Serial Killer's Regrets

 

Virus

Part 10 of 30

Full Disclosure: I’ve never been a serial killer, not even a suspect. I’ve never known a serial killer, and I’ve never known anyone (knowingly) who’s known a serial killer. It's possible just by the phenomena of coincidence that may have unknowingly been in the same place as a serial killer, because I go out in society, to the grocery store, other stores, parades, and other events, and a serial killer, unknown to me, may have been there. Hell, he or she may have stood right next to me, and for all I know may have sized me up as a victim in a particularly desperate spree. I just don’t know, although I definitely hope not. Oh, if only serial killers were a little more open about their intentions and their whereabouts, without actually killing us it'd still be useful for law enforcement. Note: I do live in The Big City, so it could be that every other person I see is a serial killer, but so far they’ve been apparently very secretive.

Even now, I could look up online for the basic character and methods of operation that the typical serial killer has or uses. But that would not fit the purposes of this blog, since that’s information anyone could also look up if they’re interested. If you’re the type of person interested in such things, and maybe a little too interested, I will offer a friendly request to you not to try to get to know me. Let’s just part as friends, and not really even friends, two strangers bound to stay that way. I’m happy on my own with my own interests, and the fact that I’m writing this blog doesn’t mean that I have any abiding interest in the subject.

One could, however, well imagine some of the personal distinctions of a serial killer. Whose personalities would no doubt have quite the range, everything from the newbie serial killer, who meant merely to be a one-off killer but it got the best of him and he went too far, to the more hardened hombre, who watches scary movies while laughing, then goes on his rounds much like a plague but with a human purpose and drive. Scary stuff.

The virus is a kind of serial killer, but naturally, insofar as we know, without a purposeful drive to kill. It’s a combination of factors of that which kills coming into contact with that which can be killed. Bacteria, chemical combinations, body parts susceptible to molecular conflicts, a quick-acting or slow-acting agent that attacks without discernible purpose but appears to have but one goal, the complete break down of tissues, sinews, vessels, bells and whistles, and the other body parts that doctors know about but the rest of us are clueless concerning. It’s disgusting at one level -- body parts on the fritz -- naturally, but it’s technically nothing other than the breakdown common to beings with finite life, where eventually one thing or another gets you.

The big difference between our misunderstood friend, the human serial killer, who may have at least fleeting regrets such as “Why? Why? Why?” and nature, is nature has no qualms about doing its thing, regardless of how we feel about it. And probably usually the human serial killer -- being a nasty sort -- is more like nature in that regard.

The Saving Tibetan Tableau

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 28 of 30

Nothing says "Destiny" like the time humanity's destiny was so far askew that they said there was a rip in the fabric of existence. I remember hearing about it and thinking, "Whoa!" My entire family was taken aback and changed. Mom refused to cook and Dad refused to eat. We kids didn't know what to think. The neighbors came over to cannibalize us and we turned the tables and cannibalized them. It was a wild time. Despite our good upbringing, we ran roughshod over the town, pillaging and burning, Destiny askew as our excuse.

Later I came to understand and regret what had happened. Leading scientists said there indeed was a rip in the fabric, and left it at that, not sure what to do. But one thing became crystal clear to me, that cannibalism should be strictly curtailed, and that we wanted neighbors with good taste, not neighbors that taste good, which they didn't.

It’s times like these -- thankfully few and far between -- that you're most grateful for people who know what they’re doing. And there were some deeply wise souls. They went into a kind of soothing anthem that made us drift off and sleep for 10 years. We woke up as adults with a whole new perspective on things. All this was done with a  purpose, forces acting to keep existence on the right track. A kind of murmuring call went out from the heart of nature and we congregated in twos and threes all over the globe. It was thought up by Tibetan monks, who are quite modest, but, believe me, when we’re together they don’t want anyone to forget it was them that conjured up the saving hocus pocus.

They descended on our little town thanks in part to my family. One of my grandpas, going back a mere 50 generations, was himself 1/20th the illegitimate son of a Tibetan monk, the original offender having been translated into heaven before we caught his name. Grandpa’s powers mostly involved fishing, which was completely supernatural, but when the chips were really down, and mankind was cornered against a barrier no man could cross, Grandpa went out to the outhouse and blew off enough steam that the various portals of time were mystically adjusted, etc. Sounds impressive but it stunk.

That’s the old generation, and now we’re up to the new. And with Destiny going askew, that brought forth the monks and those with monk-blood chanting and quizzing one another days on end. This work ongoing, a kind of rough sludge gathered at their feet. The chanting continued, the sludge was everywhere. I had a pair of Hush Puppies ruined by it.

A week later, then, they realized all the pipes were backed up. The head master said it didn’t smell right, and he called them to buckle down on the chanting, faster, louder, in various languages known and unknown -- looking for every force in the universe that was good. Thankfully it all fell into place, rays of light from above blessed a particular artist, who came up with this mathematically perfect artwork. Unleashing it on the sludge, the sludge found its limits and retreated. Rays of light sped around the world in a cleansing work.

Of course then, the artwork being widely promoted, it was released on T-shirts, that, even though a capitalistic thing that seemed cynical at the time, was precisely what the monks hoped for. Because a  mystical haze descended on us from the symbol widely distributed. The sludge went away and now it’s so far gone I can’t even remember what it looked like, just mushy. Destiny was fully restored, back on track, and everything since has continued apace as desired. Even wars that were interrupted by the sludge resumed -- as they should have -- since life is more than cotton candy and party favors.

As for myself, I completely lack all temptation toward cannibalism and cheating on homework.

Dizzy The Park Ranger

Part 19 of 31

They Found Another Body

O the sad innocence of this poor idiot! Born without a single enemy. Everyone’s his bosom buddy, his best friend. Or so he thinks. Well, I’m not his friend,and I’m as nice a guy as you’ll ever find. But, c’mon man, sticking your arm down an alligator’s throat and expecting it to be your friend?

Sure, I know some people are like that, so merciful they can’t leave well enough alone. When all the time, our purpose is not to live forever, but to live through Life’s Day, then pass on to our reward — for some the fires of Hell, for others like me the Gravy Train of Glory on High. Oh yes, I haven’t been perfect, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve got the inside track: “I’m lookin’ over Jordan and what do I see, comin’ for to carry me home?” It ain’t an alligator comin’ for to eat me down, that much I can say, and that's absolutely doctrinally true. Although — even if it was — alligator or no alligator, the Gravy Train of Glory on High’s already punched my ticket.

So Dizzy here, the idiot friend of alligators everywhere, had his way, which was going forth to Do Good. When he got there that first day, obviously he didn’t know he was going to come across an alligator that had somehow gotten the (rusty) head of an ax, with some of the handle broke off too, wedged in its throat. Which is sad, very sad. I hate the thought of any child of nature — beyond flies, fruit flies, roaches, etc. — suffering a premature death. And certainly at the hand of man, which is what a broken ax represents. Yes, your first instinct would be to Do Good and help when reasonable.

With Dizzy, though, he put his own life on the line to save an alligator. Maybe a fair trade in Dizzy’s case, but not for most of us. Personally, I would’ve called a ranger, who could go and take care of the problem in a professional capacity. But the fact is, even though the ranger would’ve gone out, he would’ve also shot the alligator to put it out of its misery. He wouldn’t have risked his own arm. That’s the way it should be, either that or let the alligator die of natural causes. You’re not helping a bit by disrupting the cycle, although our first thought is how to make it more merciful.

All that isn't the dumbest part. That's another couple months or maybe three months, whatever it was, when Dizzy rushes out to the lake thinking he will have a grand homecoming, just him and the alligator. They’ll get together and frolic in the water, splashing, play-fighting, and will finally end up on a desert island cuddling until midnight, at which time the alligator makes its way back to the swamp, after having conveyed Dizzy across the swamp on its back.

Well, of course the alligator, assuming it was the same one, didn’t recognize Dizzy from Dopey, and … what can you say? … the other rangers had a couple hours paid leave for his funeral, and each got free counseling.

Grubs, Worms, Ants, Ants, Ants

Chapter 23 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Morona

Ambusha left the expedition at the end of the last chapter. The explorers were down to four. And they went on, paddling and poling their way on rivers for about 90 days. The first 60 were on the Morona, which overflows its banks intermittently over the first six months of the year. Its depth varies depending on the local rainfall.

There's lots of semi-stagnant arms of the river that drain the marshes all around. It is something like a great swampy maze. It makes for difficult traveling by canoe. But there were no natives around to guard against, the biggest enemy being ants. You can't sit down in the woods or even stand in one place for long without being overrun by ants, from almost invisible red dwarfs to giant Alligator Ants, the biggest ant in the world (1¼ inch). You wake up at night with your camp is alive with them. The book has nearly three pages devoted to ants.

Then there's grubs, worms, caterpillars, toads, frogs, lizards, and even rats out there doing their thing. Seriously, there's enough nastiness to make you promise yourself and your loved ones that you'll never go there. And if you do, you declare that you're willingly taking your life in your own hands and hold everyone else harmless as far as blame. But if you come back, we expect souvenirs.  And we're not talking shrunken heads.

After 60 days paddling they had gone around 300 miles. Now jaguars were numerous, and in the river splashing about after fish. The team passed into the Cusalina, en route for Macas. A few weeks on the Cualina, they came to a portage trail that led to the Santiago. They went through an unexplored zone. The sole representative of civilization they found was an old Ecuadorian half-breed and his family. He lived in perfect contentment. They bargained with him to help them transport their things across country about 15-20 miles in exchange for their big canoe. 

In the area they also came to a place that had a small population, a priest -- the rest being away on errands of mercy and church business -- and a few renegade Jivaros. The priest was lord and master of the area and wasn't pleased to see the explorers. But he cheered up when they told him they weren't staying. Nope, he's on his own. Doing whatever. And that's just the way he likes it!

I'm letting the rest of the chapter go, except at the end it was April 1900 and they met a guy named Don Juan Ramirez. He changed their plans.

The Night Before War

Chapter 20 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

War

A native leader, Tuhuimpui, confronted the explorers, "We have heard that you have come searching for gold... You will be killed, so we have come to help you back to safety." Up de Graff responded that they could take care of themselves. The leader replied, "We will help you ... Let us join forces..." Up de Graff believed Tuhuimpui's object was the same as the others, getting his mitts on the canoe full of presents. But they still made a bargain.

Tuhuimpui's escort gave the explorers some 200 men from tribes joined in a common mission. The first day everything went great. They had plenty of choices for meals because of the natives' hunting skills. Then day after day they pushed upstream. Nightly the explorers watched the natives with the same suspicion that they were trying to get possession of their things. But they tried to stay diplomatic. I'm imagining they'd be like, "Can I watch your canoe full of presents?" And we'd be like, "No, thanks, I'm good."

As far as exploring went, they made some interesting experiments with electric eels. The eels are so charged with electricity that you can't possibly keep hold of a metal instrument if you make contact with one. When Up de Graff tried to cut the head off an eel the machete flew out of his hands and his arm was temporarily paralyzed. Electric eels, though, make delicious eating, no cleaning necessary. Slice one like you slice bread and they fry up pure white and firm. How would you like to eel up a feel? I mean, feel up an eel?

Tuhuimpui and his men had now been with the explorers two weeks. Around then they started gearing up for war against the Huambizas. Tuhuimpui's tone was grave. "Now indeed we shall return with many heads." That evening a few from Tuhuimpu's Jivaro force went to spy out the land. Later Tuhuimpui came to the explorer's shelter with a gourd full of dark paint, or stain or dye from huito, a kind of walnut. War paint. The explorers also joined in, right down to darkening Jack Rouse's bald spot! And the scouting party returned. I'm eager for this, put our heads together and come out ahead.

The Indians began preparing themselves for the war-dance. Then came thunder and rain. In a half hour it passed. In the morning they had breakfast, then the time came for the attack, Oct. 27, 1899. The group split into two parties, with the explorers bringing up the rear. The Huambizas were right there ... somewhere. With a great yell, our attackers leapt from their cover and rushed into the scene of the slaughter. But it turned out to be not what they expected. They didn't fire a shot in either attacking or defense. The scene of action revealed only a handful of men and women natives apparently milling around.

Anyway, that was a real downer, but I guess the chapter had to be what actually happened and not the Battle of the Ages, the Battle for the Head of Every Huambiza SOB. Anyway, "Give Peace a Chance," I guess.

P.S. One other nugget of information: The explorer named Game lost his shoes in the mud and only one was ever recovered.

Idiot Disses Tiger's Orange Coat

Part 7 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

Everyone's a critic these days. Take this guy, Richard. Before he died, he was pretty vocal with the attitude, "I make good money and have a good life, a life I'm proud of. I worked damned hard to carry a decent walking stick, these gloves are the envy of the world, and this nice coat, it's the nicest richest coat anyone's ever seen!" Then he's in the zoo and sees a tiger and thinks, "Nature, it's been done to death. Sure, you're a tiger, you have a majestic orange coat, big deal!"

These days we're very appreciative of animals. I've frankly always been in awe of the bigger animals, tigers, lions, etc. But of course I can see the point of a guy like this who's worked hard. His coat wasn't just default on his back but acquired through a good work ethic and following through to achieve various goals, to have a nice coat and gloves. Still, it's distasteful to be so vocal about it; I mean, why brag? Most of us work hard and have clothes to wear. Tigers have their own system, we have ours, there's no competition, no reason to be jealous or proud. And, frankly, no reason to even give it a second thought.
 
I hate to say how Richard died. Except it's pretty obvious. If anyone reading this is blown away at the fact that the tiger lashed out and killed him, don't be. That's nature's way. You get too close to the cage and you've got your fat lip full of nasty sass, nature has a way of leveling the playing field. Fangs, claws, muscles like steel, the ability to transfix its prey with eyes staring into one's depths, purring, then lashing out. Richard saw the bars and took false security from that barrier. Big mistake.

Maybe this isn't the time to compare coats and see whether Richard had a point. I honestly don't see a coat like his being that great. It looks way too thick. Yes, it'd feel good if it were 30 below, but that doesn't happen very often. In average temperatures, you'd roast in that coat. It's thicker than anything I'd like to wear. I can see myself immediately shedding it and maybe even giving it to Goodwill. Or throwing it away if I didn't want to drag it around. Summing up the point, I wouldn't be caught dead in a coat like that, unlike Richard.

His attitude puts me on the tiger's side. It doesn't matter if Richard wasn't "big" on orange coats. The tiger has the coat by nature. He can't help it. It's not a fashion statement, it's his body and natural color. Orange doesn't come and go in or out of style. It's like if we were all born with red hair. It wouldn't be extraordinary or noteworthy, that's just the way it'd be. That the tiger has an orange coat, what do you expect? (Although there are some with white coats.)

Richard didn't know we were watching him so closely. He stood there bold as bandits, a very assured pose, posh blue gloves, a walking stick like a javelin, and a derby hat custom-fitted to his assuredly noble head. The casualness of his demeanor betrayed not one whit of his nasty personality, which erupted putrid as anything can be, his filthy words showing a complete disregard for nature. To be succinct, I'm not personally ruing the judgment of fate against him.

No Mercy For Vermin

What ever happened to me? How did I develop this pathological sense of mercy for everything? I’m trying to trace it back. If it’s compassion, when did this travesty called compassion take its evil root?

I should’ve learned the sayings that life offers for wisdom, and heeded them. “Give her an inch, she’ll take a mile” is a good one. Pretty soon it’s a little more, then a little more, then a little more, till there's nothing left. Which applies to me, too; if I get anything at all, of course I want more. And next thing I know I’m bloated and floating away.

For some reason I’m thinking of Willy Wonka, which I don’t know very well. But there’s a kid in that that bloats up similarly to the way I would’ve, except I don’t think he floats away. I know Moe bloats up and floats away, Three Stooges. He falls into some rubber mix, which quickly adheres and dries, then the others pump this suit of rubber slime full of air, and off he goes. You have to be lighter than air, or lighter than the amount of air they’ve pumped into your rubber suit. Good lesson to remember.

Back to vermin. I really am sympathetic — more than I need to be, anyway — to all creatures. But it doesn’t happen the same way every time for every creature. Compassion, it kicks in. Then I kill a fly instantly; they’re bugging me. I whack 'em dead. But in that case, my compassion is the quick killing. I’m not dismembering them slowly. Although I did have some fly paper strips, briefly, which ended up catching 10-12 flies. They didn’t appear to suffer, which was a true concern of mine.

Why? Why? O, why? I guess that’s the way bleeding hearts are wired. But now it’s gotten me in a jam; Grandma's house went to pot. Although, the full truth is more complicated. It’s not that I’m just so compassionate I can’t kill vermin en masse. But when it comes to vermin, there’s more to it than “kill or not kill.” There’s how it needs to be done, and not so much for their sake but for your house. You could kill vermin wholesale by burning your house down. Saves money on expensive treatments, return visits, etc. The huge downside, Bye Bye House.

So therein it is, the meat of the goody, problemo numero uno. A potentially complicated route to deal with vermin. You have to go to Vermin School, then they make you an Exterminator Extraordinaire, conferring on you various honors, titles, certifications, and finally a state license. You see a fly at 40 paces, you know its province, ways and mores, how it responds to the many elements of life, from sugar to rat poison. Really, how often have you see flies, for example, land on rat poison, and presumably eat their fill, and fly away, and not harmed in the slightest? Either they know when to say when, or there’s something in their constitution keeping them fit.

And it’s the same with rats. A rat could get tangled up in fly paper — I actually had it on my hand and it took three or four washing to knock it down to only moderately sticky — and not get away. But there’d be nothing lethal about the coating. Just being tangled up would be the worst of it. Then he gets back to the nest and rolls around in your house’s insulation, and keeps going like that for about three hours, and suddenly he's a furry possum.

I had possums coming in the yard and killing the chickens. Greedy little bastards thought they had the right to take food for their own sustenance, right under my nose! The way I handled those verminous (and ugly) possums was with a shotgun, or rifle, can’t remember which.

The honest way I should’ve handled the vermin, that have 99% destroyed Grandma’s house, is to pour money into better and different exterminators. Better, because with education the newer guys replace the old guys set in their ways. And different, because many minds have many possible solutions, not just the old tried and fail methods of Rex down the road with the same old poisons he was using in the ‘40s. These are cyborg vermin, not the happy-go-lucky vermin Rex knew and probably drank with after hours.

That’s probably it. The exterminator (Rex, in this case) saw the symbiotic relationship he had with vermin. They were his living, and if they died, he’d die too. So he knew the old ‘40s methods had long been surpassed by cyborg vermin, etc., etc., with the terrible ending that now Grandma’s house is shit and I’m out. The new guys won’t be calling Rex or his sons. No, they’ve got canisters on their backs, masks, hoods, and big guns like Electrolux vacuums. With the same motives as Rex, making it mysterious enough to keep their business secure. But they have such a larger field of business, because the old-timers screwed us up for decades.

Bottom line: Compassion is passé, kill everything in sight.

The Flies of October

What motivates flies? I don’t know. Probably the same thing that motivates us. You put one wing in front of the other and go about your day. We (flies and us) are not doing impossible things, just the things that come naturally, or through nurture, in our case.

I've had a terrible time with flies in October. Totally different than September. In September they were merely bad, but in October they became intolerable. At the time I was thinking, “WTF’s going on?” Then it dawned on me, it's because winter's coming. The flies were frantic, in a frenzy, making it a zoo here in The Big City, my temporary quarters till they get Grandma’s house refurbished, fixed, and satisfactorily fumigated, if possible.

I should mention I’m a small town boy, only used to small town flies. So my problem in October could've been these being Big City flies. With a rougher background, hence they really know how to carry on. Suffice to say, it's been rough to just keep the flies at normal hazard levels without driving me completely out of my mind. I finally settled on a two-pronged approach to killing them, the fly swatter, mostly, with a minor assist from flypaper strips.

I remember the very worst day. I literally killed 75 flies that day, or more. I even quit picking them up after a while, they were so thick. Proper burials were out. I could do no more than warehouse them, you know, with a resolution to bury them properly in the spring, if I remember to do so. I was complaining to the neighbor guy, “The flies in The Big City are nothing like back home!” Then I started telling him about fumigating my grandparents’ old house. And it looked like I nauseated him when I said I still had the bed my mother was conceived on.

The neighbor now gone, I was back to killing flies. I’ll never forget that day! My arm was sore from all the swatting. They were dropping like ... themselves. Then in the evening I made a special trip to buy fly paper strips. I was very desperate; this was a level of desperation I hadn’t experienced since the time I peed my pants in fourth grade and had to go home and face my dad, also pissed off.

But wouldn’t you know, the frenzy turned out to be because it was the last day for flies! I had no idea. The next day came and there were barely any flies left. But now I had the flypaper strips up, and they’re still up. But one managed only to attract 10 or 12 flies. And the other strip attracted zero! None. This is a fact. At first I was blaming the brand of flypaper, then I realized the flies, with the colder temperatures, had either died or gone into dormancy, just like that. Nature’s pattern: Frenzy precedes dormancy. Like your sex drive when you turn 65. Of which, the less said the better.

OK, I’ve flashed back to these memories of flies because today, suddenly, I saw my first fly in a week. And wondered, “What the hell, I thought you guys were dead or dormant...” So I had to find the fly swatter all over again and get him. It pays to stay dormant, little buddy. Lesson for flies: Hibernate or die!

Trash-Talking The Sun

I got on this kick against the sun a few years ago, after a friend and I were airing our grievances about life. He thought he was big and tough because he personally hated nearly everything, asparagus, broccoli, elephants, and pinochle. At that time I had a few of the ordinary grievances to match him -- decks of cards missing the jokers, squash, reruns, and anyone named Lipfshitz. There's something wrong there.

In terms of who hated stuff the most, it was fairly even. Till I pulled out the wildcard, which was, "Despite our many years of deep, warm friendship -- we've been there for each other through thick and thin, good times and bad, trouble and blessing -- I've come to a conclusion that I feel it's safe to announce -- to confess, if you will -- that I think YOU suck, and probably always have. We became 'friends,' of a sort. But there was always something about you that stuck in my craw. Now I've dislodged it and can tell you without further explanation or equivocation, that, as of this moment (and probably at some level for the whole time I've known you), I hate you." He took back his little stack of DVDs, he dropped off my pup tent, and that's been it. Giving me another reason to despise squash, because it's his favorite food -- his mom still makes her old recipe on his birthday, I've heard.

After I lost his friendship, you could say I spiraled out of control. Like a pinball in a pinball machine -- that's an accurate image -- I bounced from one thing to another, never able to settle on any one thing. With a hatred of life in general so vast, so profound, so definitely spelled out that even the sight-deprived could read it clearly. There were interventions, attempted, all of which I rejected, by then acting in complete spite, but digging my own ditch deeper and deeper yet, till I was so deep and alone all I could glimpse was sunlight itself. Showing nothing, illuminating nothing, except the walls of that trench, or ditch, if you will.

There in the ditch, trench, or pit -- it was sort of like the pictures you see from World War I, men in a ditch, trench, pit, or hole. Doing whatever. Well, guess what. Looking at the sunlight, I came to hate it too. It'd pass overhead quickly, but slowly enough that I could shake my fist and essentially tell it it had low marks in my book. I'd see it in the summer months more, in the winter months not as much. It started my thought processes to make sense of it. What's supposedly 'bigger and badder' than the sun?; we've all heard that. But it couldn't hold its own against winter?

Now I had something bigger to hate, the stinking sun. And I let it know. In no uncertain terms. Don't get on my bad side or you'll live to regret it. Everyday I had another complaint. "You're the almighty sun, but you can't dispel a few clouds on earth?" "You're the sun, but what? You feel like burning us to a crisp? Well, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. And you've got a day of judgment a'coming, and we'll deal with you!"

Just think it over. You could probably add your own jibes against the sun. Did it burn you when you were a kid, when you didn't know any better? I remember one of my cousins getting such a sunburn, it was terrible. Then he told his parents that he'd had his shirt on all day. They couldn't figure out what happened, since he never lied, they thought. But his butt wasn't burnt at all. So they thought the cloth on his shirts must have been at fault. So they made all of his clothes out of underpants and threw away the others. He never burnt again. They hated the sun because of all the trouble it put them through. And my cousin was no fan of underpants, so he also hated the sun.

Anyway, back to me in my trench or gutter, whetting my appetite for insults when I perceived the sun was nearly overhead: "Somehow you also give night and day on Pluto, a totally worthless task since scientists tell us the chances of life on Pluto are less than one in a million!" I gave it a left jab, a right hook, insults literally to beat the band, and I kept right on punching -- usually connecting, sometimes flailing and missing -- until the sun got the message: "You no good, buster," and after that it quit coming around (Good!), and I've found I still have all the light I need with light bulbs, candles, and my phone.

Let's Sleep Till Spring Gets Here

It's a bad news and good news story. The bad news is it's Christmas Eve, with lots of bad winter weather threatening our happiness for the foreseeable future. The good news is I have a plan to deal with it. With safe, wonderful, beautiful sleep being the answer.

Recently I've come into an abundance of time, with official retirement. So obviously I have the inside track. But even if you're not retired, you can do your part to get rid of winter ... quicker. Yes, I'm the first to admit it, we can't get rid of winter just like that. But if each of us does our little part -- none shirking -- we can overcome this bastard winter weather much more speedily.

Of course winter weather is not an enemy to everyone. To those folks, I lift my thumb to my nose and make a rude noise. Including guys who plow the roads, folks who run ski resorts, winter tire dealers, snow removers, etc. It's people like you that make things harder for people like me, who'd just as soon winter didn't even happen. If it were in my power, yes, I would obliterate winter, damning the consequences. If it meant the calendar was screwed up, the atmosphere were half lost to outer space, the ice caps were transformed into a few trays of ice in a museum, I'd do it. Remember a few years back, when I proposed mirrors in space to increase global warming -- strictly for comfort's sake? It didn't go anywhere because I'm just a guy, with no connections to speak of. I have indeed met politicians, some of the strongest men (and a woman or two) in the world, but they were more or less only interested in me as a hand to shake so they could claim to care about the average joe. They exploited me.

Today's idea to get rid of winter -- or drastically curtail its reach -- doesn't have anything to do with mirrors or species-decimation. It's more a scheme of individual initiative, involving something each of us already does, SLEEP. It's an indisputable, provable phenomenon that sleep speeds up time. I've said it since I was a kid. When we were learning about the Lincoln-Douglas debates, and later the Civil War, I not only held forth on the subject of Sleep and Time, but demonstrated it (many teachers had disputed it) by sleeping through everyone else's presentations. "It's disruptive," the teacher told my parents, but Mom and Dad were happy I took the initiative to stand up -- or sit down -- for my beliefs. I put my head on the desk, dosed off, and when I woke up a minute or so later, the class was over. True story. The most regrettable consequence is I'm a complete moron when Jeopardy's on.

That's my plan to get rid of winter. We sleep through it as much as we can. Hey, if you have an argument about it, take it up with the bears. The bears know! They crawl into their cave, plug in an electric blanket, and sleep. The cubs are nestled in their little cribs, each with a nipple and a 20 gallon bottle of milk, and the parents doze off. The only time they wake up, as I understand it, is every other week for a few minutes to change the babies, then back to dreamland. Before they know it -- and the perception bears have of time has never been sufficiently explained -- it's 20 minutes later and winter's over.

As soon as I get done writing this -- and I'm typing so fast, it'll only take another 3 minutes tops -- I'm headed straight to bed. And I don't plan to wake up until next week at this time. Just to check my Super XL Adult Briefs and take care of any hygienic needs there might be, maybe eat some Chex Mix and have some eggnog, and I'll be back to sleep. Oh yeah, and the dog. Probably change her diaper, take her out, refill her bowls, and wish her a Happy Rest-of-Winter till next we meet.

For this project I actually bought one of those super thermal sleeping bags. The kind that has so much innate heat you'd swear it was a living creature. They're awesome. You crawl in and it's like being at the Center of Existence. Nothing but heat and darkness, like in your mother's arms, or better yet, her womb. That's when we were all happiest, after all. These sleeping bags have everything mom had, except an off switch. You crawl in, set your Inner Man to wake at such and such a time, and doze off. I love the sensation of tumbling down and down and down to my own safe secure place. I haven't exactly worked up the ability to realize everything about it, but a few more years -- let's say when I die -- it's going to be blithe consciousness the whole way, baby!

This is much more limited than that, obviously, but still very useful. I'll sleep, I'll wake -- likely to face the unpleasantness of a dirty diaper -- then sleep, with the cycle going on and on, but seeming to be a couple days tops, and weeks and months will have passed. Winter will be wonderfully over! No more snow. It'll be Spring! The greatest time of year. There's only two seasons I like, Spring and Fall. If I successfully obliterate Winter, you know what this means for Summer.

The Dogtown Gutters' Ball

As a pet owner myself, having gotten a new dog this past Christmas, I know all about dogs. They can be secretly vicious when things are normal, and openly vicious if they think you're on to them.

Of course my own style of dealing with a dog is to give it anything it wants, letting it gorge itself with food, for example, on the theory that being full it won't go for my jugular in the middle of the night. Sometimes I ask myself, Why, O, why did I get another dog? My other dog, Underbrush, died in December 2013. I told myself, No more! Then, and this was the rub, there was a female dog in the family taken advantage of by a chihuahua, and next thing you know these little guys gestated out.

My current dog, then, isn't very big, 4.5 pounds of wiriness. Tight fur, unlike Underbrush's. She's not nearly as obedient yet, meaning I have to step up the bribery. What's her name? I was thinking of Pitbull, but it's trite to name an animal the opposite of what it is. I don't want to discuss her name tonight.

What I want to get to, rather, is the viciousness and potential viciousness of dogs. Even though they don't usually attack us. They see their food coming in the bowl and they devour it. Of course, you say, but think about it, That's what they'd do with their prey. Just because they're domesticated doesn't mean they're domesticated in the heart, in the DNA; they're still wild animals under wraps, just waiting for an excuse, a made-up threat, to lash out and exact their pound of flesh. I see people's dogs gently pawing their babies on Facebook, and I think, They could turn on a dime.

If you have more than one dog, that's when they're at their worst, since their ancient history is hunting in packs, attacking, devouring, and fighting among themselves. You might be a meerkat or some other little varmint, and if the dog can get you by the softest part of your throat, they'll be ripping feverishly and making a fine meal of you, devouring the entirety and burying the bones for later.

Think of that next time you're outside with Fifi, and she seems to have love for you. She does, when you're looking. But look more closely at the situation, over to the trees just beyond the property line, how the dogs have had it scoped out forever. That's where the pack is, with the alpha dog getting the inside information from your dog, and other dogs farther from the periphery.

It's logistical stuff. Fifi says, He takes me out this time everyday. His scent is such and such. He doesn't exercise, and even if he did he'd never be able to outrun us. In other words, your dog is a traitor, just waiting for the chance to betray you to the pack and enjoy eating you. Seriously, that could be your last experience, the beloved family dog looking into your eyes with its big red, bloodshot eyes, saliva dripping from its fangs. The others push her into the fray. She's given the honor of devouring your brain with one big slurp. Prove you're one of us...

I have really old experience with dogs, when we used to hunt rabbits. It's a freezing cold day. You can see your breath, and really anything hot. You slice a rabbits underside and the hot guts immediately steam. They're a mess when they hit the ground and the dogs fight each other to slurp them up. And that's exactly what they do, slurp, as big a bunch as they can grab. They're voracious, merciless. And they don't care if it's a rabbit ... or it's you!

After that time, I was taught that's their true nature, and I've seen it in action. Neighbors who've disappeared, leaving behind a dog to rest on their grave and fake sorrow. Actually they wish they could get at the remainder of your corpse, not realizing your body has become "corpse soup" and is far from edible, especially when pumped full of mortician chemicals. I'm just glad I'm being cremated. Dogs hate that.

So beware... Next time your dog's dressed up and heading for the Dogtown Gutters' Ball, just make sure it ain't your guts they're going to eat.

The Banana Peel Collector

I think I've figured out the banana. Like everything else of nature, it wasn't made for us but its own sake. This concept was an eyeopener for me, like with flowers being to make more flowers and tomatoes more tomatoes. We're just interrupting the process, much out of necessity in certain respects, to eat them, for our own natural process.

Anyway, here's the banana: The little nubby we always pinch off is its seed, and the banana part is nourishment for the seed. The stringy bits are like conduits for the proper utilization of its nourishment. The flimsy peel is a dissolving husk.

As I'm standing there contemplating the whole wonder of it I'm thinking how we've trivialized it. Like in the phrase "going bananas" for insanity. Bananas aren't insane. Truly, to go bananas ought to be an expression for having it together.

Way back when, of course, as a youngster growing up as a kid, then through my 20s, 30s, and 40s, I was in one place, real immaturity when it came to the fruit with the yellow hue. It wasn't till my 50s that a mature understanding started kicking in. I remember blowing someone's mind when I told them about flowers. The reason flowers don't last a week is they're in a hurry to make more flowers! And the same thing with bananas, going "bad" in a few days; they're just trying to go to seed. But what do we do, make banana bread out of them...

I wouldn't mind recapturing the days of my innocence when I thought the banana was just a fun piece of food. Which I guess they still are. I still like them but I do feel a little sorry for the seed now when I chuck it. I take all this somewhat seriously.

But I don't take it as seriously as this guy I know. He's something like a hoarder, but he's scientific about it, cataloging, indexing, etc. Speaking of going bananas, I guess he's a candidate for that, literally. Because he went whole hog for bananas, even to the point of saving the peels. You believe this, right? I can see how it would be hard to believe. But some people -- you know, when they're kids -- you give them a chemistry set and one thing leads to another. They might breed a million mice, make stink bombs, or devote their full attention to something like bananas. Seriously.

And he may eventually have the last laugh. Glen, that's his name. Someday the world might thank Glen, because, honestly, I doubt if very many people are doing this. But someday actual scientists, white coats and all, might need to get their hands on his collection, whether to chart what went wrong in the past, or to see what they might do for the future. We've all heard of bringing back dinosaurs; what if we had to bring back the banana?

I remember a few years ago I read something on the WWW about there being some trouble with bananas. It projected a loss of crops, with the correlate drop in availability of bananas like we have now. I think of that when I'm having a banana split at DQ, that someday it might be 50 bucks for one. I haven't kept up on the latest news of whether bananas are still a threatened species, but since nothing ever improves in the world, they probably are.

That's when Glen might really come in handy. Because he has peels going back to the '60s, to the early days of the Velvet Underground. Various kinds of plastic bags, drying apparatus, shelves, cabinets, plugged test tubes of scrapings and juice, etc. And all of it cataloged, marked, the whole bit. If you visit him, his strictest rule is when you're in the garage you don't breathe.

You ever heard of this place in Norway (or somewhere), the seed bank? Where they have the purest collection of seeds of plants, the original stuff, not hybrids? If anyone from there's reading this, and you have an opening, get hold of me. Glen has the world's original bananas, and I believe he'd travel.

Gravity Rocks For Sale

I'm in the rock business! I've been selling them on eBay for a few weeks, as a scientific item, so people can prove the theory of gravity for themselves. And I would count it a privilege to have you as a customer.

I saw it on Neil deGrasse Tyson's program how Aristotle -- back in the day -- thought that a larger rock and a smaller rock would fall to the ground at different speeds. It reminds me of my own crazy theories as a kid, and only recently given up, that trees are responsible for the wind, and that steering faster makes the car go faster. Back then it never occurred to me to sell trees and steering wheels, so people had to take it by faith.

Anyway, back when Aristotle said something, that settled it. So no one tried to prove him wrong for around 1,000 years. Until one guy -- Galileo -- dropped some rocks from the Tower of Pisa and saw that they fell at the same speed. The problem turned out to be something simple: There was no one around to sell them gravity-proving rocks, so they didn't know what to do. Making Galileo, I guess, the guy to discover gravity-proving rocks. I claim him, anyway, as my forebear.

And so, now today, I'm making gravity-proving rocks available to the general public. You've heard of Civil War reenacting? And Nazi reenacting? This is Galileo reenacting, much like we've all done chemistry reenacting with our own little chemistry sets. So look for "Ye Olde Gravity-Proving Rock Shoppe," and, thanks to the postman willing to do the backbreaking work of carrying them, you will have these very valuable rocks soon in the convenience of your own home!

The basic package is this: One larger rock and one smaller. These are good sized rocks, with the heft you know they need to fall reliably. Then as a bonus, I include a smaller rock and two rocks smaller yet. Lest you think two rocks competing with one rock might make a difference. Which stands to reason, by the principle of ganging up. You might be surprised!

Of course any enterprise like this, with all of science at stake, has to have good equipment. That's why I personally handpick my rocks, with great care. Once handpicked, I eyeball them to make sure that, to all appearances, one is larger than the other. Once chosen, I clunk them. And if they're not hollow -- none has been so far -- they pass the test, they're good to go. Plus, I can affirm, without equivocation, that each rock is thoroughly gravity-tested, having been subject to gravity for decades and even centuries.

I'm like the guys who sell telescopes and test tubes, all good for up and coming scientists. Both they and I are not in it just for the money, but for the thrill of discovery. I personally think about little kids out there, any one of which might be the next Aristotle, and I want them to be dispelled of their errors early on. Why waste a thousand years? Maybe they'll need Dad to help them get their rocks to the top of the water tower -- one's heavier than the other -- but once propelled toward the ground, Junior Aristotle will be able to gauge quickly, both landed safely.

Proving Someone Is a Duck

I'm always thinking things are not what they seem. Such as the feeling I sometimes have that we're actually ducks. Some of us.

You can always say "Quack quack" and see how they respond. You might be surprised. If they respond accurately to your quacks, then it definitely looks like, at some level, they're at least showing duck consciousness.

I was testing my theory with a friend of mine, whom I will call Subject A. I said, "Quack quack quack," with various inflections in the words, and he responded like this: fingering me and sticking out his tongue. Exactly as I believe a duck would do hearing those same words and intonation.

It doesn't take many experiments like this to get the sense that you're on to something. Subject A didn't think I was serious, and that it was all a joke. But I counseled patience, that we were on the verge of something big. "Surely a few more experiments wouldn't overly quacks your patience."

Then as Subject A relaxed, I said, "Quack quack qu--quack." He looked at me, then reached for a tissue and wiped his bill. My theory is the quick hesitation (nasal stutter) in the "qu--quack" told my young duck friend he was about to sneeze if he didn't wipe. I pronounced it a success, the result being exactly what I've seen in other ducks.

As we continued, I noted another finding consistent with mainstream findings on ducks, that they simply won't sit still very long. Subject A was fidgety, wanting to move, wanting to get away from me, maybe even fly south. I gave a stern "Quack!," in no uncertain terms, and pointed with my finger for him to stay seated. And he did, letting me know that ducks understand the imperative tense.

I thought this would be a good time for the "Rapid Fire" round, which normally spooks ducks, coming as it so often does on the first day of hunting season:

--"OK, let's get down to quack." "Business," he said.
--"Six of quack, half-dozen of quack." "Six of one, half-dozen of another."
--"Fourquacks and quack years quack." Strangely he didn't consciously know this, but waddled to the closet and adorned his little head with a tiny stovepipe hat anyway.
--"A quack in the hand equals two quacks in the bush." "One duck masturbating is similar to two ducks mating," he said. That was a true Quack! moment for me. "Eureka!" I ejaculated.

Later, making things more official and controlled, I affixed sensors to his scalp. Then came right out and asked him, "Are you a duck?" "No," he insisted. This was consistent with my prior finding that most ducks live in denial. The sensors agreed with me, singeing the feathers on his head and changing his answer to "Yes."

The Wonderful Vistas of Life

It's a real pleasure for me to sit and type this. It's been a busy day, getting cool by lying on the basement drain, the lowest, coolest part of the house. It's my go-to place when everything's closing in, various family crises that we all face, like the morning paper was late, or, worse, a favorite show's been preempted.

We all need somewhere to clear our head -- I'm convinced of it. Some people like the rich variety of vistas out in nature, which is good, I suppose. But there's a few downsides to everything like that. Most of the great vistas are pretty far away, and you have to drive there, with all the troubles of traffic that are everywhere. I went to the grocery store one day and was cut off three times. Which wasn't the worst of it, since I had several near collisions with other people's carts.

I'm not saying the basement drain is without nuisances. It's wet, dank, and kind of ugly. When they came up with basement drains, it's starting to look like beauty wasn't a priority. They're instantly rusted. Somehow dryer lint shows up. And different sorts of unknown floor scum accumulates. If you watch dust bunnies under your bed, these are the basement equivalent of that. Which is fascinating, since entire moons, planets, and planet systems formed basically the same way.

But to each his own. Which is not to say I don't like the great vistas of life. I do. I'm just not easily enthralled by anything. Like standing at the edge of a cliff. That's a vista. You can look way out there, the horizon's so far away, but crystal clear. You think of what's going on at the horizon. Then you realize, it's just a place that looks like here. And if I were there, I'd be looking up here at this cliff and wondering about it. All kinds of things, then, can happen at a cliff. The most obvious is someone running up behind you and pushing you off. Or someone running past and diving off. You climb down, and he's dead.

Going to a beautiful lake, you're not immune to troubles. Loch Ness comes to mind. And rivers are full of disasters, which I know by watching the "River Monsters" show on Animal Planet. Of all the Animal Planet shows, I think "River Monsters" is the best one. I used to like to fish. But the best thing about it is now I'm appropriately wary of rivers. And  how about forests? Talk about a vista. I love to see forests from a distance. But then you get up close. There's bears, signs warning of leaving the trail and telling what to do if you find body parts, moose charging at you, and on and on. And vampire bats.

Meanwhile, right there at home, you've got the main line to coolness, the old shower drain in the basement. And all the privacy in the world. You can sit there in a silk kimono, which tends to cling in the dampness. Or you can just sit (or lie) au naturel ... as long as you can stand it, with your skin pressed against the coolness and hardness of that antique cement. (Some houses are more modern than mine.)

In my case, the old shower doesn't do a thing. It's rusty, too. Even if you could get it working, it'd probably run rust for the first three or four years. The bugs, the spiders, it might be too much, but it's nature. Ah, the spiders! They actually don't hurt anyone who doesn't mess with them. I can see their webs in the corner, and they seem to be minding their own business. It's all part of nature's balance.

Then I look over at the furnace -- this is a fantastic vista -- I can see the pilot light of the furnace, if I position myself ... just so. How peaceful, like a candle in the temple, a flickering, eternal flame. Good time for a little prayer. "Lord, please don't let that furnace blow up."

If you want the wonderful vistas of life, it looks like it's just as Dorothy discovered: There's no place like home, and the very best vista of all, right there nearby, in the coolness and privacy of your very own drain.

The Many Breeds of Dogs

Dogs have an interesting story. Mostly they're a product of nature, of course, but man had a major role in what they became. There's a good documentary on Netflix that goes into the breeds developed by man, starting with the basic genetic possibilities of nature and our tinkering or honing to get particular results. It's more than I personally could ever do, for sure, meaning I have to tip my hat to the braniacs and mad scientists of our species.

But this blog isn't a matter of scholarship, knowledgeable science and intelligence. I could put up a pretty good front for three or four paragraphs, then it'd all devolve into mindless hash. And to be exposed as an obvious fraud isn't my plan for the day. Simply put, sure, these folks are smarter than me, but so what? I've had dogs, I know my way around.

So I can still look out with my own two eyes and see things and describe the breeds of dogs according to my experience.

The one breed I know best is the backyard breed. You look out and are shocked to see the neighbor dog out there with yours. Did I fail to block all the holes in the fence? How did he squirm his way under it this time? That's your backyard breed.

My dog Underbrush, I heard, was a backyard breed. But I'm picturing her dad as something like a dog hobo or adventurer. Passing through town on a train, checking out the air. Then, for maybe a few hours, wherever he laid his collar was his home. His favors performed, he got dressed again -- the collar -- and caught the next slow-moving train out. Which the townspeople went out to flag, so it'd be slow enough to pick him up.

Underbrush's dad also could've been one of the other breeds, one of the local street corner breeds. There's two different ones, the urban and the small town street corner breeds. As for the urban one, these are local dogs that never see the countryside or a train; there's too many fences and barriers to get to the trains. Like freeways in the way. These dogs are just roaming. They might live in a park, or be someone's dog from an apartment that got away. Then, there they are! On the street or in an alley.

The same thing happens with street corner breeds in small towns. But here you usually know who's got a dog and what they're up to. There's two factors why small towns have fewer street corner dogs: 1) Everything is less in number by the nature of the things, city vs. country; 2) Dogs can't get away quite as easily and live on the street. There's lots of places to run in the city. But in the town, it's so small, the local town cop rounds them up easily and gets them home.

There's a related breed of dog that I won't delve into with a long explanation: That's the Behind the Grandstand at the Races dog. You're like, "Good Lord, I paid $80 to see THIS going on behind me?!"

One of the more honorable breeds of dogs is between neighbors. This is like the arranged marriages between families in the old days. Like the alliances between kings of countries in the 1600s. They want to have peace, or they want to have a decent match for their dogs, usually registered breeds. In fact, that's what it more or less always is.

So we have Lady Fifi of Daisy Mountain and Lord Daleford of Lazy Acres. There's various reasons for these breeds, like her outlook as a happier dog, having fulfilled nature's thing. And Daleford's fulfillment, who, although he's been extremely pampered, at some level hasn't forgotten. They might never see each other again, like Romeo and Juliet, but at least they had that momentary joy and issue. The other big reason is the folks simply want to have more dogs, perhaps with some of them to share with relatives.

The real bad guy of dog breeds is the puppy-mill. Even the word "mill" makes me cringe. This is sad, and I can barely stand to describe what I'm imagining. Suffice to say, it's a downer. This makes the grandstand at the races dog more of a pleasure than a nuisance.

Another breed happens at the loving registered dog place. Where every dog is registered, and every dog is wanted, and every dog will someday go on to win a blue ribbon at Eukanuba. These dogs get their own barn, a dozen pillows to lay their head, squeeze toys till they're squeezed out, and dog treats in just the right amount. Their food is the scientific diet, and their hairbrushes are cleaned hourly, as no tangles are allowed. These are the dogs that have it better than me, and I have it pretty well.

I just took Underbrush out for her morning duty. Looking at her, I had to marvel. "You've been through so much, you and your forebears, to get here and be my dog. Wow! And here you are, even in your old age (nearly 14) and frail health, going through the daily grind, and remaining happy. Wherever you came from, and whichever train your dad climbed off of, you're a cool dog."

Why Aren't There More Natural Disasters?

We have a few tornadoes, hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis, forest fires, and volcanoes and we think we have it so bad. Or an occasional asteroid comes within 2 million miles of us and we're concerned. How about crying me a river; that'd be a disaster!

I think we have it pretty good. It could be much worse. I watch some of the science shows and they say we're in the "Goldilocks" area of space -- where it's "just right" -- although I saw something by a guy the other day that disputed that. He had stubbed his toe getting out of the bathtub, probably.

The fact is, so far, the Earth's had it cream puff easy. Somehow, even when an asteroid did hit the planet, it made it better, clearing out the dinosaurs so we could evolve in relative peace. As much as I like watching dinosaurs on TV, the idea of one crunching my body the first thing in the morning is unappealing. Look at my scrawny little physique ... How desperate could a dinosaur be?

All we have to do is compare the Earth to other planets to see we have it good. There are storms on Jupiter that last thousands of years. Imagine that. The nightly news, "The storm continues yet another day." There's planets that have no atmosphere but pure methane. We catch one whiff of methane on Earth and we think we have it bad. There's planets where the oceans are 5,000 miles deep. I can't picture that. If the Titanic sank, that's the last we'd see of it. Saturn pulls on its moons so forcefully, they're literally reshaped everyday. Is your yard in a different place everyday?

As far as I'm concerned, all this is good and proper, especially since we can't do anything about it anyway. But were we there, it'd be bad. We can literally thank our lucky stars that Oklahoma only gets wiped out by tornadoes three or four times a year. Because comparatively, that's nothing. The only thing we want to avoid is messing up the balance and making things worse. We can do something about that.

Then there's hurricanes. They come around at a particular time of year, when the air and water temp are just so, along with the spinning of the Earth, and, according to the crazies, whatever God's mad about. It's funny that God's supposed anger happens at a particular season of the year that can be explained by natural forces. But there's no disputing them. According to Pat Robertson and others, God might be mad about a gay pride parade in Louisiana, therefore this perfectly natural force partially destroys a city.

But assuming that's so, what about all the planets -- out of hundreds of billions, there have to be a few -- where it's hurricanes all day everyday? And no one lives there, except maybe one lone weatherman crying in the tumult. The truth is: Since there's only 26 hurricanes possible on Earth a year, so we don't run out of alphabet to name them, God can't be that mad. The whole theory is crap.

The same thing goes for plagues, diseases, infections, and sitcoms. At times, we're besieged by them, but in the whole context of things, it's nothing. We enjoy a certain balance of what seems good and what seems bad. I personally hate mosquitoes, but in the whole scheme of things, they're food for something else. So who am I to complain? I'm outside five minutes a day, try to bite me ... If you must.

Do Bugs Deserve to Live?

The first answer is, yes, they deserve to live, just so they're not doing it in my home. Which seems to be their first choice, even though they have the whole vast outdoors. But you can see it from their point of view, the vast outdoors has too many bugs.

I actually like bugs, I like nature, thinking of nature out there. To hear them at night is a joy. The only ones outside I hate are mosquitoes and chiggers and anything that immediately attacks me. Live and let live -- I say to the bugs -- and we'll get along swell.

Lately, I've been overrun with little fruit flies, since I've been eating more fruit. I don't know if they come in with the fruit -- my first guess -- or they're flying by and smell it. It's a definite downside to eating healthy, since I haven't seen any red meat flies, Cheetos flies, or candy flies. There no doubt are meat flies, but probably around the Amazon, where other weird things are.

The little fruit flies aren't hard to catch, squish, or otherwise annihilate, but so far it's just been one at a time when they're bugging me. I haven't gone after them systematically. There probably is a fruit-flavored poison for them, but I haven't looked into it.

As to whether bugs in your home deserve to live, I will apply three rules before jumping to my ultimate answer of "No, no, hell no!"

First, the Wild Boar rule. The Wild Boar rule is the rule of the ridiculous extreme, but it covers lesser pests. I would not be able to live in a house with a raging wild boar. I would do whatever it took to get it out, be it gun, arrow, poison, or dynamite. That'd actually be a good reality show -- like they do with gators -- guys coming around to clear your house of wild boars. Or even insect guys coming around to relocate insects back to their own wild habitat.

So, do bugs deserve to live in your home? Going by the Wild Boar rule, clearly not. It'd be nice if they left of their own freewill, but since they don't know anything of the nuisance they are, they probably won't. Another implication of the Wild Boar rule is that if the bugs were in your home in sufficient quantity, enough to make huge clouds, they'd probably kill you. So whether it's one or a million, it's all the same thing.

The second rule to consider is the Barney Fife rule, which is, whatever the problem, Nip it in the bud. It's true. If we nipped more stuff in the bud -- everything from weeds all the way up to mass murderers -- what a wonderful world it would be. We'd have fewer problems. Maybe we should develop a whole army of people -- the Nippers -- to do this. Or robots. What could go wrong? I can think of lots. This idea needs to be nipped in the bud. See how easy that was? Bugs in your house is the bud that needs to be nipped. They're not endangered species, they don't deserve to live in your home.

And if anyone quibbles about killing, I'm applying an even more awesome rule, the third rule, the Bhagavad Gita rule. Gita for the Mosquita! Have you read it? It's actually a wonderful writing, despite the weird-looking title. The hero, Arjuna, doesn't want to kill the opposing army. But God, in Krishna form, tells him he must. The answer is that the true self (the inner bug) is indestructible, enduring, unborn, and unchanging. The embodied self (of the bug) discards its little body, just as a man discards worn out clothes, to take on new bodies. Which sounds frightening, but it doesn't necessarily mean Super Bugs, only the next role of the self in evolutionary destiny. (BG, 2:21f).

I'm not even Hindu and I think that's cool! I'm doing these fruit flies a favor! The next Wild Boar you kill in your kitchen might one day be a saint!

To review, we have these three rules, and whether we apply one or all three, bugs do not deserve to live in your home.

The Life of a Chigger

If you look up chiggers on Wikipedia, you find some great scientific information, which I always have a hard time processing the first three or four times through. But the basic thing about chiggers, according to the truth, is that they're only parasitical in the larvae state. The rest of the time they're content to leave you alone and simply eat normal food. So it's that larvae state you want to avoid.

What must it be like to be a larvae state chigger? I really think they have to be more or less unconscious of what's going on. Like us, when we were in the larvae state. I don't personally remember a thing about it. But we're a little different in that our mothers didn't lay us prematurely in the lawn. We had the peace and safety of an inner sanctum.

The nascent chigger, on the other hand, is simply in the grass. It has no plans, no outlook. All it has -- and this is major -- is the beneficence of existence, that takes care of every little thing. Which I'll take comfort in the next time I'm short on money and long on bills. The chigger larvae is simply there and needs a meal, which is going to be your dead skin cells.

It seems obvious to me that they're extremely small and could hardly foresee a person coming by, at least with enough clarity to make a conscious jump from the grass to the ankle. If they make a conscious jump, that's awesome. But more likely they're just swept up in someone passing. Although that brings up the interesting question of what good insect repellant does, since they'd already be along for the ride.

OK, they're on your ankle. No thoughts, no plans of being there, but now they must do what comes next. Which is to feed. Because they want to make it from the larvae state to the point where they can be full grown and a parent on their own. This seems like quite a journey, where a million things could and would go wrong. But there's safety in numbers and in incredibly small size, because enough of them are going to make it through to create a nuisance again next year.

Once on you, it's time to feast on dead skin. They make some sort of little suck hole, feed on you, then at some point fall off, where they develop further, become adults, etc., and the cycle picks up again next time. They're gone, let's say, and you continue to itch. All you can do is scratch, or get some of the itch stuff -- Chigger Rid, etc., -- which may or may not help. I've been getting them on my legs for a few years, and now my wrist. It's a bastard, but that's life. Fortunately, I'm learning all the time how to fight them.

I've traced back some of my problems from three summers ago -- when this problem became so bad for me -- to wearing the same pants forever. I thought it was a cool thing, and I hear there's some young people who do the same thing. I thought, "Why do laundry?" But now, after long, terrible experience, I've learned it's better to go through the pain of frequent laundry than to lie awake at night with unrestrained itching up and down my legs! I recommend you do the same...

The doc said these chiggers -- she probably meant the larvae -- can keep living in your pants. So you're picking them up and putting them on daily. And how many dead skin cells would there have to be in a pair of pants that you've been wearing for three weeks? Enough for chigger Thanksgiving and every other feast. Then you put the pants on and they're on you again. You're helping grow the biggest larvae in the world. Terrible.

So, it's something to think about. Even though I hate chiggers with a purple passion -- and I actually might go out and burn the grass on my half acre, if the wind dies down and the county lifts the no-burn order -- I have to sort of begrudgingly admire their precarious life cycle. It's very dicey what we go through to exist. Chigger larvae have to be like meteors colliding in space all day, everyday. It's a battle.

For me, no doubt many chiggers have ended up drowned in the laundry. Or spun to death on the side of the washer. And that's how it's going to be from now on. Once I learn of something -- in this case the life of chiggers -- I'm not likely to go back to my old ways. The new ways are always best.

Our Feathered Friends Smell Food Miles Away

I'm clear way far at the store, three miles from home, coming out with a brand new bag of feathered friend food.

My intuition has been spot on lately, thanks to prayer, meditation, and a very deep sense of oneness with nature. My St. Francis garden statue told me some of the secrets of how it's done.

Anyway, enough about me. So there I am, and suddenly it hits me, the ripples in the current from home. I can sense it clear as day, my hungry feathered friends are perking up. Before, they had been down, very down, not singing. The usual morning food wasn't in its place. It was all gone, nothing but chaff.

But now, there in the parking lot, I could sense a revival. Which is a two-way sense, since the feathered friends are on the same exact wavelength. One old wren, very old, very wise -- Wise Grandpa Wren -- shakes his head and says, "Hush, chill'un ... it's happening again..."

"What? What's happening?" the younger ones ask, squealing, thinking Grandpa might be something of a crank. One thing, he's always mysterious, as in this response: "You shall see ... the Days of Plenty will soon be here ... But forgive me, I go to rest." I have to smile as I sense these fantastic goings-on.

The rest of the scuttlebutt around the yard picks up with his word: "Days of Plenty, Days of Plenty..." Young female feathered friends are nodding toward each other and touching beaks. The males are bumping chests. Younger ones are in the feathered friend bath, splashing to beat the band.

I get in the car very happy. Except I have to drive all the way home. But I'm still happy, knowing they know what's coming. Hallelujah, touch your toes! Praise the Lord, for He arose!

Then I come in to wild acclaim, hefting a 40-pound bag of feed. The trees are hushed for a second, as the life-giving food, something from the hand of God, is lovingly poured into the feeder. I step back and smile at the movement in the trees. Then as I close the door, going in the house, I look back and see a wild stampede, our feathered friends literally stampeding through the air, hand over fist to get to it.

No one was hurt. And I just happened to have a slice of apple I didn't want, so I cut it in fours and tossed it out there, too.