We Yearned For Mam & Pap

Part 30 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

It was rumored that the last season was the last season for the Mam & Pap show, but no one knew for sure. Since hope springs eternal, we kept our fingers crossed. It had happened before. We'd think it was all over, then there'd be a last minute miracle and everything was back on. Your blood pressure went up, then back down, it was the unforgiving back and forth of life come to getcha. I remember holding my breath, but finally against my will had to let it out.

Under those circumstances, what can you do, but just step back and quit worrying about it? Because sometime has to be the last time for most things. At least in your own life. I’ve always accepted that. Like when I graduated from school. I wasn’t the least bit hesitant to let it go, but eager. Now of course, all these years later, I think, What was the hurry? I should’ve done my level best. I certainly should’ve done better in my senior level History of Rodeos class. Who knew more? But I was relatively dumb then, still sounding out the questions as well as I could. And I even had the practical experience of traveling a season and a half with Mam and Pap...

It might've been better for me, had it been an option, if I could've dropped out of school all together and traveled with them full-time. That would have been the real-life experience I was craving instead of the more ethereal high-flown stuff of school, the different types of lizards in biology, the beginning and end of wars in history, and who was sleeping with who, the walls in the boys' bathroom. With the rodeo it would’ve been me, a kid, and a bunch of crazy adults. I could’ve crept up to the tents and learned all I needed, biology, multiplication. Or just following Pap to bank after bank begging loans for payroll would’ve taught me many lessons.

Mam certainly taught me the value of a gentle spirit. And remember, she started out as “The Ruler of the Elephant Circuit!” That's some big shoes to fill or scrape off. Mam literally had elephants eating peanuts out of her hand. Which takes nerves of steel as well as trust in your fellow animal to stand there with an elephant munching away. Just look at an elephant sometime! Their eyes are so far from their mouth that with a trunk in the way they’re liable to bite your fingers off! Or worse, take your whole hand!

As it turned out, of course, my parents (killjoys) wanted me to stay in school. Which back then, like it or not, was their decision. Us kids had no rights. They ran their ideas up the flagpole, I had no choice but to salute. So to this day I don’t consider myself that patriotic. I take a knee around all flags. Including foreign flags, rival school pennants, and window decals. I’ve worn out so many pairs of pants I need a cheaper way to protest the many things I hate. By the way, I also hate alarm clocks and any traveling rodeo shows run by snakes. If only they were all as honest as Mam and Pap, that’d be heaven on earth.

Mam and Pap were easily among the dearest to me on this terrestrial sod, and certainly in the history of the traveling rodeo. It would've been a fitting tribute if they'd saved the ashes of their old animal friends as they passed, then had their own mixed with them. I bet they never thought of it. People are so worried about other stuff when they're alive. And it's probably too late to worry about it now.

Video Killed The Rodeo Star

 

Part 27 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Mam and Pap’s show went way back to the more-thrilling days of yesteryear when rodeos weren’t on TV day and night. Now, as everyone knows, we can tune in everyday and see professional shows replete with killer bulls, tough, tested riders with their fist double wrapped in rope, and clowns that have been to finishing school and can tell their pinkie finger from their willy. The big difference with today's clowns is they're out there from the pressure of tradition, and because ordinary guys in ordinary clothes wouldn’t do. With modern contracts, they're probably selling 18-inch celebrity shoes.

And right there’s a big change since the days of TV, and especially with the novelty of TV rodeos wearing off after a couple decades. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all jaded stuff, no neighborliness, naturally. Hell, I could go on about my many complaints — I pick them up and amplify what I hear when visiting my fellow codgers at nursing homes. Of whom, just to be accurate, most of them are dead, so to a certain extent the remaining shreds of my life are being lived as a tribute to them, their greatest hits, in the complaints they shared about progress.

It’s the earliest days that are the most interesting, since we thought our complaining might do some good. The TV producers would get the message. We only like rodeos where there’s some chance of the bull actually landing in our lap before it's over. Now we can hit pause and go to the bathroom and come back only to see some guy getting bucked sky high and land in a corporately-sponsored pillow. “Get a Good Night’s Sleep with Zonko Pillows.” In my opinion, the pillow industry shouldn’t have gotten into the rodeo racket. You could write a whole indictment of it: “The Dumbing Down of Rodeo.” But I’m old, I’ll leave that to new blood.

The selling point of TV — there were several — were convincing. You’ll have the rodeo right in your living room. No need to go out to a smelly fairgrounds. No waiting around for anything to start. No crooked rodeo performers stealing from your car. And on and on. The biggest thing of course was the convenience. They also put it forth between the lines as a great equalizer: "Now even a one-horse town can have all the horses it can stand! Where before they couldn’t support a one-horse rodeo!” With TV, the show from Las Vegas is a local event.

We had some meetings and demonstrations, heavily reported in the local paper but ignored by TV, with their bias. At first it was “Down with TV,” but our numbers and enthusiasm shrunk quickly as sets were snapped up like dirty magazines and replaced the real thing with the feel-good experience of instant gratification in your own home. You could even hear it from your own bathroom, which could no longer hold everyone up with an endless line to get in. Back then you might catch a glance of the guy standing next to you, then realize it's a horse!

The Mam & Pap Rodeo

 

Part 1 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Alas, the days of yesteryear are all past. It’s true what the philosophers say, today is always today, yesterday’s always yesterday, but what these terms mean is a deep subject. The saddest thing about time and the passing of time is how stubborn it is, as it's never to return. Until such time, if any, I'm proven wrong.

Speaking from my own rich experience with this passing of time, I think back on the things I did earlier this morning. My dog for whatever reason had trouble doing her normal business, possibly something meant for me from the hand of fate to curse an otherwise beautiful day and slow me down on writing about the rodeo. The circumstances were certainly suspicious, like maybe the sun had a bad night on the other side of the world. And of course I've been messed with by the hand of fate before. I cried out to the gray sky for respite and the sun tried to peek through the thickness of what turned out to be clouds. I’m glad it's now in the past, but the past can be prologue if it happens again.

Then there’s the years gone by. What was once new becomes old. Grandma was a newborn once, later an old lady, and finally passed away when her time came. That’s a downer, I know, but it’s in the natural course of things. Just like someday, alas, the same thing might happen to me. I’m actually already fairly old. But as long as I’m able to pass gas and fake a grin, I’ll keep living and churning ‘em out, posts for my blog as well as days of life hopefully well-lived. I may not get the key to the city — I’m not well known — but it's all been done to death anyway, and I haven’t got time to stand on ceremony.

We’re sharing this month the memories we have in common — you and I — of the well-known traveling rodeo, The Mam & Pap Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo. It happened in the days of yesteryear, and as we speak today, of course Mam and Pap are gone. There's still a rodeo going by that name, which several years ago was bought out by a corporate entity — who hold the name so tightly that even writing this series might have some legal consequences for me. But you won't tell. I have had experience with entanglements like that, but this time I'll be OK. Of course I wouldn't have the money to fight a legal challenge and I'd never expect my readers to chip in a dime (last of the big spenders). So I'm just going to post these memories and hope for the best. I would greatly encourage you to save off copies.

In addition, the series stops well short of the corrupt corporate takeover. The corporate incarnation when I saw it was crap and the show was shelved. They did the takeover when Mam passed away, with Pap virtually senile [try to prove it] when he signed the paperwork. They had clowns in the rodeo that would’ve made better managers than Pap at the end, but they had no legal standing. In years since I’ve gotten drunk with a few of them and they bared it all, the hooks those corporate hawks put in their flesh. There's nothing sadder than clowns sobbing tears of anguish.

Anyway, I hate to bring everyone down. Let's make rodeo whoopee! C'mon, c'mon, let’s whoop it up, get again the spirit of rodeo reverie, forever remembering the wonderful non-corporate version (when it was genuine) of THE MAM & PAP ROYAL SPLENDID TRAVELING RODEO!

P.S. -- I won't be mentioning the corporation again and all the chicanery they pulled on Pap, there's nothing we can do about it now. I stood at his grave one day and cried big tears of grief. Friends, those were the wettest moistest tears I've ever cried. Even stained my shirt. Between my first dog dying when I was 6 and Pap selling out the rodeo for a pittance -- aww, forget it. I just can't say my life has been a hundred percent happy.

Self-Esteem Thru The Ages

 

Part 21 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

That’s an interesting summary of a life poorly lived in terms of self-esteem, “That was a lie then, it’s a lie now.” When you're old, you may as well be honest. Frames it in one nasty little package, in perfect focus. Like Veni Vidi Vici, “I came, I saw, I itched.” And itching's good if it’s incidental, but bad if it’s constant since it only breaks the skin and makes you bleed, leading to infection.

Either one of those would be fitting for my final words, with the itching being not as bad in the fall when it’s easier to stay dry. So itching’s one problem, and fragile self-esteem’s another. And for self-esteem it doesn’t matter if it's summer, winter, whatever, it gets you down and keeps you down, whether you’re 3 or 303. The downside for me being, I haven’t even cracked 100 yet, so if I go through two more centuries of this crap, I'm not sure I'll make it.

Yet, as much as I admit the problem -- unlike some people, I didn’t ask to be born -- I refuse to do anything else about it. I wake up and if it’s there I go back to sleep. Which has an interesting side effect, the passing of time of course, but additionally the things that accrue, it’s mad. I didn’t open my birthday presents from my teen years till I woke up sometime around 24. Which meant I had a lot of catching up to do on model airplanes and cars. I still have some in unopened condition but their value's lower because of minor scuffing on the cellophane.

Then self-esteem also got mixed in with too much grieving. You wake from a coma and half your family’s dead; it affects you. I woke up in time for Christmas one year and was surprised how much room there was around the table. I can only say now, Don’t make that same mistake. On the bright side there was a lot more room around the table, elbow room, yes. But a downer was the food was reduced proportionately so the portions were the same or even less.

Then I had to catch up with emotional stuff, which was painful. “Did Grandpa have any last words for me?” I hung on their reply, figuring it’d be something tender, some last piece of advice for me, a lesson I’d never forget. His last words were indistinct gurgling, plus a cry for his childhood coon-hunting dog Jedekiah to come, “Yip, Jed!” I remember the old story from years before, how Jed got in with a skunk and got the skunk's spray. So Grandpa put out a coat and bar of soap for him and left. And Jed -- faithful Jed -- was there the next day waiting, good as new, having meticulously bathed overnight in a nearby creek.

O the things I missed! And part of me wishes it’d never happened. But once again there’s the bright side. My self-esteem was so fragile -- with the consistency of a fried cracker, easy to break and crumbling everywhere -- I couldn’t have stood it. If you have self-esteem like that, the absolute pits, sleeping or a coma's the best thing for you.

Racers Meet Their Maker

Part 7 of 31

The Found Another Body

I heard one day that there hasn’t been a racing fatality in so long, years, that they're shaking their fist at heaven, daring the Almighty to "Bring it on, Big Fella!" A disgusting sentiment. But because the safety features are so great, all the latest designs, and have stood the test of time, nothing can possibly go wrong. I’m glad that's the case in a way although of course most of us know that a little real life danger puts the edge in things. If nothing can ever go wrong — as much as we hope for people’s survival — it’s too cut and dried.

That’s not how it used to be, back when a man was a man and the Future Corpses of America always had their rooting section at the races. I used to go to the races as a kid and we only got popcorn money if someone got killed. But to be fair to our parents, we also got money for nickel candy if there was a major pileup and no one perished. And there were other levels of reward, like if the winner suddenly fell dead of a non-race-related problem, aneurysm, bleeding hickey, or lung cancer. One guy died of all three once and I spent the next year on my own in Hawaii, meeting beach girls and getting plenty of leis.

Those were great days, like the wild west of family outings. We went with other folks, relatives, and had a blast. My uncle and dad made sure we got out of there fast, pretending to be traffic guys. We scooted right out. There might be a 10-car pileup behind us, and, yes, an occasional fatality (never involving bleeding hickeys), but we got home quicker. The answer to your question is NO, we didn’t get anything if other motorists died. Maybe our ass kicked if we didn’t warn dad that someone was stuck under the tires and messing up his gas mileage.

Anyway, back to the races. There were always some professional drivers, and professional wanna-bes, high school kids, their dads, uncles, etc., always guys, and most of them had something to prove about their masculinity. I know if I were a high school kid driving I wouldn’t want my friends at school dumping on me because I had a light foot on the gas. You have to put your foot on the gas and go for every advantage. If they have the flag out, “Well, I didn’t see it till a couple minutes after!”

I’m glad I survived. The races I’m talking about had a crew that patched up the stands nearly every week. One side, the north end, was constantly collapsed, since that was the hairpin turn and you weren’t anybody till you skidded out and wrecked there. We definitely vied for seats near that section, because it does give you some extra bragging rights if the cars sail over you. That happened one night and the guy was crossing himself religiously as he sailed over. And good thing he did too, because he took out the women’s outhouse. The ladies would’ve skinned him alive had he survived.

Even now as I remember all these things — I’m hungry — wishing I had some of the popcorn we used to get. And the satisfaction of earning it the old fashioned way, one crazy accident after another.

Guidance Counselor -- A Shinola Shine

 No. 11 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

I'm a firm believer in the sense we have these days that everyone is a person of value and worth. And that all the jobs people have, if it’s honest labor and accompanied with a certain amount of dignity, it’s good. I know that's an over-generalization and that anyone can think of exceptions — beyond the obvious exception, guidance counselors — but it’s not my place today to run the gamut of possibilities, just to express in general the way life works.

Are there good guidance counselors? I believe there must be. We look out on a dark night at the stars. And we have no real sense of how far away they are because the distances are impossible to fully embrace. I see a lot of videos these days on outer space and the distances from earth to even the next galaxy over (with there being millions of other galaxies) and it’d take you tens of thousands of years, were even possible, to get to the next galaxy. So, yes, in an existence where the seemingly impossible is possible, it's more than likely that good guidance counselors exist.

Sounds like heresy, I know, from someone who’s spent his post-high school life railing incessantly against them. But look back at the record and you will not find me categorically saying every guidance counselor is evil, worthless, etc. Because in my heart of hearts I am a definite optimist. I see the impossibility of space travel to distant galaxies and say, “It could be done were it possible.” See the optimism? The fact that it is impossible with current technology, and my current level of ignorance, off the charts, puts me among the skeptics. But never say never, unless you’re saying never say never.

One thing I know for sure, my guidance counselor wasn’t good to me. You tell me the chances of me as an old adult still dealing with the bad memories of a guidance counselor. I'm virtually a dead weed -- I envy crabgrass --  but I'm still going at it. And that dirt-bag still occupies a very dark place near my roots, my psyche, a place entirely off limits to everything and everyone except the bitterest foes from hell. And even with demons I expect a certain level of decency and accountability.

I would love to open the records and air my grievances on some grand stage, where of course I would be dealt with fairly and not just as a guy with sour grapes. But I’m afraid my case would never be dealt with fairly. Instead, they would likely to take the guidance counselor’s side every time, and even though they said they wouldn’t deal with me as a guy with sour grapes, that’s exactly how it’d work out. Or it'd be like this, smoothing the edges; the guidance counselor was misunderstood, his ways were inscrutable but always meant for good. Don't go there...

Next, they’d bring in the grandchildren of the guidance counselor who would say he was a quality person right up to his demise. And that his saintly last words were a survey of his righteousness and a plea that, “If there’s anyone I’ve ever wronged in my godly life — and there’s absolutely not — that I be absolved of all that now and forever — blogs to the contrary be damned.”

Desperately Seeking Grunts

Part 8 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mystic Thermometer

No. 30 of 30 - Thermometer series

There was a rumor, fleeting though it was, that I was a quitter. Which I immediately denied. How could anyone think I’d quit now, going on a month into the thermometer drive? If I was going to quit, it would’ve been the first week, not now. Even if I didn’t feel it at this point, I’d at least fake it. I don’t drive somewhere just to turn around at the edge of town. Sheesh, whoever is saying that — I think I might know the guy spreading these rumors — just back off, cease, desist, quit while you’re ahead. But today's a day for happiness, not getting even.

The other reason I would never quit, even say it was a week ago, is because this thermometer thing is a real soul thing. Probably what a whale thinks when it’s swimming the world’s seas. The deepest seas to the whale are a piece of cake. It’s not easily frightened of drowning even though they’re not fish but mammals. You could have the biggest man in the world, an eight-foot giant. And if you threw him in the ocean he’d be scared to death. Not a whale.

And not me. Because something’s stirring in me that’s beyond me and yet part of me. Think of it as the highest realization, that I am the whale, I am the thermometer. It’s funny, one of my biggest fears when my mother would take my temperature was the thermometer. I be lying there in bed and thinking, "I might bite the thermometer in half and die of cuts," or "I might swallow the thermometer, gulp, or I’d be so hot the thermometer would blow its end off (like in cartoons), and it’d get in my eyes and I’d go blind." But now I’ve come full circle, being myself one with the thermometer.

There’s a possible world religion in the making here, folks! Where someday people could be going door to door with leaflets and invitations. Telling people how the inner mercury, the inner sap is always rising or falling. With the thermometer telling your temperature in that sense, You’re hot blooded, check it and see, or you’re cold as ice and someday you’ll have to pay the price.  I always heard we were warm-blooded, which again is also true of the whale. But the mystical reality speaks of not being lukewarm but hot or cold, or being spat out of its mouth...

The lesson about has to be: Be the best cold or the best hot you can be, no in between. And it’s true, we always remember the times we're absolutely cold or hot. I almost froze to death one time, with the weirdest thing happening; at the time I became extremely warm and still knew I’d die of frostbite. So I got up and I ran, I ran so far from there, till I was home, safe in my own bed, warm again. My mom came and asked me what happened. I was out of my mind, not knowing the future, but my exact words were, “Look to the Mystic Thermometer, Mother.” She was freaked out because I always said mom or momma till that day!

Now today is here. Friends. And while it is called today, that is when you must choose. Will you like this blog, subscribe, and/or comment? Will you go the full measure as I have? Will you found a men’s division in your efforts? Will you found a ladies aid group as well? Will you alternately find yourself paranoid, pulling up the blankets lest the world encroach? Or will you find in yourself absolute confidence, casting off your many blankets and shouting it to the world?

Those two scenarios show what your mercury, your sap, the juice in your blessed marrow is doing. Up or down. But it doesn’t go horizontal. You go horizontal, out into the world with the good news of this blog, only when the Mystic Thermometer climbs for the sky. Or you shy away from that horizontal move when instead of climbing for the sky it digs a hole, crawls in, and covers itself in the blessed soil of death, then using whatever strength it has left (and in the absence of air) to dig itself farther and farther below. In all my days I’ve never heard of it burrowing very deeply. It gets a few feet down, let’s say, then reaches around itself, huddles tightly and dies.

Don’t let that happen, unless you are completely without sense.

Stop! Look And Consider!

No. 9 of 31 -- Thermometer series

Our great blog drive is a thing of beauty — I hope you see it and that you're rolling in the flowers here, your happiness our only concern, and will get inside for one sweet joyride.

I’m exercising a bit of privilege today by citing a guy I briefly knew, Roy S. Who drove drunk through a forest in Arkansas, swerving to avoid wolves and going off the cliff. He was quite a guy, that I never ever saw again. But my memory is clear enough that when we parted he was on his way to a whorehouse. Note: If your name is Roy S., or worse, Mrs. Roy S., this was a totally different guy.

The ride I had with Roy was misery at the time, but joy when I got out, and now that it’s been almost 50 years ago, a happy memory. I use it as a reminder: However bad my life is, whatever terrible slimy messes I go through, whatever diseases threaten, I survived Roy S., I can live through anything. And likewise I'm optimistic with the blog drive: I’m shooting for nothing less than every single person on earth subscribe, read or comment on my blog. You say you have a Grandma with cancer and a day to live? Sign her up. Bring her on board. But in the unlikely event that everyone doesn't subscribe, I will survive.

So I wanted to share that with you. Then, having got your attention with a collage of attention-getting men coupled with one bold Rosy the Riveter type of woman, to point you in the direction you need to go. Getting involved here, reading, commenting, and persuading your friends on the same joyful tasks. Tasks? More a lifestyle. Lifestyle? More a way of life. Way of life? More a lifestyle again. That’s how I see it, like an old rug that's never clean. It's hung in a tree, I go out everyday about noon and beat the crap out of it. Might not be a great rug, but it's cheaper than buying new.

Not everyone’s so lucky. But you can hitch your wagon here. Say you’re standing by the side of the road and you want a ride, and you’re brave enough to get in the first swerving car that comes along. That could be me or it could be Roy S. In this case, assume it’s me, normally a good driver. But I want to test you and your tolerance and your ability to survive and your confidence. Will you get in? Yes, you will. Or no, you won’t.

When you see this blog, do you think of it like everyone else, a passing thing, a bit of fluff, maybe some guy out to scam you? Some of my native bravery is a thing of the past, so that was a passing thing. And I tend to see even the most serious blogs as “So what.” It’s a big world and I have limited time, that’s not for me. But whatever else I think, number one is avoid scams, my constant fear. Think about it, would someone who has that as a constant fear of scams ever scam anyone? No, I wouldn’t.

I had no trust of Roy S., but I needed a ride and there were wolves. You can trust me, you can get in. Let’s shoot those thermometers to the moon! Let’s see them rear back and blow their tops all the way to Mars! Let the world know, We will not sit by sedately till we die. We will (metaphorically) drive together through the forest drunk as skunks, and nothing -- neither the wolves nor anything else -- will eat us till we’re happily ensconced in that comfortable (metaphorical) whorehouse, a life of beautiful pleasure and fulfilling relationships, the end of the line.

Timmy's Doing Well

The other day someone reminded me of one of my favorite TV shows when I was a kid. Which was very long ago, making the show an oldie but a goodie. About a boy named Timmy and his dog, whose name isn't coming to me, wait, it's Dane! Thought I had it on the tip of my tongue, but I had to think about it for a minute and there it was.

I was thinking, Was it Digby? Delbert? Great Delbert? I thought it started with a D. The picture I found online said Dignified, but that couldn't be right. I knew right away it couldn't be Dignified. Then Dane came to me. One thing I know for sure, Dane wasn't a collie; my first dog was a collie and they're a lot bushier.

Timmy, though, that's the kid's name for sure. Because I've often heard Timmy mentioned over the years. Let's say he came close to falling in a well. Or came close to being lost in the haymow. I had that happen a few times. One of my favorite activities as a kid, actually, was playing in barns. Haymows feel dangerous. I was genuinely afraid and excited. You're stepping around the cracks of the bales, the hay, and it feels like you could be swallowed up. But no kid was ever swallowed up, not while the dog was around.

Dane could be counted on -- and I'm talking about the show now -- to rescue Timmy before anything bad happened. You might think, That's not much of a show, since you need a plot, you need conflict to have a show. True, there's lots of shows like that. Those are the ones I hated. I never wanted conflict, and yet I didn't want shows to be documentaries where nothing happened. The only conflict I wanted, just for the sake of argument, was this: The fear that something might happen. That was my true life story: Something might happen at any minute, but if I'm smart -- smart and careful -- it won't.

OK, the plot of the Dane show is coming back to me. Timmy's parents would be playing cards with a neighbor couple. The kids would be running wild, although they were good kids. They made up adventures that took place in the haymow, for instance. There was always some danger, but Dane would growl, and everyone would know they were doing something wrong. Once they had Dane's warning -- Knock it off -- they changed their behavior and were good.

Toward the end, everyone would go back to the house, the kids and Dane. The family up the road would throw in the towel on the card game and head home too. Mom and Dad would be wondering how thing were going with Timmy and Dane, and how it went with the other people's kids, and it was always the same: Thanks to Dane, nothing bad every happened. The perfect show.

Dane would bark, a couple of quick barks, his nose in the air, seeking Timmy's Dad and Mom's praise. "You did good!" Mr. Douglas would say, lightly scratching Dane's nose and offering praise, "Timmy's doing well! Good boy! You, too, Dane!" And mother, Jacqueline Douglas, would offer the same sort of praise, said in that soft, sensual purring style that she was known for, "Such a good boy, yes you are, good Dane... Keeping Timmy well!"

Everyone would enjoy an evening biscuit, brush their teeth, and hit the hay, so to speak.

The True Warrior Doesn't Say

What we’ve always heard and experienced, guys come back from war and they don’t want to talk about it. You have an uncle, or three or four like me, and they’re tight as clams about the war.

Maybe that’s why I don’t say much about my lack of war experience. I will say this much, I could’ve gone to war. Uncle Sam judged me a prime 18-year-old specimen, good enough to be called at any second. But it didn't happen; I was glad. But after years had gone by, I actually wished I had gone. You get to retire after a measly 20 years. And of course the parades where everyone’s singing your praises, that's a great perk. I could’ve stood there in a crowd of people at one of these ceremonies, solemnly waving, then kept my lip zipped, because the warriors I've known rarely spoke.

As it is, we all have our experiences — happy, fun, sad, traumatic — and we don’t always talk about them. One, no one really wants to hear. I’m with people all the time, and you’d think the conversation would be, “Hey, you, you’re clammed up good and tight, not contributing even a peep to the conversation, stoved up tighter than a drum.” “Oh, I don’t know about that,” I might protest, hoping they don’t delve any deeper than they already have. You need to find a way to distract them, “Hey, look! is that an exploding Hindenburg?!” As everyone checks out the ball of fire, they’ve forgotten us warriors.

I still haven’t heard what the war was like. Which is another reason I should have gone. Then I could be the one sitting there inscrutable, savoring the terrible memories that must be the source of why I’m so clammed up. Any old war would do. The big one was WWII. I used to know some guys, and true to the whole thing, they clammed up. They were likely thinking, “This guy’s not saying a thing about the war because he knows I wouldn’t answer him anyway.” So we kept very quiet about it. Same reason we don't ask a brother about his honeymoon; there's surely details he wouldn't want me to know.

That’s the best way, just be cagey about it. And if you are unconsciously cagey, 100% resolved to the fact that warriors don’t speak, you never can tell, he might break down and spill his guts. Of course you can’t be too interested or he’s back to silence. I had a guy one time tell me about being on a ship going to Europe that was jam packed with guys, they were on top of tables, under tables, under chairs, maybe stacked on top of each other at times, such as when the ship made a sharp turn. The way I pictured it, it was wall to wall men, bumped, jostled, and crowded for a month (or whatever it took to make that terrible trip.) Hearing even that much was a rarity.

And I didn’t wheedle him for information, just let the details come in, giving me an appreciation for that aspect of his life. And I was glad I didn’t experience that fiasco myself. Two’s company, three’s a crowd. A whole ship full of guys packed in there, rolling over and crunching one another for a long time -- since I’m an introvert and part-time germaphobe -- would be a living hell. The biggest thing I never heard from that guy, or anyone else, was what the war was actually like, whether you killed anyone, etc.

A couple of my uncles were in Vietnam, early on and as an extended career thing. In planes, at least one of them in the refueling business. We always looked at their formal fuzzy color portraits on the wall and imagined what they might be up to. Then they’d be home, one at a time once in a blue moon, and we kept right on imagining what they might’ve been doing, because they certainly didn’t say. It was either too terrible to mention, or so innocent and benign it’d ruin the mystery.

I do some of that myself. There’s plenty I don’t talk about. Wherever I am, I just sit there in stony silence, offering nods to whatever (Are you OK?) and maintaining my man of mystery status. “Why don’t you say anything?” “Ain’t got nothing to say?” “Nothing?” “Nope, I mean, Yep.” “Yes, I have no nothing, I have no nothing to say.” Or plenty of nothing, however you choose to quantify a plenty that still comes out zero.

Do I Want Some More Whiskey?

I’m currently on a three-day bender, woo hoo! Didn’t know it’d go this long. Figured a day or two and I’d be sated. Turns out I was wrong. I don’t see an end in sight, unless it’s tomorrow; that’s likely; it can’t go on forever, can it?

Look at my typing. You tell me, is this making any sense? To my eyes, it’s a chicken scratching on the computer. I’ve got the font blown way up, compensating for the blurriness. And there's hallucinations. I hope that’s what they are. My flat white bedroom walls are an outrageous exaggeration of their normal selves. Settle down! I can’t tell if they’re coming at me or trying to get away. We haven’t discussed it, nothing beyond me telling them yesterday about this time, “You stay on your side of the room and I’ll stay on mine. I don’t want any trouble, and I don’t think you do either. But you tangle with me, I can't be responsible. I will stab the life out of you; I’ve done worse!” I’m fairly sure the walls are OK. We’re at an impasse.

Wow, my head is spinning. But it’s a good spinning, good ha ha, not bad boo hoo. “I’m Loretta Young!” I heard myself screaming like a maniac. Then I toyed with the name Loretta. Try it next time you’re faced. “Loretta!” It’s hard to get it slurred out. It’s a very guttural name when you’re temporarily under the weather. But conversationally still interesting: “So you’re Loretta Young. THE Loretta Young.” “Yes, sir,” I think I heard her say at the usual pauses in any conversation. The Loretta Young who used to be on that old TV out in the garage, back when it worked, our first TV? “Yes, sir.” She elaborates “I was simultaneously on millions of sets, coming out in a lovely dress, spinning for the audience.” I took a drink and exclaimed, “I thought I knew you from somewhere! You’re Loretta Young!” The TV broke again and she was gone.

This is damned good whiskey. And, yes, that's whiskey with an E. I’ve seen it both ways, and there’s some explanation for that, albeit lame, something to keep dictionaries busy. I remember when I was first “turned on” to whiskey; it’s been a while. I was in my 20s and given to massive misbehavior not in keeping with the values the den of wolves raised me with. Mostly blowing off steam, much like I’m doing here. Woo hoo! But, thinking back, it was whiskey, along with all the other stuff they serve, that first loosened my talk tapes. Considerably!

I remember one old boy. This was 45 years ago. He was in his late 60s or mid 70s then, so he’s got to be dead today. Just like 45 years from today, I.... I’ll return to this point later if I think of it. Anyway, the guy was ancient. And what did he happen to have, a baggie of something. Even now I’m reluctant to tell anyone precisely what happened, so let me gloss it over with a sincere, Nothing happened. I said, “No, sir, I’m drinking whiskey! Along with other draws and mixed drinks. Boilermakers, which is whiskey followed by a draw. Back then I was a gulper, get it down fast as possible. Now I’m a sipper. Do I ever pick up steam? Of course. Till Loretta Young shows up. Which, it could be Loretta anybody, I wouldn’t mind. Loretta Lynn. Isn’t there a famous Loretta Luperca? No, it's Luperca Latouche, Finnegans Wake. Another sip of whiskey!

Think I’ll have one for my health! Pour it, pour pour pour, perfect, 1 tablespoon. Here's mud in your eye, slowly sipping it. To my health. I’ve always thought I was in great health. I've never had much wrong. But lately I’ve noticed in the mirror that I look thinner. I usually can't see myself as I am. In the mirror, I’m one thing. In photos, another. But it has come to my attention, somehow, that I look thinner than ever in the mirror. So, like the old boy above, the guy in the bar with the baggie, 45 years from now, I will have crossed over the rainbow bridge, which I’ve learned is what modern dying pets cross over too.

I’ll thin down to the point that I’m like one of those long green stick bugs. Then keep myself from breaking till I get to the destination, where the rainbow bridge is. I’ll stand there, waiting my turn. Kids are off in the bushes watching their pets set foot on the bridge. I’ll wait and wait and wait, thinking, “Good God, why are there so many dying pets?” It’s because there’s an endless population of them. Every dog has 14 puppies. And cats. They have nine lives, which means nine deaths each, so they’re clogging up the bridge worse than anyone. Just when the coast is clear, I try to get up and one of my thin legs snaps. That hurts. But thankfully I have a little whiskey to pour on the wound. Suddenly the bridge is clogged with a nursing home that just happened to burn down 10 minutes ago. Everyone died. Again, I wait my turn, dousing the leg and alternating with a drink.

Sounds like I’m in no hurry to die. I have reasons to live. This blog’s a big one. I haven’t found anyone to take it over. Everyone that comes to me wants to load it up with ads, but I refuse. Online advertising on blogs is one of the sickest sights I've seen. Then you have to be churning out little blurbs. A paragraph, an ad. A paragraph, another clump of ads. So you stick to two paragraph posts because you need to have many posts, so you’ll have lots of ads going all the time, popping up everywhere, “You’ve won this or that bullshit.” Anyway, don’t get me started on that subject. “No, sir!” I cry out. Then I settle back in my chair, have a drink of whiskey, and the rainbow bridge comes again into view.

Back at the rainbow bridge: A turtle I had in the 1980s just died and swam by. How about that? I found a turtle and took it home in the 1980s. I was living in a town. Then it came time to move and I took it back and released it with a word of blessing. And now I catch sight of it after all these years on the rainbow bridge. “Hey, whatever your name was!” And another sip of whiskey.

These little measuring cups you can buy to drink whiskey out of, they have a disclaimer in the store, “This measuring cup is intended for use in cooking, not for the serving of alcoholic beverages.” “Hey, baby,” I say — fingering in the general direction of the measuring cup company — “this IS cooking!"

Me and Two Strippers

For personal reasons, finally I feel comfortable revealing a little more about myself. Which includes many visits to watch strippers ply their trade. And believe me, I saw the best in the business. Those who had worked their way up from Amateur Night to at long last be Headliners.

One of my observations in all those forays, on hindsight, was keen. They didn't start out stripped, but stripped methodically, one key piece of clothing shed per song. The rest of the act was very sensual gyrations, extremely distracting to someone (then) of my exceedingly boisterous hormones.

But this post isn't about how worked up I became, nor what an easy challenge it was for them to leave me gasping on the floor for air. This is about the time I almost lost out on a free steak dinner, just because, indeed, I was very easy to distract. You might learn something from my troubles, mostly how easy it is to go hungry if you let strippers get your goat!

OK, the lounge had a farewell dinner lined up for one of the bartenders. This guy also used to mess with my head. One of his things was to pretend like he didn't know me, then he'd card me repeatedly just to piss me off and get his jollies. I can't remember his name, but for some reason I want to say Tex.

So the place was packed for his farewell dinner. Because I was a regular, and this is a great honor, I was invited. Like I said above, they had steaks, with baked beans, potatoes, homemade rolls, various pies, etc. You would've thought you died and went to Heaven, that's the only way to describe the scene. Plus the full roster of dancers was on duty. We called them girls in those days, but with my consciousness since raised, they were full-fledged women. They were so full-fledged they spilled out everywhere. And even though I'd literally seen them nude a hundred times, there was something even sexier about them just barely spilling out.

This part, following, is where I lost several key elements of my free steak dinner, which was Tex's farewell. (It might've even been actual Texas beef, which if true would've been a nice touch. Regardless, it all tastes the same, depending on how it's fixed.)

Be all that as it may, a couple of the girls -- now women -- came out strutting their stuff for Tex. Fully clothed. But I happened to be toward the front and they had decided to mess with me. Supposedly my libido was a topic of conversation in those days, since I no doubt resembled a hayseed from the country who'd never seen strippers, etc. True, but I had a close brush with them even at the age of 12, and was given some details on their show by older guys, whose description still haunts my imagination. I can't tell the whole story, but it included some late high schoolers, a wrestling coach, and some seductively dropped pubic hairs... 'Nough said!

Anyway, back to the steak dinner. These girls came out, one on my left and one on my right. I thought, "How can I avoid appearing to be full of lust for them without looking like an idiot who's more interested in his food than them?" See that? Caught in a flummoxing situation! Which turned out to be the exact conundrum they had counted on! Because as I'm gazing at Sally over here, Florentine on the other side is stealing my salad. Then as I bend forward to appraise Florentine's midriff, Sally's busy making off with my pie. (I learned this minutes later.)

I'm completely distracted! You can't imagine how embarrassing this turned out to be. And it's actually because I'm such a nice guy; I didn't want either chick to get the wrong idea, again, that I was more into food than ogling them. The song switches, and by now Sally's draping one out (use your imagination), and perking it up something fierce -- about the size of a shot glass. I'm thinking that has to be a world's record, and all the while Florentine's doing a vanishing act with my potato! Then Florentine, to top that, has somehow procured a spray can of whipped cream -- I found out later it came from the kitchen -- and was leaned up against the stage, panties around her knees, spraying the whipped cream to beat the band. That's when Sally relieved me of my steak!

By now everyone's laughing and whooping it up, and they come over, waving their hands over my table, and I can see that somehow I've been deprived of my entire meal! What can I do? I turned red, but with the stripper lights no one could tell. Folks, I know better than to act pissed off. No one likes a bad sport. When people you know go to all that trouble to make you look like a complete fool -- even a lecherous horndog -- you simply take your lumps and laugh it off. You can live anything down if you're a good sport. But if you're a bad sport, no one will ever fully respect you again.

They're going "Speech! Speech!" like you'd imagine they would. And I thanked everyone for coming out, called Tex a member of the family, a crotchety uncle, said to laughs, and told them they were the greatest gang of folks anywhere, the regular patrons there, who then applauded me. Lastly, I had Florentine and Sally stand next to me, and I pretend-scolded them for being very very bad girls. Then, naturally, as any sentimental guy like me would do, I let them kiss me on the cheeks and told them none of us would have it any other way!

Newsletter -- Only Child

INCREDIBLE -- Hard to believe I'm not an only child, because I'm my biggest fan. I reread my first newsletter post of a couple days ago, and I have to say "Bravo!" That business about me posting about DQ as far back as 1971-72 was really prescient, since it continues to be an abiding interest today. I guess I had incredible wisdom back then as well as today! Pointing to something deep, the theory that each of us has things in our consciousness that we are not entirely aware of, at least in their full bloom. The seed is there but it's not in the form we recognize as anything. I'd like to develop techniques to enhance this faculty. One technique I remember from somewhere -- I'm floundering to remember what it's called -- oh, yes, it's brainstorming. What can you say about the world of such amazing techniques?

SUBSCRIPTIONS -- The newsletter idea is bringing out the best in me. I credit this to the fact that I've always been a fan of the idea of a good newsletter. Whether you're sending it out to every employee in a company, to every member of a church, or, as I envision it here, to every member of the online community who makes a full lifetime commitment to receive it, and further, who pledges to make the most of it, i.e., as far as their own wisdom and development, as well as becoming even more of a life-affirming person than they already are. Beware of subscribing, but you're blessed if you do.

ONLY CHILD -- A good newsletter gives you the feeling -- as the writer or the reader -- that you're someone special, because it's just for you, a relatively small group of people, the in-crowd. For me, in my generation, unlike every scrawny honyock today, we didn't have the sense all the time that we were special. The closest you came to that sense was if you were an only child.

My mother had so many kids she didn't know what to do, and I was first. So I was an only child for a while. Looking back on it, if I had then the knowledge I have today, I would've screamed bloody murder every time my parents retired for the evening. They would've thrown their arms up in disgust, gotten mad at each other, each accusing the other of being a bad parent, and I'd have kept them to myself. But of course I love my siblings, that's not the issue.

OK, big deal, I was deprived back then, but that doesn't mean I can't write a newsletter today ... and catch up!

These days, though, there's so many "only children" the kids have it incredibly good. They're made to feel so amazingly special that I wonder what's going to happen to them when they're thrown to the wolves of the world when they leave home. Assuming they ever have to, since Mommy and Daddy's reach is so much longer now, being online and connected 24/7. On the other hand, maybe it'd be better to be thrown to the wolves, then they could be like me, grasping at every crutch that drifts along, which truly is what this newsletter idea is. I notice none of the "only children" in my family have a newsletter...

Yes, I have "only children" in my family, and I see them daily on Facebook. They've just colored another picture! They put the candle on their birthday cake all by themselves! They just wrecked the car, but, good news, we've already got a new one! Don't get me started...

And wouldn't you know it, there's a big difference between these "only children" and me, their incredible success. They haven't got a newsletter, but that doesn't mean they aren't using crutches. Mostly Mommy and Daddy's continued helicopter parent intervention. And now with drones, I'm afraid what the next generation will be. Both parents have a drone on you, you can't do anything wrong so you may as well be an extraordinary success!

I had some other stuff to say about "only children," but it's coming out a bit harsh. But I'll just say, if my parents had a drone on me when I was in college, things would've been different for me too.

OLD NEWS -- It's the third day and I'm about out of old news. That's how little happened in the past. Oh, I have one. When I was a kid I used to go around the neighborhood singing "Long Tall Sally." You know Little Richard's version, and Elvis' version, fairly tame. Then there was The Beatles' version, with Paul McCartney shrieking out the opening, "I'm gonna tell Aunt Mary 'bout Uncle John, Claims he's got the misery but he's have lotsa fun, oh baby!" I'd be out shrieking that and I remember this one time, a neighbor lady came running out of the house like she thought it was an life or death emergency. She was ticked off to find it was just me singing, but probably relieved too.

Newsletter -- Heart Attack

NEWSLETTER CONCERNS - At the top I'll take a moment of personal privilege to thank so many of you for your words of encouragement since I announced a reboot of my old newsletter. It's great to have such kind friends. But with your encouragement you expressed concerns, and that's what I want to touch on briefly.

Your essential concern is that taking on this task is quite an undertaking, perhaps too much for one person, in addition to my other duties, the blog, living my own life, keeping mice out of my house, etc. "How can you even think of adding this to your load?" was the most insistent, gut-wrenching question I got.

Let me first say, If I didn't think I could do it, I wouldn't try. I'm not one of those fools who always tests his limits. I accept my limits in life, believing it's better to abide peacefully in complete insentience than to try to do more than you're able. As for the newsletter, I know I can do it!

Yes, of course a newsletter can be a real handful, particularly for the average person. But I have advantages: There's my iron will and steely resolve. There's my far-reaching ability to glimpse the end from the beginning, giving me the greatest confidence. And finally, even if all that forsook me, there's my super brain. I assure you, with a super brain you can accomplish a lot more than pure idiots. (I'm not dissing anyone, don't write in.)

Your concerns are appreciated, but as you can tell, I've got this thing! How? The learning goes in the hopper. Just this morning I read a few pages of a book, very refreshing. The learning arrives at my super brain's grinders, where it's ground to whatever consistency I choose; this particular book became fine meal. Finally, the chute roars into action with the barrel collecting the next newsletter.

HEART ATTACK - The previous article is everything a newsletter would need. But I'm going on, adding more! Another way you can encourage me is to subscribe. I can't tell you how much I love seeing my numbers go up. Whether it's by 100, 10, or even 1, it thrills me to no end. That's what your subscription does for me, and I thank you. But there's also something that drags me down, and really sets me off, sometimes to the point of violent rage. You guessed it, if anyone UNsubscribes. Just seeing the number go down by 1 is enough, all things being equal, to unhinge me. At which point I can't be held responsible for my actions. My one request to you is, If you subscribe, please do so with the unspoken vow in your mind that you will never UNsubscribe. When you resolve that, both of us will be happier. When I say this, friends, I'm serious, heart attack serious.

PHILOSOPHY FOR LIFE - I'm a big believer that everyone's life, and every second of life, has significance, and sometimes eternal consequences. A big part of our happiness comes from realizing this. It can be something monumental, like scaling a lofty mountain peak. You're up there, you feel the chilly wind rattling your bones, and you never forget it. Or it can be something as (apparently) trivial as reading a paragraph in some guy's newsletter and saying, "Hmm."

You see what that "Hmm" represents? A turning point, an insight, a flash of light, a moment. Like on a hot day when you take a sip of ice-cold water; you've endured the heat of the day and that sip comes across as a flash of refreshment.

My flash of refreshment to you today are these simple words, "Be encouraged." Take that in, let it roll around your mind. Seems so small, I know, like a BB in an auditorium. But somehow it keeps rolling back to you. You can ignore it, and soon your friends will say how wasted you look, how dessicated, and how terrible things must be for you. Or you can run with that good thought and become like Superman or Superwoman. Wouldn't you rather be Superman than Superwaste!

OLD NEWS - One time a teacher accused me of something I didn't do. Which was twiddle my finger around the side of my head, the same as saying, "The teacher is really dumb." I got in serious trouble, had to go to the office, where for punishment the principal shook me. It was the craziest thing, since I didn't do what they said I did. Meaning, the teacher deserved what I didn't give her!

Newsletter -- A Sacred Trust

INTRO - I've been kicking around the idea of getting my newsletter started again. It seems like there's no excitement like newsletter excitement. You're always rubbing someone the wrong way: "How dare you put that into print!" (There's always an email version, too, for those who don't like the sensitive nature of gossip in print.)

HISTORY - My newsletters actually go back to 1971 or '72, when I distributed one in my neighborhood, printing it on a Hectograph. In more modern times I briefly published in the early days of this blog, 2008. When I had the bright idea of real-life meetings. Which, incidentally, was how I made a lasting friend, Garrett Al (aka Geritol and Jor-el). But in those days he was a maniac and sexually assaulted me, so it wasn't all good. We're OK now.

NEWS - One of the pluses to subscribing is the newsletter is it's a great place to get news of me and the ideas I'm kicking around. You get insights into the creative process, including some of my strange meditation techniques, some of them so dangerous I should probably only hint at them. I was being chased by demons when this newsletter idea came to me.

SUBSCRIBING - I need to offer one big hint on unsubscribing, with the basic message about it being DON'T. When someone tries to unsubscribe it really gets to me. It's not pleasant and I can't be held responsible for my actions. The last time it happened I held my breath and ended up so blue I had to go in for painful skin-dying. You wouldn't want to unsubscribe anyway because you'd miss out on all the news of me, the ideas I'm kicking around, etc. In conclusion, I consider a subscription to my newsletter a sacred trust. With something like that, your eternal security could hang in the balance.

MY TRAVELS - Something I like putting in my newsletter is a record of my travels in the community. Which part of town will I be in today? Only subscribers know! Will I be at DQ? Perhaps. I've been a lifelong fan of DQ ever since I heard of it. How far back would that be? I wrote about it in my early '70s newsletters. I had an article about their banana splits being 40 cents. Then 45 cents! That's the day my life ended (the first time), when they raised the price. Now they're $3.39, a good bargain.

PEPPERING - I may even pepper my newsletters with a feature called OLD NEWS, snippets here and there of old memories, that are enhanced in their interest by the passage of time. One item of OLD NEWS I can think of right now concerns how much I would daydream when I was a kid. I used to sit in my room and stare at the air itself! I'd watch dust motes floating in the sunlight for hours, then feel sad when I had to leave them. Now, even though it's been over 50 years, I still sometimes wonder what ever became of those old friends. 

A Piece of My Soul in San Francisco

"Big blimps billow blissfully," I told myself last night as I tried to fall asleep. The galley slaves had climbed up into their quarters; without their rowing, of course, we couldn't make the same progress, but their argument was, 'We have to sleep, too.'

I lay awake on my cot, thinking of the weird confluence of past and present afoot in these strange days. We had narrowed it down to this fact, that the piece of my soul that I'd lost in San Francisco in 1975 was the center of the entire trip. I kept thinking back to my night there, under one of the highways, wondering what the morning would bring. I was hitchhiking out.

The soul split was unfortunate, and when morning came, close to 40 years ago, I should've looked for it more diligently. The truth is, I felt a distinct difference, but at that age how would I know how much soul I'd need? Or that decades later I'd have a friend and lover who'd obsess over it to the point of going there? I thought The Pink Professor was the perfect man -- and still do -- but, Get a calculator! Wouldn't it be smarter to stay home and enjoy 93% of my soul than leave to get by with 7%, or however much it was?

Now, of course, I realize soul splits can happen when you're confused, beset with worries, wondering about tomorrow, etc., "Oops, there goes another piece!" But as a kid you're dumb. You're immortal. You can always go to church and they'll give you 7%, or whatever, like a gas station. Little did I know, they're powerless to help you. If you feel your soul even appear to crumble, you deal with it right now; carry Super Glue if you have to...

So I spent that night clinging to my pack and possessions for comfort. And with morning, caught a ride. I spent the next night, a disastrous, cold night, outside Winnemucca, NV,  and wasn't myself. I was totally freaked out when I crawled to the middle of a culvert under the highway and imagined scorpions and other animals crossing through there. It left me no choice -- split soul and all -- but to get out and spend the night wrapped in my space blanket, standing by the side of the road. A military general picked me up at daylight and said I looked like his son. He bought me breakfast and gave me $5.00. I have to wonder, if I'd had the rest of my soul, maybe I'd have gotten more.

Back to today, I knew at some point the blimp would be near Winnemucca. The memories of the old general are actually sweet ones, though by now he's probably dead, and his son old like me.

In other activity -- it wasn't all boring contemplation -- I tried one of the billionaire's other chamber suits -- this one meant to hone your mental acuity in the zero gravity chamber. My vision was sharp, hyper-realistic. I saw The Pink Professor, as in a musical, on his knees like Al Jolson, calling out to me, not "Mammy" but "Babyface!" Behind him was a large group of devotees, also calling out. I saw an underground shrine and a whole apparatus of devotion and sacrifice. The Pink Professor counseled two old derelicts, who were given an honored place in his group, the "Servants of the Beloved," the "Beloved" apparently being him, me, or 7% of my soul.

I shuddered and left the chamber. Because if one broken off soul shard is so important, I don't want to lose any more.

Leaving My Blog Post at the Manger

I've always been impressed by the Christmas story, for many aspects of it. One of the greatest is the idea that each person who comes to behold the Child brings a gift, the best he or she has.

For the Wise Men, we know their best was gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Impressive. For the shepherds, they brought a couple of sheep. And for the Little Drummer Boy -- I like his most -- he had no other worldly goods except his drum, so he played for Him.

We've all heard the message, "What can I set before the King?" It varies from one person to another, of course. Maybe a watch or some other valuable thing. Maybe an animal other than a sheep, like if  you raise birds or cattle, whatever. Or something you can do and do well. For me, that has to be these blog posts. I'll be the first to confess, my talents in life are sorely lacking. I don't play the drums or piano. I don't raise animals. And I don't have any gold. But I do write blog posts. I guess pretty well. I don't get many complaints.

So this year, my gift at the manger is a continuation of my last blog post, starting where I left off, some of my old memories of the newspaper delivery boys we had in olden days.

In those days, when I was growing up, there were boys in town who delivered the newspaper every morning, and also evenings. (I don't remember any girls.) One paper came out in the morning, and there were two in the evening, except Sundays when it was just the morning paper. That's a lot of papers, but we read each one.

The good thing for those boys, obviously, would be, That's a lot of work! Giving them the opportunity to have spending money and also money to save. It also taught them, no doubt, important lessons on responsibility. I myself never had a paper route as a kid. Whatever responsibility I learned was more through trial and error, and, frankly, I'm still learning!

Paper delivery in those days had an additional important aspect to it, collecting. The boy had to collect the subscription fees by himself. We didn't mail it in. That could be challenging, even though my parents were prompt in paying. Others, regrettably, would be short of money, and so they'd "not be home" or just blatantly putting him off. I can see a lot of frustration in that arrangement.

Now everything's changed. We have a guy in a truck who tosses the paper out the window, then roars off. He doesn't have to collect. We never even see him, unless we just happen to be up and looking out the window and he's there. In his truck roaring off. Instead of paying him directly, we mail our subscription in on an annual basis. That's a lot of money to come up with all at once, close to $200, but we want the news, so we cut back on food (or whatever) and get it accomplished.

A lot has changed over the years. Certainly newspaper delivery isn't what it used to be!

That's a pretty good gift to leave at the manger, I'm sure you'll agree. It'll give them something to read while they're just sitting there.

Memorizing the Declaration of Independence

You know how I'm always talking about how smart I am? Well, I thought I was, but now I'm not sure.

I've long had the desire to memorize things. I got the idea for this from a little old lady I used to know who memorized and recited poetry all the time -- all the time -- and always followed her recital the same way, a half hour of lambasting the rest of us, who hadn't memorized a thing. It seems that when she was in school, back in 1914, kids had to memorize a lot of stuff. It's like they didn't have enough books to go around or something. Either that or they had nothing better to do.

I know this is true of her generation, because I heard my own grandparents reciting a few simpler things they'd memorized in school, also ages ago. Now they're dead, and the little old lady -- who incidentally only had one eye, which makes it much more impressive; she wore glasses but one glass was fogged over so you couldn't see the sewn up place on her face -- is also dead.

And now here I sit, with two functioning eyes, and the vast library of the world wide web to assist me -- to find things worth memorizing -- and I couldn't memorize a grocery list. Or something simpler. The main problem might be I didn't get started early enough in life. So my brain doesn't have the trained grooves for memory work. I'd check out that website that helps you exercise your brain -- the woman advertising it on TV's kind of cute -- but I can't remember what it is.

Anyway, today being the Fourth of July, I had the idea of reading the Declaration of Independence. I've read it a couple times in my life. Mostly what I could already tell you by memory is that the king of England at the time was named George. That's a start, although admittedly it's not a heckuva lot to go on. What it was, what was going on is, the Americans at the time were very aggravated at George, so they wrote up the Declaration of Independence ... and the rest is history. Something, something. And our first leader was also a George!

OK, for some reason it's always easier for me to remember the first few words of something than it is the next few. Like the Bible. I always remember, "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth," words to that effect. The rest, I could probably hack out a few more words more or less accurately, but, again, my memory isn't what it should be. Did I already say that?

Let's review how far I got: "When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary to--" No, I just checked the webpage and the next word is "for," not "to." I'll just copy and past the first paragraph and we can review it:

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

According to that, "Course" is capitalized. Must be one of the Quaint Customs of the Time. So we've got a "Course of human events," the progression of time, pointing to a particular moment in that course, the "When." Then there's a people feeling it's necessary to dissolve the political bands that they had with another. Then they intend to assume "among the powers of the earth," other countries, a separate and equal station, blah blah blah. I'm sure George didn't care for this: the Laws of Nature and Nature's God entitle them to make this assumption. OK, When that necessity arises, they care enough about the opinions of the rest of the world to declare the causes of the separation.

That's a little different than now. Isn't our attitude now just to stomp the crap out of people and let them like it or lump it? Maybe I'm thinking of some other country, but I'm pretty sure ... I seem to recall ... although my memory ain't great.

That, my friends, the first paragraph is frankly more than I can handle, let alone the rest of it. I'm not one to admit failure easily, but the Declaration is simply too long for me to get it entire thing down pat. Not this year! Maybe next year when I'm older ... and, I hope, wiser.

P.S. -- Obama ought to prank the Republicans and just recite the Declaration of Independence on the radio. Since most of them likely have no knowledge of it, they'd hear it and start bitching, "He's totally full of hot air!" Then he goes, "It's the Declaration of Independence, you bozos!" They'd go, "It came out of your mouth, we still hate it!"

Whatever Happened to Bushwhacking?

 These typical teenagers will soon be "parking" on a lonely country road.
At least, they HOPE it'll be lonely!

One of our biggest fears years ago was bushwhackers. Those dreaded ambushers who came upon you parked on a lonely country road to interrupt ... whatever you happened to be doing. Which might or might not have involved intimate romantic contact. I hate to be specific.

Whatever happened to bushwhackers? I never hear anything about them anymore. Although it could be that I'm not in the right company to hear much. I fear that if we had bushwhackers yet today, they would've taken it way beyond the free meal, belling of the antenna, and smudging of the license plates. In today's brave new world, they might kill you!

Maybe there's not that many kids parking anymore, with changing standards. Standards have loosened, so maybe now they're just in their own rooms going at it. I really don't know. "Jimmy, when you and Joan are done, please come down for dinner ... and don't forget to straighten the sheets!"

Of course, it wasn't that way years ago, like other things that change over time. But if the current generation (or their kids) knew where they came from, those illicit assignations along the roads, they might have a greater appreciation for the old days. Parking itself was a result of changing standards, a more mobile society. So if it has switched in the meantime, we'll just chalk it up to progress.

But when parking was going on, it gave rise to an antagonist, the bushwhackers. Those terrible bushwhackers! Who were out and about, hoping to catch a glimpse of nudity, perhaps, and certainly to interrupt the proceedings.

The way I remember it, though, there was more to it. I alluded to it a little above. It was like a sport. The bushwhacker carried a string of bells, and once those were around your antenna, you were his captive. That gave him the opportunity to take the young woman's lipstick and smudge the license plate up real good. Then you were obligated to take him to the diner and pay for a free meal.

I always hated providing the free meal. Not so much the expense, but the time and trouble it took to go with him. We'd be leading the way, and there he'd be in his car following us, till we pulled in. I bought more patty melts and french friends back then than I have at any point in my life since! And it wasn't fun. I'd be sitting there irate.

These days, even if there are bushwhackers -- I said they might kill you, but they might also fear getting killed. With everyone packing heat, anything could happen. It could turn deadly real fast! Which is probably why you never see bells around antennas or lipstick-smudged license plates anymore. That was terrible, your dad coming out in the morning ... "What have we here? Lipstick on the license plates?"

It's terrible, the memories, but of course it went with the territory. Now, looking back, I can see it was all in good fun. A few of the bushwhackers I even remember with a degree of fondness. One of them was even mayor of the town way after we all grew up. So that's a strange bit of trivia, something I never expected back in the day, buying him a patty melt.