9/11 -- The Dirty Bird of Days

Nobody knows what to do with this day. The usual rules don't apply. You go to the diner and Trixie isn't herself. She's muted her usual boisterousness, her usual lust for life. The past comes rushing in on us. However long ago it was -- perhaps we could look it up -- doesn't matter. The same somber tone, the same unwelcome sobriety descends upon us, one and all, and once again we're beside ourselves.

Once we were beside ourselves with terror -- utterly perplexed, finding devils in the smoke -- and now it's with reflection and a shaking fist, at the sky, at somebody, as we chant, "Never again!" I remember the first time I heard that familiar chant. We adults were stoic, standing stolid in complete silence. I remember my own stolid stance, the evil wind of that day moving my hair, that's it. I didn't know what to say, no adult did. The chant started then, wonderfully enough, with a little kid, maybe not more than four or eight, something like that. He or she raised his or her little fist, and with an angelic voice, as if from the clouds, he or she started in: "Never again! Never again!"

Other than that, does anyone really remember what they did? I don't. I remember my first day of kindergarten, my first Valentine, my first kiss on the playground, my first school lunch, my first (and second) Cub Scouts pins -- Fox and Bear, actually the only ones I ever earned, the day LBJ had his surgery, and the day I lost my virginity to myself. But that day, that terrible day, so long ago and yet as fresh as today to so many, is a weird blur, a distant nightmare that I mostly remember only because others remind me.

I know this much about it, though, the world hushes itself in its presence. Every lip is sealed, every voice struggles, every eye sheds a tear. There is no laughter. The decree goes forth, binding on one and all, "Let laughter subside!" Give it up, let it be, a pall falls, and that same dread we faced, and have pretty much repressed, returns to the fore, and what seemed so proper just yesterday -- Ha! Ha! Ha! -- is at once set aside, perhaps never to be heard again ... We just don't know. Can we make it? Will anything ever be the same? I don't think so...

This is now the dirty bird of days. You know the dirty bird. The dirty bird emits droppings on everything in its path. Straight below it, around the yard, around the block, then the town, and finally the world. Joy and happiness are far from its path. It may be the most joyous occasion of all, a picnic, a birthday celebration, the day of your first marriage. But when the dirty bird gets hold of it, it's nothing anymore, a waste, a void, something to be buried and forgotten. Your happiness that seemed permanent and set to endure, in the twinkling of an eye, is turned to despair.

Have you washed your hair? The dirty bird passes, or lands, and again it's a mess, as though it were never washed. Were you proud of your car, the sheen, the shine, the glint of the day's noonday sun beaming on it? Passing is the dirty bird, doing what the dirty bird does, and your car's just as crappy as ever. Or you have a brand new set of shingles on your house. You're showing it to your priest, but even he has to turn away -- he's who's heard every squalid confession there is -- as the dirty bird passes, emitting, dropping, and bombarding everything in its filthy path.

Let introspection reign, then, on this day of days, the day of the dirty bird. May each heart be gripped with moroseness, completely seized up and bound. As for me and my house, we're staying in today. And now ... to silence.

A Huge Snowfail Last Night

I was out trash-talking the weather today after the big snowstorm. First, you know me, I wasn't impressed. I used to hear the old timers talk about snow so deep they had to cancel school for a month. That was back before the government realized you could build trucks to get rid of it. And, second, I'm just not that easy to impress. Even if nature eventually destroys us completely, my last words will be, "With any competence it wouldn't have taken so long."

Of course I don't have to worry about nature destroying us. Mankind is king of the universe, OK?, the judge and jury over these pipsqueak storms. We have brains, but nature has no real organization. If I were pissed off nature (nature with brains) I'd concentrate my whole force in one area and make an example of someone. Like Afghanistan. American man has been screwing around in the war over there for close to 15 years and doesn't seem to be any closer to beating whoever it is we're fighting. But if I'm pissed off nature, I whirl and blow till they beg for mercy and choose to have a righteous democracy, giving rights to their girls to go to school.

That's all taking me pretty far afield, since I didn't mean to get mixed up in Afghanistan. If any terrorists are reading this, please don't hurt me. I wouldn't normally be afraid, but, seriously, if American man has been screwing around trying to beat you for close to 15 years, you must be doing something right.

My actual topic is the failure of our snowfall last night. I've never thought of snow as a true success till it's hit the ground. That has to be the purpose. It's up there in the tallest part of the sky and has the ground as its destination. But -- this is Nature vs. Nature -- it gets caught in trees, on cars, and even on my head. That's a weird thing I think of every snowstorm: "This snow fell from the tallest part of the sky and just happened to land on my head. Imagine that, if only snow came with winning lottery numbers!" And you can even localize it more, if it lands on an even smaller target, your tongue...

I was driving past this local wall, seen in the photo, and saw the tragedy of snow failing. Such as getting all the way from the tallest part of the sky and screwing it up with a mere 8 inches to go! Instead of falling on the ground, it got trapped in the crevices of the bricks. Then 8 inches up from that, and on and on. Isn't that a drag if you're snow? You're looking at the ground and knowing it's a sure thing ... just to have the wind swirl at the last possible second and put you on a ledge 8 inches up.

Bolt Upright In The Night

Thank God for government snooping. It helps me get to sleep at night and get my rest. Let me explain.

At one time, I would be sleeping, then dreaming, with the noises of the night mixed in. A truck goes by and clunks its load on the bump in the road. It's a critical moment in my dream, and I bolt upright in the bed. I'm in a terrible sweat, breaking into one, I'm shaking, and even itching. (If I wear long johns in the summer, my legs tend to itch.)

After much stirring, I get back to sleep. Then I start dreaming about a mountain of bills. A mountain of bills, things you could never pay even were you to have a good job. I'm stewing away over it: I might lose my credit rating, my game toe might get better and I'll lose my disability, I might lose the house! I bolt upright in the bed, a horrendous sweat breaking out everywhere.

I try to sleep, but sleep doesn't come. The whole night's terror continues to drill into my mind. I'm even praying now, "God, be merciful to me, a poor sleeper." Again, I'm stewing over it in my mind, all that could happen: Burglars are very stealthy; there could already be one in the house; Underbrush, my dog, has virtually lost her hearing, she won't bark. Car thieves are out there, too. And someone might be stealing the copper from my air conditioner. I'm not even asleep but I bolt upright, then get up and go to the bathroom and change my sweaty clothes and sheets.

Back in bed, I'm worried over my health. There's a few new aches and pains everyday. But I manage to doze off. The health concerns have now morphed into a terrible dream. There's monks flagellating themselves and trying to get me to take up flagellating. I, who think flagellating is totally stupid! But they convince me, so there I am, beating myself to death with chains. It's making me dizzy, I'm passing out, I see the signs of death everywhere. My arteries are clogged, I've got scrofula, halitosis, catarrh, rheumatism, and dropsy. And to make it worse, I'm getting a bad doctor's report. The terror builds ... I bolt upright in bed.

Once I get back to sleep, everything has shifted. Now my dream is of people on my trail. They're all trying to corner me in some way. I have few options left. I'm telling morphing inquisitors -- morphing from kindly priests to horror film beasts -- "Yes, yes, I'm guilty and everyone knows it!" There's two figures, like the Spy vs. Spy characters, with big beaks, and they're leading me to a field of bubbling tar pits, where they raise knives to stab me and dispose of me still alive. I bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath, hot tar everywhere.

At this point, I really feel like I need to work on my prayer life. But none of it helps. Then I remember, "God damn it, I live in a country where security is Number 1, top of the line, grade A. The government is keeping track of everything and everyone, and that includes me. They've got eyes in the sky, eyes in the street, eyes in the hills. They know what I've done, who I've met with, and what we've planned -- all quite innocent. No one, and nothing, is going to get me. I don't have to worry about it. Thank goodness -- seriously, thank goodness -- for that kind of security, both personal and the security we enjoy as a nation.

I consider it like that, the facts, and as I do, a great warmth descends upon me. From my feet to my head and back again, I feel the warmth. It's pervasive, a great warmth even though I'm not sweating. It is comfort, a feeling of complete comfort, like being in my dear mother's arms, little footies on my feet. And a drop seat in the butt should I need it. I find myself going into that blessed stage just before sleep, and all is well. I drift happily, then, easily into full sleep. Safe and restful, sleep, sleep, sleep.

The Government Is Coming!

Now we all know the full extent of the government's snooping program. They felt it wasn't something we should know, and since we democratically elected them, and they serve the people, with the people being their bosses, it seems only right that we should've had to learn it by underhanded means. Whether the information will do us any good is still to be determined.

Many, of course, are unhappy that they've been doing it at all. As we know, though, many are simply unhappy people and are never satisfied with anything in life. Others normally have a happier outlook and so their unhappiness is a little more legitimate. I fall somewhere in the middle: I'm sometimes unhappy and sometimes happy, so I can see both sides. And on this issue, I'm a little on each side. It doesn't seem like it needs to be secret entirely. What kind of terrorists are we protecting ourselves from? Are they so innocent that they don't know we're even slightly devious?

Most of us are happy when there aren't terrorist attacks. That's the justification for all this. On that subject, though, there's a couple different ways to look at it. Which we were saying in the Bush years when all this bullshit was going down. 1) Are we willing to give up all our liberties and privacy over the miniscule chance that any one of us would be the victim of a terrorist attack? You have a better chance of dying from secondhand smoke from three counties away. We ought to be following the Cheney Doctrine, if there's only a 1% chance secondhand smoke from three counties away is going to kill us, we ought to be building a big wall and installing fans. 2) Can't they just kill the terrorists and leave the rest of us alone? Or maybe make a more wonderful world where people don't become terrorists? Like in the Tao Te Ching.

Personally, I see it as overkill, needing the complete records of all of us, just like it's overkill to strip search grannies at the airport. They've been perfectly normal, harmless people all their lives. They have no criminal record, they haven't done time. Their friendships are mostly with other members of the Doily Club. The idea that they should suddenly be strip-searched, and given this potential thrill in their lives that late in life, might be bad for their heart. Then the government would have blood on their hands, not that it's bothered them thus far.

Take me, though. A strip-search now and then would probably do me good. I've honestly never carried contraband or presented a second of harm to anyone in my life, but you never can be too sure. I feel shifty sometimes, that normal malaise the daily battles of life gives, I carry a certain amount of existential guilt, thanks mostly to my religious upbringing, and that extra punishment, the strip search might be redemptive, depending on how far it goes. Go far enough -- one drop of blood -- and I could redeem the whole world! IHS. Then 2,000 years from now, an unknown citizen -- we'll call him Walt -- will be testifying in church, at that point held under bombed-out interstate bridges: "The Grandma Slump guy was thinking about me. Had I been the only sinner in the world, He would've died for me." The imagination of people runs wild. And the imagination of Saviors.

Then once the whole world is redeemed, we won't have to worry about terrorists. That's the idea, anyway. But how to get everyone to accept the redemptive work (1), then to live 24/7 in the light given them (2), means we're going to need a whole new missionary emphasis. We'll be sending missionaries to the ends of the earth, meaning terrorists will be coming out of the woodwork, confessing their sins and accepting the new grace. Whatever phone records the NSA missed, the redeemed will present in hand, detailed printouts, of how, yes, indeed, they did conspire with my Grandma to blow up the World Trade Center, meaning the surveillance on her was justified all along. Turns out my whole family was involved, from Cousin Roto scheduling flight school classes in the barn to my blind Cousin Connie (a man) hiding Mohammed Atta in the outhouse. Guilty as charged!

Part of the complaint we the public have about government snooping is how secure our personal information is. They assure us it's perfectly safe. No one's looking into it. No one, that is, except this one guy, a lone wolf, who managed to download everything they have without anyone noticing. Not only that, but he was able to flee to Hong Kong. Sounds secure! With all the logistics the guy needed to do it, I'm suspecting UPS. (I wouldn't have the first idea how to flee to Hong Kong, let alone what I'd do once I got there!) The fact that our government had someone in their midst like that alone means heads should roll. How the top man still happens to have his job -- assuming he is a man -- is beyond me. We should examine some of his phone-computer records. Was he playing Farmville on the job? While the fox was in the chicken house, was he in the barn rolling in the hay?

It's a Hogan's Heroes moment. "No one has ever escaped Stalag 13! I know nothing, I see nothing!" Yes, I have all the information in the world at my fingertips, but still this one guy was able to steal the whole store. Wouldn't you think they've have some sort of software good enough to detect massive downloading? I think I'm more pissed about that than anything else. If they're so incompetent at oversight, how is it they're fully engaged at the switch protecting us from terrorists? While this guy was on the phone arranging the logistics of his world travels with UPS, why wasn't anyone noticing? Someone needs to order something from Amazon. I know the only time I never see a UPS truck is when I'm expecting something.

The lesson for the rest of us is to flee now! We're governed by incompetents! They can't even keep track of the people working for them. What do you mean Ed's in Hong Kong? I thought I just saw him in the hall! We could be safe from terrorists if the government wasn't asleep at the switch. Maybe we need to get George Bush back. He was stupid and looked it, so we had no temptation to trust his sorry ass.

Roger, Copy? No, I'm Not!

On this day of days, if you're into radio, since it's 10-4, I want to turn to the interesting story of Roger, your typical fourth grade schoolboy, whose experiences, as it turned out, were anything but typical.

His troubles began at recess one day when a swing in motion lurched back and knocked out his front tooth. There was no way to reattach the missing mouth appendage, so the dentist had to replace it with a big shining gold tooth. So far, so good. Except for one thing, from time to time he was picking up radio signals, and if the expertise of radio technicians is to be believed, by some miracle he was also transmitting!

To make a long story as short as possible, since we know our readers can't be bothered to spend more than a few minutes on a backwater site like this, the whole thing of him receiving and transmitting radio signals caused a lot of grief.

One day, a day very much like any other day -- trees were well anchored in the park, deer frolicked in their country solitude, accountants were busy balancing checkbooks, and iTunes came out with another update -- Roger sat down at his desk and prepared to take an exam.

They had a substitute teacher that day who didn't know that Roger was an honest child who would never cheat. At the very same time, there was an unusually high level of airplane traffic in that area. And the atmospheric and solar conditions were just right for the maximum sensitivity regarding his gold tooth and its radiophonic capabilities.

Roger sat taking the test, but was bummed out at the constant chatter in his head, the pilots complaining about engines going out, propellers falling off, and so forth. Finally he had to open his mouth for relief, right when one of the pilots said, "Copy?" and the other said, "Roger." Making it sound to everyone like someone was saying Roger was copying.

The teacher came over and checked out the situation, with Roger protesting, "No, I'm not!" She separated him from the others by a few feet. Pretty soon the whole situation built up in the same way, a passenger in one of the planes had some box cutters and was trying to break into the cockpit. The pilot asked, "Copy?" with the response being, "Roger." Other students were covering their papers, while realizing this was out of character for Roger. The teacher separated him even further, moving him very close to the window.

The trouble on the planes overhead seemed to be reaching a fever pitch. Air marshals were engaged in one "helluva" tussle with the terrorists, there was a lot of confusion on board, and many voices were jamming the radios. No one could seem to get a clear channel, with one air marshal now sitting on a terrorist who was trying to ignite a shoe bomb and underwear bomb both shouting into the set, "Copy?! Copy?! Copy?!" All radio decorum was out the window. The control tower wanting to emphasize their presence shouted back, "Roger! Roger! Roger!"

All eyes turned on Roger, who threw up his hands. "I'm not copying!" Can't you see that?" But the class and the teacher were an uncontrollable mob, moving in on him. Roger moved outside on to the edge of the building, on one of those ledges like you see in old movies, and started shouting, "I'm going to jump if you come at me! And I'll take you all down with me!" He shouted that and many other threats, being extremely desperate. All this was being transmitted over the same signal back to all the planes.

The pilots and air marshals believed the control tower was also taken over by terrorists and all hope was gone. But just to be sure they were crying out things that couldn't be understood, except for "Roger?!" and "Copy!" Over and and over, "Roger, copy! Roger, copy! Roger copy!" With Roger there on the ledge by now thinking God himself had condemned him.

Such confusion reigned, it was like ... insane.

So we have terrorists in the skies, desperate pilots, air marshals who were threatening to take early retirement, the control tower not knowing who was talking, and a little boy on the ledge freaking out, and a substitute teacher and a classroom of irate children lighting torches for the final showdown with innocent Roger.

Roger didn't know what to do! All life was conspiring against him and he did what had to be done, he leaped to his death. From the sky then, three planes were coming in for a crash landing, smacking into the school, destroying the facilities and destroying the teachers and other students. The only thing not burnt up were some desks that were thrown clear of the flames. And those were already so badly marked with graffiti they were barely worth saving.

I said Roger leaped to his death. I'd love to spare him somehow with a happy ending, but once you've leaped to your death, it's too late for that.

I Had Labs This Morning (Thanks, Bin Laden)

I had labs this morning. I always dread this, no more so than when I'm sitting there waiting.

Usually I have something to mentally psyche myself up with. Some sin to atone for. Accepting adjunct pain for the sake of meditation. Whatever. But today there was nothing. Whether any of that's good psychically or not in the long run, it comes in handy when they're drawing blood.

I started thinking about bin Laden being killed, since it was just announced last night. How much worse it'd be to have someone shoot you in the face, I thought. Yet waiting for the needle, at least it's antiseptic, and you've got a nurse who does it everyday, and people usually survive.

I heard the guy before me talking about bin Laden with the nurse. I was trying not to listen, but there was no avoiding it. I needed some alone time.

Then the nurse called me to the chair, and didn't say anything about bin Laden. I didn't want to excite her in any way. The radio was playing Kelly Clarkson's "Behind These Hazel Eyes," but it was just coming to the end when the needle went in.

Next came on the local announcers laughing it up about bin Laden and giving the "Top 5 Reasons to Celebrate Bin Laden's Death." The last thing I needed was some local guys' attempts at humor. The needle was in, and it was painful today, and I would've much preferred another song. But, no, it was The Morning Crew with their idiotic yuks.

The Top 5 Reasons weren't actually funny. They've had 10 years to write the list and this is the best they could do? It was weighing on my mind. My face was grimacing. Still, I was actually glad it wasn't funny, since I didn't want the nurse to start convulsing the laughter, not with the needle still in.

Despondent Boy

For a few days there we had some real excitement. But now things have died down and we're back to normal. And one day is just the same as others.

I felt like we were at a peak experience there for a while, when Grandma and I thought the terrorists were coming to get us. We weren't thoroughly prepared -- I went into all that -- but the preparations were good enough, let's say, to survive a quick strike. Such as if the terrorists had taken out most of the neighborhood, including our house, and had moved on. We would have been OK in the cellar and would have been able to come up to the surface after everything died down to live another day.

I can see myself, really, in the aftermath of something terrible. Let's just say the house was destroyed. And the half-acre was littered with our possessions. I would be sheltering Grandma through most of the explosions. Then when it all died down I would tell her to be patient, that we must not go out too soon, no matter how curious we naturally would be. Then, perhaps in the dead of night, when there was not a creature stirring, and no sound, I would get my flashlight--

Here's where it gets good. Because then I would still be very cautious, even with the flashlight. My first hope would be that I was able to see without it. Such as if it were a moonlit night or a car was driving by with its lights on. I would attempt to see what there was to see. And I've always been real good at moving -- like a ninja -- without making a lot of noise. (Now, if the floor is naturally creaky, of course I have trouble with that -- who wouldn't? But for the most part, you don't know I'm coming and you don't know I was there until I'm gone!)

So, I would be outside the house. Perhaps all that is left is just the cellar door under a hundred pounds of debris. Grandma is safely behind in her chair. I lift the debris and climb out. I can picture myself, a very grim look of determination playing across my face, hoping it is a moonlit night that my heroic features might be accentuated for posterity.

Moving in my silent way -- as best as can be managed, with no creaky floors in sight -- I see the possessions of a more peaceful day scattered and blowing in the wind. Over there against the fence, pages flapping, is a TV Guide, but there's no TV.

In the distance I can hear the tanks rolling for the city. I'm able to run -- like 40 mph -- over to the interstate. I get there and see them, and can tell by their markings that they're ours. Yet there's no way they would know me. They'd likely take me for a hostile character. So I give them a silent salute. I mouth a silent prayer of godspeed -- the wind takes it and makes it its own.

Back in the bunker, I report to Grandma all the many images I have seen and declare how we will be OK. I'm rocking her in my arms for comfort. Still, I'm wondering to myself how exactly we really will ever manage. The house is completely gone. Only the outhouse is still standing. But you can't live there, of course -- not unless you added on a couple rooms.

Getting back to normal is sort of depressing. But, hey, we do still have the house.

The Morning After

There was a song that kept running through my mind all night, "There's got to be a morning after if we can hold on through the night."

I'm by nature an optimist and like to look on the bright side. Even if the terrorists didn't strike -- the Republicans somehow stopped them -- being in the cellar was a good drill. It showed how prepared we were for the worst. And as far as I'm concerned we're a lot stronger for it.

We're wiser for it, too, because I was able to discover in real life testing what some of our shortcomings are. Now, if I tweak those and touch up the conditions of our confinement, we'll be doubly prepared the next time there's a terrorist scare. And don't think it won't happen! That would be a September 10 mindset. Constant fear is the best course.

Grandma's back upstairs, on her bed right now. She was beat -- physically, emotionally -- completely spent. I haven't seen her this wrung-out in a long time, I guess since Grandpa's death. And that was 30 years ago. And she was a lot younger then and could take it. Now she's practically at death's door herself. It took me a good half hour to get her up the cellar stairs; stopping and starting, clutching at her heart. Her poor old frail body can't take much more of this. But somehow, someway -- a lot of prayer and patience -- we made it, both of us staggering, she in a state of collapse. After that, it was literally all I could do to prop her up at the stove to rustle me up some breakfast.

Now the evaluations must begin. The biggest downside I saw in this whole experience was the sanitary facilities. The bucket. It would be much better to get one of those camper toilets -- I think I've heard of them -- where there's some kind of really hungry enzyme in there, in the millions, in a constant state of anticipation, that helps keep it clean. Or possibly a chemical dissolvent, something that would neutralize the whole works with a minimum of fumes and sizzling. And that wouldn't attach itself to us! You think, though, you're down there, helpless, and anything could happen. I can see myself living in the fear that an enzyme or a chemical like that might attach itself to us, and essentially eat its way up and out our mouth! So we'll probably keep the bucket handy till I work through some of these things.

And there were other obvious downsides: Cooking, cleaning, ventilation, lighting, no generator, old supplies, dampness, everything else. Plus, I left my gun upstairs. If the terrorists had come busting in, we'd have been dead meat.

It turns out survival is a tough business, something that needs a lot of planning. About the only thing that worked well was the duct tape on the door cracks, but then that also gave us more ventiliation issues.

Last night was a long one, but in the end we came through it OK. Now Grandma can rest up through the morning -- till lunch time. And then we'll see what the rest of the day brings. But I'm looking out right now at a beautiful day. The terrorists didn't come! Somehow John McCain kept us safe -- I guess -- but we also had a hand in it, bravely doing what we could.

And we'll do it better next time! Because it's not a matter of IF but WHEN.

Bunker Mentality

The electricity's been going out all day, off and on. We heard numerous explosions, great blasts. My sense of the thing is that it's either Al Qaeda blowing up the neighborhood or another thunderstorm.

I left the cellar once, to empty the bathroom bucket, but if the enemy closes in on us we might have to just sit tight and endure the smell. It's not a good option, of course, but survival is the main thing, not comfort. Grandma was up and down all night -- heck of a time for the trots. And there I am -- can't sleep anyway, my nerves are shot -- and she's over on the bucket giving it her worst. But the morning did finally come.

Anyway, with the electrical problems that meant this computer was going off all the time. But I'm doing my best here. I just hope there's someone out there still alive. If John McCain is reading this -- or one of his aides, assuming any have survived -- please save us. We're too young to die; that's definitely true of myself, I guess I should add.

It's only been one day and already I feel like I've got bunker mentality. It's very tight quarters in here with the stores Grandpa packed away. I'm looking at some of the bags of this stuff. Rice, beans, powdered water. All of which seems OK. This is not going to be pleasant if it lasts too long. But how long is it going to last?

Let me pause a moment here, to think...

I guess, I don't know, maybe, could be ... I probably should've waited for some official notification from the authorities before going to the cellar. We came down here simply on reflex, it was her idea. But when you think about it, you know, McCain only said he would have an "advantage" if we had another terrorist attack. But -- I think I'm on to something important here -- you know, if you parse that out, then take it in the literal sense of the words, really that's quite a bit different, that's removed from an out and out actual declaration that Al Qaeda is already on their way. And the assumption that they would first attack a rural neighborhood like this, here at the edge of town, on a gravel road, is something else to reevaluate...

I need to take another look at this print out ... looking at it here -- rereading it -- I think the plain sense of this document is absolutely clear, that all of it seems to be merely hypothetical. This in no sense reads like an actual warning, nor, quite frankly, do I see any directive, any instructions as to what citizens should do at the present time -- which you would expect to see if it were like other emergencies; they always have some notification component. Hmm, come to think of it, we had the radio on most of the day and they didn't say a word about it.

But there's Grandma Slump sitting there in her civil defense helmet, rocking slowly back and forth, drifting in and out of intense alertness. I might have to suck it up and take the blame here. So she got siren happy! She's old, and entitled to a certain extent! Well, I'm sitting tight for the moment. Maybe. I'd hate to get up and disappoint her and tell her we're wasting our time down here. She might not believe me. She knows I swing Democratic. She might take it as a personal affront, since we got this alert from a Republican.

But she's stirring a bit, shifting uneasily, and that's what she does when she's fixing to use the bucket. I might get sick. I'll turn my head, of course. There's nothing I want to see. Especially in her sickened condition. Basic hygiene and all that, it's lacking.

One more night of this and we'll reassess in the morning.

The Terrorists Are Coming Again!

Those darned old terrorists are coming again -- since it's an election year!

It wasn't enough that they got lucky on 9/11, but they've threatened us and scared us out of our everloving wits ever since, like clockwork at two year intervals.

As sure as anything -- it must be her instinct -- Grandma Slump perked up at the news that they were on their way again, and she's been grinding out that old siren I got one time at an army surplus store.

That's my cue to get to the basement. There's really something about the paranoia of a 104 year old woman. It's not constant but it's very intense in spurts. In those lucid moments she has the urge to survive like a young sprout half her age.

This all started with John McCain raising the very real specter of Osama bin Laden just over the next horizon. Grandma's always been for the Republicans, since she knows no one can protect us like they can -- like they did on 9/11. I've always been pretty much a Democrat, but as soon as the news starts chattering about terrorists, and when Grandma starts cranking that siren, there's nothing I can do but submit and look to the Republicans for protection.

Charlie Black really got it going, saying what an "advantage" terrorism is for McCain. And McCain himself has agreed with that verdict in the past, as I think we all do. Yes, McCain's the man to keep us safe! If we vote for McCain we will be safe! Although, truthfully, all we have to do is get him elected and make it past election day in November, and then, if history is any guide, the threat will subside significantly. So that's a pretty big relief.

Well, that old siren's going off, so Grandma must be awake again. I have just a couple minutes to wish everyone out there well, then I'll head for the cellar. She's already down there, of course. We're ready for the long haul. We've got a bucket for bathroom necessities. And all those boxes of civil defense rations -- crackers and canned meat -- Grandpa put down there in the '50s. I hope it's still good.

Remember, world, if this is the last chance I'm able to communicate with the outer world for the foreseeable future, all these problems with terrorists will be solved if only we have the good sense to elect the Republicans.

The Slumps and the Swishers

Everybody needs an enemy. And, it would seem, when we get one it's also necessary to use them to good advantage.

When our enemy was a country -- like the Soviet Union -- some of us (not me) used them to good advantage. They kept us pretty much terrified (me) of what might happen -- the Soviets were barely people like us -- and so, no doubt, there was a lot of money to be made in defense efforts, armaments, etc.

Now our big enemy are the terrorists. Whether they really have much power and presence or not, it doesn't make any difference. They're our enemy, and we (somebody) will use them to good advantage. The watershed moment -- which the neocons were thankful for -- was 9/11. You see it pays to have a good defense, but if the enemy still manages to get through, by luck, by hook or crook, or by our own negligence, that also can pay. 9/11 paid big time. There should be no dispute about that. Bush rode it all the way to Iraq and hasn't come back yet. The Republicans used it to ride to victory in 2004 and it looks like that's about all they have left this year.

Today we had it in the news something of this very thing, that the McCain campaign thinks another terrorist attack on America would be beneficial. McCain aide Charlie Black said the assassination of Benazir Bhutto in December was an “unfortunate event. But [McCain's] knowledge and ability to talk about it reemphasized that this is the guy who’s ready to be Commander-in-Chief. And it helped us.” The subject of another terrorist attack on U.S. soil was brought up, and Black said, “Certainly it would be a big advantage to him.” So, try to imagine John McCain's prayers every night before he goes to bed, "Oh, please Lord, please, pour out your wrath on this nation once again, so I can get my sorry butt elected. In Jerry Falwell's name I pray, Amen."

"Certainly it would be a big advantage to him." That's what the Republicans are hoping for.

Here on the Slump half-acre, things are pretty calm. But it wasn't always so. We used to have an enemy -- I never really knew why -- the Swishers next door. It was common knowledge that the Slumps never had much use for the Swishers, and the opposite was no doubt true.

Grandpa Slump was the most vocal about it, of course. But he was known to get drunk and shoot rock salt at random. So he was always the most vocal. Grandma always had the basic quietness that is natural for women of her generation. I suppose you have all those kids, and raise them in the depression, and everyday's another heartache, it gives you a softer nature. Not for Grandpa. But of course the drinking took away whatever softer side he might've had.

The odd thing about this feud was it was very low-key. I wouldn't have known the Swishers existed, basically, if Grandpa wasn't grumbling about them. They didn't seem to be bad neighbors and kept to themselves. I said that was the odd thing, but the oddest thing of all was that one of my uncles -- Babe -- married a Swisher daughter. That was before I was born. So why Grandpa couldn't like them at that point, I don't know.

Everyone's got enemies.