The Great Bacteriums

Virus

Part 17 of 30

Right up front I need to put out a disclaimer on this one, that, perhaps, what I seem to recall as “The Great Bacteriums of Old” may not have existed. They're telling me that. Yet I seem to remember the elders talking about them when I was a kid. But this other guy I know, whose great grandparents were a prominent fixture in the 1800s supposedly never told their children and their children’s children about such affairs, because this other guy never heard of it.

I’ve been mulling it over, googling to no avail, and I always thought they had such a reliable service, but so far it’s all coming up empty. And yet it just seems to me that my grandfather, who was born in the late 1800s, had said something about something that his grandfather reportedly mentioned in some context, the exact quotation now lost. As I can put it together -- and there are blanks -- I’ve got the syllable “-teriums and the fact that one of my grandfather’s cousins died of bacteria. Poo poo it if you like but it’s ballpark close, close enough to go with.

So there it was. When people were lucky to live into their 30s and would often defer marriage till they were 35 just to be on the safe side, thanks to inheritance issues and whether ladies or guys were marrying each other for their money, they had these bacterium exhibits. With my understanding being that loving couples used these sideshows to settle inheritance issues for their combined wealth, killing two birds with one stone and hoping neither lover would die in the process. But if they did die too soon, you understand, one family would be left destitute and the other family (his) would make off with the loot. A little complicated.

I based my artist’s depiction of the bacterium based on other sideshow exhibits, leaving out, of course, women with stockings up to their thighs because our tastes these days are less carnal than they went with back then. Personally I have no issue with it, but sometimes there’s issue if I view it long enough. Depends on how hot it is, and some of those east European ladies -- thighs as big as a horse’s -- were immediately hot. Our grandpas had it made, making me wonder why all the grandmas I’ve seen, including my own beloved grandmas, had more modern thighs. My family obviously didn’t range far, or have as high of standards when it came to mating. And I guess it’s still that way. I like most things that move.

Imagine though, getting back to the bacteriums, how tough the folks of old were when it came to viruses. They weren’t fooling around. The showed the virus who was boss, and those who weren’t pushy enough, presumably, died. We could draw a certain parallel with today, too, and probably be pretty accurate. Although one of our modern prejudices is not to easily accept responsibility for our problems. But it’s definitely something to think about, how tough we are, and how supposed tough the virus is.

Big City Gets Negative Verdict

The Big City

Part 17 of 28 - My favorite

Of course it’s easy for me to sit here day after day railing against The Big City. You know I make a lot of good points. And this isn't something I’d lie about. I actually live in The Big City -- a guaranteed fact -- so everyday I'm mulling it over. Between watching TV, feeding the dog, and doing laundry along with a bunch of other chores. So it’s not like I’d be unfairly biased against it when it's now my whole life.

So that validates some of my opinions if not the bulk of them, and perhaps all of them. But no one can be right all the time. Whereas the less you say, naturally the better your opinions are and the more squarely they'll hit the bullseye of the public’s sense. I make that claim for myself, and statistically it’s borne out, I'm either always right or close, hitting the sweet spot on most of my statements and beliefs.

All that said -- which alone would prove my point -- I was still willing to put my opinions to the ultimate test by arranging a completely random interview with an individual, with all the safeguards and controls that go into it to keep the statistical hounds at bay regardless of other factors. Like it or not, I definitely went the entire extra mile, a lot farther than most guys go to show good faith.

OK, here's how it went: First, I took the time and expense to assemble a focus group, and they seemed fully prepared to judge the case. But  I detected bias with one guy saying it was a good day to be alive, which tainted the pool. I abruptly dismissed nearly the entire session with severe prejudice. I spared just one guy of the group, the same guy who thought it was a good day to be alive! The others were out, not only being tainted, but they were also either pessimistic or suicidal. It was this other guy's optimistic spirit that made me optimistic that he’d see it my way about the Big City.

This, however, was a sensitive moment. I had to keep him from bias, so I asked him not to speak again but to signal his verdict on The Big City solely by facial gestures. So we shall proceed to the questions and his facial answers:

Question number 1: Do you like sticking it to the man? A smiling UP, with eyes decidedly closed. For me, this was a big positive, saying he was more than happy to stick it to the man. I figured the survey would be a slam dunk against the Big City, but we still had quite a ways to go.

Question number 2: Is the Big City a good idea for children and other living things? Instead of his big smile just seconds before, he became like a wounded animal at the very thought of it. He gave it a firm DOWN. His answer strengthened my stance that the Big City is anathema for living things, being a negative gesture. 1-1.

Question number 3: Would you like to date the mayor of the Big City? A quick scrunchy-face DOWN. Which was a big surprise for me, because the mayor’s really quite an attractive guy. But it's probably just a case of him not swinging that way. Suddenly we were DOWN 2-1.

Question number 4: I was hoping this wouldn’t be a DOWN, because with only one question left there would be no way for the Big City to possibly eek out a victory. But I asked anyway: “What is your favorite thing about the Big City?" Since he could use only facial gestures, he seemed disappointed and would've preferred to give an oral answer. That gave us a DOWN, 3-1, with no favorite thing. Now the only way of climbing out of the hole being for the last question to be UP along with something underhanded. I could've gleaned that he'd rather marry the mayor than merely date him. But we didn't go there.

Question number 5: In what way is the Big City like lemons? He did what everyone does when they think of lemons, puckered up in a positive way -- making it an UP vote -- rounding out an otherwise disappointing total for the Big City at 3-2 DOWN.

So it was a negative result for the Big City, justifying my original negative take. Reflecting back on the interview, I thought it over, and realized how close it actually was. Clearly, the interpretation of the answers might’ve been jimmied if I were that kind of guy, a Big City shyster. But instead I played it fair and square all the way.

The 7 Couples Forum

Part 22 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

I put out a casting call for models for this graphic -- and I don't put out very often -- wanting only the happiest couples to apply. And I sort of got the happiest couples, but it’s in this sense, they were the happiest I could find. Next, my goal was to get the honest pictures of them down. And some of them need about a hundred shots and this is the best I got. Some of these almost didn’t make the cut, but I had to have something, with the money I forked out (1), and my deadline looming for the blog.

To make an example of them, I deleted couple 7. In complete fairness, they didn’t look much worse than the others, but I was so upset and had to make an example of someone. For one, the man didn’t like me and I didn’t like him. Also, the woman rolled her eyes once too often, they argued between takes, and they threatened to “walk out that door,” so finally I physically kicked the woman out, and with the good help of Garfunkel from couple 5, we had 7’s man’s arm behind his back, with him crying “Uncle! in a very nasty way. I kicked him unceremoniously out of the room, and I believe he fell down the elevator shaft because the elevator's out for repair.

Note, though, what all I went through and how hard it is to find genuinely happy people. I even kept telling myself, the world’s literally full of halfwits, you’d think they'd be happy, a big stupid grin on their face all the time, oblivious to what people with functioning brains are dealing with, money issues, health issues, avoidance of sex, which is usually followed by another round of money issues.

I remember Garfunkel’s partner melodically ruminated on the faces of people, which is a real coincidence, because the man from No. 3 actually is a spy. He looked at me with a quizzical look on his face, that look of “I think I know you.” I recognized him right away but didn’t show any sign of it. I tried to avoid him as best I could and certainly the wife. One affirmation that we’d met before and it’d blow up in my face. I’ve been chaste a long time, friends, and I’m not going back. Certainly not by the tug of an unclean passing friendship (not even that!), which may have seemed like the top of the world long ago but now it’s only sordid, tawdry. I was happy when he left.

It definitely made me think again of my mantra, and I frankly repeated it a dozen times (mentally and under my breath), “There’s death in them thar drawers...” Yes, he’s aged nicely. And I’m not doing terribly myself. Avoidance, chastity, washing my hands, eating the the dullest, drabbest vegetables I can find, it all helps.

Anyway, I kept a smile on my face most of the time with these dear souls -- mostly lost souls -- knowing I definitely had it over them with my personal progress, and that’s what's important. Everyone else may be hopelessly lost in them thar drawers, but at least I’m safe.

Upside, Downside of Passion

Part 13 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Now there’s a ripping hot scene I can identify with, scorching, scalding, a nice flicker of red flames and a lot of dancing, like the Old West when a particularly phallic-suggestive cowboy gets you dancing to a banging gun -- dance or die -- topped off, in spite of your dancing, by one of the worst deaths, immolation.

A scene like that -- are you with me, brothers in arm? -- has to put you in mind of fairly common experiences over the years. Burning with lust, burning with passion, red hot afire in the loins, the flicker of flames kissing, licking everything in sight. I really see it here, with a lot of basic whooping and shared glee, outright happiness with clasping hands, tossed hats, and getting that big look of wild contentment and celebration of the moment. And to think they each have a wife sitting at home, by now in full mudpack to the hairline, hair in curlers and checking her watch: “Where's that son of a bitch!? Why’s he so late!? If that scoundrel comes in smelling like the campfire with char on his shoes, I’ll know why!”

But I don’t actually say any of this to celebrate this kind of wanton behavior. Because now I already know how crazy it is. Pairing off with his buddy and jumping the flames of passion with a hotfoot isn’t where either of them should be. Because, 1) There’s death in them thar drawers, which should go without saying; 2) That ball and chain with the rolling pin waiting at the door, each one made vows to his respective ball and chain, and there’s more honor and value in keeping those vows than can be found in all the campfires and all the burning with lust and passion get-togethers and frolics you can find, even with male friends.

The upside of passion, though, is something to touch on. That there even IS an upside might come as news to you, because we’re so used to being out there, and everyone leaping about, then the massive communal ‘ending’ to it, and everyone slinks off feeling a little guilty to their respective mudpacks. So let’s touch on the downside. The downside is that you need this upside. Instead of finding the contentment within. Some guys find it, some don’t. Or they find it when it’s easier to find, when they’re too old to cut the mustard. Then they just morph into it and live happily ever after, assuming the death in them thar drawers didn't take them prematurely from the world.

I think the real joy of the thing is when you’re able to set it down at the height of your powers. Because upside and downside leads to no side. It’s simply a negation, not that hard to shun, swear off of, dispose of, relegate to the trash heap of other experiences with friends, and finally surpass. You see your old buddy in a meeting somewhere, you’re strangers when you meet! Or, who knows what, you fall back into the same trap. He asks “How they hangin’?” And one thing leads to another…

Remember, stop! Because for sure there is death in them thar drawers!

Married With Renewed Virginity

Part 11 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

In these days of boldness, of people putting it right out there, even in your face, and daring you to object, we have to tread wisely. “Forgive them,” we might earnestly implore the forces above, putting ourselves in some pretty holy company with words like that, “Forgive them for humping everything in sight, be it consenting, be it nonconsenting, be it alive, inert, a hole in a tree, or some filthy device found secondhand in a used devices store.

I know the media isn’t helping. Yes, I’m paying attention to the media. And I can sum things up pretty well. An image forms in my head and I mull it over. I don’t write it down. And before you know it, it’s taken on a life of its own, with a mind of its own. I rise up, it exposes itself to the light of day. It forges ahead, dodging and weaving, making its own path, forcing its way with insistence against all obstacles, unaware of the meaning of Stop Stop or Don’t Stop, Don’t Stop num num num. And I have pretty good control, respecting all boundaries. But here I’m speaking not just of my moral self, but the forces of existence that take our fellow beings over the line and to the moral woodshed. They can be restrained, they can be helped, even if it takes manacles.

Did your parents sleep together? With an emphasis on the word ‘sleep’? Ooo la la, some of you are saying. Of course they did. They weren’t perfect. Their restraint was like the restraint of most people, feeling fairly well entitled and not having real discipline. To the extent that I was aware of anything, I can say that mine had the superficial basics down. But they didn’t want anyone to know. This became an issue when I filled out a survey -- called Card/Pack -- that brought down the wrath of my dad upon me. “Did it have a question that said, ‘Do your parents sleep together?’" I couldn’t remember but I thought so. Well, from that point on, they didn’t. Meaning I had to file an amended return and only then escaped trouble with Dad.

If they were like the proud couple I’m thinking of today, who sleeps outside to let all the world know they’ve got the innocence it takes to have the happiest life, it wouldn’t be an issue. And perhaps it wasn’t anyway, because from that time on that’s all the kids they had. I have to think they knew something about the authorities and the scare of being socially exposed, because, indeed, There's Death in Them Thar Drawers. Meaning, the less school children were discussing it and exposing it to the all-seeing eye of the government, which you'd think would be more interested in aggregate numbers than specific hanky panky, the more they could continue their activities, but now with more discretion. Which is still no excuse.

Perfect Marriage: Do It Yourself

 

Part 4 of 30

Self-Abuse September

Here’s a man, a real brother, who can testify to the superiority of self-abuse over the same old tired been-done-to-death "sex act" as it’s often called, the whole disgusting "going all the way" method of "getting it on." Where, unless you’re hopped up on pills and bolted down with rubbers, or unfaithful to your wife with men, or with women while using an assumed name, switching license plates and never staying anywhere where anyone could ever identify you, and somehow being able to evade DNA detection from now till eternity, you’re better off playing Solitaire. By the way, they’ve made strides with Solitaire, which is now available for your phone, and you never need actual cards, if you have some lonely nights that you want to put to good use.

But, think, when things got hot and heavy this guy could’ve told his wife, “Hey, baby, instead of that I’m going to be staying tonight at a fancy hotel, just a little date with myself. Have a good night.” Then he'd buzz off to the famous Hotel d’Luster, all by himself taking the Family Wing. And just to remind himself of the stakes, he'd go one by one past the many rooms of the Suite. “This could’ve been Little Suzie’s room, this Little Dicky’s,” etc., going past nine or ten other rooms and listing the imaginary children he and the old lady would never have. Then back to the master bedroom, where he'd roost alone and roll in the hay by himself, canoodling. And play a little game with himself called "Shoot the Moon." Caution, it’s generally messy and these days the first thing hotel staff looks for are stains on the ceiling.

Oh yes, the things he could’ve done! But hindsight sometimes being better than foresight (a bigger crack for one), none of it happened. But if he had it to do again! As it turned out, in trying to tell her where he was going he got roped into taking her and then the whole family scene erupted. She wheedled, “We need one child so we'll have someone to leave our things to.” Which naturally had to be followed by, “We need two, so the first will have someone to grow up with.” That’s honestly all you need, max! But it’s easy to justify three, four, five, and so on. Because of what might happen to the first two, it always pays to have a few spares. A despicable woman!

Well, as you can see, the idiot agreed to the wife’s plan, reluctantly, and got two right away. She’s always harder to resist when she’s hanging on him and he can see the path down her nighty clearly, not marked with warning signs. So now here he is. Making a resolution for the next time they get together: "Baby, two’s good, who needs spares? We lose these, we do without!"

Maelstrom: Uncle Dingy's Regrets

Part 9 of 31

They Found Another Body

This was a relative of mine, Uncle Clarence aka Uncle Dingy, who actually died before I was born. Once upon a time something happened and Dingy went a little rancid, wormy in the head. These days it might’ve been called a mental breakdown, because he was definitely under the weather where it counted. He had several close calls with death. He saw more than a man of his limited mental capabilities should see. Involving someone else's wife, likely from the neck down in full display. And he ended up dying of natural causes, some say murder. There was a prolonged vigil, rattling the cages and storming heaven's gate but it didn’t do any good.

I’m kind of glad it all went down before I was born. I have the space to stand back semi-detached and judge from a distance: “What happened to you, Dingy, that you couldn’t make it to old age like the rest of the brood? Did you forget every teaching they taught you, not to get involved in the affairs of people of such low character, with more on their mind than citizenship, patriotism, and doing good? You know the family, right, Dingy? We wisely stand back when the world’s going to hell in a hand-basket. Where others wilt in the face of temptation, we stand tall. So what happened to you? Was she that hot?

Ouch, that might burn, I got a little too close to the truth, which I wasn’t going to touch. But there was a jealous husband, jealous to the point of taking it out on Dingy, it being a firearm, a pistol to be precise, waving it about, about to fire it in that room of sin, with red wallpaper and nude paintings, the works, after backing Dingy to the headboard, who strained his neck something fierce when there was nowhere else to crawl. Bang!

His last word was “Maelstrom! Maelstrom!” I’ve heard of that, but I had to look it up to get a fuller understanding. The dictionary says, “A powerful whirlpool in the sea or a river.” And “a situation or state of confused movement or violent turmoil.” My first thought is that Dingy was out of his mind and randomly remembering something maelstromesque. But I ran it by a friend and he said Dingy likely was likening his experience with the woman and her jilted lover/murderer to a maelstrom, something he wished would’ve never happened, and if he had it to do over, he wouldn’t have. Or would've taken her to a different town.

That’s pretty smart reflection. ‘I did something, I’m sorry I did, and if I could do it over again, I wouldn’t have, or would've gone farther.’ But then he was in a maelstrom, a whirlpool of consequences, sucked down, dragged inexorably toward a fitful though regrettable conclusion, death.

What could he have said to call off the dogs? If a word like maelstrom didn’t call them off, probably nothing would have. “I’m sorry, it was a one-time thing, nothing we’ll repeat, I’ll make it up to you somehow…” “Make it up to me, huh? There’s no unsullying her good name and honor!” Bang, bang!

Those Deadly Newspapers

Part 5 of 31

They Found Another Body

There’s always degrees of happiness and sadness in comparing your own life to that of someone else. It's not usually a good idea if you can help it. And usually we can't.

It used to be that neighborhoods had a lot of consistency, stability. The same neighbors there for decades; they just evolved in place from spores. Of course the kids always moved eventually, even if it was just to the attic. This is probably still true in little places where there's no market for houses and no one remembers why anyone ever moved there. In the Big City, though, people are coming and going at all hours, a different pickup truck every morning. Where the previous residents go, it's not always good to know.

The guy in the illustration is reading the newspaper just like I read it. Except I shake it a couple times to straighten it out before saying, "Hmm, another tragedy. They Just Found Another Body Somewhere." Lying in the woods, crushed by a train, hanging in a dump site, or tied in the ditch. But nothing is as common as finding someone in the river. It's weird how I did a lot of fishing in years gone by and never saw one body. I remember going fishing with my dad and there was zero trauma. Now you show up and the first thing you see, There's somebody! Even the fish are huddled on the beach waiting for the cops.

It spurs some thoughtfulness for the guy when another guy bites the dust from mistreatment by his shrew of a wife, henpecking him to such a horrible degree that in the end, that's the end. Then dot dot dot. A different day, it might've been different. They might've found him by the chimney flue of the outhouse at the state park, a terrible place to find someone when he's got to go. He should’ve taken her to court and divorced her when he had the chance, and I'm no fan of divorce. But it’s better than messing with state property, ruining our outhouses.

“Imagine that…” Indeed, imagine that. We can hear his tone of voice. We also see the signs of reflection on the henpecking wife's part, ‘Am I really that bad?” Yes, Missy, you shouldn’t have done it. Greg was working as hard as he could to provide this love nest for you, and this was the thanks he got... Normal talking and conversation along with being constructively critical, to a certain extent, as long as you have affirming solutions, is one thing. But if it's nothing more than nag, nag, nag, dragging him down, pointless criticism, never grateful, carping, sniping, never happy, always riding him, detracting, cutting, nitpicking, bristling, the voice of constant ire, nasty asides, throwing things, muttering under your breath, and of course complaining, that's what everyone hates, and one other thing we hate, having a brother having to live through it...

OK, the marriage was never that great. And now, after her unfortunate demise, the guest room's open for renters. You can read about it in the paper. But remember, the newspaper you read could be the newspaper that sinks you. And imagine the headline the next day. Avoid the news, you're always happier living in ignorance.

Thelma's Tom Died

Part 28 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

At this point Thelma hasn’t full processed the workings of fate, taking from her a spouse that was pretty good, but never as good as you’d want. That’s a common problem in marriages, when occasionally the spouse has a bad day and each has to return to their mutual corners. Who knows why?

Tom wasn’t a bad guy — not terrible, we've seen worse — and he was faithful and a good provider. But he had an odd quirk, being overwhelmed and doing stupid things when confronted with life's complications. You see, when the Good Lord created dumb Tom took his half out of the middle. Just thinking of him is to wish you never knew him. But let me hammer one important point his friends all make, he was a good provider; providing wasn’t an issue. Sure, others had a lot more, but Tom and Thelma did OK.

And it’s one thing to be crazy kids on your honeymoon, the love light always shining in your eye. It’s another to have the years pass mercifully along, your full happiness somewhere just out of reach. On that score it feels like everyone’s in the same boat. Although there’s a select few born with a silver spoon in their mouth. The rest of us get a ceremonial spoon as a wedding gift.

Certainly Thelma and Tom followed the same clock and calendar as everyone else, and time went by reliably, tick after tick, inch by inch. They were never exactly “stuck” in the same place, but if getting there is half the fun their lives were two halves drab. Thelma kept the wedding gown in the closet and checked it for moths once in a while.

She never wished Tom dead. Not just because that’d be wrong, but because “any old port in a storm.” There were few options in those days. Cheating and unceremoniously dumping the slug weren’t easily done, not on their budget. Which was always tight.

Then it happened, the great tragedy, Tom caught a particularly virulent bug going 'round the factory, and fell dead welding a bolt (some say hinge.) The details naturally aren't that important, but I think it was a bolt. You want a bolt to stay in place, never to swing back and forth; it’s a lot more likely you’d weld a bolt. But whoever says hinge, you have to think they’ve wisely considered the rarity of welding hinges, so that's obviously a sincerely held belief. Or obstinacy.

I heard from other employees who said it wasn’t beyond them to weld everything they came across, including lunch-meat sandwiches so no one would steal them! And it could be that Tom came down with the bug and might’ve said “To hell with it” and brazenly did start welding everything. You'd probably put it among the dumbest decisions of his life, just going by the talk. But I’m not his ultimate judge.

His ultimate judge, he soon met. Tom fell dead. Sadness ensued, the usual palaver.

A few weeks passed and Bill came into Thelma’s life. What Tom totally missed in the personality department, Bill more than made up for. A real charmer, but maybe lacking carefulness. I can certainly understand why they’d tell him to be more careful — who wouldn’t be? — after one husband dropped dead in uncertain circumstances.

The Psycho Squad

Part 1 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

We have wreckers for cars that break down. And ambulances for nervous breakdowns. That's basically what you need to know. And people to drive them and ride along.

I've had wreckers come help me; that's a complicated business. You'd think, hook the hook to the bumper and drag it in, simple. But, no, there's lots of different cars, the places where the hook needs to go varies. You even have to have it so when the wrecker stops, the car stops. Get that? It has to be cinched up real good and tight. Then the other thing, they have to be able to turn corners without it flipping off or getting twisted at the chain, etc. It's so complicated, if you have the slightest qualms about having what it takes, go into brain surgery instead. It's easier and the pay's better.

That's where I come in, one of society's heroes, somewhere between the wrecker guy and a brain surgeon. In fact, that'd be a terrific logo, a wrecker pulling a head to the service station. That'd be a funny logo, something everyone would remember. And it tells our story in its basics; just as a car breaks down, we break down. It's nothing to be ashamed of. No one blames a car when it has problems. I guess I have, but it doesn't do any good. But who among us hasn't kicked a car or even taken a sledge hammer to one?

With people though -- and I'm a people person, not a cannibal but I love people -- I treat them as well as possible. The least little thing, of course, and they'll sue the pants off you. Especially if the problems are more mental and not observable, just the symptoms. They can imagine you did all kinds of things. And say they've got split personality disorder, they think they know what you did from five different angles. Tough to disprove even if you have a split personality guy as sideman.

Anyway, it's a tough business, but gratifying. It's good to know you're doing something everyone else only dreams about. But those folks can wake up and take a sedative and go back to sleep. We have to face it, this is the reality of life, terrible, boiling over crazy, you wake up with the heeby-jeebies and that's the way you go to bed. Half the time I'm afraid to face another day, but then I think, at least days are twice as nice as nights. Especially with a full moon. It's been a while since I was surrounded by psychos on the highway. Say you're threatened, just howl yourself, keep 'em confused, they don't know who they're looking for. Then phone for backup. 

I wanted to do this job since I was a kid. I also wanted to marry a redhead. Three redhead wives later, I thought, try a blonde. So here I am, doing the job. The ambulance is a seductive mistress, also redheaded, a red light twisting the night away.

One of my old classmate friends wanted to help people when he graduated. So he went to work for a home with mental cases. They were locked in, he was locked in with them. He showed me the bite marks on his skin one day, even dropped his pants a couple inches. Teeth marks from people with teeth better than mine! I thought the obvious, you gotta be crazy. I’d really hate to be their dentist...

These are my adventures. Which I try to keep tame. If nothing interesting happens on any given day, that's good, that makes me happy. The more boring, the better. Lack of bite marks, my goal. Avoiding redheads? Lock me up and throw away the key if I cave. Bald's better.

The Burnt Bacon Codicil

Back where my people are from -- far back in the sticks but still on the right side of the tracks -- live a people where they still have common sense. For one thing, they don't mollycoddle wives, which is one of my big complaints in the alt society we suffer today. Back home, if they don't get it right, it has eternal consequences: "You're out!" Or the old man's simply gone and no one knows where.

O! the things guys suffer these days! I've heard their cries everyday since my coming forth from the homeland so very long ago. A lot of the problems are of a sexual nature, which is easy enough to overlook. Who among us hasn't been so stoved up he'd bust or so dried out he thought he'd blow away? That's how they make raisins, you know...

Yes, the problem today is sexual, but of a different sort. Rooted in sex, since sex is the main purpose in marriage, as in bearing young. They've been doing it forever. Adam and Eve, all the way up to Little House on the Prairie, and still today. Although -- I'm not trying to take us too far afield -- there's a lot more sex of a selfish nature, Me/Myself/I, now clean it up... It's a revolting subject, get it out of my sight!

Our main point today is to report on the Burnt Bacon Codicil in marriage vows. It used to be done, you know, and a man stood by it, and a woman (God spare her) had to face the judgment: "No more marriage for you!" With that and just that fast, the old man was gone. Did he have help on his journey? Yes, the whole clan pitched in! And that's how it should be. A woman like that has no place among our people, not watchful enough to cook bacon? I need to pause before I wet myself cussing...

Anyway, the Burnt Bacon Codicil is a true thing, and back home it had pride of place in our marriage vows. "I vow to love you forever, until the stars fade, until the moon fizzles and falls, until the sun hides its face, until the cows run away and someday find their way home... Or until you burn the bacon, which is a real danger." But, like in most things, there could be mercy. For me, I know, say you burnt the bacon once, I'd have mercy and try to step you through the bacon-cooking process, then maybe you'd do it right. Once or twice or three times and maybe even four times, I might endure it, then say you got it right once or twice, then burnt it again. At that point there's no promises.

I'm very realistic. You have a hard time getting the bacon done right, you may as well be gone. How goddamned hard can it be? You set the stove, you clean out the ashes, you give the burners a good 24-hour scrubbing, maybe you pick out less than completely dry wood, then you get it stoked as though you have a purpose, you're not sloppy, you pay attention, you turn the bacon, your eyes are glued to it and its progress. The kid's fallen out of his crib, he'll keep, that bacon won't! The kid's not on a set schedule, that bacon's nearly burnt!

And speaking of kids, you know what, Missy? There might not even be any kids if you're slow on the uptake with the bacon. Think long and hard about that, or maybe you won't have anything long and hard to think about. It's true. There's lots of kids -- bless their failed souls -- who aren't with us today because their would-be mama didn't know the first thing about bacon. Whatever angel wings they started with, they still have, which is sad or happy depending on how you look at it. For them, it might be mostly happy... Who wants a bacon-burning mama?

So look there, cooking the bacon good is a matter of life and death. As an aside, we need men to care, to set the example and lay down the law. Who won't give into their wives' sexual urges till their bacon drive is well satisfied. Give 'em an inch, guys, and they'll want the whole thing.

This whole business of the Codicil and the keeping of the standards also affects dogs. How's that? you ask. Explaining it in detail would take us too far afield, but here's a summary: Teach a man to fish and he'll eat for life. Give a dog bacon and he'll expect it forever. Something to ponder, dogs and their expectations.

It can be a sad business. I'm old, but my memories of back-home are still clear. An aggrieved husband, a clueless wife: "My daddy never told me, my daddy never told me," she whimpers, crying, shrieking. "Shut your fool mouth!" the husband wails, "Your daddy's the fattest man in three counties! He ate bacon by the bucket! Your momma was a good cook or you wouldn't even be here!"

Chiseling Wives -- What Will She Steal Tonight?

I had to laugh when a dear friend recently told me of his terrible suspicions that his wife was chiseling him out of money. Certainly it’d be pocket change -- I don't know, there might've been bills, if I had to guess I'd say yes. I laughed because this is a problem that goes way back. I'm getting up there in age, and so many times when I was a kid I'd hear guys complaining about their chiseling wives. (I've had more than one offer, as an old man now, to record an oral history of the past. But it's so sad, every time I start in, I break down something fierce. So I restrict myself to articles here -- exposés? -- because if I start crying and it's just me I'm not quite as embarrassed.)

But I'm not embarrassed by what I'm going to call these gals: Damned chiseling women. OK, how you like them berries? Just calling it the way I see it, the way it is. Again, a story as old as the ages and a story as new as tomorrow, when, a'rising from what he thinks was a good night's sleep, there's a poor guy who's going to learn one of life's important lessons: You should definitely have had a vault, somewhere to keep your valuables. Otherwise -- it's sad but true -- you'll be wondering, What happened to X, Y, and Z? Then there she is, still fast asleep. Wonder why she always seems to sleep in? Could it be she was up half the night, chiseling, stealing, creatively nibbling around the edges of things to the point that ... oops, they're gone?

Then there's another case, which I can't vouch for, but I heard it from a friend, who himself heard it from a friend. If you ask me did I see it? No, I didn't. But if you ask me do I believe it? I'd have to say, Yes, I absolutely do. While it's brazen and for that reason barely believable, there's the aspect of performance art to it, and thus it's perhaps (wink wink) taken as a joke, so although it's done in front of a host of witnesses, it's not thrown in the groom's face by witnesses:

A couple was being married. He and she had written their own vows, and as they're repeating them, suddenly he's lightheaded and passes out. Right then, as part of the vows, she was supposed to vow not to chisel money or anything else from him, apparently as his mother had done against his father. So he passes out, that part of the service gets left out, and when he comes to moments later, the minister is pronouncing them husband and wife. Husbands naturally being tough-guys, he didn't say anything about the apparent lapse. (And the video was edited with footage from the rehearsal filling in the blanks.)

Next thing you know, his pockets were being rifled, change from the dresser was missing, and even a few old, very old, 1897 silver dollars his grandfather had given him were gone. Truth be told, his wife used them for bus fare! True story! But he refused to believe the facts, even though they were staring him in the face, until it was too late. One day he woke up and the bed was missing, and suddenly the evidence was unmistakable: She was a chiseler. Stealing everything in sight! Even his clothes. He went to work that day in nothing but a jock strap, and when he came home -- having had to work overtime as punishment for violating the company dress-code -- the house was gone! (To her credit, the wallpaper was neatly rolled up and waiting for him on the curb.)

My personal recommendation would be, Don't jump into a marriage you may regret. Get to know the woman. Listen and observe carefully. Does she seem to be overly materialistic? When she's at your home, is she carrying a clipboard and does she seem to be taking inventory more often and more diligently than would be normal for insurance purposes? Does she seem to have rental agreements lying about for warehouse properties? Does she have an all-consuming interest in online auction sites? Have you overheard her pricing major railroad shipments? The picture she gave you and you kept on your bed stand, does it have both a front and side view? These are telltale signs worth noting.

OK, here's one of my throwback stories from a long time ago, 1970-71, about a guy I knew named Mr. Stanley. I'm withholding his first name. I don't want any trouble from his heirs. Mr. Stanley married, then woke up one night to find that his wife was a chiseler. She was rifling through his pockets. With the worst thing about her habit, sometime along the way she made off with his valuable pocket watch that he had from when he worked on the railroad. Long story short, their marriage was over. Whether he ever got the watch back, I'm just going to say he didn't. Otherwise, why would he have still been so pissed? And why did he lapse from English to complete horseshit gibberish every time he spoke of her?

Be careful, guys. Sleep with your eyes open -- one eye at least -- if you can.

Pillow Talk with The Pink Professor

How do you like being invited into the bedroom of a couple bubbly newlyweds? It feels kind of funny that you're here, probably to you too, but since it was my idea, I guess I shouldn't complain. Anyway, don't touch anything. I don't know what The Pink Professor's packing, that is, in his luggage or what's in the dresser.

If I get chatty -- I'm try not to -- just remind me, There's places we shouldn't go, TMI! Really, though, we're all adults here, right? I wouldn't dare let anyone in under 18. Wouldn't want anything nasty to slip out -- accidentally or on purpose -- and damage their little ears! Like this pillow talk stuff. Which isn't meant to titillate -- honestly! -- but to inform. Really, to fill you in on mutual friends, since by now, we're all friends with the billionaire and his new husband Garrett Al (aka Geritol and Jor-el).

Last night was Pink's and my first official night here, but being longtime buds we have a lot of experience with this kind of chit chat.

Of course Pink wanted to know about me and the billionaire. Pink was in San Francisco when the billionaire showed up at the beginning of April. So what about us? Seriously, nothing happened! Yes, we were together so much that people seemed to think we were a couple. Like when we got the key to the city, even the mayor called us a couple! But it wasn't anything like that. He was just a very kind guy, and we hit it off like heart friends.

What about Garrett Al and the billionaire? They got close and I didn't even notice it for the longest time. I thought Geritol was maybe employed by the billionaire. But looking back, I'd guess Geritol was probably the aggressor in their relationship. The Pink Professor already knows how Garrett Al came on to me when we first met. Before he knows the boundaries, he tests them. The billionaire, being a straight ahead guy, no doubt liked his forwardness. Plus, remember, Jor-el is basically reformed and can be very charming.

Pink steered us to what could've been a sore point, a consideration of what to do with all our money. I said, "Well, it was a gift to me, but now that we're married, of course the assets belong to both of us." I figured Pink was not comfortable with that much money, close to $2.1 billion, plus it being a gift from the billionaire. But, really, it hasn't changed me in any way, except for that whole unpleasantness with the Biggest Book Sale in the State, when I wasted $10 million for 300,000 books. A real regret.

Pink broached the idea of us being generous with the money, to do good. Which is exactly what I love about him. He's the world's greatest optimist, and he has reason to be; he's seen much success in his work for other people's good. Obviously, I was agreeable. Selfishness with wealth is never really good. It can corrode your spirit and your feelings for community right away. On the other hand, waste not, want not. I sent $10 to the Cancer Society earlier this month, which ought to hold them a while.

Pink came up with an idea that's a great one, that we fund various programs on TV. I've always wondered what it'd feel like if they said your foundation sponsored the following program, like "Downton Abbey:" "This program was underwritten by a more-than-generous grant from the D.B. Kundalini and Pink Professor Foundation, who remind you, 'When in Mayberry, Gomer says Hey.'" We could have all kinds of cute ones. "This program was underwritten by an extraordinarily lavish grant from the D.B. Kundalini and Pink Professor Foundation, who want to give a shout out to the billionaire and his loyal spouse Garrett Al, aka Geritol and Jor-el." Then I'd hear from Geritol! "His loyal spouse?! You make me sound like a dog!" With the billionaire in the background, going, "Woof, woof!"

The Pink Professor asked me if I was still a big fan of Elvis. I smiled as if to say, 'Once a big fan, always a big fan.' "Of course I am. I dream of him almost every night, like always. But now that you and I are married, I promise not to!" He looked to see if my fingers were crossed, but since they weren't, I'm OK. Until I wake up singing "Hound Dog." But I might be thinking of Garrett Al...

Without giving too much away, it being our first night and all, I was very tired and wished him a good night. But I was suddenly roused to new life when I noticed ... feet on the ladder, coming down! "Mother!"

We Join Ourselves in Holy Matrimony

We have the world's greatest treat for you, as we near the end of this story. Which, as a story, now actually promises to go on and on, however many years of life we are granted, not just for The Pink Professor and me, but for our second happy couple, bubbling over for having finally discovered one another, the billionaire and Garrett Al (aka Geritol and Jor-el).

Old Maude, our kitchen help at the Roadhog Roadhouse was pure gold and true to her word, "With you guys' billions and my brains, we'll have the greatest double wedding this happy burg's ever seen!" Which was really saying something, because she's been around a long time. The historical society/museum has her out for special events, to share firsthand memories of the settlers who stole this land fair and square and proceeded to civilize it. (We made her the figurehead in charge, while the billionaire's people actually handled the massive arrangements.)

Festivities started at the courthouse, with Pink and I, and the billionaire and Geritol, holding up our marriage licenses for photographers and well-wishers. Next, we took our places in matching gold limousine convertibles, and with 100 motorcycles flanking us, biker friends from the bar, made our way slowly through town to the Roadhog Roadhouse. Workers, of course under Old Maude's supervision (wink wink), had the place so decked in flowers and ribbons, the breeze coming through made it like an optical illusion, the entire place in beautiful motion.

The official wedding ceremonies were quiet, traditional, and dignified. The billionaire and Jor-el took traditional vows. Garrett Al and I go way back, and as I watched him, I thought back to the early days, when he essentially molested me in my own yard. I was freaked out, but Geritol proved himself the truest friend in the years since, especially after he took on an extra-cosmic consciousness and began channeling (and identifying) with Jor-el, Superman's father on Krypton. The stories he can tell! And now here he is, a brand new wonderful chapter in his life, becoming the billionaire's husband. I'm very emotional -- this is true -- I had a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit and of course "something in my eye."

For Pink and myself, some of our extended biker family have various kids here and there around the county and neighboring areas, so a bunch of them were with us, walking slowly and dropping pink rose petals. The bikers were extremely proud. Then Pink, accompanied by his mother, and I, carrying my dog Roughage, my other best friend, proceeded down the aisle. We veered off, his mom standing proudly to the side, and Roughage was well-behaved while working over a bowl of beef jerky, and the minister reappeared.

We're two guys who wear our sensitivity on our sleeve, so naturally we wrote our own vows. They're kind of mushy, so I won't give them in full. But remember, Pink went to San Francisco and nurtured a group of street people underground for four years, inspiring them by his presence and only 7% of my soul, so his vows centered on the theme of 100% and completion. For my vows, I remembered back to the time a guy showed up at the Roadhog with a 14-piece pool cue, and how we avoided huge trouble thanks to The Pink Professor. My point got a little mixed up -- I couldn't remember if the guy started with the tip and worked down or the handle and worked up. But I worked it out in the end when I looked Pink in the eyes and said, "Life's like that 14-piece pool cue, sometimes the pieces come together just right. And that's our life together."

The schmaltz over, the rings, the kissing, and the rice, we all retired to the courtyard, where there were beer nuts and bar pickles in vast quantities. The billionaire had also spent a cool $6 million to bring in the professional roadshow of "Grease." When the troupe did an encore of "You're the One That I Want" and "We Go Together," the wedding party and all the guests were up, everyone shaking their respective booties, totally working it out.

Old Maude and I also got down for a while. She can dance! I congratulated her on a job well done.

My Favorite Ex-Wife and Their Club

Like most guys my age (61), I have a messy history, especially in the area known as love. You think you have just the right gal, then it turns out she's not that great and you need another. Then another. Then another. It's a little principle I guess I'll call Live and Learn.

Then -- and this makes for a messy present as well -- they all have to still be alive, and as luck would have it, right in this area, so they (and I) can't help but run into each other from time to time. But I've gotten pretty good about sneaking around grocery stores, holding cereal boxes up to my head when I peek around corners, and keeping my eyes down in the checkout line. But accidents do happen.

It just so happened the other day I ran into my favorite ex-wife, the one I doted on, and she informed me that the four of them have been meeting. Apparently there's a website that helps ex-wives form their own club, along with bylaws, officers, new business, and, especially, old business. Letting old business resurface, and thereby giving them the opportunity to crap on me all over again -- their goal -- when the spirit moves. Little things, like stealing the ex-husband's paper, keying his car, all the way up to uber reputational despoilage.

But it was kind of good running into her, Polli Marie. Since I loved her most of all, until it all went to hell. My right eye has this thing where it involuntarily wanders -- which no one believes -- so they all got the wrong idea when I'm looking around. That I have an attitude, that I'm the roving type, etc.

My first three wives were all high school chums, who thought they wanted me. So I gave in, one at a time. I saw a huge benefit in that they were all big-boned women and obviously suited for service. I had the property here, my grandparents', and all the things from their successful household, wash tubs, clotheslines, dressing tables, and everything. So it was an easy choice to marry them and put them to work. Definitely freed up time for me and my wandering eye.

Of course I'd come home -- let's say after hunting and fishing -- and get meals from them (we were married sequentially, which should go without saying) -- and drop off fresh game and fish for them to clean. I thought it was a happy way to do things, but all I ever got was guff. Too much work, not enough sex, was their main complaint. But I could hardly stand the gamey smell. So we divorced: First Cindy Jane, then Linda Jane, then Myrtle Jane ... I told myself I had to get off the Jane gang. Three strikes, they're out!

Well, it just so happened that when Myrt and me were married, my wandering eye landed one day on the sexiest little so-and-so I'd ever seen thus far. Small-boned, lithe, flexible, not naturally given to the wash basin and game. And that's how I treated her, as though she were incapable of actual work. I made her my little queen. Had her propped up on the couch -- her throne -- with pillows and Grandma's old nicknacks for her palace.

I doted on that beautiful woman, Polli Marie. "O my Polli Marie, Polli Marie, Polli Marie!," her name still gives me the world's worst hots. She'd been a farmer's daughter, so I suppose she could've done some work. But you gotta understand, I'd already worked myself out of three wives, naturally I'm going the other way on my sweet, precious Polli Marie!

Then it happened, I came home one day laden with game and fish -- set to clean them myself, thanks to having been abandoned by the big-boned ones -- and Polli Marie was nowhere in sight. I checked her throne, I checked the other throne, everywhere, but she was gone! With my wandering eye, also a source of her grief, I scoured the town and finally found her applying for a job at the library. Of course I threw the book at her. I probably shouldn't have, but I did. No small-boned wife of mine will ever work! She left me and ever since I've been single.

Now that I hear they're caught up in this internet crap, forming an ex-wives club, I'm beside myself with grief. Frankly, if I can't have them -- three of them for work and the precious one on her throne -- I don't want to hear about them at all. (That's why I burnt the edges of the above graphic, symbolically burning away the past.) If, though, I do have to hear about them .... If I have to suffer the slings and arrows of this club ... I definitely hope Polli Marie is elected president. The others, with their big bones, aren't fit to lead, only to take orders from my queen, and work.

My Wife the Orangutan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Hate, Love, Hate

It's impossible for me to hate anyone. I'm a lover, not a hater. If I ever got married, it's extremely easy to think of me being married forever. The fact that it's not yet been tested notwithstanding.

But I know the divorce courts are full of those who have known love, then love turned to hate, and the former lovers have turned to the judge for judgment, to terminate their marriage.

What was the basic problem? At the risk of oversimplifying the issue, I'd say there was some trouble with their vows. We all know the traditional vows, the couple vows to be together in sickness and health, for richer and poorer, and not to get caught having sex with others.

I'm guessing it's the last vow that's the toughest to keep, since everywhere you look there's another heavenly specimen walking by in a tight dress, hair just right, the face of a devilish angel, and nicely perky. Or a studly guy, with all the bulges in the right place. But then, back at home, what you're looking at at home, if it was a car it'd be in the junkyard, if it was a fight it'd be stopped.

So what happens, love turns to hate. Maybe not all at once, and maybe not irretrievably so. I'm thinking love can turn to hate, then hate back to love, then love to hate again, then hate at least once more back to love. It all depends. Maybe you've had an epiphany not only about vows but about the true nature of love. Love doesn't actually have to do with whether the other person has become decrepit. It's something from the soul and concerns the soul. You find that out, but you can also forget it.

But if you had been doing the proper stuff of a relationship all along, by now you'd be sharing humor and all the graces of life. If you ever veered off toward hate, you'd catch yourself and correct course, veering back toward love. That's how you're able to pass satisfying, good years together, having established yourself in a mutual place that isn't superficial.

Think of how crazy it is to love, to hate, then to love, then to hate again. You honestly can't be that shifty and shiftless. Although to be fair, maybe you can. If you came up in a household where shiftiness and shiftlessness were allowed to take root and grow. But honestly? You can't overcome that? I think you should be able to, especially if you see how crazy it is. And destructive.

It'd be like painting your bedroom black, then painting it white, then black, then white. I don't think very many people would see that as desirable. It'd be a life of weird extremes. Or trading in good health for mad cow disease, then working like a dog to get well again, then exposing yourself again to mad cow disease. Hard to imagine. Or being normal, then infecting yourself with trichinosis, similar to mad cow but coming from pigs, the disease that honestly scares me more than AIDS. I eat pork, I don't sleep around. Pink I don't like, at least in pork.

For a good relationship to stay good, one great pointer is to stay on the same page. Have a genuine interest in the other person, while allowing the other person to still be a separate person. You come together, you share mutual things, while having enough different between you to keep it interesting. On the other hand, if you have one person who is totally interesting and the other isn't, you're going to get out of sync.

Remember the old windshield wipers we used to have? They worked on two separate mechanisms. One mechanism would go just slightly bad, and next thing you knew, one wiper was faster than the other. I used to see this and be almost hypnotized watching the variances, as one wiper lapped the other in their sequence. If you watched it for 10 minutes you could time it out and make scientific judgments about the variance. I guess that's the background I have that makes me such an expert in the psychology of couples. Watching windshield wipers.

My expertise is good, since I'm able to provide counsel to anyone having trouble in a relationship. If you started out with love, then you just need to let love bloom again and grow continually. If you started out with hate, well, that doesn't sound very likely. Just don't let love become hate, and if you already did, work at it to make hate love again. Then get it firmly in the love gear and keep it there. Don't veer off to hate again; make double damn sure you don't. That should never be done!

Walt's Suicide -- Death By Water

My new best friend Death (see links below) is a busy fellow. Everyday -- virtually everyday -- I read of his exploits in the paper and online. He takes down a maniac holed up in a mountain shed (yea!), or he's snuffing out the life of a baby at the hands of abusive clowns (boo!). Clearly, Death, with the nature of his work, doesn't have the same social mores and scruples that I was conditioned with. Who's right, who's wrong? I guess he has to be right, not just because of cause and effect, but because of his rootedness in nature, whereas I'm obviously socialized and sentimental.

But that's a discussion for another day, which may or may not come, because I'm not feeling so well myself. Although I have to say, if Death kills me, I'm going to seriously reevaluate our growing friendship. Although, furthermore, who knows if I might enjoy the afterlife even more, when I'm finally reunited with my grandparents and dad somewhere in the sky, on a cloud without the fear of monthly bills I can't pay.

Anyway, I asked Death -- how about it? -- could I go with him on one of his runs? To my delight, he said yes. It was just a matter of temporarily transforming me into a form of mist, since being merely flesh and blood is not the best way to go on these runs. He sat at my table and mistified himself; I could see just a vague, light black mist in the air. Suddenly, I also was a mist, but more white. There would be no way to tell us apart, save for the color of the mist and the fact that I was here and he was there.

His run this night was to a downtown hotel in the big city 40 miles west of here. It was one of the upper floors, an office where a guy, older and depressed looking, was wringing his hands. I'm big on making snap judgments about people, so I could see he was clearly in deep trouble, likely some financial malfeasance, or political shenanigans, or they were bearing down on him for breaking serious laws of some other sort, or he was complicit in a sexual matter involving himself and a younger mistress. Whether she's underage, barely legal, or what, I don't know. I'm guessing she's probably in her 30s, old enough to know better.  And there's his wife, a fat old biddy, sitting home somewhere, about to sic the lawyers on his ass. Or it could have been he had weird fetishes I could never guess, although I didn't see any tattoos or piercings.

Death and I -- clearly invisible to the guy -- hovered in the corner. I watched the guy toss and turn in his chair, sweat all over his forehead, his hair very wet. I had to sympathize with him, even though he looked like the kind of guy who'd step over me for a dime; I'm just naturally sympathetic, a nice guy; it's my cross to bear, again, my own blasted conditioning. I just had to remember, there was nothing I could do to help. In fact, I tried to hover down to him, but it was like I banged up against a force field.

What I witnessed next is the crux of the matter. And if you don't want to hear about a successful, agonizing suicide, please read no further. I write none of this out of jest or to celebrate. Because I feel the guy's life was still worth living. He could've given his wife the Cadillacs and jewels, he could have plea-bargained on the financial malfeasance, or if it was big enough, he could've endured the shame of a public slap on the wrist. But at those points of the worst depression, of course you're not always thinking of "could'ves." This guy was only thinking of escape. And Death was only thinking his number was up, time to die. I saw a look in Death's misty eye, like an evil hypnotist.

The guy -- let's call him Walt -- had an elaborate suicide machine installed in his office, just for occasions like this. It was pipes and a faucet. He was going to flood his office! He reached over and, with an unusually feminine hand in appearance, twisted the knob full blast. I had to reflect: Wrists are made to connect your hand to your arm, not to kill yourself with. But water gushed everywhere, making the floor wet and no doubt promised mold for the whole hotel for the foreseeable future. Walt sat in his chair motionless, then on second thought pulled out a final cigar and lit up.

Excruciating time passed, the office continuing to flood. I looked over at the door. It seemed to have a good seal at the bottom. The windows were shut with a good seal, too, and waterproof glass, so they weren't about to break. Then the water was to his knees, to his hips, to his chest, to his neck, etc. Suddenly, whether he was having second thoughts or what, he was out of his chair, swimming desperately around the room. He had a purpose, which I took to get to the spigot to turn it off. But he couldn't do it, and I was trapped behind the force field. Even were I to break free, how does white mist operate a spigot?

The look of desperation and terror on his face was the worst thing I've ever seen. A memory seared in my mind, likely to endure the rest of the month. I glanced at Death. He still had that hypnotist look. He would make one hell of a levitator. With those eyes he could sell moonshine to Mother Teresa, had he not already killed her. I looked back at Walt, swimming like crazy. I started thinking, a bunch of water gathered together weighs a ton, and it was almost up to the upper wallpaper line. Walt was on his back, kicking and gasping for air near the light fixture.

At that point, I knew Walt was going to drown. But, wait, what's this? The floor suddenly gave way from the weight of the water! And right down went the whole works, office, Walt, and water all. We hovered downward and the poor dude was dead from the fall, a broken neck. The force field was totally gone, but I was too late to help. Alarms were going off everywhere, it was nutzoid. The police came and rounded up the usual suspects, who all had great alibis.

Back home, back in my body, with Death again at the table, we reflected on the journey. I commented that their alibis, unlike the office in the end, were completely watertight.

Links:
Death -- I Now Pronounce You Dead
Out Drinking with Death
Death Goes to the Dentist with Me
Death -- When Your Number's Up

The Man Of The House Movement

Lately I've been perceiving that there is something truly revolutionary (and wonderful) afoot in terms of the basic relationship between men and women. Call it men's intuition on my part, or something I dreamed about, or just an educated guess. Whatever it is, there can be very little doubt I'm right.

Of course I'm talking about the shift in the authority within the household, as evidenced by ... well, there's plenty of evidence, if you open your eyes and look. This shift -- which just a few short years ago would have been seemed incredible -- is taking us away from the woman's authority in the household (gynarchy?) toward a more traditional stance, with the authority of the man reestablished. We tried something else, it failed.

I've noticed it -- I feel I've noticed it -- to such an extent that I'm actually prepared to declare it officially a movement. A swelling tide like this isn't incidental, an all-out push, a thrust like this is more than happenstance. It's gathered a true head of steam at a fever pace, so much it can't be honestly denied. It's bigger than all of us. It's real. It's a movement.

The way I see it -- and this is palpable -- is it's so big I'm giving it a name. And it's such a juggernaut I'm giving it a big name. I'm calling it "The Man of the House Movement." How about that? Do you catch the distinction I'm making? Not a man in the house, i.e., something of a partner, something of an equal, someone to be pushed around. That would be substantially what we've had in recent years. This is man of the house, with the fullness of authority that that label connotes.

When you're the man of the house, you've got something, you're established. Like my grandparents. It was very clear, Grandpa was the man of the house. Grandma had her place, cooking, cleaning, making sure the grandkids had popsicles, etc. And Grandpa was the man of the house, in charge of the overall facilities, the well, the car, the grass, the weeds, where the outhouse was placed (it was periodically moved), etc. He wore the pants, literally, since weeds and lawn care, taking care of the well, moving the outhouse, etc., is something you'd hate to do in a dress. There wasn't all that much guff between them either; they worked as a team.

Something's happened in relationships, as I said, where it's swung back to the old ways. And not a moment too soon! It's easy to see why. You have that extra level of security -- these are very insecure times -- when you're working as a team, and where the man of the house is the man of the house. He's not out sowing his wild oats -- God forbid! -- or drinking beer in bars. To me, that'd be despicable. He's taking care of things, he's got it going on, in terms of responsibility and his ongoing care for the little woman.

He Paid For Companionship

REALITY:

Clint married Maude back when Maude was a cool name. He did his best over the years, always faithful, and accepting what she offered, leading to child #1, #2, #3, and #4. The children all survived.

She had her good qualities, being completely in tune with his past. They had the same memories and pretty much the same interests. To all appearances, they were the perfect couple.

But his eye wandered, although thankfully it was just his eye, not any other body part. At one point he was tempted, arguing that sex was the same as shaking hands, only with different body parts.

Eventually, he and Maude, in their 80s, died, remarkably only three hours apart, showing their complete soul harmony. They died and the newspaper wrote it up like this: "Clint and Maude died together, basically a double-ring funeral."


ALT REALITY:

Right when it came time to marry Maude, he left her at the altar. He'd had a premonition of what was to come, life as a grind with just one woman.

How much more adventurous it'd be to pay for companionship. They're always up for it and seemingly more than willing. He wakes up, sees a receipt on the pillow, which goes into his book of memory.

Years of this -- a different woman every time, although once in a while he'd cycle around to the same one -- kept him pretty well satisfied. And his wallet lean as new, in certain respects.

Then came a time, in his mid-30s, when he noticed some of the well-known symptoms, what they whisper about venereal disease. Obviously, somewhere there was a clinker in the mix, which had made her way into his bed and trusting arms. Or could there have been two with a cross-pollination thing gone bad? Sex has its moments...

Clint died, and the newspaper noted that he had paid for companionship over the years, and now he had paid for it indeed, dying alone, leaving behind a number of unlived years (he was 55, so we're talking around 30 years).

The undertaker sent his brother the final receipt.