Danny, Spud, Tipsy, and Cannibal

Part 21 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

My life’s really been a rich tapestry of doing good and offering help. I've offered a hand up. But then when that hand's been bitten, I've had to kick ass. These are the signs of a good life well-lived.

So here I stand, somebody. A modest man. But in certain ways, a big man, the head kahuna. I’m not just a grunt worker with the Psycho Squad, like Al and Ted, employees outside the scope of this series. I'm a happy entrepreneur, running the Squad, working on this blog, and sitting around shooting the breeze according to the highest standards. There's been moments when I tried to be a people person. One thing, a few years ago I broadened the blog staff: One broad, Myra Kula Electra, and four jailbirds from the local prison release program.

The four also had a looser connection with the Psycho Squad’s main work, but they were so far gone there was no improvement. I tried to help them but it turned out to be more of a disaster than anything. And the grunt work they shared did no good for the blog or anything else. Which taught me that it simply doesn’t pay to be a do-gooder. The average guy already knows that and would've never had anything to do with SOBs like Dashing Danny Whrfr*, Spud Tuber, Stanley “Tipsy” White, and Cannibal. It's all in the past now, but one thing still rankles me; I must’ve loaned each one of these bastards $15 or more over the years and not one of them ever paid me back. They’re completely irresponsible, the lot of them.

But there was something I got out of their worthless hides, and that's the sad experience of being with them. When you’re in the Psycho Squad business everything you do adds up. Some things give me greater compassion, like when I see the kindness of kindergarten teachers, usually cute, often single. They're always the ones that don’t realize how hot they are; they’re great with other people’s kids, what could they be with hers and mine? Then I face reality and let it pass without a word. And use my so-called compassion on equally hopeless pursuits, which brings us full circle back to these release farm rejects...

So I got a little payoff for the misfortune of dealing with Danny, Spud, Tipsy, and Cannibal. I had ‘em close to me over a period of weeks or months; I think it was weeks but felt like months. Was I pissed off at them at the time? Of course I was, because, speaking of hot dates, I had my eye on prize-winning reporter Myra Kula Electra, and then every one of these psycho bastards slept with her at the Fourth of July festivities!

Looking back on it, I recall Myra had ulterior motives and was just as guilty. It took a lot of unreformed sex drive to put her so fast on her back, and in sync with a lovely municipal fireworks display; they really went all out. But her real goal was to undercut me. The four guys were the ones I was most disappointed in: If your actual home is a reform facility you ought to be able to point to some actual progress.

But like I said, there was a payoff, the lesson I learned from the whole affair and how I’ve applied it to day to day operations with the Psycho Squad. Which is this, Never trust any of these guys! I am suspicious of everything that moves and I sleep with my eyes wide open. So when I’m around the most hardened cases my eyes are strictly like manufactured homes, double-wides.

*That’s right, Whrfr. Danny had foreign forebears. Who would ashamed of him if they only knew what their pathetic genes cursed the world with.

Golden Children Everywhere

THE GOLDEN CHILD - #17 (END)

Oh yeah, you had to know there'd be a happy ending. That's the way my life goes, many happy returns. Myra Kula Electra and I are still on good terms. We've seen each other only a couple times, though, so there hasn't been many opportunities for fireworks. I assume she's out there somewhere still, happy and bringing joy to the world around her.

The Tractor Promenade, now a national sensation, is turning away offers for appearances, since they're only able to be so many places. The guys who "dance" in it have other jobs. Office jobs, a couple of them work at the feed store, one's a fireman, etc. And no doubt they're afraid to just up and quit for the riches of continual performances, having taken into account the fickleness of the American public -- you quit your job at the store and next thing you know America's moved on to the next flash in the pan.

The black prison bus came -- thankfully -- and took the four prisoners back to the work release farm. Which isn't entirely good news for me, although I've put up with it all this time, since, of course, the farm's only about 8 miles directly southwest of my place. Those dudes are devious. They could steal dark clothes, charcoal their faces, and crawl that far in about an hour and kill me in my sleep, if they wanted to. And I can't see why they wouldn't want to, knowing as I do the extent of their evil; after all, they did have public sex with Myra Kula Electra at the July 4 celebration a few years ago. A blight on their memory I will never forget!

The town still sees me as more or less a hero, having freed the area of demons, sealed a major portal to hell, and brought excitement to this sleepy burg like they haven't had in a long time. Still, it hurts to see downtown ripped to shreds, fixtures on the courthouse dangling, etc.; it all looks like a war zone. But let's say we get a major employer back in town, it won't take forever to come up with the money to fix it. Hell, we could get a benefit performance with the Tractor Promenade; that'd bring in a few bucks. The bright side is, let's say we're all around 50 years from now -- there'll be memorial markers to me, etc., and kids will be playing me in school plays.

Speaking of kids! Some of those kids 50 years from now will be the grandchildren of all the kids who've come into the world since the battle ended. Naturally they had to be in utero before the whole thing happened -- I guess; it's not like I was there for every conception; conceivably (no pun intended) Heaven could be so happy they speeded up things. Anyway, be all that as it may, there's been independent verification from some radio ministers that the world has been blessed with many, many golden children -- all basically born the same week. No one's ever seen anything like it! It was in the news for the joy of it itself, plus the strain it's putting on businesses who provide lenient leave for parents after blessed events.

These kids, if the reports are true, all have a cheerful look. I'm not going to lie. Somehow they look like me when I was born. I'm not going to put up a baby picture -- although if I did, you'd fall over in love with me. Even I can't believe it, when I look in the mirror now I look like an average dumb old man. Except for the sardonic grin every time someone says something overly conventional, I'm as UN-golden looking as anyone ... now. But back then it was different. That's what these kids look like! Although they're various genders, with various orientations, various races, various everything. Two eyes like me, etc.

Welcome, Golden Children! Please raise your right hand. (Children everywhere are raising their hands, hearing/reading these words despite distance, through walls, in other countries, whatever). Repeat after me, mentally: "I am a Golden Child. I promise to do my best to live up to that great role. I will stand for goodness, justice, and see the beauty in everyone. I will live my life creatively, with good humor, with affection, in love with life and others. I promise to do the rest of the things written on the paper that the author of this blog -- dbkundalini -- is holding up for me to read," etc., etc., "which lists many life-affirming things, all of which I heartily agree to."

Having sworn in all the Golden Children, I now evaporate back into spirit (as the Golden Child) and pass my reign herewith unto this new multitude, wishing them all the best, now and forever.

THE END  

The Golden Child 16

THE GOLDEN CHILD - #16

"The Golden Child 16" is a post I'm writing as a point of personal privilege, to be an enduring remembrance of this great series, entirely a blessing for me, and perhaps for you. It's a matter of accomplishment, really, the sense I have of accomplishing something great. Which will stand not just for the moment but for a very very long time. That gives me a very warm feeling!

I've heard from so many of you -- Thank you for your kind thoughts, encouragement, and compliments along the way -- and that's also something I will long treasure in my heart. You have been thoroughly impressed by The Golden Child series, you've said, and I believe you. I too have been blessed! Maybe you know how it goes: You get an idea like this -- The Golden Child -- and you go with it, and you hope it turns out as a great thing.

The old coal mound was something I never understood! In real life. Why was there an old coal mound at my aunt's place, and one of pretty good size? There wasn't a coal mine anywhere near by. About the other thing I can figure, looking at it wholly in common sense terms -- setting aside its connection with demons, etc. -- is that coal was piled there sometime before my aunt lived there. Let's say an old hermit had a cabin nearby among the trees, and he heated his place with coal, so the mound was there. Or it could have been that he was a coal miner earlier in life, then in nostalgia had a coal mound piled up. It only seems natural later on that hell would be looking for out-of-the-way nexus points by which to connect with the surface, leading to my experiences.

I'll leave the other mysteries to your imagination! Thanks again for your compliments about my mysteries. My grandparents always taught me to do things that last. If you build a garage, for example, let it be a decent garage for a good long while. If you write something, like all the huge mysteries I wrote about in The Golden Child series, write it with a deep sense of love, not just for the craft of writing but for the opportunity you have (along with your innate talent) to really say something. And look at the size of the thing! This is Part 16! That's probably longer than any book you've ever read*. I'm absolutely sure I've never written a 16/17-part book!

I want to let you know right up front, there actually is a concluding Part 17, which will be written very soon. I advise you to simply be patient, and let it catch its breath and come into its form -- likely as something amorphous at first (most things I write appear, like developing film, light and nebulous, before taking a sharpness busting at the seams.) It's hard to say what it is exactly, because every animal's different.

Part 17 will involve more than me personally, along with the heroine Myra Kula Electra. I'll probably mention her in 17, since even her name is beautiful. This is no joke: I ride in my car saying Myra's name. Even when I was dead-set angry with her the last year and a half -- after she slept with the Four Prisoners at the July 4 celebration, in public -- I was still driving around, or saying it at home, and of course in bed, "Myra Kula Electra," all sexy and whispering and drawn out like that. Good God, I'm being much more frank than is advisable, but a few times my eyes were rolled back in my head as I said her name! I was writhing, hopelessly in love, but hopeless to reach out to her as my anger had cut off things apparently in such a final way.

The Four Prisoners -- Danny, Tipsy, Cannibal, and Spud -- I doubt I'll ever mention them again.

Part 17 is very likely to signal the apotheosis of me as The Golden Child figure insofar as the public is concerned. But I will continue through life as The Golden Child, albeit more privately.

Friends, whatever 17 does for me, and your perception of me as The Golden Child, we'll always have 16. And if you're really nostalgic for the good things you've known and loved, you can always reread 1 through 15, then 16 for a bittersweet moment, then 17 for the blog equivalent of the Götterdämmerung. Surely you'll think of me crossing the rainbow bridge, if you're a fan of that whole Germanic pagan thing, where the women are bigger than bears and the men are literally horny.

(Look at the great picture of me sitting on my gigantic book, this fantastic saga, The Golden Child 1 through 15, with this great Part 16, one that I will surely cry over later when I'm in my room, and Myra is there with me, cooing love and assuring me that the Four Prisoners didn't give her any infection that lasted.

*I confess, I don't remember ever reading a 16-part book, let alone one with a 17th part not even written yet.

Thanking The Four Prisoners

THE GOLDEN CHILD - #15

One of my favorite things to do in life is to get a big sincere look on my face, then face someone who's apparently done me a favor or some nice thing, and give them a fulsome compliment and my richest thanks for a job well done. I lay it on thick, too: "Ohh, it's just the nicest thing anyone's ever done, you're such a good person, and when they made you they threw away the mold, your afterlife's bound to be pleasurable, a thousand virgins," the whole bit. I fell on the ice one day and a neighbor came to check on me and, for no more than that, he got 500 virgins!

So in the aftermath of the whole Myra Kula Electra/demons episode, involving the Tractor Promenade and the old Coal Mound, a creepy place when I was a kid, I had to pass out the plaudits and make them good. And appear as gracious as I can, because nothing says "You owe me" like complimenting and praising true scum of the earth, as I faced in the four prisoners. Hell, it's only been a few days and I can't actually remember what they did in this whole episode! But, in their favor, I've been experiencing short term memory loss since falling on the ice.

Instead of me referring back in the posts of the last week, let's just say the four prisoners did something worthy of commendation. Would I have been victorious without them? Absolutely. Would Myra have overcome the demons? I can't see why not. Would the town have survived without the prisoners? Of course. It's like a thought experiment. Let's say in the best of all possible worlds there would've been four or eight guys a hundred times better than these four idiots. Can you picture the four or eight other guys? Can you grasp the fact that they are one hundred times better? All right. We survived without those guys, guys whose contributions conceivably would've been vital! Let's say we couldn't do it without them! And yet we did... Ergo, we could've done it without these four, too.

Be that as it may -- and Spud, Tipsy, Cannibal, and Danny, if you're reading this -- again, it's just a thought experiment. The fact is, we couldn't have done it without you. In a sense, then, you can assume this was your purpose in life. This was the vital mission you were born for. You worked yourself up from childhood, then into a life of crime, not because you were simply meant to be criminals and go to prison and still be there, albeit living on a work release farm. All your errors, all the things you've suffered in prison, all the joy you may have had in ordinary society, with wives, kids, homes, and dogs. All of that was deprived you so you would be in the right place for when I needed you. To accomplish whatever it was you did. And I believe it had to be something. Otherwise why would I be commending you?

Thank you, gentlemen, for a job well done!

When I think of the enormity of the challenge: Every demon from every pit in hell itself, every devil from the furthest, deepest, darkest hole, dwelling in unimaginable darkness, hanging from sharp crags, with the uncanny, disgusting sound of blood dripping into pools of blood, with the sound echoing from vast canyons that have never been seen by the eyes of men... Every scurvy son-of-a-bitchin' filthy slimy, wasted away, moth-eaten bat or devil or demon or wraith or scurvy whatever, hanging from the rafters, pushed back upon the shelf, not able to tell a stalactite from a stalagmite with its eyes wide open in the pitch black sky untouched by the slightest beam of light, lost in an unmapped hellscape of such a description that there's no way even to describe it... Gentlemen, all that you faced! And the sounds, O, the sounds! The screeching, the howling, the growling, the long nailed feet prowling, their bare feet lacerated by stepping on broken glass and nails, then the crying out. The fact that God is so angry in His wrath that there is no broken glass or nails except what is immediately created in the darkness for them to step on as they take the step! That's bad, beneath contempt, as far as I'm concerned, diabolical!

I think of the enormity of the challenge you faced, gentlemen, and I can only say, "Thank you."

Now, gentlemen, let me say in addition: You helped rescue Myra Kula Electra from all that, and for that I am also grateful. But that is where my thanks ends. The black school bus from the prison farm awaits you outside. As you collect your certificate of merit, you will be immediately escorted to the bus, to be taken back to the farm, where you will live out your days. I shared my concerns about you and women with the warden, and he -- a man who once had a dear mother who was a woman -- says you should never again taint polite society with your disgusting animal lusts.

Without bringing the thoughts of pleasure into your mind too much, remember, you had public sex with Myra Kula Electra, the four of you. And that must never happen again! Be gone with you! Get out of my sight! And never come back! Having now fulfilled your purpose in life, take your certificate and kindly leave my sight. Vacate the premises...

The Third Day

 THE GOLDEN CHILD - #13

It's the Third Day after, a particularly symbolic and delightful marker for Golden Children everywhere. I remember as a kid how huge a deal it was on Easter Sunday, back when people were into that. Now, alas, all the true believers in the old ways -- various aunts, grandparents, and even parents -- have passed on to their reward, leaving the rest of the world casting about for something to believe in.

It's no secret most churches struggled to stay open as long as they could, coasting on fumes, but by and large it was all in vain. Now they've been converted to Bingo parlors and office space for people needing offices and a place to have them. The magic is gone. Or is it? There are still those of us who don't just cling to, but revel in the spiritual arts. Kickin' out the jams, what have you. Looking for divine romance, let's say. Being born again in immediate ways.

The illustration portrays a smaller, younger version of Myra Kula Electra, one of the temporary changes she went through when the whole terrible (great) thing went down the other night. The hellhole formerly known as the Old Coal Mound, a place where I experienced freaky things as a kid, blew up and has been more or less harrowed. The vile things that came out of there! O boy! Reminds me of the time many years ago, when Grandpa had a turtle 24 inches in diameter, and he fried up that thing and ate it in one meal! He was sicker'n a dog; that was the harrowing of hell, as far as he was concerned!

Also portrayed is me -- The Golden Child, but this time in my guise as Father Nature (or something) -- thankful, as Nature generally is, for the change of seasons, that gives it new life, or at least something different. Choose your ruts well, Nature; you'll be in them a fourth of the year.

I'll make this quick. Once everything blew up the other night, Robby the Red-Nosed Robot versus the Demons -- including the loathed (but now beloved) Myra Kula Electra -- the square of town was a shambles. Most of the principles, including the Tractor Promenade, the Four Prisoners (Danny, Tipsy, Cannibal, and Spud), and Myra herself, were stunned and out of it. I alone milled about, as though on guard. I was stunned but able to patrol the area.

Around three in the morning, the first police showed up. I stood up to them with my gun, and they backed down. I said, "I'm proud of you officers, respecting the authority of a single man with a gun, a one man militia. The number of officers who would back off as you have are few, and I'm proud to say 'You're from my home town!'" We shook hands and they went back to the station to write their report, likely how they were held off by one man with a gun who thanked them for their respect.

Today, though, all that's in the past. We shall clear out of here and let the city do whatever they need to do to get this town back in decent shape. I'm sorry it looks like crap -- and I realize it's going to be expensive to fix, probably requiring years worth of studies and much higher taxation -- but what's a guy supposed to do when it comes to demons? Maybe I could've destroyed them in the country, let's say, and on second thought, that probably would've been preferable. I go to movies here, and this is what I get to look forward to seeing every time I'm downtown?

Anyway, the graphic above: All nature celebrates our victory! The Golden Child has come through the challenge and prevailed! The spirit of Easter has been restored to its former glory. Establish the meeting places! Let this word go forth to every creature on Earth, those who have a mind and heart wherewith to hear! Myra liveth again, The Golden Child is alive forevermore! Writing his blog, with the things of new life to share!

Next: Myra On The Half-Shell

An Act or Two Short of The Final Act

 THE GOLDEN CHILD - #12

All the stuff I had to do in this Supreme Battle -- it was like fighting World War II single-handedly -- was so unbelievably hard, even I, The Golden Child, am not sure how it was physically done. Except to say, You get organized, you make a checklist, and you check it off as you go, step by step, till everything's done.

This isn't the final denouement to this sad (yet ultimately happy) situation with Myra Kula Electra, but it's darned close. The tide turned when the Tractor Promenade performed on the square, such beautiful stuff, a beautiful, intricate act. Tractors square-dancing tugs at your heart, letting you know that mankind truly has it goin' on.

The courthouse was lit and beautiful. I had a front row seat from my place in the alley across the street by the theater, in the upper chamber of the Robby the Red-Nosed Robot suit. Myra was torn between good and evil, with the tugging of her heartstrings drawing her toward "good," due to the charms of the square-dancing tractors. (As an aside, a few years ago I too felt the lure to a life as a professional criminal, but having seen the Tractor Promenade, I renewed my vows as a law-abiding citizen.)

Meanwhile, in the country, at my aunt's old place, Cousin Roto had loaded the old coal mound with enough explosives -- purchased on the black market from a guy who should know better -- to blow every demon there skyward, and propel them several counties away, depending on the breeze. As it was, he arranged the explosives at a slant, to give them more of a town-ward direction once they hit the prevailing winds. Roto followed my cue made by shining Robby's red nose directly toward his position.

As for Myra, she was atop the old hotel, just north of me, in a spiritual tug 'o war. When as the Promenade hit their climax -- the bearded "women" on their tractors facing the "men" on theirs, then flipping their tractors around as if to yield their backsides -- Myra made her choice. I don't know if it was her deeper romantic nature, or a sudden charge of hormones immediately stimulated, but she made a 65-yard leap from the hotel to the dome of the courthouse! (A decent enough jump, but I still gave it only a 7.5, because with that many demons flying in and serving as an undergirding cushion as well as offering lift, my grandma could have equaled or excelled it.

That left Robby to go marching across from the alley toward the courthouse. My aim was one of life or death. If Myra submitted, then life. If she did not, Robby's eyes were outfitted with nukes. Guaranteed to kill everyone in a 30-mile radius, and probably ruin some very nice tractors. To nudge her more certainly toward life, I had another surprise. The four prisoners Myra and I shared in common -- her more than I -- Tipsy White, Dashing Danny Whfrf, Spud Tuber, and Cannibal -- emerged from Robby's feet, which flip up from the toes like garages. (The remote at first triggered the groin area, where oil drains for oil changes, but with quick thinking, I stopped that and restarted it to trigger the feet.)

As the demons swirled, the fevered commandments of exorcists, multi-tracked earlier in the day (and adding 528 Hz Third Eye Opening music) to be an overwhelming force for good against them, cast them out. The sky opened, many were sucked up. The ground opened, many were sucked down. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth, enough for everyone remaining to take seconds.

My own teeth chattered, because I've got just enough evil in me, exorcists also give me the heebie-jeebies. Were it not for my countervailing good, my hands would've slipped from the joystick and Robby would've taken out the war memorial near the courthouse, a fatal faux pas in this day of superficial cliche patriotism, roused against those football players who refuse to stand, another subject for another day; our society being rife with stupidity, it's hard to cover everything in one swell foop.

Take The Prison Pledge

We had a major prison break recently, a little while back, and as it turned out there was an "inside job" component to it. One of the folks working at the prison couldn't be trusted, becoming, let's say, a little too chummy with the inmates. This is something that must never happen again. And I believe it won't, if everyone who works at the prison takes The Prison Pledge.

(Maybe you don't work for a prison, but you still want to be ready for it if called upon. You're invited to recite this opening sentence:)

"If I am ever entrusted with the duties of serving in a prison, I hereby pledge not to become so friendly with the inmates that I will do anything illegal for them, recognizing as I do that that's what put them there in the first place and would put me there with them, only then without a salary."

The rest of you who do work in a prison may now raise your right hand and pledge:

"I pledge that I will not become emotionally attached to the inmates or in any way psychologically dependent on them for validation or my personal sense of self worth. I recognize that their attention and purposes are very likely to butter me up in order to get favors that would lead to their escape, and my complicity in their crimes.

"As a prison employee, I value my job and the well-being of society enough to forgo whatever so-called comfort the inmates can afford. I pledge that I will instead seek out the services of a trained psychologist or counselor, or will use self-help methods such as yoga to clear my mind and increase my sense of self-worth, or, at the very least, will look in the mirror and sarcastically question myself, 'Really? You're really tempted to go down this vile path?'"

One of the worst details of the recent prison break had to do with sexual favors rendered. But if I were to be any more graphic, I'd be getting into some serious blue material, so I'll leave it at that. Except to say that it involved a hole cut in one of the prisoner's long coat for ease of access. Disgusting!

"I pledge not to make myself available to them for any sexual favors or services. This pledge is made in the full knowledge that anyone can be tempted, particularly when you factor in the inmates' great appeal, being murderers, cutthroats, and selfishly calculating one hundred percent of the time. They do not have my best interests at heart. I pledge to remind myself often that the fact that they're locked up for 40 consecutive life sentences indicates that any sexual favors extended might be related to their desire to go free. And that even without an escape plan, prisoners are perpetually horny and not always strictly following safe sexual practices."

Friends, fellow guards, and future wardens among my readers, I sincerely believe that the more of us who take this pledge and abide by it, the safer the world will be. And the more secure our jobs will be.

Newsletter -- We Inked a Pact

I love it so far. Myra Kula Electra and I are a Mutual Admiration Society, fully in love with one another, in the professional sense. We really had it out last night, with a very pleasant talk after I revealed that I knew who she was. Until recently I only knew her as The Lady. But an astute neighbor filled me in on the lowdown, the real story, the whole truth enchilada, the real weed, that she was THE Myra Kula Electra, as though there could be two!

I'm still saying her name, repeating it to myself, as I eat, nap, shower, take the dog out, and in all sorts of life situations, "Myra Kula Electra, Myra Kula Electra..." She said she doesn't care to hear it, so when she's not around I'm complying, reluctantly, with her wishes. Is she the world's only Myra Kula Electra? Apparently so! I googled her and the first 1,000 hits I got were all her, no other. Which is kind of amazing, because when you google me there's about a dozen different DBKundalinis, and 99% of them aren't me.

Myra's a hotshot writer, of course, so the world been beating a path to her door forever. She's worked for the Daily News for years and she's received a bunch of awards. It's all wonderful stuff, the scandals she's well-known for. When a paper has a good scandal story, they feature it on Page 1, they put the writer's name in big print, they specially copyright it, and they're the envy of the other papers.

Personally, I love reading scandal stories, thinking of how delicious it is to know the subject of the story's writhing in horrible agony, "What a fool I was! Why'd I think I'd never get caught? With Myra Kula Electra around?!" No matter what it is it's very salacious: teachers in relationships with students, or the more modern scandal, average people leaving dogs in hot cars. The big difference today -- and Myra's straddled both worlds on this, having been a writer since well before the Internet -- is it all goes "viral" -- a good sickness -- meaning she's been sought out by the best papers in quite a few of the more well-known states.

Like I said, though, we've got a Mutual Admiration Society going here. I thoroughly complimented her for her talents all these years. And she's been thoroughly complimenting me, buttering me up one side and down the other. I haven't had this big a head since, crap, I can't remember when. Like her, I'm a writer. I always wanted to be a writer since I first learned to write. I took a creative writing class and got a C, so I was hooked. In 2008, then, I started this blog, and the rest is journalistic history. I've kept it all very humble, not seeing that many awards. It's like I always say, You can't lose if you don't enter. The big difference between a blogger like me and a newspaper gal like Myra, there's millions of blogs but the town has only one newspaper. And with a million guys out there making payoffs to the big judges, it's all very corrupt; it's hard to win prizes.

That said, I have received awards. I don't want to go through the whole list. It's off-putting to have a guy crow about himself too much. I'll just mention the one I'm most proud of, which was the prestigious Gorton Fisherman Award for Writing Excellence in 2010. Other than that, the "award" I get everyday is the satisfaction of 10,000+ regular readers, each one basically stepping over the next, trying to get to the blog first. And some of these folks I actually know! There's a couple of town criers right in my neighborhood who shout it over the fence. They're busy refreshing their screens, like 24 hours a day, and when there's a post they shout it out and the shouts go 'round town like a round robin little village kind of thing.

Myra told me her basic mission in getting a job on my newsletter was to be in position to do a scandal story on the work release farm. They're sending out sub-par prisoners, like the guys I had, and she's thinking there's some kind of crime syndicate action at play. But then she found out she likes working with me, so she's agreed to stay on and we'll be a team! We inked a pact on it just this morning, her name and mine, signed in blood on a blank paper, with me to fill in the details of the agreement as they come to me. Heh heh, I might throw in some real zingers. She don't know me too well, do she? Any little favors I might desire, heh heh, although I'm not really that lascivious, but I'm a nice guy, the guy my mom raised.

I seriously think there'll be no stopping us. With Myra Kula Electra's reputation and stunning looks, and my reputation -- my biggest priority since being caught with dirty pictures in 9th grade -- and superior brain power, we'll be an unstoppable team.

Newsletter -- Myra Kula Electra

I've had a decent couple of days around the office, with the ouster of most of my newsletter staff. The peace that descended from above was a welcome change from the rancor and continual outbursts you get when prisoners (work release farm) are on the premises. So this has been good for me. I've been getting back to myself, getting my head cleared after ... must have been a month and half of their crap.

The only outburst today came when I learned something about The Lady, my only female staffer, that blew my mind. You have to remember, I never knew The Lady's name. I actually took her on the staff as a kind of token woman, and even if I stood in a court of law with my hand on a million Bibles, I wouldn't have be able to tell you how I got her. The best I could've guessed would be, for some reason she was simply there and I hired her. Weird, I know.

Well, it turns out that is true. Now that a lot more's been revealed.

One of my neighbors was walking his dog by earlier -- my dog and his were nose to nose and behaving themselves -- and asked how things were going with the newsletter. I started telling him about the firing of the men and he waved me off, being a reader of the blog. He then said something that blew my mind, "How's Myra?" Myra? I'm wracking my mind trying to think of a relative named Myra, a neighborhood dog, anything, and he saw my thrashing about. I go, "Who's Myra?" "The Lady, you do know her name, don't you?" I'm waving my hand, for "Details, details." And he says, "I figured you knew Myra Kula Electra."

It hit me like a ton of bricks, a huge wall of bricks, toppling like they're in an earthquake. "Myra Kula Electra? You're full of it!" But he didn't break character, he was serious. He goes, "If she ain't Myra Kula Electra, what's her name?" And I had to admit again, "I don't know, I never asked." "Did she give you a fake name?" "No," I said, "I didn't ask and she didn't say." He went away chuckling, with his little well-behaved dog, and left me alone with my thoughts.

I picked up the paper and headed for the house, and glanced down. The byline on the top article was by her, Myra Kula Electra, of course. She's a well-known staff writer, and maybe an editor, at the local Daily News, known mostly as an in-depth investigative type. If there's a scandal somewhere, and someone feeds her the dirt -- along, presumably, with her own digging -- it's a Myra Kula Electra scoop. The newspaper's the same as most local rags, lots of ribbon-cuttings and guys shaking hands and passing out big checks. But they're also on the look-out for scandal, when they bring in ... The Lady.

Sitting alone with my thoughts, of course I was hashing it out: Is Myra Kula Electra about to sink me? Did I treat her right? Could she have misinterpreted some of my displays of affection? Is she going to nail me for any alleged mistreatment of the prisoners, Dashing Danny Whrfr, Spud Tuber, Stanley "Tipsy" White, and Cannibal? I treated those bastards pretty good, all things considered. Gave them a taste of freedom, a chance to do something productive with their lives, a little self-esteem, trusted them to run around in my name and for the newsletter, and even took them to the July 4th celebration ... where ... each one of them nailed MYRA KULA ELECTRA! at my feet ... But that wasn't my idea, and, frankly, she seemed quite into it!

Oh my God! I started thinking, like I always do when there's a crisis afoot, What do I do now? How do I get myself out of this mess? Then I remembered some of my own teachings given at seminars, and which would make a good newsletter blurb, If there's a problem in your life, take a deep breath and wait and see what might happen. I breathed deeply, It'll all be OK. And, I thought, even if she does nail me in an article, I can surely come up with a good enough explanation that I won't have to leave town. Seriously, Myra Kula Electra's nailed people and they've left town, that's the kind of shame that really happens.

Once calmed down, I started thinking, How about that? My Lady's Myra Kula Electra! I really loosened up, listening to some music, taking a shower, lounging around the house in my bathrobe. I sat in my chair and started saying The Lady's name, over and over. I said it, must've been 100 times, till it flowed off the tongue like .... smooth, baby, smooth as silk ... "Myra Kula Electra, Myra Kula Electra, Myra Kula Electra, Myra Kula Electra...." It's a very calming name, all the A's, like poetry. Very calming, except for the poor bastards who end up in her articles.

"Myra Kula Electra, Myra Kula Electra, Myra Kula Electra," I repeated, when I heard the key turn. It was her!

Newsletter -- Spud's Eye for The Lady

My newsletter staff was in the mood for love that night, taking down The Lady on the Fourth of July, and I've been in the mood for revenge. Big, violent, terrible revenge, the kind you don't come back from. And I'm confident my grievances will be satisfied. If the righteousness of my cause counts for anything. These guys knew what they were getting into. They knew my rule, "Hands off The Lady!"

With Danny's demise yesterday and exit from the scene, I had to choose, Let us see ... who's next? Suddenly a thought flashed in my mind, How about Spud Tuber? They had The Lady on the ground and that's where potatoes come from. Spud was burrowed down with her and stripped to his skin that night in lovemaking. I've been practically consumed with rage ever since, and now as I replay my memories of her in the grasp of my least-favorite Tuber, that's the topper. It's time to uproot and ship him out.

I have to tell you, folks, rage is a killer. I haven't eaten, I haven't slept. All I can do is pace the floor and cuss the heavens. I'm usually a guy respectful enough not to take the Lord's name in vain, but in endless rerunning of this sickening memory I've spewed so many oaths and imprecations that it certainly would've brought down the storehouses of thunder and lightning on my head if I didn't know within myself such treasures of grace. It's good to be loved unconditionally.

Maybe that's why The Lady allowed these prisoners all over her, just too loving a nature. But that doesn't make sense. She can see, she has feelings, she can tell they're the scum of the earth. The other thing I can't see is how the Potato Man could have had any illusions about his chances with The Lady, due to his hideous form and equally clumsy personality. It's ridiculous. I can only conclude it must be the same for Spud as it is for many other losers, they never see how inexcusably horrible they actually are.

But I've also been thinking, it doesn't seem like a case of a loving nature. She could've flirted with them and left they high and dry. That would've been funny. Instead she willingly succumbed to Tuber that night, and I'm endlessly appalled.

Was there some underground chthonic allure simply too powerful for her? Was it Tuber's connection to nature, the call of the wild, the charm of the primal? Maybe a guy like him looks better to a lady in the dark; certainly in the light of day this potato's not blue ribbon stuff. Whatever it was, there they were, him with his big spudly hands, similar to The Thing of comic book lore, pawing the goods, every beautiful piece of her under the filmy fabric of her dress.

Now, about the newsletter... Danny managed to fill Spud's head with notions, as he was parroting the same line as Danny, "Ahm gonna take your newsletter and make it mine. Ahm gonna take The Lady and make her mine." I had to laugh to myself, thinking, I never thought Potato was that into writing a newsletter. I mostly wanted him for grunt labor, to carry boxes of newsletters to the post office. His talents are few. Yes, he may have the instinct to breed -- and that's where the Lady would come in -- but every three-legged idiot dog knows how to do that. But you have to admit, when it comes to newsletters neither three-legged dogs nor potatoes are any good.

When I confronted Spud about The Lady, I believed I had the upper hand. But as it turned out he wasn't about to go down easily. I vowed I would slice him into enough french fries for an army. He glared at me and I glared back. Then all hell exploded, and there we were, in fierce hand to hand combat. Spud had me in a bear hug and was about to squeeze the life out of me, when I pulled a knife from my pocket and plunged it in his back. He released me and staggered back.

Regaining his strength, Tuber lunged at me, got hold of me and lifted me, and was about to break me in half over his knobby knee, when I pulled out a second knife and plunged it in his mid-section. He staggered back again. And again -- potatoes never learn -- when he lifted me again above his head and was about to thrust me against the broad side of my garage and to a certain death, I pulled out my last knife -- and this is unpleasant, but it's what you sometimes have to do to a potato -- I plunged it in and cut his eyes out. If I'd been hungry he was ready for the microwave.

I fell to the ground and watched Spud Tuber fumbling about on the ground, like Samson, looking for his eyes, as if his Make-a-Wish was to take one last look at The Lady before complete blindness overtook him. But it wasn't to be. Even had he found his eyes, The Lady was inside retyping a new article, on my parents' teachings on pacifism. And I wasn't about to authorize a coffee break.

With Tuber down, I delivered probably the saddest words I've ever spoken to another living creature: "Spud, I once believed you would be my right-hand potato. It really bums me out to slice you up like that. But look on the bright side, you're not crinkle-cut." I put in a quick call to the work release farm and the black prison bus came and took him away. From three quarters of a mile away I could see him shedding a tear, his tear ducts now completely open air and probably running 24/7.

Newsletter -- Dashing Danny's Demise

July 4th marked the end of my newsletter staff as I knew it. Each member of my staff -- Dashing Danny, Spud Tuber, Tipsy White, Cannibal, and The Lady Herself -- betrayed me. So now it's time for paybacks. Which will be sweet, as I systematically destroy them.

I thought, Dashing Danny Whfrf's obviously the ringleader, he's the one I'll take out first. All I knew about was the sexual stuff Danny was involved in with the rest. But in confronting him I soon learned it went far deeper -- amazingly! -- that he planned to take over the newsletter, to steal it and issue it as his own and the Lady's!

In confronting him, I caught him, red-handed, with my notebook of newsletter ideas and The Lady. We stood on the lawn, glaring at each other, The Lady cowering behind the Dashing One. I chose to take a mournful tone, not a strident tone, which would've inflamed things and likely precluded answers. "Danny, I thought you were the one redeemable prisoner on my staff, the brains of the outfit, you alone ... but here we stand."

He seemed perplexed at my sorrowful words, but also knew any advantage he might have lay in a strident response. "What you think or don't think is of no concern to me. You have what I want, I'll take it!"

I kept up the mournful pose. "Of course you mean The Lady, that much is clear, but now the newsletter as well? It's not enough that you find a Lady of your own and start your own newsletter; oh no, that would be too much!" I had crossed into the no-man's land of sarcasm, a place you can never return from, where there's nothing left to hide behind.

"You're right about one thing, Kundalini," he said sharply, "I am the brains of the outfit. Whatever success the newsletter would've had had nothing to do with you. Your blurbs on the minutiae of your daily life hold no interest. I've got what today's reader wants, anecdotes of crime and punishment, doing time and escaping, and sex with The Lady!"

"So you're planning...?" I was tentative, I don't think I wanted to hear the answer.

"That's right, I'm escaping! No more work release, no more halfway house! Once my voice takes hold of society in the newsletter, they'll never be able to touch me! Especially with a Lady like this on my arm!"

I lamented, "You poor delusional fool. A newsletter needs a spirit to it, the spirit of good. Every newsletter I've ever seen inhabited by the spirit of evil has flamed out after the first couple issues. The public -- despite their many failures -- are essentially good. They're the kind of Everyman I represent, a pool in the yard, two kids, three dogs, a garage full of cars. They want pointers on how to step up their game of domesticity, not how to work a paperclip in a jail door!"

"So that's all you think I know, eh? The life of solitude and solitary confinement." I started to feel I wasn't getting through to him, and the ire rose up inside me, my ears glowing hot at the tips. He pulled the Lady to himself and bent her over for a long and involved and very wet kiss. I lost my mind and lunged at him. But he anticipated me and stabbed me right between the eyes. I would've been a goner, except for a yoga move I'd only just recently mastered, the Third Eye Displacement. It changed my focus in a startling new way, so that -- knife or no knife -- I could see my path to victory.

I grabbed the Lady's hand and pulled her behind me. Danny was aghast, suddenly seeing how things stood. What kind of newsletter could he make without the Lady's love? It's unfathomable, even ridiculous to imagine!

I didn't know what to make of it entirely, but self-preservation got the best of Danny and he dashed off, leaving me to phone it in to headquarters. There were sirens and gunshots about a quarter of a mile west of my place, and pretty soon I saw the prison bus -- a school bus painted black -- take the road east past my place.

It gave me the last glimpse I hope to ever have of Dashing Danny Whfrf. I watched closely as they passed and beheld a tear in his eye, which he then defiantly wiped away before assuming a stolid pose, looking straight ahead. Now he was a half mile away and his back to me, details were harder to make out. All I could tell was he had a sneer on his face and was resolved to greater and greater crime in the future.

I learned a couple of important lessons in this whole episode: There are men you simply can't redeem, no matter how good your newsletter is. And second, a knife between the eyes, while being entirely life-threatening, serves as a pretty good beacon to the higher consciousness, for a limited period of time. I pulled it out and got a bandage.

Newsletter -- The Lady

I wrote tributes to the male members of my newsletter staff, Dashing Danny Whfrf, Spud Tuber, Tipsy White, and Cannibal. But just like a fancy meal, it's time now for the main course, my favorite, The Lady. Just like an exquisite lily against a backdrop of weeds, The Lady has pride of place on our team. So much so that I've warned the riff-raff, not once but multiple times, "Keep your hands off The Lady! If I ever catch you near The Lady..."

I suppose I may as well say it, I have a really hard time keeping my eyes off her. When I see the guys of course I'm revolted, my heart sinks, I feel queasy, and I'm barely restrained from lashing out, "You sons of bitches!" But when it's The Lady, it's a different story; my heart just melts. Her smile, her smooth skin, that personality, she's the whole package and more.

The history of men and women since the beginning of the world is an interesting one, to the extent that I know anything about it. I learned as a child that the Lord created Adam and Eve, long before Steve showed up. Adam was created from the dust and Eve from one of his ribs. If memory serves, I believe they also told me, to this day men have one less rib than they would have if they had one more.

Immediately the question comes up, Is it worth it to be missing a rib so we can have women? My answer has to be, Absolutely! What would you rather have, an extra rib or a mother? As a question it's nonsense, because how would we have had mothers if we'd insisted on the extra rib? Clearly in that case we wouldn't have any ribs, to speak of. I'm not begrudging her, Mom was worth it. The Lady, similarly, is worth her weight in ribs.

The other points I feel like making are these: 1) Women are the Glory of Men; 2) They cause us to say "Oo-la-la;" 3) They are very addictive; and, 4) When they were created the Lord threw away the mold. But just stating the points will be enough, because you're smart, you can figure out what I would've said.

I know, certainly, The Lady is the glory of this man. Cute, sweet, smart as a whip, sharp as a tack, gentle but not too gentle, rough but not too rough, not afraid to talk back, but too kind to overwhelm me in a game of tit for tat. Like a good bowl of porridge, she's just right. I can truly say the best move I ever made was when I took her on for my newsletter... If she learns to write articles, so much the better.

You know, it's been only a month and I don't actually remember where I got her. True! That's interesting, because I'm usually very sharp on these things. I know I got the guys at the prison release farm. But The Lady, I guess she just showed up and I took her on, which doesn't sound likely. But I've been known to do stuff like that. I pride myself on making snap decisions, and they always seem to work out great. Wherever she came from, The Lady's the best decision I ever made.

Like I said, though, the worst thing about it is the terrible dread I feel that she might be molested by one of the other fruitcakes. I can't stay awake 24 hours a day, anything could happen. This is the same thing Adam thought about Steve, always coming after Eve, or, worse, himself. But I'm doing what I can, letting The Lady sleep in the house while the guys are bunking in the garage. Putting some separation between them and her, which gives me a little comfort.

OK, that's enough of a tribute for her. I want to be alone now, just me and my thoughts, wherever they may lead me.

Newsletter -- The Peace of a Thief

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Newsletter -- The Object

I'm about ready to put out a newsletter, and I have a staff, which I hope will make the process smoother and make for a more interesting newsletter. I'm a big believer that more voices add something. I've been looking to enhance our chances, so we got together and I led the team in one of the exercises I do at some of my seminars, whether it be on group dynamics or anything. This is a great exercise even for something like positive thinking, firing up some of those tired brain cells. I recommend it.

I called the group to order and explained our "conundrum," The Object before us. Hmm, what is it? By that I meant, What is it beyond what it obviously is, in this case a stone? What does your mind tell you? I've been doing some personal spiritual development -- look for my seminar in six months -- so this is an exercise that makes me tingle all over.

You probably remember my staff. In the graphic, going clockwise from the upper right corner, we have, the Lady, and from the work release farm, Spud Tuber, Cannibal, Stanley "Tipsy" White, Dashing Danny Whfrf, and me.

So there we were, chairs in a circle with The Object on a table in the center. What is it? What are you thinking? Think deeply. We have The Object in common. Take a deep breath and release, not in your neighbor's face. What could it be? As usual, answers weren't immediately given. Either a case of nerves or mentality. The guys seemed clueless. Only the Lady, clearly the one with the fullest deck, and everything else, was forthcoming, "I am perplexed," she said.

Ever patient, I counseled them to close their eyes again as I spoke. "I have given seminars for some of the smartest people on the planet. Fortune 500 companies. Scientists. Fifth graders. And nine times out of ten they also sit in silence as you have. Until they do what I'm going to ask you to do: Open your eyes suddenly and mark in your mind the first thing you think of when you look at The Object. Now!"

We went around the circle. The Object reminded Spud of a big potato. It reminded Tipsy of a flask. Dashing Danny saw a nice little lady's purse, fit for the taking. Cannibal picked it up and chipped a tooth, apparently seeing in it the cheek of someone's juicy ass. That was the guys. The Lady started, then regathered her thoughts, like maybe she was reluctant to reveal too much. She pulled back in silence, then after eye contact she braved it, "I see in it the egg in the Ukrainians' Bird Goddess mythology, circa 4500 B.C." I nodded, "Yes, I can see how you'd arrive at that conclusion."

I thought to myself, This gal's really on the ball! Not just a pretty package, there's something going on in there! Or maybe she just got lucky. Beginner's luck, pearls of wisdom as from a child, a random assortment of words that just happened to make sense...

We broke into groups. Right away I and the Lady were one group. None of the others wanted to be partners with Cannibal, so there was a group of three with Cannibal alone. I gave them five minutes to confer, then we would reconvene. They were to come up with a consensus answer, thinking deeply about what is truly is.

It's in these group dynamics settings that I really shine. I figured Cannibal would have the fewest insights, so I would call on him last. That's a good way to encourage the smarter ones to take charge without the entire group being sidelined by the stupidest. As for the other three prisoners, I knew they had enough mentality on the ball to jog forth at least one thought. This really isn't to slight Cannibal entirely; he's dumb, but as is true of all prisoners, he has convictions.

When we came together, the three guys really disappointed me. Dashing Danny was the spokesperson, and whatever progress they had made was lost. Probably because of the complexity of the Lady's previous answer. The had decided to go back to The Object as a literal rock, which Dashing Danny said would "be great for throwing through a plate glass window and making off with the goods!" I shook my finger to scold him.

I was the spokesperson for myself and the Lady, saying we had set aside the goddess imagery, to behold in The Object a representation of the linga, not precisely a phallic symbol, as some would contend, but a symbol of something more nebulous, but something that could be perceived in a shape like this, while not really having a distinct form. It is a primal concept, inherently beyond thought, which dissolves in our imagination and leaves us in the presence of the vast, the void, the divine. I looked over at the guys and saw the vast void in their eyes.

"OK, how about you, Cannibal? What do you see in The Object?" Before I knew it, he leaped on me and bit off the little finger on my right hand! The pain was excruciating but I was immediately enlightened.

LATER: After the incident the Lady got me a BandAid® brand adhesive bandage and took me to the ER. The doc reattached my finger and told me to soak it in ice for extra-fast healing. It doesn't feel too bad, except every time I hit the ENTER button I scream.