so when they're fired they'll rocket straight up and -- I hope -- destroy the Backwoods Men themselves.

The next day I was up with the roosters, 9:00, and went to troll Goodwill for what I might find. The problem with Goodwill is it's completely unregulated. You can buy stuff anonymously. It's not necessarily scanned, it's cash transactions. Theoretically, it's the world's best place to make a terror connection, because you can leave notes in a particular jacket, say, then someone comes along and gets it. Well, the bottom line is, I did my best, so sue me.

Methodically, I took each jacket, one at a time, to the dressing room, and went through the pockets. Noon came and went, then 2 p.m., before I was finished. But nothing. Then as I'm leaving, some madman goes running out of the store, and runs straight into a city bus, blowing up himself and 40 passengers, an inferno. The note had been in a pair of pants ... damn it! But 'every little bit helps,' I'm telling myself.

This actually taught me a lesson, that to catch terrorists, you need to think like a terrorist. We think they sleep in the day when we're all awake. That's what they want you to think. But, thinking like a terrorist, why would they do that? No, naturally they'd sleep during the night just like anyone else. But they're tricky, see? That's actually what they want us to think. Taking it one step further, they do sleep during the day when we're awake. Then use the "cover of night," when we least expect it, to do their flight training.

So I went to the airport, the local airport, late at night. I flashed my ticker tape at the door and got right in. I yelled, "Stop that plane!" They radioed out and brought back a disgruntled man in a business suit. The president of our biggest industry, headed for a convention. So we let him go. Next, I told them to stop a second plane. The boss of the airport headed for a convention. So we also let him go.

That left a third plane. But by now I was gun shy and didn't stop him. I made a mistake! He simply took to the air and immediately shot down the other two planes, killing both distinguished men and their pilots and fleeing. Next time, I resolved, slamming my fist on the desk, that guy gets stopped first!

George, Bill, Frank, and Dale

George, Bill, Frank, and Dale are four guys I've known, average guys, the salt of the earth. There's really not that much that distinguished them from the general population; they were more or less run of the mill in every way. Of course the same thing could be said for most of us, so it's no insult. That's just the way it is.

Still, the average guy is interesting in his own way. He may not amount to much, but once upon a time, his parents were doing their thing, and a spark of life was sent from heaven. That would be him, each one, George, Bill, Frank, and Dale, a spark from heaven with a slight glow that remained forever.

All of them -- George, Bill, Frank, and Dale -- were good law-abiding citizens, and not one of them ever did very much that was wrong, it appears. They watched a lot of TV, went on vacations, married and had a family -- three out of the four -- went to church, and paid their taxes.

Besides their obituaries, this is the only article that deals with their lives. They would probably be happy to read it, and I would guess Dale, the only survivor, will even want a printout. So let's get to the article:

GEORGE -- George might be called a Happy Camper. He was happy and liked camping. He and Sylvia used to take their kids to the state park and camp. The kids had the run of the campground, and for everyone involved, it was the life. Apart from that, they lived in the town here. George ran a gas station over on 1st Avenue, which has since changed hands a dozen times. I knew George as a gregarious, happy kind of guy, likely to know your name and remember his dealings with you. Like most of us, from time to time he showed a temper. I was in his garage several years ago when he got a phone call, and with that his mood soured. He threw a bolt across the room and it bounced off the wall. It could have killed someone, but fortunately no one was standing there. I've always believed the sourness I saw that day probably went deeper with George, and that he probably erupted at little things a lot, and, given the right circumstances, he might have murdered someone. Who knows how often he looked over at the woods next to the campground and thought about burying someone?

BILL -- Bill, good old Bill. Bill worked up the street, also on 1st Avenue, right on the square, in one of the pharmacies. I met him when I used to buy comic books as a kid. He always got a big kick out of my frugality, how I would buy two 12 cent comic books one at a time to save the penny tax. But it was smart, because you could buy something with a penny. And sometimes, most of the time, Bill was in a jolly mood and would be happy to give a kid a piece of candy for free, so candy was basically two for one, too! Then I also knew Bill over the years. We went to the same church for a while, and Bill was a good guy in church. He had a deep, masculine voice and a lot of confidence, and he offered a lot of moving solos and duets. I personally never suffered a cross word from Bill, which isn't to say others didn't. There was always something about his manner that made you wonder if maybe, just maybe, he had a desire to kill someone. With his confidence -- and being a pharmacist, they have to have an eye for detail -- he would have figured all the angles, and he just might have gotten away with it.

FRANK -- Frank worked at the factory. He worked himself up to foreman, since he was so responsible and had a way with men. He was also confident like Bill, with his confidence used to direct the men on the line toward efficiently carrying out their tasks. There's a lot of interlinking parts in work like that, and you have to coordinate a lot of things, guys coming on the line who don't know much along with all the old veterans. And if it works right -- and it usually did with a guy like Frank -- you come out with a finished product you can be proud of. At work and outside, as to his personality, Frank was something of a rascal. He was the practical joker type. He liked to pat you on the back while he was ribbing you. I knew him because he was a friend of Grandpa's. When he saw me, he'd always be asking if I had a girlfriend yet, and he teased me about my long hair. He ribbed me always in a good-natured way, but, you know, sometimes it got to be a bit much. Looking back, I probably should have been more careful, but I was just a kid. Because Frank was the kind of guy, you wouldn't want to push his buttons too much, seriously, because someone might have died. And my honest opinion is, it would have been murder.

DALE -- Dale. Calling him Dale seems odd to me, because Mr. M_____ was a teacher, a gym teacher, if you can believe it. There's no way Dale looked the part of a gym teacher, but at the time I didn't know it. I just knew Mr. M_____ was a fixture at the school, and that was it. So I knew him going way back to elementary school. Then, oddity of oddities, years later he ended up at the high school when I was there. Just because I knew him, though, we were never close. OK, the odd thing about him being a gym teacher is that he was very mousy, like Wally Cox. You expect a gym teacher, whether man or woman, to be a macho behemoth, but that wasn't Mr. ______, or Dale. Dale never married and never had kids. Why exactly that was, I really never gave it a moment's thought. But knowing what I know now, I'd have to say there was a good reason for it. He never did anything to me, certainly, and I never heard of any other guy having any trouble with him. He's actually a quite respected member of the community, and a lot of people have nothing but fond memories of him. But don't you have to guess, if you really think about it, that there was something serious going on under his milquetoast exterior, some darker instincts that played out when he was at home alone ... or maybe out of town? My guess would be -- and I don't say this lightly -- Dale had something hidden in his heart, very likely thoughts of murder. But now, living in the nursing home, he's probably harmless.

No one would ever suspect anything of George, Bill, Frank, and Dale. And it's only natural, because not one of them ever did anything wrong. Certainly nothing with any definite proof.

The Local Man -- Our Unsung Hero

Being a local man myself, I have an ideal understanding of the conflicts and challenges the local man faces. I also have a great familiarity with the bright, happy times, which the local man also enjoys.

In a way, I feel like I'm all alone in most of this, especially the understanding. I've straddled both worlds, the local places and the bigger, more cosmopolitan places. So I've seen it from every angle, but, as they say, there's no place like home. I've taken up my place here where I was mostly raised, keeping close to the soil.

The little people are all around me. That's my day, seeing little people. At the grocery store, the cafe, in the courthouse, walking down the street. I see John Q. Public going on his anonymous way. Like I said, I'm alone in that, since insofar as I know, I'm the only one keeping an eagle eye out for him. Then again, I'm the guy who wonders to himself why we neglect so much history, such as the waving of corn, the flying of birds, and the breeding of fish, or the passing of clouds. No one's getting all this stuff documented. It's all happening very anonymously. Even the dying of dogs. You don't have to report it.

And so it goes. The world's a funny place, exalting a proud few, whom we call celebrities. They're exalted, then they go about their miserable lives, the same messed up people as the rest of us, yet making front page news. I don't want to mention names, mostly because I don't really know that many celebrities. Elizabeth Taylor just died, so she'd be a good example. How many times have I had to hear about Elizabeth Taylor in my life? She was the cover girl for so many of Grandma's movie magazines back in the day. We kept track of who she was married to and divorced from. And it wasn't just home, but church. That's right. Back in those days, she was held up in church as the consummate Hollywood scandal incarnate, thanks to her marriages and divorces. We definitely learned back then that the Hollywood types weren't very happy.

So they're held up, but the rock solid, salt of the earth, guy at his labors, the local guy, is just a footnote in the pages of history, and of course presented in the aggregate. Which probably is as it should be, since he wouldn't want to face the scrutiny, then have to live up to it by doing foolish things, which we still hear of our Hollywood folks doing. Personally, I don't pay much attention to it. Consequently, I never do good at celebrity trivia, even on Jeopardy. Speaking of Jeopardy, today one of the contestants referred to Alex Trebek as a celebrity. Of course he is one, but it was odd that he didn't demur on that a little, even if he had to pretend, like, "Who? Little old me?" Had he done that, at least it would've been in the form of a question. And the local man would've given him a nice thumb up.

I know all about local men, but there's not always that much to say about them, because they're just not that interesting. Which is why they'll never be a celebrity. You could have an average guy out there, so they could make fun of him, but that doesn't count.

The local man, then, is my unsung hero of the day.

The Local Man Catches His Own Worms

My identity is that of the local man. It's an ideal position without being snooty. Let's hear it for the local man.

I'm a plainclothes man.
I'm a man of the people.
I don't live up in the rarified regions.
The ordinary side of town is preferable to me.
I don't put on airs.
I've got a penchant for woolens.
I prefer the lower land, where pure water flows.
I keep my feet firmly grounded on mother earth.
To me, humility is a virtue, tooting your own horn a vice.
I catch my own worms and release any that happen to make it back alive.
I take home unused jelly packets and napkins because I'm frugal and resourceful.
I read the 'Pluggers' comic panel and fail to see the humor in it.
I despise the Republican party and wish it'd go to hell.
I call high prices what they are, a rook.
My favorite philosopher is Lao Tzu or Chuang Tzu, and I've already killed a thousand Buddhas.
I put my bed in storage to promote morality.
When you get me mad, that's when the fur flies.
My physiognomy is average.
People who see me go about their normal business.
I've never been able to shoot a crow.
I get winded easily.
I know the lesson of the tortoise and the hare.
I keep the old fashioned values readily at hand.
No one has to tell me which way the wind blows.
My sense of direction is usually reliable.
I keep an eye out for bad influences.
No matter what urban renewal does to Skidrow, it's still Skidrow to me.
I'd rather not try anything for the first time.
I have my eye out for a logical conclusion.

The Local Man Answers To No Man

I woke up today with a renewed sense of my self, my independence, and my ability to say what I want, being beholden to no man. I lay abed, recommitting myself to a sturdy resolve in these matters, disdaining all allegiances, foreign or domestic, that might impinge on my freedom.

That's the kind of attitude, the kind of spirit, you can have when you're the local man. Just me, independent, all by myself. The national man is usually part of a syndicate. He's in a network of associates, just one tiny box about the size of a pinpoint on an intricate and involved flowchart. I don't know for sure, but I think there hasn't been an independent national man since Daniel Boone. In ancient times.

Then we have the man up the rung from the national, the international man. His daily intercourse is at the highest realms, echelons, really, of the world. Talk about networks and intricacy and involvement, oh boy! The international man doesn't have the independence to crack his knuckles. He might've woke up this morning in Japan and will sleep tonight in New York. He's got a briefcase like the shed in my backyard. And it never gets lost because there's super computers keeping track of it via a satellite signal. If it ever got lost -- and it won't! -- things would turn very sour very fast.

Would I ever like to be the international man? I suppose I've daydreamed of it, if I'm being totally honest. The travel, the people I'd meet, the important shed I'd be carrying around. Who hasn't daydreamed of rolling dice in Monaco? Or looking at the behind of a boatman in Venice? But then I think, It's not just luxury, it's the endless duties, heavy responsibilities, entangled relationships, the whole thing of vast networks and demanding men you're answering to 24/7. Again, it might be tempting -- the international man is obviously on the cutting edge of communications, super computers and holography, and has a lot more to write home about than, say, me.

The biggest difference, going with that last point, is that I'm always home already; there's no need to write. The neighbors see me walking to my car, then they see me walking back to the house. I'm out watering flowers when they're in season. I fling a dead mouse to the road every few days. Thankfully, the traffic is such that they never have a chance to pile up. I can drive around town and the same old people know me. They ask about me. There's nothing bogus, not like the national and international man get. As far as the personal touch, they're screwed.

I was in bed thinking of all this today. Then I carried it over to the shower. Thinking how the local man can really enjoy his shower. The thought was somewhere in the background that I could make an alliance with a few other people. Then I thought, No! That'd be just the beginning! And next thing, I'd be entangled, answering to someone else. From there it'd be a short jump to county man, state man, regional man, national man, and international man. And that's not a jump I'm prepared to make!

Local Man Makes And Sells Easter Bunnies

Well, folks, here they are, this year's Easter bunnies I've been working on. If you're going to be at the shopping center tomorrow, stop by my table and pick up one or more!

They're great for kids, for old ladies, anyone really. I know Grandma likes them quite a bit. I've got one on the back of her stool and it really brightens up the room. And it reminds us all of the true meaning of Easter, which is of course a religious holiday of sorts.

I've got a grand total of 100 of these little rascals (they multiply!), plus the original prototype, which is on my dresser and isn't for sale at any price.

They're going to be for sale one day only, tomorrow, so if you want one or more you need to come to the shopping center, or I suppose you could call and I could set one aside for you. I hate to do that, though, because a few years ago I set aside some stuff for a guy who didn't show up to buy it. Meaning that I might've sold it at the craft sale, but then as it turned out I had to "eat" the stuff, meaning I didn't get any money for my work and materials.

Anyway, I'm easy to deal with, if you promise to show up. Usually I think a man's word is his bond and all that. I'll take your word for it if you smile and seem like a nice person, but please don't be a fast talker, because I'm convinced that most fast talkers are only out for themselves. And naturally if that same guy calls me and wants to get some of these, he's going to have to get in line with everyone else and wait his turn. I'm not doing layaways for him, that's one thing I do know.

Why is it that people expect crafters to bend over backwards for them? They don't know the work we put in. And so forth. I've set up at numerous sales and all crafters have the same gripe. We're rolling our eyes more than half the time at the ignorance that our customers display. Most of our customers don't have any sense. They think they can bring in a camera or a sketch pad and duplicate our work at home. Which is why we have a strict "no cameras" policy. And "no sketch pads." If you have a photographic memory, we can't do much about that, except we do discourage it if we see someone who's doing a little too much looking. I might strike up a conversation with him and lead him to another part of the sale.

Back to the bunnies. You can see I have quite a bit in supplies there, as well as the work to put them together. And I'm pricing them at $5.00 or two for $9.00. You're saving a dollar if you buy two. I'd rather sell all 100 one at a time, but if someone wants to buy two I don't say anything. Just put them in a sack and tell them thank you with the best smile I can manage. And if I'm a dollar poorer, that's just the way life goes sometimes.

I hope to see you tomorrow! Have a happy Easter, which, glancing at the calendar, I see is on a Sunday this year.

Local Man Supports Men

In the perfect world, where every man's voice would have equal weight among men, there would be an honest discussion of the issues that every man raises, as to his opinions and feelings concerning the affairs and well being of men in general.

Man, as is well known in the highest echelons of all of man's disciplines, is a social animal. Because of this, a man's ideas are not meant to wither and die on the vine of thought, but are meant to be shared within his society of men. As every man is a brother, every man has something to contribute to the family of man, that men everywhere might be blessed and prosper.

The prosperity and blessing of men everywhere depends on what happens within this social network or scheme. The one and the many are together. Such is the truth among men, the truth whereby man lives.

In the light of these truths, the fact that I -- one local man -- supports the raising up and affirming of men everywhere -- women, boys, and girls being included as men -- is an important thing. Every other man may be unconscious of his place in the family of man, and may lack the ideas and follow through to act on his ideas were he to have any. Then there are the many levels of functionaries, who are entrusted to be working on man's behalf day in and day out, scratching out ideas on tablets or manning the many levers of machines. They may be drifting off because of the monotony of their work. It takes a few bright men somewhere, men like me, at the local level, to really say, "Hey, what about this idea?"

My idea is to restore the designation of man and men back to their proper place in our language and the affairs of social intercourse. For too long, man has bucked his past, and has allowed the tampering of the old ways, trying, with no good reason, to dilute the language pool, to his hurt. This has not helped anyone. It has only muddied up the water, and mucked up some of our self consciousness as men.

So note it. One man can make a difference, in this case to restore language and our consciousness. One local man who supports all men and the dignity of man. That local man is me.

This is a solemn call to the rest of my species, to exalt yourself as men, letting man prevail in a proud way, with no lingering doubts.

The Local Man's Garbage (Tweets)

I should say to those who don't know, Grandma is my grandma. I am her grandson. She taught me many things I know. She partially raised me.

So that's our story.

Now I'm grown up, I live here still, in the same house we've always had since they first got it back before I was born. It's familiar to me.

It's one of the local houses in the town of which we are a part. Our address is one of the standard addresses that shows up on maps.

I've always been happy to live locally, because you do get very used to it. Every tree, every post, every eaves trough, I'm used to seeing.

Out of all the people in the town, I am one. I'm the one who pays the most attention to myself, it's safe to say, keeping my reputation.

I'm proud to introduce myself and how I think of myself. I call myself the local man, because that's proudly what I am, how it works.

There's nothing strangely out of whack in my world. I abide very much at the local level, eating my food and taking the garbage out weekly.

Some locally based guys come and check our garbage cans. Their truck has a door that swings up. They're trained so they won't lose an arm.

Local Man Takes Garbage Out

I am the local man. Everything I do, I do right here at the local level.

Whether it's mowing the yard, going for milk, voting, on and on, it's all done locally, where I live.

When I get up in the morning, I'm right here, locally based. It's a very compact way to live, but it's a good way. It's what I'm used to.

The activities are the same over and over. But that's what life is. I get up, tend to the animals, do all my personal things, get a bagel and some milk, maybe some tea. Like that. All this I do locally.

I took the garbage out. That's something that needs to be done. I almost forgot, then I remembered.

The garbage included some things that really needed to go out. I'd hate to keep them around for another week. The garbage included some bags of cat poop and used litter, a bunch of dog duty that I clean up dutifully each time, as well as the usual kitchen stuff, old tomato tops and bottoms, bones from food, oily paper towels, spent teabags, and so on.

We have a local garbage service that runs it as a business, hiring people, then putting them on a regular schedule. They get the job done.

Local Man Receives Blogging's Highest Honor

This is a day for pride. I've felt fairly proud of myself all day.

Now that one of my posts -- The Mule Stands Alone -- has received the respected "Already Classic" designation and the right to display the certifying medallion, I feel that I have every reason to be proud.

It hasn't always been this way. I've been around, I've done my work quietly, not expecting a lot of recognition. That's been fine. Just doing a good job to me is reward enough.

But how nice is is to finally be recognized for something and to receive certification of the same. I appreciate it.

Being local -- not international, not an automated aggregator, etc. -- is a rarity these days. But that's the way I've always been. Local, right here on the scene, looking out for the well being of my family and community.

When you apply that to blogging, this is where the local guy can shine. Because we're looking out for things that the international bloggers and the automated aggregators are bound to miss.

How good it is to finally receive some glory, to be able to put that on my list of accomplishments, achievements, and to know that it was well-deserved.

I'm honored, blessed, and humbled.

This Pouty Red-Lipped Hiatus

Ahh, the glories of morning with dew on the grass, when your thoughts are at their clearest and great ideas are low hanging fruit. You know, I really could change the world for the better and they would erect big statues to me, which I wouldn't really want (maybe just one, in the park near my home). "Local Man Changes World For Better." That's a nice headline.

I said I wouldn't really want statues to me and that's true. That would conflict with my conviction that glory is useless. I'm not really seeking glory through statues, being Grand Marshall of the parade, special newspaper editions, commemorative coins or plates, laminated bookmarks with my more famous quotations, a movie of the week, or even a wooden historical marker and tiny driveway offset from the road for sightseers.

What would I do then? I'd have to comb my hair every morning before stepping out with a mouse from the trap to fling it in the road. I'd need to side the house and spruce up the place. Because appearances can be deceiving. How can someone who changed the world live in such an ordinary looking house? Just because Abraham Lincoln came from squalor and did so well doesn't mean the rest of us can expect the same luxury.

I'd have families out there with their Instamatics -- Mom, Dad, their twin boys, and their slightly older daughter, of age but still not quite out of the house, Vanessa, who didn't even want to get out of the car to see another idiotic landmark but had to. She stands about 5 foot 4, cute strawberry blonde hair pulled back, breezy top, blue jean shorts, black boots up to her shins, pouty red lips, and she refuses to turn off her transistor radio. I'm standing on the north porch, ostensibly knocking down cobwebs with my broom but in truth I'm transfixed at the sight. Everything about my eyes goes gauzy and it's not just the cobwebs in my face. I can see us frolicking in a field, like the picture on the first Morning Dew album. I'm celebrating her existence by singing "Strawberry Girl" by Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart.

Vanessa looks up at me. Our eyes meet for the first time, and it's like we're suddenly in a beautiful garden, with Donovan behind us there in the weeds, gently strumming his guitar and singing "Wear Your Love Like Heaven." Eventually we marry, the twins go to school, Mom gets a job at Mode-a-Day, Dad becomes our handyman, Donovan stays, marries Grandma and becomes my step-grandfather. We live off his royalties, Mom's dress shop pay, and my disability checks (I have a game toe). Vanessa and I can barely leave our honeymoon citadel. In honor of the 40th anniversary of Apollo 11, I might say, the first time anyway, "Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed."

But, setting all that aside, I can't act on any of my great ideas to change the world -- for one big stupid reason, I'm on hiatus. I've got time off, time to kill, and that's my lot in life. But, you know, there's something else I just might kill, and that's my hiatus itself. It's stunting me, drying up all my moss. It's got me surrounded, hemmed in on every side. I'm not its master but its victim! I gave it life ... and now I'm afraid it's up to me to take its life away.

But how? My weapons it's hidden. Knives, swords, clubs, guns, my complete arsenal. The hiatus -- in its blob form -- has enveloped my weapons, knowing my plans. (It seems I have at least one reader.) The only deadly weapon in the house is the rolling pin, and it's doubtful that could do much damage to a shapeshifting blob. It'd be like striking a beanbag chair. Or a sponge, which would only spring back spongier than before.

I do have one idea that I think could very well get the job done. But I need the day to think it over. My first thought is that it just might work!

Local Man Takes Hiatus

If you want to take the temperature of the nation, start with me. I am the local man, who just so happens to write his own blog. I'm as average as they come. I'm grassroots, rank and file, salt of the earth, and local.

Sometimes I know I seem to flatter myself that I'm above the average station. That I'm thinking thoughts mortals aren't generally privy to. That still could be. But when it comes to official demographics, socio-educatio kinds of stuff, stats, consumptive patterns, all of that, I'm very very typical.

I'm true to type as the local man. I consume what is necessary in the course of a day. About a half a pound of bacon, a few cups of coffee, other food and beverages, utilities, a roll of regular toilet tissue, and a few public services. I maintain a solid existence as a breathing, pulsating individual, intent on keeping his life going whether it seems vain or not.

When threatened I fight back. I avoid pain to the best of my ability. I try not to be taken by surprise, whether by criminals, crooks, perverts, terrorists, or unexpected medical expenses. I self diagnose to the best of my ability and seldom cry Wolf to my doctor. I keep him happy by exercising twice a month whether I need it or not.

You would think someone so typical would make the news occasionally. But it seems to be just the opposite that happens. The local man is overlooked in favor of the more eccentric, imbalanced individual, or the sick who suddenly fly off the handle. That being said, when I take a hiatus, it doesn't make the news.

I can tell about it at my blog, which I write without any outside help or assistance. All the ideas and content here are of my own doing. I use my imagination to the best of my ability. And I shun prefabricated ideas that may be suggested at "blog idea" sites. The day I use an idea that someone else has secondhand will be the day that I go into mandatory permanent retirement.

My hiatus will continue. Let there be no misunderstanding about that. But when I come back -- assuming I do -- I will continue on as the local man who has works only from his own ideas. I believe in that as a principle and no one will be able to talk me out of it.

I seek not vainglory or vain glory!

UPDATE ON UNRELATED SUBJECT:

CHEYENNE, Wyo. — Two seasonal Yellowstone National Park concession workers have been fired after a live webcam caught them urinating into the Old Faithful geyser.

Way to go, brothers -- or maybe brother and sister -- I've done this myself. It's a very satisfying experience and leaves pleasant memories, especially after the scalding heals.

As you may recall, back in March I actually owned Old Faithful for a short time. It was an interesting time, which can be found in the March archives.

LATER UPDATE:

Those guys who peed in Old Faithful, they're really "in hot water" now, huh? Huh? Huh? Give it to me.

What Goes On Underground Stays Underground

There are mysteries underground that are best left unexplored. Every evil things goes on below the surface. Worms, grubs, bulbs, hell. I've noted the psychic parallels, that what you think is best not examined too closely, lest you find that you're a pervert. The way I picture the human mind is a lot like a Halloween haunted house, but none of it's pretend. The cobwebs, mental ectoplasm, and drippings are real. There's a mill wheel splashing through our brain fluids attached to a stone that grinds our thoughts down from larger kernels so that we can fit them through our ego and seconds later spit them out as words.

Underground, it's cavernous. You can crawl or walk vast distances and get lost. I serious believe there are statues down there in nooks, meant for us to see, but they frequently disappear. In places you can dig and dig, but beware, turn your back for a second and your backhoe will also vanish, perhaps never to reappear, perhaps to reappear somewhere else on the planet. And you with it!

We found some soft ground at the south side, backhoed it out, got the wooden scaffolding in place underground, installed the firing mechanism, the spewing mechanism, the giant steel balls, the water supply piping, the central tube, the rack for extra fireplace bellows, and after all that I was ready for a good night's sleep. It's amazing, you know, what you can do in a day. Usually nothing. I sit and watch TV, read the internet, take a nap, watch some more TV, eat, and that's it; I'm a vegetable. 24 hours speeds by like a wink. But then, you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything. If faith can move mountains just imagine what it can do with geysers. It's no big deal.

Of course the local paper ignored the whole thing. Being ever the optimist, I figured they'd have a headline something like, "Local Man Transplants Old Faithful From Yellowstone To His Back Yard," but they must not have gotten my email. It's their loss! Since it seems like something that would sell newspapers. But one day I will get my due! Every devil does, right?

Cousin Roto stayed underground with the geyser last night.

Local Man Enjoys Front Row Seat

I make my way into the theater, look around for a good seat, notice the front row is empty, in particular the very center seat, and make my way down to claim it. Here is where I shall sit, I think, and I won't give it up even to go to the bathroom. There will be no one in front of me. And if someone's behind me, they can lump it. If I slump down and get my neck situated just so, I will not only have an unobstructed view of the screen but my neck won't feel strained afterward.

I've been thinking about my place in this society. I'm obscure, I don't mind saying it. But there's one thing I know I have and no one can deny it, a front row seat to history. It's just like the theater. I showed up early, I immediately looked that direction, I went directly to it, I sat there, and I refuse to get up, even to go to the bathroom. That's the same thing with history. I'm here, I'm staying, and I look on from a unique vantage point, the front row.

You may wonder, what is this front row to history? I'm there right now. Reading about history on the internet, that's one way of having a vantage point. But I'm looking at history also in the making. Someone said that the newspapers are the first draft of history. I read the various newspaper websites to see what they are reporting. They're right there when President Obama says something or signs legislation. I see that. They're right there in the midst of war and turmoil. I read about it and recoil. They bring it to me if someone has eight kids and is back in bed trying for eight more before the evening's over. I look on, I take note, I observe, I file it away in my mental file cabinet.

That I'm able to see it is good. And it's interesting that it all comes right straight to me as it does. I don't stand in line. I don't panhandle. I'm not begging bread. I'm just here receiving it all. I appreciate the opportunity. I'm not oblivious to the truth that a lot of people would kill to be in my place. To have the front row to history that I have.

Local Man Not Too Depressed

Two days ago, you will definitely recall, I was writing notes to myself in the future. That was a thrilling post. I was on top of the world. I really could have (could have) written notes to myself in the future all night. But discipline is actually something important with me. And if I have to get to sleep because I have things to do tomorrow, I will give up and go to bed. I heard about Beethoven going without food and staying up all night to do his work. But I'm a poor guy with no musical ability and, anyway, I figure I'll have the same inspiration the next day.

But of course I should know better. Because it's always the same thing. This day is different from yesterday. Or the day before. What inspiration you had then will be shot, evaporated by tomorrow.

As it was for this "local man," yesterday was a comedown day from that awesome high of the night before. I was facing that craggy old thing called depression, for which I do not take medicine. Because, and I know this sounds weird, but I believe you should enjoy depression as much as you can. Of course the enjoying of it isn't enjoyment in the strictest sense or you wouldn't be depressed. So it's an enjoyment that instead carries with it the hint of a halfway understanding. Appreciation in the same way that you'd appreciate a spider crawling on your arm. You appreciate his existence as a spider but you don't appreciate where he's at right now.

Appreciate, yes. But enjoy ... like I might enjoy a strawberry sundae, no. I do enjoy it more when it's gone. Then I can look back and say that was a downer, what a downer.

I'm OK today. Just let me say that. But there's no reason to kick it around or it will put me in another cycle for tomorrow. I've probably already said too much.

Local Man Grooms Himself

I'm up with the ants today. Felt a stiff draft coming through the cracks around the window. I stuffed toilet paper in there but it must have rotted. Tried to pull the covers up but they were frozen at the foot of the bed. Always something, but winter is never forgiving.

Felt a strange tickle in my ear. I'm getting that more and more. Picked in there with my fingernail to loosen up some crumbs and pull them out. I could use a Handiwipe about now but no one's looking, flick it past my sheets toward the wall.

Now I'm up, bracing, need to stoke up the fire in the stove. Put on some tea and settle in for the morning. Get comfy, if I can. Heat up some water for bathing. Wash my face, arrange my comb over after getting it wet.

Grooming chores. There's never an end to it. You want to look nice, smell nice. A little Aqua Velva, two rubs of stick deodorant, some hair gel, generic Oil of Olay for the pores on my nose, check out the wrinkles, still there.

Local Man Studies Local Man

I forgot to mention it, but a few months ago I was at a relative's house, and she had one of those three way mirrors, standing up. And if you stand in it and get the mirrors just right you can see several of yourself, from the back, from the side, then multiples that seem to go on through all of space and time. I didn't study it that much, but enough to be able to tell certain things about myself. One of which was that I have a curious love/hate relationship with myself. Looking on directly, I think OK, because that's always the normal image I've had of myself. But looking from weird angles, angles I'm not used to, I don't care for what I see.

It's worth studying, though, because that is who you are, and no amount of wishing you looked different is going to make it happen. So the key philosophy is just to be happy -- extremely happy, or happy as you can be -- with who you are. I remember a teacher somewhere, one of my many graduate seminars, perhaps, or it might have been in kindergarten -- it's all melted together at this point -- who had some philosophical things to say about being who you are, about it being absurd to wish your life away, yourself as self away, because who was doing the wishing? Meaning, you have the ideal in your mind, in you already, so to denigrate yourself is contradictory to the obviously present ideal. It's absurd.

So, let me repeat, it's worth studying. I was looking at myself on a video, exercising, but I was self conscious about how old I'm starting to look. Some real wrinkles and weird skin psychedelic stuff going on. Like finger prints except on the face. That's the thing about wrinkles. But you may as well keep looking because there's no other you.

Any look, any smell (except obviously the most disgusting ones), any sound out of your mouth, any ephemeral thing you write or say, staring into your eyes ... at least in private, it's all good. Don't judge yourself.

I was laughing last night at something, the whole "local man" schtick that this blog is justifiably famous for and proud of. It struck me as suddenly funny again, that my biggest hope in life would be the Daily News doing a feature story about me writing this blog. I love the headline, the whole fantasy of complete fame for a single afternoon, for being one of the few people in the world to write his own blog. With the brilliant headline -- let's fantasize big and say it's between 54-60 point type (italics) -- "Local Man Writes Own Blog."

They would have to explain for all the Grandma Slump types out there what a blog is. It is short, you know, for "web log," web being another word for what we used to call the "information superhighway" and log being a word for logging things, like lists of facts, or, in this case, opinions on things that are extant on said information superhighway. That tidbit out of the way, they would need to write about how you get a blog -- many are free. Then they might say who has one of these blogs, people of all ages, you'd be surprised. There are all different kinds. From political to entertainment to religious to general interest to newsy.

My own is family oriented, tied in with the experiences I have as a man and his grandmother. So that's it. That's what I see when I look in the mirror. That's what I see when my fantasies are unleashed.

I seriously love today's post. I love it. I clacked it out. I'm going to look back on this in a year and laugh, laugh, laugh. This is one of the funniest things I've ever written. This is one of the funniest articles on the world wide web.

Note to Self in 2010: I felt tired when I was writing this. As you read this again in 2010, remember the feeling you had while writing this. It seemed very special, almost like a buzz was happening. Is it funny? It is!

Note to Self in 2011: You're getting older all the time. Re-read the part above about the mirrors and video, then maybe take a video and compare it. Check out the mirror. Look into your eyes. Are they bloodshot? You need more sleep. You're two years older than the night you wrote this. That's putting me "up there" in years. But you have more to go, unless you have died in the meantime... This is a funny article!

Note to Self in 2012: This might be the last time you will read this article. It's always a great idea, I believe, to write myself notes for the future. Then I can read them and know that in the past I was thinking about my future self. I hope you're still there, and that you still "got it." I've got it tonight. Isn't the "local man" a funny concept? Do you still think it is in 2012? I hope so.

Note to Self in 2013: It's been like four years since this night. By now you surely will have quit writing this blog. Right? What if you're still doing it? Won't that be wild? Local man writes own blog for four or five years, I'm losing track. This is getting long, but I'm so interested in my future feelings. I need a blog dedicated to my future self. That's a great idea. Then I can have something to read non-stop in my old age, the old posts to myself for the days when I can no longer write.

Note to Self in 2014: I hope I'm still alive to read this. You never know what might happen. I was driving, back in 2008, next to a busy railroad track and thinking that if the train veered off the track right that second that I'd be killed. It could happen at any time. And no one will know about this blog, except perhaps my relatives who will find my passwords when they're looking for hidden cash. Just know this, 2014 self, that things were going pretty well back in 2009. The economy wasn't good, but personally you were fairly happy.

Local Man Celebrates New Year

The local man, centered in his own local activities, judges all things. On this holiday he has seen it coming. The old year drifts closer and closer -- dangerously close -- to its demise. This is known, predicted.

He remains as economical as ever, going to the store and checking out the bargains, near-bargains, and excessively marked up items in the snack aisle. Some chips are exorbitant, like in the $4.69 range. Others have a more appealing price to the local man, such as two for five bucks. He picks up one, some sort of "Restaurante" kind.

As for the salsa, it's neither marked up nor marked down. It's what it usually is when not on sale. Get a mild for Grandma, a hot for himself.

Then summer sausage of a type he hasn't seen before, Cervelat. It looks good enough to take a chance on.

As for drinks, there's a sparkling cider that the Martinette's (spelling probably off) have been making since 1868. They surely know what they're doing by now, so he picks up a bottle. It's only once a year.

Back home, I'm quite tired and don't make it to midnight. But that gave me today to dig in and work on some of this food.

The Local Man Votes Democratic

The local man is the average guy, the salt of the earth. He cares about his country, his wife, his family, his dog. He wants the best for them and everyone. He embodies all the fine qualities that I have previously described as pertaining to the local man -- his local shopping habits, his sincere hometown pride, the way he roots proudly for the local team, and all the rest.

The local man has a mind and can think for himself, and doesn't need guidance (propaganda) from the city. He has plenty of time in the course of his day at the local level to read newspapers, to hear the news in the coffee shop, and to hobnob and otherwise confer with his fellow local men. They discuss the issues in a clear, levelheaded way, putting the pros and cons of each opinion in columns and drawing rational conclusions. Because he is essentially rational -- while being softhearted -- he strictly votes Democratic.

Loving his country as he does, he's careful never to vote for a Republican. (Possibly for dogcatcher, if there haven't been that many dogs running loose lately and the competency and mental disabilities of the Republican candidate isn't that pressing an issue.) To him, Republicans running for office is just another name on the ballot to give us a two party system to set us apart from dictatorships. But the Republican name is never a realistic choice. My friends, the local man is not suicidal, nor is he shortsighted.

When you get right down to it, the local man has good reasons to vote Democratic. For example, he feels disgust at the July 4th parade when the local Republican float comes by, yet pride a little later for the Democratic float. The Republican float usually has some scraggly people on it, mostly guys who've been bailed out of jail the night before and paid by the party so it will look like they have supporters. It's easy to recognize the guys on the float, sex offenders, drug dealers, pimps, and shoplifters. They're throwing out candy laced with poison and riddled with fish hooks and needles. This is the cream of the crop as far as the Republicans are concerned. But the Democratic float has prominent citizens, pleasant looking families, people with teeth and their hair combed, various do-gooders from the town, who eschew the crowd's applause, giving it back to the crowd as a matter of respect and camaraderie. The Democrats don't throw anything. But they're very busy handing the crowd bottles of cold water, low sugar candy, and informational tracts about the issues and the good solutions to our problems.

I don't blame Republicans for not wanting to ride the float themselves. You'd almost think they would, since they're mental anyway, what do they know? But they don't, both to their shame and to their credit, if you know what I mean. They certainly would be no match for the Democrats, again with all their obvious birth defects, hideous deformities, and shedding chromosomes as they do, like water coming off a shaking dog. You ask a Republican for a constructive solution to our problems and they stare at you dumbly. Then they form a little circle, chatter among themselves in some strange language of chirps and cheeps, but finally it's clear ... nothing computes. Just a stupid, blank look on their faces. Constantly, invariably stupid.

This year hopeless John McCain is trying vainly for the local man's vote. Fat chance, defect, not with that "R" next to your name!