Championship Belt Mortgaged

Part 17 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Please stay with me on this series. I know it's veering off a little beyond the heroic nature of the rodeo that I’ve sketched so far. Sometimes things got tight and a little shady, and -- I hate to say it -- in this case they had to take drastic measures to keep the rodeo solvent. The rodeo biz has various intricacies like everything — particularly when scandal’s involved — nothing any of us likes. I certainly don’t like it, with Mam & Pap’s embarrassment being my embarrassment. But sometimes you have to face a situation head-on and maybe lose face to struggle back to wholeness, regaining what you lost, then going forth stronger than ever, we hope.

The unfortunate reality of a traveling rodeo is it can hit the skids real fast. Crowds are finicky, with a lot of it being at the weather's mercy. If it’s too cold by a single degree or too hot with the same margin, the crowd will simply stay home (in part) and do … whatever … who knows? If it’s what I’m thinking, showing a Triple X movie on the bedroom wall and gettin’ funky. Just remember, folks, you can go blind doing that. And a quick aside to the ladies, Don’t you have any self-respect, letting your slug husband deny you a rodeo date for the disgusting pleasures of … forget it, it's repulsive!

Enough of that, and, well, what can you say? A rodeo needs money to grease the skids, so to speak, but it has to be hard cash — they accept gold bullion but can't easily liquefy it — and with people staying home making a date out of acts that could just as easily be performed in the morning shower, the rodeo can be running close to the margin.

My advice to Mam and Pap was you have to bank more money. Pap threw up his hands in desperation. (Anyone reading this, consider going to every rodeo more often, like every night a week for a month. It’ll help.) They needed to raise the price of the program from a quarter to 30 cents. Enough copies sold and you’re talking real money. But any solutions are always better for the future, not for the present moment of extremity. They have to make decisions for the current day.

And some of those decisions are extremely dire. As in pawning the coveted championship belt for a quick 100. It’s not much, either, not when you consider how men have worked and trained and slaved away day in and day out to even have a chance to win temporary custody of the championship belt. You see it from afar and you know it’s a beauty. You put it around your waist after a genuine win — not just trying it on surreptitiously and preening — and you’re a new man. A champion not only in name but in regal display. It takes my breath away to hear of it going into hock.

This never happened but it was always a fear that the championship belt could through some underhanded scheming be the target of competing rodeos. Imagine the outcry if they advertised, “We’ve got Mam & Pap’s championship belt in our hot little hands!” It’s too much to even think of, let alone say. Think of that, though, when you’re planning your evening activities. There's entertainers out there that depend on you. And current rodeos are also fun for all, young and old alike.

The Poor House

Part 10 of 31

They Found Another Body

You know how I said my plumber also gives me legal advice he learned in night school? Well, the same guy rounds out his careers by sharing financial planning with me. I turned to him some years back when I was very embarrassed and, frankly, depressed. Down to several potatoes manifesting strange spots and softness and needing dog food, everything was so bad I had to take on a paper route. I seriously thought I'd reached the end of my rope. But whereas most people at that point let go the rope, I hung on for dear life and was able to cinch it up, a loop here, a loop there, and pretty soon I had a makeshift chair as I hung. My plumber, Dick, was pleased, and ever since has witnessed my turnaround with other potential clients. "If this guy did it, anyone can!"

To this day, Dick frequently gets handsome rewards from my survival. But, Dick or no Dick, I’ve always had a sense about me that life is worth living even if I should briefly descend to the absolute pits. Fortunately, my definition of “absolute pits” has never been set in stone or I surely would’ve been gone by now. But instead I’ve learned a certain tolerance for complete despair, although, to be frank, despair's never complete, just as it's never enjoyable. Still, I can honestly say I’ve never yet gone a full year without food or shelter. So things could be worse.

And that’s why every now and then I give a little something extra to Dick for his financial advice. A lot of his advice is right in the middle of the target, common sense: You never want to spend your money so much that you can't climb out of the morass. And you don't want to leave money lying around as a target for thieves. Instead, go for the median, a kind of common sense middle, not too much, not too little. If you can keep your bills tamped down, not adding unnecessary things — the common sense definition of that being something you’ve lived without till now — you’ll have more money for later. And if you’ve been stupid in the past (on this point I haven't), you pay off the sharks who continually circle.

Dick has some points about sharks that are worthwhile. Don’t get involved with them in the first place! And if you ever have, try to get out as soon as you can. Get smart. Try a disguise. Disguises aren’t just for Halloween, but can be a way of life. Next, remember, every road leads somewhere. If you don’t tell anyone where you’re going and if you just disappear, always have the discipline never to leave clues where you are; that's to your advantage. It's something to consider carefully though. Because at the very least you still have to deal with the government, welfare, Social Security, etc., which leaves tracks. My solution to you, a strictly amateur bit of advice, is pray that fairies exist, because any time you can sock away three wishes with very few strings -- giving up your firstborn, etc. -- it's good insurance.

But, on the other hand, say you've really screwed up. You're cornered and there's no moves left. Even then you have one final possible residence. And that's the Poor House. Which in my experience stands for the last place on earth when there's nothing left. Your life is one of total embarrassment, but you still hope to live. (It might not actually be the last place; monasteries still exist.) But the problem with the Poor House is it’s only a label that “stands" for the last ditch place, it doesn't seem to be a physical place.

And, unfortunately, when people tell you where it is, and you’re optimistic you might find it, the directions seem to always route you somewhere near the river. Definitely time for professional help. Or a monastery. There might be a divine plan, giving you the chance to disappear into the loving arms of a monastery where you are so good they literally beatify you and you're St. Loser, the guy who gave up everything and lost the rest. You have nearly nothing and you're super happy, and now ... you inspire others, sometimes in a positive way, sometimes -- how regretful! -- negatively.

If You're Poor, Stay Poor

Part 15 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

As I sketch out the sad story of Geoffrey, there's huge storms in the area. Lightning strikes everywhere, big bright bolts zapping the terrain and monster faces at the windows. It's frightening. It seriously might be Judgment Day! With demons unleashed, and I could be in for the shock of my life if I softball this blog post...

Could it be that my insights into the errors of society and the dictates of heaven above -- BOOM! Another Thunder-Boomy! -- are the only thing standing between You, Me, The Fence Post, Society's Judgment, and Breakfast? It definitely looks like it. And it's only 5:30. I just got up to pee, the lightning knocked out the toilet's electricity, so here I sit, stoved-up but typing.

I was actually half-expecting this, if truth be told. And, no, it's not all that idiot Geoffrey's fault, but there was a fault line that ran right through him, because it's when he started misbehaving that I had the distinct fear we were all in for trouble. This is a bad day. If the lightning hits this computer and I erupt in flames, I can't be held responsible for my mood.

But there's something going on, and while you might think it's "good clean fun," think again. Geoffrey's mistakes are a lesson for us all. He couldn't keep his hands on his money, his palatial estate, his clothes, his strictly heterosexual lifestyle, and other identifications. It's true, the message is: All variations, shades and flavors of "fluidity" are out! If you've got it, don't flaunt it! If you want it, stick with what you've got! Keep your seat, keep your place in line. The kind of storms we're getting today is part of it, and it's bad. I just heard on the news that Greenland slipped under the ice last night and is gone! If we're going to survive this, it'll take all of us hewing the straight and narrow, no more "fluidity."

Temptation always starts by looking around. And getting your identity screwed up to the point of not knowing who you really are. Say you're a round peg and you suddenly identify as a square screw, there's only so many times you can be pounded into a rectangular hole before it's screwed beyond repair. Geoffrey had it all ... and it's gone.

Instead of keeping the tried and true -- his destiny -- he allowed himself a sick drive and desire for more, for different. In his confusion, the whole swirl of our present-day mix-master of destinies, drives, and desires, sucked him in. Which probably did feel good in the short-term. But what of the consequences? His personal death! And now Greenland. Which really isn't gone. No, it sunk but it'll bob up somewhere. Let's say it comes up under Asia. The tidal waves will sink us all and Mount Everest will likely take out the moon. Any valuable paintings you have, get them to the attic!

It started just like that. A rich man dabbled in poverty. With identity confusion tossed in. He veered into full-time poor-enacting, got a taste for it and ended up losing everything. Then being actually poor, there was no one to help him and things went downhill, literally ... He rolled downhill in his barrel and crashed against the rocks. What could they do but heap his body on the charnel wagon and boil him down to make candles?

I can actually see why a guy would hate being richer than everyone else. I'm not dirt poor, and even me, my first uncomfortable thought meeting someone who is is, "I hope I can squeeze by this guy without him asking me for something." And if he does I pull the old card, “No speak English," till I’m out of sight, then cuss him a blue streak, the lousy SOB, in perfect English. Geoffrey’s story isn’t based on me, in case you’re wondering. I don’t know how people accumulate.

Part of Geoffrey’s thing was he was an only child. That’s great for keeping the inheritance to yourself, but bad for a kid's identity. But there he was, alone with a bunch of stuffy adults, forbidding him to play with poor honyocks like I could do freely. So right there we have a fluidity issue. People used to have more kids, now they might have one. See what's happening? Get busy, have more kids ... yesterday!

And definitely be happy with what you have, folks. If you've haven't got anything, be happy without it. The rest of us are depending on you to keep your place. Inert is the new uppity, value it.

Homeless Seeking $ God Bless

With me in the Big City, everything's getting very real. Oh boy, what an eye-opener it is, the dregs of society. And that's just me, but there's plenty of others, standing on this corner, that corner, and of course freeway ramps. I thought of doing it, but don't want to get caught encroaching on another guy's territory.

I was staking out a place one day for panhandling, more like checking it out, trying to picture how I'd look this time of the day or that time. I don't want the sun in my eyes, definitely, and the less sunburn the better. I would want everyone to see me, if not for my financial benefit, then not to be run over. But I haven't brought myself to do it yet. I'm not up on the etiquette or logistics, and a big thing with me is doing it right.

In the picture above, the handwriting is from a couple signs I found. I expect they'll be a decent model for me for composing my own stuff. Even though I'm above average in religion, I don't think the religious approach toward an effective guilt trip is the best approach. Society's so secular these days, the tried and true assumptions of long-ago need to be updated. Frankly, instead of Jesus, I'd more readily mention Buddha or Hindu yogis. Because I think Big City people appreciate a global approach; it's beyond their expectations, which would probably pay rich dividends.

And look at the handwriting, just a damned scrawl. Which, I'll give 'em this, it's more effective than an overly-produced computer printout with picture-perfect fonts. But a certain amount of neatness counts. Too sloppy and the suspicion is you're too far gone to be helped. There's a happy medium between sloppy and overdone. Especially if you had a Buddha, let's say, and your handwriting recalled the mystic look of the East without being obscure. What would be really cool would be a Hindu ochre (orangish) robe and an occasional apparently-sincere mudra. Out in the open, naturally, chest high; you're not scratching your muladhara chakra by any means!

I've been watching a bunch of YouTube videos. And I came across a bunch of anti-panhandling guys there. Who park in the lonely corners of Walmart and zoom their cameras in on panhandlers infesting those environs. Who are there so often they've worn away the grass! You can't tell me that's a good look. Anyway, the YouTubers are doing real reconnaissance, documenting the panhandlers' lives and finding that quite a number of them aren't indigent in the least. Which they hold against them.

I guess I can sort of see their point. Which is that people who pretend to be homeless or pretend to be poor could very well be making it worse for others. First, am I homeless or poor? Well, going by the technicalities. I'm technically homeless as long as my house back home is leveled and they never get it fixed. There's so much mold, mildew, backed up sewage and odor, along with vermin, parasites, rats, and the occasional fly, that a guy is easily fed up with it. When I left the last time, those weren't dry heaves.

In the Big City, yes, yes, I have a place to stay. Big damned deal. There's more to being down on your luck than whether you're homeless or not. Yet you about have to use the word homeless on your sign, because, look at the problem, you can't have a sign too complicated. I couldn't tell everything about my dismantled house. It's funny, but I myself barely look at panhandlers at all, I definitely haven't got all day to read the signs. Sheesh, it's all words, words, words, meant to create an atmosphere and push buttons, not be to be technically true, like you'd have to be in a court of law. This is where the YouTube thought-police cross the line.

Remember, I haven't panhandled at all. So if I had, of course I'd have more knowledge on the subject, what's effective and what should be avoided. And I never give anyone anything, so I haven't had extensive contacts with them. (A little, which I'll mention later.*)

But speaking as a layman, I have to think you want to come across as totally personable, kind, soft spoken, sincere, and not apparently putting the squeeze on folks. Watch the eye contact -- not too much -- and respect people's boundaries and keep them comfortable. Oh yes, this is getting me excited. I'm rubbing my hands together even now in glee at the haul I'd no doubt make! Being the nicest guy you've ever met. I believe I come across as someone without a selfish bone in his body. If I were standing at the off ramp, I'm sure you'd see me as someone doing you a favor. I'm just so intrinsically honest and pleasant, begging would make me a millionaire overnight. My pockets bulging out, a big sack like Santa Claus on my back, so full of money I'd have to hire guards to walk me home. Very soon I'd be strictly turning away all change in favor of more lightweight bills. A matter of policy.

Eventually I'd use some of the money to buy better clothes. So I'm panhandling during the day, probably an hour tops would give me enough to live well, then I'd be out at fancy restaurants at night. In my new clothes, some of the same people would see me and think I looked familiar, but there's lots of guys who look sort of like me. If they approached me in my off hours, I'd raise my hands and giving them a solid no comprende every time. Nicely, of course.

*Here's the reference to the panhandler I met when I got to the Big City. I was out scavenging soda/beer cans and cashing them in at the salvage yard. And I got a bunch of cans under bridges, right near this guy who was panhandling day after day. I'd also already met another guy in his circle, who was going to help guide me on the Shamanic Path; I called him Wolf, he called me Grandpa. So I was in the vicinity of the bridge where Wolf said he lived, but he was gone. The panhandler was letting me know where Wolf went, which was "That way." In our other meetings, he told me the direction Wolf went, "That way," and that was nice. I don't think my panhandler is rich, etc., but maybe he does go home at night to a nice place. I wouldn't begrudge him that. It'd be great.

Share The Cocky Coin

Yea! The story of me being cast into poverty and deprived of property has a happy ending! All is restored, all is right in my cozy little world! Thanks to the very real power behind miracle graphics like this great one, "Share the Cocky Coin." The Cocky Coin struts into view, everyone looking, everyone's pointing, "He's the man. A dollar that knows his worth. Gives wealth and happiness. And never been known to fail."

My troubles started in a similar way, but with the blessing reversed into a curse, when I foolishly posted the "Share This Empty Wallet" graphic. At that time you could've called me a skeptic, a non-believer in the various Facebook posts people make. Share pictures of wads of money and you'll have money, all that. But as I found, to my regret, there's actually something real going on there. The Empty Wallet graphic wiped me out. I lost my house, my garage, and 99% of my possessions, quickly, just like that.

In poverty then, it's remarkable that I didn't think of immediately counteracting it with a money-making graphic. Although it's entirely likely that the Curse Blob, the power behind these graphics, wouldn't have blessed me. It's more likely he clouds your mind to that possibility until, in the negative case, he's dealt you some destruction. Otherwise, as is easy to see, people would be trifling with him like an on-off switch. Still, he's apparently a lot more into blessing than cursing, since "getting money" graphics far outnumber those taking it away.

Whether there was any clouding of my mind that went on, I don't know, except in my experience I felt like I was kind of in a haze. But with the passing of time I really set my mind to making things better. Which led to my Elvis Presley pilgrimage, all the way to Mobile, AL. Frankly, I thought that would instantly restore my property. It didn't, although it turned out to be an important step in clearing my mind -- giving me Elvis-like powers to think it through -- which then opened my mind/heart to sharing the Cocky Coin.

How many times have I seen the Cocky Coin graphic on Facebook? Hundreds of times! Not necessarily from people who went from riches to poverty, but from those already in poverty. But I didn't know their experience. So I ignored it. This time, my mind completely cleared, and also blessed by Elvis, I shared it, then stood back ... and watched in awe.

OK, you have to picture this. I'm on the half acre of land I inherited from Grandma and Grandpa. The garage is gone, the house is gone. All I can see is a big patch of bare space where the house used to be, along with a hole for the cellar (not taking up the entire foundation). I shared the Cocky Coin on a neighbor's computer and rushed back across the road. What I saw next, you won't believe. But every word is true.

There was such a swirling of energy over the site, I nearly had to close my eyes in the glory of a presence. And dust. It was noisy, there was shaking, and everything started coming together, this piece to that piece, materials appearing and joining themselves. I beheld walls appearing from nowhere, and pictures on the walls and furniture. The covering of the outside of the walls and the roof and its covering came into view. It was like sinews and skin forming. I literally held my breath in fear. Behind me the garage assembled itself in seconds. And not to be outdone, although presenting a more humble spectacle, my old shed reappeared, as shabby as ever.

I went into the house and everything I had lost was restored, including my computer. But nothing seemed especially improved. The SHIFT key on my HP computer, which broke off less than a month after I got it, was still missing. Pretty good computer design, HP -- Huge Piece of crap. The Curse Blob, now the Blessing Blob, had a sense of humor there. But he was more gracious with the meat in my freezer. Nearly everything previously freezer burnt was immaculate and delicious-looking!

I checked my credit union accounts online. What previously was zeroed-out was restored, just as though nothing had happened.

WHAT THE CURSE BLOB MIGHT

HAVE SAID HAD HE SAID ANYTHING

Now I call you, neighbors, to rejoice with me! I'm a very good person, there's no question of that. I deserve everything I have. And I have learned my lesson once and for all: Whenever I'm not happy with what I have, I know where to get more.

My Comeback Special

Pix of me recreating Elvis' Guitar Man production number

It's been terrible being homeless and broke. I've always had trouble in my life, of course, but nothing like what came from the "Share This Empty Wallet" curse. The Curse Blob took away everything I had, short of the clothes on my back and a few incidentals. I found that life's a bitch, a real bastard. But it also reminded me a lot about myself, the stuff you don't think of till you're down and out. One pleasant surprise I got was, I'm still an incredibly fast runner, given a drumstick in good enough condition and a camp of emaciated bums on my tail. Age hasn't slowed me down.

Among the other things I learned, or was reminded of was, This is no way to live. Which is why I spent some time looking deeply into myself to find a way back. Curse or no curse! And for me, there's one constant, one source of strength and renewal, as true now as when I was 5-years-old, Elvis Presley. Just the sight of Elvis, or the sound of his voice, or being reminded of his great songs and movies, is all I need. If push came to shove, I could literally hulk out over Elvis, OK?

Then I started thinking of the '68 Comeback Special, and immediately set out after my own comeback. In one of the hobo jungles I traded a moldy (albeit well-scraped) donut for a guitar and took off. Standing at the edge of town I sang a plaintive, "Nothingville," bidding a fond farewell to my "rat's race-snail's pace" hometown. Middle finger up, "Sayonara, suckers!" Because it took me a while to get a ride, I lapsed into Three Dog Night's "Easy To Be Cruel," an old hitchhiking tradition of mine since the '70s.

Going all the way from the upper Midwest to Mobile, Alabama, is one ambitious hitchhike. But it had to be done for the sake of my comeback. I had so many rides with oversexed tubby men -- my least favorite variety among sexual opportunities -- that I stopped in this one joint for a decent rendezvous with the ladies. They immediately saw I had the old Presley swagger on and were on me, me encouraging them with "Let Yourself Go." "Cool it, baby, you ain't got no place to go, just put your arms around me real-tight, Enjoy yourself, baby, don't fight. All you gotta do is just ... let yourself go." Ummm! That's the sweet spot, baby.

I got stuck along the way and needed to pick up a few bucks. I've done this before -- such as with Manpower -- and you never know what you're going to get. This time I met this big bastard at a bar, who told me to come over and move some boxes for him. When I say "bastard," I know bastards very well. This guy was treating his lady badly, very typical stuff, but something that still gets me. My inner-Elvis, naturally, was riled up and I ended up in a no-holds-barred fight with "Big Boss Man." "Well, you ain't so big! You just tall, that's all!"

But it turned out his lady saw more of a future with the big boss man than a guitar man like me, even though I sought to convince her with "It's Hurts Me." "It hurts me to see him treat you the way that he does. It hurts me to see you sit and cry. When I know I could be so true, if I had someone like you. It hurts me to see those tears in your eyes." I fought Big Boss Man, but the squeeze stayed behind, foolishly choosing that lunk over me. Which really did hurt me.

Anyway, I had Mobile, Alabama in mind. I would keep going -- the highways lit up through the night with headlights and taillights -- as long as I physically could. Finally, though, I had to have a decent meal, and got it by performing at this joint that also featured a stripper called Little Egypt. One look at her and I could tell why the Egyptians have had such an enduring culture. Her dance, yummy, delicious, made me think of the shifting sands and the great pyramids.

With a bit of money in my pockets as well, I thumbed my way all the way down to Mobile, Alabama, and did a couple Elvis gigs at a club they call Big Jack's. Reflecting on my challenges since the Empty Wallet Curse, I came to embody my "Trouble." "You're looking for trouble, you come to the right place. You're looking for trouble, just look in my face. I was born standing up and talking back. My daddy was a green-eyed mountain jack. Because I'm evil, my middle is misery. Yeah, I'm evil .... So don't you mess around with me." I do this real sultry pronunciation of evil like "Evolll," sneering my lip up real cool.

So that's how it went. I didn't need to be there forever. I just had to know I'd been there, I'd made the full pilgrimage. By the time I got home, I knew I'd have the answer. It worked for the original (and there's only one) Elvis Presley, my hero, my spirit guide, and possibly my true father, on the off chance that my mother met him in 1952, which she didn't. She was in the same room with Elvis, backstage in 1956, but by then I was already 3.

The Guitar Man was headed back home, awaiting his answer. Cue the music, "Also Sprach Zarathustra," for a new day's at hand! My comeback's nearly complete!

Life's A Bitch, A Real Bastard

It's been a tough few days, like an eternity of torment, ever since I was stupid enough to share the Empty Wallet graphic and lose my money, my house, and my life to The Curse Blob. Hell, I even lost my garage! If there's a plus side, I've seen how tough life can be, and I'm ready for it to quit. Get me back to normal!

Here's what I've concluded: I've personally suffered more than any other person alive now or anyone who's ever lived. Were I held down, depantsed, and tickled till I peed straight up, it couldn't be any worse. I've cried out to whatever gods there are or that may have ever existed, "Kill me, kill me now," but life's a crap shoot, it goes on like it or not. I'll tell you one thing, if I ever get out of this mess, I'll be selling T-shirts that say "Life's a bitch, a real bastard." Don't anyone steal that line -- it's my copyright -- and I believe that's how I'm going to pay for retirement.

As it is right this minute, though, those plans are for a day hopefully still to come. As things stand now, I'm in the depths of depression, the slough of despond, and the pits of p-- rottenness. With no way up, no way out. Are there others around me? Yes, but their suffering doesn't appear to be as great. Even in the muck and mire of hellish torment, at least they're still rolling around, enjoying the fleeting pleasures of one another's bodies. I guess it's pleasure, but I for one am not going to add disease to my current misery. That's how I've always been.

One thing that's beneficial, I guess, is I've been able to see how others live. To think I used to sit and stew that my house wasn't as good as other people's. Now, if I could have my old rundown place back -- it's last major maintenance having been performed in the mid '70s before Grandpa died -- I'd feel like a king in a well-maintained palace, various workers tilling the soil and bringing me radishes and an occasional quart of blackberries. This life is for the birds, sleeping outside, under bridges, and the horrible noises of others all around, disturbing the peace.

That's right. I made my way over by the railroad tracks, where they go around the corner near all those trees. I got a tip that's where you go -- a guy at a bar told me about those who live this sort of life. I showed up and every eye turned to examine me. Was I a railroad dick? Was I some authority? My gray hair sticking down from my cap and covering my ears, I must have looked quite distinguished, and, yes, perhaps like an authority from one of the governing boards. The ragged people scatter when authority arrives, because they're usually flashing nightsticks when they do.

But I held my hat meekly and sought admission in the gentlest of terms, appearing quite abashed to be needing a handout from those already down. But no matter how far down people fall, they come up with something to feel proud about, even if it's only giving suspicious glances to some other bastard who's descended into their camp. Would I pass muster? I didn't know, and in a way I didn't care. I do OK on my own, but if you're accepted into a camp like this, it's more likely you'll have something to eat. There's a couple kids they send out to steal stuff from the man. The man that runs the roadside stand three blocks away.

Nighttime's the worst time to be in a community like this. People saying random crap, like one guy who keeps going, "Oh, forget it! Forget it!" Then there's the snot-nosed kids, crying all the time and banging the railroad signs with their sticks. Too much stuff like this. This is where my grief would be greatest, except when I first got here it didn't take long till I sneaked out. I don't mean to give any indication that people care if you're here or not. But if I'm with people, I like to honor the relationship. This time I put up with it as long as I could, then stashed my stuff under my arm and left. I found a fairly decent culvert down the line and boarded there. I plan to go back when I figure the kids are back with the man's food.

Now, you've heard how it's been. You tell me -- I'll believe you -- Is life a bitch, a real bastard?

My First Day in Poverty

Like Patches in the old cartoon panel "Patches & Green," literally till yesterday I had enough money to get along pretty well. I wasn't wealthy, exactly, but I was never hurting. Then came Share This Empty Wallet, topped off by The Curse Blob taking away everything I had, even to the point of disintegrating my house, garage, and car. It's been a tough few days, with me ending up with nothing.

Basically nothing. I have a gnarly New Testament, the clothes I was wearing, and an empty backpack. I'm allowed to scrounge here and there, wherever I happen to be, and fill the backpack to my heart's content. This is all at the allowance of The Curse Blob, the power behind The Empty Wallet curse. By sharing that damned graphic, in three days I went completely broke, just as it said.

This also means my computer's gone, you understand. Meaning, I'm using the computers at the library, and their graphics capabilities suck. It took me twice as long to make pix for this post, and even then the cartoons are basically lifted from other guy's site, with a few changes on the captions. If you know him, don't rat me out.

But of course I have bigger problems. It's damned tough to live in total poverty. I don't have a single cent, this is serious. You might think it's romantic to wander the streets, looking for bits of a sandwich here or there. It's not how you imagine it at all. Finding a place to sleep, having nothing, is also tricky. But I have some experience with that from back in the '70s when I used to hitchhike around the country.

So it was the same last night as it was back then, I went out to the interstate and slept under one of the bridges. Wasn't too bad, about like I remember. I stuffed some weeds in my backpack and that was a good pillow. But I didn't have anything to cover up with. And just as I remember, it's always around 4 a.m. when it gets coldest. The biggest difference is now I'm 40+ years older. I was a kid then and looked cool like Tom Sawyer. Now I must look as pathetic as usual, only worse.

Since the interstate's just south of where I used to live, it wasn't tough getting there. Then today when I went back into town I surveyed my home place, looking for something that might've escaped the devastation. The Curse Blob was very thorough. I couldn't have cleaned the place out any better if I'd had Service Master out. Or maid service for a year, like they sometimes give away on The Price is Right.

No TV, so I won't be seeing Price is Right much till I stumble across an episode somewhere already in progress. I'll check the hotel lobbies. It could be -- you know, if I played this thing smart -- I might do a little work, like at Manpower, and get a little money. I've always been a hard worker, although I've taken it easy in recent years, getting disability because of my game toe. But I can still work, I'm not too proud. Then, let's say, I do manage to get a little money, I'll hit the antique stores, find something to put online, and I'll be back in the green in no time.

Unless, and this is a very real possibility, The Curse Blob isn't done with me. It could be this poverty thing is my reality for the foreseeable future. He's probably watching me right now, knowing what I'm scheming. I'm looking around the library. Nobody seems to be paying close attention to me. I feel smelly, maybe that's why; they're giving me wide berth. I didn't get my daily shower this morning. And these pants I was already wearing for four or five days. Fortunately the undies were fresh yesterday morning.

Anyway, whatever, I'm sure it's like anything else -- being dirt poor -- you get used to it. I've always been good acclimating in life, I suppose, not that I'm bragging. I've had very little a few times, and I've had a lot. But I never actually had nothing. Still, as terrible as it is, don't get me wrong, it's not without its fascination. The food thing's the worst. I think I'm going to need to hit some cans and find something decent.

Remember, when you got nothing, you got nothing to lose. I'm going to play this eating out of cans thing very smart. None of my usual pickiness. I'm willing to take what I find and make the best of it. Same as when I used to hitchhike, even though I always had a little money taped to my leg, since some of the rides were bastards.

The old library marm's looking at me. I guess my hour's about up. I wasted too much time on the cartoons, so I've been typing this thing like crazy. I'm not too sure they like to see ragged people in here a lot, which now includes me. Still, I'm not like the guy across the room, slumped on the bench and dozed off. Where's your pride, man?

I Meet The Curse Blob

The Empty Wallet Curse took an unexpected turn when I met The Curse Blob. And it wasn't very hard to do. In fact, I didn't do a thing; suddenly he was there, at my home, revealing himself. I know now I would've never figured out the mystery, thinking of a literal blob big enough to take up the top floor of a tall building downtown.

These are the facts. He wasn't gigantic but extremely small. He glowed, that much I expected. And as it turned out, also expected, he was very powerful. All along I felt like I was in the presence of some unusual strength and majesty. Before we talked together, just seeing him, I figured he'd zap me, but he didn't.

If you've read this far without knowing what I'm talking about, let me catch you up: I posted a graphic a couple days ago called "Share This Empty Wallet." It promised/threatened that anyone who did share it would go broke in three days, adding, "It's never been known to fail." I thought it was something funny, merely funny, and shared it. Suddenly it hit me there wasn't anything especially amusing about it. Meaning, I was immediately paranoid, afraid I'd go broke. Then, indeed, my money began disappearing, both the physical money in my house and money from my credit union account.

And now, here it was, right before me, the super power behind it all, what I called The Curse Blob. But, instead, he was more like a living coin, like a burst of conscious fire. I don't even know what he is. I know he shows himself as small and/or alternately my size. His fire is non-consuming, he's quite conscious (maybe infinitely so), and speaks in a kind, benevolent tone. I was reading the paper when I heard a still small voice calling out to me, "Could we have a word?"

I about lost it, of course, but edging closer to what showed itself as a kindly presence, I regained most of my courage. Maybe this was the friend I've been looking for all these years, I didn't know. (It's true even though I don't say it very often, I've been looking for my soul double, a heart friend, a fellow super-brain, you name it. I wasn't leaping to any conclusions with this entity, but it was at least a lead.) "Pick me up," he said. I was reticent because of the tiny golden flames, but he was quick to allay my fears. "Don't be afraid, upsy-daisy."

Holding what I continued to think of as The Curse Blob, I felt a real heft in my hand, the little bugger with enough girth packed inside him, hell, for all I knew he could've been a black hole. Which, according to science documentaries, are tight as a tick, the heft of the heavens making up their substance, and are packed so densely that not even light dare hit the exits. The Curse Blob had me transfixed.

Another observation, he had a lot of runny watery slime stuff on his underside, I thought probably a cooling mechanism. But, no, it turned out he's been headquartered in my cellar, which is overly wet thanks to the rains of late. Which explained, by the way, my bathroom slippers being moist in the mornings. The Curse Blob was leaving the cellar at night, coming upstairs, and trailing cellar water everywhere. I love it when mysteries are solved!

"Could we have a word?" he repeated calmly. I was almost put off by his friendliness. "I'm here on a mission," which he got right to, "to share with you the beauties of poverty." Naturally I was put off by that, but I'll spare you all my now-boring and senseless ejaculations of umbrage and protest. Suffice to say, I objected for three solid hours with only two bathroom breaks. Finally, I broke down in tears and said yes. One, I knew the penalty for having shared the Empty Wallet graphic, that I'd go broke. Two, his description of it as "beauties" and "glories" made me think, Why not?

I also thought of some of the things I've heard about poverty -- St. Francis, Jesus, and a guy I met fresh off a freight train once -- and, in the latter case, if someone gives you free potatoes, it can't be all bad. Then there was the book by Alan Watts, "The Wisdom of Insecurity"; I once read the first few pages. I could be a totally poor guy, wandering around reading that. "Wrong," said The Curse Blob, "you will have nothing." On that we had to negotiate, with him eventually allowing me to possess the clothes I had on, my gnarly New Testament, and an empty backpack. Over time I'd be allowed to fill it, but I'd have nothing else. (All kinds of loopholes there.)

That's about it. The Curse Blob became a glowing man about my size and we shook on it. Then he vanished and I stood there watching my house disappear around me. The "curse" literally came true; I was completely broke.