IF, One Of The Biggest Small Words

Part 11 of 31

They Found Another Body

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Mt. Olympus and the Pits of El Cid

"If anything was ever said wrong in this lifetime, that was surely it. And now, with my boldness, with my mistake, I have been hurled from the heights of Mount Olympus, all the way to the gloomy depths of El Cid." -- From my morning meditation, thinking of a recent (massive) failure in speech.

Here's a teaching I've kept in reserve, hoping that one day my readers would show them worthy of receiving it. My hopes have long been disappointed, as I suspected would happen, but I have a terrific sense that the time has come anyway. It currently applies to me.

I want to teach a little bit about the difference between Mount Olympus (good) and El Cid (bad), as these opposite concepts/locales relate to the things we say, our speech. Olympus being good, of course that's what we strive for. El Cid being evil, that's what we so often settle for, a big mistake.

But, you say, historically El Cid is supposed to be a beautiful place, a place of goodness. Not the way I see it, Cid being related to sin or, more immediately, Tom Sawyer's brother Syd, a true snake in Eden.

Was it something I cid? Said or did? Certainly. I've cid plenty, and you can't take back what you cid. The tongue is a world of fire, of evil. Rooting itself as it does in the rottenest part of your soul. What makes a soul -- the highest expression of the person -- crash and burn faster and meaner than that? As long as I'm secure in one place, not stirring, uttering not a peep, I'm OK. But where there's movement there's trouble. And with movement comes expression, verbal blather, verbal garbage, the whole dump truck of written or spoken vileness.

The only antidote -- or solution -- is to remain in one place, be physically still, and keep your fool mouth shut. Am I right? That's what they say in meditation: You want to sit still and focus on one thing, that hopefully becomes no thing, so that you're again in the non-dual realm of Mount Olympus, i.e., the highest place, heaven.

For many of us this is hard to maintain. It's certainly been tough for me. Whereas I might sit there silently -- I'm thinking of myself in a group now -- at the last minute I open my mouth and all is lost. The Olympus investment I made is suddenly sunk by the junk bonds of El Cid. It's happened so many times it's not funny.

And I know where it's rooted, those stinking college courses where part of your grade is dependent on participation. You sit there silently all semester, then realize you're going to flunk if you don't speak up by the last session. By now -- and this is straight out of our group dynamics experience -- the groove of the group is deeply chiseled, the pecking order of talkers being long established. The fact that you're suddenly blurting something out, and clearly to meet the participation requirement even if it's by the skin of your teeth, makes you a shame in their eyes. They are in Olympus, but you are hopelessly mired in El Cid. Same old story.

I hasten to clarify, however, that Mount Olympus, despite what I just said, is a thoroughly positive thing, the very opposite of El Cid. On Olympus the gods are assembled in one place, the correlate of being alone with your thoughts. In the wastleland known as El Cid, knowing that you've broken the silence, and the filth hole on your face has spewed forth its muck and mire, that which is most despicable in the depths, you're in the depths.

You can tell -- I hope you grasp this -- that to be an extrovert is to constantly fail, to sink as it were in the quicksand of El Cid. No one wants to be around you. Everyone wishes you'd shut up. But to be an introvert -- like cleanliness -- is next to godliness. Clearly the reason is that with silence you're on Olympus (or closer), although, as is well known, you can still spoil it and once again fall to El Cid.

With my mind, then, I honor Mount Olympus, but with my mouth El Cid. How may I be delivered from such a fate? Thanks to the gods of Mount Olympus, my natural homeland is not El Cid! My daily prayer -- join me in this prayer now -- is for Olympus to keep me far from El Cid, in my spirit and daily life. May it be true for all of us! Although I know it won't be.

Demons or Supernatural Helpers?

Call me demon-possessed, because in the last couple of weeks I've become possessed, at least mentally, by demons. In the morning I look at my cereal and think demons. At noon I'm working on a bowl of oyster stew and I see demons, of course. And at night, whatever I'm eating, I'm splitting it with three or four of my demon friends, and so going to bed hungry.

I, like other kids in Sunday School classes through the years, learned several things about demons, mostly that they're no good. I also learned that when they speak it's always gravelly and low, barely discernible as language, and generally quite looney. They ask you to disavow your reason, your family, your values, and even your humanity, and join them on a joyride that's extremely fun for the first little bit, but then takes a less cheerful sharp turn toward destruction. That means something to me; for one, I don't watch Fox News.

But I don't get that from demons. Neither in theory, nor now, in practice. In theory, I think the whole subject quickly becomes abstruse and boring. Like when you start throwing in Plato (I've heard of him) and some of the lesser known writers of antiquity, and the twists and turns of the Greek word "daimon" and how it relates to nature forces, whether they're merely personified symbolically or pictured as literal heads over particular aspects of nature, caves and grottoes. Are you still with me?

By the way, they didn't mention any of that in Sunday School. Which made it much more exciting. Demons were these terrorists from hell who put people through all kinds of torment, throwing them into the fire, and possessing them so they lived in tombs and broke chains like Hercules. A lot of their activity, by some totally weird coincidence, seemed to look a lot like epilepsy. Making us suspicious of very common neurological troubles. Side note to my cousin Shaky: "Sorry about those years chained in the root cellar."

Now, in recent days, I've had the privilege of knowing a being who goes by the name "Tricky the Demon." OK? Do I sound crazy? 1 x 1 = 1, 2 x 1 = 2, 3 x 1 = 3 .... Do I really need to prove my sanity? Tricky came to me with a Magic Butler and liberated me from the false doctrine that scratching itches is bad. For which I thank him, with kisses. Because I've seen more alt realms by feverishly scratching -- or letting the Magic Butler scratch me, especially below the waist -- than I ever saw in my more sedate past.

Anyway, Tricky's opened my thinking to the deeper insight that there must be all kinds of other helpful demons out there. Stands to reason, huh? And bigger and badder Magic Butlers. But when I tell people this, they're put off by the word "demon." Like a lot of other words, they've demonized the word "demon" to the point that their mind shuts off when they hear it. It's like "scumbag," "bunghole," "dill weed," "ass wipe," and, in the Bush years, "french fries."

So in the last couple of days, I've been surveying my friends, relatives, and a few strangers I know from Facebook, on which they prefer, "demons" or "supernatural helpers"? It's probably no big surprise that they scrunch up their face and curl into a fetal ball when they hear "demons." But they become light as a feather and twice as radiant with "supernatural helpers." Just like you look when you read Guideposts magazine all day. So supernatural helpers it is!

Tricky says he's OK with that, Tricky the Supernatural Helper. And I might need to work on the Magic Butler, too, because "magic" sounds fake and frivolous, and "butler," like secretary and garbage man, obviously needs a more modern equivalent, "personal assistant." What's a good replacement for "magic"? I guess for now it'll have to be Magic Personal Assistant, or just find out if he has an actual name.

I'm thinking, with the ancients, that if these supernatural helpers were in charge of the many functions of nature -- thunder, lightning, rivers, clouds -- then they'd have all kinds of specialties today. With the more desirable ones being like a well-stocked smartphone (many apps), able to perform many functions. My Magic Butler seems to have that, and I don't even have to recharge him every hour.

Incantations to my new demon friends: "Demon of dating, have you found anyone yet? Speed it up! I'm getting the mating jitters again!"  .... "Demon of reading speeds, try to harmonize your actions with the demons of my eyes and mind!" ... Then let's say I need to take revenge on someone who's wronged me: "Demon of annihilation, you're a demon, don't worry about the police! That guy's a bastard! Kill him!" .... Now back to the more domestic stuff: "Demon of toast, I prefer actual butter, not Blue Bonnet!"

That'd be a great life, being the demon of toast.

I Am Diametrically Opposed

When you care enough to be really opposed to something, always hold out for being diametrically opposed. Even if you're stupid about words, diametrically obviously carries an extra level of disdain -- purple passion -- to show you're not just dinking around. The very word declares itself the Diamond Standard of Opposition, unmistakable in whatever its implications may be.

I've actually been a very nice guy, for many years. And I will continue that practice, no matter who I have to walk over to do it. But I must be smart -- and this I recommend for others, too, because we've all had trouble with the bastards. Those we've tried to please. Who are then more than happy to run roughshod over us, overwhelm us, and leave us in the dust, themselves never looking back, unless by some special dispensation, like the need to get a picture for the party. I am diametrically opposed to the whole thing!

"Diamonds are a girl's best friend," I used to hear my mom say, with my dad then putting off the subject for more prosperous times which, unfortunately, never came. But she always had that dream. There's a reason diamonds are the gift for the 75th anniversary, because basically no one makes it. And the ones who do are always the frugal souls who have no use for them.

Diamonds are extremely valuable, we see, and for good reason. I saw a good science show that said diamonds are from stars, actually like everything except hydrogen. Only stars (and Superman) can crush carbon sufficiently to make a diamond! Think about that! Only stars and Superman! Meaning, for our purposes today, that if you're diametrically opposed to something, you're really special. But what happens is, Most of us limit our opposition, making us weaklings for the slightest persuasion (or trickery, rhetorical or otherwise). But no more! 

You can tell I'm serious, OK? Stepping out of character here. Enough is enough. I've finally decided this is how it's going to be. It's literally now or never; if I'm going to prevail, I have to change things now. Enough being everyone's dishrag, snot-rag, doormat, and the last bendable obstacle in their way. And I ask you to join me. From now on -- even with our basically good attitudes still intact -- we shall be against it! Diametrically opposed!

I'm putting Republicans on notice ... as of ... now.

A Huge Pet Peeve -- Never Enough Tallows

OK, you've never known me as one to complain, complain, complain, at least not incessantly. Because my philosophy is, If something's wrong, do something about it. In this case, I've tried. Plus, you can't always do something about it, realistically, like if you're at someone else's house.

Of course, I'm talking about tallows. There's always something wrong with the tallows. There's either not enough, they're dirty, they might be dirty, they're on the floor, they're behind the hamper, and on and on. This is frankly my Number One pet peeve in the whole world, bar none, including death, war, and the price of cheese.

I have people over. Relatives come by, friends drop in, the occasional door-to-door salesman stops for coffee and biscuits, police running down a lead. And it's always the same. They're off to the bathroom, washing their hands, cleaning up crumbs, and things you can hardly imagine -- like wiping something off their feet -- with one of my tallows. Next thing I know, there's no clean ones in the whole place.

And it just happens to be my policy that I don't want to use a tallow that someone else has already used. I know, that's my problem. It wasn't always that way. When I was a kid, we were like barbarians, in and out, barefoot, frolicking, sharing the same ladle for drinking water, dipping sticks in the outhouse and chasing each other. Crazy stuff.

So obviously back then we didn't mind using the same tallow, or even someone's shirttail. Tallows might hang there, I don't know how long. I wasn't keeping track, but I would guess Grandma was picking them up at night and putting them in the dirty clothes. It's funny now how different things are. Now it's one of my hangups, a big one. I'm not sure what changed, or how it changed, precisely.

The fact is, I think the whole country has changed. We've gotten a lot more meticulous about germs. I know I look at a dirty tallow and I don't even want to pick it up to put it in the dirty clothes. That's how much they bum me out. So I might take a paper tallow, fold it over and grab the cloth one by the edge, doing all this as fast as possible to get it in the hamper, because the paper tallow absorbs moisture very fast. Then it gets on my fingers.

Sometimes, especially if I know there's going to be company, I put a couple of tallows behind something, like the breadbox. No one knows they're there but me. Then if I need a clean one, there they are. And these, I don't mind using the same tallow on my own hands a few times. It depends on what I was handling. I have a little red flag in my brain that pops up when it's time to toss it. I'm also careful with red flags.

Another thing has changed since "yesteryear," and that's all the paper tallows we go through. I literally go through eight rolls a week, like the old Beatles song. Because you need them for everything. It's surprising -- a shock, really -- how many tiny spills happen in the course of a day. It's funny, but just making coffee takes maybe three paper tallows, all the drips and tiny spills. As well as making sure my cup is totally clean. That's one whole tallow right there, because I'm not going to reuse the one that cleaned the counter.

Then there's bathing. I take a shower everyday. So I need a good-sized bath tallow to wipe with. And I was raised with the idea that you put a second tallow on the floor for when you get out of the shower or tub. All this adds up, then it's time for the laundry again. It's an endless job, but at least tallows are the easiest thing in the laundry to fold. I actually like folding tallows. Fold in the center, then the next center, and they're done!

Not everything we do in the course of the day is something we really want to do. But in the end, it's worth it. Because if you want good hygiene and cleanliness, you need tallows. I just wish we didn't go through so many of them. Because then you run out, and it's to the washing machine ... again.

One other note on this, I could buy lots more tallows, I know that. But I like to have a finite number. Because one thing I definitely don't want to do is accumulate eight or nine loads of dirty tallows before washing them. Imagine the load that'd be! Plus, just to handle that many dirty tallows doing the laundry, it'd take five or six clean ones to wipe my hands after handling them, and that's almost another load right there.

My Time Wasted Mentoring Ted

This was something I had long contemplated. They said there was a kid out there needing to be supported. Being myself a well-respected man, I presented myself available to help.

They told me my mentee was 13 years old and named Ted. I greeted him, "Hello, Ted." I was glad that I'd been invited for this. Some of these kids, it's like they're dilapidated people; they've been isolated from good company so long, they're goners. So anything we can do that they might be rehabilitated is always appreciated.

But my pleasant reverie was interrupted and melted away when he blurted out, "I'm not Ted!" I checked the paperwork and, no matter how such things are accounted for, this had to be Ted.

With a gentle, contented look and friendly lifted hand, I prevented him from storming out, letting him know I really wanted him to stay. I thought, "Poor kid must have been booted from place to place, or maybe taunted over something." Soon, he rested his twisted features.

It was obvious that this was a kid who called for a moderated attitude from me. But I started to take it for granted that no one alive could be delighted to be around him very long. I fretted that I wouldn't be able to do it, already feeling tormented.

But as indicated by the situation, I resorted back to total calm, and once again had corrected my attitude. I wasted no time, "Tell me, what are some of the things you've celebrated in your life, a life really only just started? You seem like such a spirited boy."

All at once his face contorted, and I heard a strangulated voice, which imparted and repeated what he had already asserted, "I'm not Ted!"

I'm sure I must have looked agitated, and maybe disgusted. Had I said "Ted"? No, I explicitly resisted having said his name, until such a time when I would have seen more evidence and reflected on it. "Dimwitted boy!" I thought, "What are you, demented? Maybe you belong in a gated community, the kind that has twisted barbed wire on the fence!"

Again, it was up to me to think, "This boy must be tolerated." I catapulted my anger and quickly concocted a line: I attributed the misunderstanding to myself and said I stood corrected. I'd never before tasted this kind of nonsense, but I wanted to give him another chance, so I attempted to engage him again, despite being exhausted. "Why don't you tell me what you expected when I was invited to get together with you?" His features were again distorted. It was easy to see his perfected ire had again routed itself straight to the surface. "I'm not Ted!"

I was nauseated, and simply said, "Ted -- or whatever other blasted name you were fated to bear -- you seem to think I'm obligated to help you, when in return you've resisted everything I might have given. This cannot be tolerated! You have now grated on my last nerve!"

I shouldn't have even started with a kid like this. If only I had resisted! I gesticulated and ranted on: "I hope you'll finally be contented when you look back and see that you've been deserted by your very last friend!"

The little monster mounted up from his chair as though escorted by the Furies themselves. I could see he hated my guts, and his voice reverberated in the room and down the hall as he spouted forth: "My name isn't Ted! It's Theodore!"

If Your Name Was Judd

Of course I know there's lots of people named Judd. There's not going to be anything here to take offense at. I'm keeping it on the up and up.

I saw a guy the other name whose name was Judd, so it's no big deal. In fact, seeing Judd was what got me thinking about it. His last name was Judd, and there's people whose first name is Judd, too.

We had the country duo, mom and daughter, The Judds. And there's Ashley Judd. And I remember, though I didn't watch it, a TV show called Judd for the Defense. A lawyer show.

The word "Judd" is a very heavy word. It's got the weight of the two Ds. It reminds me of  "Bass," which we think of as the bottom of music. Judd's like that. Plus, once it's down, it just sits there like a Judd balloon. You can hardly budge Judd. Take a look at the final D. It'd fit snug in the corner. A piece of dust couldn't squeeze between the wall and it. The U's got a good bottom too, curved like a bottom, as is the J. A tight little word, Judd. It's also got that note of finality, like Thud. "Here I sit, I can do no other." And maybe that's why they chose it for Judd for the Defense. It's more determined and stable than Will 'o the Wisp for the Defense.

My purpose in writing about Judd is not just to pay it appropriate tribute as a word and name. In addition, I want to play around with it, interchanging it for judge, jugs, and who knows what else.

A judge is a stern character, usually, even Judd Judy. But we have fun with judges, always messing with them (when they're not around), saying, "Your honor," like we really mean it. Remember Pigmeat Markham, "Order in the courtroom, Here come the Judd!"

Even Jesus got in on the act: "Judd not, lest ye be Judd." To whom I say, "Who am I to Judd? I deserve to be Judd, I've no place to mete it out." Which is true. If you Judd someone else, that's bad. But in the end no man will be your Judd. Whatever Judd you face will be from above.

It's weird that way back we had a guy like Pigmeat Markham, but he was a big star for a while. I always saw him a novelty act, thanks to the record, "Here Comes the Judd." And there were others sort of in the same category, like Moms Mabley. Now there were some Judds, wasn't there? With a name like Moms, you'd expect it. That's Moms as a plural. (I just googled her and her dress was so loose, I can't tell her Judd size.) But I found a quick recording of Moms, which clocks in at just over a minute, about a man buying a bra for his wife. In that case her Judds were the size of fried eggs! So there you've got Mother, Judds, Speed.

I thought I had more than this, but if that's it I'll Judd have to accept it. Or sleep on it. (I'm writing this in the evening, Judd about the time I start getting sleepy.) Earlier in the day, there's Judd no stopping me. Which is Judd how it is, like it or not, but not Judd as it should be.

Of course we all have greater energy when we're fresh, it's Judd common sense. The draggy feeling is Judd what happens. It's like walking, you can go fast on the sidewalk, but if you slip in the Judd, of course it's going to slow you down.

Speaking of slow, Judd is a slow word, very slow, as compared, say, to Jazz, a fellow J. Nothing like the bounce of Jazz. It'd be tough to hear Fats Waller telling the old lady what Judd is: "If you gotta ask, you don't wanna know!" What are you, some kind of Juddhead? Juddin' and jivin'? I'm Judding too many balls in the air now. Made the mistake of going for the Juddular. From here it's just a Hop, Skip, and Judd to the reader's Juddment.

I'll get up in the morning and be ready for something better. I hope. A little Aunt Juddmimah on my pancakes. Get down to the Juddnasium for some exercise. See some chick on the elliptical and start singing, "Judd the two of us, we can make it if we try..." Come back home and watch Andy Griffith, Goober going, "Juddy, Juddy, Juddy."

If you're name is Judd, Judd smile. And please spare me my Judd desserts.

What's Your Purview?

"Purview" is a word I have a hard time keeping in mind, its definition and how to use it. Typically, the only way I can use it in a sentence is to simply use it afresh. If I sit and think about it, it becomes unknowable and absurd quicker than most other words. Maybe the key to that is I only use it once in a blue moon.

But when it's called for, of course I use it, whether or not it makes me sound like an egghead. Yes, I have regrets anytime it escapes my lips. Because people will be sitting there going, "WTF is this guy talking about?" or words to that effect.

Today I used "purview" early on just talking to myself. And decided then and there it'd be a great game show from the past -- "What's Your Purview? -- with a panel of blindfolded socialites guessing a particular individual's purview. He's out there, and the panel is thrashing about, hoping to get a handle on his purview of whatever the topic is. "Would your purview ever include a breadbox?" I think that'd be entertaining.

Is something like that funny or interesting to you? Would it be locatable in your purview of what a decent game show would be? The subject could be something very trivial, like what his favorite brand of coffee is. He has a purview encompassing the subject, probably like all of us. Just speaking for myself, I have a definite favorite, but an overall purview on the subject that still encompasses other alternatives.

Or the subject could be something quite complex, meaning they'd have to have guests whose purview of matters had complexity in its scope. On a broad subject like the underlying unity of the world's religions, let's say, not everyone's purview could do it justice. But it'd still be interesting to see them try, humorously so if they were fundamentalists, or enlightening if their purview were already broadened by thought and strong conclusions. I mention this in particular because I feel that my purview concerning the topic is probably broader than most. On that and old cartoons.

However, let's leave me out. Having a broad purview, as I do, I'm more than willing to admit other voices. Plus, my purview of topics is wide enough that, really, any subject would be fit fodder for any given episode, and would interest me. If your purview differs from mine, I don't mind, because my purview is broad enough to allow for all kinds, the ignorant as well as the smart.

So let's say you ended up on the show. It's you and another contestant. The panel is in place, judging one purview against another. You win, that's good. Or you lose, it's good. Because I have a broad purview on the outcome of the show, knowing that the lovely parting gifts are worth having. And just being on the show, in my overall purview of entertainment history, it's a nice slice of immortality.

Why The Cow Goes Moo

The cow didn't always say moo. And there's no reason to suppose it did, even if the way it worked out would seem to indicate the way it started. We tend to think nothing makes progress in time. So when God created the cow it came down a shute and the first thing it said was moo.

No, no. And once again, dear friends -- don't be skeptical -- I have traversed the corridors of whatever, most of the time swimming upstream, to reference the Akashic Records. It's not that hard to do, however it is very frustrating because the other quacks who came before me got them very messed up and out of order.

But if you're looking for particular files, things that the average clairvoyant doesn't care very much about, such as on the evolving vocabulary of cattle, they're not too messed up. Most people of course are more interested in the words and travels of Jesus, how Buddha came to be fat and skinny at the same time, and why George Washington cut down the cherry tree. They've pretty much left questions on the various animal vocabularies, and the more subtle things of animal dialects, alone.

Speaking of myself, I'm interested in all these things. One, because I really respect cattle for coming up with something so simple and catchy, and not that far off the mark, as should be clear to anyone, from the Primal/Original Mind sound of OM. It's just flipped around, hinting first at dyslexia, or more purposefully at humor, or perhaps it's merely the same exact thing, only as seen from a consciousness apparently different in typical expression from our own. I frankly don't see a downside to saying MOO, being convinced that it doesn't make a bit of difference.

Anyway, getting back to the Akashic Records. Here's what I have to say about the Records. They're better than nothing. If it weren't for the Records, I'd simply have to make this up, about the cow. And if I did that, perhaps folks wouldn't see in it the same authority. Which isn't to say the original Akashic author didn't simply make it up, but since He and She is a lot more mysterious, we're willing to buy it.

So, please, if you're in that camp, just let me just transcribe the damned thing and be done with it. Here's some of the other vocabulary the platonic perfect cow and its immediate descendants toyed with:

Pistoloops, mamasita, hotsprings, ruff-ruff, lipschitz, palmolive, google, repubpuke, [multiple retching noises based on repubpuke], quaffone, skipbo, passgo, obladi-oblada, poopshute, sadchidananda, chuckbook, checksum, kindlebook, goku, kubball, oompaloompa, cockadoodledo, smorgabord, frootloops, sexawowsa, and vavavoom.

How it was narrowed down to moo is an amazing story in itself. They saw a baby cow walking through the pasture who kept saying MOO. They started making fun of it, then they made fun of it so much, continually, that it finally stuck. It's the old line about "First, they laugh at you..." come to life!

When And W

hen you use a big ornamental letter like that, you need to know in advance what your first word is going to be. There's a lot of planning that has to go into it. The letter needs to be scanned, cropped, and touched up, at least the way I do it, since I don't have the entire alphabet in that font, or any other ornamental font as far as I know.

It's a big honking thing, isn't it? A real artist had to come up with that, an artist good at rendering likenesses of fruit, looks like lemons, and one who knew how to make a decent W. In this case, I love the crossed bars in the middle, almost literally a double U, or the best you can expect from back when they used Vs for Us.

Double U, that's a weird letter when you stop to think about it. It's the only double letter we've got. Twice as many Us as a U, a clone of itself, or twin. Two twins, the first one, then its handsome double. Joined at the hip, no way for surgeons to separate them. A siamese letter.

Magisterial -- The Greatest Compliment

The greatest compliment you can give a movie is "blockbuster" or "boffo." For movies, the whole thing is to make big box office bucks -- it's all reduced to that. Actors, directors, and the others don't give a crap for anything else. It's all money.

But in the world of books, there's some differences. As a dedicated reader of blurbs on the back of books -- and occasionally I get up to around page 16 in my unsuccessful efforts to read them (I'm busy and it takes forever to read a book) -- I know what writers like to hear.

"Authoriative" is nice, "essential," "definitive," "really good," and "interesting" are good compliments. I would like to have any of those terms used to describe my own writings, this blog. People often say such things -- then I wave them off as being undeserved, hoping they'll prevail in the battle of wits against me, but they usually give up and move on.

Yes, all those words are great. A writer sits in his study writing, dying to hear those compliments, as page after page is written, maybe a page a day or only one paragraph; it doesn't matter. Maybe he's so immersed in a character, like my own Percival A. Hashbrown, that he subsumes his own personality.  But somewhere under his crunchy light brown exterior, there's still a soft spot in his heart for praise.

I've often daydreamed of writing a book as thick as a couch, with everyone sitting up then and taking notice and giving me my well deserved strokes. Maybe it'll happen, maybe not, it probably will someday. Then they'll stroke me with those words, which of course I'll love.

But the word that is the highest praise for a writer, a book, is "magisterial." That's a knockout word. It sounds so grand, like a magistrate, a big white powdered wig on a judge, and the guy's so serious he has narrow eyes and a pointed nose. Or maybe he's a Calvinist magistrate who persecutes men, whose daily edict has everyone burnt at the stake just for fun.

To be called "magisterial" -- your book -- means you've gone beyond simple authority all the way up to literary divinity.

Would I like my own writings to be called "magisterial"? Of course, it's every serious writer's dream. You've got your words well ordered, every comma in place, you've spell checked it, and no one can dispute your conclusions. Even if they do, they're still breathless that you wrote it like that, magisterially. To them, you're a magistrate, a god on the magisterial mountain of literature.

I just saw in the last couple days a couple of books called "magisterial." And I bought one of them! Because if it's that good, it must be good. It gave me no great personal joy, not being the author, but it assured me that I could trust this book implicitly. I did get a little personal joy, because if I actually read it, and I'm like in the third chapter already, it might help me write better, more magisterially.

The thing is, with blogs, they're not usually called magisterial, because you're not taking the same care. The difference between me and others is ... I do take the same care; I proofread everything at least once and I'm a good to very good speller. I'm a magistrate in the making!

The Last Time I Checked

The phrase "The Last Time I Checked" is one I don't like. It's like George W. Bush, completely disgusting to me. Or dog waste or freezer burnt meat or outdated milk. All four of which, the last time I checked, were things I didn't like. And should I check again, as I've had to recently in the case of Bush, I'm sure my opinion wouldn't have changed since the last time I checked.

I just checked my archives and it looks like I've never used the phrase before today. The last time I checked was just a few minutes ago. I may have used it in conversation -- like in some moment of contention and tiredness, but I don't remember it. Actually, the last time I checked, I'm usually wide awake if any contention happens, out of an instinctual desire for survival.

We all want to keep tabs on things. And with all the "last time I checked" talk I hear on the internet, we're keeping things checked out pretty well. To be constantly checking things means constant vigilance. It's probably Wikipedia's fault. I know every time someone dies, I immediately go to Wiki to see if someone's put in their death date yet, and someone always has. We can't wait 10 years for the encyclopedia to get updated, like we used to. You can go to Goodwill and get one of our old encyclopedias where JFK is still president. And the last time I checked Wiki, he's been dead for a number of years. So maybe that's why everyone's so mean today, too much checking; no one has time for anything else.

You have to be really vigilant to maintain such vigilance. We're checking once, then twice, then again. Like Santa Claus: "He's checking it once, checking it twice, going to find out who's naught and nice." And the last time he checked, I was nice.

I checked with a Google search on this phrase last night. It had 11,000,000 hits. I checked again this morning. It had 11,300,000 hits! So roughly another 300,000 people since last night did more checking and wrote about it on the internet. Imagine all the millions who checked things and didn't make it public. But 300,000? The last time I checked, 300,000 was a bunch! In one night!

Where did this phrase come from? I didn't hear it in the '50s, the '60s, the '70s, the '80s ... although, who knows, the last time I checked, I don't have a photographic memory. Plus, in the '50s I was a baby and a toddler and a bigger kid. I had other people doing my checking for me. In fact, they were checking me. "The last time I checked, he was dry."

A few weeks ago we had the "The Rent Is Too Damned High" party candidate for New York governor. And he kept saying that in the debate. Maybe next time I'll start the "The Last Time I Checked" party. That'd be a great catchphrase. I'm in the debate, and finally it comes around to me, and whatever the issue, I'm saying, "The last time I checked, taxes were too damned high" or too damned low, whichever they happen to be at the time.

Then if I get into a fight with one of the other candidates, of course I'll have a killer line. "The last time I checked, you were a bastard, and I see you haven't changed!"

And of course, if there's some issue about me getting equal time, I'll say, "The last time I checked, my opponent's time expired five minutes before he quit talking, which the last time I checked was a violation of the rules that we agreed on." Then I'll go on to make several points on other things I'd recently checked on.

Enough of this. The day's getting on. And the last time I checked, I've got a busy day today. Need to go.

Pier One

This is on the different way people pronounce words, because of dialect, ignorance, or just a mouth that works that way. If a guy chews a lot of tobacco, he has to talk around it, so to the rest of us it sounds like he's lazy.

I'm not sure why some of this works, like if a big preacher with jowls and lots of self-importance says things like "The Lord gives us sussanance," the key word "sustenance" being slurred out lazily with a lot of familiarity. 

Usually it's some backwoods guy, like a guy I met in Arkansas, who said he had "bear" in his trailer. I said, "You've got a bear in your trailer?" "Yup, a whole case!"

Or how about this one, "I've been workin', I'm gonna take a shar."

Here's mine for the day, and this is the fictional guy who isn't afraid to get down and dirty: "Did your wife have a boyfriend before you met her?" "Nope, I was pier one."

Plus, he won't wear tight pants because of pier pressure.

Industrialism On A Roll

The economy has been in a downturn, a real lull. That's given all the experts something to mull, as is their role. But there's been at least one player on the national stage with some pull. Everyone else may be on the dole, but residential industrialism has been on a roll.

For a lot of folks, they're in a hole as big as the hull of the U.S.S. Cole, bombed, wasn't it near a foreign atoll? It's been a plague like the boll weevil. Or the dust bowl. Or having your garden eaten by a mole. Or your goat by a troll. The nation's hit a shoal.

But the market's been a bull for the residential industrialists, whose goal has been to avoid such a terrible toll. Everyone else's fortunes may be null, but our warehouse are full. It's been good for the soul. While the rest of the country no one can console, we've been leaping like a foal. And soaring like a gull. But for the others, their tongues always loll. A perpetual funeral.

Politicians this year will be sad and feeling dull as voters go to the poll. Not all, some will drink and say skoal. Personally, I'd like to cull a few and see them in gaol. Which is beyond my control.

But for at least one group of voters, their mood shall remain droll, the residential industrialists, in every way successful. And that's the whole point!

Thoughts And Words (Tweets)

Put it into words, what you're feeling ... or maybe not.

Words are very selective. Like a Pachinko ball falling, every peg it has to hit slows it down & you've thought a dozen thoughts in between.

But thinking is more than the quantity of thoughts. It's a cloud of NOT-thinking too.

I have them lined up and ready to dispense. That's one thing. Then there's a whole gumball globe that seems empty but it's really full.

Go up the slot, carefully set the ordered ones off to the side, swim up among the unordered ones, look around, then just quit looking.

I'd love to quit looking. They say purification of motives is the way it is. I have a feeling there's no "way it is," not so predictable.

There's real world happiness right here in the real world. Quit striving, quit begging, quit being a nuisance to yourself. Like I am to me!

I need one more pithy thing to say but I can't think of one now. So ... I leave this non-process time of meditation with a process thought.

Would've, Could've, Should've - Part 2

It's Part 2 of this beloved series, "Would've, Could've, Should've." Part 1 was back in March.

I should've reread Part 1 to see how this goes. Obviously I could've since I have the link. And I definitely would've if I should've even thought that I couldn't've come up with it otherwise. But if I would've, there's the possibility that it could've sounded pretty much the same. Then I would've said I should've just done it and seen what would've come out. It stands to reason if I could've come up with it in March, there's no reason I wouldn't've been able to've done it in September.

We age though and our abilities change. I'm tired today. And I'm thinking I should've taken a nap before starting. But who knows? It could've been I would've been much more refreshed, or, equally, it could've been I would've been even more fatigued. I've experienced both.

I had a doctor's appointment a couple months ago. I should've asked him a few things about being fatigued. I could've told him it happens when I'm getting to bed later than I should've, then I'm up earlier than I would've liked when the alarm goes off. (Of course the alarm could've been set later.) He no doubt would've told me there's your problem right there. If I could've been getting more rest, I probably should've been. And I would've been but I have all these projects I want to see accomplished.

But that doesn't mean I couldn't've asked the doctor for some ideas of how to perk myself up. I'm sure he would've told me to keep up my exercising. I should've already been doing them faithfully, and I would've, except I have been keeping a very busy schedule. I would've thought just going 100 mph with a dozen different projects would've been something of a substitute. It seems like it would've been true. and I could've at least've said it. As to what he would've said in reply, who knows?

He probably would've said there's no substitute for sustained physical exercise. And I would've nodded my head because I would've had to've agreed. Had it happened, I could've tried to've disagreed, obviously, but with a quick check of his doctor's book, he would've immediately proven me wrong. At which point, I would've said I should've just kept my big mouth shut.

Anyway, he might've said all that. Or it could've been he would've simply said, "Take a nap," and that would've been a hundred bucks for the advice, common sense that anyone should've known all along.

But I do what I can. Whatever my abilities. If it comes out good, fine. Usually I say it could've been better. And maybe it would've been better if I would've done X, Y, and Z. If it's too bad, then I always say I definitely should've. I always know I could've.

Pop, Ice, and Olive Oil (Tweets)

How do you spell knockwurst? You DON'T spell knockwurst, it's always on the job!

Just got back from the store. Needed some pop, ice, and olive oil.

April and August

Well, here goes nothing. I'm writing out of a sense of duty, not inspiration. When you're on a schedule, time waits for no man, as they say.

It feels funny (not ha ha) writing about something other than my hiatus, which now of course is officially over. So I won't be saying much more about it. I'm moving on. Back in the saddle. Willing to work for food.

But I promised a couple days ago to say something about August being a great time to start fresh with something other than the hiatus. I like the word 'August.' It's a good fat, chunky word. To me it's the fattest of all the months. If it weren't for the T on the end it'd be obese. But that T makes it just fat with a hint of lean. Look at the butt on the G. It's hanging down, dragging on the ground.

Each of the months' names have a feel to them but none feel quite as rotund as August. That UGU makes me feel bloated just looking at it. Like "ugh"! I can't move. It's some African tribe that eats people, the giant Ugu tribe.

But all the "embers" (with "ober") sound "limber," even though the MB is big. The M goes up and the butt on B is tight. Plus they're a series, like skinny dominoes about to fall over. October is the roundest one of course, with the O's. And even though it's longer than August, simply because it's mixed in with the other limber months, it hides its girth by being lost in company. And O's roll off the tongue, never slowing you down.

But poor August, poor if you think being weighty is bad, which it isn't always. If you're so skinny that people stare, that's no good. Plus, it's good to have a little meat on; it gives bones something to do and helps your skeleton stay in place. But August sticks out. It's got tiny little July on one side and limber September on the other. It sticks out like a baby elephant. There's no hiding the big guy.

So add it all up. All the weight, it's a time to work out and lose some of that, so right there's a great reason to get back to work.

And look, since my hiatus started in April, which starts with A, how's that for symmetry that I would be back to work in the other month starting with an A? And look how skinny April is with the "IL." It makes a good bookend for August. We say from "A to Z," but this is from "A to A," very significant indeed.

Chronicling My Hiatus

PUBLIC NOTICE: The hiatus posts will end tomorrow, giving us a free horizon starting with August. I will explain the significance of that when August gets here. But just a clue, it has to do with the sense of the word August, its feel. Compelling stuff.

As for now, we're still in July. And while the hiatus proper has definitely ended, I'm going to take the last couple days of July to chronicle it.

I think this is very important, if for no other reason than to fill up the time between now and August. These last days of July are crying out for a little chronicling.

I wanted to put out some of the little known bits of trivia about my hiatus. But I don't really have the time to do it completely. Like "When did the hiatus begin?" Sometime in April. "When did it officially end?" The day before yesterday, whenever it was that it headed north. "How many words and letters were used in all the hiatus posts combined?" I'm not going to know stuff like that. It would take a super computer to tell us that, the likes of which man is not capable of inventing.

One thing I do know is "Who was the pervert mentioned numerous times in the hiatus posts?" That would be my ex-friend Garrett Al, who also goes by Geritol. He's obviously a notorious skin merchant.

What follows is a very special historical document, detailing my original hiatus ideas, projected as a 15-16 day breather back in April. As you will readily notice, some of these ideas actually made it into my hiatus posts; they made the cut. The only lacuna in this important document is "No. 1," which must have been deleted as I began. But an educated guess as to what it would have been is the initial announcement of the hiatus.

The document proper will be separated from the body of this post by a series of 25 hyphens, which will now be typed, after this period.

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Hiatus Ideas:

2) Reviewing where the blog has been, what's been revealed. Various instances of paranoia, which I call by some more benign name.

3) Encouraging those who were in contact with me, the newsletters, the real life visits; I thought I was a people person.

4) Bemoaning a couple of the real life visits, one in particular, the guy ended up in jail; whittling with him, whittling makes me sullen. Drinking always made Grandpa mad, whittling made him mellow. But with me, too much whittling equals too much thinking. Too much thinking means going down. This guy noticed that and pulled a knife on me. Going to whittle something out of me. Garrett Al (Geritol).

5) The personal strain that the blog has caused me, very dour.

6) But growth has been real, personal discovery ... heights previously unknown.

7) Well wishes that people have sent, feeling your prayers, concerns; no, I haven't got a life threatening illness.

8) No, I haven't got a life threatening illness; As for illnesses, yes, the olfactory hallucinations have been bad, but that's not the biggest reason for my hiatus.

9) Sometimes a hiatus is just a personal choice, without needing any further explanation. Then go on to explain it again. Might even go on a yearly hiatus. Johnny Carson took 15 weeks vacation a year.

10) What I'm doing with all the time now that I'm on hiatus.

11) Things are going to pot around me, so much time on my hands, still little to complain about; all in all hiatus is a positive thing.

12) Recommending hiatus for everyone, think of it as a transitional phase to nowhere.

13) Vegetating. Looking ahead to full retirement.

14) Easing back into the blog, feel the only way up is to get up, get back in the swing of things. Idle hands.

15) Relaunching -- announcing I'm back in a big way.

16) Dream of my sexy cousin, Jill Bob.

Several posts follow about my mind gone to pot.

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I like that word "lacuna." It sounds like a car name. You could have it like this: "All new for 1966, the Plymouth Lacuna! [Whoosh]. Now you see it, now you don't! You know what 'lacuna' means? It means something that's not there! So whether you're leaving the beach after a big beer bust or dragging down Main Street, by the time the fuzz gets there, you're gone! [Whoosh]. The fabulous Plymouth Lacuna, 'Car of the Year' for 1966! Get yours before they're all gone!"

Also lacuna sounds like something a French butterfly might crawl out of. No more plain old cocoon, now you've got "La coona," but "la cuna" looks more French. "Coona" looks more Spanish with a touch of Dutch. Ha ha, a "touch of Dutch." That's what Nancy Reagan got on her honeymoon.

How about the great pizzeria we used to go to, "Mama Lacuna's"! We used to go there for a pizza and the kids loved it so much it was simply gone. "This pizza's a Lacuna and now all we have is a lacuna!" Mama Lacuna died so there's another lacuna. And they closed Mama Lacuna's so that's our last lacuna of the day.

OK, one last thing about chronicling my hiatus for today ... I totally forgot about my sexy cousin, Jill Bob. Her disappearance is a lacuna.

The Rich Fabric Of This Hiatus

Can you believe we really have words like "warp" and "woof"? I can't believe it. But as insane as it sounds, I guess it's true. Look it up. You'll see that whoever those guys are who use words, they'll be using these ones too, as they comment on "the warp and woof" of such and such.

To me it sounds like a perverted dog, one who rubs himself on guests, as in he's warped and he occasionally woofs. You get one warped enough -- not just perverted but evil -- and woofing enough, you put a heavy chain on him and drag him down to the Army recruiter. They need dogs like that in the various concentration camps our government runs.

Just a lot of woofing isn't enough to put one away. In fact your dog might be trying to tell you something if he woofs a lot. Because no one monitors territory like a dog. They're very territorial. And instinctual. They can read urine like DNA. They can detect subtle clues as to people's intentions. So when the fur stands up on your dog's back, that's a very good sign.

But "warp and woof" don't actually have anything to do with dogs, but with fabric. Fabric is made up of string going one way then another. If it goes one way it's the "warp" and if it goes the other it's the "woof." And if you turn it around the opposite is true. Like left and right. You might be the woof from one angle but you're the warp from another. So it gets confusing. Except what we're interested in is the finished product, once the warping and woofing is done, and we don't care what they call it.

The phrase gets applied to something like a figure of speech, to say what really makes up something. So you could have the warp and woof of meat, let's say, the straight meat of the bacon could be the warp, and the fat globby portions the woof. I believe so.

I've been re-reading my hiatus posts and I'm amazed at the rich fabric of them. Such emotion! Such passion! It's all so fascinating it deserves to be published -- maybe handwritten by very old, very skillful monks while chanting -- then preserved in a richly decorated, fabric hardback book about the size of a family Bible.

The outer fabric would have its warp and woof and be lush, lavish. But the real "fabric," if you catch my drift, would be the contents, with big decorative capital letters to start the first paragraph, etc. Like today, my first sentence starts with "Can you believe...", it'd be an enormous "C" to start the page, with some color and crosshatching. I love it!

The hiatus is going well. I've calmed down since whenever it was the last time that I was riled up about it. You can hear it in my voice, the cadence of confidence, renewed playfulness, restless creativity brimming over, and humor that sweeps over the entire production. I'm winking at everyone! I'm as light as a bee skimming over a field of nothing but flowers. My big old book needs to be scented with a floral scent.