Daughter of The Gods

 Paranoia

Part 8 of 30

Hmm, I want to be therapeutic about paranoia. I've had problems with it for centuries and I don’t want the so-called relief to be more of the same, driving me and everyone down into deeper and even more treacherous depths. I'm like anyone, I see a naked lady tied and surrounded by crocodiles or alligators -- aren’t they like one chromosome off? -- and I’m thinking, Pessimistic! She's a goner...

But then I realize, Damn it, you fool, you're giving up on the gods a little too soon! Where's your faith? Where's your patience? Haven’t you learned by now that the gods tend to be on the surprising side? Inscrutable, in the end aroused, certainly not incapable, not quick to yield or cede territory, especially among their own. Is there a pantywaist god among them who'd send his or her only begotten daughter into a world of sickness and sin only to be had, to be a mark, to be defeated? I think to myself, How many questions was that? Then repeat the whole spiel back in my head, counting fingers. Five questions. I quickly answer, “No, no, no, no, hell no...”

Among the gods everything (potentially) has a quick reversal, the rug pulled out from under the enemy’s feet, the establishment of justice, a claiming of glory that was never really lost, and a surprise ending that should be no surprise. They like to get the enemy right where they want him. In the sweet zone for leveling them, flattening them, going nuclear, boom! Of course there’s no real blame for the alligators, so their death is incidental. They’re only doing what’s in their nature, and if their nature says the chick's indeed fit for eatin’ on, that can’t be wrong. But they still must be defeated, because ... this is the daughter of the gods.

Which could be true of any of us. Explaining in terms anyone can understand why it is that bad things simply never come to fruition, but are thwarted just in the nick of time. And certainly any foe that felt it might have it over on the very daughter of the gods, eating her and justifying it lightly, would have to be deluded, or to put a positive spin on it, more optimistic than the situation warrants, given a considered examination of the circumstances. Enough for theodicy, albeit explained in simple terms. The gods wipe the shit off their shoes on the enemy.

How about me -- I'm no crocodile -- could I possibly have the hots for the daughter of the gods? I feel that is too personal a question and a question wrought with potential consequences via-a-vis my continued existence in the world and in the presence of the gods to answer truthfully. So let me answer it by really not answering it, while not quite not answering it: Given the right circumstances, anything is possible if the gods are not offended. If they're happy with a potential son-in-law like me, who first wants to sample the goods, that’s their business. I can only accede to their desires, although I would not be quick to give alligators the same rights. There would definitely not be a joining together of them in my thoughts as a party to any menage a trois, her, me, and them.

I guess what I should really say is, the gods are a psychological help to us, and the daughter of the gods would be a salvific figure, a metaphor, of the communications from that realm to this. As the alligators of sin threaten us -- even raising paranoia in me, and other unfortunate folks -- we desire the sweet and innocent nudity of this precious daughter, bestowing the goodness of heaven to take away our paranoia and allow us to swim free. Just to make everything crystal clear, so there’s nothing left to chance between the gods and us, I want to lose paranoia, not gain piranha.

Big City Nude Parties

The Big City

Part 20 of 28

As the friendly narrator here, I know my place is always to be the voice of conventional morality and decry any slippage from the straight and narrow, basically defined as at least an average life of fair-play, respect for others, and personal and societal reserve. Yes, I can comment on murders but not condone it. I can fawn over newborns but not advocate for them to reject their parents and go rogue. And naturally I can feature hedonists at their parties, groping one another, sucking down the hootch, and getting so “friendly” with each other that they're buck naked, but … what the hell, why can't that be me! But at this point in my life, I'm sure I'd cover my frailty out of embarrassment.

Anyway, how do you even get in with a crowd like that? That’s always the question I have, on the off chance it came to anything. It comes down to this, basically, you need to be born there, or be there a long time, or just insinuate yourself as best as you can. For me, I was already born where I was, with particular people of some fixed morality, so I can’t go back and do much there. As for my lifespan, being so old, I could legitimately live another 20 years, probably, and learn to insinuate myself with some good old fashioned hedonists. But never forget, to insinuate yourself you have to be very bold. I can see you can ease into it by imitation -- looking to a friend with an in -- with the proviso that you might be evicted with the first bold move. Because it's not your natural turf.

Thinking it over a little more, I think I could have two sets of profligate friends. I meet the first set and learn the basics of their lifestyle, but do not insinuate myself. Then I take my findings to the second set, and without waiting to see what they do, merely launch into the behavior, sidling in, nonchalantly making myself at home, etc. First guy with his zipper down! The group might wonder about me but once they've assumed I'm friends with someone, my directness would yield good results. I'm swimming naked in the pool and I'm all hands!

My quick recommendation for others, if you have all the time in the world, look for a natural way of sidling up and becoming accepted. But if you’re old and could die at any minute, just get in there and let the chips fall where they may. Because, well ... there’s lots of reasons. The fullness of life isn’t for the meek. Life’s a banquet, a buffet, and buffets are free-for-alls. Everyone has a lifespan to worry about, but set it aside and make yourself at home. I’ve got two hands, baby, and they’re not doing anything! We’re back in ancient Rome and no one’s going to know! I’ve seen the history books and the authorities barely touch the average guy.

One other observation on the graphic. That’s the Big City “on a slow night”! Picture, then, the average night, or the night that blows the average out of the water, the other extreme. You’ll have stories for the ages, stories you dare not tell. Just don’t catch anything, that’s number one. And if you’re out of good names, name the little hellion after me.

Nudist Colonies Off Limits

Part 3 of 30

Self-Abuse September

Have you heard this weird fact, hard to believe but true, there are actual nudist colonies? I’m not 100% sure where they are, how they got there, or precisely what they do. Wink wink. But whatever it is, they do it in the nude, and that's not nothing! Right in broad daylight! Ready, set, match, they’re always ready... Jumping the bones of their next-door neighbor, their friends, their enemies, humpa humpa, it's gotta be like running through a car-wash all day long! Just crazy horny, no restraint, except for the spent people you no doubt find littered here and there. I imagine some of them so spent they crawl desperately out of town looking for a place to recuperate, but die cold and alone in the ditch. It's definitely a horny situation.

My thoughts on the situation, it’s probably just like the way our country got started. Prior, they lived in a place where the freedom of nudity was forbidden. So they looked around for a land where no one lived, or had close neighbors that would mind strangers encroaching on them without clothes. And since it was hanging out already, they let it all hang out, prancing merrily through their day. Dropping to the ground, wham bam, whatever, or just happily and freely letting it fly day after day, their own moist soggy Garden of Eden with no evil snakes, only friendly neighbors.

But some of this is stuff they don’t want you to know. Here’s how it works. They want to keep it quiet. The way they do that is publish small black and white magazines about their supposed lifestyle, making it seem like the most boring thing on earth. No one’s ever having sex. Instead they’re standing next to a volleyball net limp as a noodle, nothing perky, nothing hot. They’re cooperative, though, and very fair about scoring an honest game. The ball lands in bounds, there’s rarely even the slightest quibble concerning the referee's calls. It’s all docile. They still go to ordinary male/female bathrooms, demurely do their business, then gather for pottery crafts in the pottery craft annex.

Seriously, glance through their literature. They’re surely non-breeding themselves out of existence. How anyone can make hot nudity null and void, you wouldn’t think it possible, but it obviously is. I asked one of the guys how they get off, and it’s just the opposite of what you expect. They look through fashion magazines where everyone’s full dressed and minding their own business -- filing their nails is a hot one -- and that does it. Are they kidding? That’s what we suspect at first. Thinking then when night-time comes, they’re ducking down alleys, going at it, single and alone as well as the basic vanilla couple, boring him and boring her, and I suppose hot and heavy wicked orgies without a volleyball in sight.

I'm likening it to the elements of the graphic above. The serpentine servant is busy spraying on the fires that arise in their midst, the life-giving libido does its eternal thing. But when the public, unwelcome enemies, come calling everything shuts down. The libido apparently dies, the life-giving stream is staunched, and, checking out the graphic one more time, the whole colony has fled to find their clothes and volleyballs.

DBKundalini Ass-kicking Service

Today's a big day for me! It's the one year anniversary of my business, DBKundalini Ass-kicking Service. I have to tell you, I was a little nervous when I started out. I had a number of friends who foresaw nothing but doom and gloom. They thought they were being cute when they said I'd be the one getting his ass kicked. Well, they were wrong. Business is good, I'm keeping busy.

It's frankly amazing the things that have happened in one little year. I have a few guys in town who simply enjoy having their ass kicked, hard. I do the best I can, although, to confess, I have a little arthritis in my kicking foot (I'm rightfooted). But I'm saved because mine's the only ass-kicking place in town. I do all I can to send them out with a smile on their face and a sore bottom in their pants.

I don't mind the arthritis so much when I'm making money, as you can well imagine. But I made a major mistake in this regard trying to gin up business. You know those discount cards civic groups sell? They list a business, then there's a freebie or discount. The pizza place gives a free order of break sticks with purchase of a pizza, the bowling alley gives a free half hour of bowling with the purchase of 5 pitchers of beer, and of course a hair salon offers a eye wax for a measly $5. Notice the common denominator there? They're buying something, unlike mine. In my ignorance I offered three free ass-kickings period. It's tough, since the average person with an ass is content with three kickings.

Still, life is good. To make up for that, I get lots of recommendations from doctors and lawyers. It turns out doctors are more frustrated with their patients than they let on. A guy drinks more than he should, for example, you'd think that'd be good for the doctor; he's going to need more care. But doctors look toward a more distant horizon, keeping the patient on the hook as long as he can. Early mortality (as in drunk driving) means lost money, especially when you consider the true bonanza they're look forward to, an average of 14 surgeries for every guy over 80. So they find "something wrong" with their ass and send them to me for $20 to $25 worth of kickings. I like that.

Lawyers are about as good, as they're usually acting on behalf of an aggrieved spouse. The guy's been cheating, the wife wants a divorce but wants the husband's weekly paycheck. She agrees to keep him, but only if he knows there's an endless stream of severe ass-kickings in his future if he misbehaves. The husband knows he has to submit, because it's cheaper occasionally denying her expenses while married than divorced. That leaves more money for his mistress. I don't care who wins or loses. I just take the money, kick his ass, and let it go.

One of the big surprises in the last year, something I didn't expect in my wildest dreams, has been a contract with the university for their losing sports teams. Basketball is entirely successful, but football is a total bust. Which is bad for the town but great for me! Because written into their scholarship is a nasty little agreement that at "the coach's discretion" they agree to "counseling, verbal or physical, as he shall choose, excluding the death penalty, of course, but including ass-kicking." This is amazing stuff. I have these huge guys who could kick my ass east, west, north, and south, if provoked, and there they are, lined up, getting their ass kicked by a wimp like me. Big bucks, too, university standards ... they pay five times the normal therapeutic rate! I just keep my fingers crossed, that they win enough to make the kickings seem beneficial but still lose enough to keep them necessary.

I've had to turn down a few clients. One thing I will not do is kick the asses of kids. Unless I'm personally and severely provoked, and even then I haven't been able to catch the little shits. Again, my arthritis, and, at the end of an average day my leg's dead tired. Which they know. I came home one day and these kids had picked every pussy willow off one of my pussy willow trees, and had them stacked up on my fish-cleaning table. I went limping toward them, moving my foot in a slow swing, and they dashed out of the yard quicker than snot. Still, like I said, I've turned down clients. Home school parents are often frustrated, and they're always calling me. "Junior's falling behind in his scores." I'm all like, "Then get him a different girlfriend ... I'm not kicking kids' asses!"

One whole year. And now, if my leg holds out, I'm going for two!

Check Out These Sexy Album Covers

I've been finding some pretty sexy album covers in my discovery of new and old music. This album of rare oldies but goodies has a definite goodie awaiting the discriminating music fan. I see a very nice looking old record, a little bigger than life-sized sharing a hot date with a true music lover. The fade-outs on her back and other more southerly regions are not welcome, but still are not entirely bad. It's one of those cases, like with optical illusions, where the eye fills in the blanks, then ... lingers ...

I'm not sure how famous Flow Tribe is, but I'm a lifelong fan, thanks to this sexy cover. Notice how risque it is: They're pregnant with a baby called Funk. How exactly they got pregnant, they being represented by the winged goddess on the cover, is anyone's guess. Perhaps divine hanky panky, but I like to picture it being done in the good old-fashioned way, with some mysterious guy, probably chunky, they met on tour. Up till then, they were strictly lounge music, with an unsatisfied hunger for flair. Then the guy approaches, and before you knew it, little baby Funk was in utero. Check out his umbilical cord, attached to headphones. Cool.

I've always loved this album cover by Del Shannon and the song "Little Town Flirt." This was a hugely sexy song in the early '60s. "You can get hurt, fooling around with that town flirt," thanks to her being involved "with every guy that goes by." Then there's the artwork. And I know I'm dating myself -- even going steady -- but to me this is what cute girls should still look like, the way they looked when I first noticed them. Yes, the old world ways are still the best! My cousins and I used to look at this album cover, then immediately go prowling the campground at the state park. Which was about the time I also discovered how suspicious and wary fathers could be.

Isn't this a great one? You think, "Yeah, I already have most of the one hit wonders on this album," then you take one look and say, "But I guess I could always use a back-up copy." The way she's sitting, I have to tell you, I remember some of the old teachings, and this wasn't what they taught. But still, sometimes music brings out the animal in you. Then with some satisfaction, you're wistful, daydreaming, and casually setting the record down as you contemplate. Some guy comes by and wonders, Why couldn't it have been a 45?

 

Speaking of 45s, what's those big gold blotches? Some kind of starburst thing, that, frankly, we could live without. Come on, I like to read record labels, being an old record collector from way back. But let's say something about the cover: Give me time, I'm thinking, I'm thinking! Wow! She's cute! One hand gloved, one hand not. I'd like to see her twisting the night away in one of those dance cages on Hullabaloo, at the Au-Go-Go!

Sorry, boys, if this last cover's a total downer for you. But in many ways this is the sexiest of all, because it was Hardrock Gunter, unbeknownst to you, who got your grandparents or great-grandparents going, and if it weren't for him, you might not be here! Honest to God truth!

Hardrock Gunter was doing the wild thing back when doing the wild thing could get you in lots of trouble. They had the vice squad, censuring preachers, beak-nosed teachers, and mom and dad at the door. And yet, there was Hardrock, blasting out that hot country swing, and turning a blind eye when the kids drifted off to ... who knows where?

What about birth control? Except for a bottle of Coke, there wasn't any. Ever wonder why Grandma and Grandpa had five or six kids? Notice the title, "I'll give 'em rhythm." Hardrock meant it two different ways, but, alas, only one way was actually reliable, the music! But a lot of kids took it on faith, and so, here you are today, generations later.

Hardrock Gunter and his rhythm stick, sexy as can be! Pull up a chair at the Hardrock cafe!

100 Naked Ladies Jumping the Fence

The doctor gave me something for the troubles with itching I've been having lately. It turned out the problem was a mix of poison ivy and chiggers. A bad combination. So now I'm taking medicine for it, which the doctor said would probably keep me wired and awake nights. Of course her words were repeated in my mind a thousand times as I tried to get to sleep last night. It would've been better if she'd just kept her mouth shut, or said you'll sleep like a baby. Because I know this is 80% mental. If you think it, it happens. I could not get to sleep, whatever I tried.

I thought, I could count sheep, then systematically aroused a mental flock in my mind, jumping as they do, one by one, over a fence in a pleasant pasture. I know from frequent experience with jumping sheep that they're used to it, they don't care, and, anyway, it's usually 10 minutes effort tops, nothing to complain about. And they're free to go back to whatever they were doing.

But the sheep weren't really catching my fancy, and I kept getting up to check one thing or another. Back to bed, then I was up again with an idea I had to jot it down, etc. My inner voice said, "You're not even giving it a chance." To which I snapped, "Yeah, well, you don't know what I'm doing, so shut up and leave me the hell alone!" Talk about wired, cussing out my inner voice! I owe myself an apology.

Then the idea suddenly hit me, Why not call forth a bunch of naked ladies to jump the fence? Just the prospect of lining up 100 girls would be appealing, yeah?  But it turned out to be harder and less satisfying than I had hoped. For one thing, they're not sheep. They had many complaints: "You brought us out here for this?" "Where are we anyway?" "Why are we naked?" And a few covered themselves like they were ashamed.

I looked over at a bus driver, and he shrugged, as if to say, "They've been that way the whole trip." I had to wonder: I only had this idea five minutes ago and someone organized a trip, which would've taken hours? Someone had to find the ladies, get them to consent to a trip, explain to them they would be nude, find the buses, the bus drivers, and others to take care of their comfort needs along the way, etc. The logistics being extraordinary for such a potentially minor outing -- with me likely to go to sleep in 10 minutes -- it had to be UPS! And who's paying them? Who's taking out the taxes, keeping track of the bookwork, and all that? Life is complicated. You can't eat, sleep, or even die without it being big business.

Regardless of all that -- and I never found out the answers -- there they were, 100 of the finest naked women this side of my wildest fantasies as a 14-year-old, which were normally far more exciting than those of a 60-year-old. A lot of these gals were clearly old enough to know better, and actually one had no qualms about ruining it for me. "I ain't jumping over no damned fence, sugga," was what this flashy woman said. I helped her with her purple kimono -- I could tell she'd had a hard scrabble life -- and suggested she sit this one out on the bus.

That left me with 99 who were more or less game for jumping the fence. That is, after we wasted a bunch of time talking it over. "No, seriously, I really want you to jump the fence." I got various responses. Again, some were covering themselves, talking it over with boyfriends, saying they wouldn't, etc., and, "Who are you anyway?" I patiently explained again, "I'm just guy trying to get to sleep." Then I had a question of my own: "What are you doing naked in my thoughts if you don't know me?" "This is no good," one of them said, dismissively. But once the others started, she didn't sit out.

But then it became very clear very fast that the jumping wasn't going to work. Only a few gals managed to jump. We had some dives, some side straddles, and one Fosbury flop. In each case they were banged up pretty badly. These girls weren't at all used to the basics of fence jumping, which UPS might have considered when picking them. After a while, if I wanted to salvage anything, I really had no choice but to simply open the gate and let them walk through.

OK, so they're walking and I'm counting: "1, take a look and let her go. 2, take a look at let her go. 3, take a look..." Then the bus driver came up to me and said, "What are you doing, bro, just counting? I'm not complaining but that's it?" "Yes," I said, "were you expecting something more?" Then I looked across the field and saw such an assortment of beds, bathtubs, hotel attendants, and druggists stocked with all manner of protection, that I could only think, "Such logistics, UPS had to have done this!" But someone had gotten ahead of himself, since counting was all I had in mind.

And yet ... as they passed, 1, 2, 3, etc., it was working its special magic on me -- something of the sparkle of life that you don't get counting sheep. 40, 41, 42. A lot of bowing and blowing of kisses. 50, 51, 52 ... hey, don't forget 55, wow! By now I had really stretched out and was taking it in, stretched on my bed, that is. We got to 60-something and I felt like Hefner, warm in his terrycloth bathrobe. The 70s passed, which was an international group, mostly Eastern European. Lots of odd looking hairdos and tough muscular gals doing boastful leg squats, very unappealing. By the time the 80s passed, I was happy for the change, as these were some of the ladies from home, about my age and relatively uncomfortable in the nude. But they were reasonably well-kept, better than me, frankly.

Then the 90s came, and -- please, may I have a moment? -- we were getting much warmer. I literally fell in love 10 times. But the love I had for the first nine was nothing like the love I had for the last one, Number 99! I love you, 99! UPS kept the best till last, the sweetest, coolest, and most beautiful girl of my dreams!

I should explain. She looked like everything I've ever wanted. You know? Miss July meets Farmer's Daughter meets Mom-as-a-Teenager meets Joan Jett meets Hayley Mills. And a great personality, whoa! And she also writes a blog, the female version of mine, and she's also very obsessive/compulsive! The perfect match! We were locked there in a feverish embrace, rolling around, grabbing one another like the supermarket sweepstakes. I was going for the bigger stuff, almost too much to handle. She also was going for the bigger stuff, which I know by experience can be dynamite.

Suddenly, and unwelcome to one and all, there was a clouding over of the sky and a torrential downpour. The heavens opened with such fury, it couldn't be stopped, a terrific deluge. Everyone ran for cover, myself and my darling 99 included. But as I trudged along, my feet became sore from sinking in the mud, and I felt myself becoming so sleepy that I collapsed. I was only able to look up once more, and saw 99 had also slipped in the mud. But by now I was gone, I couldn't help her.

Nudity On Display At The Library

Regular readers of my blog will remember that I am often attacked unjustly, and so I'm often provoked to respond with righteous indignation to put the hapless attackers in their place. Fury flares up in my face, and in the fire of my wrath I speak, reducing everyone to char and cinders.

I can be even more specific. A lot of this umbrage just happens to be directed at hypocritical librarians, who in my opinion talk a good game about the free access of information, intellectual liberty, etc., but then ruin it all by taking me to task over one thing or another. Be it trying to read the Bible in public, a huge no no -- "You can read the library's chained copy with the other fanatics!" -- or exercising my right to pray with my eyes closed; because they're so farking afraid the "homeless" might be "sleeping," there's a zero tolerance policy on closing your eyes; we've clunked heads over that.

OK, here I am once again on the warpath, as our native friends say, and I'm seriously ready to go to the wall for this, hallelujah, Lord be feared. The fury's in my face again, the fire of wrath is kindled, and surely there shall be a great shaking in the land!

These guys are so farking blind to their hypocrisy, it's like they're completely unthinking. Talk about an easy profession! I should've gone to librarian school. If you can lift a bony accusatory finger and contort your face to a nasty scowl, you pass. Thanks to computers, the rest of the work's done for you. My advice, file that away if you're ever looking for an easy career. Don't throw away that matchbook! It's the easiest gig you'll ever have!

Shhh, I started talking out loud while typing that last paragraph, and now I'm getting a few glances. (Yes, I'm writing this at the library) ... The glances are coming again because right now they're watching me, since we were just at loggerheads ... they see me typing fast, they know I'm writing about them. But they don't know what I'm writing. Although I am using their wireless. So they're probably back there tapping it. It does seem like my keystrokes are a little slower than usual. Farkers are bugging me!? Well, OK, if that's what you want, I'll give you something fun to read: YOU SUCK! THE WHOLE DIPSHIT LOT OF YOU! There, I said it, that ought to raise a few eyebrows at Gestapo Headquarters, LOL. Excuse me while I finger the security cam there. That was fun!

Ha ha, pardon the digression. But I was here yesterday, too, and was watching a guy at one of the computers angrily fingering in the general direction of a camera. True story. A big honking righteous erect finger, too; the farker meant business! I just glanced at him since I didn't want a crazy guy on my tail. He was looking for trouble. The big difference today is, I wasn't looking for trouble. But if they start it, what can I do? I could slink out like a whipped pup, but why should I? I'm a man with high standards. I'm actually probably one of the few people here who even believe in the standards the library CLAIMS to support, i.e., intellectual liberty, with you the individual being the only judge of what you need to fulfill your intellectual pursuits. Now for all I know, the guy at the computer was responding to the "adult" block on the free flow of information the library has imposed. If he wants to learn about breast cancer, to heal his poor old suffering mother, completely wracked with pain and begging for just a hint of understanding, which the library callously denies, that should be HIS business!

I need to keep this quiet. One of their employees, a real iron maiden, is within 10 feet of me, appearing to casually rearrange books on an end stand. Sure, of course, I really believe she just happened to need to do that particular stand at this particular moment! I haven't seen anyone rearrange that stand for 10 years, so it must've been due. The fact is, they're on me, it's ridiculous, this is a vendetta. Intellectual liberty, my ass! They're probably out in the parking lot breaking my car windows as we speak. Of course if they do ... well, I won't say what I might do, but if I really saved my pennies I could probably afford a moderately cheap contract on them. Someone to rough up the decorative plants outside.

OK, she's gone -- I can breathe -- she's back at the desk to document the fact that I'm still typing. They're over there shaking their heads. Bastards.

So what was the problem they nailed me for? It sounds so trivial, but it did involve very minor nudity. I was listening to an album on my iPod, which just happened to be the old Blonde Redhead album "Misery is a Butterfly." If you remember the artwork, the cover shows the exposed breast of some woman. It's far from porn ... and not even very stimulating, unless maybe you happen to be a 12 year old boy and it's the first thing you've ever seen. "Look, Jimmy, a tit -- that's what Mom keeps in her bra."

Anyway, I'm listening to Blonde Redhead and one of them comes over and sees it. The lady I'm talking about reminds me of one of those old toy birds that keeps dipping its beak in the colored water. She's skinny like that and always craning her neck and bobbing it up and down. Perfect one for the library. Nothing escapes her nosiness. I had a friend who was legitimately tired -- a very patriotic guy who stayed up all night memorizing American history trivia -- and fell asleep one day. Guess who was on his ass, all ballistic, the same chick. Like sleeping is such a crime. As I recall, his patriotism meant nothing to her.

Well, you can imagine what she said when she saw the Blonde Redhead picture. I won't quote her exact words, except to say she told me in no uncertain terms that nudity "displayed for all to see" was against library rules. "For all to see" ... that's the critical point. The iPod picture is about the size of a postage stamp -- bigger than an American stamp, but about the size of one of those commemorative stamps from African countries that exploit the collectibles market by ripping off celebrities. About that big. Then take the breast, it's about the size of a pea, even smaller. If you didn't know what it was, you'd never guess.

Well, you should've heard me. I told her I could pull five books from the shelf within 10 feet of my table that had nudity. And I went over and did just that, one on funky model pictures, one on pregnancy care, and the others from the works of famous artists. Plus, I pulled out a military history book that had some nudity that aviators had painted on their planes. Cleavage aplenty, meant to bring down the Japs and Nazis. They took one look at American bazungas and knew they didn't have a fighting chance! (I wish they had books like this when I was 10; I would've never left the library. I remember we used to look at the Information Please Almanac, the page on America's Top Magazines, just to see the word "Playboy.")

She had some justification for the difference, coming down to this, that those things are in books and covered up. And, yes, while they are theoretically within everyone's reach, it still takes some doing. (And maybe she's slightly right. Remember, this is a library where kids up to 18-years-old can be restricted to the Children's Room!) Still, I countered that by saying, "When I was eight years old, I would've sniffed out this nudity and had it checked out before you could say Jack Robinson!" Eight years old, smartest kid in town.

Now she started pulling rank on me. She said that I by merely coming through the doors had implicitly agreed to the rules of the library, which comes down to this: "Your heart and mind belong to us, as much as if you sold your soul to the devil." The old biddy was very explicit on this stuff. She'd make a better warden in the prison than a librarian. She missed her calling. She could be in prison clamping electrical equipment to prisoners' genitals and making them scream. It'd definitely match her sadistic nature, rotten turd, and might even bring a smile to her dour old puss.

OK, I had one ace up my sleeve left to play. With great determination, I strode to the library's CD collection and pulled out the only Blonde Redhead CD they have, albeit a different one, right there in plain view of everyone who cared to see it. (My theory was: If they had one Blonde Redhead CD, they endorsed the others ... implicitly. Her word!) She had nothing she could say to that, of course, except to reiterate that they have rules and I need to abide by them. But she was trailing off so badly, I could only tell it was because she didn't want to lose. Well, Goebbels, you did lose!

Notice how fast I wrote this. I'm always like that when some farking, better-than-you authority jumps on my ass about something. I'm shaking. I'm so farking pissed about this. Which is what the library does to people. They've pulled a few things like this with me. They still have this one slug working here who denied me the ability to read the Des Moines Register one time because that particular copy wasn't properly checked out. It was just setting there on the table. Seriously, that really happened.

When I complained, they told me the Des Moines Register is always "walking out by itself," meaning it's very prone to theft. They were accusing ME of being a thief. Just aching to get my grimy little hands on a hot copy of the Register! You know me: Instead of going over and stealing a $100 book off the shelf, I'm holding out for a $1 newspaper, one that's already rumpled and of next-to-no street value ... like I'm running a used newspaper racket ... selling them to desperate fishermen to wrap fish guts in. Or something.

I Believe In An America

I believe in an America where a man can start his underpants down around his ankles, and by pulling them up can get them around his waist and cover his ass.

I believe in an America where it's up to each man to tend to his own underpants. Who knows better than each man himself, in the privacy of his castle, where his underpants stand? He can look down without any help from anyone and see whether they're on. And if they're not, he can get them up over his feet, lift them up next to his ankles, then pull them up around his waist and cover his ass.

Be he rich or be he poor, if he has a place to stand, only momentarily, this is a task, a effort, an undertaking, he can accomplish.

The pilgrims and pioneers, we know, were the ones who started it all. They came over on ships, and according to the old world standards, a fact of history to be accepted and, with all due allowance made to varying cultural mores the world over, not to be deprecated, they were bare butt naked. Totally naked but for a kind of smock or tunic or robe, meant for the most part to keep them from being totally naked. It wasn't much, but they called it clothes. It helped keep them warm. But one thing it did not do -- it did not do this -- it did not cover their ass in that total way that underpants does. They could still feel the sway of their natural assets. They were uncomfortable with the chafing, but what were they to do, having grown up with different cultural mores, and totally idiotic ones at that.

Well, when they got to America, some Guiding Divine Providence, perhaps it was God, opened their eyes, that they might realize that except for those smocks or tunics, they were naked. So they sewed the first primitive underpants from leaves and weeds. And from there it was a hop, skip, and jump to the more comfortable cloth underpants we know today.

Boys and men came together around the sacred circle. The chieftain was in the middle with the communal supply. Then, and I know this sounds weird, all the participants ran around the perimeter of the circle, until they were nothing but a blur. One by one, and in some unconscious order, similar to the motions of birds, they spun inward, and accepted a pair of underpants from the chieftain. He made a silent sign to each, and each, individually, performed the ritual of getting his underpants around his ankles, then pulling them up to the waist secure, so they covered his ass.

And evermore may it be. We are not a naked race. We are proudly clothed. We wear underpants here in the America I believe in, in the America I know, and ever shall.

Comfort To The Stranger

Here I go, across the great lawn, with a tray of sweetmeats for the stranger.

"How are you?" I say, tempering my smile while keeping it genuine. "How about a cinnamon roll?" It's important to keep body and soul together, it's good for the marrow.

He looks at my arm for the Red Cross emblem, but seeing none, realizes I'm just a kind person given to instant solidarity, at least admiration from afar.

The leaders are gathered like Civil War generals around their battle plans, a couple scratching their chest-length beards pensively. One uses the nasty phrase "goddammit" a lot. I'm thinking, "Cinnamon rolls for the leaders," but I hate to interrupt their plans -- and the goddammit guy might have other plans for my head, involving a pike!

An underling sees me -- possibly I'm a spy, or an autograph hound, but my confidence says otherwise. He sees the cinnamon rolls and realizes I'm an angel of mercy, while perhaps also being an attention-seeker. He moves closer to prevent any disturbance of the generals at their work. "Goddammit!" I hear the one bluster, so I leave the rolls in the hands of the lieutenant.

I cut across the concourse. A few bandaged hands are raised. So many worthy brothers and sisters, but I'm just a man, with only two hands and no super powers. I cast down a look of mercy, seeing dry, hungry mouths everywhere. The poor souls. They have but moments to live, in some cases, and a morsel of a warm cinnamon roll would do them such good.

Must hurry on...

Partial dream interlude: At the periphery, I come across an old friend, a former classmate. She's virtually naked, maybe entirely -- I don't look -- except at the six-inch scar she's showing me on the right side of her abdomen. She's been through a lot. I must not stay. I'm out of cinnamon rolls.

I look down and I'm barely dressed either. I need to cross a gravel alley to make a call back to the kitchen van. Even in my near nudity (waist down), I'm thinking I need to go for it; these people are hungry.

Off to the left a building gives way, imploding but more or less silently, leaving an open space in which I see the family owners of the place discussing how their place will be remembered. (There's no talk of cinnamon rolls.)

In here somewhere, there's a railroad station. The track seems to narrow and is blocked. I'm with the stationmaster. He's waiting for a train that might take some time arriving. I'm asking his business. Then the train shows up from the east. It brings the generals, the very ones, to their duties.

A stern "Goddammit" pierces the air and brings me to my senses. I run for more cinnamon rolls. I think, this is a small job -- but to give comfort to those at the front lines is very much a big deal.