The Best Urn For Me

Virus

Part 28 of 30

We’re getting near the end of this dreadful series and I just want to dedicate it to the sweetest lady that ever lived, my dear Mother. When it came to ladies, I mean forget about it. She knew all the ins and outs of life and taught me the facts of life. Not just the reproductive stuff -- which has been done to death, Amen? -- but the real lowdown, the real scoop, everything from how to cut the legs out from under the other guy to how to hide the evidence.

You really gotta love her, the mind she had, able to see the details of every scheme without missing a beat. It's with fondness I remember coming home from school one day and she was on me like a ton of bricks. The teacher caught me copying another kid’s paper and I ended up with a big fat red F for my efforts. Mom was pissed, totally P-offed, and put me in one of those baby chairs where you’re trapped in the middle and encircled by a plastic tray four foot in diameter. Strangely, though, all she did was withheld my dessert, and in its place impressed me with stern eye-to-eye instruction and wisdom. “I have told you and told you, a million times, ‘The getaway is the number one priority, not the loot!”

And that’s a piece of wisdom that was attained at a high cost, missing my desert that night, so I’ve never forgotten. To help my memory, I wrote it on a 3 x 5 card and memorized it, and even swallowed it in case I forget what it said. A cough, a quick paper towel run over it and it’s good as new: “The getaway is the number one---” and so forth.)

So say I’m getting ready to scheme out a plan, you know, a job, perhaps a swindle, I think about the getaway. Some of the easiest marks in life are guys who think they know it all. Which I love. Pawn shop dealers come to mind. These guys are so cocksure that they know it all, they’re the easiest mark. They make a huge mistake with their feeling of certainty. Naturally I don’t know what their mothers taught them, and how often they’ve swallowed that advice, but it obviously wasn’t the same as mine. They’re probably thinking of the points along the way in scheming -- which generally works -- and not the getaway. I got in, already picturing my getaway and they didn’t know what hit them. I’d love to see what they upchucked. It was probably their mom saying, “The getaway is…” then there’s a gap, where she must have been on the phone and forgot her train of thought, now with the meat-of-the-goody of her advice missing.

Anyway, Mom was great and still lives in me, her richest advice as close as a cough. And I’ll never forget one of her greatest jobs -- she saw the future -- when she swindled a funeral home out of a bunch of urns, our family being quite large. We used the biggest urn for her, then since her getaway was a priority we took out her ashes and scattered them to the four winds. Whoever in the family’s responsible for my ashes, someday, whichever urn's the best, that’s what I’ll have. This might even be coming up, say the Virus gets me.

From Cave to Bungalow

Paranoia

Part 21 of 30

Yesterday had a caveman theme, today too, maybe a few days of it

That’s actually pretty hot, what the caveman’s saying, dressing down modern man, because he can, being a caveman and not one of our modern wimps, which includes me. You tell him, Ug!

But watch me bait Ug: “You wouldn’t say that to my face!” Then he starts to slow-speak it, the intensity of his eyes becoming enormous. Enough fire to consume a vein of coal. “Turn -- around -- wimp -- and…” By this point with his slow-speaking, I’ve gathered up every ounce of precious paranoia I have -- and I’m stoved up with it most of the time -- and I’m burning a hole in his forehead with the hot gaze of my suddenly glowing head.

Suddenly the caveman goes silent and drops to his knees. With my glare cooling off not one single degree. Then I’m taunting him: “Did you have something to say about spitting in my face? Didn’t I hear a hurtful spiel about you whimpering to Mommy?” His spear has fallen to the ground. And I burn my fury home, as only I can do: “You know my Mommy’s dead!” Suddenly he sees the real grudge I have. “You filthy caveman! You will not even THINK of my mother, let alone SPEAK of her! She was better than you'll ever be, in every respect…” He’s clutching his neck as I amp up the watts.

And launch into My Soliloquy:

“This vulgarity you spout from your filthy tongue -- what is that, a never-laundered skin of a bear that died of natural causes? -- about ‘my Mommy,’ I called her Mom, and goddammit, I oughta pull that cursed tongue out of your vile mouth and throw it to the jackals! But one thing I hate worse than any insult against my mother is the thought that jackals are even in the picture!” He’s then begging for one drop of cool water.

“My mother was a tougher woman than you can even dream of. With more fight in her little finger than you have in this whole mess you call a body. O the big tough animal-skin man! If I’d’ve been here the animal would’ve won, and he’d have your naked skin as a coat around his whole fur and thankful for respite against the rain. Although I don’t know, your skin’s pretty thin, and yet you’re the last to know it!” He seeks mercy.

“No, no, no, Ug, there’s no mercy for one as vile as you, not yet! Grovel, you half-baked monkey. You might not know this but I embody my mother! Can you conceive of that? Wherever I go, she goes! And my many brothers and sisters feel the same way. When she died, she didn’t really die, she was transfigured, and each one of us received of her strength. I used to be paranoid about my own shadow. Because I was a 98-pound weakling and I knew the kids were looking for every edge against me: ‘Hey, everybody, look how skinny his shadow is!” But you know where I got strength? Hell, you don’t know yet!? From my mother.” I suddenly feel like kicking him to death, but -- wouldn’t you know it? -- the spirit of my mother descends and my leg is calmed.

As Ug crawls away, I ask my mother why I’m so paranoid, and her answer was --- Aww, who am I fooling? None of this happened, Mom hasn’t been back forever. I slink away, again myself paranoid as crap.

Mothers & Destiny

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 24 of 30

Probably all of us have wished from time to time that we’d never been born at all. The problem with that, naturally, is that we wasted our opportunity to make our wishes known, way back when they could’ve done something about it. You need to be bold, speak up, instead of complaining about it long after you're already here. Do I wish I'd never been born? Well, I think of all the money I could've saved.

One question that's entangled in this quagmire of knots is, Is our presence here a thing of Destiny, planned and plotted by Destiny? Or just the luck of the draw? A man and a woman are together with enough thrust for a moon-launch and nine months later we land on earth. If it’s a matter of Destiny, like every resentful kid says from time to time, “I didn’t ask to be born!” True, true, but you like I always counter, You didn't ask not to be born either.

I still remember how surprised I was to grow up and realize that Earth had been here 5 to 15 billion years and doing very well without me, then here I was. When we learned about Genesis we thought it was only a few thousand years. But we had to revise our whole way of thought in terms of new information, the vastness, 15 billion birthdays without a card. The great thing for me in those billions of years is I never had one worry I can recall. Then suddenly I’m thrust against some woman’s breast and learn that that’s what we eat till they phrase us into good old cheap spaghetti. I’ve actually been saving lots of money eating spaghetti everyday, now that Mom’s gone.

But it’s the odds of all this that interest me today, the chances of Mom and Dad being where they were, meeting, etc., supplying the ways and means for the world’s huge plot against me to come to realization. Obviously someone up there either had it in for me, or perhaps I misunderstand the nature and meaning of existence. Is it really to do this, that, and the other thing? Or is there an intermediary phase that I’m leaving out? Maybe it’s a way-station on the way to a different station in life.

It would've been nicer to be born on a planet that didn't have such an orderly society with taxes.

As it's turned out, though, I guess I can have some pride. No matter how terrible criminal thugs have all turned out to be, at least I’ve never been in prison, never on death-row, and I've kept my politics soundly in the progressive track. And as far as I know, I can think with the best of any group of average citizens, so I shouldn’t complain. I hit the sweet spot in every category!

What was my mother like? She was very nice, a cool lady, and in ways kind of quirky. Which was something to love about her. And as destinies go, Mom had one as much as anyone.

My Violent Fantasies

No. 5 of 30 - Guidance Counselor series

Of course in terms of actual history I never hit the guidance counselor. I sat there like a good boy. And we weren’t opposed to violence in those days. But I had some pragmatism, a self-interest to protect. And if he showed up today, I'd give him a friendly embrace. Even though he deserved a good whacking, a thrashing like he wouldn’t believe. But I had to worry about staying in school. Because to drop out would’ve meant a life of low paying jobs. Instead of the wealth I'm surrounded with now. Just bought a microwave three weeks ago.

But those days are gone, and we’re geared for fantasies, you know I’m right. I bet most of you have serious fantasies. I’m not going to sketch out any of mine, except to state what’s obvious in everyone’s experience: I’m the center of it and it involves lots of different characters all with very perverse intentions and playful schemes of behavior. Which is enough about that.

Most of my fantasies do not — let me repeat, do not — involve guidance counselors. But now that I’m old, maybe I missed out on something. It really took a lot of thinking in these latter days of my life, leading to this blog series, for me to flesh out what are likely the patterns of guidance counselors. Most of you probably had good guidance counselors, at least seemingly good. They were good enough not to jump your bones on the first session, and if you only had one session with them, you got off scot-free.

To be fair to my guidance counselor — a guy I did not like and would have no reason to say good things about if they weren’t true — he never once jumped my bones or attempted to. He was passive/aggressive, yes, but only in ways either to help me or injure me psychically, not sexually. I would never accuse anyone falsely of such a thing. As it turns out, with adults (and me as a kid) there was never ever the slightest untoward thing that anyone did to me. Which these days is no laughing matter, of course.

I didn't care for his words and attitude, though, and his behavior was not exemplary in the fullest psychological sense. But there was lots of room for deniability for him. Which my Mom could've discerned and figured it out. She got me in with the guidance counselor in the first place, so I wouldn’t have to take part in a semester of wrestling. But even she did not know the problem.

It does me some devious mental good to take him on in memory. It's funny. Like this sitting on a bench and faking a yawn and, oops, a black eye. And, yes, I know gratuitous violence is also out today -- we're so righteous -- but this is purposeful violence, indicating my desire to strike back, to smite righteously a hostile adult figure. Which is still allowed. "Oh, did my fist accidentally smite your eye?"

Keeping Mama Happy

No. 15 of 31 -- Thermometer series

I don't care which cog you think needs grease, if you don't keep Mama happy your labor's in vain. Is it Persistence? I will be persistent, Keep Mama Happy. Constancy? I will constantly rebut, Keep Mama Happy. Is it Stick-to-it-tiveness? Here's something to stick to, Keep Mama happy. (Staying At It is nearly synonymous with Stick-to-it-tiveness, but you'll agree, nothing functions without Staying At It, because it's connected to Keeping Mama happy.) Keeping Mama happy is our priority.

Sit back, settle in, and let me expound at some length on the wisdom of life. This will pay practical dividends over and over in many ways. Look how things are going for the blog and our great thermometer drive. They're popping off and spewing everywhere, 'cause Mama's one happy chick!

The first application is for children. The second for adults. The third for adult men. Uh, there may not be a third, but we’ll see.

Children, 1st. You children have a long ways to go till you're an adult. Life seems long and hard to endure. But you have to slog it out day by day and year by year. Enjoy! Don't get ahead of yourself. I used to keep track of the slow-moving time before I could leave home and be on my own. Those years just crawled. I was impatient. I still had to learn important lessons, a lot of it by trial and error. Persistence, Constancy, Stick-to-it-tiveness, and Staying at it were the minor lessons.

Every one of those things is utterly important, although I concede, Stick-to-it-tiveness and Staying at It are similar if not identical things. Be all that as it may, the absolute most important thing in the mix is Keeping Mama Happy. (If you don’t have a Mama, you most likely did have one at some point around the time of your birth. You can have lots of Mama-figures in the ladies in your life. Or even in aspects of yourself, the kind of Mama person or aspect who's loving, always wanting your best.)

Anyway, Keep Mama Happy and everyone’s happy. If you merely feel the need to Keep Mama Happy, that's happiness. If you see the priority of Keeping Mama Happy, it means you're putting first things first and other things will follow. If you ever fail, go back to Mama and say, "O Mama!" and let her caress you till you feel you can go on.

I’m an old man now. But not pathetic in any way, able to breathe, walk, sit up and take nourishment, avoiding trouble, etc. I could be pathetic. Picture this pathetic scenario:

Me: “What’s the f—'n use of even being alive?” People I know try to bolster my spirits. “Who would even f—'n miss me if I was dead?” And they’re bolstering my spirits again, “We’d miss you.” Then I have my constant doubts, “F— life and you and you!” I throw up on the dining room table and march out of the room, never to be seen again. Until months later I run into the old gang at the grocery store getting ready for the weekly meeting that very night, a meeting I’ve never been invited back to, and they all pretend not to know me. I’m begging for another chance, “I was just f—'n with your heads that night. I didn’t mean anything really, it was a joke. Yes, I threw up on the table, that was meant as a joke, but I immediately regretted it. The humor was too subtle.” Then they let me come back to the meeting that night, I suddenly feel sick at the table, but I have the Mama spirit/moxie in my spirit: I get up and march to the bathroom like a good boy.

Have you got the moxie on the ball? Mama's that moxie, what you need. 'Nough said.

I come back to the table and share with them the wisdom, the key to life I meant to share that other night but was unable to because I was prematurely evicted: “Keep Mama happy.” They’re at the table looking around at each other in kind of a mock disbelief: “Keeping Mama happy is the key to life?” “Yes,” I say, comfortable in my own skin because I know it’s true.

We dismiss, we go away, then the next week come back, and around the table the verdict is the same, “You are absolutely right! This is the secret of life and success! Persistence, Constancy, Stick-to-it-tiveness, and its near synonym Staying at it, are all vital, critical, needed. But setting aside that, the number one rule in existence — and to a man we realize this — is “Keep Mama Happy.”

This Is Thanksgiving, Not Mother's Day

Friends, it's Thanksgiving! Raise a glass with me, and let us propose a toast ... to Mama, the Dearest on Earth to Us. You may be a perfect stranger to me every other day of the year. But please join in, for on Thanksgiving we're all family. Eh? Are you raising your glass? Raise it! And let us toast Dear Mama, just like we did way back when, on the very day they told us, "This is Thanksgiving, not Mother's Day."

It was actually a revelation -- however unwelcome it seemed at the time -- since we were admittedly a bit carried away honoring Mama. And ignoring the bird spread naked and golden brown on the ritzy dining table of that deservedly expensive hotel. They had a spread loaded with thighs, breasts, and drumsticks, and they charged an arm and a leg for it. What money? Money means nothing on Thanksgiving!

The real problem started with toasts. Most of us don't make toasts on a regular basis. Everything we know about toasts we learned from movies and TV. Which so often specialize in fictional happenings, goings-on, stories with a plot, a conflict, working through the conflict, and resolving itself in a happy ending. Meaning, if a toast doesn't sound like it sounds on TV, there's something wrong.

We went out for Thanksgiving, the whole family. Daughter, sons, their kids, Papa and of course Mama. Mama's the center of the family in most families, especially if your family is anything like ours. She makes our heart melt. We have memories of her tenderness when Papa was gruff, or whatever. We nursed off her, literally, giving us the step-up in life we needed when other kids were bottle-feeding or seeking nutritional refuge in the arms of a goat or something worse.

So when we went out for Thanksgiving at the best place in town -- Expensive! So expensive it's like throwing money down the drain -- it really meant something. We were very sensitive about the experience. Usually we pinched pennies, now we were living it up, like the Rockefellers or the Gettys. Papa had his money withdrawn, it was big-bucks time at Thanksgiving! Every plate was expensive, crazy expensive. So much you could've eaten five times somewhere else and had money leftovers.

It's the same feeling you get at other holidays when the expectation is to go beyond your ordinary means. Christmas is the biggest example, but each person's individual birthday is a mini version of the same thing. Or New Year's, when Papa came home with eggnog and salami and chocolates and candles. You're wondering if it's the same guy who's always so tight. Papa's family went through the Depression. They had to scrape for everything they could scrape together.

OK, so there we were at this hugely expensive place. And naturally, with the money buying us the biggest, best Thanksgiving meal, our tender thoughts turned to Mama. Who was spared cooking the big meal for a change. But would've gladly done it if we hadn't gone out. She would've come up with a turkey, cooked it, carved it, made dressing, made pies, all the fixins, bread by the bushel, and drinks.

I took my drink and lifted it by way of a toast, and the rest of the family immediately joined in. "To Mama, the center of our family, our life, our common love, our heart, our soul." "Here, here," the others said. Then my next brother, not to be outdone, lifted a glass and cleared his throat: "To Mama, who binds us together as one, not just our life but our everything, the best Mama we could've ever hoped for." Then my next brother (3), who of all the siblings saw Mama over the years more than those of us who'd moved away, had a tear in his eye. He lifted a glass and toasted her: "We should probably be toasting Papa," he started to chuckles, "because Papa is the one who found Mama. She was a natural beauty, although, as we've all heard, she was 'a diamond in the rough.' But she had the upbringing in her own family and saw the example of her own parents, and now has exceeded them, which I say not to question the merits of Grandma... Family, raise a glass to Mama!" The fourth brother had a decent toast, and the daughter (5) and the last son, last but not least. His toast was a tearjerker, because when you're Number 6 you're just happy to be alive. Statistically, Number 6s are rare, and reflection on that gives you a keen ability to make good toasts.

When all was said and done, I led the way for everyone, including Papa -- barely able to walk even with a cane -- to get up and go over to pat Mama on the back and give her his own personal plaudits. She was trying to wave us off -- her wonderful modesty and self-effacing nature, further reasons to love her so much. But we went on anyway, patting her, giving her kisses, hugging her. True, the food was getting cold, but that's OK. Thanksgiving comes but once a year, whether or not you have a Mama, and we knew someday we'd lose her. But it wasn't that day! That day she felt the fullness of our love. Even though she tried to wave us off, that was her day!

We were laughing, praising Mama, and outdoing one another something fierce. "This turkey is probably the most expensive turkey in the world, since the meal is so outrageously expensive at this fancy-schmancy place, but it's nothing compared to the turkey Mama could've made!" Similar sentiments were shared. Praising the different aspects of the meal, but discounting it compared to what Mama could've done. When the waiter, obviously at the beck and call of the head cook -- who probably should've been demoted to assistant chief bottle-washer for the remark -- came out and scolded us, saying, "Folks, we'd like to remind you, This is Thanksgiving, not Mother's Day," our table became stone quiet. I looked at my brother like, "What the fu-?"

We might've rioted -- I was personally that close to gutting that particular waiter, and Brother 3, with his greater familiarity with Mama and the over-protective nature he'd nurtured, looked like he was daydreaming of a noose for the head cook. We would've hung him high right there over that very table had Mama not stepped in, saying, "The waiter is only doing his job, beloved family. And he's right. You started in praising me, your Mama, and of course I appreciate and love each one of you always, but in the sentiment of the moment we were all carried away. So let us get back to our meal, dear ones, because as he said, and he was right, "This is Thanksgiving, not Mother's Day."

The Golden Child

I don't write much about myself, my own life. I guess I've been very modest, since, believe it or not, there would be a lot to write about. But many of the original witnesses are now deceased. And some of these topics appeared to be strictly off limits when they were alive. What were they precisely afraid of, that's something I could never wheedle out of them. My mother would throw up her dress and flee the room.

Still, in the hoary mist that makes up the past -- thick enough to cut with a knife -- there are things about me, and destiny, and about great things that I could accomplish. I dare say would accomplish, but I'm pretty sure everyone's forgotten the prophecies. Which don't just spring out of thin air, but are always something that someone's considered, then hidden in their hearts, then pulled out time and time again to rehearse, then concealed, and on and on like that, all very cyclical, see? Let's say my dad was in on it. He was sharp with an incisive mind; I wonder what he knew!

I got very little guidance on these things. But what wasn't spelled out was hinted about, that I would accomplish certain things, and before that, I would know it when I saw it. Friends, I know nothing. Just a kind of tingly feeling I get when I fall asleep -- or just before falling asleep -- when I'm regaled by, yes, beings, personages, memories dredged up, and revelations even now that are new! This one spirit from the hoary mist, he was hoary himself, hoary-headed, old-fashioned speak for essentially white. White as snow, the purest white you've seen this side of a snow drift.

What would I accomplish? I've accomplished very little thus far. Unless the revelation/prophecy somehow involves this blog. It's weird, I'm telling a story and I don't know how it goes! I'm feeling my way. But doesn't it stand to reason that anything that is prophetic, if it's meant to take place, that it would take place whether I knew what I was doing or not? Like going to the bathroom. Everyone knows how it goes. You do your business, then pull 'em up. Like the kid on the diapers commercial: "I'm a big kid now!"

I could make up prophecies, but that would be artificial, false. I could keep my ears open, and everything I hear try to distill it through a mental process of thinking. I've done that before. Like the time I learned to tie my own shoes. I'm thinking now of ... women! My mother always had female friends. They would get together and do things together. They would talk. Maybe at the lake, on a boat, away from the crowd, among themselves. What were they talking about? She had friends who would live close to her, then move somewhere else. Why did they move?

Seems like a dead end. So many of the folks who attended my birth and early years are dead. It seems, though, that there was something hushed that was occasionally heard, about the obstetrician they had at the hospital, or one of them. How he was always into the hidden lore (or something), how he was thrown out of various churches for his offbeat ideas. I remember hearing some of this, that he was a essentially a mystic obstetrician, and the words "golden child." That's it, I think. Mom and her friend, this one lady -- I remember her name -- had something between them about a guy like that.

I'm going to be working on this from time to time. Freely associating memory scraps with what "must have been." What are the sorts of things people keep to themselves, talking in whispers, acting like they've swallowed the canary? People's mysterious destinies. Like I was meant to have and live, no doubt... I foresee the formulation and using of many techniques. I've long had the conviction, When in doubt, improvise. Act like you know what you're doing. For those reasons alone, and in fulfillment of them, I must be The Golden Child! Yes, I'm certain of it!

Newsletter -- The Peace of a Thief

Yesterday, I lifted up one of my staff members, Stan "Tipsy" White, as a great example of the glories of drunkenness, and got a lot of nice comments, so I thought today I'd highlight another member I sincerely admire, Dashing Danny Whfrf.

Danny's a traditionalist, and I like that, a traditional thief. He's not into new crime like computer hacking or carjackings, which of course have their place; he's into what has to be one of the oldest criminal activities of all, thievery, stealing. It's so old there's even a 10 Commandment about it! Fortunately Danny doesn't live in some backward country where they cut your hands off for stealing, because he'd be out of work then, needing as he does his hands for holding the gun and carrying stuff off.

Of course in these days where every field seems to have succumbed to modernism -- and I'd complain, "Modernism for modernism's sake!" -- it's rare to find traditional craftsmen, working not only with their hands but with their wits. When you work with your wits, you need wisdom, and that's what Danny uses to scope out a situation, see where the goods are, where the exits are, and what it's going to take to get him in and out in one piece. Part of one's wits also entail foreseeing the unforeseeable, if we can put it like that, having the foresight and intelligence to roll with the flow. Danny's not afraid to change his plans on the fly, such as his route of escape. He says he's dove out of more second story windows than he cares to remember!

Damn the luck, though! He's currently doing a little prison stretch that's sidelined him, but he's proven himself an honorable and worthy fellow in demonstrating "good behavior." Plus, he went beyond the call of duty when he ratted on a couple rat-finks in the clink, who were planning to knife a guy simply for not sharing a Playboy magazine his sister smuggled in to him. And that put Danny in good with a few higher-ups, who then put him on the fast track to eventual release by sending him to the local work release farm. From there he was let him out to help me as a staff member on my upcoming newsletter.

I've been happy with Danny's work ethic. He's very bright-eyed, looking at all the angles. Which is even more amazing given the late hours he keeps after a full day. I bet he's explored every part of our town. I sometimes wonder what discoveries he's making -- our town's a fascinating and hospitable place, and I believe he's found that to be true. But he's not one to show a lot of emotion; he's reluctant to get sentimental about civic pride because he might break down and cry. And once you've been in the pen, that's a big no no.

Yes, the thought's crossed my mind that he might be pulling a few jobs around town. He always goes armed, which he sees as a fundamental constitutional right, and it could be he sees things he likes that he honestly can't afford, since the state's only giving him 12 cents an hour. That's not much money for a full day's work! I've chipped in a few cents to make it 15 cents, but even that's only marginally better. You could literally blow through a whole day's pay on an unfrosted cupcake. Fortunate for him, we have little joint downtown that'll sell you a single cigarette or he'd be completely lost.

If he is pulling jobs, more power to him, right? If he's at peace with it, who am I to raise a ruckus and mess up his thinking? He tells me his mama never raised no fool, and I confess I'd say the same thing about my mama. I'm a pretty good judge of character, and Danny's got it. And even if he didn't have it he'd know where to find it, which is reassuring.

Messing up his thinking would be the same as messing with his peace of mind. And that's something I'd never do. Danny's got what a lot of us haven't got, the native sense that God gives thieves, who believe, "The whole world belongs to me. What's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine." There's such a beautiful innocence in that, like a baby reaching out and picking a piece of food off his daddy's plate. Daddy just sits there and laughs, "You're such a good boy!" The amazing thing, then, is to carry that attitude through your whole life; what's out there is like the air, it's your environment, your enchilada, and completely free for the taking. It don't get no easier than that!

Mama Don't Allow

Note: If you're concerned about the lyrics of modern songs, and the negative impact they can have on society and morals, this is the post for you. I also long for the good old days, long ago, when an occasional reference to "hoochie koo" was the worst you'd hear.  Even then, it went over most people's heads, thinking it had something to do with sneezing.

A song that really gets my goat is a country song called "Mama Don't Allow." The key thing in this song is that the instrumentalists in the band have a chance to show off their chops. Seems pleasant enough until you listen closely to the lyrics. In each case, it has to do with disobedience to Mama, as it is clearly stated that she doesn't allow whatever-it-is, the dobro, guitar, piano, etc.

Mama don't allow no guitar pickin' 'round here,
Mama don't allow no guitar pickin' 'round here.
Well, we don't care what Mama don't allow,
We're gonna pick our guitar anyhow.
Mama don't allow no guitar pickin' 'round here.

At which point the guitar picker joyously takes the instrumental break, and I turn it off. Because, in my opinion, that's shameful. If you're just wantonly going against your Mama's wishes, you're flirting with the destruction of society and life as we know it. In my opinion, Mama's will, her desires for us are only good. And whereas it might not be immediately clear to us why Mama would disallow guitar pickin', the piano, the dobro, fiddle, and all the rest, she must have a good reason; it's not necessarily for us to know.

For me, that's the policy that's going to get us furthest in life, accepting Mama's will whether we understand it or not. I firmly believe that. Was I ever disobedient to Mama? I actually was, and I lived to regret it! One day she caught me at the lake, playing with salamanders, when I was clearly told that I should never visit the lake by myself. She was angry, I'm sure, but since her whole concern was for my well-being, I know she was mostly relieved. I hadn't drowned nor suffered salamander poisoning, which was very bad that year.

From that moment on -- and I suffered terrible dreams of being dangled over the fires of hell -- I resolved to treat Mama's word like inviolate law. She said it, and whether her reasons were crystal clear to my feeble mind or entirely inscrutable, that's the way it was. Which policy, incidentally, led to me to be the clearheaded, mentally strong, entirely wise person you know so well today.

But too many people, I'm afraid to say, haven't had those experiences or dreams. And so they've never taken the vow. And these are some of the ones singing this vile song, "Mama Don't Allow." They think they're just having a "good time," laughing it up. Maybe their Mama was broken down in spirit, and kept to herself in the other room, and twiddled her thumbs. If she did, I'm sure she had her reason, worried that her children had somehow tragically slipped her grasp. The other Mamas held her up as an example of what not to do.

Of course I understand life, I understand how it goes. The very nature of music is it appears to grant greater freedom to the soul, which quickly veers off into some dangerous territories. Because if it's received by someone without sense and maturity, they can fall off the deep end just like that. Mama comes running in, her dress up around her face, crying her eyes red, but nothing can bring her children back. The transgression is accomplished, and the foundation of society, at least in miniature, has collapsed.

Somehow, tragically, to will the good is not just in us; it's tough to know the difference. Even Mama, I'm guessing, had to learn it somewhere, probably from her Mama. She knows boundaries are important, that you want to screen yourself off from what is negative. Just like she doesn't want you running in to expose yourself to dangerous viruses and bacteria, so she wants your mental condition to be kept safe.

So, next time you hear some jug band, or acoustic combo, going strong on "Mama Don't Allow," and they're giving you that big old stupid grin like they're enjoying themselves wantonly flaunting their disobedience -- going strong and confident on the dobro, piano, guitar, harmonica, bass, or even drums -- just withdraw from the scene and save yourself. If you can pull a person or two aside and tell them what's really going on, that would be good. But for Mama's sake, don't allow yourself to be pulled back in!

We want to get back to a righteous standard. And we need more Mamas speaking up to their children and loved ones before it's too late. That's my desire in life, now that my own Mama has passed on. I can still remember, of course, and, besides, I'm getting about old enough, music isn't much of a temptation at this point. I hear it from a distance and hobble the opposite direction just as fast as I can.

Of Fantastic Blimps and Galley Slaves

The billionaire once again was true to his word, always giving 150% effort. I arrived at the construction site, and after just a few hours, everything had proceeded on a scale similar to the work long ago on the Egyptian pyramids. In this case we were building a blimp port and a blimp itself!

How impressive it was, too. This port isn't just a one-off temp thing. The billionaire bought land just north of where my $20 million personal library will be. This is a real facility. And it took them less than an hour to clear the land -- before it was a forest, while being in the city limits. We're in a hurry, with things to do!

As I approached, it took my breath away to see that majestic blimp docked above us, with The Pink Professor's unremitting pink symbol. This was easily the biggest blimp I'd seen all day. Off to the side was an elevator fit for NASA. The blimp itself has luxurious accommodations, with amenities too numerous to list. Including a zero gravity chamber in the center, for relaxing from the pressures of life. After we would load, the galley slaves would load, whose rowing would keep air currents at an optimal stream. Wait! Galley slaves? Sort of, they're a local galley slave reenactors group.

In my opinion, these guys were a little slow on the oars, but their argument is, If you rowed close to 2,000 miles you'd be tired, too. Perhaps. But I think a good old fashioned whipping would have sped them up; but these are the sacrifices we make for living in more modern "civilized" times. (If I seem critical, it's because I did my master's thesis on galley slaves, subtitled, "Those Were the Days." And I never have enough real-life opportunities to critique the practice.)

By afternoon, we were off! Headed for San Francisco, where, according to the billionaire's plausible theory, we would find The Pink Professor. Just like the Tony Bennett song, I told him once, "I left a piece of my soul in the San Francisco area." Obviously that hit him as a search worth making, and he left. He was lost to me, a relationship I never thought would end. Now I must find him.

I kept my seat till we were over Colorado, when the higher altitude started doing things to my head. I needed the refreshing tonic of a zero gravity atmosphere, so I left my seat and went into the chamber. To enhance the experience further, the billionaire had various suits we could wear. I picked one of the heavier suits, an amniotic sac simulator. That and floating in zero gravity gave me the world's best space to chill out. And drift.

Frankly, it was stunning. I witnessed my whole personal development -- phylogeny recapitulating ontogeny -- that whole scene. I remembered things about myself, things that can't be verbalized beyond "Goo goo ga ga." I felt so extremely thankful for my mother, whose body allowed a place for me so long ago and brought me forth. Now she's passed on -- in 2013 -- and I miss her terribly, but on the bright side, I've got this blimp, running a close second.

In the mix, in the stew, in the wash, in this kaleidoscopic array of mental and metaphysical wonderment, I also saw the development of the Pink Professor. His spirit towered over his physical embryo, a foot taller if it was an inch! I swear on a stack of ultrasounds. It could very well be that that's the way he is today as well, a larger spiritual presence hovering over a little literature professor's body. This insight I will carry to my dying day. It certainly explains his success with rowdy bikers. And the impetus of going to San Francisco to look for the missing piece of my soul. Once he got there, then, he simply had to serve. I would have to be careful bringing him out.

I stepped out of the amniotic suit and made my way back to my seat. Billionaire: "Things are going great." Me: "It feels like we're going a little slow. Where's the whip?"

The Billionaire Buys My Easter Bunnies

Easter Sunday is coming, the day I celebrate above all others, a great and glorious day, the day I enjoy my profits from selling Easter bunnies at the craft sale. The sale, this past Saturday, was especially great for me this year, giving me a lot to rejoice over, and it's all thanks to the billionaire.

Wow, I'm in awe, to think I met such a rich man -- an actual billionaire -- a guy with more money than I'd ever know what to do with. This isn't going to be the same old Easter now, thanks to him. The wealth that guys has, it boggles the mind. And to think, he's not afraid to get out and spend it, thank God!

It all went down just like I'm saying: I made up 50 new Easter bunnies and with my hold-over stock trudged sullenly to the shopping center, dreading the usual dismal sale. Those bastards, the shopping center management, are always looking for ways to stick it to us. And it was the same this year. They put us in the opposite wing, where the bathroom's three times as far. That's bad for a guy like me, a solo act, meaning I have to leave my stuff at the mercy of criminals and cutthroats to pee. There's enough thieving kids at the shopping center -- wild animals lusting to steal -- that it's tempting to sacrifice your bladder to protect your stock.

I looked up at the crowd gathering at the line in anticipation of the starting pistol. Three old ladies with empty plastic sacks looking for free samples and no pistol. Big encouragement! But thankfully things did pick up, a few stagglers here and there. Being slow isn't terrible; it cuts down on shoplifting, and of course the ever present threat of other backstabbing crafters wanting to get illicit photos of your stuff. It can be a mess except for some downtime.

I also use those opportunities to keep my table tidy. I have an eye for posing the bunnies, positioning them for maximum appeal. Angled out, a few about an inch from the edge of the table. It shows they're eager to go, looking for a good home. I've noticed a lot of ladies, with their mothering instincts, like anything that suggests eagerness. They get that from hungry babies, and even look for it in inanimate objects, especially if they're cute. I've been exploiting their weakness for years, always looking for a way of making these bunnies more babyish, cuter, and eager.

Some of the gals coming through, though, didn't seem to have the mothering instinct, being more concerned about price than what they could do for these little orphans. But I anticipated them, and put prices by the little guys. A strict $5 apiece or 2 for $9, a dollar discount. I hate giving up that dollar, but some of our less instinctual people need the extra push. Cheapskates.

11:30 came and went -- the dog days of any craft sale -- when people are thinking about eating and not as apt to be wanting our junk. You see it on the faces of fellow crafters. The fans come out, they're rolling their eyes, and bitching about the shopping center. Which isn't slow to take our fees but isn't so quick to address our grievances, like why we have to be parked by 8-10 empty stores. It'd make more sense to put us in a couple of the empty stores closer to the main traffic. But hey, that's insider stuff.

Anyway, here's the real news. This guy -- someone recognized him and said he was a billionaire -- came in with his people, and was enthusiastic about what he saw. There was one lady with a clipboard, a guy with a briefcase full of money, and several bodyguards. The billionaire himself, a good looking guy with a friendly face, a little older than me (62), appeared from the middle of the group.

He had a good word and a handshake for everyone, and assured us he wanted to buy everything we had! I didn't know how that'd go, but it was easy. We simply stated our price and the lady with the clipboard wrote it down and the other guy paid us. No haggling, no nothing, although the clipboard lady, obviously, if left to herself, would've been tighter. The billionaire had places to be, money to make.

He came over and was admiring my stock, commenting on how cute the bunnies are, and even engaged me in some shop talk. On my color scheme, why I chose pinkish ears for them. I explained I thought it was a pleasant color for ears, then started into a more indepth explanation on the psychology of appealing both to children and mothering-type women, when he waved me off with a laugh, also shaking my hand boisterously and saying, "All that's inside baseball, over my head; I'm just looking for nice things!" That really did something for my ego, to think I was smarter than a billionaire!

The key thing, beyond the pleasantness of this encounter, was I got an amazing $2,000 for around $400 of inventory. In one swift transaction, no fuss, no muss. And the same thing went for the others. The billionaire didn't care. One of his people also passed out coupons from the downtown coffee shop for free lattes. It was win-win all around.

This was easily the best craft sale I've ever set up for. It made up for a lot of dismal Easter sales out there, that's for sure! Giving me money to burn ... I'll save some of it for my golden years, probably.

The thing now -- which is a discouraging thought -- is what's going to happen next year? Do I make twice as many bunnies, then have the billionaire not show up? But that's next year's worry. This year I'm celebrating big time, with a joy to last me all week, and, I'm hoping, right through Easter Sunday itself ... and beyond! He is Risen! Moolah!
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Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

2010:
Local Man Makes and Sells Easter Bunnies
Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center
Last Call for Easter Bunnies
Boxing Up My Bunnies

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

2012:
I'm Selling Easter Bunnies at the Craft Sale

2013:
Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End of Crafts?
The Easter Craft Sale -- Post-Mortem

2014:
Shell-Shocked -- The Easter Craft Sale

In Spiritual Ecstasy Johnny Law Bites It

"The Law is the Law," Johnny Law said, citing my family for illegal squatting on a reserved picnic site. "You are in violation of Section So and So," he told my mother, before giving her a ticket and forcibly moving us on. We packed our basket and departed, heads hung low in shame.

This all goes way back, being, as I look back, the beginning of my radical spiritual life. Because at that time something new came to the fore, and I knew -- can you ask a five year old how? -- I'd never be the same. All because my mother was the kind of lady who wanted something different for her family, experiences of pleasant outings.

It's hard to believe, but Johnny Law really patrols the parks of the city. I think it's all underground knowledge. The average guy sitting home on his easy chair hears a siren and assumes he's off dealing with serious crime, a bank robber or burglar. When the odds are, he's merely harassing park visitors and moving them on, albeit usually with a warning. Bullies.

Mom got a warning the first couple of times. We were at the picnic site, but not having a picnic. My brother and I sat on the grass, our legs out, rolling a ball back and forth. Mom had a book. It was a pleasant day, the birds singing. The big thing I remember about nature that day was seeing those butterflies, the ones that are little chunks of ripped cloth, flying haphazardly everywhere. When here comes Johnny Law, full siren blaring, flashing the artillery.

Things like this stick with a kid. It haunts your thoughts. I bet for a week there wasn't a night that I didn't dream of it. I'd awake crying hysterically from dark nightmares. I didn't ask Mom if her idea was to help me psychologically, or what, but she kept at it, taking us to the park. Indeed, we returned! Over and over. Sometimes with food, sometimes not, once with wax fruit! And Johnny Law was never far away.

My first magical experience came when I least expected it. I felt it welling up in me, some force going beyond my personal self. I was able to see through to the other side, and yet in some unexplainable way I wasn't me, in the egoic sense. I became alive with sensations of otherness, of rising above the entire world. I discerned things right at the heart of truth. No longer did I see bowls of wax fruit, but everything was fully alive with energy, pulsing with freshness and taste. My heart was afire that day, when who shows up but Johnny Law!

There I was -- in complete prophetic fervor and fire -- when Johnny Law was reduced to crisp. A bolt of lightning flashed from the heavens, weirdly channeling itself through the top of my head and out my eyes. I had no conscious purpose, no conscious desire ever to hurt a living soul. Butterflies flew by without harm. All I know is, where Johnny Law stood was suddenly nothing but a pile of simmering ashes. And his ticket book, which my mother picked up and put in her dress. We packed up, went home, and to my knowledge she never mentioned it to anyone.

About the illustration -- Notice the trees, like the towers or gateways on Tarot cards, meaning entrance to a new future. Then there's mom and brother, almost like Mary and Joseph in the nativity set, with me in the middle. Gifts are before me as I hover between earth and heaven. Mom pours from a pitcher, suggesting new, living wisdom. Brother reaches his hands in the pose of beholding something wonderful. The true Law, the book of grace, is above my head, radiant. The superseded Law -- Johnny -- didn't stand a chance.

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. :)

Memorial Day -- Death's Day to Shine

Happy Memorial Day! I always think about that "happy" and whether it's appropriate, but I've heard it enough, it must be right.

I'm not doing much for Memorial Day, as usual. They fought and died for my right to sit on my lazy buttootie, so I'll honor that. No trips to the cemetery -- I hate crowds. I'll miss the parade -- looks cloudy, hate to get wet. I'd put the flag out, if I had one. I'm just in a terrible way.

The parade, you've seen one truck of waving vets, you've seen 'em all.* Although it is quite cool how they have the trucks festooned with little flags. I can just see the folks doing that, taking hours sticking those flags on. I honestly can't remember how they even do it, tell the truth. Surely there aren't little flag holders everywhere on an Army truck. What would that be, some kind of retrofitting? Or are we spending so much extra time and money in military procurements to make sure our trucks have 800 flag holders?

That'd be worth looking into. That might be why a lot of guys died. They're trying to scurry off a truck that's been hit and they're caught on a flag holder. So many of them, it's like a mine field. Like all that barbed wire they had in World War I, between our trenches and theirs.

World War I. This is a big year for World War I, because it's been 100 years since it started. I was talking to a guy the other day, a geezer, really, except I've known him since high school. He reportedly spends a lot of time and money on war literature and other mementos. Civil War through whatever; probably has an empty room ready for the next war.

In our discussion, I quickly blew through my limited knowledge of the First World War. Which consists of everything I know of Eddie Rickenbacher, since I've been reading his book for the past six months and I'm still not done. It's interesting in places, a total boring bastard in others. I felt gratified that my old friend agreed with me on the WW I flying aces, that they wasted a huge amount of time after a hit, driving around the countryside looking for witnesses to sign for them, to vouch that it was indeed their hit. Isn't that dumb? Do you suppose every infantry man jumped out of the trenches and ran ahead to get verification that he shot a guy? Anyway, it was my theory -- and this guy, a self-taught expert agreed -- that it was only the novelty of an air corps in those early days that prompted such a stupid idea.

Grandpa was in WW I. I don't know what he did exactly. He never said a word about it. Don't remember him being in any parades. Exercising his right, too, I guess. I honestly don't remember him even going to many parades, for anything. Just sitting around the house here, going out on the half acre, moving the outhouse every couple years, and hunting and fishing. My uncles were all military guys, like in the heat of WW II, the three boys this side of the family. The other side of the family, I had a couple uncles in Vietnam.

Funny thing about that. You know how the government's always screwing the veterans in one way or another? One of my uncles who was in Vietnam, after the war, died, not war-related. Somehow the government didn't get his headstone right. They always put which war you were in, and they put "WORLD WAR II," which meant he would've been around 5 or 6 when he enlisted. They must have a big assembly line of headstones and a guy daydreaming and forgetting to change the matrix.

The way it worked out, my mom went through all the bureaucratic gyrations you have to go through, and for the length of time it takes the government to solve anything, including a relatively easy problem like this. It may or may not have involved a contact with a senator or congressman. In the end, though -- she would've made a great bull rider -- she stuck with it and they got the correct "VIETNAM" tombstone to her.

What happened to the old one? There was someone in the cemetery without a tombstone. So she took it to a stone-etcher, someone who does that for tombstones, and had a different one etched on the back, then flipped it over. So out there somewhere in "The Silent Centuries" cemetery  .... Someday, when archaeologists are excavating it, they'll go, "What the hell happened here? This tombstone has a flip side!

_________________

*My true feelings on a truckload of 90-year-old vets, is I'd love to hug and lip-kiss them and rub their head and celebrate them without end. But you can't do that. They'd look at you like a madman, which you'd be. Inside they'd be thinking, "I'm the same guy now as I was when I was 40 or 50, an average guy on the street -- or maybe even your mean boss -- and you didn't want to razz me. Why razz with me now that I'm old? You're looking down on me! You're demeaning my humanity, manhood, and sacrifice?" Which wouldn't be true, but you can't disagree with one of these beautiful old goats.

Go Away, Dad, It's Still May

It seems like every year it gets worse, the encroachment of one holiday on another, and opening up the shopping season way too soon. You hear people crying out about it, complaining, and even picketing stores -- Who can forget the great anti-Christmas sit-in of July '74? But they still do it, the moneygrubbing stores, worshiping the Almighty Buck! If they had their way we'd have the tree up in April and Easter in October.

Of course I see it personally every year. I've gotten used to the cycle, and, being as easy-going as I am, for the most part I just shut it out. I expect to see Valentine's merchandise the day after Christmas, and that's that. And the fact that 99% of retail workers have to work Thanksgiving to get ready for Black Friday, I'm OK with that, just as long as they keep their end of the bargain, the promise to keep Thanksgiving some time in the last six months of the year.

But give 'em an inch and they'll take ... Mother's Day!?

Am I seriously supposed to believe what my fool eyes and my other fool senses are trying to tell me?! There better be some mistake here! Even Mother's Day is up for grabs!? Excuse me, this is too much -- cough cough, let me catch my breath... Good Christ in Heaven, is nothing sacred anymore? I saw it the last couple years but didn't say anything, because I was hoping my mom wouldn't notice, and I wouldn't have to explain it to her. But now that she's passed on, I'm taking the gloves off. As for her, I'm glad she didn't hear. I can only picture her rolling in her grave, had we not opted for cremation.

But it's true! There's no mistaking it. It's still May, and has been for some time, close to a month, and I saw it right away, Father's Day gifts out and for sale so early. Of course I don't personally have a dog in this fight, since my dad's also passed away, traditional burial. But I don't think it's a very nice thing to give Mom (the memory of mine and everyone else's still-living Moms) the short shrift. Screwing her once again, this time out of her day-month of recognition.

No doubt there's some lousy dads out there -- deadbeats -- who are OK with this. You have to guess that some of the moneygrubbing guys in retail are dads. Either out to line their pockets, or, to put an even worse spin on it, to totally diss their wives and girlfriends by whom they've had children. Dads, does that show real care for your wife and the various mothers of your children, that you can't even make their day-month special? You have to take it for yourself? I remember when men were men...

The gifts on display are plentiful, too, no shortage. We're not talking about what they do for St. Patrick's Day, which is to have a 10 x 10 foot area of green hats and necklaces in the middle of January. Far from it! There's entire sections of the store, large areas, devoted to things Dad would like: Slacks, shirts, ties, sporting goods, fishing supplies, hardware... Go right on down the line. Anything and everything Dad might like, they've got it, nothing missing, no holding back. Just blatantly ... right there ... in your face, bold as life.

It takes away the specialness of Mother's Day and Father's Day. You know what I think a good dad would want, the all-American red, white, and blue dad? For the store to clear away all those things that appeal to men. Just get rid of them, put them in storage the last week of April. Then keep May, the whole month, centered exclusively on Mothers. And then all the workers work overtime the last day of May, starting around 10 p.m., bringing Dad's stuff back on the floor. So that Dad gets June, the way he's supposed to.

A Psychotic vs. Romeo & Juliet

Editor's Note: I don't feel bad about writing this, if that's what you're thinking. What? Should I feel guilty? I'm sorry, I don't see it that way. Thank you for your kind indulgence. Editor out!

Have you ever been attracted to a girl, and say you become something of a couple, and then you're invited over to meet her parents? That happened to me once. I can still see (in my mind's eye) her father sitting in the corner, in an easy chair, reading the paper. He barely looked up at me, and whatever acknowledgement he gave of my presence was very much like a dismissing growl. Not a good experience. But at least I got out of there alive, unlike this other guy I heard of...

They had to reconstruct exactly what happened from the girl's sworn testimony. Because the boy didn't make it out. The father actually made it, but he was such a psychotic, his testimony would be worthless, sworn or not.

It was just like my situation, she took him home to meet her father. Mom apparently wasn't in the picture. As it happened, Dad was in the bathroom with the door open, right off the hallway, so she took the boy there. Dad was shaving with one of those Norelco-type electric jobs. You know the type? They're strictly no fuss, no muss...

Of course the father looked out the door askance at the boy, being sensitive to such things, meeting new people, possible boyfriends. I'd guess it'd have something to do with a house being a man's castle, but it's just as likely there was more of a personal revulsion, because, as we'll learn later, he was completely psychotic. Which can be a bad scene.

But it was the boy who started having a reaction to seeing the dad with the Norelco-like device. Which could've been a reaction based on something physical at the scene, like pheromones. I know that's common. It sounds like he sensed death. The girl said he whispered something about being worried, and she could see him sweating, like he was afraid the father might do something in despair, like cutting his wrists with the shaver.

I can only imagine what he was thinking: What chance will I have with her if I'm responsible for her father's death, him bleeding to death in a bathroom she'd never be able to use again in perfect peace? That's an entirely logical question to ask oneself. I know I wouldn't be comfortable under those circumstances, unless I really had to go.

The best thing the boy could do -- the only thing, really -- was treat her dad somewhat warily, lest he have an active psychosis thing going. It's obviously a bad combination when you have a sharp razor and an active psychosis. You'd have to think, He might fly around the room killing us all, not just himself but me and his daughter. It'd be Romeo and Juliet all over, a perfect one for one parallel.

Really, though, what is it with psychotics and weapons? They're not able to do one single other thing right in life -- cause and effect completely elude them. But there is one thing they're good at, weapons and complete destruction; that they're good at!

OK, this is where the girl's sworn testimony comes in. The boy handles the threatening situation based on something he saw on TV, where they brought in a guy's aged mother to talk him down. Going on the assumption that if the guy's psychotic, and not good at any cause and effect sequence apart from weapons, it would stand to reason that portraying his mother might do the trick.

So the boy whispers to the girl, "What's your paternal grandmother's first name? "Grandma?" "No, her actual name." "Wilma."

"Hello, sonny, I'm your old mother Wilma. I want you to listen to me and behave," and he goes on with that line of thinking, very simple and direct instructions or commands. The dad goes, "Mom, you've changed."

"No, no, sonny," the boyfriend said, "I'm the same old mother you've always loved. Back among the living and feeling better than ever."

Like that, then, he's calming the guy down more ... more ... ever more, and finally takes possession of the shaver. But suddenly the dad lunges for a knife behind the towels, comes at the boyfriend, and immediately kills his "mother." To me this is the ultimate proof of his psychosis, although some readers might surmise it was an Oedipal thing. I really wouldn't disagree, but it's that from a psychotic point of view.

And so it's true, they were Romeo and Juliet, paralleled. Shakespeare was right about so many things, including the biggest from Romeo and Juliet: Some families simply should not intermarry. Because there's bound to be trouble. The parallels are beyond spooky.

The Prisoner Who Learned Bad Vocabulary

I think having a good vocabulary is very important. That's the way I was brought up. So it shocks me to hear people cussing a blue streak. It was just in the news today, some lady calling another lady a bitch.* How terrible! I'd never vote for her, not just for that, but because she's a Republican. Much worse.

Anyway, to me good vocabulary is essential, making me different, overall, from most criminal types.

OK, there was this one criminal, who was pretty well governed when it came to good language. He hadn't forgotten what his Mother taught him, that you're known by your character. He kept her teaching as it concerned vocabulary, although he didn't keep it when it came to crime. His argument was crime was what he did to keep his mouth well-fed, then a well-fed mouth can keep itself in check.

But, even though crime sometimes pays for a while, keeping your mouth well-fed, in the end, many times, maybe 7 out of 10 times, it ultimately doesn't pay. And even if you get away with every crime in your life you've left behind so much damage for others that overall it doesn't really pay.

Long story short, he was guilty and went to prison. It was one of those deals where you're in there for three consecutive life sentences. A very optimistic outlook, I admit, except it turns out to be nothing but a legal fiction.

There in prison, this guy, who for the shame of it shall remain nameless, met every species of lowlife and scum that the human experience has engendered. Big burly hairy guys with a lower jaw coming up like a bulldog. Skinny guys with that creepy paranoid, schizo look. Even basically nice guys who can suddenly turn evil and knife you. There were others, what you might call sexual animals, always on the prowl, be it the prison library or even the chapel. It's the kind of life that toughens you up, no matter your background.

Right there, if we go no farther, I am personally scared straight. I mean, sexual animals, give me a break! Regardless of him being scared straight or not, however, there he was for three consecutive life sentences, a very long time no matter how legally fictional it is.

The pattern, then, as I understand it, is that a tough crowd does tough things, extending of course to vocabulary. His went to pot. All the usual stuff that we've all heard, and some have perhaps said. "Shit, fuck, goddammit, you cockbite, bastard, turd," etc. That's what he fell into, and I'm sure it only got worse from then on out, with three consecutive life sentences (a lot of time) to perfect his delivery and even intensify the negative feelings behind the words.

It's sad -- to me it's sad -- what crime can do. Not only to society, but to the life of a person -- whether it's three consecutive life sentences or only one. You don't say something like this very often, but fortunately his mother was dead. She never had to know all the crap he did, let alone what it did to his vocabulary.

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*Gov. Susana Martinez of New Mexico

The Guy's Oppressive Clothespin Fetish

If you've ever been in the grip of an oppressive fetish, then you'll understand very well this little post. Of course fetishes come and go. Just like you never see the same river twice, so your mentality changes all the time; what's important today won't be important tomorrow ... usually.

Then there's the guy with the clothespin fetish, that hung around forever. We'll call him Walt. Of Walt we'd have to say his mentality had a remarkable stability. Which is hard to relate to, as you know. For any one of us, it might come and go, but not him. For him, he picked it up as a child, one of his Mommy Issues, since she always hung the clothes outside. He'd be right there at her side. She'd put clothespins on his shirt, and even in his hair, then reach over and get one when needed, calling him "my little helper."

So you can see the root of it. Insidious. Years later, on his own, was when it all came to bloom. He thought, all quite innocently, he could hang up a few clothes over the bathtub. (He lived in a place without a backyard. Like most people, he was urbanized, with yards being a thing of the past.) That first bag of clothespins was all it took!

Next thing -- which is how these things go -- he was carrying a clothespin like a good luck charm. Then more pins, for various and sundry reasons: To hold up his pants, to keep his hair in place, to keep his earlobes warm, etc. There were plenty of practical reasons, too: To keep his keys on, to hang toast while buttering the second slice, to store bills in, and as a substitute for staples. Then there were the kinkier, more socially repugnant uses: The pain and pleasure they can give when clamped down on personal parts, especially when multiplied up into the hundreds. Imagine that, hundreds of clothespins clamped on you!

I can still picture a photo he took and sexted to 300 ladies in our town. I saw it because everyone knows at least one of the 300 ladies. It was like a perfect mandala down there, the circles radiating out from the center as perfect as the form of the human body can allow, also taking into account the lack of direct sight for the person putting the pins in place. The blood in Walt's body was obviously in some confusion, risen up in bright red spots in some places, then being completely pinched white in others. As a guy, I have to say this was clearly painful. But pain or no-pain wasn't his concern in that weird ecstasy.

Of course Walt got in trouble for this incident. Because that was all him sticking up in the middle. He had to do community service and not be found within 200 feet of a clothesline. Plus, he had to go in for counseling, which, as we all know, wasn't likely to do a bit of good. You don't get away from being Mommy's little helper that easily! But nothing against counselors; they have to eat, too, no problem.

Well, you can probably guess what happened. And that's all this is, guesswork. Because we don't know for sure what happened behind closed doors. But if you're guessing he had clothespins all over himself in the house, then we're on the same wavelength, you and I. And if you can easily picture this incredible array of clothespins all over him leading to ecstasy on his part, then the ecstatic conclusion leading him to a weird mix of bliss and self-recriminations, then we would also be in agreement. And, finally, if you can imagine a guy taking thousands of clothespins to the curb for the garbage man, then going out about five minutes before they'd come to retrieve them, and then going to the Dollar Store later that same morning to buy out all the clothespins they had, then you're something like me in picturing it. Meaning, you and I know the ways of human nature to a T, but being strict amateurs we haven't yet earned our first dollar and aren't likely to. Even though we, like the counselor, also need to eat.

So whatever happened to Walt? He's still around. Like anyone, oblivious to help. I saw him at Walmart the other day. He had clothespins hooked all over his shirt and a few attached to his hair like dreadlocks. What was going on under his clothes, I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that. Although, I'm guessing, had I gone up and asked him like you might ask any other guy, "How're they hangin'?" he probably would've taken it two different ways.

Help The Parotid Kid Beat Parotitis

Hey, all you buckaroos! You all know I'm in a very big battle, to knock out and beat parotitis! And I'm askin' once again for everyone's help, all the help I can get, with parotitis coming in like it does, rustlin' and puttin' its brand on a lot of jaws.

I took up the fight a long time ago, when one side of my dear old Ma's face swelled up big as a steer's head. I said, "What's the matter with your face, Ma?", and she said one word I'll never forget: "Parotitis!" The old doc told her, "Yep, ma'am, that's what you got!"

And she stayed like that, tryin' her best to break the thing's grip, but she just couldn't. So before we knew it, she wasn't chewin', swallowin', or even talkin' quite right. She could only make a few bare little peeps, just enough for us to know she was restless and needed put back in her bunk. And that's where she kicked the bucket, with her boots on, and her face all puffed up big as a barn.

When you see somethin' like that, and it gets your own mother -- as good a ma as I'm ever likely to know -- it sticks with you. My ma was special, but she didn't do anything special to come down with parotitis. All she did was get up one day and start complainin' of some little puffy spot under her jaw. Then it got bigger and bigger, and before we knew it, it was full grown and all spread out!

The old doc said this was a problem in somethin' called the parotid gland, with there being one on each side of the face. He said somethin' about them being "found wrapped around the mandibular ramus," and that they "secrete saliva through Stensen's ducts into the oral cavity, to facilitate mastication and swallowing and to begin the digestion of starches." Wee doggies, it was all I could do to follow the old boy! A lot of 50 cent words there!

Well, it turns out -- and wouldn't you guess? -- things can go wrong with these glands, and they sure did with ma! You might've heard about, or even had, the mumps? That's the most likely cause of parotitis. But they vaccinate for mumps, so there's not so much of that anymore. But other random bacteria, varmints you can't see and don't expect, can also crawl in there, like a dog maybe to die, but they find a decent home and start eatin' away. Then they start breedin', and pretty soon you've got a whole herd of bacteria stampeding under there and no place to go! And next thing, that's a tumor!

Now, you're sayin', we can cut out a tumor! Well, yes and no. Because there's somethin' called "the facial nerve parotid lodge," and that's where you'll see a lot of the gang holed up. A lot of the gang. But if you don't get the whole blamed bunch, and leave behind even a few stragglers, maybe watchin' out in the hills, the whole bunch can just come back! And madder than hornets! So these varmints, you gotta catch 'em early!

Well, you know The Parotid Kid's in the fight, that's for sure! But I need a bunch more pardners to lend me a hand. So how about you? If I can get you and you and you and you to help out, and let everyone know about one tough hombre, called parotitis, maybe we can get 'em all corralled and wipe out the whole blamed gang, once and for all!

I Try To Fix A Pro Wrestling Match

I had a bright idea that the Organization should get involved in the professional wrestling game, specifically, to fix the biggest match in this area in some time, coming up tomorrow, Polish champ Stanislaus Zbyszko vs. dried up Jack Taylor.

I told Tony -- Mr. Big -- my idea, and he was dubious we could pull it off. One, he's never heard of pro wrestling being fixed before; it's always on the up and up. Still, I had his blessing, if I could successfully arrange it. He said he'd put 50 Gs on the match with a Zbyszko fall. Because of course Zby's the overwhelming favorite.

We got ahold of Al Reynolds, the promoter. I heard him yawn on the phone, "Surrrre, come over, bring your boys, whatever..." Tony told me to take the only former pro wrestler in the Organization, Big Brute, to help out, who was also skeptical. In short, we made threats, we used the old strong arm technique, both usually effective as an opening gambit ... but not in the field of pro wrestling! Those guys would not bend!

So Tony and Brute were right. And I'm thinking, You mean to tell me pro wrestling's on the up and up? Why aren't there reports of matches in the daily news, sports journals, and almanacs? You're telling me those big garish belts are actually awarded to legitimate winners? I couldn't believe it!

I said I wanted Zbyszko and Jack Taylor to trade falls, then for Zby to take a powder in the 3rd and final fall. Geez, what money there'd be! Stanislaus is a future hall of famer, no one expects him to lose! Taylor's best days are far behind him. Why they even picked that half dead layabout, I'll never know. Not when guys like Earl Caddock and Ed "Strangler" Lewis of headlock fame were available! You tell me!

Anyway, I didn't want to take no for an answer. I pulled out my gun. Brute tried to calm me down. I went up on the ring, shot 40 shells in the mat, and said, "That could've been your head!" They weren't impressed.

I asked the wrestling boss if he had any pictures of his kids. He tossed me his wallet. I took out a big string of pictures, stuck them on a nail on the wall, and shot the shit out of them. These photographic memories of his children, once so recognizable you could pick out each one as a distinctive individual, were like New Year confetti. You couldn't tell which were girls and which boys. All traces of gender were gone, as were all traces of anything, except you could still see the original photos were in color, since the pile of resulting confetti was colorful, as confetti generally is. It didn't matter, he said, the integrity of the sport was too important.

You mean to tell me?.....

I still had one huge ace up my sleeve. Before arriving, some of the guys had abducted some of these guys' mothers. We led them in in chains. They were crying, etc. But everyone remained very calm. The mothers were assisted into the ring, and some of the other boys brought in a full arsenal of machine guns. We were going to get a deal or the mothers would die!

But now it was the mothers' turn to plead, which turned out badly. Instead of pleading for their lives, they pleaded for their sons to keep intact their honesty. "We will gladly die, please allow us to die! Just do not stain your honor or that of professional wrestling for any reason as selfish as keeping us alive. The sport must be Number 1, it must go on! We've lived a good life. We are ready to die." They laid it on thick, as you can tell.

Meaning, we eventually let the mothers go, and gave up. I couldn't believe the sport of pro wrestling was indeed a sport, so entirely above board and incorruptible. I thought it was a sham. But every word is true. It happened just like I said...

In the end, I was philosophical about it: Into every life a little rain must fall. At least I thought that was the end. Al Reynolds and some of his bruisers grabbed us and tossed us around the ring like rag dolls, supplying us a full and vicious pummeling for good measure, their feeling on the subject, not mine.