The Last Industrial Battle

The bad news is this: The Major Industrial Powers (MIP) have prevailed over the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM). But damage and civilian casualties have been greatly limited, thanks to the frantic evacuations of RIM families, our benevolent willingness to compromise, and to the intervention of both a super hero and forces out of Heaven.

The MIP was brazen enough to call in thousands of militia in addition to the official military. They bought off tens of thousands of federal, state, county, and local officials. That shows what they're made of, pure scum. The deck was stacked in their favor. In addition to the physical threat, they had tons of official paperwork in place, being delivered to thousands of RIM facilities across the country by census workers, otherwise out of work but pressed into last minute duty on this matter.

Factories have been shuttered, chained, and in some cases destroyed. RIM officials, those who hadn't fled for the hills, including myself, were presented with the alternatives, mostly involving continued legal scrutiny vs. the possibility of immunity if we were to give up industrialism. Looking at the mounds of paperwork, much of it literally over my head, we decided it was hopeless. On patent violations alone, there was over a million lawsuits threatened. I myself, as a tire manufacturer, was served with hundreds of patent summonses, everything from copyrighted tread patterns to the shape of the wheel itself. It turns out that one big company has a patent on the wheel's circular shape and licenses it out to other manufacturers.

But like I said, we had some great assistance in a battle that, alas, was never really allowed to rage.

The forces were assembled in the field north of my property, with thousands of tanks, infantry, missile launchers, and so forth. Those were the MIP forces standing against us. The RIM contingent stood at the east fence, with sticks, homemade knives, and a few muskets some of the older guys kept above their fireplace. (We were really down in numbers because of all who fled.)

At this point, the MIP was looking to make an example of someone. Of course, the militias with the official military were itching for a fight. Even they had their own tanks. I wasn't really looking to die. So I had an idea. As you know from yesterday, I was spiritually ready, plus I have a couple friends in Japan who know something about fighting. Of course I'm talking about Gentaro and Goro, the stars of "Iron King."

I contacted Gentaro yesterday and told him of the situation. He knows I'm a big fan of their '70s Japanese sci fi action series, having the entire thing on DVD. So together with Goro, who transforms himself into the giant cyborg action fighter, Iron King, they made their way to my home as fast as possible.

So there we were, the RIM, with our sticks and homemade knives. The militias came running toward the middle of the field. Goro ran behind a big bale of hay, crossed himself and shouted "Iron Shock!" That's what he does. Instantly, he was transformed into a cyborg about 100 feet tall. He went out to the middle of the field. One of the militia men, in charge of their own giant, seeing Iron King, radioed to the hills, and out came Tank Head.

They fought and struggled there in the middle of the field. First Iron King seemed to prevail, then Tank Head came back. It went back and forth like that for a while, until I saw Iron King's water meter start to blink, meaning he was dangerously low on H2O, which he needs for his strength. It's a very annoying problem. But it gives Gentaro a chance to fight.

So, Gentaro, looking every bit a normal human being, and he is, ran into the fray. He has a whip that extends itself in a gigantic way. So he was out there whipping Tank Head. And he was about to bring him down. But it wasn't enough. I was thinking, "So much for the expensive long distance charges to Japan!" But I had another option up my sleeve.

Remember my great spirituality? I'm the one man in town, and possibly the world, who can move Heaven with the snap of a finger. It comes from years of sacred sword play, manipulating Chinese gong balls, and having a smokin' hot interpretation of scripture. I have a very special pull over ... angels. Not the kind of prissy angels you hang on your Christmas tree or hand out at nursing homes as party favors. But big, burly, sacred sword-wielding, angry-looking, bad ass buggers, hedgerows of warring angels, who'd just soon annihilate you as look at you. But they like me!

I gave one of my very special prayers. The prayers I utter are not the kind that pussyfoot around, nor do I have to wait five years for an answer. I can just grunt in a holy way -- I could -- and the heavens open and the angels are there. And so it was! I was about to say, "Deus ex machina, I call for a hedgerow of warring angels." But before I could open my mouth, while the words were simply in my mind, there they were...

LOL. I had a very strange thought when I saw them. A funny thought. I was thinking about the Tony Orlando song, "Tie A Yellow Ribbon 'Round The Old Oak Tree." Remember the part where the guy wants one yellow ribbon around the tree or he'll stay on the bus? It makes me cry to hear the part where he sees a hundred yellow ribbons! But that's what he got. Do you see where this is going?

I was only asking for one hedgerow of warring angels, and, guess what: The sky was filled from the east to the west with so many hedgerows of warring angels it darkened the sky! It was an awesome sight. I haven't seen so many of one thing since the time I went to the basement of a guy I once knew and saw he had literally collected over 100,000 pennies. It was crazy! Bottles, bags, boxes ... pennies everywhere!

The tanks were midfield, heading for the RIM forces. Tank Head was leading the way. Gentaro had assisted Goro off the field and, like a dog, he was getting a lavish drink from a drainage ditch. Next thing anyone knew, the hedgerows of warring angels were electrically levitating tanks and missile launchers between them, and casting them into hell, by the hundred! It was a beautiful sight! And as far as Tank Head, they zapped him and I saw him shrink. So if anyone out there sees a mouse with two heads shaped like little toy tanks, maybe put out a trap tonight. He could bite.

With all this death and destruction, into the middle of the field came running the governor of our state along with one of the officials of the MIP. I prayed and the hedgerows went and sat on the horizon. The officials recognized certain things were true, one, that the RIM had greater help in the realm of super heroes and heavenly visitors. But they also insisted that we were violating many laws, patents, and all that. So it all came down to money!

That's when we worked out the details about immunity and all the rest. And we agreed that the RIM would be disbanded as an industrial movement in exchange for legal concessions. And so that was the end of the struggle.

The hedgerows went back to Heaven, awaiting my slightest whisper. Gentaro and Goro came over and toured my former tire factory. I gave Goro a bucket of water from Grandpa's well, which he averred would keep him well hydrated for years to come! Before they left, Gentaro played his guitar and sang a folk song, some of the lyrics being translated:

I have loved the fields of lilies, the beauty of our homeland.
And I have loved your fair eyes, my darling.
You have dressed yourself in white, like the clouds passing by.
May you keep your charm and youth always, growing old with me.

(For those who know the Iron King show, Gentaro's songs have nothing to do with the show or its theme, but, to save production money, are merely public domain folk songs, mostly with love and nature themes.)

Major Industrialists Flood The Zone

Yesterday, I described the coming of the military into the area, along with thousands of backyard militias, setting up to do the bidding of the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) against the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM). It's probably needless to say, but the vast array of firepower and soldiers standing against us has put a damper on production. Most of our employees, of course, have been scared feceless and have headed for the hills, along with quite a number of residential industrialists.

But I'm still here. A good night's sleep and I'm up, feeling a lot more confident than I was yesterday. I can't say I'm exactly thankful for what's going on; that'd be too strong a word. But it is in those times when push comes to shove that you find out what you're really made of. At first, I thought I was made of mush. But now I'm getting some of my confidence and resolve back. I've been working with some of my sacred swords, my Chinese metal balls, my own smokin' hot interpretations of scripture, and some of Pastor Wadd's sermon notes, and things are much better. Spiritual stuff.

Sacred sword play is a very intense discipline. It's like Tai Chi with props. I've gone into many an other-worldly trance bringing my consciousness to the point in those slow-moving sessions. In case you don't know much about this, there's some joining in consciousness that the sword wielder sees between the sword and his body. The point corresponding to the head and beyond, with the pinpoint accuracy and vanishing point, to say the least is a great confidence builder. I wouldn't trade my swords for all the nuclear bombs in Iran!

The Chinese metal balls have curative powers. One time I got rid of arthritis in my toes simply by sleeping with them in my socks. After a few days, the pain was gone. The worst part, of course, is having to get up in the middle of the night and tripping all the way to the bathroom. Then there's the scriptures, the condensed wisdom of the residential industrialists of the past (Israel) facing the major industrial powers (the Babylonians, Romans, etc.) And finally, there's Pastor Wadd's notes. He's a local guy who specializes in combating sexual addictions. I get quite a bit of good out of reading his wise comments, especially in that afterglow phase when the danger's well past.

You can tell I'm very mellowed out -- much more so than you'd think for someone facing industrial extinction either later today or tomorrow. When they shut down my factory, it'll just give me more time for other things ... and eventually I'll overpower them in some other way...

But I imagine there's going to be something more to it, with the military and militias. Can I just live happily ever after? Yesterday the MIP flooded the zone -- that's my word for it -- by fanning out across the country with thousands of sheriffs issuing zoning violation tickets and process servers bringing notices of legal actions for patent violations, etc. They've no doubt put a lot of work into this, buying off the feds, the state governments, the counties, and right down to the local city councils.

So they're looking to minimize death and damage, probably, but with all these militias -- most of whom are crazy, supporters of Republicans so you know they're dingy -- there's sure to be some violence. One, they want to make a good example of someone, a sufficient number, so we won't ever do this again. I wouldn't be surprised if most of the fighting took place right here locally, since this is where residential industrialism got its start. A local guy, they say, was the philosophical father of the whole movement.

Along with the paperwork being passed out, summonses to appear in court and all the rest, they were already acting against some of the backyard factories, those that were abandoned in the last few days. I went out for a drive last night and saw quite a few shuttered plants. I took a picture of the Spooner vat factory, since it's right up the street. It looks very sad. It was just in July that we helped with Ted's first vat. Those were the good times, in approximately the Silver Age of Residential Industrialism.

I'll see what today brings. At this point, something's definitely got to give. But I'm going to try to keep the faith, keep my single pointedness going, and the other great benefits. I might see the help of a higher power yet! Other than that, I could watch a little TV -- I might get out my Iron King DVDs, since he also faced a lot of crazy stuff in his life and everything always seemed to work out OK for him. Then, who knows? Maybe I'll put on Grandma's old silk kimono and lounge around the house. Have a drink and check out a few magazines or videos. And then read through Pastor Wadd's notes again.

Major Industrialists' Forces Moving In

There's no more room for optimism in the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM). This is the new reality. A lot of us were hoping that Garrett Al (aka Geritol and the prophet Jor-el) didn't know what he was talking about when he foretold our doom. But now it's become exceedingly clear that, as he so prophetically declared on Sunday, we are toast, there is trouble afoot, and we're screwed.

I don't know what to make of it. Of course I'm sorry that everything we worked for is going down the tubes. But maybe we were just ahead of our time. I'll bury a copy of this blog's archives somewhere where the Huns won't be able to find it, and someday, who knows? Maybe the RIM will crawl forth from the ashes, and, just like that great mythological bird, ascend to the skies once again! If we do, may I suggest the first order of manufacturing business, that we make plenty of weaponry, including ships, planes, tanks, catapults, grenades, and napalm? The way it is, friends, we can't fight them with disposable diapers, vats, and wheels for hospital beds.

Yesterday, I was out doing reconnaissance in the area. Communications have been cut off for most of us. Of course the Huns have our phone numbers and accounts, so those have all been shut off. There's no electricity for our factories. Everything's at a standstill. Pigeons are afraid to fly. It's a complete blackout, except ... I saw a couple neighborhood kids still communicating with their walkie talkies, from whom I was able to learn that they've already canceled school tomorrow. So they were happy.

The reconnaissance I was able to do was strictly on foot, the roads being clogged with residential industrialists carrying their things, trying to find someplace to hide. Of course when people pull out, the looters move in. The disposable diaper factory up the street's already been cleaned out, they say by a well-organized gang of babies from out of town. I kept moving ...

The interstate is just south of our place, so I took the back way through the weeds, and was hiding out among the spruce trees in the ditch. I got there and made myself comfortable.

Then I watched in horror and with some fascination how all four lanes were jam-packed with all manner of military equipment on the move. Tanks, missiles, radar trucks, and supply vehicles were packed together tighter than a C ration. The biggest firepower I saw had to be several truckloads of nuclear and hydrogen bombs headed for the airport. Everything but the kitchen sink. Of course I came to the only conclusion I could, that someone in the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) was really calling in some favors, because I know the deadlier bombs are used only on special occasions.

I wasn't expecting this much scrutiny. I don't mind being the center of attention once in a while. But mostly I just want to do my own thing, have it be ultimately life-affirming, keep my reputation unsoiled, and try to live my life in a quiet and unassuming way. For a minute, I was able to put out of my mind the massive forces arrayed before me. I thought as I looked up at the clouds, They can't stop the clouds. Then with my imagination feeling a little freer, I looked for soothing images in the sky, but only saw big hammers, fists, mushrooms, and a pitchfork. I shuddered and looked down.

Across the way from my vantage point, the fields were full of weapons, tanks, trucks, etc., and soldiers. If you know the area, you know this is where the sewage plant is. Validating my overall contention that the whole operation stinks. Then there's another spot off to the east, a slope in some guy's field that I've always called Sugar Mountain, after Neil Young's song. It was packed with soldiers and their tents, laughing it up. As the day wore on, the laughter increased, making me think they were probably getting well lubed. I might rename the place Skidrow East! That would certainly be apropos, because no doubt the ladies from the town's Skidrow district would be out there when evening fell. Meaning, after all, Sugar Mountain will still be a fitting name.

I watched as long as I could stand it. The preparations are in place for what the MIP have in store for us, a real downer, of course. I went back to the house and gave it some thought: Those SOBs have so much firepower, such an advantage over us, if there's anything left standing tomorrow -- a beam, an unbroken window, anywhere in town -- we could claim a moral victory. But who am I kidding? There's going to be collateral damage, that's for sure. The surviving townspeople are going to hate our guts. The only thing that can make it worse is if FEMA shows up.

But, really, what did we do? We dared to encroach on the MIP's precious industrial turf. It seemed to me at the time that we had a right to do so, and that's still my contention. But by tomorrow at this time, that'll be heresy, a very unpopular stance to take...

I need to wrap this up. I hope my friends will be able to read this before they take it down. Or, possibly, I'll take it down, since it might endanger my life. Yes, at some level I'm proud of my blog. For a while there I really motivated a lot of people to live up to their industrial potential. But the fact that they might be dead tomorrow because of it puts something of a negative spin on my efforts. I want to get the blog printed off so I can bury it -- then I might delete the whole thing from the internet later today. But who knows what might be left in the Google cache? I hadn't thought of that.

Let me go on record this morning, never once did I call myself the philosophical father of the Residential Industrial Movement! I disavow all knowledge of it whatsoever. I don't read the papers! The factory in my backyard? I don't know where it came from. I just woke up one day and there it was. Where can I hide? Oh no, I'm so screwed...

Rumblings Of Troubles For Industrialists

I really don't know what else to do. I've got a bunker mentality right now. We're in a holding pattern, waiting to see how bad it's going to be.

The prophecies of Jor-el (also known as Garrett Al and Geritol) induced fear in me and in every member of the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) still in his right mind. Surely no incidence of gargling has struck terror in so many breasts at any other time in recorded history. So why'd it have to happen this time?

Everything was going so great for the RIM. We never thought it'd come to this, with prophecies of armies and various privations unfortunately in the offing. I always thought the Four Horsemen were meant as a more generalized horror of judgment; I didn't know it'd manifest itself with pinpoint accuracy against one little substratum of industry. But then the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) probably have a legitimate beef, at least from their point of view, since they've had the industrial field since the Industrial Revolution. We should've guessed they wouldn't take kindly to competition.

My biggest regret is not that we gave it a try with the RIM, but that we didn't manufacture tanks, guns, and napalm, instead of tires, vats, and wheels for hospital beds. At least we could've made a few catapults! But now it's come to this. The rumblings of troubles are so dire that there's no mistaking our fate. Geritol wasn't gargling a half hour for his health!

And speaking of Garrett Al, he came by my place yesterday after church. For a while, it was just him and me. So I figured he might drop the prophetic mien, but I guess it wasn't mien't to be. He stayed completely in character, leading me to conclude that Pastor Wadd's sermon must have really done damage to the normal male libido. (Pastor Wadd's specialty is fighting sexual addiction, and Geritol figures prominently in my personal biography as a man arrested for trying to sexually assault me. Even yesterday, Jor-el was soon to boil over, which I'll get to...)

Anyway, we were out in the plant, and I asked Garrett Al if he was sure -- 100% positive, beyond any shadow of a doubt, rock solid, no hold's barred -- that our troubles were real. He looked at me, an all-seeing man in a fading orange robe and hood, and the serious look on his face left little room for optimism. I asked him one question: "How bad is it?" He spoke not a word, just like on "The Red Skelton Show," but led me to my little office, the room with the small window.

There he patiently removed four slices of bread from a bag. He set them on a plate. He took two of the pieces and put them in a toaster. He dialed the toaster as high as it'd go, then depressed the lever. We waited an agonizingly long time while they "cooked." Normal toast is done in a fourth the time, making me wonder why the toaster dial even goes that high. He took the two blackened slices out. Then he put the two uncooked pieces back in the bag and closed it. The charred toast represented the RIM, and the remaining bread, of course, the MIP.

I shrugged my shoulders and said, "So that's it? We're toast?" He held up a finger, as if to say, "Not so fast."

Next, we walked out of the plant and into the house. He led me into my bedroom, then to the closet. He opened the closet and took out my good pair of shoes. We went into the kitchen, where we keep the meat grinder. He proceeded to grind one of the shoes until it was a large pile of coarse leather. The other shoe, Jor-el calmly carried back to my room, and I witnessed him putting it back in the closet. The ground up shoe represented the RIM, and the other one, naturally, the MIP.

I shook my head and said, "So that's it? There's trouble afoot?" Again, Garrett Al held up a finger, as if to say, "Patience, my dear friend, and you shall see."

Finally, and this is where his wild libido made its reappearance, we went back to the plant. I shuddered a little as I saw him reach his hands inside the robe and heard the sound of unzipping. For one terrifying moment, I was right back at that night in 2009. But he gave me a signal that I had nothing to fear, thrusting his hips away from me and in the direction of the factory. Now, this is where the robe comes in very handy, because it keeps me from having to describe what happened next in blue language, which would violate one of my strictest rules.

Let me just say, there's some exposed gears on my tire retreader. And Geritol ascended until he was on top of that section. He was straddling it. Then, with his robe draped discreetly, covering everything, I saw what appeared to be his covered right arm smacking against the inside of his robe. It was so rough it looked like a bear trying to get out of a tent. His head was arched back, the look on his face the look of pure ecstasy. Finally, I heard an otherworldly growl rumbling from his throat, and a climactic moment of release appeared to have been reached, with several cosmic aftershocks. He said not a word, but climbed off the equipment, leaving behind such a mess that I'll have to file insurance. Thanks to his religion, the guy had been stoved up like a bull. He enjoyed that a little too much.

With Jor-el's dismount, I said, "So that's it? We're screwed?" This time he pointed at me, as if to say, "Bingo."

With that I had little else I could do. I bade Garrett Al a good night, and did what anyone in my position would do ... I called Pastor Wadd and reported him.

Industrial Prophet Gargles Message Of Doom

I was on the phone and in meetings with Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) entrepreneurs throughout the day yesterday. The disruption of the meeting and the supposed revelations of the prophet Jor-el concerning the future of the RIM were the talk of the town. We're desperate for clarification. Some who have unlimited minutes on their phones are even calling other counties and states for their take on the situation. Reportedly, local prophets in other places are also agitated.

As for me, I wanted to go right to the source, Garrett Al (Geritol, Jor-el) himself. That was also a priority for some of the RIM members closest to me. We wanted to give the man a chance to retract his statements if he was just pulling our leg, or if after further reflection, he had changed his mind.

He came to my tire plant. Now, my dealings with Garrett Al are such, after the sexual assault he tried on me in 2009, that a couple days ago if you'd've told me he was a prophet, I would've said that guy wouldn't know prophecy if he ate a crystal ball and crapped out fortune cookies! But that would've been before I saw him myself, his remarkable transformation into Jor-el. He was really into the character, or his new self. What caused the big difference, I was given a hint of in that he was accompanied by his pastor, a Rev. Wadd, who explained that he'd been counseling him for sexual addiction.

It took time we didn't really have to waste, sidelining us for about a half hour, but Pastor Wadd shared with us that most people are suffering from sexual addictions, as evidenced in everything from the terrible stories of sexual crimes that are in the daily news right down to ordinary married folks who choose to have children. In my opinion, the pastor seemed to have a slightly skewed sense of things -- maybe overly censorious -- looking everyone in his path up and down for what might be their hidden fetishes, hangups, and latent proclivities. But I could see how he might've easily been able to influence Garrett Al and make a productive citizen out of him once again, who before was consumed with the drives given him by nature.

Anyway, they came to my plant. Jor-el himself wasn't saying much. He was still into the theatrical atmospherics of being a prophet, the robe and everything. The whole assembly came together around some tables, with Pastor and Geritol at the head table. I said we were ready to begin. I sipped a glass of water, which appeared to prompt Garrett Al to pour his own glass of water and drink. Well, not exactly drink.

Every eye was on him, with the possible exception of Pastor Wadd, who obviously likes to scan a crowd for problems. Then Jor-el took the glass and began gargling at the table. Some of the entrepreneurs began laughing and so did I. We thought, So it was all a joke! But he continued to gargle, and after a while the laughter subsided. Then he'd swallow, pour some more water, and gargle some more. Gargling, just incessant gargling. He kept gargling, loudly too. 15, 20, 25, 30 minutes...

Without him saying it, it started to become obvious to me that his gargling was his message to us, meaning that he foresaw the rumblings of troubles coming for the residential industrialists, and that it would be non-stop and terrible to behold, without mercy. I explained this to the assembly. Pastor Wadd nodded at me, then lowered his eyes a bit. I noticed I had my hands resting on my legs and felt I should move them up on the table.

Geritol then spoke. He addressed me as Super Brain. In light of the events of the last couple days, this abashed me greatly. He said, "Super Brain probably already knows this," and then proceeded to sketch out a vision of the Four Ages of Residential Industrialism that I hadn't imagined. According to Jor-el, the phenomenon of the Four Ages for everything is real, but unfortunately for Residential Industrialism, it's very compressed. We've only been going at this since around May of this year. But he had it down, that the Golden Age was roughly that first month, then we quickly went into the Silver Age, then the Bronze Age, and since mid-September we've been in the Paper Age.

It didn't make a lot of sense to any of us, but Pastor Wadd had a theory about the same thing happening to the antediluvians, because of their leaders' lust for the better-endowed angels. I was shifting uneasily in my chair. You know how you occasionally have an itch in a very private place? And if you're in private you can scratch it? Or even if you're with folks, if they're involved in some other activity, you can quickly and with some discretion reach down and take care of it in about five seconds? This was impossible under the eagle eye of Pastor Wadd, who was looking for every sign of perversion or a double mind. Honestly, I wasn't lusting for angels! So I kept shifting uneasily, almost to the point where it looked like I was trying to communicate my own prophetic sign.

Nothing about Garrett Al's presentation gave us any confidence. He was still right on track with the message that we could expect nothing but troubles, and that the RIM's best days were behind us. The mood was hushed as the entrepreneurs filed out, leaving me and the prophet and pastor behind.

Then at the end, Pastor, Geritol, and I went outside. The day was still very sunny. There was no sign of gargling on the horizon. It seemed a perfect day to go to the bathroom and scratch, then get back to work and maybe even step up production. We stood there, though, and after a while it became uncomfortable. Pastor seemed to sense that I needed to go to the bathroom. Finally, the tension was broken when we saw a young woman walking up the road, obviously pregnant. Pastor Wadd made a little joke, "Anyone you know?" I disavowed any knowledge of the situation, which is true. But he handed me his card anyway.

Jor-el -- Residential Industrialism's Unwelcome Prophet

This, I can't believe. It's too far out there. Not with how good things have been going. It doesn't gibe. Common sense says no. This takes the wind out of me.

Can't anything go right? Where's this guy get off? Did he have to show up? Of all people, now supposedly with a prophetic perspective on things? All doom and gloom, like anyone wants to hear that. I don't want to hear that. All these things, I was thinking.

We were at the school. Some of the neighbor companies rented the gym for a nice ceremony, so they could present me my "Super Brain" plaque and bouquet of roses. What's his face -- Ted Spooner -- was giving a talk and I was looking at my watch, thinking of lost production time. When this guy shows up -- Garrett Al -- and the conclave parts like the Red Sea to let him through.

He was accompanied by some neighbor kids who set off a half dozen firecrackers, and that got our attention; the acoustics in the gym are brutal. I looked down from the stage and saw what looked like a prophetic figure in a robe, like a Halloween costume but way too real. He had the robe (check), the beard (check), right down to the bony pointing finger, meaning there was something unworldly about him. The others didn't know him, but even in the mysterious garb, I still recognized my old nemesis, Garrett Al (also known as Geritol.) (Most of you will remember him as the guy who showed up and allegedly tried to force himself on me for sexual favors during my long hiatus. When we were friends, I gave him the nickname Geritol as a play on his actual name.)

"I am Jor-el," he announced loudly, his bony, quivering finger still pointing at me. I immediately thought of the name, Superman's dad on Krypton, and not a half bad progression from Garrett Al to Geritol to Jor-el!

"Speak your piece, Garrett!" I commanded, "Then get out!" At that point, I still had three tires back home I wanted to finish before watching "Baggage" and going to bed.

Garrett, or Jor-el, to be respectful, told the assembled group, local representatives of the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), of fearful things, including the massing of armies and authorities against us, and the coming swift and final victory of the Major Industrial Powers (MIP). As he spoke, somehow there was a sign obvious to everyone -- possibly left over from the firecrackers -- the smell of sulfur, that gave Jor-el's words credence.

His words -- delivered with a lot of tremelo in his voice and a stare, almost like you'd see in a blind guy -- cut us to the quick. He claimed to foresee foundations falling, death and despair, children orphaned, fires raging, and a modest increase in prices for consumer goods. It was strictly "Four Horsemen" stuff, presented with a lot of gusto. Garrett's a natural orator, speaking without notes the entire time.

Maybe you can tell, I was wavering between belief and disbelief. His whole style was one that demanded belief, yet, remember, I'm Super Brain -- if any of this was true, wouldn't I know it? Who, after all, is Garrett Al? He lives out near the scrap metal mountains on the north side of town. Where he would spend his day ... seeing the sun constantly reflected ... off pieces of metal haphazardly arranged ... hmm, possibly an actual way to stimulate a mystical experience ... and tap into omniscience ...

I wanted to disbelieve, and still I'm not sure. I remember Garrett Al as that pervert in my yard, and the police hauling his sorry butt away. I wanted to ridicule him so badly. I wanted to tear him down, then bring the ceremony back to its senses. What about his name? The syllables are nuts. Gar-ret-Al, like Uni, Roy, and Al. You've got AL, OL, and EL, almost like AL-CO-HOL -- is he drunk? But, d--- it to h---! There is indeed a strange, cryptic progression from Garrett Al to Geritol to Jor-el, the very guy who prophetically warned Krypton of impending doom. And haven't I always reviled the elders of Krypton for failing to see the mountains erupting right through the very windows of their council room?!

But what about the others of our RIM assembly? They were trying to shout him down, just like the elders of Krypton, "He's mad! A madman!" Something about it pierced me through. I started to shiver as I saw the others guffawing and backslapping, their big gaping maws replacing normal human mouths, their bad teeth looking like big horse teeth, and the terrible bad breath you could taste from here. They were waving their arms and making threatening gestures toward him. Someone might've pulled a folding chair at any minute! Garrett was in danger of his life! But he was standing there like the suffering servant, or a dumbwaiter.

I called out to the crowd, holding up my Super Brain plaque, now worthless in my eyes, and finally got them quieted down. Among my consoling remarks, I said, "Gentlemen, gentlemen! In view of Jor-el's words, I suggest that we all retreat to our several hearths and family altars, holding close our children and womenfolk and comforting them, and crying out for mercy to whatever god it is you worship, hopefully including widely among our number the one true and living God."

The Everlasting Pride Of Residential Industrialism

This is really something to be proud of. I'm so proud to be part of the incredible Residential Industrial Movement (RIM).

We've had something great going on since the beginning, but now, in these recent days, as we consolidate our gains and establish ourselves as part of the industrial mainstream, it's something everyone's recognizing and admiring. We've come a long way!

It's been very fun for me to see the progress and the way the RIM has come into its own. As the philosophical father of the whole thing, of course I'm busting with pride. Seeing the factories, the workers, the finished products on the line, the trucks pulling out, and supply trucks pulling in -- it's a beautiful thing.

As far as I can tell, it's always going to be this way, or better! The enemy's incursions -- the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) -- have subsided greatly, thanks to the ways we've shaken up their business model. I knew it! High production far outstripping demand would keep prices dirt cheap and leave the other guys scrambling. They treated me like crap, but now the shoe's on the other foot.

As we go on from victory to victory, making strides, making gains, from here on out, let us never forget the feeling we have right now. We've reached the top of the mountain, you know? We've not only seen the Promised Land, we've entered it, and, check it, you don't always get a twofer like that! And that's where we will stay!

Now, I know you don't need another "pep talk" from me. But please indulge a proud papa. Plus, you were the ones who gave me the impressive (though undeserved, I must aver) title of "Super Brain." Surely, you can allow me a little speech, if I promise to keep it short, and I do! We're family, whether we know each other or not. When I go to a town and see a RIM facility, a factory in someone's backyard, even if I've never been there before, I know I'm home!

Anyway, what I want to say is: The future is bright! We're not turning back now! And this is something you're a part of. And that's the way it should be. And you can be proud of that, because we've all done it together. It wasn't just one guy, not even me, who did it all. I built my factory, you built yours. We all did our own thing, and it's been good.

Keep it up, OK? If you're making disposable diapers, you're lucky. Because kids are always going to have to go, sooner or later. If you're making wheels for hospital beds, that's great. Because health care is cutting edge stuff. If you make vats, you're doing something remarkable. We always need a vat to put stuff that otherwise would just be spilled on the floor. Or if you're like me, specializing in tires and electricity, of course there's a market for tires. Cars, trucks, playground swings. The point is, we need you! Keep it up!

My pride for what the RIM has accomplished in just a few short months is great. My heart is overwhelmed. I'm emotional. It's never been better than this! But we're looking for even greater things ahead!

Super Brain ... over and out!

Blue Skies Ahead For Residential Industrialism

I love the happy songs. They put a lilt in my step and lift in my spirit. Like "Happy Days Are Here Again," the old fashioned song that came after the Depression. Or a little newer, "Happy Together," so happy together. And I think Willie Nelson did a great version of an old chestnut a few years ago, "Blue Skies," nothing but blue skies from now on.

That's how I see it out ahead of us for the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), nothing but blue skies from now on. With an occasional smokestack, at the most five or six per block. With the blue skies peeking out everywhere, giving that great look of good cheer we all sort of like.

I've been doing a lot of thinking, thanks to the general proclamation that I should be known as "Super Brain." You can't have a name like that, or a brain like that, for that matter, without trying your best to live up to it in the most responsible way. So I'm super busy, doing with my super brain what you might expect, thinking in super ways. Another word for what I'm doing would be "cogitating," or we could say "mulling," "considering," or "ruminating."

And what I've been thinking, cogitating, mulling, considering, and ruminating about is the future of the RIM. To do that, in part, I look back, where we came from. We've been at it seemingly forever, since May of this year, I think, or June. I know I really got into industrial affairs in April, becoming an opponent of the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) at that time. Then a few weeks later, it seems, I proposed the theoretical framework for what became the RIM, which was that If any man can have a factory, every man should be able to.

But not all of us have a big tract of land at the outskirts of town. Therefore our factories must of necessity be right where we live, in the residential districts of our towns. Hence, the Residential Industrial Movement was born. And it took off, now to the point that virtually every city in the country has a lot more facilities, in formerly strictly residential areas, given over to industry and mass production.

I was fortunate to get the credit for the idea, fortunate because they say a great idea will have a thousand fathers! But the people in the RIM were good people, recognizing me alone as the philosophical father of residential industrialism. That was earlier than the "Super Brain" designation, which also is a great honor they gave me.

But looking ahead, that's what we're thinking about today. All of us have probably noticed how the MIP has apparently shrunk into the background. We don't hear much out of them these days. The rumors have it that they're trying their best to play catch-up, because our production base is so much broader, and our willingness to produce in quantities substantially higher than demand has shaken up their entire business model. And playing catch-up, that means they're likely on the ropes, dazed, mentally addled, woozy, beside themselves, and possibly at death's door. I'd love to hear they have at least one foot in the grave!

But I'm going to try to keep this positive. If the MIP is on the run, that's great. Because it opens the field, and the future, to us, with there being "no stopping us now!" That's a happy thought ... and that'd make a great audience chant if I were giving this as a speech in a stadium: "No stopping us now! No stopping us now!" I've got a big smile on my face, for our progress ... but, [he admits with a sly grin on his face] for the MIP's many travails!

Super Brain says, "So let it be written, so let it be done!"

My concluding advice for the day is to keep up the good work. Keep 'em on the ropes. Invest your profits as much as you can in your factories and increased production. And don't forget to look out once in a while and enjoy the blue skies!

Super Brain Scans Our Industrial Future

Thanks to my post on how I rival even super computers, now they're calling me Super Brain! (For completists, I also mentioned the subject here.)

Super Brain? That's quite a title! I tried to shrug it off and say no, but the acclaim has been too great, from comments here at the blog, emails, and, of course, neighbors. I'm taking the title, somewhat reluctantly, but I'll try to live up to it as best as I can.

The acclaim started rolling in about 10:15 a.m. yesterday. Most of the factories take a break about then, giving everyone a quick chance to look at the latest scoop on my blog. The emails and comments started coming immediately. The calls and actual visits built then throughout the day, with a few of them actually using the term "Super Brain." Also, the florist was here with a few deliveries. Most of the flowers I'm giving to nursing homes. The big spray spelling out "Super Brain," I'm keeping.

So, reluctantly, I guess you can call me Super Brain. Hope it fits. For one, I do rival super computers, and apparently now even other human brains. But really, I didn't ask to be this smart. It just happened. I watch Jeopardy, have filled in a few Sudoku puzzles, graduated from school, and I've read a few books. The rest is just native intelligence, the ability to spell my name, balance a checkbook, and do three step projects without reviewing the instructions.

One thing I'm already doing is a lot more thinking. But the first official act I'm going to do as Super Brain -- and I'm getting ready to do it right now -- is to scan the future as it relates to the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), our industrial future. I know you can't see what I'm doing, but I'm alternately pausing and gazing at the wall and typing. What am I thinking? I'm not seeing anything very distinctly ... I'm focusing in ... shutting my eyes ... hoping I don't drift off, since I'm up very early.

When I do this, shutting my eyes, I'm still looking, but I'm looking up, like I'm seeking something from beyond. A message, an image. I tend to trust the intuitive stuff of life, the flashes of insight I get, which can be quite literally a flash. It happens, maybe just a thought -- POP -- but it's something that is usually true. So ... I'm looking ... looking ... looking .... and ---- Wow!

Guess what? I don't know how to say this, but I think I really saw something! I have the sudden conviction that this thing is about to come to a head! That's what I saw, the indicators pointing to the very welcome good news that this thing is about to be resolved, and I'm so very, very happy.

Friends, as Super Brain I feel I can now deliver good news to you. The indicators are pointing to this one thing, and I will proclaim it. The data has been processed and the conclusions are in: I can now predict the defeat and demise of the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) within our lifetimes! That's a fact. Along with that, quite naturally, I see the security of the RIM established forever!

There's a lot of sunshine, Super Brain sees that. But, wait, what is this? I'm scanning the inside of my forehead, looking for flashes of insight, and a cloud has passed through. Meaning ... yes! ... the security of the RIM and the demise of the MIP will not come without additional challenge. I know, no one wanted to hear that, but you don't really have to be Super Brain to anticipate how that would be the case. We've been through so much already, and the MIP is not obviously staggered or fatally wounded yet, so of course there will be tough days ahead. But keep the ultimate prize in mind, which we have already glimpsed: Victory is ours!

Just for fun, I wonder how fast a super computer could've come up with this. Probably not all that fast, because it'd take a programmer longer to type in the questions and variables than it took me just to look at the wall. So, once again, I've left the super computers in the dust. Super Brain gets his work done and is taking the dog out to pee before the super computer manages to get warmed up! But I don't feel like taunting this morning ... because ...

It's a day of gladness for the RIM! We shall prevail!

Now, I know everyone will be looking for additional details, but, please, just put it out of your minds and get back to work. We shall prevail according to what our strength is, and our strength comes in our work ethic, our ability to produce quality goods in mass quantities, and in our dirt cheap prices. Fill your warehouses to capacity! Keep supply high and let demand catch up. We can't lose!

On a personal note, thank you, everyone, for the title of Super Brain. I shall wear it with honor. Super Brain has spoken!

Industrialist's Brain Rivals Super Computers

I hate always being the guy who has to toot his own horn, but think of all the money I'm saving.

In sports, you have a teammate who steps up and says, "Joe's too modest to say it himself, but I'm not -- he just played the best game of his life." Then Joe pays him off in the dressing room and everyone's happy. With the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), there's plenty of guys who'd be willing to say it for me, but I'll spare them; they're busy, plus it's just an unnecessary expense.

So I'll just say it myself. And, really, it's not like I'm claiming for myself anything all that great. I'm just saying my brain rivals that of super computers.

After all, I think I know what super computers know, but I'm pretty sure there's not a super computer that knows what I know. Because I haven't been examined by one, it hasn't had a chance to get my mental coordinates into its system. And in certain respects, even if it did, it'd probably short out and never be the same. It'd be twitching and babbling, spitting out incoherent or obscure phrases like, "Cheese hits my tongue with a furry feel." Let's say a super computer were to say that. Guess what, I said it first, yesterday at lunch. So there's proof that my brain rivals that of super computers!

But how this came up had nothing to do with that. It came up yesterday in my post on praising the Major Industrial Powers (MIP), when I was trying to work out some of the mysteries of karma, or, as I call it, the psychic price. I've been thinking deeply about these issues, trying to unravel things that are very nebulous. You may have followed the arc of my thinking, which happened at about 400 mph, faster, they say, than a super computer. I decided against praising them, and I believe I decided right.

As I explained, tearing them down might help pay some of their psychic price, or atone for some of their karma, with their suffering. But praising them might help puff them up, making them susceptible to greater karma on down the road. But I came to the conclusion that with the MIP's vastness as an organization, the discernible difference in the psychic price owed was likely to be negligible. And, in fact, it might serve to increase our psychic price, because it'd all be a lie.

These are huge issues. It's hard to quantify karma; you have to admit that. And things that are hard to quantify would be tough for a super computer to handle. I can imagine a super computer going, "Hey, I'm only a super computer! Not that guy at the blog!" To which I would reply, "You got that right, Mxyzptlk 5000!" I'm just going to say it; I don't care at this point: I think I am smarter than a super computer. At least I haven't seen a super computer yet that can keep up. Look out, I might just make my own super computer. Then maybe we'd have one that knew its way around the block...

I actually have it in my genes to do so, too. I've never mentioned this on the blog, but it's an absolutely true fact: My dad, the swami, built one of the world's first personal computers. Whether you'd call it super or not, that I can't say. We kids thought it was pretty super. It had blinking lights. It was a device he called "Mr. Know-It-All," and we fed it punch cards. A question was printed on the card, and somehow "Mr. Know-It-All was able to blink the answer (A, B, C, or D) through reading the punch card.

But I believe they've come a long way since my dad's great little device. Now we can Google our answers, no longer needing cards. And a super computer is even better, because it quickly scans through every variable and possible answer, at long last settling on the correct answer after something like .000009 seconds. Very slow, because I can usually give you the answer in a snap.

But I'm not putting down super computers. They're fast because they're built for speed. And this is something interesting: A super computer only knows two things, 0 and 1. Apparently the less you know, the smarter you are! So it's cycling through those two numbers at super speed, shuffling off a few 0s, then throwing in a few 1s to make it look good. The answer comes spitting out, and if you have more 0s than 1s, that's still good. In the super computer world, a lot of 0s still adds up to something!

Whether kids are smarter than a super computer, I don't know. Kids are smarter than a lot of adults on the computer. We've all heard that. I know my teachers didn't know a thing about computers, word processing, Google, or anything. Total ignoramuses. Of course that was before any of this existed, which is something of a good excuse for them, looking back on it.

We in the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) think highly of ourselves and our skills. This comes from the confidence we get in doing it ourselves, digging in and building factories, plants, and entire industrial complexes of our own. We've gone from regular yards to these great facilities in a matter of months. So you can see, whatever it is, if we set our minds to it, we can get it done!

Super computers can do a lot. But they haven't built one yet that can rival us ... or me.

Should We Praise The Major Industrial Powers?

I come to bury the Major Industrial Powers (MIP), not praise them. The evil they do will live after them, and whatever good there is will be interred with their bones. So let it be with these rotten SOBs!

There has been no worse enemy, as far as I'm concerned, than the MIP. They have been against the common man as long as I can remember. They've sold us shoddy goods and their prices have been ridiculous. And as far as their attitudes toward the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM), they have been a fierce opponent, trying every means, hook and crook, to drive us out of business. For me personally, before there was a RIM, they physically harassed me, confining me to my home, and even shot fireballs over my roof (thank God it wasn't thatch.)

The last thing I personally would do, by nature, is praise them! As far as I'm concerned, the quicker we drive these rotten SOBs out of business and refit their factories for the cause of good, the better off we'll all be. Then we'll let the more innocent underlings come over to the RIM cause. But as for the MIP executives and fat cats, they'll be left high and dry, with us even closing to them any pencil pushing jobs we may have had.

But it could be that I need to revise this whole scenario, thanks to an idea I had a couple days ago. I was writing about "the psychic price" -- karma by a different word -- that we can't always be big, psychologically and so forth, but we must occasionally be little, so that personal (and corporate) inflation might be counterbalanced. There are parts of this, of course, that are not merely internal to the person or organization, one being the whole matter of the general populace hoping for your organizational demise. Because man loves tragedy.

The idea I had was that constantly attacking the MIP might be actually helping them, in that as we reduce them it serves to pay their psychic price. The thought was this:

Maybe we ought to be praising the MIP to high heaven instead of tearing them down all the time! Our tearing them down might actually be helping them! We'll have to think about that one!

And think about it, I have! I've been racking my brain, really stretching it out and torturing it, at least according to the definition of torture before the Bush years; going by the Bush definition, I've been giving it a strenuous workout for its own good and it's loving it. Anyway, I've been ridiculously wicked to my brain, according to the old definitions, thinking over this whole issue of what to do about the MIP, whether to praise or tear them down.

So those are the possibilities. How would it go to praise them? What would I be praising? Their workmanship, or lack thereof? The way they've sold us expensive goods, then have never made good on guarantees when it breaks? Or, more personally, the way they shot fireballs over my house, which could've very well been made of thatch had Grandpa not insisted on regular shingles, abiding by city ordinances at the time?

If I praised them, just for the sake of argument, how could I do it sincerely? It'd be a lie! I'd be nauseated. And it would probably be equally the case that I'd be working up for myself a worse psychic price than any benefit I'd derive from saying it. Because I'd know. And everyone who knows me would know. And, frankly, I think a lot of the enthusiasm that the RIM has seen in the last five or six months has come because we know we're in a serious struggle against these rotten SOBs. Some of the intensity might be gone if we suddenly turned nice. Then where would our gains go?

We do have a serious beef against these guys, and it seems to me we have to treat it seriously, despite this interesting theory that is really little more than reverse psychology. To pretend otherwise would be ... inadvisable, foolhardy, shortsighted, ignorant, ridiculous, terrible, and lame.

It might turn out that I have it all wrong, but I think it's a chance I'm willing to take. Because it also seems to me that some aspects of the psychic price, especially over an organization of such immensity and disparate parts as the Major Industrial Powers, are very slow moving and not so easy to influence or sway. Particularly through some kind of reverse psychology that's just trying to trick karma by false words. At best, it'd be like continental drift, meaning we'd see very negligible benefits, if any, even in the long term.

The conclusion has been reached. My brain, rivaling the super computers of most countries, of course including those of the United States, has decided: We shall continue to tear the MIP down! There shall be no praise!

Advice For Industrialists: Cool Your Jets

I'd love to be able to spell every variation of the sizzling sound of cooling your jets, the sounds you hear when you're letting off steam, turning down the heat of a crackling skillet, or opening a suction door slowly, swwwwwitzzzzzz! But you can use your imagination, and imagine that as part of your own jets being cooled.

We need to be cool. Red hot in certain ways, but cool within. Stoked, of course, but with a cool outlook. And we'll have the greatest success, without overheating, without burn marks as a part of our makeup, especially if we slow down and take it easier.

I'm doing it myself. That's why I'm offering it up as advice. I've been ripping along red hot myself. Mass producin', struttin' my stuff, keepin' the lines cranked at a feverish pace, lovin' the interchangeable parts, always buildin' bigger warehouses... Then I'm down, a little, and have a nap ... and in the long run I'm ready to kick it in gear again, my jets steamin', spittin' out the flames... What a life!

Call it age, perhaps... I prefer to think of it as gaining wisdom in my ... old age. Thinking maybe I need to pace myself so I'm not burnt out. That's the key thing. Get more done in the shortest amount of time, or pace yourself so you can produce more reliably over the course of the foreseeable future? I think for me, it's probably best to cool my jets somewhat.

You know we've been red hot as well against the Major Industrial Powers (MIP). That's been an awesome ride, putting the clamps on those SOBs. But I had a great thought yesterday:

"Maybe we ought to be praising the MIP to high heaven instead of tearing them down all the time! Our tearing them down might actually be helping them!"

It doesn't really seem all that great to me this morning, but I have to remember the context, which was that humility is necessary to counter psychic inflation. And if we're always tearing down the MIP, conceivably that could be adding to their humility, therefore making them ultimately stronger. So, if I were to go with that, and it's still only in the theoretical stages, that would mean cooling our jets in that sense as well.

But we'll put that one on hold, and say that today we want to look out for ourselves first. This is our time. We don't need to be pushing ourselves non-stop. It's time to start looking our for number one, taking a breather in all our production. Ultimately our output will be better for it.

I know, I know, some of you will think I've gone soft. I've been out in nature a couple days, and obviously, like nature, you'll say I just want to lay around. And really, I guess that is the way of nature. It's always out there taking it easy. You never see any animals. They're in their nests or dens or dams or holes sleeping. Other than my dog, some fish, and birds, I haven't seen any animals. Oh yeah, that spider a couple days ago, I saw him. The trees are always in one place, too, never getting anything done. The sky just drifts by. Nothing seems to get anything excited. Either that or I just always happen to live in boring places, where nature goes to retire.

Be all that as it may, no, I have not gone soft. Maybe the contemplative life out in nature does tend to slow a guy down. But honestly, I've been scouting nature for new factory sites, so technically I've been working. Yes, maybe I did fall asleep by a big tree, cooling my jets a little. But I've been working hard, friends, and I'm tired. Other than that, I've been strictly busy, trying to formulate my letter to the governor and legislature about ceding some of this public land for additional industry. That's where my priorities are.

The thing is... Like I said, I'm old. And I'm getting the wisdom that comes with years, and I'm just thinking it would be good for us, once in a while, me anyway, to kick our shoes off and take it easy. That's all.

Hey, I think that's how the story of Rip Van Winkle goes, even though I haven't heard it for 30 years. He's out in nature, isn't he? And he's scouting locations for new factories. And formulating letters to the government. And he falls asleep by a big lazy tree. Then when he wakes up, he has a beard down to his knees, his pants are wet, and he's soiled himself, 40 years worth. He's got jock itch all the way up his neck. And enough bug bites to earn him the nickname Rip Van Pizza Face. He's cooling his jets.

Then he wakes up. And it's no longer five miles to the nearest factory, but it just so happens he's in some woods with a 35 foot buffer zone between it and the nearest tire factory someone's built. He goes back to his town and there's factories and smokestacks everywhere. He bathes in one of the runoff ditches and lives happily ever after. There's enough Social Security checks stacked up in his mailbox, he's able to.

Cool ... your ... jets! At least consider it as a possibility...

The Ant-Sized Industrialist

Sometimes it pays to be the little guy, small, wiry, able to adapt more quickly, and able to undercut the other guy up there lumbering around. Swinging at his kneecaps or mandibles. I had that in my post, "Industrial David Slays Industrial Goliath." And something like it in yesterday's imaginary scenes, "Hail The Conquering Industrialist."

So it's a little thing, but it's popped up a few times, physically portraying what is also a psychological theme, that it's not always good to be big, sometimes you have to be little; there needs to be a balance. You get a big head, become nothing but head, and someone who's better balanced comes along and cuts you to pieces. In the psychological realm, you blow up so big, you pop. The lesson: Don't quit while you're a head.

You've noticed this with some of the bigger companies. They'll have their major product, then they'll also have lots of cutesy littler products. It's not just cola; it's also grape, orange, etc. It's not just ordinary cards; it's also the littler department, and even littler subdivisions. You might say that's just creative expansion, not having all your eggs in one basket, appealing to other markets. True. Or it could be they know you've got to have a mix of big and little. If you're too big, your customers want you to fall. If you have a bunch of smaller entities, it takes the pressure off the big guy. A sore thumb still has the rest of the hand.

That's also one of the reasons you have to be humble in religion. "Such a worm as I" and "a wretch like me." One, your standing is before the divine, who is a jealous god. Two, if you're not humble, you're not going to see the ongoing expansion. And you do want to see something. But any abiding in the expansion without quick and frequent trips back to humility guarantees a hard fall. See Milton, or any televangelist story that makes the news. You can get big, but you'll blow up. Even the divine got too big for its britches, since there was nothing around, and that's why we had creation. The flood story is about getting little again, but without the lesson actually being learned.

You can see how this affects the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) in its struggle against the Major Industrial Powers (MIP). Which one has the more naturally littler elements? Clearly the RIM, as the power (so far) is dispersed among many companies, backyard factories. The MIP have to really work at this, but of course they know it, which is one of the reasons it's so hard to bring the SOBs down. Which leads me to an idea: Maybe we ought to be praising the MIP to high heaven instead of tearing them down all the time! Our tearing them down might actually be helping them! We'll have to think about that one!

In my imaginary scenario yesterday, I was able to stride across the world, receiving the acclaim that did the biblical Herod in and consumed him with worms. How was I able to do that? By becoming extremely small and working willingly with that. If I may polish my knuckle and brag on myself for a second -- but just once! -- that's how I live. Down among the dust bunnies, the used cotton swabs that missed the waste can, and spider webs in the corner. I might spend the morning cold and naked, curled up in the drain on the basement floor. And hope no one sees me, so I can get the maximum value out of it.

Kids do it all the time. If you start out little, it's easy to be little. They're playing with their little soldiers, imagining themselves killing one another. It's very cute, but look what psychic good it does them! Not realizing any of this, they center their thoughts and imaginations in the very large and the very small, and their little guy gets killed once in a while. Then they count to three and he's alive again. So they do all right. But we adults ... for us everything starts out actual size ... so we suffer.

My real concern, of course, is how all this pertains to industrialism. And I sketched out some of the meaning for industrialism above. We want to become big, really big, big enough to knock off the MIP once and for all. But one of the ways we'll do this is to remain very very small, so small we're an insidious presence in the world, not just a lumbering giant. Remember that phrase, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. And I'm thinking of the Cyclops, that old story. He's got one big eye, meaning it would've been better if he would've had two smaller ones.

It's great to be big. It's also great to be small, to balance things out. Because this phenomenon of the psychic price is real. You're going to pay it in full, bit by bit or all at once. If you're paying it down as you go along -- and it's better if you're not 100% conscious of it -- there will be equilibrium. If you defer the payments forever, guess what, it'll be so huge it'll wipe you out.

So, I may be a colossus striding from one victory to another. But I'm also ant-sized, tangling with dust bunnies and making a tent out of tissue paper and popsicle sticks. How low can you go?

-------------------------------

Believe it or not, I took the picture of the spider yesterday. Isn't he cool? The little guy taking a whack at it, meant to represent me, even though it's not me, was pasted in. Needs a shadow.

I was at a nearby park -- trying to clear my head, and scout locations for new factories, if I can convince the legislature to turn over public lands to industry -- and I happened to see this spider crawling up a web. It got to the top and just sat there, so I got my camera and took several pictures of it.

I don't see too many examples of this guy on the internet, but the ones I see lead me to believe it must be a marble orbed spider. The yellow skateboarding helmet appears to be its most distinctive feature.

Anyway, that's a slice of life, the life of nature as it exists in the wild. Which we're currently stuck with.

Hail The Conquering Industrialist!

Today's post is a highly personal one, as I buck up my self-image after a day of terrible doubt. Remember yesterday, I envisioned my own passing and that of my blog, as seemed all but certain at some point in the next five billion years.

Of course it seems absurd even to me that something this piddling would set me back. But in fact it did. I think there's something about extremely large numbers, billions of years, that messes up my thinking. You know?

Our thinking -- and I think this is true of other people too -- can be spooked. Because we're so used to thinking in terms of today and tomorrow and Christmas and our next birthday. To suddenly see yourself dead, the entire world destroyed, and your blog ended is different.

So yesterday, through the day, I had a hard time putting it out of my mind, but I did my best. As much as I could, I focused on my current reputation, the boldness I live by, the success I've had, and my life's overall mojo. This became a matter of exaltation, lifting myself in self esteem. As a life coach for others, naturally the saying, "Physician, heal thyself," applies to me.

For this purpose, then, in the exaltation process, I envisioned myself in the greatest terms. I became the embodiment of the conquering industrialist, like the dreaded monarchs of old.

You also can imagine it: There's the parade of the conqueror, leading in his foreign captives, along with the beasts of the foreign countries, and their women. Picture it with me, but remember I said it was highly personal. I have to work on my own personal issues, even if some think it's tasteless to do so in public.

Here comes the conquering industrialist, conquering what exactly? The Major Industrial Powers (MIP), doing his best to take them captive. In cage number one, a big gold cage on wheels, we have MIP executives who have been captured. They're nude, displaying their very small parts, and slumped against the bars. In cage number two, a big silver cage, we have MIP officials, nude, displaying slightly larger parts, angry at the executives for advising them to cut corners, making them susceptible to Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) forces. In cage number three, a big bronze cage, we have MIP underlings, foremen and leadmen, also nude, displaying larger parts yet, angry at the officials and executives for giving them such shoddy leadership that their products turned out inferior and overpriced. And in the last cage, the fourth, a big corrugated cardboard (paper) cage, we have MIP peons, workers, truck drivers, and lunch ladies, all nude, displaying the largest parts, except for the lunch ladies, angry at the underlings, foremen and leadmen, and the officials and executives for implicating them in this massive fraud called the MIP.

In this scenario, I am the conquering industrialist, along with other RIM leaders, distributing whips and cattle prods with which to threaten the MIP captives. But at the last second, in my mercy, I command them to set their weapons down, and release the MIP failures, who take multiple paths out of town. Of course the peon class we would welcome more gladly into the RIM ranks; that goes without saying. And up the line it would go like that, with the MIP executives receiving the most scorn, being passed over for any pencil pushing jobs there might've been. As said, they take various paths out of town.

OK, now put this industrial parade out of your mind. And picture me, consolidating in my own person everything, the best the RIM has to offer. I become larger than life, a colossus, striding over the world, going from victory to victory. I take my place, the red giant sun behind me, even it being dimmed in the effulgence of my glory. I occupy such a position of prominence and pride, like the biblical Herod who became filled with worms and died, the people can't even look upon me for the brightness. "This is not a man," they shout, "but a god." I advise my tribunes, much shorter than I, to plead with the people, that such a conquering industrialist considers the word "god" beneath him. They must do better!

Three graybeards step forward, who have studied theology and depth psychology, and they go into a big clawing death match, scratching and biting. One graybeard falls. The other two bring out cudgels, mallets, and spears, and fight. The larger man has the smaller man down. But the smaller man thrusts a scimitar into the larger man's gut, all quite a surprise to him, I must say. The winner's graybeard red with the others' blood, he proclaims me the master of life itself, knowing how many factories depend on my beneficence.

As to the conquered women I mentioned, they minister to me in private.

Right here, after their ministering, I become fully aware of the phenomenon of 'The Psychic Price,' and I become so small the people can't see me. The women don't know what happened to me. I am suddenly dressed in rags and, unlike Herod, am able even to elude the much larger worms that are on the way to consume me. Notice how great I am! Because this is the stumbling block that gets everyone else! But I am a very small man, dressed in rags, little more than a worm myself!

I pick up a used toothpick, its size in relation to me the size of a huge sword. This now is the conquering industrialist's sacred sword. I turn a corner, unseen by anyone, and run right into a dust bunny. I use the sword, this toothpick, to cut my way through the dust bunny thicket. I'm becoming smaller all the time. I'm so humbled. I'm being blown about in the wind and happen to land on top of a fleeing beggar's sandal. He's running because the whole crowd is running, not knowing what happened to the colossus who had been before them. Even the women wish I'd come back.

But the beggar is looking out for number one. He runs to a place beneath a bridge, where he stays. I'm there, now hiding behind a grain of sand. I hear him thanking his lucky stars that he wasn't trampled. He falls asleep, and I hear him blubbering in his sleep, that God should bless their mighty victor, meaning me. "Keep him safe, snuffle, snore," he says. "Bring him prosperity, snuffle, snore," the beggar prays.

As I hear him pray, I'm increasing in size. Finally, I'm normal sized. And because I have powers, I start a campfire and make the man a decent meal of two eggs, four pieces of bacon, hashbrowns, and pancakes with strawberries, sauce, and whipped cream, which you might recognize as IHOP's current special, the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity, Bacon and Eggs Combo, embarrassing to say but delicious to eat. (I don't actually say it. I just get the waitresses' attention, point at the menu and grunt.)

After a while, the beggar sniffs the air like a horny camel, being very much like a thankful Ali Baba at this point, knowing Allah has sent him the food of the gods, something apparently from IHOP. He looks over and sees me keeping the eggs warm in the fire. I have on a very coarse fiber sack dress, or maybe I should call it a prophet's robe. And a hood. My head is pulled in so he can't see my face. The hood's hole keeps everything very dark within. But when I turn my gaze on him, he's able to see two gleaming lights, my eyes.

I suddenly remember he saved me, turn off my eyes and the darkness within, revealing myself very much a normal man, a humble man. He sputters, "You, you, are you?--" "Yes," I smile, a smile playing across my lips, "I am me. Good to know you, kind beggar."

(Let this be a lesson to you. Sometime in the future you too might see me. Oftentimes, I'm right out in public. But I will be that anonymous person you may not recognize. I could be in the next booth from you in a restaurant. I might be that guy in the library earnestly scanning every magazine they have. When you look over, maybe I'll have my eyes turned on, or maybe they'll be turned off. You never know. In fact, I've done many things in life quite anonymously. The other day I put money in a parking meter; no one around appeared to recognize me; I did it like any other person. But maybe you'll be one of the first, after this beggar, of course, to know it's me. Wouldn't it be great for you to recognize me?)

I tell the beggar to come to my factory. I give him a whitewall tire for his trouble. I take off the prophet's robe and put on my normal clothes. People come by to see me, telling me of incredible dreams they've been having about me and the end of the world. I soothe their frazzled nerves, telling them, "No, as long as I'm in the world, the Earth will be spared."

That is what the conquering industrialist speaks. That is what the conquering industrialist declares is done.