The Paranoia Debate

Paranoia

Part 6 of 30

Please forgive a little diversion into my debate notes from 7th grade. They gave us our assignment and we went off to do the research. Then the third day of class I was the debate foreman for the affirmative of this proposition: "Exposure of anything to the light of day and the careful study of those qualified to judge, not swayed by prejudice or simply a mind already made up, is among life's greatest antiseptics and stimulants toward truth, hereby spurred on." I'll never forget it. We wiped out the other team, and to this day the question to me is irrefutable. It was such a moment, really, and everyone was so blown away that we spent the rest of the semester arguing about the merits of particular baked goods. And brownies won!

Along those same lines, I used to hear the great beloved song, “Count Your Blessings,:which was a decent song that also had a lot to do with your attitude. Because no matter how bad things are -- there are always great antiseptics and stimulants, and, yes, you can accomplish anything, and that's the truth! But enough about debate, now to real life...

The setting here is a town dump, which allowed public access. And our parents didn't care if we played there, killing rats, blowing up aerosol cans, anything. It was great. Among the personnel there, let’s see, Edgar was the first manager, then a guy named Stubby took over, then a guy named Harmon. That’s when I left home. Anyway, we did go to the dump to play, shoot rats with bows and arrows and watch them bleed and seek out the quarters where the poorer rats go, their holes.

I suppose some of my bad luck is karma from those days, because I couldn’t stifle my killer instincts, thinking it was so fun. I caught a piece of the karma even as a kid, cutting myself on a tin can and needing shots. Mom asked WTF happened, and what could I say but the truth? We were throwing bricks through old TVs and watching them explode. But I was too close to this one -- a Philco -- and the blast carried me 40 feet through the air. Quite a flight, too. Half hour later I landed in some rubbish and sliced my finger pretty bad. I went through the rubbish and found an old chunk of cotton, a little sticky with something, and bandaged it good enough to survive the walk home. And so forth, I threw myself on Mom's mercy, she sewed it up, and I went to bed and had dreams and nightmares, most of them in quick succession, some of them on a seemingly endless hold while they threaded the projector, a type you couldn’t get parts for today.

So what happened next? I can’t remember what just happened! Ever since that time, my memory has been very faulty. I’m hoping to find the cure someday but have had great difficulty … My memory’s so bad … I have vast experience with paranoia ... I hope they can cure me. Something happened. Whatever it was is, what was it I said? Anyway, I believe there’s a whole slate of enemies, see? Out to get me, see? My life was essentially ruined, somehow. People from the old days who see me also wonder what happened. I’m always like, “What are you talking about? Nothing happened to me.” Then I fall asleep and wake up crying out. It’s a bastard. Whatever I said. Somethings out there, just biding its time, somewhere nearby, waiting to get me.

They took me to a doctor. His favorite word was “Interesting.” He'd put the listening thing up to my chest and say “interesting,” and so forth. I just lost my train of thought again. And this might be too much a downer. I’m fearful it is. It really gets to me. Look at my hand, that’s some shaking, huh?

Really, though, that’s nothing. I could shake it twice as fast if I needed to, and I just might...

Leap Year Day, Coronavirus

This could really be a red-letter day for someone, being the leap year date squeezed into the calendar every four years. It's one of the oddest days there is, so odd there's nothing else quite like it. Maybe your birthday. But they add a second or take away a minute every once in a while when the orbit of the planet goes out of whack or the sun exerts enough extra oomph of gravity to pull us closer to the inferno. And the same thing goes for days.

On that last point, it was just in the news that we had either one or two new moons enter the earth’s orbit, which was or were very small. I saw the headline on a video that one of them was about the size of a volleyball, but on the news they said it was about the size of a Volkswagen bug. Either way, it’s not enough to make my backyard a lot bigger, but it’ll be a bastard if it somehow hits the house. I've always heard that a penny dropped from space could go through your head and continue its path about 3 foot in the ground. Twice as deep as the neighborhood cat that died and I buried.

But enough about the disasters this date might bring. I’m going to focus on the pleasant, the happy, always trying to put a smile on your face whether you deserve it or not. Leap Year Day always reminds me of the one or two kids in school who happened to be born Feb. 29. And these things -- what they were able to say -- didn’t happen very often, obviously, because in another four or eight years we’d be in middle school or high school.

I do remember, though, two kids -- can’t remember who they were -- saying, “I’m only 4” (or 8 or 12.) And giggling like it was a riddle, how’d they do it? what could they possibly mean? I believe scientists knew, but to the rest of us it was mysterious. So ... this one day pops up once in a while like the rare pimple before puberty. Wash your face and maybe it won’t happen again.

I wanted to get to Leap Year Day this year, with the Coronavirus disease, a weird sprouting thing from certain strains of Chinese food, weather, livestock, or something. The Chinese are pretty smart. If you’ve ever seen their parades, they don’t skimp on exactitude. If anyone could come up with a super killer, it’d be them. And in fairness, if they set their mind to it they could come up with something that would benefit us all, like an antidote right now.

So, what if a few of us die on Leap Year Day from the Coronavirus? It might actually be one of the things that would redeem our lives, giving the survivors something to brag about: "Derek’s been dead four years and it’s been a tough year since his passing." They’re like, “What?” It was almost four years, but it’s much fresher because he only died a year ago...

It could be a benefit politically too, which might not be that great. But it’s true. A whole bunch of people die of Coronavirus on Feb. 29, say it’s a million. They could spin it quite easily, “A million, yeah, that’s bad, but it only averages 250,000 a year, typical.” An even better spin would be this: “Look at all the Leap Year Days since the bubonic plague hit big-time in the 14th century -- killing 50 million. There’s been around 570 Leap Year Days since then, so, hell, that’s not even 990,000 a year, next to nothing when you compare it to cigarette deaths. And if people choose to smoke bubonic that’s their business.”

Anyway, Happy Leap Year Day. I hope most of us make it. There’s a few, of course, no matter what day it is, the Twelfth of Never, who'll never make it.

Married With Renewed Virginity

Part 11 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

In these days of boldness, of people putting it right out there, even in your face, and daring you to object, we have to tread wisely. “Forgive them,” we might earnestly implore the forces above, putting ourselves in some pretty holy company with words like that, “Forgive them for humping everything in sight, be it consenting, be it nonconsenting, be it alive, inert, a hole in a tree, or some filthy device found secondhand in a used devices store.

I know the media isn’t helping. Yes, I’m paying attention to the media. And I can sum things up pretty well. An image forms in my head and I mull it over. I don’t write it down. And before you know it, it’s taken on a life of its own, with a mind of its own. I rise up, it exposes itself to the light of day. It forges ahead, dodging and weaving, making its own path, forcing its way with insistence against all obstacles, unaware of the meaning of Stop Stop or Don’t Stop, Don’t Stop num num num. And I have pretty good control, respecting all boundaries. But here I’m speaking not just of my moral self, but the forces of existence that take our fellow beings over the line and to the moral woodshed. They can be restrained, they can be helped, even if it takes manacles.

Did your parents sleep together? With an emphasis on the word ‘sleep’? Ooo la la, some of you are saying. Of course they did. They weren’t perfect. Their restraint was like the restraint of most people, feeling fairly well entitled and not having real discipline. To the extent that I was aware of anything, I can say that mine had the superficial basics down. But they didn’t want anyone to know. This became an issue when I filled out a survey -- called Card/Pack -- that brought down the wrath of my dad upon me. “Did it have a question that said, ‘Do your parents sleep together?’" I couldn’t remember but I thought so. Well, from that point on, they didn’t. Meaning I had to file an amended return and only then escaped trouble with Dad.

If they were like the proud couple I’m thinking of today, who sleeps outside to let all the world know they’ve got the innocence it takes to have the happiest life, it wouldn’t be an issue. And perhaps it wasn’t anyway, because from that time on that’s all the kids they had. I have to think they knew something about the authorities and the scare of being socially exposed, because, indeed, There's Death in Them Thar Drawers. Meaning, the less school children were discussing it and exposing it to the all-seeing eye of the government, which you'd think would be more interested in aggregate numbers than specific hanky panky, the more they could continue their activities, but now with more discretion. Which is still no excuse.

My Report Card

 

Part 3 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

One of the counselors I've had over the years is someone I'd definitely recommend. I mean I would recommend him if he would only clear away about six years of unpaid bills, which frankly have slowed my recovery from fragile self-esteem.

It was under his therapy that I learned to use affirmations and his theories on me seeing my life as a thing of hope and beauty, no matter how hopeless I obviously feel and how awful things are. He taught me one very potent mantra: “I’m gonna be dead someday, what can I accomplish today?” Unfortunately, I haven’t accomplished a lot, but I do have a grave plot on hold, despite the cemetery board’s continual threats that if I don’t put money down they can’t guarantee it’ll be there when I need it.

Just today I was working on one of my mantras, looking deeply into the mirror and my own bloodshot eyes and affirming myself, “Get used to me world, I’m here, deal with it, loser.” If I say that a couple hundred times I'm able to go out in public and function for several minutes without any self-esteem attacks. Giving me time to grab a few groceries and pay for them if the line has less than three people. On some of their busier days I've had to drop things and run, or simply steal things.

My ability to take baby steps (and more) are reflected in my early report cards. My deportment was judged Fair (which I think means really good), and I need good deportment for outings, for my good attitude and general friendliness. Also it has to do with the appropriateness of my attire, and I've found anything's better than nudity.

It’s not perfect system, though, since I don't change clothes very often. And I believe if I can sit at home and smell myself, others in public probably can too. But until I get explicit complaints -- and there’s usually someone else near enough, it could be them -- I’m just going to keep on going as I have. I don’t like wasting money on soap. I think that if you show up at the cash register with a bunch of soap, to the checkout lady that’s the same as a signed confession that you're the one that stinks.

Just to review my other marks. I got better at spelling, thanks to the computer checking everything. Arithmetic isn’t needed thanks to calculators, and anything under 10 I can use my fingers. I’ll just put out a little note to any of my teachers who may have survived this long and are reading this. Thanks to all of you, for nothing. I’ve got fragile self-esteem and I’m pinning the blame on you! You did this to me! I’m coming after you!

IF, One Of The Biggest Small Words

Part 11 of 31

They Found Another Body

I remember when we were kids they were always trying to teach us about words, then slip in life lessons in such a killer way that we’d never forget them. I don't know if you remember that. I’ve lectured about it in motels, mostly for focus groups that help struggling blog writers. Most of them had no clue what I was talking about. And yet I still finished the lecture.

It goes like this. The teacher writes on the board 10 words that are real jawbreakers. Big huge complicated bug-like words, lots of Ks and Js and Xs, like Polish, bigger, harder words than we've ever heard. I remember accommodation, wherewithal, purloined, recommended, xylophone, landfills, and stalactite. She said, “How ya like the looks of them jawbreakers, eh?” And everyone of us knew exactly what she was talking about: If I’m supposed to understand words like that and know how to spell them, let me out now, this is officially my last day of school...

But her educational wiles weren't quite over. It turned out what we thought was the main course — the bullseye of her strategy — was just the warm up act for something more challenging and devious. (A lot of kids dropped out that day, but my square parents wouldn’t allow me one little bit of personal freedom.) The teacher was just warming up for a mental jawbreaker to burden us with. “Well, listen to this, children, the biggest word in the English language (and this is possibly true for other language groups) is “IF.”

Oh! I remember having a cow when I heard that! It was like I was drowning in the river and couldn't catch my breath. I had a cow and I’m not even built with the female off-ramp. Despite that, I did give birth to a full grown cow, something from the magical powers of disbelief. We were in fact so beside ourselves, the fact that that schoolhouse and teacher weren’t burned to the ground or killed, respectively, were miracles as mighty as the feeding of the 5,000. And this was after lunch break.

The teacher's explanation was lame. “IF” is the longest word — her contention — because IF you have a plan, IF you have a purpose, IF you need to borrow $40 million to pay the taxes on a vacant mall site, your challenges have just begun. And so, thereby it is proven — by hook or crook — that IF is one of the biggest words...

Trying to keep bodies from popping up in the river requires a big IF too. IF you’re thrown into the river because you stiffed a guy on loans… IF you’re thrown in the river because they've shot you … that represents a failure along the way, a bad decision, or something. IF they simply took you because of a false identification, there’s a reason there too, but not as good. You shouldn’t have looked like everyone else. IF you’re that average, fluff up your hair, wear a turban, dress in purple, anything. Go nude jumping a rope. Do whatever you can to stay out of trouble (1), and (2) Make sure you have follow-through for your plans. Don’t end up in the river and you'll just wonder, What IF?


This goes for everyone, the guy from the Amazon River, Joe Average, Grizelda the Green Witch, and even the late Abraham Lincoln.

Piece of Cake Training School

No. 24 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

Here's a good mock-up (?) of a pretend (?) wrestling coach place, combining two of my themes, the education of guidance counselors and the reformation of wrestling coaches. I'm assuming it's pretend, but on closer examination this might be how they actually do it!

I'm going with my gut, I think it’s in good fun. So coaches, please don’t wrestle me to the mat and have your way with me. And if you do have your way with me, please let me see what you have first just in case I have a hard time later discerning your presence. Which might qualify you for advancement to guidance counseling, although don't read that as a guarantee.

The theme, you have to admit, is curious, however pathetic it also is. That the guidelines for wrestling coaches and guidance counselors are so lax at that particular institution! And I need to be careful. If there really is a place called “Piece of Cake School of Guidance Counseling,” let's call this another place, a fictional place, whose low standards matches my other posts on these actual occupations. That’s always danger egging these guys on, you don’t want to get in trouble.

Knowing what I know, though, it's still hard to picture their standards so lax that a guy on the beach could brag about his misbehavior and failure to be in school and that he'll be advanced anyway toward a degree and career. I’ve had a few lenient professors in my career, but none of them was quite that lenient. And not so much because they didn’t want to be cool, but because the price of it would be their reputation and profession. So everyone was respectable.

Even my guidance counselor was genuinely educated, I’m assuming. I actually never saw his degrees or transcripts, but I have a hard time believing no one else did. Now that he’s gone, passed on, it’s probably a moot point. But for all the faults I found with him, having the required degrees wasn’t among them.

"Reforming Wrestling Coaches Since 1965." That’s a pretty good record, depending on when the ad was made. If it was 1966, then they were just at it. If it was last week, that’s a long time not just to endure wrestling coaches but to reform them! That much reformation, if it were really happening, would have revolutionized the industry by now! Because one thing none of us wants — except maybe them — are wrestling coaches running amok and unreformed.

And the Alert-o-Tron 5000, while it sounds like a great invention, is probably someone’s idea of a gag. The very idea that someone could strap on an Alert-o-Tron and manage to stay awake for 2 minutes and get a degree sounds like a stretch. Heck, I could stay awake for 2 minutes, depending on what time of day it is, without an Alert-o-Tron, and I wouldn’t be a good wrestling coach. I don’t know anything about the various techniques, except the very basics: If you're pinned and exhausted, give up and pound the mat yourself. And as far as the well-known perks of the trade, I don’t swing with such lenience. I’m particular as to partners and follow some pretty stringent guidelines. Flowers, wine, a call the next day...

Mentality Half-Formed, Totally Stupid

No. 13 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

Through this hardhitting guidance counselor series, I have rightly portrayed myself as the aggrieved party. With the guidance counselor being the supposedly responsible adult with an actual profession of “guidance” and “counseling” to uphold and perform. Far from what I was, an innocent high school kid, not an adult, with the innocent psyche of a half-formed, mentally bereft person, barely there at all.

It's so hard to picture me as immature, but I was. Because look at me today. People look at me, they point to me, maybe they read my blog and say, “There’s no one more mature, more responsible or qualified to lead the youth of tomorrow.” And it’s so true. I always take the position most aligned with good behavior, benefits for all, and responsibility. It’s not for nothing that my blog was voted “Best Blog to Fall Asleep To” three years in a row by the juvenile delinquents in my neighborhood. It was also a true survey, the results not determined, like most, by payoffs.

But I seriously wasn’t precisely an infant in a playpen in high school, but virtually. I didn’t know anything about anything. If you would’ve told me that babies came from baby factories and parents picked them up, I would’ve believed it. The closest thing to sex I knew was dirty magazines, which in those days weren’t explicit. More cartoons than anything, all hinting around about something but never quite coming out and showing it. Not like we have today, a fully inflamed wanton moisturized ready-to-go double-page spread and engraved invitation unmistakable in begging eyes.

So when I showed up at the guidance counselor’s office, I wasn't ready to be under his thumb and wasn't prepared to take him on. I appreciate it today that kids are schooled a lot more in what adults can do to them and the signs they need to watch for and the responsible things to do as a response. Back then they simply trusted adults and suspected kids of being dummies, which I at least was.

So we might wonder how did wrestling coaches get away with so much? And how did guidance counselors manage to break their students psychologically? With so few consequences. There was an stupid innocence and lack of awareness then that adults are up to no good if given half a chance. So these guys could commit murder and it'd be your fault...

It makes my blood boil, at least simmer, to see an adult guidance counselor in the same playpen as an innocent baby (representing me) wailing like he’s somehow the aggrieved party. I’d like to grab that lousy stinking bastard by the scruff of the neck, or let’s say cinch his tie up a little tighter for him. Then with his head straining like a filthy pimple, engage him toward expanding his professional disciplinary horizons. "You bastard" is right! How dare you?!

Hard Times

No. 23 of 31 - Thermometer series

It’s lately been a hard slog, hard times all around. But I’m not complaining, just trying to cut myself through the thicket, hoping very soon for a clearing, at least the ability to see the light of day and smell something besides the stifling air of jungle fauna gone bad, symbolically.

I’m keeping my mood as best as I can, which is tough in good times. And reminding myself of the various sayings and old family coaching techniques for when you’re discouraged. 'You can’t make a mud pie without a little rain. Every ape has his day. That tree won't climb itself. If you’re not bigger than your challenges, you’re too small. Pass the meat and don’t sniff it first.' That’s a good one from my memories; I had to smile; my brothers’ biggest fear was that someone would sniff their food. But what if I sniffed it and didn’t tell them? Such dirty little rats we were!

Hey, a smile! Here in the deepest jungle, surrounded by every challenge. Reminds me of the book “Head Hunters of the Amazon.” We think of Amazon as a big company, and that’s true. But, little known fact, it's also a river in South America...you're welcome. You might not believe it, but I always wanted to go to the Amazon. Notice the past tense. I don’t want to go there anymore. For one, it’s enormous. Two, the head hunters. Three, drug overlords. Four, enough mosquitoes and vermin to suck you dry in a second, if the drug overlords don’t get you first. In short, while I love South America as a continent, and hope everyone there likes my blog, subscribes or whatever (“Let’s blow them thermometers, South America!), I could never go there. Too wild for my domesticated blood.

But I do compare my problems to jungles and King Kong creatures run amok, and being so scared, so terrified I’m out of my mind with panic just thinking of it. Just today a few of my Rent-an-Associates and a few of the true believers (the men’s division as as well as the women’s auxiliary, the Ladies Aid) were coming to me with complications. Traffic from our reporting centers was slow. We were afraid it was being stymied upstream somewhere by Pashtun and Iraqi blogging competition. And as for the Ladies Aid, two of their washboards were nearly scratched beyond repair. Thank God we still had a pint of elbow grease, so the ladies are once again in the pleasant pink. So many problems at once. And that’s what always puts me in a stew and leaves me crawling for bed!

You should know I never did that great in school. I may fancy myself a brainiac in my old age, but don't ask me anything. In school I (even I!) was an average student. One, I didn’t like to do homework. I’d leave it till later and by then we’d run out of later. Two, I thought they had it in for me, from the devious principals all the way down to the devious teachers. But it surely wasn’t jealousy on their part. What would they have to be jealous of, a kid that didn’t know shit from Shinola? And wasn’t afraid to admit it, if only he had the vocabulary to do so. I would sit there and blubber, duh duh duh. And the only consolation I had was knowing a few other kids were dumber yet.

So I'm dumb about a lot of things, but smart about a few things too. Here's a thought piece: If the earth once was one continent, Pangea, why did the North American continent luck out and remain free of King Kong type monsters? Or is that what Bigfoot is, just a shrimpier version of his larger brother? That's pretty good thinking...just proved Bigfoot.

And now look at me; I could come up with theories all day. And write sentences about them without copying them out of a book. I’m essentially self-taught. Discipline, big discipline. I’d confine myself to my room for punishment, make myself sit in the corner, force myself to write sentences, which I’ve just been doing. “I will focus on the thermometer till ultimate victory... I will focus on the thermometer till the cows come home.... I will focus on the thermometer till every last person on earth and on other planets likes me and sets me forth as what a blog should look like, until my final hope, whatever I'm hoping for that day.

P.S. There's probably some tie-in with The Great Ape and this present abomination.

Was The Lunch Lady A Hag?

I had an unfortunate run-in the other day with a couple of friends from childhood. You always think it’d be great to get the old gang together, then you know it’s a disaster when you see them more than five minutes. But having my home base right there in town — when I’m not in the Big City — such run-ins are guaranteed unless I'm in disguise.

Flashback, these guys were the terror of the lunchroom, holding sway over all, and once battling the lunch lady royally for something like four days straight. Sometimes I'd be at their table, sometimes not, depending on what note I had or didn’t have from my mother. Me, though, I thought of lunch as a time to eat fast and get outside, not something to get in trouble over.

OK, the talk in this recent meeting focused on whether the lunch lady was a hag. Benny said she was definitely a hag, the very definition, and even alluded to a particular edition of the dictionary, without citing it specifically enough to verify his claim, that her picture was published adjacent to the entry "hag." I waved it off, but he was willing to swear on a stack of Bibles (of any publisher) that it was so.

Be that as it may, I’m a grown man, I’ve put aside childish things. I don’t even think calling people hags (for the sake of argument let's say lunch ladies are technically people) is even a thing we do anymore. Now, today, supposedly, there's a more enlightened way of dealing with people. They're considered to have the same dignity as everyone else and should not be diminished in any way with terms that detract from their full value as members of collective humanity. Or something.

It is true, however, that one guy can be a real bastard or one lady an obvious bitch, etc., and if we’re not willing to call a monster a monster, then we’re dishonest. There’s good people, there’s saints, there’s bad people, there’s evil seeds, there’s dipshits, morons, dweebs, and losers. All, however, with each one having the full value of human beings, even if they have gone off the tracks for some reason — stupidity, lack of insight at the chromosomal level, or something about the inner person being soured and them being consequently rotten to the core. But I don’t want to make this political. A decent guy like me could get killed by some of the halfwits, morons, and losers we see these days. I will stay out of that all together, except for the bitching I do in private with other decent people.

Anyway, I did my best to steer my old friends (losers in their own right) away from dehumanizing language like “hags.” I don’t think Mrs. [lunch lady] was a hag, no sir. Was she thoroughly the wrong person for the job of lunch lady? Did she miss her true calling of lion tamer? In our modern age, would she be charged with child abuse? That’s an interesting question. She might've avoided charges because she was slippery. But back then we didn't have video surveillance. So she could get away with the despicable defense of, "Who do you believe? Me, the responsible lunch lady, or a whole gym of irresponsible halfwit eyewitnesses?" I'm sure she had lots of bad days, but did that make her a hag? There was a lot of pain in her withered soul, but “hag," I won't go that far.

So I offered excuses for her: 1) She was popping pills and that would obscure anyone's judgment. 2) She had friends who were also lunch ladies, but they served more prestigious schools; her bitterness of spirit was compensation. 3) The hairnet she was forced to wear was much too tight, constricting blood flow to her head, making her semi-wacky.

But my old friends couldn't see anything past the starkest black or white. The lunch lady was a hag, a bitch, in short, a despicable troll, rotten to her withered core with no redeeming qualities that could ever lead her from the world of the hopelessly lost to the new world of politeness, etiquette, and beauty that we share today. I had to get out of there and quick. Another five minutes and we would’ve been pissing on her grave. And my time’s valuable. I'm not running across town when the bathroom's only 20 feet away.

The Billionaire School Assembly

I'm pumping my fist, happy with my performance at the school's Billionaire Career Assembly. It was a panel of billionaires, me included, added to the panel at the last minute. I've only been rich a few days, so I wasn't even expecting to be invited. That said, I believe I scored the most points. I certainly landed more body blows. All in all, I did the best.

The first two old-timers were real snobs, refusing even to shake my hand. The third, a younger guy, was nice to me, shaking my hand, then using hand sanitizer. I asked to borrow it. He was gracious to lend it to me, but cleaned it on a handkerchief after I handed it back.

In the session, everyone was interested in how we became billionaires.

The first guy said he focused on getting a good education and kept very serious goals firmly in mind, working hard to be a success.

The second said he worked hard from the time of his first job out of school, saved his money, then invested with a partner and grew their business, hard but rewarding work all the way.

The third one's father died, leaving him as a 16-year-old boy to step in and guide the family company through tough times. He said it was extremely hard work, but he stuck to it and made it to the top.

That left me, without much of a back story: "Would you believe, I got lucky? I was selling Easter bunnies a couple of Saturdays ago, a billionaire happened to show up, and we hit it off as friends. He gave me a large sum of money. In addition to $2,000 for the bunnies, he gave me $2.1 billion just because he wanted to. My advice: Get lucky."

Later, in the Q & A session, one kid took me to task: "My dad says the billionaire's your boyfriend, and it's not just from luck that he gave you so much money. My dad says you 'work hard for your money.' Is that true?" I recognized the kid and I know his dad. I've seen the weasel at the park, "walking the path" as the denizens there call it. I answered him, "If your dad's who I think he is [and he had the same beady eyes and recessed chin], I'd say he's generally in a position to know about that. He speaks as a guy who himself 'works hard for what he gets'--"

Several teachers stepped in to prevent this line of questioning, chanting, "USA! USA! USA!" I raised my arms and called for silence, and promised I could handle the boy's question in a discrete way, while answering it completely. I added, "While it seems to me that teachers are so much younger than when I was a kid, it's interesting to see they haven't loosened up any more."

I then addressed the youngster's point: "But to your question, no, at this time I cannot say the billionaire is my boyfriend. He is a boy and he is my friend, which all of you can relate to, but he's not my boyfriend. That's as far as it goes! As far as me 'working hard for my money,' let me just say that's a filthy rumor and not even close to true. At the present time I sleep strictly alone. Or I should say, I sleep alone except for my checkbook, which is on the pillow next to me.

"Let the record show, the three other billionaires on this panel openly and brazenly confessed to 'working hard for their money,' so compared to them, I would say I'm quite the moral person. Whoever they may have had relations with, and how often, and whatever else may or may not have gone down in the privacy of their bedroom, motel room, or, yes, even the park, this is decidedly not the time or place to discuss it."

Of course each man had his own secrets and was quick to exit the stage as soon as the principal thanked the group. Off to more "hard work," presumably. I didn't follow them, so we'll never know the full disgusting story. It is, however, shameful that any of them were even considered for an event of this nature, exposing themselves and their tawdry pasts to our youngest and most vulnerable citizens. The innocence those kids have, that is something we must and we will maintain.

From this day forth, and forever, let those who would take advantage of their innocence know -- and in no uncertain terms -- the rest of us will not stand for it. Instead, together we will rise up, protecting one another, as well as our most cherished and honored traditions.

Several kids came down, asking for autographs on one dollar bills, fives, and anything else they had. A couple of the little bozos wanted autographs on college textbooks on Advanced Economics and the like.

Hezekiah and Stub

*About the graphic

I've never liked personality tests. Take me as I am. Or get to know me as we go along. But no, Hezekiahs aren't allowed to relax. You're at school and fill one out and they call you to the office and accuse you of being a Stub. Never a good feeling. Fortunately, in my case, I knew they were wrong. I'd never a Stub!

But I'm lazy, so I'd game the system. Because I'm so much a Hezekiah I don't think I have to prove it. So I'd look at the test pattern and note what they were looking for. You see the first and sixth and twelfth question are essentially the same, repeating the pattern till the end. I'd do all those at once, giving the same answer. Then I'd go back and do the same with the others. Sounds like a Stub, I know. And indeed, you tend to come out looking like a Stub. When in fact I've been a Hezekiah all along! Apparently a subversive Hezekiah...

They always think Hezekiahs should act strictly like Hezekiahs, which, ironically, would be Stub behavior. A true Hezekiah is going to veer into Stub territory now and then, and hurry back out. Because it's give and take. Strictness isn't key to the true Hezekiah. But the big problem was that those who make the tests are Stubs, and naturally they interpret the results in a Stubbish way.

Just in case you weren't around for Hezekiah and Stub, which we used to have in school, they're two dogs. Hezekiah likes to hunt, Stub to guard. But things happen to keep it amusing, like Stub might chase a squirrel off the property, unaware there's a burglar, too, who trips over Hezekiah sleeping, meaning Hezekiah saves the day!

There's so many of these old stories, it's probably only natural that they'd come up with offshoots, like personality tests. I often think of Hezekiah and Stub, and put my own spin on life through them. Like this: The theoretical pure Hezekiah has no resistance in life, going along with the flow, surviving. The theoretical pure Stub has complete resistance, is in control, and so dies. Of course there is no pure Hezekiah or Stub after those terms, at the extremes. It's all a matter of tendencies on a scale.

To me, the names themselves speak to how they're termed. Hezekiah is a lazy sounding hound, occasionally lifting an ear to note the passing of a train or send a fly on its way. Stub is a super-efficient sounding dog, lean and muscular, sleeping, perhaps, but fully alert to everything. And that's the way they looked. Hezekiah can be roused from his equanimity, but it takes a truly necessary reason. Stub is efficient, therefore more alert and controlled by events. Hezekiah tends to be self-reliant, flexible, and nice (or indifferent.) Stub is hard and can be mean, being the opposite in terms of flexibility. On and on.

Of course, the Hezekian philosophy of life is the one that sounds best to me, if I could live up to it. Good old Hezekiah has an innate knowledge that All is One; he is not in competition, opposing life, but seems himself integrally one with what is. Hezekiah might think, "Yes, if I reach up to steal food, I might get my paw caught in the band-saw, but I might not." (Frankly, I'm more cautious than that.) Stub knows all the angles and is never content with might/might not. That sounds the wisest for survival, and as I said I also can be quite cautious, because angles can change unexpectedly, meaning security can quickly become a false security. But Hezekiah also knows you're going to get it in the end, whatever cautions you take.

Our whole perspective on life and mortality are at issue here, as I was just getting at. And you know how it generally is with actual dogs, apart from being babied by modern owners taking them to the vet to put them down. They seem very stoic, crawling to isolation somewhere and simply dying. In the Hezekiah and Stub stories, though, Hezekiah has a looser grip on his personal existence. He seems more prepared to die ... "Just let me get through this one last meal, thank you kindly." Then he goes on to a ripe old age. I believe that's me.

But Stub is rigidly opposed to his own demise, while being unsympathetic to others. I've always seen a contradiction in that: Is Stub already dead in some sense, clinging to life as he is with a bad attitude? It's only a matter of time before Stub dies, standing up, and rots away. Then his skeleton will be found in place, appearing still to be on guard! Would serve him right.

------------------------------
* The "Hezekiah" and "Stub" characters -- ©1925, renewed 1943, Institute for Dog-People Research -- are now public domain. Stub was originally gray but re-imagined as brown in the 1940s, when the Nazis' dog mascot "Fuery" also appeared to be gray. We say "appeared to be gray" because his only appearances were in black and white illustrations, meaning he could very well have also been brown. 

Hezekiah and Stub were very familiar friends to schoolchildren since their first appearance in the 1920s until they were phased out for use in public education in 1966. In the 1930s they were credited with the great accomplishment of ending the Great Depression. But by 1966, with the rise of secular humanism, situational ethics, the godless one world government, and color TV, they were gone.

Get Your Degree in Violence

I've been watching the arc of history closely, keeping track of how things are going, and now with over 60 years of experience, it seems to me things are getting a lot worse in terms of societal violence, quite a bit worse. Either that, depending on how you look at it, or things are getting better, a lot better. Because of course there's lots of great opportunities for somebody no matter what happens.

I too can see some great opportunities. Gun sales, that's keeping a lot of folks employed. Then on a larger scale, we have defense contractors, who are always prosperous. There's plenty of opportunities to work in the military. And with guns here on the home front there's plenty of openings to teach folks how to shoot, gun safety, and, my favorite, how to ensure a kill shot at any shadow moving around your house at night. Be they burglar or, maybe not as desirable, family.

One huge opportunity (and maybe someone's already doing it) would be in the more advanced educational field, offering a college degree in Violence. That'd be a cool way to get the upper leg on things. Imagine the deeper philosophical background and how much practical value that would be for you, being able to develop new and better techniques of defense, plus offensive maneuvers. Obviously you're not going to get that at the gun range! And this isn't just the namby pamby stuff they teach at places like West Point, which, frankly, has more to do with the niceties of saluting and keeping your uniform clean than anything else.

In case you're thinking this is just general education classes with a few hours of Violence courses, let me assure you, it's not. There's no general education hours. English, math, even the history of warfare, you don't need that. Instead, it's one useful course after another:

Introduction to Barbarism;
Stockpiling the Perfect Arsenal;
Beheading -- The Cutting Edge;
Bombs -- From Backpacks to Mack Trucks;
Terrorism's Secret: The Buddy System;
Plus lots of smaller stuff:
Hold Ups;
Burglaries;
Truncheons, Bludgeons, and Pikes -- Your Personal Toolbox;
What Color's Your Chainsaw?
and, Pyro -- Not Just for the Fourth of July.

I'm excited already. I wouldn't mind signing up for some of this stuff myself. If anything, it'd boost my personal confidence. Yes, I've had troubles in my life. I remember this one time in the '70s a big drunk grabbed me on the sidewalk, thinking I was someone else. I was lucky to wriggle away and for the fact that he couldn't run. But with a little training I could've wasted him, then when he woke up he would've regretted--- No, he would've been dead.

It might, however, be dangerous for the professors. The students are going to want to really prove themselves. They're not going to just skate by. The practical implications, having a guy like me able to wriggle away, could be deadly. So when the professor calls for role playing, you honestly might end up dead. And the same goes for the professor. So the school will need the biggest, baddest, ex-con, cyborg, armed guys with hairpin triggers, the whole bit.

The implications are crazy. Because I don't think you could have students start the training, get disgruntled, and drop out. They'd be giving away all the techniques (and philosophy). And then how would students have a leg up? No, if you're a student and you can't cut it, you'd about have to be one of the victims during the demonstrations or practicum stuff. Say you're defending your thesis; you might need several victims.

Violence is increasing. It's getting dangerous even to go out and get the paper. That happened the other day, a drive-by shooting. I bent down to get the paper and a barrage of bullets took out the ass of my pajamas. Was a good thing I was reaching at an angle. But how much better it would've been had I been trained. I could've cleared the road with some mortars before going out, then got the paper and got the hell back in.

The First Day of School for Me ... Again

It's the first day of school for me, again. School opened today, meaning I made my annual trek back to see about starting again. Two things went against me: 1) Every year it's getting harder and harder to pass as a kid; 2) They never think I'm serious. We argue the point, I cuss them out, and end up sitting in the corner till the police arrive.

It's embarrassing, of course, to be led from the classroom in handcuffs. But I look on the bright side; it gives the kids something interesting to remember. I can see them now at their 40th reunion -- "Do you remember that old man they arrested on our first day? Wonder whatever happened to him?" -- "I hear he had a facelift, came back five years later, and ended up graduating at the top of his class, graduating early, right out of fourth grade!"

That's how I plan to do it. In four years, just like the kid remembers it. I'll test out of Kindergarten and start with First Grade. Then it's 1-2-3-4 and out. If you can go through college in four years -- I've always said this -- the lesser grades shouldn't take any longer. (That doesn't mean I might not go back and do fifth and sixth grades, the elementary equivalent of grad school. I wouldn't mind doing a dissertation on girls, how yucky they are.)

The only reason I put myself through this year after year is because of something my dad said. That he wished he could go back to school and do it right. He said it, I bet a dozen times, and it always stuck with me. For some reason, though, which I've forgotten, he could never do it, or maybe he just thought he couldn't. Times were different back then. He had to work hard to feed a bunch of hungry mouths. But I've only got me to worry about. And I just ate.

The biggest problem -- and here's where I'm going to confess a few fears -- is that I'm honestly afraid that, as much experience and knowledge as I think I have, I might still flunk out. And they're not fast to flunk kids these days! Not like when I was in school the first time. They graded on the curve then, so a full 18% of everyone failed automatically. Now it's all individualized, giving every kid an honest to God shot at success. Of course the downside for society is that it has to function without a vibrant Shudra caste, drones, worker bees. But with outsourcing so prevalent, and the increased use of robotics in manufacturing, the loss hasn't been that terrible. These days, now, if I fail it really means something!

Think then, too, what it would mean for my self-image if I can't keep up. Because, remember, most of these little honyock mama's boys have had preschool. I never had that luxury. I'm starting in the hole the first day. But I might have the edge after all, since I've been balancing a checkbook for years (math), writing this blog since 2008 (English), and heating up TV dinners since Grandma died (home ec). Plus, a lot of the stuff should just come to me, if somehow I can find a reservoir of common sense within; I believe it's there, but where?  

The kids I'm really afraid of are the ones who've been trained in music, playing the piano. Because I've heard that their little brains are wired differently from the average kid, meaning they might be smarter than me on the first day. Even if they're not -- they'll probably be close -- and by the time I graduate, after fourth grade, the little musicians will be so advanced, I might be way down in the percentile somewhere. It'll kill me.

But if it doesn't kill me -- ho ho ho, I'm devious -- who says I can't start again ... and again ... and again ... till I finally -- till death doth me part -- get it right.

The Teacher Who Meant to Say

The whole class took the test and it was a total wipe out. Everyone failed, because each problem was different than what the teacher meant to put. For example, on the test he had "20 + 10," but he meant to put 20 + 20." So none of the tests matched up with his answer key.

After a while, as you might guess, almost nobody wanted to be in that class. To them, being absent-minded (or devious) is apparently the unforgivable sin. But a few hardy souls were man enough to take it, which included my dad, some other guys, and also some girls.

So they went from something like 40 kids a semester down to less than 10. That made for a good problem. "We used to have 43 kids a semester in this class, and now we have 8 ... How many did we lose?" That's a tougher question, of course, since you don't have 10s, 20s, and 30s to work with. I think it'd go 43 - 8 = 35 kids lost. That's what you'd think, but the teacher meant to say they started with 35 kids, purposely low balling it to minimize his failure. So the answer should've been 35 - 8 = 27.

One generation passed on and another came, all the while the numbers going up and down. The lore of this teacher was passed from father to son, mother to daughter, with him keeping things confused enough that the school didn't dare fire him. The pattern of it went on. Which, if you think of it, it's a good way to learn math. Because your first answer is never right you learn twice as much.

There was a kid, though, who sometimes got it wrong on purpose because he was trying to get it right by guessing. By the way, that kid was me. I worked with some of the info my dad gave me, and I swore the teacher would not be a match for me. I was able to keep my vow only somewhat, because, obviously, he could always claim that he meant a different number.

Here's an example of me guessing. He says the problem is 20 + 30. Everyone else assumes the answer would have to be 50, but I thought of the stories, so I figure he meant to say 20 + 20, so my answer of 40 is right. He's amazed when one kid gets it. Now, though, he has my number and wants to make life tough for me. So he says the problem is 30 x 2. I can go one of several ways, I can increase or decrease each number, significantly changing the answer. But if say the answer is 90, assuming he meant 30 x 3, there's nothing to prevent him from saying he meant 30 x 4.

The way I eventually turned it around on him was to claim that I also meant something different than what I said. So if I said 90 and he said he meant 30 x 4, I said I meant 120. Like that. Or when I figured  he was getting totally wise to this, I prepared cards with all the various numbers, giving me the ability to pull out whatever card matching up with whatever he eventually meant.

We went at it like that for a couple semesters. Him riding my ass like a rodeo cowboy and me thwarting his every move like a rodeo clown. One last thing, it was getting extremely dicey for me -- with him ultimately holding most of the leverage -- leading me to petition the school to force him to teach like this: 1) Students' choice of problems; and, 2) Printed flashcards. That effectively defanged him until the semester ran out and I ended up with a B.

In later years, though, I heard that the school board rescinded their revisions in the curriculum, letting the teacher return to his old tricks. He had complained to them that 99% of his students were failing, so of course they immediately voted to rescind the rule. When in truth he meant to say 99% were passing.

How'd I Get So Damned Smart?

I get this question all the time, from people I know in the community, in church, as well as online. Everyone wants to know, "How'd you get so damned smart?" I can safely say it's the number one thing people wonder about. Although with their curiosity they challenge my modesty.

It's tricky to answer a question like that. Because I really do have to set aside my modesty and admit it right up front, Yes, I am pretty damned smart. And I'm smart enough not to do that readily. Hence, I've been sitting on the question for a number of months, reluctant to answer it, knowing it'd ding my modesty and sense of propriety.

But today I'm feeling bold! Who needs tomorrow! I'm ready to tackle it head-on, finally to satisfy everyone's curiosity about the intelligence of someone I frankly call "Little Ole Me." Really, that's how I think of myself. I'm not all that impressed, to tell you the truth. Because I know even I have plenty of limits. But my limits are for another day. Today we'll stick with how much I know.

First, let me say I didn't set out to get so damned smart. It wasn't any conscious push. You know, there's always those kids who set out to get so damned smart. They want to be better than everyone else, all that. As unpleasant as that can be for the rest of us, I won't judge them. They swung their way, I swung mine.

My way of swinging in school was pretty much to grasp the basics and extrapolate from there. One thing I'm not very smart at is mathematics. Anything you might need on a GRE or the SAT, I immediately fail. But I am smart at arithmetic! I can add and subtract myself around the room, passing everyone. The way I learned it was, like I said, extrapolation. They said 1 + 1 = 2 and I extrapolated from there. Everything else was easy to deduce from that one principle. So I refused to learn any of it by heart, just extrapolating, however long it took, on the fly. That left lots of time for learning other stuff.

Because it's facts other than math that you can't easily extrapolate. If you know the capital of New York is Albany, it's tough to extrapolate from that that the capital of California is Sacramento. Those are two facts I had to learn, which I only accomplished after a lot of effort. Even now I could probably tell you at least half the capitals of the various states, even ones I have no intention of visiting.

When it came to reading, I literally grew up with one story book. Only one. Which I read a million times, and loved, "Little Black Sambo." You put enough effort into one book, you learn a lot besides just the great story. I learned to love and respect others who aren't like me, Indians, black people, LGBTQ, Lutherans, etc. The only ones I still have a hard time with are Republicans. Of any variety.

In addition, I grew in my love of animals, butter, pancakes, and embraced asynchronous thinking, because who can believe that tigers, running fast enough to turn into butter, wouldn't think to cut across and head off Sambo? Unless Sambo were simultaneously smart enough to cut across at lightning speed and therefore maintain his safe position. Stunning stuff! You could seriously say, when it came to book larnin', everything I know I got from "LBS."

Now I'm old. And it's surprising all the stuff I know. I don't think I'm too far off the beam to say I don't even know all the stuff I know! Know what I mean? It seems everyday there's always something different leaping out of my brain, a sudden occurrence of something else I've known all along. Examples aren't coming to me right this second, but I know it happens. When do you clean an aquarium? When it stinks or the fish die, whichever comes first.

So to answer the question, "How'd I get so damned smart?" ... It all depends. Math, I extrapolated from 1 + 1 = 2. I can balance my checkbook and occasionally have money left over. Things that needed memorizing, I memorized, then over the years forgot exactly half of it. How to spell. I learned a trick from my Mom, to know how words are supposed to look, then when they're misspelled they look wrong. The various principles of life -- the value of being scrupulously honest, for example, and the consequences when you aren't -- I learned by experience, along with trial and error. Other things, the deeper things of life, spirituality and such, I learned by practice, leaping in gadfly fashion from one thing to another. Meaning, I'm a solitary specimen in that regard.

The other key to being so damned smart is to always keep my mind sharp. As sharp as a knife, as sharp as cheddar cheese. Honed, stropped like a razor, keen. So I'm busy thinking from the minute I wake up till the minute I go to bed. Then I continue thinking till I fall asleep. And, if my dreams are any indicator, I don't stop thinking till I get up, at which point I repeat the whole process, thinking again. I'm also a voracious reader, reading while I eat.

Thank you! It's gratifying that everyone thinks I'm so damned smart. Just don't get jealous, OK? You either can do it too, or you could have, had you not lived your life in a completely foolish way.

Washington and Lincoln Stand as One for Fired Coach

Usually we live in two separate camps:
The Washington Cherry Hatchets vs. The Lincoln Split Rails,

but not in these days of great trouble...

No more "Our Guy's #1 and Your Guy's 16!" Incredibly, Washington recently put aside the rancor and joined in common cause with Lincoln. They proclaimed, "Today both our guys are #1." Wow! This new sun arose just the other day, right in the bleakest part of the night, as the day first dawned, at the moment nature itself is at its darkest...

Both teams awoke to the same terrible news: "LINCOLN'S BASKETBALL COACH FIRED!" Who took his team to 17-5 last year, including a hard fought victory over those Washington bastards. It was the talk of the town. Gatorade flowed freely in public troughs.

But now everything changed, when, inexplicably, the new Athletic Director at Lincoln, Witt DeMann, instead of a relatively cheap testosterone injection, along with a shadowy cabal of gutless underling principals, including the head principal taking an underling role because his son was grievously overlooked for a letter man's jacket and the ceremonial kiss of the prettiest girl in town -- who is actually homeschooled and thereby assumed to be without the normal diseases -- sacked Coach Mikelson. The whole thing gets complicated, but that's the basic story. They fired him, for no actual stated reason, and said, "Case closed. Move along. Nothing here to see. There's no story."

Until an influential newspaper man, showing the power of the full court press, rallied parents, townspeople, the students of Washington, Lincoln, and this one pretty homeschooler, against the idiotic cabal and their flubber-chinned henchmen on the school board. Not exactly empty suits, if you catch my drift. But were you the head man of a tribe of cannibals, and having them for Thanksgiving, you might want to double check the overall ratio of fat to lean. And if you were from a brain-sucking tribe, lest you end up on the menu yourself, in revenge, you'd want at least to tap into the cranial cavity of one and extrapolate from there. Planning makes perfect.

Anyway, the newspaperman caught the Lincoln AD at his self-congratulatory best, lounging in leisure, who issued chiseled-in-granite comments like, "Under no circumstances whatsoever -- come hell, high water, or Washington victories the next one hundred seasons will I ever accept Lew Mikelson back as our coach." He further put off the newspaper man with a repeated, "There's no story here. Go on, little man, peddle your papers elsewhere!"

It was at this point the Washington team joined forces with their bitterest rival, Lincoln -- and their proud parents, especially those whose children are on the honor roll. The others, who can't be bothered with whether their sons excel -- I'm trying not to diss my own parents too much -- sat out the fray.

Well, it happened that the school board was going to meet that very afternoon. And they were sure surprised when the students, the parents, and a half dozen extras with pitchforks and torches, came into the room. Each stood and in a dignified way offered their considered support for Coach Mikelson. They shook hands congenially with board members. But nothing seemed to sway the board till -- What's this?! -- Till the door opened again, and there stood one scowling woman in a miniskirt, nice-looking, with her homeschooled daughter, yes, the same one. Mom marched with confidence and determination to the blackboard, and said, "I'd like to address this meeting of the---" We'll just cut to the chase...

It turned out she knew all the dirt on each of these dirtbags. Including Bobby Taylor, sitting there, who'd seven times asked her for a date! Mrs. Taylor's mouth dropped open, smelling of ice. The students, each with hidden romantic entanglements of their own, sensed a distinct shift, the tide turning. The school board, the feckless principals, and even AD DeMann, were jiggling their chins and huffing such retorts as, "Well, I never!" and "Be silent, curséd hag!" before immediately voting (without a second) on the motion that they rehire Coach Mikelson, give him double pay for the past week and his inconvenience, and censure their previous handiwork with malice aforethought and the strongest prejudice.

The students erupted in cheers. This meant now, of course, unless they physically catch Mikelson with the entire cheerleading squad and the homeschooled girl, and the homeschooling mother agrees, they can never, not ever, fire him again. He has them -- and especially AD DeMann -- firmly by the nuts today, tomorrow, and henceforth forever. "Squirm, you worm, DeMann! Now, let's talk about that raise." And, "It's been 10 minutes, DeMann, I feel another serious ass-kissing coming on."

The newspaper recounted the joyous event, the historic day when Washington, Lincoln, and the homeschool mother all came together and socked it to the whole bunch of 'em. But they were generous enough to leave out of it the scofflaws' names. An appearance of graciousness that probably has more to do with future access than anything else. "We were just channeling public sentiment, not burning our own bridges, harumph..."

As for the Washington and Lincoln students, it's back to Total All-Out War! No one owes anyone anything! Come Fall, you filthy bastards, it's back on! "Your boat's going down, Washington!" and "Lincoln, how'd you like that play?"

Cool Scam -- "Did You Ever Sneak In Without Paying?"

Here's a scam I know of that's making big money. Just last week I -- I mean an anonymous friend -- took in over $1,000, and it doesn't show any signs of stopping. The only reason I'm saying anything is because I feel like bragging to someone ... about my anonymous friend.

The key to it are all the little Facebook groups about podunk places around the country. It doesn't work with New York City or other big places, just county seats, little burgs where people -- usually guys -- don't mind bragging about what they got away with in the past. You've probably seen these groups, with names like "You Know You're From Pocatello When..." The locals join, including the alumni of the schools, etc., who are now between 25 and 80 and living somewhere else.

I start like this -- meaning of course my anonymous friend -- by researching a particular place and event. I'll give an example of car racing in Harlan, Iowa, just a place the dart hit on the map. (See the ad.) This tells me that in 1971 they had a place called the Shelby County Speedway with races that cost $2.00 to get into. Then I -- my anonymous friend, we'll call him Walt -- join the "You Know You're From Harlan When" group.

The first thing 'Walt" does, also based on research, is ask if anyone remembers certain teen hangouts in the early '70s, like, you know, the slot car place or whatever. It establishes him as a one-time local. Then, speaking of racing, "Boy, I really remember some wild times at the races over at the Speedway... Crap, it only cost 2 bucks, but that was big money for me back then. So me and a bunch of guys would just sneak in ... so sweet!" Next thing you know, there's other guys confessing to all kinds of things: "I snuck in, too! Saved me 20 bucks on the whole season!"

Then behind the scenes, "Walt," using a different name, like "Stan," has a bunch of letterheads from a fake law office, always with the town in question as the locale. It seems this law office has been retained to collect on past debts, cold case stuff going way back, and it's come to their attention that you posted online several confessions of wrongdoings against their clients. "In the aforementioned instance," the letter says, "our client, the Speedway, hereafter to be known as the party you ripped off, claims damages in the amount of $20, augmented with interest and adjusted for inflation since 1971." "Walt" pulls a number out of the air, in this case $200.

Sweet deal, huh? Please don't tell anyone. I don't want "Walt" to get in trouble.

And it's not just the races, of course. But school plays, ice cream at the Tastee Freez, pilfered candy at Woolworth's, and even breach of contract suits from jilted elementary school hopefuls, like that little girl you knew in 4th grade and promised to marry. Didn't think anyone remembered, did you? Well, they didn't, until you confessed it on Facebook! You didn't know you broke her little heart, which now can only be mended to the tune of $4,000 a month for life!

Remember, this is just between you and me and "Walt." For entertainment purposes and every other disclaimer we can throw in, wink wink.

My Wolf Lobo

FOR THE TEACHER -- This story will appeal to young readers because it conveys a sense of adventure and danger. However, if you notice any lingering fear on the part of your students, pleasure assure them that Lobo is a kind wolf, who would never in a thousand years hurt the bunny.

The Bearded Boy

A picture I showed him for inspiration

I'm only going to sketch this out in unspecific terms, since it's based on an actual bearded boy I know. His beard is nothing like what it's going to be. If I'm unspecific, that will provide cover for him, so teachers, school administrators, and even his parents won't suspect what's going on.

I was talking to him a couple of days ago about his beard. He's young, around 15½, and I'm old, around 60½, so my influence, the wisdom of my years, might really sway his behavior. He seemed excited about the prospects of what is to come. I said something to him about his beard, and right away I could tell he was preparing to defend himself against criticism. But I didn't criticize. I said it's cool and encouraged him -- gave him a great idea -- that he needs to really grow it out.

Keeping this unspecific, I told him he needs it down to here. Then cut off his mustache and just have that menacing look of a guy with a beard and no mustache. Carry a small pitchfork, like the kind they put in cupcakes, and get a TV shirt that says "Amish and Angry." His eyes lit up, he was happy with this cool identity dream. He indicated, yes, this is what he would do! So I was happy for that. What can go wrong?

Now I'm thinking way ahead. Let's say he graduates when he's 18. That means three years from now, meaning his 20th high school reunion will be 2036. By then his old rebellious years are gone, he's mellowed and clean-shaven. He walks in and everyone goes, "You know what I remember about you?" They reach up to their chin and remember the beard. "You were the first full length bearded boy in school. That was the year they made up all new rules against beards: 'No facial hair beyond a day-old 5 o'clock stubble.'"

Indeed, that was the year they made up the new rule. Except he was exempt. They had to grandfather it in, leaving existing beards alone. So he let it grow. Were he to even so much as trim it a bit, he'd break the grandfather agreement and would be unable to regrow it any longer. Since everything grows, even imperceptibly, he'd be a fool to trim it. They'd have him and he'd have to shave it off.

The 30th reunion rolls around and it's the same recollection: "You know what I remember about you?" He's anticipated it and runs his hand over his clean-shaven chin. "The beard?" "Yeah!" the former classmate says, "It was down to your knees!" "Well, it wasn't quite that long, just to here," indicating as low as where the neck ends and the chest begins.

40th, 50th, 60th class reunions. The 40th and 50th are the same. But the 60th is different. Ever been to a 60th class reunion? I haven't, but I've known a few people who have. It's usually you and the other survivor. In this case, looking way ahead, we've got our former bearded boy, still clean-shaven, and one remaining classmate, who has a touch of dementia and so fails to mention the old beard of those glory years. The old boy's OK with the omission, since he barely remembers it either.

The Ghost of Old Man Harris

When you get old like me, if you're not careful, you'll find yourself dwelling on the past. It's different than when you're 20, since now there's so much more of it. As for me, I try to dwell on the good ... but of course there's also the bad.

I shook it off, but there in my mind was the image of my worst school principal, Old Man Harris. I think scourge would be a neutral enough term for him, but bane, terror, plague, they're all good. I told all this to a neighbor -- Deanna -- and she said, "Being angry at things and people in the past seems a waste of time."

That sounded reasonable. So I went on with my day, until the old demons again rose to the surface. I googled Old Man Harris and got 14 million hits. It seemed everyone in town remembered him! But now he'd passed on. I kept checking, and Google Cemetery View showed me right where he was. I had an idea.

I also googled what you should say to the dead who've aggrieved you. Most of it was very extreme: "You dirty so and so," "You worthless bag of so and so," and so on. But Deanna's voice rang in my ears, "Being angry ... seems a waste of time." True, true, I said, what good would it do?

Regardless, the more I thought of it, the more I needed to resolve it. Yes, he's been dead 35 years, but he must finally get his. I got to the cemetery and looked around. Hmm, there seemed to be a very worn path to his grave; everyone in town had been there. I was about to add my two cents, just the right string of curse words, when the same counsel came back to me, "It seems a waste of time."

So that was it, I was finally reconciled. But as I turned to leave, never to return, who was standing in front of me but the ghost of Old Man Harris himself! Just like in the movies, tattered clothes, indistinct features, a serious mien, like a lot of people I know in everyday life. But it was Old Man Harris himself, that's the key thing!

I had been reconciled, but Harris needed to reconcile with me! I would've never guessed it. The spirit collapsed to his knees, sobbing, "I'm sorry for that time I named you in the school assembly, calling you the biggest failure I'd ever known." I thought, "Gee, I'd forgotten that," but I nodded. "And I'm sorry for that time you brought a hot plate and a can of soup to school as a lunchroom protest, and I forbade you to go through with it." That I remembered, but I was surprised he did. "And I'm sorry for that time I shook you forcefully in my office when you were falsely accused of making a culturally-bound and otherwise arbitrary gesture denoting craziness on the part of a particular teacher." Damned straight, I was falsely accused. But, I thought, all gestures are culturally-bound and intrinsically arbitrary without a common basis of interpretation. See, I'm not such a failure.

I no longer needed Deanna's counsel. There wasn't one iota of anger. I looked at that ghost like he was a basket of sweet puppies on fluffy terrycloth. Long story short, he came home with me, staying the night in the "ghost room." I know, "Boo..."

And now, within the last hour, he and I finished a nice breakfast and were reliving old times. He admitted making many mistakes, and I had to confess a few of my own. One of his biggest mistakes, he said, was ever becoming a principal in the first place. "That was all my dad's idea. I wanted to join the Army and be a drill sergeant." I had to nod and chuckle, "I can see that."

I said, "How about we take a picture of us, old enemies, as it were, but now old friends?" He smiled broadly. He definitely liked the adult me much better than the kid, but who knows what problems he may have had as a principal? You're dealing with cranky parents all the time, on and on. I set the iPhone up and had the timer on and the camera app clicked. It's a very tender picture that I will always treasure, showing me sitting there with my arm as though around someone, but it's just me.

Deanna was exactly right, this is the way to live. He and I simply hung out, had another cup of coffee, then I said I had a busy day ahead and he probably did, too. Maybe he'd better float back up to his heavenly reward. "Whatever happened in the past," I said, "none of it matters. All is forgiven and forgotten." The feeling was mutual. Old Man Harris nodded and smiled, indicating everything was copacetic, which means hunky dory, which means good.