The Last Book No One Wanted

This is an ugly duckling story, of sorts, that I just thought of, however not involving true ugliness or even ducks. What ugliness even is, I wouldn't be able to answer. I know it when I see it, even though I realize, except for the sight of Republican politicians, there is really little objectively ugly.

But skipping ahead, it's a story about books. And how, as hard to believe as it is, every book in the library was checked out, with one lone exception, one lone book. Isn't that weird? Could it even happen? I find it hard to believe. And yet that's the story I'm telling.

It's weird to me based on vast experience. A book sale, let's say, is analogous to a library. I've been to many book sales, and the thought that every single book but one would be bought is ridiculous. They always have a ton of books remaining. At the very least, these titles remain: Teddy Bare, None Dare Call It Treason, Elbert Hubbard's Scrapbook, Jaws, and The South Beach Diet. When I think of books that remain, the little story of Vanna White's autobiography always comes to me. When they have as many left over as hers they have no choice but to grind them up and mercilessly recycle them.

Be that as it may, the story goes like this, and this could be based on a dream, I don't know:

The library looks completely normal. But I don't go there for a month. Then I finally return and find that only the last few books remain. Somehow, by some inscrutable process -- a town of voracious readers, let's say -- virtually everything's been checked out. The shelves are unburdened. It's like a drought. The librarians are sitting there, alternately happy and sad. Happy that people are reading, sad that virtually everything's going to come back at the same time.

When I arrive, I see the slim pickins and make like a bee to the flower to look at the remaining titles. There's a miscellaneous volume of a Japanese graphic novel, like Vol. 23, a couple of old mysteries, an oversize book on Mexican wrestlers (all wearing wild masks), Ozzy Osbourne's autobio, and Ross Douthat's Bad Religion. Then I'm off and come back in, and the only book remaining is Bad Religion. Even Vol. 23 is gone, which is weird, because, really, how many people have read the first 22 volumes?

It even makes the paper, that there's this one last book no one wants. And so it's like that. It's a complete drought, as I said before. The library is waxing and waning. It's like the walls are breathing, something like a sigh of relief while also emitting a sound of desperation, or something more like despair.

Now, no one wants to check out the last remaining book. Which is not a dig at Ross Douthat. I read about half of it, and even though I couldn't finish it, that doesn't mean there aren't plenty of people with a stronger constitution. I'm sensitive, I'll admit it. When other kids would be banging live carp against a concrete slab, even back then I was sympathetic to life, that it not suffer.

But this story has a happy ending. A kindly minister in the town, on the edge of retirement, with little to live for but Glory itself, and that coming soon, stops in and checks out the last embarrassed book. He did it with great mercy, for which he should be commended. The bookshelves were happy, especially the last bookshelf there, which was starting to get a complex, even though it was more an issue with the book than the shelf.

I saw it all happen, just as written. I went in and looked around. Not one book remained!

The Police Press Conference: "No Comment"

The local TV news urgently cut to the police press conference, about to announce the end of the latest gun-slinging maniac's siege. We see the various detectives, the captain, the sergeant, the FBI chief, and a few underlings bringing in a tray of iced tea.

It's live, and somehow they have all the faith in the world that they're going to get right to the meat of the matter, what happened, how they were able to storm the maniac's compound and finally free his hostage, a five-year-old boy in mortal danger. We've literally been praying that the boy would come out safe and that the maniac would be immediately killed.

Let's get to the press conference, no more delay!

"I'm Police Captain Butch McCall, that's M-little C-big C-a-l-l. This is the FBI chief, [his name spelled]." And so on and so on, right down to the guys with the trays being the comedic Wiere Brothers (W-i-e-r-e), last seen in Elvis' movie Double Trouble, now slopping iced tea everywhere.

"We'd like to thank you for coming out today," he says to the press.

Behind the scenes at the local news, we picture the producer saying, "Cut away! Sum it up, we'll be back when they get past the introductions!"

Then a few minutes later we're back at the press conference. Captain Butch is recognizing the important work of the state police in resolving this matter. "Thank you, gentlemen, for a job well done." This is the state police's cue to step in and thank the local captain and his force, for maintaining their calm in a very tense situation. The captain nods to the FBI chief, who thanks both the state police and the local police for coordinating a great effort in resolving the crisis. Finally, the sheriff moves to the microphone to thank anyone they might've missed. Other than that they will have no comment.

The local news cuts away with the summation, "So there you have it. The police are thanking the police for doing police work."

Hunting Groundhog -- A Lotta Fun With Men

I don't want anyone to think I wasted my Groundhog Day holiday. I certainly didn't...

The night before, somehow I fell in with an interesting crowd, all men. I guess I had a little too much to drink. I woke up about 6 o'clock in the morning on Groundhog Day. I was in a strange place, which turned out to be a hunting lodge in parts unknown. I looked around the room and saw a bunch of guys sleeping, most of them in red flannel shirts and in various stages of undress. It was like either a nightmare or a dream come true, depending on how you swing.

Then it started coming back to me. I'd been at one of the local watering holes, playing darts and touching a few too many 25 cent draws. I hit a few lucky bulls-eyes and next thing I knew I was drafted by an all-men's darts team. Sitting later in a booth, one of them got breathy on me, real up close, about some "action" they were going out for. He looked around the room and asked me if I wanted in. I was reluctant, but then with a few more drinks, I was like, "Sure!" I was up for anything. All I remember next is a bunch of guys -- all men -- headed for the country, and I fell asleep.

OK, to make a long story short, as the old saying goes, it turned out the "action" was an all-male groundhog hunt. The best kind, I'd say. I woke up, found the bathroom and did my business -- No. 1 -- and a couple more guys came in. I zipped up quick, but one of them caught my eye. I guess I blushed. Whatever it was, he patted me on the bottom and proceeded to relieve himself, boldly, which he was still doing as I went out the door.

Over breakfast, the rest of them, most of whom I barely knew from the night before, were celebrating my dart playing, saying I put them over the top against the other team. They were all like, "You definitely know where the bulls-eye is!" and "You're no stranger to putting it where it goes!" and the like. I put my hands up, a little abashed, as if to say, "I got lucky..." I guess I was lucky, because here I was, feted by a cabin full of men!

One guy -- these guys were nothing if not bold -- came out of the shower with a towel around his waist and nothing else on. Everyone laughed, it was funny. I expected him to go back in a make himself decent, but instead he proceeded to the stove and started cooking breakfast. I watched as he separated each strip of bacon from three pounds and carefully laid them in hot skillets. He licked his fingers and leered over at us, still being funny. As the strips sizzled, he tossed his head back with a satisfied look.

The morning, then, was topped off by the actual groundhog hunt. Again, this was nothing but men, men with big long guns, shooting all over the place, at whatever moved. I saw a four-legged deer die. But the highlight had to be the group gathering around groundhog holes, sticking our guns down the holes, and blowing the crap out of them.

I skinned a groundhog and made a Davy Crockett hat. I was so excited, the tail hanging down my neck twitched and flipped up whenever one of the guys came up behind me. There's something about the nerves in groundhog tails. It's like a corpse's fingernails growing, their tails twitch even when they're dead!

Since When Don't Plumbers Do Maid Service?

I had to have a plumber over. He was actually here twice. The first time he did some preliminary work, then discovered he didn't have the parts I needed, meaning he needed to return.

The problem's been going on for a while. The toilet's been very loose, almost like a dance partner. I finally decided it needed professional help, otherwise who knows what would become of it. Were it to lose its moorings completely, I'd be the one to suffer.

The house didn't always have a toilet. We used to have an outhouse, which Grandpa would periodically relocate on the property. Speaking of dance partners, the outhouse was all over the half acre, of course as close to the house as possible without being a nuisance. Then in the '60s, he put in the toilet, which, since there wasn't anyplace better to put it, ended up freestanding in his and Grandma's bedroom. Even after all these years, one detail complicated matters: The cellar doesn't extend under their old bedroom, so whoever worked on it had very little room to work. My current plumber bemoaned this, too.

Anyway, after two days he got the right part -- some kind of flange -- and after a while managed to get the thing secured to the floor, draining right, etc. Oh, here's something: He told me I had sewer gas building up below the house. Meaning, good thing I don't smoke. One match in the toilet would've blown the place up!

Was I happy with the plumbing job? Yes and no. See, I was gone while he was working. I had errands to run, and I was figuring that once he got done with the toilet he would just continue on and clean up the rest of the house. Where'd I get that idea? I'm just a natural optimist; that's the only explanation I can give; in fact, I thought it was part of the service; at least that was my belief. Maybe if I'd been there he would've felt more compelled. I'll never know till next time.

At the very least -- this is my opinion -- he could've cleaned up the floor around the toilet. There was dirt, etc., not from the job, but just the normal buildup of dirt that gets under toilets over time. Dust and so forth, it's awful. I hate cleaning under the toilet. Then, I had taken the towels off the back of the toilet. He could've put them back. And speaking of towels, shouldn't it be part of the service to change the towels on my rack? And my sink needs a good cleaning. And the mirror's always got spots on it. That seems like good work for a plumber.

From there -- and mostly I'm just saying it would've been nice -- the soap scum in my shower is annoying. You get a little bit of soap scum, then it attracts dust from the air and becomes a total mess. It would've been nice for him to get in there and scrub that off. There must have been something in his bag -- a tool, a chemical -- that would've made it very easy to accomplish. But no...

I'm not sure what a plumber does when he's done with the toilet job. Maybe he just sits and watches TV. I checked the hassock and didn't see any fresh footprints. And no extra dirt on the chair. Obviously it hadn't been touched. I looked in the cupboard and fridge to see if he'd eaten anything, but apparently not. Everything looked untouched, except for my own touch marks.

I'm thinking he simply did nothing. Basically fixed the toilet and that was it. I told him I needed to go out for errands, so he must have taken that as license just to get the job done and leave. To which, what can I say? Don't charge me as much? Say you're sorry and all is forgiven? Getting a little service around here, is that too much to ask? Didn't he learn service in apprentice school?

I'll have to forgive him, I guess. Still, it really galls me. Just a look around and he'd have to see, the carpet needs vacuuming. And there's dishes in the sink that aren't going to wash themselves. And if he can't be bothered to do all that, at the very least, how about making my bed? Pull the covers up, it takes 20 seconds tops. 30 seconds to get them straight.

Genius -- Inspiration Or Perspiration

 

There's an old question that's always bugging me, What is a genius? I'm sure Webster has a definition, but I'm too lazy to look it up. Instead, let me kick the question around the room a while and see what happens.

I'm in luck, because an old adage is coming to me, that, "Genius is half inspiration and half perspiration." Which might be half true, but which half? So that gets us part of the way. Inspiration means you're getting your smarts from mysteriously sourced flashes, flash cards from on high. Perspiration means you're working, working, working, poring over books, thinking over the evidence, and gaining knowledge the old fashioned way. Grit, fortitude, thinking over profound truths, while your dad tells you to get a job.

Is it conclusive, then, that genius comes from inspiration and perspiration, or is it one or the other? Let's just say it's so. It'll save us time.

When I think of genius, I think of Ray Charles, and how he had a bunch of album titles: "Genius," "Genius Strikes Again," "Genius of the World," and "Genius to the Nth Degree." Whether Ray ever knew about these albums, I don't know. I'd frankly be embarrassed were I him. I wonder, Was he a genius? Or did he just have one of the peculiar advantages that goes with blindness, everyone leaving him alone, with time to get really good at music? That's the only area, as far as I know, that he was a genius, so that'd be perspiration with an inspiration chaser.

Beyond Ray Charles, there's Beethoven, another musical genius, who became deaf, and Albert Einstein, who was really good at science. Could I have been a genius at science? Maybe, but I didn't have inspiration or perspiration. I didn't care for it. And even though I care for it now, it's tough to catch up. You either generalize or specialize in science, which is beside the point when you're as far behind as me.

Since we're talking about me, what kind of genius would I rather be? Inspired or perspired? If you're inspired only, there's not much there to be proud of. But I don't really think you're going to be completely inspired. What's the basis of it? You're just born with genius? But say your brain is totally, like, good. It wouldn't take that much perspiring. Like cars. You could be a '70s clunker or a new Jaguar.

But, given the choice, I think I'd rather be a perspired genius. Then I would know I personally brought it on, more or less. Yes, I would've started out with the greatest equipment -- a fully functional brain -- then added to it, reaching terrific conclusions, like the Scarecrow.

Conclusion: So I don't have to study the issue endlessly and never reach any definitive conclusions, I think it's best to just leave the old adage alone -- giving a nod to the 50-50 inspiration/perspiration claim. I will simply continue appreciating and feeling deep jealousy over the works of geniuses. While still being smart enough to make comparative halfwits envy me. You know who you are.

Tracking In The Earth

Here's a strange bit of paranoia I have -- although I prefer to think of it simply as environmental awareness -- the daily fear of losing my yard, and ultimately the earth, by tracking it in or throwing it away.

It goes like this: There are dirt sections in my yard, thanks to the drought. How I long for the old days, when we had ground cover! But then climate change happened, the drought took hold, and now my precious grass (and even weeds are precious when it comes to ground cover) is gone, leaving behind exposed dirt.

First, then, quite apart from me there could be wind erosion. I hate driving by a field and seeing the sky full of dirt. Because, since wind generally comes from the west, once your field blows east, you really have to be lucky to get an east wind to blow it back home. Also, there's water erosion. But with my yard, it can only go from one place to another.

I hate erosion with a purple passion, even though I honor the Grand Canyon. The erosion that happens these days doesn't have a positive benefit. This is true of my yard, which of course I'm most concerned with.

Now, about the tracking in. If it rains, then I go out in my boots, and I notice I'm tracking in bits of the yard that are now gone. Or it gets on my dog's feet and has to be wiped off on a paper towel. A thousand years of that and my yard will be a hole 40 feet deep! The other notable way I'm losing bits of yard is by picking up her poop. Without grassy ground cover, if you go to pick up poop, you have a great chance of picking up a teaspoon (at least) of dirt. Again, a thousand years goes by and the place is a gravel pit.

It seems almost trivial, but I'm taking it seriously. I get the poop at the edge of a sack, then try to knock out any dirt, trying to get as much as I can back on the yard. I said it seems trivial, because if you compared it with heavy machinery, trucks and scoops, literally digging gravel pits or excavating for sod, this is nothing. But those guys are in the business of moving earth and I'm not. I'm just a guy with a yard.

I recognize, naturally, that if I displace dirt on my boot, it's not truly lost from the earth. It might be in the garbage, it might become dust and blow down the road. Whatever. But my concern remains, it's not in my yard, and it's not doing me any good. It might get in someone's eye and cause a wreck.

Revisiting The Wood Manhood Relics

FOUR DIFFERENT HIPSTAMATIC PICTURES FOR GREATER VALIDITY OF THE EVIDENCE

Summary of The Wood Manhood Affair: In India, one of Master's chelas (students) was disobedient to the work of seeking oneness with the Divine. Instead, he, Brother Unsettled, abused his member on chain-link fences, wood surfaces, and trees. The result was his turning to wood. His now-wooden manhood was preserved, to serve as a spiritual lesson and warning to others. I have custody of the relics. The yoni-shaped wood appears to have been Unsettled's only true comfort.

Being the custodian of sacred relics is a big responsibility. First, there is the physical tending to them. Second, there are inquiries I get from time to time as to their whereabouts and condition, as well as requests to see them and/or touch them. Most of these requests are denied; frankly, I think that's a sick request. But it's understandable that chelas would want to know how they are. In short, they're just fine.

It's been some time now since my post in July 2011, which made me think the whole thing needed to be revisited. At least insofar as how the relics are doing. And lest anyone thinks they can simply come on my property and take the relics, no, it won't be that simple. They are kept in a safe deposit box at the bank.

I know you'll find this interesting. First, about the photos, that's four Hipstamatic photos of the wooden manhood of Brother Unsettled, plus the yoni, plus an extraneous piece of wood, the little chip. If you examine the evidence carefully, you will see one photo is slightly different from the rest. Very interesting!

Anyway, to examine the relics, I went ... I got myself together and went ... to the bank and to the safe deposit box. If you've ever done this, you know you have to be prepared for the real life equivalent of a video game, with many challenging passages along the way.

Of course I had my ID and the passwords memorized. Then arriving at the bank, I had to machete my way through a gauntlet of part-time bank employees, arranged to test my resolve for the task. Next, there were 10 secretaries, each with one letter or alphanumeric character of the first password. Finally, I got to Sue, the little lady next to the vault. I offered Sue my identification once again and a special password that only Sue and I know.

At the threshold of the vault, I took a deep breath and sought heaven for strength to withstand the ordeal. Of course I removed the sacred golden sword from the wall before passing through gate after gate. I was surprised (but not shocked) when two guardian lions sprang out. I slew them, then in quick progression a dozen leopards, a half dozen king cobras, and a school of Great White sharks. It was like I was back in the Amazon when vampire bats swooped down and immediately attacked my pith helmet.

Going further, I cut myself through the thickest vines I've ever seen, huge thick SOBs. I didn't even know vines came that thick. They were either vines or a giant's legs, now I'm not sure which. Do vines bleed and bellow out "Oww"? Then it was a giant, or maybe a whole family. All the vines out of the way, I swam up the falls, 100 feet if it was an inch. Being a good vertical swimmer, this wasn't as hard as it sounds.

Making it to land, I rounded a corner and found another guard. But this guy was a dried up skeleton, there at the base of the wall. Obviously paid by the hour, he had fallen asleep and died. I saw the final key in amongst his dust and bones! I entered the box room and unlocked the box. This set off the final safeguard, three or four mousetraps, which hurt like hell!

All done, I pulled out the metal container. When I opened it, there they were, the relics laid out on the softest red velvet. It was at this point that I took the pictures seen above. It about took my breath away, to see Brother Unsettled's wooden remains, the most vital parts of himself that had given him such fits. It was cautionary to me: Do not rebel, do not let it go to waste. I sat right there, right that very minute, and entered into the greatest devotional ecstasy.

All in all, I was amazed at how well preserved the relics were, even in this normal stuffy bank.

Wrong Sex Corrigan

OK, folks, it's official! I'm now 60 years old, having been born some time in the first three months of the year. And as people go, I'm definitely one who's getting "more bang for his buck" for being 60, since I've had a million thoughts, happy, sad, and in between, about this milestone. It sounds very aged, and yet I don't feel completely different; I just can't quit thinking about it. It's given me a lot of opportunities to reflect back on my life.

One of the facts of my life that I can't help thinking of, for some reason, is that I was proclaimed a girl when I was born! And I'm a guy! That sounds weird, and I know it is, but it was actually fairly common here in my town in the early 1950s. And my parents probably should have questioned the situation, being familiar with the problem, but in the excitement of the birth of their "little girl" they forgot. One thing to note: This was back when babies were immediately whisked out of the room away from the mother, to be tended by professionals. It wasn't like now, where the mother and father's care is seen as primary. So, being absent from them, they just had to take their word for what I was.

I said it was common for babies to be misidentified as to their gender back then, but it was only in our town, because the town's main obstetrician had problems seeing. In fact, he made so many mistakes, he was nicknamed "Dr. Wrong Sex Corrigan," a play on the famed aviator who ended up somewhere he wasn't going. Our "Dr. Corrigan," not his real name, had problems in making the right call, presumably when a baby was moving too much. I'm guessing here, but I'm thinking he just didn't want to second-guess himself, or seem less than professional, so the way he called it was the way it was. It took my parents a lot of money, time, and trouble to get the official birth certificate finally changed! Not to mention the embarrassing exams I was subjected to...

So here's the way it went down. I was born, I must have moved too much when "Corrigan" was making the identification, and he declared to my mother, "Madam, you have just given live birth to a female baby, a real doll, who will someday truly make the boys' heads turn!" She was like, "Thank you, doctor, for a successful delivery and the exceedingly good news! A girl in my own image!" Then I was whisked out of the room, not to be seen by her again till sometime early the next morning, when they allowed her to watch the nurse feed me.

In the years since, of course, I've heard many tales of Dr. Wrong Sex Corrigan, that in delivering girls he was proclaiming, "You have given birth to a fine, strong, bouncing man child," and the like. Sometimes he was right, but thanks to movement, he was more often wrong. This is one of the dangers of having poor eyesight, being cross-eyed or whatever, and trying to be an obstetrician. You give people big problems, and the child him- or herself can develop all kinds of complexes. To this day I like the color pink and hate jockstraps.

After a while, "Dr. Corrigan" either died or retired. Which was good, because people didn't like him, thanks to this whole gender business. I remember my grandpa -- I remember this clearly -- saying if he ever saw the SOB in the crosswalk he would run over him. Grandpa used words like "son of a bitch" all the time, and probably would've run over him, indeed, had he ever seen him in the crosswalk. But "Corrigan" was spared this fate by the fact that you never see a doctor in public, apart from the office. This is true: The only doctor I've ever seen in public was a doctor people liked.

A Shoutout From The President

Today was the inauguration of President Barack Obama for his second term. It was a wonderful display of patriotism, optimism, and hope. And I'm sure I join with freedom-loving men everywhere when I say, It was sure a lot better seeing this man of integrity taking office than the opposite nightmare of seeing Mitt Romney up there. Good God, alternate history can be so terrifying!

I felt my heart fill up with emotion as I saw the inspiring pomp of our dear country joining in the ceremony honoring our great president's second term. I can only hope that his vision for America is able to carry the day, over the intransigence of a Republican party so far off the beam as to be considered completely derelict. The downer of the event, if there had to be one, had to be the sight of John Boehner, Eric Cantor, and Paul Ryan, followed up by the close second of Bob Schieffer's pathetic commentary, the CBS veteran quite unabashedly shitting in the punchbowl of joy.

Everything else, from the wonderful singers to the great, pensive poet, to the president himself, in a stirring oration, was great. It renewed my faith, not only in America itself, our past and our future, but in humanity itself. It's just such a shame, in the light of renewal, that we still had to see a parade of Republicans pretending to make nice. They are truly a scurrilous bunch, even though Lamar Alexander managed somehow to hold his poison tongue. I held my breath and wished real hard, getting my wish.

Kelly Clarkson was very cute. I had to think, What a long journey she's had since her introduction at the auditions of American Idol to this magical moment! That was back when I watched AI, which I did up until they allowed Kris Allen to win over the much greater Adam Lambert. When I said I would quit watching the show in protest, I meant exactly what I said!

But the heart of the inauguration had to be the president's speech. In my opinion, it was a well-honed address, and despite Bob Schieffer passing gas to the contrary, it was a home run in every sense of the word. He mentioned the things that matter most to me: Equal rights for all and opportunity. But shame on the Republicans for failing to applaud. (I'm assuming they failed to applaud, since they weren't on camera and we couldn't see them.)

Finally, the greatest moment for me personally had to be President Obama's shoutout to me, a financial contributor to the campaign: "I've looked to the mountaintop. And I want to send a shoutout to D.B. Kundalini, the great blogger at my favorite blog, grandmaslump.com. It was because of his contributions, every penny he earned from Google ads as well as all he could spare from his disability pay, he having a game toe, that I am able to stand here today."

When I heard that, I happened to be eating an ice cream cone. And I snorted some of it right up my nose in shock. Pretty soon the phone rang and it was Wolf Blitzer, asking me how it felt to get that honor. I said, "It was delicious." Wolf said, "Delicious?" Then I explained about the ice cream, and that I had it on DVR, and would watch it again and again, every time I had ice cream.

I've Got Very Cold Feet

I've got very cold feet. It's getting weird. I might need to go to the doctor. I think I'm going to call for an appointment tomorrow. I'm starting to get worried.

I've had cold feet for over a month, approximately. I started noticing it when I was sitting in the car, my feet on the floor. They were just cold. Then I put my coat down on the floor and it didn't do that much good warming them up. It didn't really strike me as a potentially bad situation.

But now, as time drags on, and as the coldness seems like it's getting worse, I'm going to have to do something. I looked up "very cold feet" on Google and got the usual long list of possibilities, and I haven't looked through all of them, only the first few. Because I figured, How am I going to know which one it is?

This hasn't happened to me before, so I obviously know it's something out of the ordinary. It doesn't just happen to be super cold anywhere I put my feet.

They actually feel colder when I have my shoes on. And they're colder if I set them down. If I lean them on their side, let's say, for a while they're better. But then the sides get painful, setting like that. In bed, where there's no setting them anywhere, and under the covers at night, they're basically OK. I can still feel a slight to moderate sensation of some sort -- I hesitate to say numbness, because it isn't quite that -- especially in the front half of the feet, back from the toes.

I do happen to have cold floors where I live. But in previous years I never had this problem. So I can't blame it on the floors. This is something inside me, whether it's circulation or whatever. I would guess it has to have to do with circulation, but what could be wrong with it, that's what I don't know.

Someone told me they had foot warmers at Walmart. But when we went there we couldn't find them. I need a store like "Acme Foot Warmers" to suddenly appear. Even then, I'd probably be afraid. Because what if I couldn't tell what the heat truly was. I might fry my feet to cinders, while sitting there blissfully.

Our Damned Pets

Have you ever noticed how it's a lot of fun to have pets ... for a few days? Then, next thing you know, they're wetting and soiling everywhere and getting sick? And they don't seem to have any sense, and they have trouble fitting into your routine? It's just not worth it!

If you live in the country, of course, you can easily dispatch them. I was visiting my uncle and aunt out in the country one time. They weren't home, but they gave me strict instructions to protect their bantam chickens at all cost. So you can well imagine how horrified I was when I looked out the back window and saw a bunch of chicken feet and beaks laying in the yard, no bodies! I looked again and there were two coyotes over by the fence. This is where it got hairy.

I got my uncle's gun over by the door, which fortunately he always kept loaded, and crept out the front door and sneaked around the house. Coyotes must have a sixth sense, because they heard me coming. (Crows are also notorious for knowing when you want to kill them.) They took off running before I got off a shot. Next thing, we were running south on the gravel road, me shooting like crazy, they dodging my bullets with fine aplomb.

The next thing that happened, I wasn't expecting at all. The coyotes veered off left into some guy's yard and headed for the back. I kept going, but since I was in someone's yard, I wasn't firing. Suddenly, I heard gunshots as I got toward the back of the house, and figured the guy was shooting the coyotes. But he wasn't, he was killing cats. Somehow he had accrued a back yard full of pesky cats! Somehow through unrestricted breeding they had grown into a full blown infestation.

That's the country. Living in town, your options are limited. Birds can fly away, fish and gators can go down the toilet, and I hesitate to say what can happen to hamsters, gerbils, mice, and other creeping things, what with the politically correct, bleeding heart, so-called morality police when it comes to animal rights. And even I agree, burying alive is inhumane. But to the morality police, I have a question, would you feel the same way if a crazed lion ate your newborn baby? Or a wild boar rooted around and messed up fresh concrete?

Really, though, the issue should be, Why do we want pets in the first place? They do nothing but mess up your life. You can't go anywhere or do anything without giving some thought about the damage they'll do to your home. Every time you see some cat woman on TV you know what the basic problem is. She's living in filth and feces out of some crazy obsession. And it all started when she got the first cat. It didn't do her a bit of good, and no amount of argument can convince me otherwise.

I saw a guy on the elevator at the hospital the other day. He had a little dog under his arm, which he proudly announced to me and the other passengers was blind. Obviously I'm thinking, What's a guy doing bringing a blind dog into a hospital elevator? It's blind, not lame. It can take the stairs like all the other pets. Especially if it has a guy trained to carry it.

You know as well as I, we humans are the only species dumb enough to keep pets. Really, think about it. This little blind dog doesn't have two kittens at home. Your cats don't have pet mice. Animals don't buy other animals at the pet store. Or, to make it real crazy, animals don't have pet humans. Instead, they've learned to live more intelligently than we have, leaving the wild kingdom to itself, although they themselves are in a No Man's Land between the wild kingdom and our human civilization.

You might be saying, But don't you have pets? I do, I have one dog, my dog Underbrush. I've had her for about 14 years, and she's a good dog. But she's more than a pet, she serves me in a practical way. She's my food tester, so no one poisons me. But it's not like it's that valuable a service. Because when she dies I'm going to have to test my own damned food.

You Could Be A Sleep Therapist

The other night, in that weird twilight zone right before falling asleep, I thought of something that would make a very good occupation, and an easy one at that, Sleep Therapy. It was such a good idea that I was immediately wide awake for another three hours.

There I was, burning the midnight oil, charting it out: How hard could it be? I've been sleeping all my life; I've had eight hours a day experience all my life, but sometimes less if the neighbors are having a party. I hate to sound like I'm making what seem like facile arguments, but you have to admit it's a hell of a point. All that, along with the native talent I've generally had in anything I put my mind to.

Here's a possible therapy session:

Someone comes in. I probe them for their sleep experiences. "Are there times when you were still conscious? That was the state of wakefulness. Were you ever unconscious? That was the state of sleep. How much did you have of one? How much of the other? Let's split the difference, you go to sleep and everyone wins. Do you remember anything like weird movies, picturing yourself in settings with aspects of reality and aspects of fantasy, all the while seeming very plausible to you while later being hard to understand, remember, or describe? Me, too, isn't that the damnest thing! What do you think that was?"

Or they're going, "I'm having a hard time sleeping." This calls for wisdom, giving the best advice you can come up with. I might say, "Let your mind drift, leave your problems behind, picture yourself on a bed, sleeping, sleeping, sleeping..." Basically, I'm hypnotizing them, then pelting them with mini marshmallows to make sure they're not faking it.

Or if they're saying, "I'm getting way too much sleep," that also calls for wisdom. My own theory is you can't sleep too much, a good round eight hours is plenty. Or something like that. But if they persist, complaining they're getting too much sleep, the answer is simple, stay awake more. "Use some mind control techniques: Imagine terrible things happening to you if you sleep, the house burning down, thieves breaking in, an NRA convention somewhere in town. And if you still find yourself dozing, wake up after eight hours and everything's solved."

Let's say you've decided to become a sleep therapist after reading this blog. Congratulations, you've finally embarked on a path toward social usefulness, because sleep is right up there, more or less essential to everyone. I would say that about all you'll need to do now is rent an office, hire a receptionist, get a phone, a patient's chair and bed, print the certificate, and you're done. And maybe a frame for the certificate. This has been a pass-fail course, and you've all passed!

Our First Word, From Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

So there you have it, the first word of the New Year goes to a famous thinker of long ago, Ralph Waldo Emerson.

I always like the idea of the New Year getting off to a profound start. You shouldn't just blurt out any old crap, especially on a blog like this. It needs to be classy, like when you land on the moon. The first thing should be something major.

And who better -- unless it'd be Whittier -- than Emerson? Who always had profound things to say, and he was able to say them in a 19th century way much better than I could ever manage. I actually know this, because I've started to read his essays at least 20 times. I get up to about page 12 and that's it till next time! So what little I might know about it in terms of content, I make up in my absolute knowledge that it's profound and hard to understand. Emerson has philosophical authority up the gazoot chute, forward and back.

Now, though, that the first word for the New Year has been given, and you've had some time to ruminate over it, I can write anything. First, however, I'm a little embarrassed, I haven't actually read the quote! Seriously! I googled his quotes and this was the first fairly lengthy one. I was thinking, the bigger the quote the less I myself have to write.

So let's see what it says. "Finish each day and be done with it." Maybe not a great first word, since he's talking about the end of the day and not the start. "You have done what you could." How true, how true. Emerson isn't expecting perfection, just do what you can. I need that, because it's in my nature to appear the coolest guy in the room, when, realistically, I'm not. "Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in." I can relate to that easily, big blunders, massive absurdities. "Forget them as soon as you can." Done!

"Tomorrow is a new day." I resolve tomorrow that I'll be massively competent. "You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense." I shall begin it serenely, I shall begin it serenely, I shall begin it serenely... Probably not. As for having "too high a spirit to be encumbered with [my] old nonsense," it's not true that I'm totally unencumbered with my old nonsense, but the older I get, the more I how little it matters. But that has less to do with my spirit being high and more to do with just a realistic outlook. That no one really cares.

This is pretty good progress I'm making! If I'm not mistaken, I think I halfway understood that quote. Maybe I'm just about smart enough to try and muddle through one of his essays again. Later in the year, if I'm not doing anything else.

New Year's Eve: Judgment Of The Storm

Well, it's New Year's Eve again, a day for looking back on the old year passing as well as the promises of the new year coming. Of course you always hope when you reach it that looking back will be a happy time, and looking forward will be even happier. Alas, it doesn't always work out that way.

I woke up this morning feeling a little tired. The dog's had something wrong with her, and I heard her loudly hacking about 2 in the morning. I got up to see what was going on and there was a little yellow puddle of spit-up on the rug by my bed. I took it to the hamper, the dog following me, who then made signs like she needed to go out. We went out and she took a No. 2, the whole thing then sticking to her fur and needing to be cleaned off in the sink. I felt a little nauseous and couldn't get back to sleep.

I finally did doze off, and woke up to a winter wonderland in progress -- snow. It's snowing still, so this must be the day for it. I had breakfast, the toast burnt (need to check the dial each time) and my eggs messed up, meaning the yolk was hard. I thought, Crap, if this is how New Year's is going to go ... but I said I wouldn't be depressed. The snow is coming down, it's white and piling up like crazy, I need to see it as something of a promise, a new start.

A new start was what I would have! Wouldn't it be great to go out in the storm, there to eat a few flakes as they fell, thereby saving myself a little extra work later shoveling. And I could use the time to take personal inventory, matching beautifully, I hoped, the newness of the day to the oldness of my life. I took a look in the mirror, swallowing my morning pills. What a lot of lines. What's happening to me?

I went out and kicked a bit of snow and immediately stubbed my toe on a big rock. It didn't hurt terribly, so I walked on, thinking, thinking, ever thinking -- I can't stop, sometimes my thinking is torture. Thinking of everything I've done wrong in the course of the year, and how tomorrow's not likely to be any better. I'm the guy, you may recall, who brags about his willpower. Well, so much for willpower; I'm still eating bad, not getting enough exercise, I'm tired all the time, and my dog's sick. If I don't die, it'll be a miracle.

In my walk I thought I'd wander away from the yard, get down the street, and maybe my perspective would be different. Of course my feet and legs aren't used to lifting that much wet snow, with more coming down all the time. I'm thinking, I could just collapse here and die of exposure. There's nobody out today, they wouldn't find me for a week. Or I could test my limits and keep going, which I did.

Along the way I started thinking of all my regrets and personal failings. Here I am, almost 60, one foot in the grave, and what have I really accomplished? One day is about the same as any other, there's never any personal progress. Sure, I fill out the Sudoku in the newspaper once in a while, the easy ones. I write my blog. And the dog needs me; she's on her last legs. But that's it. My big hopes of sailing the world, winning a fortune in Monaco, owning a picturesque chalet in Switzerland, writing a bestseller, being the Fifth Beatle, and becoming the CEO of IHOP, are obviously doomed to failure. I can't even adequately convey the misery this gives me.

Having walked about as far as I physically could, I looked over. What?! The dog had gotten herself trapped in a big wet drift. I had to go over and use up 99% of my remaining strength getting her and myself out, once I'd become trapped. That meant I only had 1% strength left to make it all the way home! Which, think about it, it can't be done! I have no reserve.

But somehow I got home. I don't know how. Maybe the dog dragged me -- uphill. She seems out of breath, more so than usual. I was seeing these terrible red flashes when I blinked my eyes right before I (apparently) passed out. Then I don't remember anything else. But here I am, typing this. I have a cup of hot coffee, although I spilled the first cup and burnt my leg.

Yet, I'm still hoping for a Happy New Year -- and even if it's with my last dying breath, that's going to be my wish for you, too -- but I just don't see how it's going to happen...