The Old Shaman

YOUR BASIC
STEREOTYPICAL SHAMAN

I was into mythology a number of years ago -- I've since backslid -- and the stories I most "thrilled to" were the tales of the old shamans. Probably because, no big secret, if I was going to be anybody in their world, it'd have to be a shaman. I wouldn't mind being one right now, frankly.

These were/are the guys with the inside track on the divine. They know the ins and outs of how to deal with people. They're busy discovering the secrets of life, then discreetly, I'm guessing, keeping them hidden until they're needed. And they're never fully needed, meaning they're always holding something back, making themselves men of mystery and therefore needed. In the Bible, I'd say Moses filled that role in the stories. And that's why they had a law about killing witches, because they also had the inside track, but with it, their own mind.

If I were to drop down into one of these communities -- thatch roofs and all -- I believe they would immediately take to me, just like that. The people would gather around, I'd be passing out Wrigley's gum, and everyone would love me. Except for the shamans. Their guardsmen would drag me to their quarters, where we would have a great stare down. Then, in looking into my fantastic eyes, they would look deep, then deeper yet, then deeper still, until realizing they could never plumb the depths. You with me still? And that's when they'd give up, commit suicide, and name me new shaman.

Until that happens, though, and I'm not like Margaret Mead or someone, always traveling, going off to these little villages and making a nuisance of myself, I'll be here. The shaman I'm writing about today, one I heard of, had nothing to do with Margaret, insisting he was a self-mead man.

This guy had all kinds of powers, like they all have to have. Whatever it was, the heights, the depths, the widths, everything in creation, he seemed to have an in on. What about sickness and health? He was there too, any disease: gout, bad back, sore leg, winnebago, nagging cough, cold feet. And of course he had the in depth knowledge the community needed for their continuing prosperity, mental and physical.

One of the big concerns mankind always has is about the weather. It's still a concern we have today. I was thinking of the weather earlier today when it was snowing. It meant I had to get out there with my snow-blower and wake up the neighbors. It was supposed to get warm and melt it all off. So I was amused to see the parking lot scoop guys out early, knowing if they didn't hurry it'd all be gone and they'd make nothing.

Here's how the shaman thing works with the weather. A householder comes to visit him. He walks outside, he looks at the color of the sky. He licks his finger and gets it real wet, then he sticks it up into the wind. He looks straight up, he looks straight down. He climbs up a ladder and looks to the horizon. And so forth. Anything he can do, he does.

Then they go inside, and he considers the evidence well before making his pronouncement. If I say this, this might happen. If I say the other thing, something entirely different might be the result. These are the kinds of thoughts that go through your mind when you want to tell all, but you have to be very considerate. How's it going to affect me if I get it wrong? Then he clears his throat and gives the townspeople his best advice, in the unique Pig Latin his tribe speaks:

W3A3T3C3H3 G3A3R3Y3 L3E3Z3A3K3'3S

R3E3P3O3R3T3 O3N 3431 A3C3T3I3O3N N3E3W3S3.

(Omit the 3s)

Take the Thanksgiving Pledge: I Shall Shop!

I'm up in arms this year, as I understand there are various ones agitating for businesses to be closed on Thanksgiving. Of course this is just more of the same, the undercutting that we've unfortunately come to expect of our valued American traditions. Apparently their philosophy goes something along these lines, Anything old and established needs to give way to something new, something modern. And so it is, they want something different simply for the sake of being different.

Like I said, I'm up in arms about it and I'm not going to take it lying down. I'm fighting back. By making a pledge, along with a warning to businesses, that I will be shopping on Thanksgiving, as always. With the warning that if any store is not open on Thanksgiving, I will never return there. And that's a biggie, because I'm totally hooked on shopping, and it might be tough for me to keep that particular codicil. Still, surely there will be thousands joining me whose discipline in that regard might be stronger. Plus, just issuing the warning, stated as strongly as it is, will give businesses pause about daring to close on Thanksgiving.

I don't know exactly where all this trouble started, but if I had the resources it'd be interesting to trace it and find out precisely who is to blame. It could be the employees of the big stores and shopping centers who are merely lazy and looking for a way to take the day off. Laziness is epidemic, as we all know. I know some kids, for example, who don't have a single muscle on their skinny little bodies. All they do is vegetate on couches, sometimes mustering up the strength to play video games for a few minutes before collapsing. You figure they have parents, and that some of those parents work at these stores. They're jealous of their kid's lethargy and dissipation, so they want a day off.

What I actually think, those I believe are probably responsible, are all the bleeding hearts on Facebook. You see their posts all the time. They're sentimental about every puppy, every kitten, every dying horse, every selfie their idiot kid comes up with, every Bible verse, every "witty" saying, along with cartoons of little old ladies saying ironic things that undercut their dignity, etc. Of course they've gone soft. Then there's grandchildren, and we all do love our families. But instead of taking the day off, that's a huge reason why I'm calling us back to our senses. Don't do away with Thanksgiving shopping! Your kids are depending on you!

I used to listen to my grandparents as they reminisced about the old days. Which would've been the 1920s and '30s. They got married in 1920. It's kind of funny, but the little old town Grandpa came from had only one general store. If they didn't have it at the general store they didn't need it! Anyway, that little store was run by some funny little man who spent a whole hour just lighting the stove. The rest of the time he was waiting on customers. As long as there was a dime to be made, he was there. And it's a good thing he stayed open on Thanksgiving, because that was the big shopping day back then. It took them a week to get there, and he'd better be open! And kids had muscles, too, not like today...

I venture to guess that today's kids have never heard a story like that. Everything today's so confused they don't know what to believe. So someone like me, who does know the traditions, and does value our past, has to spell it out, as I'm doing here. Whether they read my blog -- or even know how to read -- these are things I don't know. It could be I'm merely pissing into the wind with my words, but piss I will! As long as I have breath...

I hope everyone has Happy Holidays this year, and that you get your holiday shopping done, as it should be done, right away, bright and early Thanksgiving Day. Let me wish you all the best for a splendid and blessed Thanksgiving, as you accomplish your shopping, then gather to do ... whatever ... fatten up the little skeletons on your couch playing games ... introduce them to a turkey leg, and bring them back from vegetarianism and let them eat like healthy people. Meat, potatoes, and meat.

Happy Thanksgiving shopping!

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Lest any of this seems obscure, like you're reading this in the year 2034, when common sense has returned to mankind, the above graphic comments on the following graphic that's made its viral way around Facebook:

Groundhog Day -- The Big Hunt

In case you've been wondering where I am, I'm back! It's just now early afternoon here, Feb. 2, Groundhog Day. And I've been out doing what you do on G.D., which is groundhog hunting. It's a big thing here. My family and I have been blasting groundhogs for many years ... and (not to get too morose after such a joyous day) I'm probably the end of the line for this side of the Slump family. After me ... who knows?

Anyway, it's still a lot of fun -- no doubt bringing joy to my ancestors in Heaven -- if you can stand the hours and the cold, which of course I can. I went to bed way early and was up in plenty of time to stake out the holes. Me and some other guys from town. It's on a parcel of ground my aunt owns south of town, a hill we actually call Groundhog Hill. We've been calling it that since 1965, when my aunt and uncle (he's now dead) and cousins moved there. Groundhogs were swarming it then as now...

Just a sidebar to that: The groundhogs were thinned almost to nothing around 1968, thanks to the relentless hunting one of my cousins did back then. Except for a few, I guess, burrowed deep in the bowels of the earth, there wasn't a living thing on that property, nothing but us. Birds rerouted all flights, it was that bad. It wasn't till my cousin married and moved that wildlife made tentative forays back. It looks now like the natural balance is restored. But we still love to get the groundhogs on this Day of Days!

OK, so there we were, way before dark, enduring the darkness and cold. My fingers were getting cold even through my gloves. There was one dramatic moment when I had to take my gloves off and simply blow hot breath on them. I mention that not so much to be bragging of my resourcefulness -- how would I know it'd even work? -- but to pay tribute to my dedication to the annual hunt. Few are more dedicated than I, and of course I pay tribute to the others as well...

Now, when do groundhogs come out? As you may guess, they wait till the crack of dawn. The sun rises literally just inches over the horizon and the first few come out. We let them sit a while and get secure. Then a few more come out, a little better. It's right at the end, then, that the fattest old grandpa pops out. He's more suspicious, sniffing the air for hunters. But being older and apparently having lost the power of smell, he doesn't notice us till it's too late. POW POW POW CRICH POW, that CRICH being one guy's gun jamming.

Picture the scene: Old grandpa, the fattest one is blasted back, eight feet from the hole. Even if he might hope to fall back in the hole and die in dignity, it's too far now. The others are massacred. Only one made it back in, so it was nice that we gave them a sporting chance. We were very happy! The only guy pissed off was the CRICH guy, one of my cousin Roto's grandsons.

I got a big whiff of the gunpowder smell, instantly taking me back to the glory days of my childhood, watching my own grandpa chuckling over a victorious hunt. What memories! I only wish I wasn't the end of the line. I should've married and had kids, if for no other reason than to keep our Groundhog Day traditions alive.

I Inked A Pact With The Police

I recently inked a pact with the police department. The basic terms state that I'll stay as good as I am, and that they will behave themselves regarding me. Now, according to the pact, when they see me in my car or yard or uptown, they'll remember I'm OK (good) and go about their business.

This is an old law, I guess, maybe a tradition, my grandpa told me about one time. They used to do it all the time, back when the police was more or less a ragtag organization of everyday citizens. They couldn't be everywhere at once. So your basic good citizen, like my grandpa back then, or me now, goes in for the pact-inking ceremony, and everything's hunky dory from then on. I've talked about it with others and hardly anyone's ever heard of it.

But the police still know, at least they did when I showed up. I filled in the paperwork and the whole thing was arranged. I went in and inked the pact with the chief and some of his underlings, sharing a ceremonial donut to seal the deal, which I don't eat in other circumstances. We exchanged handshakes, and as a sign of citizen-servanthood, showing my spirit, I spit-polished the chief's badge.

On my way out, the whole team of officers formed rows and a walkway down the center of the station for the chief to walk me to the door, where I promptly embarked my car and drove away in adherence to the speed limit. A little under the limit, actually, as an expression of good faith.

OK, I'm good all the time. So why do this obscure official ceremony? I think there's a lot of value in it. It formally reminds the police of their role in society, that they're there to serve. And for me, or anyone, that I'm here to be a good citizen, supporting the various pillars of good order. We're looking out for one another, something I take very seriously.

Now, for the absolute truth, they being a force, and being a multitude of individuals, have a tougher job of regulating themselves. All it takes is one bad apple. So they naturally benefit more from the ceremony, reminding themselves of their duties and giving them something to consciously live up to. Also, they can exert peer pressure on any potential bad apple in the bunch. If they can behave themselves in relation to me, and others who've inked a pact, that carries over for benefits to society as a whole.

But I'm just one person. So as for me, the ceremony has lesser value, except to protect me from them. Because I already know I'm going to behave myself even without having inked a pact. But I suppose it's good to be reminded. It could happen, say I was a lesser individual, that I might have a brain fart and go ballistic on society. (Don't worry, I won't.) But with our pact, if I felt that coming on, I could reread the pact and make more honorable decisions on guiding myself in society. Again, the whole thought of any of that happening, me going ballistic, is ridiculous. However, with the pact, it's even more farfetched.

Ultimately, the law and law enforcement are for those who have not the restraint. With the pact completely inked, and with any concerns the police may have ever had about me gone, they are now that much freer to deal with those other people.

Memorial Day -- Honor Your Deceased Loves

Our condolences to the Burns family.
We know the summer of 1893 was a very tough time for you.

Memorial Day has to be one of the greatest holidays. It speaks to us of the weird rhythm of life: One minute you're here, the next you're gone. I know I've thought of this rhythm even since I was a kid, playing dead under my sheets. Our deceased loves seemed fine the last time we saw them, then the news came they were gone. We shook a vain fist at Heaven, but it was all so inscrutable, not a single word of response.

Of course, nothing has changed. So what can we do? There's not much we can do, but give them a Memorial Day they'd be proud of. And if we do, maybe there will be that much more chance somebody someday will do the same for us.

It's grim, death being no respecter of persons. I personally know my relatives were saints, every one of them, and yet this had to go and happen. There ought to be some benefit for doing so much good ... not that they'd ever expect it, that's how good they were. Whole cloth.

But no, Death is a reality for everyone -- the conqueror worm and all that -- the one great fact of life. We're here, we're gone, just like that. It's enough sorrow to drive us crazy. So thank goodness for Memorial Day, standing as it does as a little island of remembrance, a place between life and death ... even though it does cause me to get a little misty in the eyes. And morbid. I think curious thoughts, about how they look now, after all these years. Clothes rotting away, by now fingernails a mile long.

I've got quite a few deceased loves, so I generally make the long, tiring trek, traipsing out to the various cemeteries. Years ago, somebody in the family should've organized things so everyone would've been buried in one mass grave. It'd be a lot more convenient for me, but they did what they did. The worst thing about it is fighting the crowds on those narrow little cemetery roads, which weren't made for two way traffic. Horse and buggy days.

The biggest thing I hate about the crowds, besides the traffic, is seeing their disgusting plastic flower arrangements and other crap. Dime store windmills, styrofoam crosses. You think you're honoring someone with that stuff? Yeah, the stockholders of Tacky Industries, probably churning it out in Asian sweatshops with people paid a dime a year and no benefits, and locked in the factories besides. Give me good old fashioned real flowers, and crosses of genuine wood, and decent durable windmills that a ghost kid can play with for eternity.

I know I'm on my soapbox, don't get me started. But while I have the floor, let me rail against one other thing: The terrible "gravestones" (not even that) these cheapskate families have for their deceased loves. Now I'm started, I may as well finish! It's scandalous the number of temporary markers originally put up by the funeral home 30 years ago that are still there. I don't know what happened exactly. Maybe they went to Vegas and blew all the insurance money. Or maybe ... and I hate to judge ... their love for the deceased wasn't all it should be. That's not undying devotion, that's slovenliness, which I think is one of the Seven Fatal Sins, Seven Major Sins, or Seven Unforgivable Sins, whatever it's called. But ... anything! If you saved only $100 a year for 30 years, you'd still have $3,000 for a halfway small monument, which would be better than nothing. Those are the people I can't stand.

I'm proud to say, all my deceased loves have memorials erected. And I personally really didn't do much to make it happen. When they first gave up the ghost, those who were on the scene did what was necessary to make it happen, skipped meals, whatever. Then they died, and others died, and there's still a few left besides me. Hopefully, when I finally kick off, there'll be someone left to put up a modest 10 foot stone. I prefer they be bold. Tell the funeral director right to his face, we're going to be ordering a stone, so be in your office Monday morning bright and early. Go down to the quarry and get something good!

On a serious note, this Memorial Day, we as a nation have a lot of extra dead to be grieving over, of course. Just like every year, there's always some tragedy that hits the news, and strikes a cord with us, be it a mass murder, a natural disaster, or a plane wreck. It's especially bad if it happens all at once. We might have 300,000 people die one at a time, and no one cares, but you get 40 or 50 at once and it really hits home.

Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End Of Crafts?

Well, I have to confess, I'm not in a very good mood. You can probably guess why: Easter's coming! Meaning, yes, even though Easter is a very joyous holiday, it's also the season for the Easter craft sale at the shopping center. Which once again I'm planning to set up for. Even though at this point I'm more depressed about it than ever.

Still, I keep telling myself, anything I make is more than I have now. But it definitely could be better. It's almost not worth it. And yet ... there I'll be.

When it comes to crafting, I think crafting's in a sad/weird state. It's not the best of times, it's the worst. One, you've got the old-timers, dinosaurs like me, who insist on only the finest craftsmanship, being heavily into the tradition of the thing. Only, we don't get much for it. Then you've got all the young turks, mostly women who are learning their "craft" off the internet -- as I call them, Pinterest copycats, churning out crap and that by imitation.

I'm proud to say I came up with my bunnies on my own. It took a lot of tinkering. But what's that count for these days? That and a quarter and I'm as good as broke. So, in part, I'm going to be there for my fellow old-timers. We have to stick together, even if it's hard; I see a lot of very grim expressions. But the others, the newbies, they've made it a social media thing for themselves, so they're always bubbling over with a silly excitement, la de dah. Crafting fangirls, big fans of each other, and not an original idea in the whole pack!

Even though I'm sticking with it, I have an incredible insight: No one really needs crafts. It's all do-it-yourself now. With the internet -- and the worst scourge, cameras everywhere -- anyone can knockoff your crafts. Like my bunnies. If you have a picture of them, and aren't just going by memory, it's not too tough to see what fits where. Although, insisting on craftsmanship and tradition as I do, of course they aren't going to be near as good. But I'm realistic; we're not making a living at it. Those who try, we have a word for them, the poor.

I mentioned cameras. What a scourge. They're everywhere. I wish it was the 1800's, like with Lincoln, where they had to ignite a living vulture on a pole for the flash and make a 30 second exposure. It wouldn't be hard to catch people taking pictures then! Now they're on the sly. Every phone is a camera. There's probably cameras built into wedding rings. It's a Dick Tracy world, only not as full of promise as we once expected, more a curse.

Really, it's like this: If you want to keep your ideas to yourself, you about have to cover them with a sheet and only offer peeks to people who express a real interest in buying. I think it might be good for them to put down a small deposit -- let's say $25 to $50 -- to take a peek. Then if they buy, they get the deposit back. That'd cut down on the frivolous browsers as well as those with a hidden camera or photographic memory. Or maybe put them to public shame if they didn't buy something, like dunking their head in molasses and spraying sawdust on them, or at the very least putting a big "Kick Me" sign around their neck. That'd cut down on idea-stealing.

On the other hand, if this is the end of crafts, it could be a big year. If people think the end is here, maybe they'll want it to go out with a bang. They might snap up my stuff like collector's items, the last hurrah of a dying era. I'd like to say tradition and craftsmanship wins out, but I don't think it does. Not when you have all these women and the fast thrills of social media, all of them getting together to celebrate one another's supposed cleverness (yeah, we know!), then it no doubt degenerates into touching, heavy breathing, impassioned stripping, and who knows what all, as they writhe in ecstasy on the floor. I hope they choke on it...
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Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

2010:
Local Man Makes and Sells Easter Bunnies
Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center
Last Call for Easter Bunnies
Boxing Up My Bunnies

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

2012:
I'm Selling Easter Bunnies at the Craft Sale

A Christmas Miscellany

1

The War on Christmas recently opened up a new front, The Battle of the Ho Ho Hos. I might be a latecomer to this battle, focusing as I have on saying Merry Christmas and not Happy Holidays.

But having pretty much secured the victory on that front -- although the greeter at Walmart the other day told me Happy Holidays, leading me to waste a couple hours returning all my gifts -- I've moved on. You could say I focus on the "anger" in "Manger."

The latest thing is whether Santa Claus ought to be laughing in the traditional "Ho Ho Ho" way. I've heard teachers complaining that when kids hear Santa laughing like that it also gives them the giggles. But why wouldn't one guy's laugh make others laugh? Think of it like a yawn that makes everyone sleepy. Well, as it turns out, they say, apparently ho is now a slang term for the word whore. Who knew? We give in to crap like this?!

Just the other day I heard of some school in Sweden where they adopted a zero tolerance rule on Ho Ho Ho. You can be expelled for laughing that way. Santa was banished from the property. This cannot happen. As Sweden goes, so goes the world!

2
There's one old aunt I really miss at Christmas. She always gave us our own box of See's Candies, which I seem to recall tasted pretty good. I love the old time box, about as traditionally boring (in a good way) as you can get, complete with a picture of the old dear who started it.

You can still buy it, and I could get some for Christmas if I would plan ahead, but I never think of it till Christmas day.

Maybe now that I'm also old I could become the guy who gives everybody See's Candies. It's a great way to be missed when you're dead.

Speaking of relatives who gave particular things, we also used to get an actual silver dollar for Christmas, or maybe a few of them. Like those old 1897 silver dollars. Which, unfortunately, we never treasured, using them for bus fare, etc., or at the laundromat. No doubt the bus driver and the laundry guy were quick to take them.

3

Remember back when ladies wanted furs? Things have changed with the desirability of furs. I'm not sure how and when it all switched so drastically. There was a big stir about it a few years ago. No one wants to be covered in ermines and furs anymore!

I guess an ermine is some kind of animal like a mink, maybe it is a mink. It could be a type of bandage for all I know. So I'm hacking at a lady with a plastic knife, trying to inflict cuts so I can later cover her in ermines.

When we learned our animals in school they never mentioned ermines.

4

This year I listened to the soundtrack of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," the 1964 Rankin/Bass Burl Ives TV show, probably 14-15 times. It's basically the only one of those shows I actually like, and I mostly like it for the music.

I like the counterculture vibe to it, how the heroes are misfits. It's pleasantly subversive, although they do later find an honorable role in the prevalent culture. Other than that, it's entertaining with a big slice of sentimentality. And kids are going to be liking it for decades to come.

The other shows in the mold, to me, suck. The one with Fred Astaire is putrid. And I can't even remember the others. "Frosty the Snowman" isn't quite as sucky, but still it's very inferior. There is one other I like, maybe a little less known, "The Little Drummer Boy." It's got a lot of good bits. Plus, I like the deserts, the Wise Men, the travels to Bethlehem, the donkey, etc.

5

Christmas music. It's interesting to me that a few Christmas songs have become the enduring legacy of great artists of the past. They'd basically be forgotten were it not for Christmas. Even Bing Crosby fits in this category more and more. But think of Jimmy Boyd. If it weren't for "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" he'd be forgotten. There's also "All I Want For Christmas" from him. Of course going along with Bing are the Andrews Sisters. And Nat King Cole. Bobby Helms. Brenda Lee. The list goes on.

Maybe some of these artists weren't gung ho on recording Christmas songs, going to the studio in June, but they'll live forever only because of Christmas.