The Psycho Squad

Part 1 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

We have wreckers for cars that break down. And ambulances for nervous breakdowns. That's basically what you need to know. And people to drive them and ride along.

I've had wreckers come help me; that's a complicated business. You'd think, hook the hook to the bumper and drag it in, simple. But, no, there's lots of different cars, the places where the hook needs to go varies. You even have to have it so when the wrecker stops, the car stops. Get that? It has to be cinched up real good and tight. Then the other thing, they have to be able to turn corners without it flipping off or getting twisted at the chain, etc. It's so complicated, if you have the slightest qualms about having what it takes, go into brain surgery instead. It's easier and the pay's better.

That's where I come in, one of society's heroes, somewhere between the wrecker guy and a brain surgeon. In fact, that'd be a terrific logo, a wrecker pulling a head to the service station. That'd be a funny logo, something everyone would remember. And it tells our story in its basics; just as a car breaks down, we break down. It's nothing to be ashamed of. No one blames a car when it has problems. I guess I have, but it doesn't do any good. But who among us hasn't kicked a car or even taken a sledge hammer to one?

With people though -- and I'm a people person, not a cannibal but I love people -- I treat them as well as possible. The least little thing, of course, and they'll sue the pants off you. Especially if the problems are more mental and not observable, just the symptoms. They can imagine you did all kinds of things. And say they've got split personality disorder, they think they know what you did from five different angles. Tough to disprove even if you have a split personality guy as sideman.

Anyway, it's a tough business, but gratifying. It's good to know you're doing something everyone else only dreams about. But those folks can wake up and take a sedative and go back to sleep. We have to face it, this is the reality of life, terrible, boiling over crazy, you wake up with the heeby-jeebies and that's the way you go to bed. Half the time I'm afraid to face another day, but then I think, at least days are twice as nice as nights. Especially with a full moon. It's been a while since I was surrounded by psychos on the highway. Say you're threatened, just howl yourself, keep 'em confused, they don't know who they're looking for. Then phone for backup. 

I wanted to do this job since I was a kid. I also wanted to marry a redhead. Three redhead wives later, I thought, try a blonde. So here I am, doing the job. The ambulance is a seductive mistress, also redheaded, a red light twisting the night away.

One of my old classmate friends wanted to help people when he graduated. So he went to work for a home with mental cases. They were locked in, he was locked in with them. He showed me the bite marks on his skin one day, even dropped his pants a couple inches. Teeth marks from people with teeth better than mine! I thought the obvious, you gotta be crazy. I’d really hate to be their dentist...

These are my adventures. Which I try to keep tame. If nothing interesting happens on any given day, that's good, that makes me happy. The more boring, the better. Lack of bite marks, my goal. Avoiding redheads? Lock me up and throw away the key if I cave. Bald's better.

Uncle Hoist and Aunt Eedee

Yesterday, I posted my '80s college psychology work, the Ladder and Scaffold of Self Images, which, just to answer a few who quickly wrote in, is indeed something I came up with myself. I did not copy it from the works of Freud or Jung. And to the guy who loudly proclaimed he saw it in a psychology textbook, that's true; I licensed it to the publishers of that particular edition. 50 bucks.

Sheesh! You think everything has to be derivative? A student can't be Super Brain and just come up with something on his own? I've been coming up with good stuff all my life. I was in the school library doing research on the history of my town's name in first grade. I knew how to spell "encyclopedia" in fifth grade, and totally grasped the distinction between "form" and "from." Along with memorizing the capitals and presidents.

But it's OK if you want to be suspicious. I know myself, and I don't copy! An old psychological saw comes to mind, something like this: If you're quick to accuse others, you've confessed your own guilt. So I'll let you think about that for a while. By the way, there's a similar blues song, "Before you 'cuse me, take a look at yo'self." I hope I got the dialect right...

It's funny, though, how we do that. We always think it's some guy faraway in Zurich or Berlin who has to be responsible for all the brainy stuff in the world. Because everyone knows that some kid on your block or anonymous guy on the internet -- a local guy with a blog -- can't know anything! Heavens forfend! That any of us may have gone to college, as I actually did. And you can't go to all the parties I went to and not learn something.

You might be interested to know, though, I come from interesting stock, where anything's possible... Meaning, I had a redheaded uncle. On that, I don't know if there's a psychological postulate, but there should be. Redheaded men go through so much, they either prosper beyond your wildest imagination or they die. Which I didn't know when I was a kid. I thought Uncle Hoist was just another hayseed uncle. And he cultivated that image, for reasons of his own, but when he revealed himself he was an entirely different guy.

Only a few people knew how smart Hoist was. Of course one of those was Aunt Eedee, who, it turns out, served as his "right hand man" for many years in his lab work and studies. It's funny, though, to the outside world Hoist was just a "good old boy," but like I said, when he revealed himself, it was a whole different thing! The man was a genius. I don't know if he applied for the certificate, but he could've.

Anyway, here's the tie-in with my "Ladder and Scaffold" chart. I had just come home from college, and I had the original copy of it with the big fat shiny "A." We were at Hoist and Eedee's for a barbecue. And Hoist (as the hayseed) was sitting there with no shirt, proud with his bright red hair and completely white hairless chest. He calls me over and goes, "You did this, boy?" He has it in his left hand and softly taps it with the back of his right. The old hayseed then turns it upside down, like he's trying to make heads or tails of it, since it does look a bit complicated. I can see he's challenged by the advanced vocabulary, deep concepts, and impressiveness of the big fat shiny "A." I said, hoping not to condescend, "That's an A, Hoist, the best grade you can get." He looked confused, but apparently reached some level of understanding as to what I was attempting to enunciate.

Anyway, Hoist takes a piece of tape -- This is a redheaded man! -- and sticks the chart right in the center of the keg, putting it on good display for the family. "Wee doggies!" he ejaculates, "This deserves a big celebration!" Eedee comes out with an apple pie and bowl of her patented chop suey, which I loved, and I knew I'd hit the big time.

Later, then, Hoist is nowhere to be found. And Eedee comes over and whispers that he wants to see me in the garage. I get there and he's taken the chart off the keg and had it laminated. I'm aghast, as it turns out Hoist isn't just a good old boy, but something else! We get in a narrow elevator, a small chamber in the corner, and descend to an underground lab, 50 feet down, under the garage, and massive like the Batcave, where Hoist has been busy doing experiments and running studies on human consciousness (and other consciousness, as much as he has time for -- dogs, cats, horses, etc.) In fact, it turned out he's the guy who painstakingly quantified the horrific psychological effects of Lawn Darts on insects.

Suddenly, he tells me that my Self Images chart -- after 40 years of agonizing twists and turns and theories he's worked on -- finally clarified everything for him, being "the one perfect road map" as to how things are! Isn't that amazing! Then he goes, "To think you had all this lying dormant in your mind all those years -- while playing basketball in my driveway -- and I, your faithful redheaded uncle, never recognized it! I'll need time to process this, my worst failure..." I felt badly, but knew he'd bounce back, like redheaded men generally do, and very soon he was his jolly self. Although serious, too, as the serious scientist he turned out to be.

I toured the lab and was amazed at the facility, his investment, and work. This was in the '80s, Hoist is now gone. At that time he had just concluded a five-year project in child psychology. If truth be told, Hoist deserves most of the credit for the drop in serious drug addiction stats among children under 5 in the '90s. And going with that, perhaps even more important, Hoist and Eedee worked with an endless procession of dogs in the testing of invisible fence technology, meaning those kids could finally play in the neighborhood without fear and needing to resort to drugs.