Deja Vu, Did I Say Deja Vu?

Paranoia

Part 25 of 30

Actually, I thought I already wrote this one. But I’ve been through all my files, the various drives I keep spare copies on, my email where I always send a spare back-up to, and the various checklists I keep, and I even checked the toaster, and despite all that and the power of prayer I can’t find it anywhere.

But, really, I sort of remember seeing it. The browser crashed but it popped up on the screen big as life, but I had to jump up and go check the sink -- where the garbage disposal was running for the last half hour to get rid of the week’s garbage -- and when I got back it was gone again. OK (looking around) I’m not blaming this on parallel worlds or dimensions -- not yet -- but I heard the neighbor lady leave for work about a half hour ago but her car’s back in the driveway. No, wait, check that, it’s gone again. I definitely don’t see it. No, it's there.

Regardless of all that, here I am writing this again, which, maybe by now is worse than it was; it does seem to be a bit heavy with process. You do anything and there’s process and results. You crack a nut, you eat the meat of the goodie, no doubt the nut was cracked. But, really, what would you do if you had the nut still in your teeth and the uncracked nut was still on the table? I’ll tell what I’ve done before, I’ve marked the nuts, 1-2-3, etc., and charted them on grids on certified real paper, then just let the magic fall where it may. If I take the dog out and the nuts I ate are still there when I get back, I check to make sure the neighbor’s kids haven’t sneaked in the back door to fool me.

The back door, though, now, has a super deadbolt. So even those kids -- each possibly with super powers rivaling Houdini -- couldn’t be changing out the deadbolt and replacing it with my own bolt so easily. I’m sure I’d hear it rattling around, or the dog would bark, or something. Oh yeah, the neighbor guy moved out a few months ago! And yet there’s always activity over there, or maybe he just decided when he’s away to leave the lights on, probably on a timer, and that seals the deal, settles that case with a happy ending.

My big question on this stuff is, Could there be something wrong with my mind? I hate to think it starts with me, because that would be a terrible flaw. Could I bear it? I’d about have to, keeping it Top Secret and doubling up my monitoring of the door and certainly the windows. Why are people so comfortable with windows? They’re great for peeping out, but that door swings both ways, they’re also great for peeping in. Although, if there’s anything worth peeping in for -- a quick glimpse at my personal effects -- I always have the lights off. With only the fear of infrared glasses remaining. Or ghosts.

I can identify with the Old Judge. I’m sure if I were a cartoon, drawn and disposed of, redrawn and disposed of -- a bad artist at work -- that I’d be flummoxed a bit if I found myself doing the same things as the guy at the counter, over and over.

Did I Miss Lincoln's Birthday?

Did I miss Abraham Lincoln's birthday?! Dammit! I even went through the day thinking vaguely about the 12th being vaguely familiar. I've been in a kind of stupor lately. I'm not saying it's related to me falling and hitting my head on the rock, but I'm not excluding that possibility.

But look at these words I'm spewing; I'm not that dumb, right? It's flowing like volcano from a massive earth zit, i.e., a mountain. I'm able to conceptualize, comparing mountains to facial blemishes and cross the wires of the contents of each one, a volcano and the stuff that comes from faces. That has to count for something... Could be I'm good at faces because I hit my head in the back, not the front.

Anyway, dammit again, I say. I was hoping to wish Abraham Lincoln a happy birthday on the actual day, none of this "President's Day" stuff for me. I won't have it. To have it is to say my education was nothing, and that's something I'm not eager to admit. There had to be something good about it. One, it made me a "lifetime learner."

I had some troubles with one reader within the last five years, calling me on my "ignorance" about Lincoln, The Great Railsplitter. The guy's basic point was why do I call him The Great Railsplitter? His contention was because it's an old cliche, nothing more. And, the guy said, it's likely that I don't even know why he split rails. OK, smart guy, rails were fences, I'm pretty sure. Wooden fences, imagine that. The olden days were crazy.

But let's get away from cliches, because I actually read (an audiobook) an actual book about Lincoln in the last year. It was one about The Great Thespian John W. Booth, who shot and killed the president. In summary, it's a crazy story of poor security up the ass. Imagine if you could just walk in the theater, unnoticed, and kill the president! No matter what you think of the president, he deserves better security than that! We can't have upheaval like that on a scale we can barely imagine.

It's kind of exciting listening to a book like that, better than reading it, for sure. When I read, I get bogged down, usually. Eye strain, so pretty soon I'm reading with one eye; I do that a lot. But if you're half sleeping and the remaining eye is doing double duty, it's easy to drift off. Audiobooks have problems too. It's easy to drift off and realize you just missed a chapter. Then it's hard to get back, and you end up hearing the same couple paragraphs a dozen times.

Since I missed The Great Emancipator's birthday, though, I don't want to spill all my knowledge, just save it till next year. He had a wife, OK, I'll give you that much. She was the First Lady of those times, sat at home knitting. Not like now, the First Lady in a New York high-rise costing the taxpayers a million dollars a day while she watches her kid romp through the room sitting on a lion. Times have changed.

Abraham Lincoln was a man of integrity, I've heard. Being The Co-Father of His Country, he decided to behave himself. He wasn't tweeting all the time about John Wilkes Booth being an overrated actor, which if you think about the theater over history, probably the mid-to-late 1800s is the most pretentious period. They didn't have microphones, they had to yell their lungs out, even in tender scenes, for the deaf guy in the last row to be able to hear. "WHAT'D HE SAY?" was their punishment if they didn't.

These days we have Abraham Lincoln, The Great Reader by The Fireplace, on the five dollar bill. Five times more valuable than the other Co-Father of His Country. And yet, somehow ignorantly trumped by Ben Franklin, on the 100, and not even a damned president.

Happy belated birthday to the late Great Top Hat Wearer.

If We Treated Astronauts Like Honey

I have an attention span disorder when it comes to two things, honey and astronauts. I've found that both are easy to ignore, forget, and neglect. When it comes to honey, once it's in the cupboard, it's completely forgotten; I shouldn't have bought it. And the same thing holds for astronauts, but with more nuance. Theoretically I like astronauts as much as ever, but they're not seen as heroes anymore, or even given actual names that I hear, so they're out of the public eye, and definitely forgotten by me.

Consider what happens to honey once it's in the cupboard. The honey's forgotten, the astronaut's forgotten, the honey crystallizes and congeals, the astronaut dies in outer space. Of course it's six of one, half a dozen of the other, but presumably the astronaut's life means something, whereas the jar of honey arguably has less value. It's close.

I have to tell you -- so you understand -- that I honestly do love both honey and astronauts. As for honey, I love its looks, its consistency, its taste, and all the rest. I fully support any and all efforts to preserve, protect, and defend honey bees. I've given to understand that they're vital to our well-being, not just in the making of honey but for every other crop, from soup to nuts.

OK, picture me in the store when the spirit moves and I pick up a jar of honey. I think of what I'm going to do, have a tablespoon of honey everyday for my health and happiness. The first day I eat a tablespoon, the second day the same, the third day the same, the fourth day a butter and honey sandwich, and the fifth day something else. Then the sixth day comes and I'm out of town. The seventh day I'm still away. The eighth day I get back home and by then I've forgotten I even have honey. The next time I see the jar is a year and a half later, by which time it's crystallized and congealed and looks like hell. I've heard you can heat it up and make it edible again, but it seems like I've tried it a couple times and it's not the same. At this rate I won't buy another jar of honey for two years. Because I've already got six to eight jars of congealed honey junking up the cupboard.

I shudder, thinking of the poor astronauts, all whom I've also forgotten. It was fantastic when they were taking off, great when they achieved orbit, and wonderful when they went for a space walk. But coinciding (or not) with me going out of town, by the fourth or fifth day our beloved astronauts are on their own. I can only hope Houston hasn't forgotten them, but let's say they do ... How horrible it must be to be an astronaut, when it used to be such an enviable profession. I might've been an astronaut, but once again, as has happened so often in life, math was my downfall.

The astronaut, quite unbeknownst to me and everyone, is radioing earth on the fifth day: "Houston, Major Tom here, floating in my tin can." But all Tom hears in reply is static, crazy static, so crazy it's indicative of static quite on its own, as crazy as having a lost weekend. Like the honey jar, he's in the cupboard, forgotten. Everyone's out of town!

Fortunately, there's plenty of supplies on board for a long flight if need be. Just like the honey in the jar doesn't crystallize and congeal immediately. You could take it out of the cupboard a couple weeks later -- I suppose -- and it'd still be good. Similarly, the astronaut isn't in any huge danger, just so Houston remembers him reasonably soon. But once honey's forgotten, it's forgotten. And the same thing, I'm thinking, has to hold for astronauts. We may have a hazy recollection of launching them, but very soon the memory's drifted away.

Six months later, the honey looks like crap. And the astronauts are all dead, having etched on the dash panels some last message, such as, "Tell Laura I love her," a last provocative, plaintive message to someone, perhaps his wife, mistress, lover, or sister.

My Mom's Been Dead One Year

Well, friends, it's been a weird time of reflection for me -- the honest to God truth -- now that my mom has been passed on for one whole year. I bet I thought of it and reflected on it more than for any other person in my whole life that's died. And now that I'm getting old myself -- 61 -- virtually every one of my loved ones, with a few exceptions, from that generation is gone.

There's something about a mother dying, I've found, that makes a hole that's just brutal. I always pictured it as being bad, of course, but nothing like the complete dead end void that exists in reality. My imagination didn't come near to it. It feels like a strange total silence out there, no door, no window, no nothing.

I never really saw her that much, truthfully, just a few times a year, since we didn't live extremely close to each other. But I heard from her numerous times a year. And online.

Anyway, the anniversary came, and I remembered it. About the time at night, a little earlier since it's past my bedtime, I looked at a few pictures of her and lingered on them, then went to bed thinking pretty much of what I'm jotting down here.

But it's not all that terribly sad -- let's say it isn't for a minute. Because my mom was quite the humorous person. We laughed and joked around a lot. I remember that about us being together more than anything else. I remember the only time I saw my mom ever finger anyone. That's a great memory I cherish. My dad was in the hospital, dying. One of the nurses did something, snotted off to mom, or something, and as the nurse left the room my mom fingered her. We both cracked up laughing. I was semi-shocked, but glad to see it. I thought of that on the anniversary of her death, my dear mom fingering the nurse.

Mom was also extravagant. She did everything in a big way. One of the last times I saw her before she died she was in a total manic state, thanks to meds. She seemed well. This was the last "good day" I ever saw her, since I was just there for the day. She had wild plans -- and had met with the artist -- to put a $10,000-$12,000 statue and bench on her grave site. We were going over the information, she was digging into it like a person possessed, and she was going to swing it. When everything went to pot right after that, it was all forgotten. But those moments were actually her, the way she dreamt and got things done all her life.

I guess I'm not going to put too many actual memories here. I have to save things for next year.

PHOTO: Mom died of cancer, as seen in the blood cell photo. The picture is from the movie, "Night of the Blood Beast," a Roger Corman production from the '50s. I don't know that she ever saw that movie, and I don't know that she didn't. But if she did see it, I can hardly believe she ever expected this frame to be used in a blog post about her own passing. :)

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!"

Barber, Meet Head -- What's In a Name?

I keep thinking of the list of names I had the other day in my post, "Iowa -- Land of Roadwork." I've been thinking it might be a good list to memorize. There's a lot of value in it, in my opinion. One, it simply has great aesthetics for a list of names. There's no discernible arrangement, alphabetically or by sound, no predictability. If you just concocted a list of names, though, and you had "Krebs," there's really a good chance you'd go for another "Kr" name, like "Krantz."

One other value to it, which is of more practical value and not just something of aesthetics and beauty, would be staving off dementia. I keep hearing that the more you exercise your brain, the better it works. Giving even me hope. At this point, I can't even remember how many names there were, let alone what they were. I definitely remember Barber and Head, obviously. Let's quote the list and see what happens:

Kellerman, Adams, Bardot, Lawhead, Rackley, Mahlor, Hargrave, Taylor, Kirby, Beveridge, Zalumas, Edwards, Vann, Smith, Maddox, Stewart, Robison, Gordy, Craig, Harden, Bass, French, Truitt, Barber, Watt, Jerger, Stribling, Herman, Grantham, Russell, McGiohon, Anderson, Aiken, Reese, Head, Vanderbilt, Hazelton, Feinberg, Myers, Tittle, Cheshire, and, lastly, Mays.

Adams and Bardot are alphabetical, but a truly random list easily has consecutive letters. I just made two counts and it comes out 42. I could probably memorize 42 names. Using one of the memory systems. If it means having my mind at 90 -- 30 short years from now -- it'd be worth it.

There's another value to the list, which is self-serving for my blog. People hitting these posts through Google searches while doing genealogy. Probably not the Smith or Adams or Anderson families. But the Stribling family? The Zalumas family? The Beveridges? The Lawheads, Granthams, and McGiohons? Some of these are like names from dead languages. And now I have two posts with their names in it. I'm going to get every McGiohon, Zalumas, and Stribling in the world, albeit there's probably about five of each. But that day in Iowa -- when I got the list -- there I was in a rest stop with them! I should've said, "Zalumas? Your name is Zalumas? Let me shake your hand before you pass on! McGiohon? What is that, Gaelic? From Brigadoon, appearing every hundred years?" Of course, I kid. Still! Have sex! Anything to get your numbers up!

For some of these names, the only place you'd run across them is Ancestry.com. Have you ever been to Ancestry.com? You probably have. If you search for any name plus "family," or just any obscure name, all roads lead to Ancestry.com. Except once you're there, it's a dead end. Because you need a paid subscription or a one-time free sample to find out anything, even about yourself. Which to me is still a dead end. I already know myself. And if I'm on there researching my family, that takes what? A week? Then what? Look up other families or sublet my subscription?

Here's my deal for you. If I find out your Grandpa was a horse-thief or some other lowdown skunk, I'll publish it for free. Then you'll come and beg me to take it down, that's when I'll make my money. Family pride. Of course, the farther back you go, if you find a horse-thief, you might smile and feel a little happiness about that. Because it's an interesting detail, even though it was shameful at the time. You've got more than his birth and death years.

OK, without looking, here's the names from the list that I remember. Honor system, not looking. McGiohon, Stribling, Head,  Barber, Adams, Smith, Beveridge, ... I should've read the list again first ...Bardot, Mays was last, Cheshire, going slower now, that's it, I guess. That's 10.

Now I'm going to look at the list again. How'd I forget Kellerman? There's Kellerman, Adams, Bardot, Grantham, Stribling, Head and Barber, whom I shall never forget, Maddox, Mays, Craig, Cheshire, McGiohon, I've got memory overload here. That's only two more than before... Dementia, take me now...

Me and Wordsworth's Dogs

At the end of William Wordsworth's huge poem, "The Prelude," in the Modern Library edition being almost 220 pages, longer than any poem I'm ever going to write, he says, "Oh! yet a few short years of useful life, And all will be complete..." That tells me he was an old man at that point; he lived to be 80. Which is only 20 years older than me!

All this matters today for my blog because of one passage I want to celebrate, from Book Four, lines 93-190, which has some good stuff about his dog. I have lots of thoughts about dogs. One, I'm glad a great poet like Wordsworth took time to write about his dog. He's all right.

Of course, when I read it, I have to think of my own beloved dog. Who would've made a great dog for the great poet, had she not been born in the wrong time and place for it. On the positive side, she was born in exactly the right time and place to be my dog. So that's equally cool. She beat the odds. Because I'm happy to say, If you're not going to be Wordsworth's dog, you may as well be mine. Not second best, mind you, but equal or better. When it comes to poems, Wordsworth has me beat, but not at dogs.

I want to lift out some bits from Wordsworth's poem about his dog. Wordsworth had been away from his home and stomping grounds, at school, far enough away he had to stay there most of the year. Then he's back for summer vacation, then he goes up in the heights, the rocky crags around there, thinking up poetry and getting the inspiration from a favorite romantic locale.

At lines 93ff, he says his dog, a rough terrier, was among his favorites "whom it pleased me well / To see again..." I bet! Who wouldn't want to get home and see his dog? But this is more. Wordsworth was out there kindling "with the stir, / The fermentation, and the vernal heat / Of poesy, affecting private shades..." In other words, his poetic impulses were sizzling hot. But what of his dog? He continues, "Like a sick Lover, then this dog was used / To watch me, an attendant and a friend..." And this even though Wordsworth was so absorbed in his poetic inspirations that he had to halt walking a hundred times, making the dog somewhat tired and uneasy.

LOL. Of course I can relate to the dog's faithful presence. My dog's right here as I write, watching me with concern as I virtually tear my hair out, what's left of it, trying to get every word just right. I have very demanding readers and a very easy-going dog, which means if the situation were reversed, I'd be taking the dog for a walk with a constant lash at my back, or any number of other means of goading someone along. But my dog's very patient.

I'm running long, so I'll summarize the rest of Wordsworth's section on his dog. I like it how he celebrates an especially good burst of poetic inspiration by darting toward his dog and caressing him repeatedly "with stormy joy..." Then they'd be walking along and he'd give Wordsworth advance notice of anyone they'd be meeting on the way. The alert meant Wordsworth hushed his voice, since he was thinking out loud. The dog saved Wordsworth's reputation! Lines 129f, he says people would've started "piteous rumors" about him, saying that he was "crazed in brain."

My dog tries to help me like that, a little. Say I'm writing a blog, she barks anytime I'm about to hit the "Publish" button, knowing I'm only digging my hole deeper. You only see the crap that gets through, you should see what she prevents!

Back to Mr. W. In lines 131-190, he doesn't mention the dog much. Here, though, he's writing as the old man in the present time, not so much remembering past memories. So in lines 182ff, he sat in "the sheltered coppice" and heard "the straggling wind" in the hazel leaves, and it reminded him of his dog: "a breath-like sound, / Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog, / The off and on companion of my walk..." That gets me! How wistful! The straggling wind reminds him of his dog's panting. But of course the dog is now long gone.

I know my dog's getting up there, 14 years old and in failing health. Years from now -- let's say I survive another 20 years -- I'm going to be looking at photos of my dog and ... whatever. But at least I have pictures. Wordsworth had what? The straggling wind. And a great memory.

That One Chair

I thought he was a very debonair fellow, and so likely to be fairly memorable. We met him -- a close friend and I -- at a party we attended, around a pool with no one swimming and everyone enjoying barbecue.

The guy looked something like a retired ambassador, even a snob, but I recall he was nice. I remember telling him about my game toe, although admittedly it was just something I shared generally with the group, so it wasn't that I was focusing on him alone. His name was Troy, that much I remember. It actually didn't stick with me, the memory of his name, but if I sat and thought about it, sounding out various sounds in my head, I could come up with it.

A lot of acquaintances are like that. If you don't have some good reason to remember them, you don't. And with Troy, it was basically just that one time I saw him up till recently. Just a further word on it, I probably should have remembered him better, because he offered me services in whatever line of work he is in, something to do with either construction, equipment for rent, or apartment management. Not being in the market for anything, I made a mental note of it and promptly forgot.

Time passed by. Years. It's been almost two years since that night. When who do I run into but the same guy, downtown, eating at the same restaurant, chicken wings. "Hey!" He didn't call me by name, and I remembered his name only after we'd parted.

But my lack of memory isn't anything compared to the close friend referred to above. I was telling her that I'd run into Troy downtown. And she went, "Who?" I tried to describe him. We were at the barbecue, he was a debonair looking guy, his hair, his clothes, his line of work, etc., the kid and wife he claimed to have overseas, etc., but none of it rang a bell.

And I was thinking, trying to remember more, and said, "We were sitting here and he was sitting over there, you know, in that one chair." This was one of the clearest memories I had, besides his physical appearance -- being fairly debonair -- the chair he was seated on and where it was in relation to the rest of the guests. But, no, even that didn't ring a bell for her.

Some people's memories are terrible. But mine is pretty good, on average.

Criminal Turf -- The Lay Of The Land

This is the map I've got in mind. Nothing but this. I'm living, eating, and sleeping this map. I'm trying! I'm sweating it out, studying it, going over it again and again, memorizing it, committing it to memory, trying to let it take up an enduring domicile in my memory cells, anything, just so I master it. Good grief, you would too! Because my future as a successful criminal, maybe the greatest criminal this town's ever seen, depends on this knowledge, and I must not let myself down. Must go over it again!

The town, if I'm reading the map correctly, appears to be divided up into five territories, or what they call "turf." Five different turf, or is it turfs? Whichever, I've got to review it for my own benefit, lest everything I've mastered thus far slips. And just like schoolwork, it's hard to remember without looking. I'll try a mnemonic. The west side has two gangs that both start with vowels, O and A. The Outlaws and the Aristocrats, north and south, respectively. The east side also has two gangs, but they both start with C. The Ciggies and El Conquistadors. Then, I'll think of it like a nipple, there's my own gang in the middle, The Skids, our headquarters being the Skidrow district of town, and our turf the Central section. Like a nipple, that's great! Too bad the town isn't round!

OK, I just looked at the map for 10 minutes straight. My mind only wandered off to nipples like two minutes out of 10. Other than that, great focus. The Outlaws: They're not that hard to remember. Just think of cowboys being out west. And reaching for their gun from the top. But there's no precedent for Aristocrats being on the bottom. And that's killing me. That little butler dude, or maybe he's the effeminate "master" of the house, would he be on the bottom? Maybe so. His wife probably tells him when to get up and which shorts to wear! He looks like the type! But I can't think that way. He's just a symbol for a murderous gang.

Now, looking to the east. El Conquistadors, which is a real mouthful, and too bad they didn't come up with a simpler name, they're what you call your Ethnics, folks of a different division of the human species, not quite normal. Unfortunately, they're also into crime, so they've carved out their own turf. I'm going to memorize them for sure, believe me, because I've suddenly got a desire to take them out first. That turf would look great under my own belt. My house is actually in that area, and if I can't annex, dominate, and exploit my own side of town, then I may as well hang it up. I'll send them packing back to whatever land they came from, down south somewhere. Wow, thinking about it like that, I've already got the El Conquistadors part of the map memorized!

It's the others I have to work harder on, since I haven't got that personal a stake in it. The Ciggies up north. Of course they also start with C, which only gets me so far. The industrial section of town is in their area, so if I associate smokestacks with cigarette smoke, that's probably the memory device that will help me get it down. Big smoke, little smoke. I'll put it in Freudian terms, they've got these big phallic things sticking up from their turf. And they go around with little phallic things hanging from their mouth. Sucking and blowing, blowing and sucking. Now that I think of it, I think I met a Ciggie gang member in a restroom the other day. He said he was going to roll his cigarette in the bathroom because it was cold out! He had a big can of tobacco, then he licked the paper and rolled it. So he's into licking as well as sucking and blowing. These guys may be worth keeping an eye on.

I'm reviewing. I think I about have it. Central, that's me, the nipple area, the aureole district. The Old West, where the Outlaws always are. Aristocrats, they're the other vowel, with an effeminate butler dude on the bottom in his relationships. Conquistadors are known for living down south. And Ciggies and smokestacks go together. So it's O, A // S // C, C.

If I can't get this firmly in mind, I don't see any hope for survival.