Big City Local Action Weather

The Big City

Part 22 of 28

It doesn’t take a long time living in the Big City before you know certain truths that are so unambiguously true that at some level you already know it. Remember books like “Everything I Ever Knew I Learned On My Own” or something. The way I took it was that everyone already knows everything and that the ultimate cause of school, etc., is merely to bring out this innate knowledge. That was Plato, maybe, which if it’s true it's something at some level I’ve never forgotten. If only I’d known this or realized all my innate knowledge when it was time for the final test, I wouldn’t have ended up with a grade-point average equal to the population of the typical ghost town.

One of the most obvious truths in the Big City is this, that the most respected guys in town are meteorologists. I upchucked this innate knowledge one day while watching the news. I watched their demeanor, the way they constantly referred to their next report “in two minutes” with the “latest updates” of “life-threatening storms” and “critical information.” After a while of watching the news, that’s all I could focus on, how well-respected, all-powerful, and righteously situated these guys are. They’ve got it going on, they know they do, and they’re riding it all the way to the bank. They've got a rare thing happening for them, to be the most respected people in town and know it and deserve it.

And everyone plays favorites, which is critical for the stations. Because I’m new to the Big City I didn’t get a bit of guidance from Mom or Dad or Grandma on the best weather guys. I merely watched, liked their smile, their dress, the demeanor of various ones. Then in my private time I assimilated all the information and charted it out, the one I liked the absolute best. That’s the only one I watch now. And if he ever dies I’ll just have to look out the window and see what the weather is. But doing it that way it could be too late, since it takes me some time to get my bottom sat on the top step and inch my way to the basement. It’s a scary process, because some basement urchin could crawl in my pants if I’m too slow and bite the crap out of me and my precious privates, used mostly now only for the most innocent purposes.

But the weather’s a terrible thing to mess with, of course, so I'd have to pick someone. And hope the new guy's cut from the same cloth, or I might turn to trusted friends for their advice. I don’t want anyone too close to retirement, so age is a factor. But I don’t want too much of a newbie, because experience counts for a lot. I would probably cut corners on the auditioning and do a search for the highest rated, most respected, etc. My only hang-up on that would be the teaching I got as a kid not to follow crowds. Although crowds are wiser than my parents gave them credit for. If they’re stampeding a particular direction, there’s always a good reason. You can corrupt a few people, and that’s a crowd you don’t want to follow. But when the crowd’s in the millions, and they’ve survived every storm the Big City’s thrown against them, they didn’t just do it on their own. They had the help, the gracious assistance of meteorologists, and that’s good enough for me.

Video Killed The Rodeo Star

 

Part 27 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Mam and Pap’s show went way back to the more-thrilling days of yesteryear when rodeos weren’t on TV day and night. Now, as everyone knows, we can tune in everyday and see professional shows replete with killer bulls, tough, tested riders with their fist double wrapped in rope, and clowns that have been to finishing school and can tell their pinkie finger from their willy. The big difference with today's clowns is they're out there from the pressure of tradition, and because ordinary guys in ordinary clothes wouldn’t do. With modern contracts, they're probably selling 18-inch celebrity shoes.

And right there’s a big change since the days of TV, and especially with the novelty of TV rodeos wearing off after a couple decades. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all jaded stuff, no neighborliness, naturally. Hell, I could go on about my many complaints — I pick them up and amplify what I hear when visiting my fellow codgers at nursing homes. Of whom, just to be accurate, most of them are dead, so to a certain extent the remaining shreds of my life are being lived as a tribute to them, their greatest hits, in the complaints they shared about progress.

It’s the earliest days that are the most interesting, since we thought our complaining might do some good. The TV producers would get the message. We only like rodeos where there’s some chance of the bull actually landing in our lap before it's over. Now we can hit pause and go to the bathroom and come back only to see some guy getting bucked sky high and land in a corporately-sponsored pillow. “Get a Good Night’s Sleep with Zonko Pillows.” In my opinion, the pillow industry shouldn’t have gotten into the rodeo racket. You could write a whole indictment of it: “The Dumbing Down of Rodeo.” But I’m old, I’ll leave that to new blood.

The selling point of TV — there were several — were convincing. You’ll have the rodeo right in your living room. No need to go out to a smelly fairgrounds. No waiting around for anything to start. No crooked rodeo performers stealing from your car. And on and on. The biggest thing of course was the convenience. They also put it forth between the lines as a great equalizer: "Now even a one-horse town can have all the horses it can stand! Where before they couldn’t support a one-horse rodeo!” With TV, the show from Las Vegas is a local event.

We had some meetings and demonstrations, heavily reported in the local paper but ignored by TV, with their bias. At first it was “Down with TV,” but our numbers and enthusiasm shrunk quickly as sets were snapped up like dirty magazines and replaced the real thing with the feel-good experience of instant gratification in your own home. You could even hear it from your own bathroom, which could no longer hold everyone up with an endless line to get in. Back then you might catch a glance of the guy standing next to you, then realize it's a horse!

Timmy's Doing Well

The other day someone reminded me of one of my favorite TV shows when I was a kid. Which was very long ago, making the show an oldie but a goodie. About a boy named Timmy and his dog, whose name isn't coming to me, wait, it's Dane! Thought I had it on the tip of my tongue, but I had to think about it for a minute and there it was.

I was thinking, Was it Digby? Delbert? Great Delbert? I thought it started with a D. The picture I found online said Dignified, but that couldn't be right. I knew right away it couldn't be Dignified. Then Dane came to me. One thing I know for sure, Dane wasn't a collie; my first dog was a collie and they're a lot bushier.

Timmy, though, that's the kid's name for sure. Because I've often heard Timmy mentioned over the years. Let's say he came close to falling in a well. Or came close to being lost in the haymow. I had that happen a few times. One of my favorite activities as a kid, actually, was playing in barns. Haymows feel dangerous. I was genuinely afraid and excited. You're stepping around the cracks of the bales, the hay, and it feels like you could be swallowed up. But no kid was ever swallowed up, not while the dog was around.

Dane could be counted on -- and I'm talking about the show now -- to rescue Timmy before anything bad happened. You might think, That's not much of a show, since you need a plot, you need conflict to have a show. True, there's lots of shows like that. Those are the ones I hated. I never wanted conflict, and yet I didn't want shows to be documentaries where nothing happened. The only conflict I wanted, just for the sake of argument, was this: The fear that something might happen. That was my true life story: Something might happen at any minute, but if I'm smart -- smart and careful -- it won't.

OK, the plot of the Dane show is coming back to me. Timmy's parents would be playing cards with a neighbor couple. The kids would be running wild, although they were good kids. They made up adventures that took place in the haymow, for instance. There was always some danger, but Dane would growl, and everyone would know they were doing something wrong. Once they had Dane's warning -- Knock it off -- they changed their behavior and were good.

Toward the end, everyone would go back to the house, the kids and Dane. The family up the road would throw in the towel on the card game and head home too. Mom and Dad would be wondering how thing were going with Timmy and Dane, and how it went with the other people's kids, and it was always the same: Thanks to Dane, nothing bad every happened. The perfect show.

Dane would bark, a couple of quick barks, his nose in the air, seeking Timmy's Dad and Mom's praise. "You did good!" Mr. Douglas would say, lightly scratching Dane's nose and offering praise, "Timmy's doing well! Good boy! You, too, Dane!" And mother, Jacqueline Douglas, would offer the same sort of praise, said in that soft, sensual purring style that she was known for, "Such a good boy, yes you are, good Dane... Keeping Timmy well!"

Everyone would enjoy an evening biscuit, brush their teeth, and hit the hay, so to speak.

Ma & Pa Kettle vs. Transformers

It's my guess that most fans of the Transformers have never heard of Ma & Pa Kettle. Whereas it's just the opposite with fans of the Kettles; they've heard of the Transformers. Meaning, the fans of Ma & Pa Kettle appear to be smarter.

"But," Transformer fans say, "who needs to know about--- Who'd you say?" I politely, patiently repeat the name, "Ma & Pa Kettle," sounding it out as slowly as possible. The first two words rhyme; see if you can get that much first, Ma & Pa. Then think of the old phrase, "A fine kettle of fish," and that'll help you get the rest, Kettle. If we could now move on...

I might be among the last generation to love the Kettles, having grown up watching them on TV. And I attribute many of values I learned to the Kettles. Catch the difference? My values go back to the Kettles, not the Transformers.

But not everyone was as fortunate, as one generation gave way to another, raised instead on the Transformers. As I understand the Transformers, they're involved in all kinds of sci fi, live action fighting, weaponry, and destruction. Their world is filled with enemies to destroy. How things have changed!

In some of the Kettles' films there were folks of the community who didn't approve, or felt they couldn't countenance the Kettles' homespun ways. But no one destroyed them. Instead, the Kettles proved themselves truly wise even though they seemed to be know-nothing hillbillies. Ma was the wisest with lots of smarts, while Pa in his innocence, and more limits, showed a more naive wisdom. You really couldn't go wrong with the Kettles.

As for the Transformers, I only wish they'd held off on that brand of entertainment, to give that generation a surer foothold on the threshold of maturity. But the switch, if it had to come, had to come some time. Still, how unfortunate it was, coinciding with a serious psychological crisis among youth, who suddenly were given to spray painting things and gratuitous destruction. Today's rampant tattoo craze can be traced back to the rise of the Transformers; you're no longer happy with who you are.

The Kettles weren't perfect, though. Pa smoked quite a bit, as was common then. But he and Ma stayed home a lot and found happiness there; they had 15 kids. That's sweet. The Transformers, though, being machines, didn't know the same love of two human beings for each other. And that's communicated in the overall tone of their show. The Kettles had to know each other's feelings, and mature in their outlook, and watch for opportunities along the way to enhance their relationship. Then it was necessary to nurture their kids, and send them forth with the same values.

But the Transformers, what'd they even get out of bed for? You're a machine! If you get up, it's at someone else's instigation. And if you're able to get up "by yourself," you've been programmed to do so. You have no soul, you have no good in mind, no relationships to speak of, except what else you can destroy and lay waste to. It's ridiculous. No wonder society's been coming part at the seams since we went from the Kettles to the Transformers!

The way I recall, at first, the Transformers were supposed to be semi trucks or large motorcycles. Then they opened, or unfolded out to reveal giant robots. Which then took part in destructive behavior and mayhem. At that point I pulled back, never allowing myself to become immersed in it. I do know that over the years they did this, that, and the other thing, with multiple presentations of the overall concept described above. Big whoop!

The Kettles, though, as a family, in all kinds of social settings and through many dilemmas, present a human story, with good lessons to teach that kids could proudly emulate. I remember when they won the dream home of the future. It had lots of gadgets ("transforming" life as they knew it), but, unlike the Transformers proper, their transformation did not change them from the quality folks they had always been.

The Kettles are now part of a bygone era in entertainment. And how much worse the world is for it! The Transformers, on the other hand, have arisen, and dominated entertainment in the last few decades, contributing exactly nothing, to be exact, squat. A lot of malice and the spoiling of our youth.

Note: A couple of you wondered how I know so much about the Transformers if I'm so against them. I'm a social critic. It's my job to know things.

Cosmos: Elvis Presley

For a while I was watching the Neil deGrasse Tyson "Cosmos" show religiously, and really getting into it, traveling across great vistas of outer and inner space, but getting back home in time for dinner. It was great, it really was. Then I got to about episode 9 and read they were only going to make 13 episodes, I was floored. What?! I thought it'd go on for years, but they're bailing at 13! That was a huge letdown, so I haven't watched the rest.

Why wouldn't they just keep exploring the wonders of the planets, the stars, the world, just on and on? What is this measly 13 episodes? Then I learned that Carl Sagan's show also was only 13 episodes, which I never knew; I never saw it.

As you can see from my graphic, I also had high hopes that one of the wonders Neil might cover would be my personal hero in life, Elvis Presley. There's no person, place, or thing greater than the King of Rock 'n' Roll. And I speak as one of the world's first (and youngest) Elvis impersonators, since I was shaking my booty and belting out "Hound Dog" when I was just 3, in 1956.

Lest anyone disagree, please take into account, each of us is a part, even integral, to the cosmos. But not everyone's the same: There's me, there's the president, there's the guy begging downtown, there's murderers, there's everyone else, but not one of them is or was the great Elvis Presley. No man could be Elvis but Elvis, and no one is as great. When the cosmos got done creating Elvis Presley -- I believe it was on the 8th day, after God had a rest on the 7th day fit for a king -- it was pronounced perfect. Then the rest of us, the various mutations making up us, were created and/or evolved from the ooze.

Someday, when it's almost my time to reenter the ooze, I want everyone to wait outside -- family, friends, readers of this blog. And I want the death nurse to bring me an iPod with Elvis songs. Then, at that grand moment -- even though I'm feeling like total crap -- I will spiritually be revived when I hear the greatest voice in 13.8 billion years, singing me to sleep:

Lord Almighty, I feel my temperature rising. Higher higher, it's burning through to my soul. Girl, girl, girl, girl, You gonna set me on fire. My brain is flaming, I don't know which way to go.

It's coming closer, the flames are now licking my body. Please, won't you help me, I feel like I'm slipping away. It's hard to breath, my chest is a'heavin'. Lord have mercy, I'm burning a hole where I lay.

Hey, I wasn't expecting his last song to me to be my diagnosis, but that works! Shows a certain omnipotence, hardly the stuff of 'One size fits all.' To know the King's got me in his thoughts ... Pretty good.

Anyway, I was listening to some Elvis tracks just last night, and it reminded me, "I really need to get Neil deGrasse Tyson in on this. People will listen to him even if they turn from me. He could make the case for Elvis' place in the cosmos so much better than I, with his fantastic little spaceship. He could buzz the planet Presley and bring back a report that would cheer my soul, and, who knows, maybe rescue me." Those were my actual thoughts, a direct quote.

Then, someday, when I go, when it's all said and done, Elvis will receive me into the heavenly mansions, saying, "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and perhaps dedicating "My Way" to me. Since I, too, have often bit off more than I can chew.

The bottom line, in case you haven't guessed, is I love Elvis Presley. I love every nuance of his voice. Everything of his looks. Basically everything of everything. Elvis is the stuff of miracles. Think of how it went, a truck-driving kid who went from that to blow the whole world away. If Neil deGrasse Tyson has a place in his heart for every obscure scientist who discovered how to tell one star from another, surely there's a place for the greatest star of all.

Mutual of Omaha: FINAL NOTIFICATION

Sigh. Here's a piece of junk mail I got that I thought would be fit for display. It's from the Mutual of Omaha Insurance Company. The key thing about this one is the bold "FINAL NOTIFICATION" shouting itself out. If I never see another envelope from them forever, I can always look back and remember, Yes, I was warned.

But warned? ... or promised? Let's just say -- sure, it's one in a million -- that maybe I don't especially appreciate getting junk mail. I walk to the mailbox, and there it is, something like this. An insurance company wants to sell me a policy. My old university -- which had no qualms about putting me on academic probation when I was there -- now considers me a great alum, who needs to have their credit card, etc., and give money. Cards from tree removal services. Pizza coupons (actually useful.) Surveys from Congress, like they really care what I think.

They seriously think we're idiots, or so extremely lonely that we're just dying for a piece of mail, when of course we aren't. The best ones are the (rare) ones that come with a free stamp or even a free nickel. I believe I got a nickel some time in the last couple years. Seems like it was stuck right in the window, a little bit of sticky stuff holding it up, so you could see, indeed, it was an actual nickel! Those are nice. You're suddenly five cents richer, for what that's worth ... about five cents. If I could hear from them a thousand times a day, with the nickels lumped together as an actual $50 check, that'd be better.

Speaking of checks, I used to get those in the mail. But they were the kind of checks that if you cashed them, according to the fine print, they were actually loans. I can't remember who they were from. Seems like they were from my credit card company, or maybe just a loan company, acting on P.T. Barnum's old saying of a fool born everyday. At some point, I guess they just stopped coming. I don't believe I got a "FINAL NOTIFICATION" on those, or I would've probably written this blog then.

Anyway, to the Mutual of Omaha company: I'm old and have all the insurance I'm ever likely to buy. If this is my "FINAL NOTIFICATION" for mail I didn't ask for in the first place, and don't actually appreciate getting, then fine, thank you. Please show your integrity as a great company by keeping your word.

Hey, whatever happened to the "Wild Kingdom" show, sponsored by Mutual of Omaha? Did they just yank it off the air way back when? Did we get a "FINAL NOTIFICATION" that it was leaving us. I can picture Marlon Perkins, surely dead by now, or 150 years old, his final years screwed up without constant safaris. Maybe they sent his last check in on the tip of a poison dart and hit him. Or paid him off in nickels, one at a time. He was a great guy -- I guess, he seemed nice -- but who knows. He was responsible for an awful lot of animal pain.

Bait Wagon

NOTE: If you're a fan of the TruTV show "Bait Car," you'll like this. If you don't know the show, it features metro police luring people into stealing cars. The objective is to prevent car theft. It makes a certain amount of sense, if you cross your eyes and think about it really hard. You know they're going to steal it, the police are rooting for success, and finally ... "There they go! Shut it down!" ... They shut the car off by remote control and arrest the perps.

There's been a rash of wagon thefts recently in my town. It used to be you could take your kid to the park, take them to the restroom, and come back out to your wagon still there. Those days seem long gone, with the many crimes leading to parents being extremely mad, and kids upset they took so long in the bathroom.

It's been crazy. Everyone knows a kid who's lost a wagon, and everyone knows a parent who's mad at life-in-general and everyone in it. Gun sales are way up, as well as heavy artillery, mortars, bombs, and jet fighters. The biggest course at adult education is on assembling IEDs. Folks have even shown up at the police department threatening officers with death if they didn't put a stop to the thefts. And, as it turns out, they meant business.

That's where I come in. I've been working with the police, part-time, training officers in public relations, using some of the principles of group dynamics as well as other people skills. One day, I was just wrapping up a session on "You Need to Go Along to Get Along" -- on knowing when the passive side of passive-aggressiveness is indicated -- right when a parental militia burst in and took out two of our best men. When the excitement died down, I concluded, "This time aggression was indicated, but don't worry, you'll get the hang of it."

Another principle we're working on is "Digging Down to the Root of Any Dilemma." "Why treat the symptoms if the cancer's still there?" I asked rhetorically. "These senseless police killings won't stop till we address the real problem, the theft of these dam-- darned wagons." That's when I came up with the Bait Wagon program, modeled on the TV show. We would trick out normal wagons, pimp 'em up real "bad", so "bad" no self-respecting wagon thief could resist. Then put them in parks ... and wait.

But on our way with the very first wagon, we found ourselves fighting an entirely different parental militia, these ones coming in from the air. One officer -- Sgt. Smith -- said, "I've heard of helicopter parents, but this is ridiculous!" Those were his last words, as a mortar sped through the car window and impaled him. I helped the others drag the Bait Wagon to safety just as the car blew into a million pieces.

Fortunately, the park was near. With a wary eye, we quickly set up the Bait Wagon, leaving the handle right in plain sight, then hid in the bushes. It didn't take long till we had lots of browsers, lots of interest, little kids, parents, and a few juvies -- kids with tattoos. By now we were silently praying, moving our lips, "Somebody, please, take it for a spin!" At last a couple of good-time "bruthas" milled around it a bit too much, dicking with the handle and looking around. I checked the laminated profile guide Sgt. Smith bequeathed to Lt. Rutger and found them ... looking pretty close to these actual guys!

Almost immediately, true to form, the "bruthas" attached the handle to the mainframe and took off running down the hill, predictably picking up speed as they went. Likewise, we sped out from the bush. But our timing was unfortunate, as a parental militia just then came into sight on our rear flank and took position. We took incoming, with their first lucky shot taking off Rutger's leg, and the second the rest of him. I wasn't completely spared; shrapnel nicked the leather on one of my shoes, but it was on the back where it's not as noticeable.

But first things first! The "bruthas" were getting away with the Bait Wagon! I gave the order to the others: "Pull out!" (I actually didn't have any authority, but this is an old group dynamics trick I teach at my seminars: Anyone who "takes charge" is at least temporarily respected till folks have time to think it over. Most assume you know what you're doing.)

Now, each Bait Wagon is equipped with a remote-controlled brake to lock both back wheels tight. I ran back to Lt. Rutger and snatched the controls from his holster. Then we approached the befuddled "bruthas" -- now on the sidewalk, almost to the grocery store, struggling to make the wagon go. I gave the order and we rushed in from three directions, which would've been four had we avoided that last casualty.

Anyway, it turned out these were the guys behind all the recent wagon thefts. We think. We never actually found all the wagons, and they didn't have time to confess. But, you know, the laminated profile sheet and all ... it stands to reason. "Bruthas." It's a human tragedy.

But the real tragedy in this whole stinking affair was our failure to get this news out to the parents in time. All of a sudden, three jets came over the horizon in formation, strafing the whole scene for miles around, killing not only the remaining officers, but the "bruthas," and quite a number of innocent bystanders, including a white guy unrelated to this case running by with a different hot wagon. As for me, I barely managed to survive, not being hit but halfway scared out of my everlovin' wits.

Having nothing more to do -- my job was done -- I continued on to the grocery store, filled the wagon with a few essentials and went home. Saved a little gas -- did my best to save the planet -- and got in some exercise.

The Comet I Came In On

I've been watching an infinity of science shows on TV. I'm becoming something of a groupie for the greats in science. If so many of them weren't dead long ago, I'd be at their dressing room door.

It's refreshing to me, being able to see my Fellow Brains exploring things and explaining it so others can finally understand what's going on. If I knew how exciting it was in school, I would've been fascinated by the recesses of the past. Instead, all I can look back on are the recesses of the past.

I have to nod every time Neil deGrasse Tyson says something, or Michio Kaku, or when Stephen Hawking's narrator voice speaks. I friend-love each of these guys (h.t. to Yumi Sakugawa). Tyson, I frankly never heard of till the Cosmos show, now I find he's been famous all this time. Proving once again, the talk at the barber show is strictly lowbrow. I definitely think Tyson's cool. If we could do a brain switch, it'd be me flying in space, and him writing these trifles.

As for flying in space, actually we all are! Ultimately, at these speeds, the Milky Way galaxy flying a million miles an hour, you'd think it'd at least mess your hair. But somehow we don't notice it that much, especially when we stay inside. The fact is it's all very big, millions of miles across, big like Greenland on the Mercator map.

Some of the shows I've seen lately have touched on comets and the theory that earth's water came from outer space. The way time works is if you have enough of it, anything's possible. It might take 100 million years for the earth to form, then another 100 million for comets to create the oceans, maybe a thousand gallons at a pop. Very weird stuff, but perfectly timed. Unless you're worried about all the comets that missed us before earth was here. Someone else has our water!

Naturally, 100 million years, not to mention 13.8 billion years, takes us rather far afield of 4004 BC, and that glorious day when, after a restful weekend, God smiled and created the heavens and the earth. It's getting tougher to hold to the "one swell foop" doctrine, especially when we can still look and see the light from 13.8 billion years ago. But to each his own. I actually haven't yet given up on the theory that we won't be created for another 100 years, and our apparent presence now is only meant to eventually test our faith in the Doctrine of Postponed Reality.

You can't deny the attractiveness of the doctrine. None of my mistakes have yet happened. I can still be Tyson and Tyson me. And someday I'll miraculously "write" all the Beatles' songs at the age of 5. Coincidentally, at this moment I'm listening to Mozart's 40th symphony, another of my future originals.

OK, the comets are theorized not just to have brought water but the beginnings of life on earth. Which makes sense, if the earth was previously nothing but dry asteroids colliding and erupting in fire. We know comets have ice. I posit that a million of them put out the fires and the rest filled the ocean basins. Surely among 500 million comets there'd have to be at least two living germs hot to trot.

It's all been so long ago, of course we don't know which comet it was. It's the stuff of Cold Case. But we know how it turned out. A germ, various mutations, the dinosaur, more mutations, the gerbil, the cockatiel, more mutations, a monkey in a tree, Darwin, the rest of us, Devo, and finally Neil deGrasse Tyson and me. O the regrets! He was a friends with Carl Sagan and became a great astrophysicist. I had a tough time making friends, but could spell 'encyclopedia' in 5th grade and understood the distinctions between 'from' and 'form' when they stumped the other kids. The glory years!

Remember the cult a few years ago -- in the '90s -- waiting for a comet to pick them up? They didn't get it. The comet you came in on dropped you off for a reason, then crashed somewhere. It ain't coming back.

Wise Man Kliptoph of Another Planet

You realize mankind is in big dutch, huge dog doo, right? Disasters, global warming, high gas prices, kids rotten to the core. How long I've thought the basic problem is an abundance of ignorance and a lack of wisdom! "What we need," I've said, "is wisdom from above ... either God or some Wise Man from Another Planet." But after all these years, from my first striving for wisdom at the age of four till now, I never expected anything to come of it.

Till the other night. I was messing with my Roku. You know the channels on Roku? There's the biggies, Netflix, Amazon, Hulu Plus... Then there's thousands of unknown, obscure crazy channels, popping on and disappearing. Mega churches, fly-by-night movie channels, foreign barbarians, etc. I was watching this activity, the flashing and disappearing, when one flashed on and kept flashing. All it said was "Wise Man Kliptoph of Another Planet." I thought, Hmm, then I came under such a compulsion to click it that even Norton Internet Security couldn't have stopped me ... I thought they might have the great film Mutant Girl Scouts from Mars, so I clicked it.

But instead of movies the screen filled up with the image of a Wise Man from Another Planet. Obviously Kliptoph, and the broadcast was live! Not just an old VHS creature-feather bootlegged from YouTube. I watched the swirling black and white image on my color TV and was transfixed. All the apocalyptic problems of the ages registered as one solid image in my Ajna chakra: Man is in a sorry state. Multiple disasters. Death. Ignorance. No wisdom. Sloppy seconds.

At first I thought Kliptoph was just a dream, but he wasn't. I said, "Pinch me if I'm dreaming," and no one did. I asked why he'd appeared to me. He explained I was "The Chosen One," which was exactly what I've always wanted to hear, despite my years of ignorance, failure, and psychological instability. As "The Chosen One," I would deliver Kliptoph's words of wisdom to a world down in the mouth, on the edge, in the ditch, hopelessly mired, at its wits end.

I wondered how to inquire of him. "O mighty Kliptoph?" "Dearest Kliptoph?" "Heavenly Kliptoph?" "Kliptoph the All-Merciful?" "Kliptoph the Exalted?" "Above Average Kliptoph?" "Dreaded Kliptoph?" He said just "Kliptoph" would do, and since it would be just him and me he would assume I was talking to him, so even saying "Kliptoph" wouldn't be all that necessary. OK.

"What planet are you from, O mighty Kliptoph?" He looked at me with great beneficence, then answered, "Hagsmile." I had to laugh, having never seen a hag's smile I liked.

"Heavenly Kliptoph, what wisdom would you seek to impart to a world lost in foolishness and ignorance?" His eyes crossed in a transcendental way and veered upward, obviously into the vast library of his knowledge and understanding. I could see him mentally pulling from the stacks, assembling the materials together, and turning enormous mental pages while seeking up and down, looking for marginal notes. At that point it became an hour of non-stop teaching, most of which, because of my horrendous attention span, went in one ear and out the other.

So I'm sorry, it ain't much, but here's what I remember: 

A robofeath in the metulgrip is worth two in the bush ... An ootz of prevention is worth a pitz of cure ... Only you can prevent methane conflags ... You can't put a square plemp in a round plump ... Take all you can gusta, but gusta all you take ... She's too pultrix to be a minute over sovontwin ... Whatever doesn't termtomb me makes me girthulker ... The pombal doesn't fall far from the barkstilt ... You catch more flits with polsticky than with sarfunk ... Change your unhides everyday. You never know when you might have a failadunt and need to go to the medspital ... Always have kumpash. Remember, "There but for the divinsmil of Inscrut go I" ... Ask not what your patrum can do for you --- [transmission garbled] --- your patrum.

I feel wiser already, from just having been in Lord Kliptoph's lustrous presence. It's a lot more than I ever got from mere earthly sources. All praise to the extraterrestrial wisdom of Kliptoph the Exalted. Amen.

The Weal and Woe of the Misfortunate

If you happened to see "Wheel of Fortune" last night, you saw a heartbreaker. Oh! how terrible!

The contestant in question was a deputy sheriff named Syeeta, who managed to accrue over $19,000 before attempting to solve the puzzle. The puzzle was this: HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY. Syetta had enough letters that the solution was obvious.

She seemed tentative as she launched out on solving it. Getting everything but WIZARDRY right. I thought she said WIZARDY without the R. My companion thought she simply said WIZARD. Whichever she said, the final R of the word was already revealed. So if I'm right, she mispronounced the final syllable, more likely. And if my companion is right, she stopped a little early. Either way, she lost.

That's a sure $19,000+ down the drain, simply gone. How horrible would that be?! Ghastly. I don't think I'd even be able to watch my episode later at home, knowing that happened. For most of us it takes a lot of time and effort to get $19,000+. Then to see it just [POOF] right out of our grasp would be too much. I felt sick for her.

But for me, the cherry on top was Pat Sajak at the end of the show wishing her well, saying he hoped it was "a good experience" for her! Think of everything you could say to that. "Yes, it was a fantastic experience ... seeing $19,000 go down the toilet ... I only wish it happened everyday!"

I got some laughs from my companion when I was kicking my leg up in the air. "Yes, I love kicking myself in the ass so much! It's such 'a great experience' for me! Great experience?!" And there I go chasing Pat Sajak around the studio. Vanna would have to step in and be the temporary host the last few minutes.

My Bucket List

I was late to the party on the phrase "My Bucket List." Honestly, I never heard anyone saying it, then suddenly I heard it all the time. So unless it was a matter of spontaneous combustion -- and I don't think so -- people were already using the expression widely, then it suddenly hit me.

I watch "The Price is Right" and a bunch of the contestants say it was on their bucket list to be on the show. That's  how pervasive it is, and apparently how trivial it is. Not that it wouldn't be a terrific honor to be on the show. But you have to figure, they have a huge crowd, and only a handful of people can be contestants. I'm pitying the poor folks in the audience who don't make it, yet it is on their bucket list. O! To be that close!

(Just let me mention here, Drew Carey is the nicest guy on TV. He's a fantastic guy. I heard someone a few weeks ago bemoaning not having Bob Barker, and I'm like, "What?!" I seriously would not trade the nicest guy on TV for Bob F'in Barker! That's not on my bucket list!)

Anyway, the bucket list. My opinion of bucket lists is, Who cares? Whether you do something or don't do something before you die is a matter of little importance. Once you're dead, you're not going to be drifting around somewhere -- pure consciousness enclosed in the full reality of its source, let's say -- complaining that you didn't win a scooter and trip to Aruba on Price is Right!

And the same thing about whether you're able to see your great-great-great granddaughter graduate from college. It doesn't even slightly matter.

The Hillbilly Voice Synthesizer

I've had many opportunities to hear some of the hillbilly reality shows on TV, not intentionally but because they're on when I pass by. These include the one I know by name, "Call of the Wildman," which has something to do with the work of one good old boy, who's capturing ducks and other wild animals that are found where they're not wanted. I'm definitely not an expert in the show.

As I go by, I hear a few of the hillbilly-type interactions, the whiny voices and dialect. I have a couple of strong feelings on this. One, even though I'm completely interested in hillbillies in the abstract, when I see actual ones with TV shows, I'm not interested at all. But, two, I have a a sense of gratitude that some of my distant "cuzzins" are at least working, and evidently doing well. And after so many generations of dissolution, degeneration, and chaos, that's really saying something.

I'm definitely not sure that it says anything good about the state of TV, though. Back in the day when we were first so excited about the endless possibilities of cable TV -- fools that we were -- had we known it would come to this, we would've kept the family radio. Or bought an interest in the barber shop, so we'd have a place to sit with impunity and watch haircuts.

Still, there they are: guys rasslin' gators, guys pulling coons out from under people's houses, and I don't know what all. In the few bits I've seen -- the parts I haven't blanked out -- I believe I saw five or six ducks with rabies either get well or die. Which is a big deal.

But my interest isn't to document the episodes, but to see what we can do about classing them up. In my opinion, the whiny dialect needs to go, or at least be tinkered with to make it not quite so grating. For this, I'm looking for an inventor. I also see on TV that there's lots of opportunities for inventors, even though they admit that most inventions fail. This is one that would completely succeed, because imagine the gratitude, if we had someone would could synthesize the dialogue and have it changed to something classy.

It would go from that backwoods heehaw talk to polished English. And even if the lips didn't match up, it'd still be good. Our inventor makes a machine and synthesizes or translates them on the fly. The hillbilly with his ducks says, "What we're lookin' at right here is a whole passel of ducks foamin' out the bill, them quackers are in a right bad fix with the hydra-phoby." But after being synthesized, replaced, it'd come out more properly, "We're presenting the sad case of five ducks with rabies, their misfortune being properly named hydrophobia. We hope to staunch the dreadful foaming and restore them back to their normal lives." See how much nicer that is?

Or just for another scene, to really sell you on the idea, the hillbilly's chasing a family of coons around the room. One's hiding in a closet, one's under a table, one's swinging from the lights, and one's behind the TV. He's armed with nothing but a stick with a rope looped around the end. In he goes! Instead of talking about the "dirty little boogers" with sharp teeth likened to "the beer openers at a church picnic," it's all synthesized as something more impartial and academic: "In fear, the raccoon shows something less than cheerfulness, baring its teeth as a means of defense against what to it is likely an enemy."

I could almost watch that ... IF there wasn't anything else to do in life.

Drink With Us On the Bus

I've seen this bus around many times, and probably the less said the better. I've had to stop and think a few times what's going on. I'm still not 100% sure, but right now my best guess is that they shuttle people in, then see that they get home safely after drinking. If that's not it, I'm sorry. I'm not identifying the bar, so as not to misrepresent their policy.

But you might get the impression, since it says, "DRINK WITH US ON THE BUS," that you're going to be literally drinking on the bus with these particular ladies, or others. With all sorts of possibilities that could follow, including parking at some secluded spot out by the lake, with one guy, a burly bartender, standing guard against bushwhackers. Again, I don't know ...

Let's say that not what's going on. I accept that. But what if you had a guy who thought, Hey, ladies that want to drink with me on the bus! We're looking in on this little scenario as the screen goes wavy, then we focus in on a particular guy, whom we'll call Walt. Walt has just entered The Drinking Bus Zone.

Walt approaches. The bus is very dark and obviously no one's there. "I'll have them all to myself!" he says with relish, then jimmies the door and gets in. Now it's just a matter of waiting. So he's sitting there, occasionally looking out the window. They must live around here, since this is their bus. But the night is wearing on and no one's coming by for drinks.

As Walt gets a little groggy, he stands and walks around. He sits in the driver's seat, commandeering the bus in his imagination, and taking the girls out for a spin. Where they're going, no one knows, not even him. But they'll know when they get there. One possibility would be a cool nightclub, where they wouldn't have to drink on a small bus.

Although, it might be a better plan just to drink on the bus; with such a small space there'll be less competition. Maybe just Walt and these six! He takes a long lingering look at the one on the right end. The bar on the window really accentuates things. Everything above her mouth looks like a cowl. Still, that's just a picture, she has a normal head.

Time passes, and Walt's rooting around in some stuff, when he pulls out a cooler, a pretty good-sized cooler. It wouldn't hurt to set out some drinks, just to be ready when they show up. One here, that's his, and six around a small table. He gets thirsty after a while, of course, with the temptation, and drinks his own. Then reasoning that he can always refill their glasses when they get there, he goes around the table drinking each one.

After another round or two, the picture on the windows is starting to come to life, almost. They're certainly doing a halfway seductive dance, which has to be fun to see. Walt puts his arms out for a huggy-bear, then drops them. Playing hard to get, eh? He looks up, bleary-eyed, and makes some suggestive remarks. No bushwhackers are in sight, and it's only natural. But still, they're reticent.

Pretty soon, a cop comes around.

The Jumpatron -- Nothing Gets the Jump on Me

I know, it doesn't look like a 9000.
A guy modified it for me with parts
from a 9100. I like the added
horsepower of the second large gauge.

I've long been known as a trendsetter, even though I hate that word. Still, it's descriptive, and that's what counts. Other kids were doing the Twist, I did the Time Warp. In the days of tie-dye, I had a preppie look. When backpacks were the rage in the '70s, I carried a briefcase. Other kids carried their books one hand on the side, I held mine two hands. They tried to clear up acne, I went au naturel. They dated girls, I was stubbornly celibate.

I've taken some pride in all that only because a positive self-image means fewer expensive prescriptions. But what it really comes down to is a fear of someone or something getting the jump on me. The reason I've always anticipated trends -- what's hot and what's passe -- is that I've always studied the angles. Completely out of fear. Always looking behind me. Checking under the bed. Counting my pennies 10 times.

When it comes to the normal everyday things of life, I'm always thinking, "Yeah, it's cool-looking on one level, but what will it look like in 10 years?" So the future itself doesn't get a jump on me, I'm very judgmental of things.

You hear people do it all the time, but most of them are late. Like portable, mobile phones. One of my uncles had a car phone in the late '50s. He beamed with pride when he showed it to me. But it was like one of those old crank phones, about three foot tall, a horn you talked into, another piece you put to your ear, with a weird cloth cord. I hated to tell him, "Not good. You think it's cool, but this is about the dorkiest antique I've ever seen." I was five years old, so I couldn't hold back.

It wasn't till the '80s that the big monster cell phones, mobile phones, became a mass market item. But remember them? It was like a suitcase with an antenna. We had a youth pastor at church, around 1989, and he had a fake toy phone. He told the kids he thought he looked cool when he was driving around pretending to talk on it. "Look cool?" I thought, "please, that's so old -- even though it's new -- it's ridiculous!"

When you're this way, as I've always been, you're hard to impress. But, again, it's all fear. I realize that, this damned obsession with everything getting the jump on me. So what do I own? I'm a little embarrassed to say, I have an iPhone. I was real reluctant to get it, knowing how it's going to seem someday, but I've never had the talent to build my own phone of the future. And even if I did, I'd get in trouble trying to independently build an infrastructure to handle it.

That's also how I've been with music. The various decades stations on the radio never impress me. They're so excited to be living in the past. While, in the past, I had my eyes on the horizon. Have you ever listened to the '60s channel on Sirius XM? If it's the same as it was last time I was a captive audience and had to hear it -- while getting my oil changed -- you have DJs pretending it's 1966 or 1968, saying passe things like "Sock it to me!" and "You bet your sweet bippy." I remember that at the time. And I was sitting there silently, not allowing momentary catchphrases to get the jump on me. If I was going to say anything, it'd be something from the '70s, the Fonz going, "Aaaaaa!" Which didn't make sense, so I was silent.

You might think, "Wow! Let's follow this guy around. He'll point us to the next big thing, and we'll make a fortune." But it doesn't work that way, because even though I know a lot about what's cool, speaking of the future, even to tell someone is in essence the future getting a jump on me. I can tell you this much, the future's pathetic.

I've done some serious study of the past, as an aid to keeping ahead of the present and to anticipate the future. Looking at the old radios and old cars is a real blast. There's an interesting fact about radios from the 1920s. They look almost identical to modern radios/iPod/Bluetooth players, horizontal with two small speakers in front. Quite a bit different from the radio monstrosities of the '40s. I was always aghast at those big things. To think, we could've had a second garage. Or room for a Jumpatron, a time-traveling, time-shifting, trend-discerning piece of hardware. I just checked my 9000. It says that everything except itself is nearing obsolescence.

And as for cars of the past -- all of them being horrendous, very ugly -- the cars of the 1920s are so old-fashioned looking, it's pathetic. Those big square corners, looking like something out of a gangster movie. One, they should've totally avoided the gangster look. And, two, they should have realized, these SOBs just look old. I can see me now, if I were suddenly back in the '20s: "Is this the best you can do, or are you pulling my leg?" Sheesh!

The basic rule of thumb to remember is this: If it looks cool today, it's passe junk tomorrow. Get a jump on the future before it gets a jump on you. Essentially, don't do or own anything.

Squatchs Is The Craziest People

I've seen a couple episodes -- bits and pieces -- of the TV shows about people looking for Sasquatch, Bigfoot. First, my opinion of TV drops by the day, with every moron (except me) having his own show. Don't you think I could have a show? We have cake shows, gator shows, turtle shows, hog-fishing shows, children with their own shows, redneck shows, Bigfoot shows ... there has to be room for one more. Me just staring at the camera till I get a cute idea. Who blinks first, me or the viewers? Sounds similarly smart...

It seems that finding Sasquatch -- or Squatch, as he's familiarly known -- is one dead end after another. There's one grainy 28 seconds film of him from 1966. The rest is commentary. Yes, they try to be proactive. They take their night viewers out in the forest and look for him. You can probably guess what happens next? Just missed him.

I was thinking what it'd be like to be the secretary of the Sasquatch Seekers Society. You'd go into it thinking, "Wow, I'm on the front lines of history. We're gonna find Bigfoot and be famous. How hard can it be? With satellite technology, heat-seeking gadgets, video cameras that can be placed in every tree, various entrapment devices along the way, high-powered weapons, and trained seekers, it doesn't seem like Bigfoot could remain elusive for long. Especially since he's a beast that doesn't actually know we're looking for him. And even if he has an inkling about it, he certainly doesn't share our technology and resolve. Piece of cake!"

Then the meeting starts. You're poised with your pen, only to take notes on a rehash on the '66 film, that indeed Sasquatch walked up a particular hill, looked back at the camera, then disappeared behind some brush. Let's review the film one more time, just to be sure. Yep, that's him walking up a particular hill. Yep, he's now looking back at the camera. And, by golly, there he goes, disappearing again behind some brush. Let's put the film away till next week. When we see it with fresh eyes, maybe we'll see something new.

Of course there's going to be skeptics, always the worst scourge for the true believer. Whom we want to convert as soon as possible. Here's the evidence, all gathered in this thin manilla folder, sketched out in as much detail as we could muster, on this handy 3" x 5" card. Hey, you say it doesn't look like much? It's enough to base an entire show on. Because the viewer never knows, this might be the week we get out there and something happens.

Really, I think that's what you need to do. Actually prowling around the forest, the green light showing your startled faces at every cricket is very dramatic. Don't they sell calls in the back of hunting magazines you can get to simulate the bleats of wounded animals? Various urine scents? That'd be cool. "Bleat, bleat... Pee, pee." And, yes, here comes a hungry Squatch, just broke the animal call, drank the pee, and stole the 3" x 5" card!

We could have a whole episode focusing in on our courage for having spent the night out there. Even if there's no such thing as Squatch, meaning the danger from him was minimal, still, a snake might bite you. Which I'd hate. Or mosquitoes. Probably worse. With snakes, you can see them reasonably well. But mosquitoes are so small and devious, it's tough to get a bead on them.

OK, so I'm the secretary, as described above. I need to summarize the many reports that are coming in from all over the forest. There's lots of noises, very eerie out here. What's that?! I'm checking it out. I heard a noise down there. OK, it was a family of grubs building a nest. Ouch, a family of grubs?! LOL. But let's get closer to the stream. Squatchs have to drink, right? Stands to reason. What's that?! I hear some rustling around over by that little dam. Which -- I'm getting closer, ever closer -- appears to be ... yes, it is ... a family of beavers sharpening their teeth on a sapling. Damn! A family of beavers and a family of grubs, all in one night?

Must-continue-believing! That in spite of scientists having had no trouble already finding most of the thousands of species of life on earth, this elusive creature is still out there, unseen, except for that day in '66. It seems to me -- and really, I'm nothing -- that if there's one, there has to be more. Like his mom, his dad, then their siblings, then the whole clan, the whole pack, going back many generations. Then home sites, places where they've gone to the bathroom, places where the females are busy nursing babies, etc., etc. Did one Squatch simply fall from space and is waiting for the ship to get back?

Of course we don't have to worry about all that. Because it's a show, and the show must go on! But for our loyal secretary, filling in the minutes and the findings, it's getting frustrating. Page after page reveals the terrible truth: "Same old story ... nothing." "Same old story ... nothing." "Same old story ... nothing." Then nothing but ditto marks all down the page and all the pages following.

He finally leaves the society, after dutifully filing the minutes book on the shelf, very disillusioned. He steps outside and is mauled and eaten by something, either a Squatch or some other UCT (Unidentified Creeping Thing), big as a house, which then walks up a hill, turns to look back, and disappears in the brush.

Welcome to Ida Lupino Theatre

What did I know about Ida Lupino? Nothing. Except she's the answer in crossword puzzles to the clue "Miss Lupino." When you have a name like Ida, you can achieve crossword immortality.

But then, in wanting to watch old movies, and suddenly, through the miracle of watching YouTube on your TV, I've discovered a movie sensation, whom I would immediately sign to a long-term contract were that possible, by the name of Miss Ida Lupino.

I guess I've only seen three movies so far, but all of them were ones where Ida was heavily involved in making them. In fact, she was the director. And starred in one of them. They are, in the order of me seeing them, The Hitch-Hiker, The Bigamist, and Not Wanted. And guess what, they're fantastic.

The Hitch-Hiker is about two guys who happen to pick up a particularly noxious hitchhiker. He's already killed others along the way, and now it's their turn. He manages to keep them under his terrible control for virtually the whole movie. It's very atmospheric. They're out in the wilderness, the mountains, the blowing dust, desert rocks, and little out of the way roads. I know this much, even if you're not a violent person, before the movie's over you'll want to strangle that bastard with your bare hands and send his soul somewhere worse than hell. It just so happens, the guy is the same guy who played the hapless prosecutor on Perry Mason.

The Bigamist follows the sad life of a salesman. He and his wife want to adopt a baby. But adopting a baby isn't like having your own; it requires a background check. The old man doing the background check on our salesman friend uncovers a whole double life, which is then presented to us in a long flashback. It's interesting as can be. I thought it was gripping, the whole sad story that you know it's going to be ... thanks to the title. Ida Lupino played the part of the wife in Los Angeles. His other wife was in San Francisco.

Not Wanted is about a young woman who becomes an unwed mother. It happens all the time now and it's usually OK. But in 1949, not so much. It's a very cool movie. We have a wild-eyed, yet in some sense reserved, night club piano player. I really liked his controlled histrionics at the keyboard. He and the young woman start up a thing. Too bad it wasn't coitus interruptus, or better yet abstinence, since his career, dismal to this point, means he has to go to South America. We never see him again, although he leaves something behind. Then there's the true man, a one-legged guy who definitely, heroically stumbles the extra mile to show he does actually love her. In between, there's the hospital for unwed mothers and some of the agonizing issues of adoption. Nice movie.

I was thinking, enjoying Ida Lupino as I've been, that it'd be cool to have my own TV show. Sort of like the guys on Turner Classic Movies. I could be sitting there in my easy chair. Then I realize I'm on. I perk up, go to the bookcase for a huge volume, titled after the Ida Lupino movie that I'm presenting. Of course I open the book and give a few bits of history about the film, who wrote it, etc. Then I pull out a pipe and go through all the gyrations it takes to get one lit, then I'm smoking it, and talking about Miss Lupino and some of the issues she addressed.

Ida was in a bunch of movies, way before she started directing, so this could be a show that went on for maybe close to a year. In the course of the year, I could have all sorts of cool things that I'm messing with. Like my slippers in the winter, poking at the fire, cleaning my bookcase, having my chair reupholstered, interviewing one-legged men, talking to hitchhikers, playing the piano, and sexing up young women (not on the air, of course) ... we'd just show the afterglow. Also, I'd be getting ready my passport for South America.

My recommendation to you is this: Don't wait for my show. The bastards on TV don't want me, I'm not commercial enough or something. I haven't scratched the right person's back, I don't know. I haven't slept with any producers, which is probably the actual truth. No, instead of waiting for my show, check out the list of Ida Lupino films on her Wikipedia page, then hightail it over to YouTube and check out some of these films. They're great.

Surrender, Mister Ed!

I was absolutely besieged with well-wishers and others singing my praises yesterday for my post, "We Got Bin Laden, We'll Get Mister Ed." I'm actually a little tired today because I didn't get much sleep last night. Readers from many time zones around the world kept me up. It was exhausting, but also very gratifying. It meant a lot to me.

And, I had to chuckle, there were even a few readers from Hong Kong, Moscow, and Ecuador who basically wrote, saying, "Please, get him out of our country or city!" It seems like they're afraid he'll get a job in their country next, then compromise their security by too much stealing. It just goes to show, whatever your nationality and whatever your background, you're paranoid about the same things as me.

But yesterday's gone. Now it's today. So I thought, you know, maybe I'd go to the well one more time, since I love your praise. The memories of it, after all, are still clear in my mind. My right arm -- my dominant arm -- is sore from the fist pumping. But it's a pain that I enjoy, because of how I got it, by pleasing you. Does that make sense? I really think I'm on to something: All I have to do is find some famous scoundrel in the news and publicly take him to task. And my blog really takes off! It's sort of devious, I know ... [devilish grin].

OK --- THIS IS AN OPEN BLOG POST TO MISTER ED, MY MANE MAN. LISTEN UP, MISTER ED! LISTEN TO ME AND COME OUT, WITH YOUR HOOVES IN PLAIN SIGHT. SHAKE 'EM, LET'S SEE THOSE FETLOCKS!

Mister Ed, I know you used to read my blog. You told me so that time you downloaded every entry of every blog on the internet and put them in everyone's individual file. As you recall, I was irate. The government I could handle. But you threatened to show it to my minister, thereby threatening me with excommunication. That was despicable. But I paid you off, and after a few months, it all went away. I can only assume you still visit here occasionally, although now that you're on the run, no doubt you have only stolen moments for savoring it.

So I will be brief. Mister Ed, all horsing around aside, the time has come for you to give yourself up. Do not make them have to capture you. If you give yourself up, that will be seen as a goodwill gesture, and things will be easier for you. They might even give you greener pastures. Only, please, whatever you do, for God's sake, give yourself up before you ruin our relations with the Ecuadorans. From there the dominoes could only topple, and we'd lose Mauritania, Togo, Texas, and the tiny island nation of Podunkia.

Honestly, Mister Ed, wither or not you'd admit it, you should've known better than to have (allegedly) stolen all our national secrets, including, you bastard, my data from the NSA, detailing all my alleged misdeeds, the foremost of which would have to be my spotty calls to my mom. I know the rap: You must be a terrible son, calling as infrequently as you do. And there she sits, with several diseases, staring almost hopelessly at the phone. And I know there's some stranger stuff in my file. Like when I called Al Qaeda. I swear, my call was nothing more than to ask them how they managed to have their name start with a "Q" and it's not followed by a "U." I didn't know that was allowed. It should be Al Quaeda, like that.

But enough about me. The government actually wants to geld you for showing the vulnerabilities of the NSA, that it's apparently overseen by three monkeys, See No, Hear No, and Speak No Evil. Whether they even have locks on the doors has not been established. They might've been "locking" the place with duct tape left over from the Bush administration. For you to have carried out over 2 million documents without a hint of suspicion sounds like quite a feat. I'm thinking back to that time I ripped one measly MP3 file off a neighbor's CD at 3 o'clock in the morning in the middle of the Sahara Desert, and the FBI was right there to pick me up, staying true to their warning label.

Do I relish the fact that you're in big trouble? you're wondering. You're damned right I do! It couldn't happen to a worse guy, after how you threatened me. And all my loyal readers -- you screwed them over too! Let's just say, you're something less than a thoroughbred... OK, Mister Ed, you get the message. Give yourself up today.

We Got Bin Laden, We'll Get Mister Ed

We got Bin Laden, We'll get Mister Ed. Even now, the world is swarming with agents trained in the mysterious arts of intelligence, top secret data gathering, and putting the finger on someone. Even if you're a needle in a haystack -- in this case don't eat the hay -- they'll find you.

Long live government snooping! Seriously, long live it. It's government snooping -- vast and broad -- that gives us the upper hand, the cutting edge, in the world. You think we'd know what was going on in North Korea if we weren't keeping track of things? And anyone who tinkers with government snooping, however slightly, or, as in this case, however enormously, needs to pay the price.

Good old Mister Ed thought he could stray from the barn, eat up all the crops, then gallop into the sunset, to the land of the rising sun, or close to it. Where, if I'm not mistaken, they sacrifice horses. But he didn't take into account that the world is a small place. There's no hiding place. There might've been one in 1900, when we would've have only a few blacksmiths looking for him. It doesn't work like that now. His being an expert in government power should've told him that. They'll soon have him back in the paddock.

Even the mighty bin Laden himself found he couldn't hide forever. Although we thought maybe he was dead. But they kept saying, "He's 7 feet tall and has a bad kidney." All we had to do is look for deliveries of extra large shipments of cranberry juice and the absence of bananas and soda pop. And that's where he'd be. Which turned out to be true. Not a banana in sight. Except it wasn't a cave, but a house somewhere over there. The bottom line: It was government snooping that got him.

Public enemy Number 1 went down. And now Mister Ed has nowhere to hide, neigh, withers 'o ever he may trot.

I truly believe Mister Ed's alleged crime, if he is eventually found guilty, would be a heinous one. (At this point, of course he is alleged to have done it. I would have even given Dr. Zachary Smith (Lost in Space) the benefit of a fair trial, were I one of the Robinsons, before finding him guilty and executing him, or leaving him alone to die on some godforsaken planet. My family needs safety more than a villainous plot device.)

If guilty, if Mister Ed had his way, we would be coming around the track, then entirely lose the lead we had in the war against terror. It wouldn't even be a photo finish, we would've broken a leg in the first turn. The war against terror, which, by some weird quirk in the nature of things was declared over about a week before these revelations, but which in all actuality rages on. Which might mean -- notice, I said might -- mean the destruction of every one of us. No one in the winner's circle. Although these catastrophes actually tend to never happen where I personally am. I've always been lucky like that.

Like I said, at this very moment the world is swarming with agents on the lookout. And we know our agents. They're familiar with all the usual suspects, not to mention every hooker from South America to Shanghai -- they'll find someone who knows something. Then, all bets are off, I wouldn't bet on that horse...

So what's the problem with Mister Ed's apparent actions? He stole our secrets and hoofed it on out of there. The simple fact of the matter is, some things are meant to be kept secret. Not to be flip about it, that's why we call it secrecy. We don't want anyone else to know. Whether you like the Patriot Act or not, the American people consented to it when we elected all the various assholes who were prepared to ramrod it through in our hour of panic. If you don't want such things, either quit putting scum like that in office, or stop panicking when something terrible happens. Look at things in context: 300,000 people die of cigarette smoke every year, we don't have to get so worked up over 3,000 that we instantly forfeit our rights.

I say we get the guy. Or conclude that the whole system is rotten to the core and do what you can to bring it down. Just don't look to me for support. Because I'll skewer you then just as much as I'm flogging Mister Ed today. And the only way I'd ever recant is if you happened to take over and instituted a Rein of Terror. Then and only then, for personal reasons, wanting to cling to life, even with my scruples so terribly compromised, I'd support you. Even though Rains of Terror, again, never seem to happen where I personally am -- I'm always left high and dry.

Now, does the government have any culpability in this matter? Yes. Mister Ed was several lengths ahead of them. Anyone so incompetent as to have him working there and downloading 2 million documents under their nose shouldn't be complaining. They're probably not smart enough to complain. Where's their horse sense? Search his feedbag at the end of his shift! Let government snooping begin right in the government's own office! Are you not paying attention, you dolts? Hell, he might've carried away the whole place before you woke up! I've worked at places where people noticed a sip out of their Coke, which turned out to be evaporation ... but the key thing is they noticed something was awry.

5 Scenarios How My Life Might've Gone

For this you gave me life? Was this your intention when you brought me into the world? Is this the life I'll always have or should I expect another? Woe is me!

Probably all of us, the frequency depending on how terrible things have gone for you, have considered our lives and whether they're all they could have been. It's just something you do, no matter how vain, no matter how fruitless, especially in those times of the greatest loneliness, heartache, and despair. I've done it many, many times, and I've got the bruises on my forehead and the damage on the drywall to prove it.

O! Could things have gone differently? Just a little tweak here or there, a road, a path not taken, a fork in the road I straddled! What would it have taken? More education, psychiatric help, lessons in elocution, or perhaps dancing? I'm as good as anyone else, right? Two arms, two legs, my only real flaw my painful game toe, but if I keep my shoes on, no one sees it.

We take stock like that, which basically comes down to comparing ourselves with others. Again, no matter how vain or fruitless it is. Because wish as you may ... the face in the mirror is always the same. Even though I still have the theory -- and I hope someone will back me up on this -- that if you sit and meditate strenuously enough that your inner essence will rise through your head and you can take possession of some other life form, be it animal, mineral, or another person. I've tried it enough. But my essence always ends up on the couch, looks around and gets scared, and immediately rushes back home.

Until I get that right, I really only have two choices: 1) Be content and even thankful that I am who I am and make the most of it, a very levelheaded approach; or, 2) Waste my life by stewing over it, always imagining, always wondering how life might've gone, if only ... Given the choice, then, and stating it clearly like that, and being fully aware that Number 1 is the only real option, I'm taking Number 2.

SCENARIO 1 - Things could've been much worse. I could've been born in an oddball place, to totally strange parents, and been a mangled physical wreck right from the start. Like some of the gator catchers, turtle catchers, cat whisperers, hog-fishers, and other assorted human vermin on current reality TV shows. Still, the advantage those folks have over me is that they do have TV shows, and they're making big money, because the weirder the better. But my advantage is long-term, because those shows will go out of favor someday, and in their despondency they'll get eaten.

SCENARIO 2 - I might've pursued a life in politics. They emphasized politics and government when I was in school, since it was a time when they were pushing for 18-year-olds to vote, and idealism was rife. We thought we could change the world; other kids thought that. Fortunately, I was one of the few who was able to look at it all askance, knowing that politics is a complete dead end. If you want to be instantly corrupted, go into politics! You're always in someone's pocket, your service is worthless to the general public, and no one likes you. Look at it this way: We've had politics forever and Republicans still exist. That's not progress.

SCENARIO 3 - I should've learned music. Seriously. I see someone playing the piano and I think, That could've been me! Or the guitar, which I can play half ass. Or the auto-harp, to me a complete mystery. Or the harmonica. I seriously think I could've been a major star, one of those guys who comes out with long tails and bows five or six times, lights his candelabra, and enthralls the people with yet another version of "Voices of Spring," which I know from the Three Stooges movie, Micro-Phonies. I often think of the Three Stooges when I hear other guys singing classical music, like arias, and how they shot grapes and bananas with their fingers into the singer's mouth. That might be why I never learned music.

SCENARIO 4 - I might've gotten a better education. As it was, I couldn't wait to get out of school. I think it was the 4th grade, after we learned arithmetic, that I figured up by addition precisely (more or less) how many days it was till I graduated. Then I stole about 130 rolls of toilet paper from the pantry and had it strung all over my room, so I could pull off one small sheet for each day of school that went by. It was OK till about the 8th grade, when my dad finally decided enough is enough. He came in and literally tore down one whole corner, and ended up wiping his ass with my whole junior year.

SCENARIO 5 - I could've run away and who knows what might've happened! It's just like in time travel movies, change one little thing and everything else changes. Let's say I had run away after my dad did that. I always had this theory that I could run very far to the north if I just set my mind to it. I sort of halfway tried it once and stepped on a thorn before I got out of town and had to go home and go to the emergency room. But my theory still stands. If I could avoid thorns, I could run far, far away.

Then I'd get a job with a carnival or circus, like Toby Tyler, and meet all sorts of interesting people. I might've charmed the Snake Woman and started a little brood of my own. Or, who knows? A wayward evangelist might've kidnapped me and taken me on the road, having me repeatedly saved and/or healed in his services. He could've performed the lengthening-the-short-leg trick on me. Then we would've sent KFC buckets through the congregation, getting enough love offerings to be rich.

At some point, no doubt he would've caught me in the embrace of a naked girl in a barn, and from there the imagination just has to assume my life would've been one happy ending after another, with her or others. Continuously rolling in the hay, all over the country, going from barn to barn. Which I'd still be doing today. Rolling in the hay and rolling over and saying, "Was it good for you?"

Some Proposed Changes For Jeopardy

Everyone loves Jeopardy. I've never known anyone -- out of my handful of acquaintances -- who didn't love the quiz show that turns questions and answers on their heads, and pulls out all the stops doing so.

This week it's the Tournament of Champions, which I always like. You get to see contestants who are proven winners, each having won something like a minimum of five shows, go immediately from winner to loser. Because there's only one winner. Even though they're all smart, it's still not like Superman split in three where each is of equal strength and none can win.

One of the weirdest thing about Jeopardy is how every week there's at least one contestant who totally crashes and burns. It's weird because they have to pass a minimum competency test in trivial knowledge to even be on. And yet ... they die on the spot. Frequently, it's a woman who gets the middle spot, but not always.

The current host is Alex Trebek. I heard he signed a three-year contract a couple years ago, and that that will be it, so we're probably getting to the end of his tenure. I actually lose some sleep at night worrying about who they're going to get to replace him. I toss and turn trying to think of who it might be. Then I tell myself two things: 1) The Lord is good, He will provide; and, 2) They replaced Bob Barker and that worked out well. Seriously, Drew Carey is the nicest guy on TV.

Alex has a couple quirks I don't like. One of them he shows when someone gives an answer (question) that's totally off the beam; Alex says, "Oh no..." as though it was obvious and Shame on you. That's rubbing it in a bit much. And two, I can't think of the other quirk. Oh yeah, it has to do with his picture perfect pronunciation of French.

Now, as to the proposed changes, some of these come out of my own Jeopardy play at home. One, I like to bet big on the Daily Double, but I don't like to just bet the money I have. I like to add to it, including pieces of property. It's just for play, and my dog isn't injured in the course of the show, but I take pretend snatches of dog fur to bet. So I might bet everything I have, my Jeopardy money, plus a dollar out of my wallet, my cable remote, plus a snatch of dog fur. Then when I get it right, which has been known to happen, I get it all back double, and the dog's more ready for winter. Or if I get it wrong, I have to reconcile not only with a cold dog but the cable company.

So let's go from there. Say each contestant could bring 10-12 items from home -- valuable and trivial -- to add to their Daily Double wagers. The judges, maybe with an auctioneer as a judge who has lots of experience knowing what things are worth, quickly determine what the items are worth, and that gets added or deducted from the score. So if a guy has a barbecue grill, that could be $40; a bucket of green walnuts, $20; three dead tropical fish, the minimal value of 50 cents; etc. It'd make it fun, like a garage sale, or like Let's Make a Deal. You never know what you might win! A two dollar mule!

I've watched Jeopardy on and off for many years. I remember watching it in the '60s, when I never knew a thing about Shakespeare or Potpourri or Potent Potables. Shakespeare was a total mystery. Now, though, that I've read Romeo and Juliet, although it's been 20 years, I at least have a chance.