Make Hulk Great Again

 

Virus

Part 25 of 30

It looks like there’s a lot of work to be done, if we’re up to the challenge. The world’s in a sorry state, it’s gone downhill with a vengeance. Whether by neglect or incompetence or too many bean eaters and not enough bean counters, everything’s gone to hell. I look out the window and of course it looks fine, the same old same old, as usual. But then there’s all those places where I don't happen to be, and unfortunately, due to worldwide communications, I’m able to hear how things are going, which lately has been uniformly terrible.

Certainly we’re having trouble getting people honest enough and hardworking enough to take the reins of leadership and commit themselves to doing a halfway decent job. A lot of halfwits and dumb-asses looking to enjoy the trappings of power, and of course after everything they can grab, instead of acting responsibly to do a good job with any decent ideals in mind. The way to look at it is that the world needs stewardship, good spirits doing a good job for the common good, at least a helping hand, but what we see instead is "Every halfwit for himself!", with the new standard being you’re entitled to everything you can steal and finagle for yourself. If you see it differently, of course you're one of the plunderers, or -- let's say you're not one of the plunderers (fat chance) -- you're at least tempted to put a crowbar through the hardware store window and steal something.

Yeah -- dammit -- it’s really too bad I'm not seeing the kind of pitch-in and help ideals I remember when I was a kid. Say the river overflowed and flooded the baseball field, every kid in town was down there carrying buckets of water back to the river. Then fan-drying the baseball field. Those were the days when you joined the scouts and you got a lot of merit badges. They worked us to death but we loved it. And along the way learned to tie our shoes, recite most of the numbers between 1 and 50, and could build a fire rubbing two sticks or burn ourselves trying. We learned the difference between different fish. And we could pitch a tent. Unfortunately there were a few prima donnas who could also pitch a fit if they were denied a single thing. But the good old days were good. We had a virus back then, we squished it in the dirt.

These days, the virus has some friends in high places, of course the usual crooked ones lining their own pockets from the common purse, all under the cover of being responsible, ha! Yeah, that’s how it is, but they’re not fooling me. I’m just not in much of a position for putting the clamps on 'em. I’d certainly insist on a fair trial, but then once found guilty, you know how it’d go: I'd insist on perfect justice, reparations, and prevention measures for the future. Make an example of the rapscallions and do away with their sort now and forever. And live happily ever after, dealing in the future with viruses (if any) according to wisdom and the common good, all hands on deck, with the usual cast of slimeballs sidelined once and for all.

Politics Rears It's Ugly

Virus

Part 5 of 30

For such a tragic affair and life as we know it up in the air, it was wonderfully inspiring to know that some things are locked in place, secure, and just as we knew them to be. Part of the inspiration is having certain things we can count on, no surprises, the foundations we take for granted securely set.

After all, what would it be like if we couldn’t count on anything staying the same? It’s hard to imagine, really, that anything could be in such disarray that all of our suppositions would be in question. The facts of life as we know them. Were it that bad we would’ve given up, thinking there’s nothing we can do about it, the foundations have crumbled.

But as it turns out, we needed not fear that all hope was lost. Those among our betters came through just when we needed them. Throwing off all restraint -- and they could’ve been so tightly held down as to be unable to breathe -- they muscled their way through the pain and suffering toward, perhaps one last, free-for-all for their most ardent supporters, not to mention themselves, putting Number One ahead of all and reminding us how things stand.

This was great, because the crumbling foundations -- aforementioned -- might not have held long enough for their great task to be accomplished. And to think of them going at it with the diligence they had, we’re reminded of what a potential sacrifice it was to muscle their way through -- with all the stick-to-it-tiveness of baby pigs seeking those life-giving nipples of the mother sow that their nourishment should not be denied. I used to see it at farms in the neighborhood, actually to great extremes. Did you know that if you slip in a pigpen you can be eaten? It’s true, I lost two classmates like that, a downer for the birthday boy who had us out to his farm for the party.

But when you have a party -- getting back to our topic -- that’s when you can really have a party. “These are desperate times! If we don’t act now -- and I mean with everything we have -- it’ll be too late.” And God forbid anyone get in their way. If the confusion of a viral plague isn’t enough cover to suck up whatever there is to be had, there will never be cover at all. This is the time to rise up, and with everyone’s sight obscured from the confusion of seeking shelter, managing the ins and out of quarantine, and scheming to get just one more roll of toilet paper, the time is right for government to quench their thirst (temporarily) for more more more.

Stand back, there’s more incoming, a turgid blast, nothing held back, obscuring the way, and like we said, providing cover for whatever rapine there is to be had, basically whatever is left to claim.

Those Frolicksome Sweethearts

Part 25 of 30

Self-Abuse September

This one's for a particular group of you guys and you know who you are. Nothing’s ever for everyone, because of course kink’s a focused commodity. The market hath spoken, We’re micro-targeting this or that particular nerd nugget of reverie and merriment! So I gotta join 'em! The more the merrier, you know, but we’re disparate in our desperation. Even complete nudity isn’t the standard currency -- big duh, I know, it's so boring. But you could have someone bound head to toe in girdles and make more money (in places) than the whole boring display, splat, right in your face.

How do I know all these things? The less said the better. Mostly window peeking, coast to coast. Wyoming's particularly kinky, but the houses are all 600 miles apart. Also I’ve mastered the skills (this took two years in shaman's camp) of hypnotic bird warbling to put people in involuntary trances. (I say involuntary but they’ve never been happier.) Anyway, regardless whether you disagree or not -- and one of my kink triggers is having people disagree with me -- that’s life. A guy has his rounds, a guy makes his rounds, and that’s it. Right now I’m trying to rush-write this post because I have an appointment with a guy who likes being forced to clip his toenails. Doesn't sound like much? They're rusty clippers!

Anyway, our pink dancing girls in this ultimate beautiful circle dance of ribbons and sunshine magically appearing on bright mornings, so innocent, don’t have a clue what they’re up against. Or maybe they do, [rubbing hands] so much the better! They go by, a pink blur, although I have some focusing skills. It’s even a good mental challenge. Say you have five or six identical things, how long can you continue to isolate one particular thing. Then they think they’ve obscured your thought in their blur, in the mystery, and present themselves for the selection process. How surprised they are when you make your selection in a split second and seem to know what you’re doing. You, you, you.

Of course there’s no force here, and I’m a perfectly sweet guy, treasuring one and all (within limits) -- whether you wear bright pink or sun-like yellow. It’s charming to call each one by name, first, middle, last name initial, then manifest an intuitive knowledge discerned right there on the spot of each one’s favorite color, quotation, political party, movie, etc. Now it’s time for the first cut, which, alas, is based on political party. If she's Republican I’m so nauseated I can barely stand, but stand I do until she's safely out the door and blacklisted for the future. There’s no greater buzz kill. Hate to get political, but these days it's life and death. No bigger depressant for my normally rigid libido.

Our Candidate For Governor

 

Chapter 12 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Tropical Politics

I've dreaded this day, knowing it lingered. Because it has to do with politics, exactly what everyone wants to avoid. Politics is a terrible thing on a blog because someone's going to get mad, then hit the door to escape and not look back. My only redeeming hope is that since it all took place in the 1890s and in South America, just maybe, possibly, I'll be able to keep the other continents in line and the precious traffic I get everyday. Folks, please don't desert me. My self-image is a tossup between sewage and poison... I'm down to my last nerve, please don't kill me... I have a lot to live for. Maybe I do or maybe I don't. But I like eating...

OK, let's say the crow files 600 miles, that's about the distance it would've flown from Iquitos to Lima. For anyone who isn't a crow, the journey is even longer, having to cross the Andes on untrodden paths. It's sheer misery, and the shifting of the river bed can also affect your plans; you might circle around for hours and not realize you haven't yet left. So once you're the governor in a place like that, you're set. Fairly isolated. You've got great personal responsibility and power. Not to mention the various taxes you receive from imports, trading, penalties, etc.

Unless this happens: One day in Iquitos, having already gotten a new governor, approximately 50 ruffians recruited by outlaws came up-river and dropped anchor. They took over the barracks, swore in the former governor's guard, and shot the new governor in the open street. He’d made a big mistake, telling people that whatever import duties they had paid the previous guy, they needed to pay again, to him!

It was so bad, another adventurer tried his hand at the coup game. Solomon Casas organized and led the counter-attack. Up de Graff says he was a prominent merchant and good soldier. Up de Graff also threw his support to Casas. (I implore you, dear reader, if you supported any of the previous scoundrels -- one, two, or three -- and are still hurting over their ouster, you should skip the rest of this paragraph. In which I declare my own support for whomever Up de Graff liked. Yes, I'm following his lead. Because I don't know one guy from another. And if Up de Graff was good enough to write this book, I assume he also knew who should lead Iquitos...

So one day our party formed in front of the store, then marched to the barracks. There was no resistance. Sentries that may have harbored deep resentment disappeared. And word was sent to Lima that order would be preserved until a properly constituted Federal authority should arrive. Iquitos settled down again.

Jack Rouse and Up de Graff took on two new members for the expedition, both Peruvians, Philipe Iberico and Pedro Valcarcel. As far as getting equipped for the journey, they bought new stores, food such as dry bread (hardtack) and corned beef. Then they realized they were buying several tons of stuff, too much cargo for the average canoe. When they heard of a giant cedar in one of the forests, they had a new canoe hewn from it. They named it the Exploradora.When they received word that it was done, they started up-river on a steamer to get it.

Turning Toward Adventure

Chapter 3 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Exodus

Our chapter opens with F.W. Up de Graff still working at Salinas for the Cordovez family. There had been a revolution and its head was Alfaro, who became President. Some of the folks were completely opposed to Alfaro, but once the jig was up they changed their clothes and marched in support of him. Gotta stay on the good side of power... In terms of democracy, though, this might mean there's only half as many people as we think we see!

When the revolution kicked into gear, Up de Graff happened to be there (in Guaranda) on business and took in some of the action. Then headed back to the Cordovez estate. A few days later a party of 20 officers show up to arrest him. But he'd had some warning, so he showed up at the front door with a gun. They wisely handed him the warrant and left.

Skip this, skip that, he finally left the Cordovez place for good, no longer entirely welcome, and was staying in a "hotel" (his quotes) in Riobamba, which was a worse dwelling-place than he had on the estate. He wondered, What shall I do, what shall I do? Then took a horse-drawn stagecoach to Quito, where he ended up meeting with President Alfaro and getting a passport for other travel in South America.

At the end of this chapter he shares a letter he wrote to his mom, telling her that "tomorrow" (Jan. 10, 1897) he'd be leaving on foot on an expedition toward the Napo forest, about 600 miles away, with some Indians employed to carry his equipment. He expected to camp on the Napo River, build some canoes, and start on a 4000 mile trip. I like this part: "I take absolutely no money with me," except what he'd need years later to get back to New York. The rest of his cash he invested in machetes, and beads and trinkets for trading with the Indians.

He finishes the letter with basically, 'Don't write back,' because there'd be no way he'd get the letter. And that was it, he was off!

That'd take a lot of bravery. One, I'd hate to be involved with a bunch of (probably) crooked cutthroat politicians in the midst of a revolution. I'd barely survive peacetime there. It's always better to fly a little more under the radar, which hadn't yet been invented. Still, Up de Graff lives a fairly humble life in his journeys henceforth, off to see the headhunters and escaping the powers that be (Alfaro, Cordovez, revolutionaries) who might've also had his head.

I'm trying to process his thinking process. Which must come down to this, get out there, go for all the gusto, if you live or if you die, it'd be worth it for the sheer adventure. And, importantly, for the riches of gold he expected to find. I'd probably be much more skeptical about the gold. Even if you found all of it you'd ever want, the idea that you'd get out of there with it is farfetched. The place is crawling with cutthroats. You really think you're going to be boarding the boat later, declaring your only possessions, a hat, machete, and three tons of gold? Don't think so!

But the adventure of it would be great, gold or no gold.

Fish & Crawdads

No. 11 of 31 -- Thermometer series

Something important to all of us these days is our opinion. We're overcome with opinions, clearly. I'm of the opinion people are wacko crazy, not knowing what's good for them. But just wait. Evolution, and its more immediate cousin, Mortality, will take care of it. Just you wait...

In the meantime, Fish and Crawdads is the answer, keeping the two separate, but knowing they go together. You want Fish, you need Crawdads, you need Crawdads to get Fish. We used to catch Crawdads and keep tubs of them in the shade of our bigger maple tree. They were happy, they couldn't get out, and they did their job, catching Fish. Which we ate.

Fish and Crawdads of course both have the meat of the goodie and the refuse of the baddie. (A term I just coined to have an opposite to goodie.) The meat of the Fish you prepare for meals, the baddie you discard, guts, heads, scales. On the Crawdad, the meat is a small white piece under the tail, big to the Crawdad but small compared to the baddie. And some of them go full King Kong with baddie, enormous claws and heads, then down to, at best, an above average goodie.

Now, these days, your opinion can be the most cantankerous part of yourself. We can stand your loud grating voice, as long as you're paying dues, but if you can't stifle the a-hole opinions, it might get you killed. I personally don’t know very many people who’ve gotten killed for their opinions. If I knew of one, that's someone I wouldn't have had much to do with in the first place. My opinion, Steer clear of certain death!

What we’re concerned with these days is the blog, keeping it healthy, keeping track of it with these great thermometers -- boxes and boxes of beautiful thermometers -- and seeking its survival and prosperity in a world of readers who frankly don’t know their digestion outlet from a hole in the ground. Let alone what to do with it, although I suppose everyone has the basics of that down by simple nature. One important clue, it's not for cucumbers. So we've got that much, but what we haven’t all got is an understanding of the process scientifically. A baby has the diaper strapped on but has no clue what for.

As this great effort goes forth -- filling thermometers, not diapers -- we shall do it in a similar spirit. Doing our best along the way, not worrying too much, and not even trying to understand the steps. Just doing it and worrying about the results when we clean up. But one thing of huge importance is not getting down in the dirt with these bastards and their crazy opinions! Because it'd only spring back on us. So we need a signal. Some bastard shows up, we whistle. That's the signal. Then when we're mostly out of view, twirl your finger by your ear. Meaning he's loopy.

Politics, yes, politics is always in the air at our meetings. But we’ve come this far — I don’t want to ruin it by lambasting too many folks and prematurely driving a wedge between us in spirit. I have to keep telling myself, "Fish and Crawdads," the mission, the goal first. Then someday, after all this is a huge success, only then can our meat of the goodie be openly telling them off and where to get off -- maybe even ceremonially stripping them and attaching Crawdads to the fleshier bits --  then showing them the door.

We used to get rid of fish baddie by dropping it to the turtles, enormous turtles, like a yardstick across. That's a good way to get rid of things. I saw it happen. And no one ever got caught.

When They Ring the Golden Bells

I'm getting very old, friends. I'm coming up on 65 as soon as my birthday rolls around, which in 2018 will be January 17. The older you get, if you're me, the more sentimental you get, and even weepy. I've heard of old guys going sentimentally crazy, and maybe I've thought that over so much I'm bringing it on subconsciously.

It doesn't help when people you know die. Just lost a cousin in the last week or so. And of course Mom and Dad, my grandparents, various friends, classmates, and pets have died over the years. It could be that I will live till 90. But will that be good? My life insurance guy called a couple months ago and assured me that he has my finances planned so I will have income till I'm 90. How about that? But since that's only 25 years from January, I have all new worries! Since the older you get, the faster time goes, 25 years in those terms is about a week and half. So in two measly weeks I'll be broke!

I've heard a lot of people on the internet say they don't appreciate hearing about religion. Frankly, I'm one of them, most of the time. The whole overly-sentimental approach to religion strikes me as bad. I'm not really leaning that way in my own practice. But I'm getting more sentimental. But here's how it works, I take a mystical approach to faith and have some gains in that pursuit. So every little thing -- a phrase, an old memory -- can trigger emotions or appreciation in that context, and, frankly, I about bust out bawling.

If you think back to your religious foundations, which for me was childhood, all those lessons are things I took to heart, and still have, filtering them through all my religious pursuits since. One of the songs that gets me is "When They Ring the Golden Bells." Savor verse 1:

There's a land beyond the river,
That we call the sweet forever,
And we only reach that shore by faith's decree;
One by one we'll gain the portals,
There to dwell with the immortals,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

Then there's another whole dimension to it that I haven't even mentioned, involving a guy's untimely death!

Yes, I used to go to a lot of revival services. My parents thought it was good for me. Maybe you heard the story of Brother Tolbert Victory. Well, I was there. I saw him die, and was with him when he heard the golden bells. The service ended. I had gone forward for prayer. Tolbert's hair was like a wet mop. He was delirious with the spirit, OK? Delirious. He told me, his lips touching my ear, that I'd do great things for the Lord. I didn't ask what. He seemed to shudder, like a man in vision. Like he looked ahead and saw me doing great things, but he also saw things out ahead that weren't so good.

He told me -- he was looking around, like he didn't want anyone to hear the inside scoop -- that these great old songs that we loved, including "Brighten the Corner Where You Are," "The Hallelujah Side," "The Old-Fashioned Meeting," and "When They Ring the Golden Bells," were being forgotten, or even attacked. Even though we'd just sung them! He said he wanted me to keep 'em going as long as I could, insofar as I had it in me, and if I had the sense of commitment to the task and the unction straight from the Lord to get it done. (I didn't have it entirely; I felt like, you know, Que Sera Sera, whatever will be will be. I was a realistic kid, but Victory was in such a fever I didn't poo-poo his spiritual burden.)

Then he said something I never thought I'd hear any man say. "If anything happens to me, this is all up to you!" Again, I was cool to the idea, not het up; I was a kid. A kid, I'm telling you. No man should lay that kind of grief on a kid. What was he talking about? I wasn't sure. But he sung for me the lyrics to the glorious last verse of "Golden Bells" and chorus:

When our days shall know their number,
When in death we sweetly slumber,
When the King commands the spirit to be free;
Nevermore with anguish laden,
We shall reach that lovely Aiden,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

Don't you hear the bells now ringing?
Don't you hear the angels singing?
'Tis the glory hallelujah Jubilee.
In that far-off sweet forever,
Just beyond the shining river,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

Brother Tolbert Victory exacted a solemn pledge from me, that I would be wary of the future and our rich spiritual heritage of the great songs. And if anything ever happened to him, that I would step forward in stolid vigilance in this regard. Which was extraordinarily hard in those pre-Spotify days.

OK, OK, I said, "If anything ever happens to you, fine, so let it be written, so let it be done. Six of one, half dozen of another. Lady Luck, don't fail me now. Hot-cha-cha-cha. Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are."

So I went to the basement for the post-revival refreshments, when literally five minutes later some kid comes running into the church, shrieking, screaming, that Brother Victory was hanging from one of the trees next to the driveway! We all rushed out -- my own orange soft drink being half spilled in the commotion -- to behold the lifeless body of that great man of God, unmistakably him, extra large brown baggy suit on a medium body, sweaty mop of hair and all.

They cut the man of God down and had everyone stand back. Maybe he could be revived. But it was no use. Brother Victory had reached that lovely Aiden. Unbelievable, I know, but every word is as good as gold. No one knew what to make of my own personal crazy response. I was beating on him -- this was before CPR -- and screaming, "I didn't think you would die in 5 minutes!" Now that I had taken an oath, etc.

Those years are way behind us now. It's been decades. I don't put much stock in the oaths we take when we're kids, or anytime really. "I'll be your best friend till the rivers all run dry," etc. Circumstances change. But I've done my best, nonetheless, which really isn't much. The songs haven't exactly been besieged by enemies. Occasionally there's a bad arrangement I haven't liked. But more or less, Brother Victory's fears about the songs was just paranoia. Religion's not under siege. When they tell you that, it's crazy talk. The churches are in large part spiritually bereft, yes, but there's more sociology involved there than willful sieges. It's laughable and something to cry for. Whited sepulchers aren't what they used to be, they're worse!

I started off above saying I get weepy, and that's all true. I was singing these songs today, driving along, trying not to bawl since I wasn't alone. And it took me back, way back, to that old church, and that night, and that great evangelist hanging in the tree. I can still see his body in my mind's eye. Dead as a door nail, yes, but his spirit already in that haven of tomorrow. What kind of joke was he playing, to get a promise from an impressionable kid like that, then to commit suicide without even going down for refreshments? The ladies made those things for our enjoyment. They weren't expecting the evangelist, of all people, to kill the revival.

The second verse is very good, refreshingly tear-jerking for me:

We shall know no sin nor sorrow,
In that haven of tomorrow,
When our barque shall sail beyond the silver sea;
We shall only know the blessing
Of our Father's sweet caressing,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

You mess with that song, brother, you're messing with me.

Gus Grissle For Dogcatcher

Of course I'm not beholding to Gus Grissle in any way, shape, or form. That's not why I'm for him for dogcatcher. Hell, Gus isn't even from my party, the Democratic party. He's a Republican, usually the kiss of death for me. Those bastards, I wouldn't be for them if they handed out half dollars on the square. No way. But Gus ... I know Gus ... and I know Gus is more or less good with dogs. So I'm for him.

The fact of the matter is, Gus Grissle lives right up the street from me. On the other side of the Butlers' house. He drives by my place on the way to town or wherever, and he always waves. He's a good man, and if he says he can handle the dogs of our town, I basically believe him. He's more or less good with them.

This is a tough endorsement for one reason, and one reason only. I don't know how many of you have noticed yet, but thanks to some grumbling, I've sworn off politics online completely, that is, under my own name. Facebook and here on the blog. I've found that friends are very high maintenance when it comes to politics, and they're easily disturbed. And I can be very quick with the insults, the put-downs on everything in the putrid Republican universe. Leading some of these idiots -- my friends -- to dislike me. Block me, whatever. So I'm out of politics.

But ... dogcatcher? Surely even my namby pamby touchy-nerved wilting flower friends with their finger poised tremulously against the dislike/block button can't hold it too much against me for coming out for Gus Grissle for dogcatcher. Especially when they realize, this is the one Republican in the whole world I'm willing to endorse. Of course not for a job that is of any great value. It's dogcatcher. How bad could he screw it up? He's more or less good with dogs, I've seen how he is.

The job of dogcatcher came open when Merle Peaver died, and no one really wanted it, and Gus Grissle stepped forward. I'd say he deserves our respect for taking it on, and if he personally asks for my vote, being a neighbor and all, I'm not going to withhold it. People think dogcatcher's an easy job, but it isn't. You're not just chasing dogs till they disappear from sight. You've got them cornered, you're looking at snarling teeth and listening to a low growl. And this isn't your mother-in-law, they can't be tamed with chocolates.

Then there's the whole modern situation with friendly dogs. I know some of the dogcatchers we had back in the good old days. They were basically bag men. If a dog got loose, it was fair game. The law was the law. But that doesn't apply these days. Those guys are out. People baby their dogs now. Dogs are their babies. You try to bag one now and you're looking at being bagged yourself. That's how crazy people are. Don't write in, please, I like dogs. I'm just saying Gus is up against some regulations the old guys never faced.

Anyway ... And have you heard of drug runner dogs? They're trained in anatomy. They're trained to go for the jugular. Drug runners use every dirty trick in the book not to be apprehended. For them, the more feral a dog is, the better. They come through on the interstate. The cops pull one over, the dog goes ballistic and tears the patrolmen apart, then they head for the hills. They literally could come up over that hill right there, just south of here, from the interstate, and take me down. Maybe Gus is thinking of that. He's my first line of defense.

Those are the dogs that are very far removed from our cuddly ones. Or the higher class dogs like at dog shows. Do I think Gus would make a good dog show judge? No. He's more or less good with dogs, like I said, but to have to run his hand over their silky fur, then reach around and feel their bottoms, I can't see him doing that. Fortunately, that's not even in the cards. That's for someone else.

I guess I've probably given enough evidence as to why Gus Grissle would make a great dogcatcher. If you feel like crossing party lines and voting for a Republican, I know he'd appreciate your vote. Your vote, like mine, will be a token of trust in a good man, more or less good with dogs, who I believe can get the job done. Find the dogs, see that they get back to their owners. Or, if they're drug dogs, at the very least run them out of the county, and hopefully catch them and do whatever you do with a feral dog. Nothing good, I'm guessing.

Vote Grissle!

Destroying February -- Facing Polecats

Polecats are what I always think of when I think of the legislature. And I'm not even sure what a polecat is -- I hate to confuse myself by looking it up -- I'm guessing it's a cross-pollinated skunk and weasel with some other unknown vermin. The key thing is it's accurate enough for the situation at hand, the legislature.

In school we always heard the legislature was there to help us, being our representatives, our own decent neighbor and a bunch of other neighbors from other towns. And of course your own decent neighbor cares about you and gets together with the others and does positive things. The reality's a lot flakier, and that's when we turn to the polecat to describe them.

That's the system, where your vote doesn't mean much. Because even if your guy wins, if you show up agitating you're just a kook. With any given legislator "not sure" what went on, giving him cover for the next election. Oh, and don't you dare try to describe it to anyone else, like I'm doing here, because then you're such a hothead, very easy to dismiss. They're all gathered in assembly, loudly shouting, "USA! USA! USA!"

Maybe you can tell, it's been a bad day agitating on behalf of the "Destroy February" movement. But having some stealthy habits, I believe I insinuated myself enough that it wasn't entirely unprofitable. They open the capitol for sightseers, my fellow citizens, who are into the history of the place, the artwork, etc. My fellow citizens love to see the old agitators of the 1840s, the hardy settlers who obviously spent their time in action, not tourism. I glance up at the rippling muscles of guys with axes and think, there's a lot of flab in our present day.

But the old settlers and agitators, they knew who their legislator was. He was the guy swinging the ax next to them, the one with the big top hat. And they'd get together at the end of the day for a huge pint of whiskey. They'd say, "Here's where we stand, you get in there and vote for statehood or you die." Of course he was already on the side of the people. "Damn right we need statehood, because the savages will brutally massacre us otherwise, and that's just the Feds!" Then they were back to drinking and horseplay, especially ring toss with the saloon's mounted buck.

During this time I was able to appeal to my fellow citizens, surreptitiously, and I got some good nods and clenched fists. I was happy. The average man "gets it." He knows February isn't really anything worth keeping. What's so good about it? I can't think of a single thing. It was originally a stopgap measure, meant as a temporary fix until whatever war that was going on was decided. With the intention being to deal with it when peacetime came. Then they were exhausted and it just slipped by. How much better it'd be to take most of its days and plump out the other months, then keep, say, 10 days as a kind of stump month, used for reverie and hell-raising!

But you don't have to be at the Capitol long till you see the legislators aren't the average man. They're bought and paid for by fat cats, so they're ensconced behind closed doors. No drinking, no backslapping, no camaraderie, just distance. Occasionally peeking out to see if the coast is clear so they can scoot unseen past the tourists and get another coffee. This one guy, a couple counties up, had his pants down to his knees, barely aware I was standing there. He and his secretary were doing something inside but he was still thirsty enough for a quick coffee run.

In desperation I shouted "Destroy February!" It took the idiot by surprise, and he blubbered out something like, "Fill out the form and we'll run it by Legal." Legal? Put off by his immodesty, I'm thinking, Aren't you the guys who make the law here? If I had more than one vote, and lived in his county, I'd vote him out in a second. That's why they want to stop so-called voter fraud, because they know we'd take out the corrupt ones.

The worst thing you can do if you want to get something positive done in this country, like destroying February, is to take it to the Legislature. It's so gummed up there, it's a wonder anything gets done. They give you the cold shoulder. If you're not a tourist going gaga over the artwork and spending money, for yet another touch up of the gold dome, then what are you even here for? Go away!

February -- We Barons Confer

The beginning of February brought with it a meeting of the various barons of society. I was eager to get together, being consumed with the issue of February and its continuance as a month on the calendar. To which I am opposed.

It's always quite an assemblage of power brokers, myself the Baron of Blogging in conference with the Baron of Politics, the Baron of Business (not pictured), the Baron of Industry, the Baron of Banking, and the Baron of the Church. Our overall mission is to keep society on track, nudging here and there where it seems appropriate. The Baron of the Church asked the Baron of Heaven's blessing, then we went into session.

Among the items on the agenda was the February Question, a hobby horse I often ride. Naturally, I came in for some good-natured ribbing, the Baron of Business saying, "What about Groundhog Day? The people need it to brighten their dreary lives, being, as they are, little more than boils on the backside of existence and, worse, knowing it." I pointed out, logically, that groundhogs would still exist without February, and sought the Baron of the Church's acquiescence to that point. He seemed to consider it an inscrutable question.

I was then surprised when each baron spoke against February.

The Baron of Banking said that a short month makes their bookwork more complicated, especially with the occasional Leap Year. "That one damned day every four years makes Y2K seem like a godsend." The Baron of the Church nodded in silent affirmation, and said, "The Lord likes balance and is put-off when it's missing. Plus the Church could use more Sundays in the year, not fewer. But with February, I don't know if there's two or three Sundays at the most. It's something to pray about."

The Baron of Business, always more brusque, took the side of the businessman. "Let the Church fend for itself. It has a Higher Power. We've got the bottom line. For us February cuts both ways. Yes, if we had more days to work with, we'd make more money, a huge plus. But factor in this, that if we don't meet our goals, February is our biggest excuse: 'We ran out of time.' See? We put the goods out and we open the doors, but we're not in charge of time itself!" I pointed out, rightly, that he should work more closely with the Baron of Politics.

The Baron of Politics, seizing my opening, cleared his throat and took the floor. "Baron," he said, addressing Business, "I do have the power over time, as in the principle of Daylight Savings Time. If you're willing to get up a few days earlier, I could make it January again right now, February be damned! We just need to work more closely together. You put your hand in mine." At this point Church shifted uneasily before admonishing, "No sir! Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the waters!" Politics, knowing he'd overstepped, smoothed troubled waters, saying through clenched teeth, "Point well taken."

The Baron of Industry, a man of action and few words, gave his opinion another way. He took his jacket off and flexed the bicep on his right arm. We watched amazed as a brief tattoo video showed raw materials being delivered to a factory. He shook his arm and the second video showed the factory manufacturing goods, all so harmonious. The final time he shook his arm it showed a fleet of trucks taking goods away for delivery. I interpreted his point for the group: "Destroying February, if that is our goal, is a step by step process." 

Concluding then, as host, I gave the summation: "Gentle Barons -- Banking, Politics, Business, Industry, and Church, as the Baron of Blogging I am a man of letters. In my work, I must know the great rhetoric and logic, the prose and poetry, that have graced mankind's history. For example, of the five of us, none quotes Shakespeare more than I. Who said, "A rose by a totally different moniker would waft out a scent as pure and sweet." Proving one truth, "Yes, February is a month, the other months are months, but it is entirely inferior, yielding a noxious stench. Simply put, it must be destroyed here and now or this conference will have been a failure!"

The meeting went quiet and I was embarrassed. But the merciful Baron of the Church took the gavel from my limp hand and dismissed us to a time of coffee and sharing how our wives are doing. Since I'm unmarried I could only listen with interest and envy.

The League of Women Non-Voters

Before the election, I had to have it out with the League of Women Voters, with their meddling ways. They were trying to register people to vote, kind of bizarre these days. The trend's going the other way!

But you know me, I'm willing to live and let live as long as they leave me out of it. I was brought up to mind my own business and look the other way, whatever offensive thing I might see, but once they involve me, then of course it's my business.

They wanted to know if I was registered to vote! Me, who used to vote all the time ... back in the dark days when such a thing was considered cool. Now, as everyone knows, it's out; how much nicer it is to let others worry about all that.

Three of them took me on. I felt that red hot surge of rage take hold of me, kind of like the unpleasantness a kid feels when he tastes vegetables for the first time. I looked them up and down, appraising them with meanness in my expression, and took their full measure. "What is this?" I asked myself, looking at a table stacked with forms and three women meddling in people's civic affairs.

Naturally I wanted to tell them off, even to the point of dressing them down like wild game, but I held back. Instead, I thought, I must educate them and perhaps save three souls from the fires of civic judgment. "You're bucking the trend on voting," I said. Wow, speaking of rage! They took it out on me! They shot back at me the same mean glare, like they wanted to fight it out, but I stood my ground. I told them their old quaint ways are dying.

Again, I saw their anger intensifying. Had we put it to a vote, I would've lost 3 to 1. But they couldn't gainsay my basic point about voting. Not voting frees us up for the more important, funner things in life, like ... whatever you want. Is there really any value in one vote? Probably, if you had a million votes for a certain candidate, it'd make a difference. But how do you get a million? It's tough.

There used to be the idea that we'd have election day be a national holiday, but it never gained much traction. Now, however, thanks to the trend away from voting, we may just get it. Yea! A national holiday on voting day! A great day to skip out, load up the station wagon and head for the beach! Or somewhere else more weather-appropriate.

When you think of the time it takes to get voter ID, finding hard to find polling places, then standing in a line of a hundred to get in, and every other inconvenience, we're saving a ton of time. We always get the best people in office anyway, meaning we're already set to live happily every after.

So the League of Women Voters needs to get with the program. And call themselves the League of Women Non-Voters, then put out literature on some good family fun destinations for the day off, and we'll support them in their efforts. They've got my vote!

Note: A few people asked how Truth Dillingham did this year in the sheriff race. What? You didn't get the news? Of course he won, 98.6%, about normal. In the key demographics -- Red and Yellow, Black and White -- Dillingham came in first. The only people nasty enough to vote for the other guy were criminals and the other guy's family. 

A Willing Man for Dillingham

I generally don't like the political season, with all the false accusations and negative spin the candidates lambast their opponents with. I hit the mute button I'll bet 200 times, since TV becomes even more a cesspool than it usually is. But once the election's over peace and harmony return, and the bastards are gone for another couple years.

The only candidate I really like -- an institution since my 30s -- is Sheriff True Dillingham. He was up for reelection this year, and of course it was a foregone conclusion that he'd win. With the same great campaign he's run since his first try, the "Willing Man" theme. It's his brand, as beloved in these parts as Smith Bros. cough drops or Elsie the Cow. Obviously, I'm a willing man for Dillingham! I hope you are too!

The usual assortment of buttons, posters, and stickers were all over the county, asking the question that really only has one answer, "Are you a willing man for Dillingham?" Most guys who know their stuff -- and zip it up everyday -- proclaim a hearty and hale "Yes!" I suppose there has to be a few guys against him, like the sacrificial lamb the other party runs and his few supporters, stragglers from the truth, head-butters against the inevitable.

I regret to say Grandpa never lived in the Dillingham years. He would've loved him. Being a manly kind of guy. Grandpa was always tickled by macho stuff, often times striking out in a colorful string of obscenities and profane put-downs against anyone who saw it differently. I guess I got a lot of that from him. Dillingham's a man from the same mold as Grandpa, although he obviously keeps it cleaner, having more supporters looking up to him, including women.

We've had such good sheriffing from Dillingham that the women generally look up to him even more than the men! But their devotion is kept very demure -- and much of their guidance comes from the campaign -- as they declare their allegiance. For the men it's, "I'm a willing man for Dillingham," but for the women it's, "I'm a willing woman for Mrs. Dillingham." I like that, I really do, everything in its appropriate place.

Women aren't left out of declaring for Dillingham himself, if they choose, but most see no reason to cross boundaries unnecessarily or call into question the nature of their support. They're quite happy to say, "My husband's a willing man for Dillingham." And lest anyone think unmarried women are simply out, they're not, as they have the button, "I know a willing man for Dillingham." It's these women buttons, especially from the earliest campaigns, that are much sought-after by collectors. Another good one is the check box button, "I know a willing man for Dillingham: My ___ Boyfriend, ____ Uncle, ____ Father, ____Other."

As I said, everyone likes Dillingham except criminals and their families. And even some of them like him, because at some level they know they needed help and/or tough love. Normal families adore him, which goes without saying. It's something every generation can share. Really, just to live in the Dillingham years is an honor, memories of which we will surely pass on. Fathers hope they can live up to the Dillingham ideal, Moms hope their daughters find a Dillingham-type guy to marry, and naturally devotion to Mrs. Dillingham is also an inspiration for girls, young or old.

But it's men most of all who are truly in the most literal sense of the word "Willing Men for Dillingham." Whether you're a boy learning of him, a younger man, a middle-aged man, or an older man voting, you are able to see his unreflected glory, while the women, with all their devotion to Mrs. Dillingham, see Dillingham's glory in a more reflected way. This helps keep them true.

As for me, now I'm older. 30 years ago I was a younger willing man for Dillingham. As years passed I matured into a middle-aged willing man for Dillingham. And now I'm proud to say I'm a much older willing man for Dillingham, not always as mentally sharp as I used to be, but I hope when my last memories perish from the face of the earth, at least I'll be able to maintain some vestige of this deep-seated knowledge, and will remain a willing man for Dillingham, world without end.

Great Caesar's Ghost

Was Julius Caesar evil? I'm asking. For once in my life I'm not trying to conceal my ignorance. I know virtually nothing about him. I tried to read him in Latin one time. But not knowing Latin it was a tough go, and I made it up to about page 4. I know he traveled around doing stuff, to England, building walls, etc., but that's about it. And I read Shakespeare, the play where he got killed midway through.

My other exposure was the Adventures of Superman episode where he (apparently) comes back from the dead and appears to Perry White, who has a catchphrase, "Great Caesar's ghost!" The way that episode goes, if memory serves, is that it's just more Adventures of Superman two-bit thugs out to swindle Perry for a few bucks. I love the old Superman show, but there was never much there.

For my purposes today, Great Caesar is very evil, and his ghost, being him, is also very evil. And that's me saying it, who basically doesn't believe in ghosts. Well, I've had some scary moments in my life where I've imagined there were ghosts, like when I was a little kid. The last thing I wanted to be dealing with -- and my main Superman days were when I was little -- would've been Great Caesar's ghost!

It's easy to imagine the ghosts of the great -- the infamous great -- was being around. They were larger than life, therefore they're larger than death. They did their mean crap when they were alive, and now that they're dead, they still have the moxy-on-the-ball to get out there and do mean crap. I could probably toss out Hitler, since he always comes to mind when it comes to evil. And Julius Caesar, whose evil I'm not even sure about.

Whatever the reason, he's back with a vengeance, no doubt because he's dead and wants to share his misery with us. He's a ghost, that's one word for it, but he's also a shade, a somewhat freakier ghost. You see him when the light's right, and before you can get a handle on what you're seeing, he's gone!

What precisely he's sharing of his misery, I haven't had personal experience. Except I know it can't be good. Likely much of it's passive, afflicting the vulnerable. Like Perry White, who was very vulnerable in that episode. Tired, dragged-out, listless, with very little resistance. He needed Jimmy Olsen and Jimmy's pal, Superman, to help.

All evil must be dealt with. Please vote Democratic.

As the Blast Furnace Goes, So Goes Prohibition

I'm sitting here sketching out ideas, trying to flesh out our "Push for Prohibition." I've personally been very disturbed by the number of people I've seen going into liquor stores, then back out. They usually have a paper sack, and I'd guess something overly-potent inside, likely of the bottled variety.

I know what you're saying: Prohibition was done to death! True, we gave it a whole 15 years try, big whoop... But the War on Drugs has raged on for over 50. And don't give me that lame Dillinger argument; he's been dead for close to a hundred years. This time I think people would actually welcome Prohibition. Get the booze out of their way, remove temptation, they wouldn't miss it. We're so health conscious today, we wouldn't miss it past the first weekend. Forget Dillinger, probably the biggest opponent today would be the powerful paper bag industry!

I can see the paper bag industry in my mind's eye. They struck out on the grocery store front, with the dominance of plastic. Plastic's got it over paper big time. It has the handles to hold, you can carry more at a time, and it doesn't make that terrible clunky paper noise. Then there's the lunch boxes that took over the lunch sack. They're more durable and interesting. So all they've got left is liquor. Sacks, an entire industry held in place by winos who can't change their own underpants. Disgusting. If we get the push going for Prohibition, I think we can easily demonize the sack industry. Call them "Strange Bedfellows Together in the Sack" on a few shady TV ads and that'll be it.

OK, getting Prohibition in place still won't be that easy. You have to go the whole route of amending the Constitution. One idea might be called the "Fight Fire with Fire" strategy. We get Congress drunk, they pass the bill, then when they sober up, we go, "See, you shouldn't have been drinking. Exhibit A!" Then we schedule the votes in the states during Oktoberfest; with the beer steins a'sloshin' and the thick-pigtailed, knob-nippled German girls very exciting when tipsy, we'll have the votes.

But just to be on the safe side, I'm looking at doing this thing stealthily. I don't want it to be the usual agitation, where one side -- the Democrats or the Republicans -- dig in because the other's for it. I want to pass Prohibition like a thief in the night, where the only ones actually paying attention are those in the paper sack industry. And like I said, they'll be hogtied with negative ads.

I'm hoping to do it like SETI looks for extraterrestrial life, with lots of computer nerds in their local communities looking for patterns, intelligence, and evidence, then adding it to an overall conglomerate, micro to macro. It'll be like a tsunami, one no one sees coming. And who knows, once we all sober up, maybe we'll be alert enough to find extraterrestrial life. And let's say they're drinkers, we'll ambush them, steal their technology, dissect them, and once again establish ourselves as the undisputed lords of creation.

I'm going to need someone to identify all the groups that do business at liquor stores and what their transactions are. I'm thinking it'd come out like archetypes: 1) Male, 2) Female, 3) Other designations descriptive of gender choice, 4) Young adults, 5) Medium adults, etc., then the different ways they crave, how they decide to go to the liquor store, what to buy, where to drink it, etc. This intelligence will be key in knowing precisely how to target our ads. In a particular demographic, my age, for example, we'll play the old records of Foster Brooks, now quite politically incorrect. He used to be funny, now he's not. That'll bring many to our side. And so forth.

I really like the more psychological archetypes above, i.e., on craving and various decisions. Because this is what you key in on when you're doing things both stealthily and intelligently. You're screwing up the mainspring. Once you've screwed with the mainspring, nothing works as it did. You start tweaking people's behaviors -- what they crave for, for goodness sakes, there's no telling what else we might be able to ban: Television? Sports? Politics? I'm a do-gooder, so I'm not going to do bad, but if these ideas should fall into the wrong hands, they could literally have us sitting in high chairs drooling all day, with our biggest desired consumer item being the bib! Some nefarious slaveholder with five city sectors of drooling adults, thinking he's their daddy, and all they want is a new binky. Food for thought.

Another asynchronous, angular tactic we could use in the Push for Prohibition would be to make the experience of going to the liquor store simply annoying. If we have some killer traffic studies, all we have to do is gum up the works slightly here and slightly there. Suddenly it's like a wheel with a flat spot, bumping, each time it goes around it gets more annoying. But this involves the road: Smoooooth, Smoooooth, Bump! Those spots become more familiar and more annoying. The many derivations, although they're slight, are multiplied everywhere, with the cumulative effect being, more often than not, either the liquor store's deserted or totally crowded. Havoc either way.

And how about blast furnaces? You've thought of some of the other tactics before, no doubt, but I bet you left out the blast furnaces. The blast furnaces do something similar to what we see in the world's present ecology (global warming), but with the advantage that we can regulate things more drastically, whereas nature's way is to make slight but severe adjustments over the course of centuries. But what if every eighth day it was mysteriously 30 degrees warmer in every building? Or if it happened more irregularly, with less detection, such as fluctuating temps unpredictably between 4 and 18 days?

It wouldn't be a month before world leaders would meet -- 23 days, to be precise -- with interpreters at the ready to gauge the nuances of their speech in terms of how dire things were. Prohibition would be pushed to the back pages. Those of us who are for it would be passing it unseen. As for the furnaces, everyone would be turning them on, turning them off, looking at black smoke one day, and clear the next. Even the pope would worry about that, turning to prayer.

You might think we should tread softly, lest people drink more. No! This is where we want them to drink! For various reasons. 1) To get Prohibition in more easily; 2) Because excess drinking makes them sick and they swear off. How wonderful if we're able to say, "Your ordeal is now easier. They don't even make the stuff anymore. Have a binky."

Everything's going to take constant monitoring, of course, because even with great planning there's always an element of hit and miss. We're looking to steer the underlying culprit, the liquor industry itself, into the ditch. Then with the advent of greater righteousness, the other industries dependent on liquor will quickly rebound with new shipments of things: We'll ban lunch boxes and require sacks for lunches. And trucks will now deliver sarsaparilla and gum.

Telegraphing Itches -- A Silent Disruption

I've been so into my theories of itches not scratched being alt consciousness portals, I haven't been thinking of anything else. But the most prevalent alt consciousness portal I seem to have opened is the one of being constantly distracted. The more psychically interesting ones have yielded precious little true gains. I saw a devil in a fleeting vision that merely taunted me, "You know you want to scratch! Submit to me and I will give you relief!" To which I yielded, no not for a second!

And so I turned back to the soothing balm of my group dynamics studies -- always thinking of how groups interact (my real life field) -- so, today, something on guerrilla group dynamics along with scratching, which I so long to do, and how itching is so distracting, and relating that to political action.

Disrupting meetings, services, and speeches has been done to death; we've all seen it. But typically it's all so crass, with only short-term benefits, if that's what you want to call it. For example, if you simply stand up and blurt out a counter opinion, there's no way it's going to do any good. You're going to be dragged kicking and screaming from the arena, and possibly tazed, and the crowd's going to be chanting "USA," and once you're gone he'll make funny remarks about you, so there you are.

It's always been my opinion that the key to a good disruption has to be done much more subtly -- like guerrilla group dynamics -- in such a way that those around you aren't even aware it's happening. And by more than one person, working as a team but apparently not even together. What you're trying to do is more distracting than disrupting, because the possibility of an embarrassing gaffe is worth its weight in gold. Remember Rick Perry's missing third point? I'll tell you exactly what I know about that: I know nothing! My lips are sealed! There's not a thing to tell!

All right, let's say we have a team of 7. They're in the audience, in the 3rd to 10th rows or so, and scattered here or there. They're not looking at each other, except for occasional glances. They have memorized a "set song," held in common, and trained themselves, practicing earlier, as to when "scratch points" will happen. As an example, you might recall the old song "What a Party" by Fats Domino. It's on YouTube or Spotify. Three times in the course of the song the background singers sing,

Big fat piano man, he sho' can wail away.
Big fat piano man, he sho' can play.

See where we're going with this? They have the regularity of music, and the predictability of music, but it's not noticeable to those around you because there's alternate sharing among the 7. You're mentally keeping time in your head, hitting the "scratch points" with occasional glances helping you stay on track. These points are shared by the 7. (Nothing needs to be exact.)

Speakers of course are looking to the audience in a random, more or less disinterested way. But they do notice what's going on, either consciously or unconsciously. Most male speakers consciously notice every pretty girl.* But they only notice the more extraneous phenomena -- someone coughing, rubbing his eyes, yawning, or scratching -- unconsciously. Unless there's something a little weird, and undefinable about it, nothing he can nail down. These audience members, they don't look like they're out to get me. In fact they look interested. If they were out to get me, they'd erupt like always, and everyone would drown them out with "USA!" That old bit.

So there they are, our 7, inwardly (and by occasional glances) working with Fats Domino, with an undistinguished scratching of the temple, the ear, the forehead, etc. With an increasing awareness on the part of the speaker that something's just not right ... but what? He glances at the pretty girls, still looking great. Then a guy with an itchy nose. I can see him breaking into a sweat at any point, but if he says anything about it, the papers will declare, "What a paranoid ass!" So what's he going to do, call out an anonymous audience member? Hardly. You're not doing anything with eye contact. He has no reason to be suspicious.

I know I'd hate to be the guy. This is something that'd give me vertigo. Expect that gaffe any second! This is something that also could reap great benefits in other arenas. Such as concerts, you might be able to finagle 18 or 20 encores out of them. The band's fingers are bleeding, the drummers arms are falling off, they're a mess! But you had a great time!

-------------------
*If you had, let's say, 3 pretty girls of the team scattered around, whose job it is to just sit pretty, that'd be great too. You can imagine the dissonance. He's noticing them every time he looks out, a positive. Then he's less consciously noticing the others scratching. The "pleasure vs pain" thing going on in his mind would be an interesting dynamic, perhaps so interesting as to be campaign-ending. By the way, I said "male speakers" notice pretty girls. This would also true for lots of female speakers, somewhere between 2% and 10% by nature, and the others for multiple reasons.

Note: It probably goes without saying, but you don't tell others what you're doing. The key thing is, You're like the 3 Musketeers, whose #1 rule was "Mum's the word on this whole Musketeer thing."

2nd Note: This is "For Entertainment Purposes Only." I don't actually advocate doing anything like this. Heavens forfend! Unless one of the pretty girls sits on my lap.

Does That Make Sense?

I hate to say it, but I'm addicted to the phrase, "Does that make sense?" Which is crazy, I know, since I usually have pretty good control. I don't smoke, drink, or sleep with people who eat crackers in bed; obviously I'm not just careful, I have high standards. Sometimes I do think I could be easily addicted to stuff, but it's also balanced out with an ability to go cold turkey. But this "Does that make sense?" phrase might be too much for even me. Does that make sense?

Of course it isn't new to me. I've heard it a number of times in the last few years, but those times it was in one ear and out the other. I didn't toy with it. And that's the key thing to getting addicted, for me, picking up something and toying with it. Like a new, fascinating toy. I allowed it to get the best of me, as it turned out simply through foolishly toying with it. Does that make sense?

It happened at a conference I attended, "Public Affairs." I was hoping for some cool gossip on people caught in affairs, but it turned out to be a dry as dust give-and-take on public policy, "The Role of Women in Society -- Keep Them on a Short Leash or Let Them Go?" A senator was there briefly, long enough to swoop in and make some pronouncements on the ignorance of women (I'm in a Republican district), then it was up to us to break into groups and come up with our findings. By and large, the Democrats, including me, insisted that we loved, respected, and valued women. While the Republicans thought we needed more restrictions on them, GPS tracking devices around their legs, etc.

Then there was this one bastard, who didn't know what he thought, pro or con. He was the lone voice trying to hew a middle path. He went into a big old convoluted speech, all off the cuff, where he went this direction, then that. Hard to follow. On the one hand, he respected women; his mother was a woman. On the other, he pointed out we've never had a woman president and none of the five star generals of the World War II era was a woman. Then he was back to being pro woman, then anti, finally ending with the reiterated fact that his mom was a woman, and most of his aunts. At the end of it, in a higher pitched voice, he asked, "Does that make sense?"

Here's what happened next. It was 10 minutes till the lunch break, at which point I dashed out the back door, never to return. Then I ran into a woman I know, very smart as most of them are, with no crackers on her breath, and I was telling her the whole thing, focusing in on the phrase "Does that make sense?" I started saying it in jest -- toying with it -- but ended up saying it the rest of the day, and I'm still saying it two weeks later! Beware what you ridicule, there might be some gene in you -- operating sort of like the phenomenon of projection -- that means you're drawn to it! Meaning you need that very crutch! Does that make sense?

And another thing. The phrase always does involve a step up in pitch, and delineates a clear end of a train of thought, so that might be why it's so addictive. We crave not just variety but finality. The higher pitch is like singing (1), and (2) it's a natural end to one subject, giving time to think what's next. With one other key quality, keeping others on your side. Because if they're not, they could always answer with a resounding "No!" The fact that they don't, while not being conclusive as to their agreement, gives you some assurance (perhaps false), that you might be right. Does that make sense?

Yes, of course I know it's annoying. But you can't tell me you don't do one single annoying thing yourself. At least I know what I'm doing, especially if I see someone rolling their eyes. I'm intuitive like that. They can tell me to stop if they want. They just haven't yet.

This Putin Thing Is Good News After All

I know everyone's up in arms about Putin invading the Crimea, then next, perhaps, Ukraine, and then the vorld! I am, too, since it's always been my belief that a guy ought to live a humble, peaceable life, for the greatest personal happiness and also for the good of the community. On this point, apparently I and the ex-KGB agent, for unknown reasons, disagree.

I actually sensed all along that the guy was bad news. There was his background, right away a red flag, so to speak. Then there was all that business of him having the actual control of the country even after they had elected a president. Then the macho pose he was striking for the last several years, killing bars with his bare hands like Daniel Boone, and shirtless to boot.

And when you get me going on this stuff -- stuff I'd much rather ignore -- it can be very unsettling. Because, being an old guy, I have clear memories of the old Soviet Union and the way they haunted my childhood. There was always talk of us being blown off the map, etc., which never happened, as it turns out, but as a child I didn't know it'd have a happy ending. I was also a child in Sunday School every week, so I went to bed each night with two terrors: a literal Hell and a literal Soviet Union. They vied for which might be worse. It wasn't till I was an adult that I realized they were people very much like us and not big raving monsters. And that was just Hell. As for the Soviets, the thought of Brezhnev's ugly blockhead and shadowy features still creeps me out.

Now, looking back over all that, except for my grief and that of millions of other kids, the key thing is it did have a happy ending. Despite Ronald Reagan's best efforts to keep the grief going, the Soviets finally crumbled on their own. And we thought we were home free.

Now all our enemies would be pipsqueaks we could swat like flies, our industrial might would transition to fulfill domestic and global peacetime plenty, and we would be free of Republican warmongering. Instead, we got brazen terrorism on the home front, industrialism shipped abroad, and Republicans up the ass, not only with warmongering but every other evil. This is not the world I signed up for when Gorbachev and Yeltsin were doing the right thing by committing national suicide.

So Putin's forays, gobbling up his neighbors and making feints at a larger global hegemony, might be good news after all. If it means we become more insular, nationally and industrially, we can have jobs and a better standard of living. If we're focused again on mutually assured destruction, hallelujah, because we know it's only a fiction. (And if it turns out not to be, at least we'll die heroically, not with a whimper as it'll be with global warming.) Speaking of global warming, troubles with the Russians is something the Republicans won't deny, so we'll be in it together. We can heal our divided nation, bringing reasonable people and these others, the crazies, back together.

I honestly think the best thing after this would be to give up the Internet to hackers, then at the height of their reverie, destroy the whole thing. Again, as counter-intuitive as it may sound, insularity and the fever of fearful nationalism is our only hope. And without computers and the Internet, we'll have an even better jobs outlook. Phone operators will be back, we'll be building filing cabinets once again, and getting to know our neighbors in a friendly way over coffee, not berating them in anonymous chat rooms and shocking them in endless sexting sessions.

Viva le Putin!

Running for Governor -- Beggar Blowback

First, let me express my sincerest regrets for my blog post, "Beggars -- Don't Risk the Legal Liability." I agree it was insensitive and hurtful, and I apologize to anyone, especially beggars, who may have been offended. As it turns out, such unfeeling comments, particularly as regards begging veterans on every corner, are politically incorrect as well as detrimental to my future.

Of course you know I'm a candidate for governor of our great state, and you've probably seen in the paper my opponent capitalizing on my gaffe. The blowback was swift and certain, some of it sincere, with probably most of it being just another political knife to the back. The opposition was quick to pounce, as they no doubt would've been no matter what I'd said. I might be finished, although I can still hold out hope that the incumbent will say something worse.

I'm starting to hate politics. All the secrets you have to keep to be a credible candidate. Hey folks, I've lived life; I've been around the block; of course a few little peccadilloes are bound to accumulate. But I believe I can ride out the storm, just as long as all the messages and pictures are deleted as requested, and some of my aliases remain untraceable. Of course I'm kidding, just joking around a little before the election and the day I belly up to the public trough with the best of 'em.

Still, this beggar controversy beggars the imagination. Who knew these guys had their own agitating PAC? All this time I figured their money went into booze and ciggies, drugs and cheap hookers. It's a total surprise that they're actually political animals, pooling their resources and looking for an upper hand in society. They're more connected than you'd guess, probably because of their time on the street; they're nothing but social.

Now -- you know how it goes -- they're going to be on me about every little thing. You know the type; they'll take anything but a heartfelt apology. I could say "God bless you" and they'd crank up the slime machine: "Oh, so now you're blaspheming God! Who is this guy, thinking he has the right to order Almighty God around? Let alone insinuate himself between God and the average voter, seeking, no, demanding, God's favor! What is he implying, that decent Americans can't take care of their own religion?!"

These animals make my blood boil! Little did I know these skunks -- and I'm including my worthy opponent in that number -- would be the only thing standing between me and the governor's mansion. It's sad. It really is, that politics has descended literally to the gutter, where every cigarette butt is a prized possession.

Well, here is my solemn vow, yes, before God -- when elected, I likewise will use the levers of power, to do good for society in general, but to crush my opposition. The incumbent himself, all the way down to the gutter snipes he's using to undermine my character and candidacy. Assholes! I will grind them into the dust, and incarcerate any survivors.

The point is, I'm keeping my good spirits about me -- my optimism -- and I do stand behind my apology. If you've been offended, I'm truly sorry that you're so sensitive. I believe you should actually look at life through something other than rose-colored glasses. If you do, if you can manage that one simple little thing, I'm sure you will gladly cast your vote for me.

I Am Diametrically Opposed

When you care enough to be really opposed to something, always hold out for being diametrically opposed. Even if you're stupid about words, diametrically obviously carries an extra level of disdain -- purple passion -- to show you're not just dinking around. The very word declares itself the Diamond Standard of Opposition, unmistakable in whatever its implications may be.

I've actually been a very nice guy, for many years. And I will continue that practice, no matter who I have to walk over to do it. But I must be smart -- and this I recommend for others, too, because we've all had trouble with the bastards. Those we've tried to please. Who are then more than happy to run roughshod over us, overwhelm us, and leave us in the dust, themselves never looking back, unless by some special dispensation, like the need to get a picture for the party. I am diametrically opposed to the whole thing!

"Diamonds are a girl's best friend," I used to hear my mom say, with my dad then putting off the subject for more prosperous times which, unfortunately, never came. But she always had that dream. There's a reason diamonds are the gift for the 75th anniversary, because basically no one makes it. And the ones who do are always the frugal souls who have no use for them.

Diamonds are extremely valuable, we see, and for good reason. I saw a good science show that said diamonds are from stars, actually like everything except hydrogen. Only stars (and Superman) can crush carbon sufficiently to make a diamond! Think about that! Only stars and Superman! Meaning, for our purposes today, that if you're diametrically opposed to something, you're really special. But what happens is, Most of us limit our opposition, making us weaklings for the slightest persuasion (or trickery, rhetorical or otherwise). But no more! 

You can tell I'm serious, OK? Stepping out of character here. Enough is enough. I've finally decided this is how it's going to be. It's literally now or never; if I'm going to prevail, I have to change things now. Enough being everyone's dishrag, snot-rag, doormat, and the last bendable obstacle in their way. And I ask you to join me. From now on -- even with our basically good attitudes still intact -- we shall be against it! Diametrically opposed!

I'm putting Republicans on notice ... as of ... now.

My Dreams of Open Carry

My dreams of open carry are coming true! And this is even one of those weird things I never thought would happen, like flying cars. I figured the Old West was gone and we'd never get it back.

This is true, that as a kid watching westerns, I always complained that they carried guns all the time and we couldn't. Our guns were hanging on a rack -- unlocked, mind you -- and we only took them down for hunting or cleaning or showing someone.

Parents didn't believe in safety as much then, which was OK, because we did all right. We had the run of the town. We played lots of war games, cowboys and indians, and killed each other all the time, only in our imagination. Even though we had guns, we never actually killed anyone. Although I remember having a grievance against the sheriff one time. All water under bridge...

I gave up all hope of open carry -- walking around with holsters, dangling guns down to your knees. Never thought I'd live to see it, but now... All praise and glory! They're back!

Frankly, I don't know how long it'll last. His term is only so long. Meaning, we need to groom future black presidents so we never have to go back to a ban. There's definite benefits to a generalized paranoia, which we're reaping now.

Only, I don't see any decent candidates being groomed. On the bright side, we might get a woman president for eight years. Of course that'd give our testosterone a workout, meaning open carry would be safe. Yet, it's all temporary. What we need is a constitutional amendment -- call it the Second Amendment Part B -- that presidents can only be black and/or women.

The worst case scenario for open carry is that we get another white man like Bush, especially like Bush. He had that whole ignorant good-old-boy thing going so strong there wasn't ever the slightest temptation to allow open carry. And the more dishonest he was -- we frankly didn't have time to plumb the depths -- the more people liked him. I still see various idiot assholes on Facebook pining for those supposedly "good old days" of a white male president, with absolutely no understanding of what it meant for open carry.

I personally haven't taken the gun plunge yet. The openness of open carry is still a little too primitive for my taste. If you kill someone you still have to account for it. I want it like the westerns. You do your killing, you have a drink and play cards undisputed. Or go upstairs to Diamond Lil's room and do whatever they did back then. Teach her a thing or two with your barrel.