Talking Trash To Melting Snow

I have so many problems with snow when it's at the height of its power, when it's melting I like to ridicule it. Taunting has always been my thing:

How the mighty have fallen! Thou shalt die the deaths of the uncircumcised by the hand of strangers: for I have spoken it. Good riddance! Don't write, don't call, don't drop by!

It's nothing but the wasted away reminder of its former self. You're not so tough now, are you? I could kill you with a teaspoon of ice melt. I'm going to be out here again in five minutes to beat you to death with a shovel. And the way you're stuck to the ground, it doesn't look like you'll get away. Look at me when I'm talking to you! How do you feel, seeing I'm walking quite unimpeded.

And it's true; I'm able to run circles around it. There's more grass and, unfortunately, more unraked autumn leaves, than snow. There's no slipping, no falling, no care, no concern for the diminishing white stuff. It's completely lost whatever it had that brought us terror. More talking trash: I've heard of being up to your hips in snow, but you're not so tough, my little toe's not even slightly cool. Is this snow or dandruff? Nice sunny day, huh? I can't hear you! If I threw you in the road, no one would notice! They wouldn't send a truck out to scoop you!

I'm getting in some good licks. Although part of me knows I'll eventually have to pay for it, since snow will again one day have its strength. So we shall tussle, but today, right now, I'm the one with strength. And when I have the upper hand, when I'm able to dominate, that's exactly what I'm going to do, without hesitation, without mercy.

Then I go around to the north side, where the snow has a few more reserves, shivering in the shadows. Oh, hiding over here, are you? Come on, be realistic. It's time to cash in your chips, snow, you have no hope, give up the ghost. If you had half the balls you think you have you'd come over to the south side and prove it. How about a bucket of hot water to toughen you up?

Yeah, snow, I hear you, you were a big man there for a while. People passed by and saw a revolting sight. We had old ladies backed up three blocks trying to see the snow man up the road. And I saw you, too, I saw your pride, your feeling you could do anything. At that time, you taunted us ... I'm the man, I'm the man, there's no man like me! Etc., disgusting stuff! Pull up your damned pants!

But you're not looking so hot now. Or perhaps you are looking hot, and that's the problem. This photo was taken on the exact spot where the snow showed off its enormous package. Admittedly, it was a giant that night. As disgusting at it was, it definitely put me to shame. But that was then, this is now. Now it's a few spots of white. Snow swimmers? I don't know.

It's about over. This is getting pathetic. Snow has had its day, and now its day is through, now it dies. You really had us going there for a while. Ha ha, but now, oh boy, you're finished! You sicken me.

The Criminal On The Lam

It's always been one of my hobbies to think about how I'd escape, in the event I were ever taken alive and incarcerated. And then what I'd do on the lam, so my efforts wouldn't have been in vain.

So far I haven't had to put any of my plans to the test, somehow having maintained a perfect record of freedom. But it can only pay to be prepared, even for long-shot events, like the Soviet Union reconstituting, invading the United States, setting criminals free and jailing law-abiding civilians, etc.

It's always surprising how many people go to jail. I read the crime column in the paper, and, Hey, Stupids, Do you not realize by now Wal-Mart is watching for shoplifters? Or, Hey, Idiots getting drunk at home, Do you not realize the police prosecute people for domestic disputes? It actually pays to live a fairly decent life, although, yes, it does take away your opportunities to escape.

I've seen a few easy escapes on TV. Like in The Day The Earth Stood Still, somehow the entire military -- and federal authorities -- can't keep Klaatu in jail. In fact, they're totally incompetent, since Gort simply burns a hole in the wall and carries him away and no one at the jail even notices. Or in The Lone Ranger, I think it is, they pull the jail wall down with a donkey and rope and escape and no one in the area sees or hears it.

I wouldn't expect an escape today to be easy. With modern technology -- video monitoring and platinum deadbolts -- they're making it a lot harder. You about have to escape before you get in, or make long term plans to seduce a jail employee and get them to help you escape in the dirty laundry. But damn the luck if they happen to do laundry onsite! It's almost enough to make you forgo crime all together...

OK, getting to the recent article in The Squeaky Wheel, two escaped but only one really made it. Of course the jail in Grease, Iowa, is one of your older facilities. They have enough heat ducts, large vents, and broken registers, they may as well put a revolving door at the outlets. It was built in the 1890s, back when criminals more or less abided by the honor system.

So let's say I get out of their jail, and I'm the one who isn't recaptured. How do I manage my affairs on the lam, to keep it that way? Naturally, I avoid all bars, tattoo parlors, whorehouses, and other seedy places. I don't phone home. I don't use an ATM. (The fees are terrible anyway.) It's going to be a matter of keeping my head down and my nose clean. If I live on the south part of town, I'm on the north side. If my moll (my main squeeze) is on the west side, I'm on the east. And so forth.

The best place to live on the lam, in my opinion, would be near the railroad tracks. You can always hop a freight, especially if it's the middle of the night. And again, you always use misdirection. If your family lives east of town, you go west. Or, perhaps this is trickier, if you family lives east, you could go east, since they'd assume you were going west. And maybe I'd have to rethink the areas of town I'd go to, above, and do just the opposite of what they'd assume.

Of course it'd be good to get different clothes. You can't be running around in orange. Even the cops in Grease aren't dumb enough to see that as counter-intuitive; that's a dead giveaway. I'd wish it were summer and people's laundry was on the line. Then I could dress up in bib overalls, hang out at the coffee shop, and talk sports, and no one would ever suspect! Although maybe jail would be funner.

The basic rule for living on the lam is always to do it right and make the right choices. If there's even the slightest chance of making a mistake, instead back up and don't do it. An ounce of prevention... You haven't got the luxury of screwing up... One strike and you're out. Think! Always think of your next move, run through all the options and possible consequences, then go with the best choice. If you can easily envision being captured for doing A-B-C, by all means do X-Y-Z instead.

That's how I'd maintain my freedom, by never making a mistake. Great advice.

They Thought Dentistry Was Some Kind Of Hoax

I was stunned to find out about this. But a little research, and it didn't take much, shows it's absolutely true. Dentistry started out with a great deal of suspicion. We're only lucky the first dentists stuck with it.

People tend to be skeptical. Full of doubt. But it's nothing now like back in the olden days, in the earliest days when man had barely made progress. Thomas Edison had to literally hit people over the head with the light bulb before they saw the light.

I was at the dentist's office just yesterday, and my dentist had only enough time to tell me the bare essentials of what went on way back when. Years ago, it seems, they didn't even believe dentistry was a true thing. Of course those who really thought it over -- the first pioneers themselves in dentistry -- saw it was logical: If you can tie a string around your tooth and pull it out with a door knob, surely a professional could help you with it.

And that might have been the problem. The average guy would obviously think, If I can do it myself why would I pay someone else to do it? Everyone has a sadistic baby brother who'll help out in a pinch, and he's built up enough animus, of course the rest of us are willing to help him, too, and how! They weren't thinking of root canals, crowns, or wisdom teeth, that are tough enough to ruin the knob, etc.

And not only that, they had a teaching from the Bible -- they being pious -- that suggested that when it came to teeth you just left well enough alone: In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few... (Ecclesiastes 12). The verse more or less says you use your teeth till they grind themselves to powder, then you spit the powder out.

But a few of the pioneers, the first men into dentistry, somehow had their consciousness raised, then struck out to convert others. And I would say they were ultimately successful, because as far as I can see, today there's more dentists than gas stations. We're crazy about our teeth, straightening, whitening, braces, polishing, cleaning. It's actually a little ironic. The first dentists were mostly doing extractions, but that's the one thing that's hard to get today. For some unspecified reason, dentists want you to keep your teeth...

I have the ad pictured above to show one of the pioneers, a certain Dr. Witless, who really has to receive a lot of the credit in proving people wrong. Look at that, he was giving away $1,000 worth of dental care just to prove the point that unrelated third parties could do dental work!

And from the looks of things, he was more concerned about simply making that point than in doing anyone's teeth any good. When he says, "I'll extract teeth for you ... simply to prove to you that it truly can be done!", notice he doesn't care whether the teeth need to be extracted, he's only doing it to promote dentistry. And just a look at his before-and-after graphics shows he didn't want to leave even the slightest doubt about it.

What do our current dentists think of those olden times efforts? The way I take it, they're amused by the quaintness of it, while also realizing how much better it makes them look. Because we're so used to modern painless techniques that we see the pioneers as barbarians. True, there is still a lot of discomfort today, shots, your jaw propped open for 20 minutes, mouthfuls of sticky stuff when they're making impressions, and the fact that the free floss is a measly 5 yards. But when you think of the olden days, you're happy, and willing to buy your own floss.

We've obviously come a long way. The skeptics are all gone. The so-called Dental Truthers have all died. Thanks to guys like Dr. Witless, who were willing to pull out every single last tooth in their heads, and free at that, to make the point. And, really, if you left the office with nothing but bleeding gums and still didn't believe, of course there's not much he could do about that.

Today's dentists might be amused by the pioneers. But they also owe them a huge debt. They were the ones who led the way, the trailblazers, who gave the practice of dentistry a foundation to build on. And if it weren't for them, just speaking for myself, my smile would look worse than it does. I'd be a mumbling fool. And worse, probably a virgin.

My Ten Year Baby Aspirin Cotton Collection

It's been 10 years, 10 long years, and I've been looking forward to sharing it with you, but I had to wait for the exact anniversary ... today!
 
I remember it like it was yesterday, even though it has been 10 long years, how my doctor told me I was a candidate for an immediate heart attack. He said something like this, "You get yourself on an aspirin regimen, sir, or you'll be dead in no time!" Words to that effect.

Of course I clutched my heart all the way to the store, where I made a scene about a lady having 12 items in the "10 Items or Less" line, because I was in such a terrific hurry. "You've got a dying man here!" I hissed, also picking up breath mints and a Twix.

Somehow, though, I survived long enough to get the first pill in me. Then, as it turned out, I did not die, thanks to this quick intervention, even though I had waited till the very nick of time. But I didn't know. I wouldn't take aspirin before because I heard every aspirin makes your stomach bleed a teaspoon of blood. Presumably, though, a baby one would only be a drop or two.

As days went on, then years, I more or less forgot about the death sentence, because the baby aspirin regimen was a complete success. Just think of the time speeding by -- as I said above, 10 years seemed like yesterday -- I got healthier and healthier in my heart, so much so that I'm easily able, say, just as an example, to shovel snow for probably 10 minutes straight without an ambulance on site.

Early on, sometime in the first couple years, I decided to keep the little wad of cotton from the aspirin bottles. The bottles themselves I threw away. Once when I had a couple of buttons fall off shirts, I thought I'd keep them in the bottles, but I didn't lose near enough buttons to make it pay. The cotton, though, I thought might come in handy for something. Like muttonchops at Halloween, a fake mustache if I needed a disguise, or to help the Scouts if they still did cotton drives.

I've been real faithful on taking the aspirin. I take one each night before going to bed. And honestly, I haven't overdosed even one time. A few times I haven't remembered taking one, then I try to remember and usually do.

There's been a little bit of friction in the whole process in this regard. Sometimes I feel a little guilty about taking them. The biggest thing, since they are baby aspirin, I'm hoping I haven't deprived any children of their ability to get the meds they need. Then there's lesser concerns, such as whether crafters might be deprived of cotton if there happened to be a shortage, and whether the slaves who pick the darned stuff are being treated right.

For the most part, though, in fact entirely, I've been able to put those concerns out of my mind and simply take the pills. The way I look at it, What's one piece of cotton every month or so? Especially when I was literally pronounced dead by my doctor. He had the coroner in the hall, the whole bit, but I got myself on the pill, and I haven't quit.

The mortician's going to have to pry the bottle out of my cold dead fingers. And if anyone wants my cotton collection, whether as a memento of my distinguished life or for some more practical reason, they'll have to get in line ... and they'll probably have to fight for it.

Our Feathered Friends -- All Flights Grounded

Everyone knows I've been feeding our feathered friends outside here in my back yard. So far, I have accrued many good experiences and memories; it seems I'm constantly pumping my fist and shouting, "Yeah!" They come swooping in from everywhere, all the cardinal directions. They stay a while, then they're off. Our feathered friends are a very skittish breed. I have my doubts that they're truly evolved from the dinosaurs, unless dinosaurs were the biggest cowards on four legs!

It's been a lot of fun. I mean, I feel like shouting "Yeah!" right now, because, if truth be told, I've really gotten off on watching them. The dinosaurs somehow got the gift of flight, and they're not afraid to use it. Seriously, they can make a hairpin turn in midair without batting an eye. And the ability to hover -- literally to hover -- in one spot near the feeder is nothing but phenomenal. I can barely stand next to it without getting tipsy and falling over!

I buy feed in 40 pound bags. When I'm carrying it home, necessitating many sit-down breaks on the way, I keep thinking the same awesome truth: What is so extraordinarily hard for me to carry a few miles will be nothing for them, because they're carrying only one grain at a time. They've really taught me an interesting lesson on carrying things. It takes me forever to carry 40 pounds of it, but they rip through it in no time (a month) only carrying the one grain.

Now, though, today, my fun is on a brief hiatus; I hope it's brief. And it's not through anything I did, or attempted to do; it's through the weather, or from the weather. The weather turned off bad. We got literally dumped on with snow. It's everywhere, clinging to the trees, scattered and piled up all over the yard, as far as the eye can see. The branches were drooping ponderously. It reminded me of that magazine Al Bundy used to read, Big-Uns. In fact, the branch that the feeder was hooked to was drooping so far down, thanks to the weight of the snow, that the feeder was literally on the ground! I have since disconnected it till I get it cleaned.

But obviously it hasn't made any difference to our feathered friends, because they have not made an appearance today. I have looked out probably six times and haven't seen hide nor hair of them. They've totally vacated. My first thought, They flew farther south. Then I thought, No, they're just staying cooped up in their nests. Perhaps in their little world all flights have been grounded. All feet on deck, to clean snow out of nests. We ate yesterday, today we work.

It's amazing how similar we are. I had to go out today and clear out the driveway of all this crap. So I know how much work it is. You haven't got time for flying. You haven't even got time for eating. But pretty soon I will get the feeder cleaned out and replenished, because I'm expecting they'll be doubly hungry tomorrow.

I really have this weird feeling, What did our feathered friends do before I started feeding them? How did they ever survive?

Ralph R. Ferguson, Mayor Of Anderson, Indiana

I found this cool graphic of some guy's head while browsing some old newspaper microfilms. Of course I thought, What a great generic guy's head! But then -- and this is the hidden archivist/preservationist in me -- I immediately thought, This was an actual guy, with a history, a family, etc., I better find out more about him.

Since he was featured prominently in a newspaper's full page ad, the caption was easy to spot. He was identified as the mayor Anderson, Indiana, Ralph R. Ferguson. This was in 1960, of course in the Anderson, Indiana, newspaper, the Anderson Herald Bulletin. I love the severed head, the graphic's Wizard of Oz vibe.

Now, here's a better picture, that I found with a Google search. Resourceful, aren't I? I like this picture, too, which you can get at virtually any size. They have a fairly prominent copyright notice on it, so I hope they'll allow me this "fair use" of his picture, as I'm republishing it as a historical feature with educational commentary. That's a great picture, isn't it? It's pretty easy to imagine him as a major, which he was from 1956-1964 (the newspaper's dates). Wikipedia says his term ended in '63, as does the Indiana Memory Digital Collections, the source for the above photo.

Then you have to figure, he was middle-aged in the late '50s, he's probably passed on by now. And, sure enough, he did die, in 1975 as it turns out.

Ralph R. Ferguson was born December 28, 1898. Prior to being Anderson's mayor, he was a state senator and Madison County Clerk. Before politics, he was sales manager of the Central Indiana Gas Company. In the 1920s, he was a licensed real estate broker. In the '30s, he owned and operated the Independent Wholesale Corporation. And in the '40s he owned and operated the Jo Ral Nash Auto Sales firm. So he was terrifically successful, as far as I'm concerned. He definitely did more than I'll ever do, since what have I ever done? I sold used records in the '80s, that's about it. And a few books on eBay. And this blog.

Mr. Ferguson was a good guy in another respect: He was a Democrat. In fact, he was a delegate to the Democratic National Convention on numerous occasions. And if that wasn't enough, he once was president of the Anderson Country Club. Again, speaking of my own personal lack of success, I watch the convention on TV and a few times I drove by a country club.

Mr. Ferguson died on April 1, 1975, if I'm reading this correctly. The paper's a little less than explicit. The publication date was April 2, a Wednesday, and they said he died on Tuesday.

He was successful in numerous other ventures, political successes, etc. Speaking for myself, I do vote and I used to have the stickers to prove it, so I'm a success, too.

Mr. Ferguson's son-in-law*, Robert L. Rock, was also in politics, being the lieutenant governor of Indiana, then he also was mayor of Anderson. So success was passed down, making me wonder about my own forebears, "What happened?" If I were somehow miraculously elected lieutenant governor, I'd show up at the office and go, "What am I supposed to do now?"

UPDATE: The irony of this post, thinking of my own lack of success and the fact that I never heard of Mr. Ferguson until an hour ago, is that before the day is through I'll be one of the primary sources on Google for information about him.

*I changed this from "son" in response to a comment. Thanks.

Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End Of Crafts?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

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

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

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

Some Proposed Changes For Jeopardy

Everyone loves Jeopardy. I've never known anyone -- out of my handful of acquaintances -- who didn't love the quiz show that turns questions and answers on their heads, and pulls out all the stops doing so.

This week it's the Tournament of Champions, which I always like. You get to see contestants who are proven winners, each having won something like a minimum of five shows, go immediately from winner to loser. Because there's only one winner. Even though they're all smart, it's still not like Superman split in three where each is of equal strength and none can win.

One of the weirdest thing about Jeopardy is how every week there's at least one contestant who totally crashes and burns. It's weird because they have to pass a minimum competency test in trivial knowledge to even be on. And yet ... they die on the spot. Frequently, it's a woman who gets the middle spot, but not always.

The current host is Alex Trebek. I heard he signed a three-year contract a couple years ago, and that that will be it, so we're probably getting to the end of his tenure. I actually lose some sleep at night worrying about who they're going to get to replace him. I toss and turn trying to think of who it might be. Then I tell myself two things: 1) The Lord is good, He will provide; and, 2) They replaced Bob Barker and that worked out well. Seriously, Drew Carey is the nicest guy on TV.

Alex has a couple quirks I don't like. One of them he shows when someone gives an answer (question) that's totally off the beam; Alex says, "Oh no..." as though it was obvious and Shame on you. That's rubbing it in a bit much. And two, I can't think of the other quirk. Oh yeah, it has to do with his picture perfect pronunciation of French.

Now, as to the proposed changes, some of these come out of my own Jeopardy play at home. One, I like to bet big on the Daily Double, but I don't like to just bet the money I have. I like to add to it, including pieces of property. It's just for play, and my dog isn't injured in the course of the show, but I take pretend snatches of dog fur to bet. So I might bet everything I have, my Jeopardy money, plus a dollar out of my wallet, my cable remote, plus a snatch of dog fur. Then when I get it right, which has been known to happen, I get it all back double, and the dog's more ready for winter. Or if I get it wrong, I have to reconcile not only with a cold dog but the cable company.

So let's go from there. Say each contestant could bring 10-12 items from home -- valuable and trivial -- to add to their Daily Double wagers. The judges, maybe with an auctioneer as a judge who has lots of experience knowing what things are worth, quickly determine what the items are worth, and that gets added or deducted from the score. So if a guy has a barbecue grill, that could be $40; a bucket of green walnuts, $20; three dead tropical fish, the minimal value of 50 cents; etc. It'd make it fun, like a garage sale, or like Let's Make a Deal. You never know what you might win! A two dollar mule!

I've watched Jeopardy on and off for many years. I remember watching it in the '60s, when I never knew a thing about Shakespeare or Potpourri or Potent Potables. Shakespeare was a total mystery. Now, though, that I've read Romeo and Juliet, although it's been 20 years, I at least have a chance.

All Hail Lord Metross

I really hate to say anything about Metross, but I'm a little stuck. I seriously needed a parking space today -- downtown was very busy -- and in my prayer I blurted out rashly that I would "proclaim Him" in exchange for a space. Of course, one immediately opened up, and now I realize ... I have to hold up my end of the bargain... or next time I'm in deep doo doo.

But maybe the less said the better. Because the more people who come to believe, the tougher it might be for me to get a space. Although, now that I process this conundrum, it stands to reason that IF Metross is so powerful (my IF not implying lack of faith but only prompting me to praise Him more) then even if everyone in town hears of Him, still parking spaces would automatically open up for me. So I feel better.

OK, like I said, I was downtown today and went to one of the lots that is notorious for having very few available spaces -- being Sunday and everyone going out to eat. I thought, Yeah, I love putting my faith to the test. I got there and it was exactly what I expected. As if the cars had simply always been there, never moving. I smiled as I entered, knowing there wouldn't be a single space. I got to the end of the first lane and noticed a lady messing around with merchandise in her backseat. I thought it could go one of two ways, she'd either shut the door and walk away or pull out. But there wasn't any indication either way.

Before I rounded the curve to the lane going back, I praised Metross profusely, "O God of the parking spaces, Thou hast shown me grace so many times, words fail me. Except to say, I praise Thee with an unending praise. But, O Lord, I see no human way for me to get a parking space immediately. Now, Metross, show Thy power. I promise I will proclaim You if you open a place for me in the next minute." So I'm coming around with two options, to reenter the first lane or exit the lot. I glanced down the end of the lot and, as if by a miracle, the lady was pulling out. Part of the miracle was this, that no one from the street had entered the first lane and gotten ahead of me! Of course I made a beeline for it and had it, all thanks to blessed Metross.

The name Metross, I heard from other devotees, stems from parking meter, which itself, stems from historical references to Metross in more superstitious societies, societies so superstitious they had to use chariots, the car not yet being invented. Whatever else we might say about the etymology of His name -- which I prefer to think is eternal -- one thing is for sure, it definitely fits. He's all that and more!

I myself have been praising His name and seeking His face for a long time, in fact every time I've needed a parking space in the last couple years. Before that, I guess you might say I felt self-sufficient, that I could go around the block till a place just "naturally" opened up. Which, as you have to know, never happened. I went around so many times I'm still dizzy! But then, like the Prodigal Son and his Prodigal Car, I returned to the faith of my family, and haven't looked back since. I've gotten parking spaces when they've literally not existed just minutes before.

One of the funnest things is to have a non-believer with me, spouting some crap about, "You'll never get a parking space, not now and not in a million years." I'm thinking, I won't even have this car in a million years, so it has to be now. A quick prayer, a little praise, and you know what happens? Like about five places open up. I praise Him, then rub it in to my friend, "Einey meeny miney mo, one space down and four to go!"  LOL!

Praise Metross!

Our Feathered Friends: What A Mess!

What a mess, indeed! I've got feathered friends stacked everywhere! I'm getting to the point where I'm chronically frantic, certainly feeling very flustered. But I must continue, I can't let them die! It'd be disease for sure.

It all started a couple weeks ago. I decided, you know, that if I enjoyed my feathered friends so much being in the yard -- they made me so happy I was actually applauding -- how much more would I enjoy them up close, in cages? Which is looking more and more like a huge mistake. I'm starting now to seriously regret my decision...

I looked at it from every angle, how it could be done. I tried to lure them into boxes with towels over them, but they were just too wary of me. Take it from me, our feathered friends, however friendly they may appear from a distance, are a very suspicious breed, very suspicious. It's like they thought I was a cat, some kind of danger to them.

Finally, a guy I know -- big into fertilizers, all kinds; he likes to blow things up, he's been on the news -- filled my head with notions. He had one particular fertilizer, he said, that when you mix it with feathered friend feed, temporarily stuns them. Then they come back to life when you put salt on their tails.

(In the absence of a better word to refer to them, I'm going to abbreviate Our Feathered Friends as OFF.)

Well, guess what, it worked! I mixed the fertilizer in with about 40 pounds of seed and scattered it all over the yard, the whole works! OFF came swooping in from everywhere, all directions, east, west, south, and yes, even a few were from up north -- I saw ice on their wings.

Immediately, OFF were dropping into the state of deepest lethargy, then lights out. I went through and culled the best 300-400 and tossed the rejects, with salt, behind the bushes. I think most of them eventually woke up. Then I thought, Oops, what do I do for cages? To make a long story short, another friend of mine, who works at Goodwill, kept back all the cages they had in the backroom, and now they're in my garage, along with the OFF.

Now, I don't want to gross anyone out -- it's been bad enough that I've essentially lost my own appetite -- but OFF's hygiene habits are terrible. How they ever were able to take care of themselves in the wild has to be anyone's guess. Their water cups are filthy, the bottoms of the cages are disgusting, and the garage stinks massively. I had to dig through my junk drawer till I found an old surgical mask, from the time I visited a dying relative in the hospital who was contagious.

Even with the mask, I'm only in there as much as I have to be. It's sickening. They've basically given up on all their pretty songs. I'm getting the evil eye. All they think to do now is peck each other and raise a ruckus. It won't be long, probably, till they peck my eyes out, that's how unsavory their company is. To which I say, If I go completely sour on nature, it's their own fault! Giving someone house and home, room and board, and loving attention should not be a thankless task. I'm not asking much. A pleasant song and minimal cleanliness, too much?

However, it doesn't look like it's going to happen. I've cried myself to sleep three nights in a row, for me a new world's record. Meaning, I feel my only choice now is to get rid of the pesky varmints. But how? I guess I have no other option but to look for good homes for them. Or gunny sacks and a creek. As for me, I'm done. When these ones are gone, I'll simply leave the others alone. Next time I decide to mess with Mother Nature, please, someone, talk me out of it!

Is It Strange For True Love To Be So Young?

I've got an old record -- and of course you can find it on YouTube -- by Tony Bellus, called "Robbin' the Cradle." It always strikes me as fairly lascivious although it's an entertaining record with nice echo. But the main theme is, "They say I'm robbin' the cradle, little darling ... Is it strange for true love to be so young?" We might say, Well, Tony, it all depends, how young are you talkin'?

It used to be -- sometime between the ancient Greeks and the 1950s -- that the field of "love" was wide open. Then we developed a few more morals and really cracked down on these sorts of activities. That and dating first cousins. Although I used to have some distant cousins who got together and they never had any problems. Both were blind as well as three or four of their kids. But that was it.

The ancient Greeks, I'm not 100% sure what they were up to. But I am sure that's why you never see an ancient Greek living within 2,000 feet of a school. Whatever it was, their lovers hadn't graduated yet and gone on to college. But that was when the human race itself was young, and they were still feeling their way toward a modern standard of right and wrong. It's like that in most societies; you have to run through every option before you winnow them down to the right ones. Like slavery, we look at it today as a big duh.

Because today we know the difference between right and wrong. At Walmart you have to show ID if you look under 40. They overcompensate just to be on the safe side. The corollary when it comes to dating is, If she doesn't look 40, she might be 17. We know the difference between right and wrong! And woe to those who don't! Yes, I'm looking at you, the occasional bad apple teacher I read about at Huffington Post! It's not love, folks, it's sick. There's an interesting thought: You bring a juicy apple to the teacher, but what if the teacher himself (or herself) is a bad apple!

And with that, let me wish everyone a Happy Valentine's Day. May all your love be completely kosher.

Nudine The Fortune-Telling Stripper

 

This post contains information I did not personally witness. I got it from a guy I know who goes to see strippers and freely admits it. I myself would never admit it. Because he's so truthful in that respect, I vouch for everything he says as absolutely true. Plus, he's my agent for car insurance.

According to this guy, one of the clubs has a particularly vivacious stripper named Nudine. The interesting thing about her is that she's so vivacious she's even known for telling guys their fortunes. That's the part that made my ears perk up and made me listen. And the weird thing is Nudine herself appears completely passive in how it works.

It goes like this. A guy wonders about some choice he has to make, then looks at her, then immediately, or in some cases later, knows what to do. Why there would an immediate answer or a delay seems to have something to do with the particular individual. But we think it also has something to do with Nudine's power, how strong or depleted it is.

Of course I asked for examples. At first he didn't want to say. It was like he was afraid the walls had ears, know what I mean? But I pressed him until he waved me outside, beyond walls, beyond doors, beyond ears. We were over by some very bare bushes, denuded by winter and obviously not hiding any electronic surveillance equipment. I could only try my best to remember whatever he would tell me, lest I forget.

And this is it, some of it: There was a guy who had a hard time deciding how he wanted his eggs fixed. The club has a fry cook in those early morning hours as the guys are being entertained. One day, this guy being perplexed, he glanced over at Nudine in dance, as she faced him, and came at once to a decision, sunny side up. Then it happened again another time; Nudine was on her belly doing a "rug act," and he knew he'd have them over easy. Uncanny but true...

And that's just one guy. Others have testified of receiving lottery numbers, psychiatric treatment, spiritual counsel, and even career advice after watching Nudine, as beautiful as she is and so lost in reverie. At this point I was a little skeptical. But my friend led me further on, till we reached a bush with even less foliage. Here he spilled his entire guts. He was the guy who'd received career advice from her. She was over against the east wall of the club, rubbing up against a hanging shag carpet for a prolonged time.

Suddenly he felt compelled to drive east. To make a long story short, he stopped in a coffee shop to think over the situation. He sat in a booth for a prolonged time. He struck up a conversation with a guy with shaggy hair, who turned out to be the regional rep for a major car insurance company. Who told my friend they had some great openings as agents. They hit it off so well -- the rep also likes strippers -- he was appointed an agent right on the spot. All thanks, once again, to Nudine.

But what about the lottery numbers, psychiatric treatment, and spiritual counsel? We left every bush behind, and now being in a vacant field -- nothing there at all but fresh snow, not a single track -- he raised his hand and swore it was all a fact. Indeed, I had to believe it, Nudine does it all!

Pajamas In Church -- Style Or Sacrilege?

Something happened in church today that for me and others started out terrible, but ended up not so bad. It was one of those moments where you're taken aback, and speaking for myself, even filled with revulsion, but then something extraordinary happens, and next thing you know you're a little more inspired. I'm glad it doesn't happen that often, though, because I'm not sure my poor heart could take it!

Here's what it was. The day started off normal. All the preliminaries. Then Pastor Wadd mounted the pulpit and was into a barn-burner sermon on "Modern Gomorrah Out-Sodoms Sodom." In case you don't know, his ministry specialty is combating sexual addictions. So at this point, as far as we knew, it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, without any warning, a couple of people came in the back door, a young man and a young woman, college-aged, and walked down the aisle and lounged right there on the floor of the platform. And if that wasn't bad enough -- the obvious disruption -- they were dressed in pajamas! Of course we know it's not unusual for people to wear pajamas in public today -- it's something of a fashion, a very bad fashion.

So there they were, looking up at the pastor like they were actually interested in his message, trying to suppress a sarcastic smile, according to my interpretation. I felt my blood pressure rise, I was so mad I thought I'd bust a vein. Pastor Wadd looked totally flummoxed, the people around me were aghast, and as for me, as I said, I was seething. My teeth were clenched so tight I might have done actual damage to a couple of molars.

OK, now something else was going on back by the door that I didn't know about. But the events, as reconstructed, went something like this. One of our oldest members -- an old deacon named Guy Miller, Deacon Miller -- was back there pulling off his pants, having worn his pajamas under them ... All I knew at the time was old Guy Miller comes walking down the aisle in his pajamas! And if you know how he walks, it's very slow and labored, one excruciating step after another. It was like the Via Dolorosa.

So there he goes -- Deacon Miller -- with his normal suit coat, and pajama bottoms, painfully walking the aisle toward the platform. The young couple are now also rapt, Pastor Wadd's looking on in slow motion, and the rest of the congregation, including me, have dropped our jaws. Finally, Guy Miller arrives at the platform, and the young college man reaches his hand to help him up the steps. Both of them, him and her, help the old deacon to the floor. We now have quite a scene, you'd have to agree!

Pastor cleared his throat, and looking out over us seemed to grant his seal of approval to the scene, probably thanks to the quick thinking of Deacon Miller, who taught us ... something ... I still haven't figured out exactly what.

My blood pressure dove back to its normal range, but I still don't entirely approve of everything that happened. Plus, I'm wondering why Guy had pajamas on under his pants. Wouldn't they have been riding up his legs?

The Valentine's Flower Racket Morticians Run

I'm getting the word out there early on something I suspect, way before Valentine's Day, because I'm hoping to get widespread attention on this matter. I'd call it something of a scam. At least that's my suspicion, and I've always had a pretty good success rate in these things. At the very least it should be investigated, and when found to be true, be exposed, shut down, and left dead in its tracks. Prosecute!

My suspicion -- and I'm pretty sure it's more than that, it's something factual -- is that there's a huge racket being run by unscrupulous morticians. The racket goes something like this: Starting around October or November, they start "syphoning off" flowers from their funerals, then keep them in cold storage till just before Valentine's Day. Then they are sold everywhere, like to florists looking for something cheap to help their profit margin.

The big problem as I see it is that those flowers were purchased by well-meaning families and aggrieved loved ones, meant solely to honor the dead. They weren't meant to go from hand to hand, then on some black market, only to end up, maybe purchased by the same people as tokens of love on Valentine's Day! Of course the flowers are the property of the original purchasers, whose intent was that they would make festive a memorial service, then the grave-site.

You know what I should do? I ought to go nosing around a funeral home. I could show up during a funeral, then slip into the back room and watch through the curtains. While everyone else's eyes are bleary from tears, I'm wide-eyed and alert. I can see the flowers, what all there is. Then as the mourners file out, I watch for the morticians to start skimming. Plus, I'm listening. "This flower looks great, this one will fetch a pretty penny, I might keep this one for myself," etc. The wife, normally upstairs doing bookkeeping, is the go-between, helping stash away the flowers before anyone notices.

Or, my other plan might be to show up at a funeral home -- have some business cards printed, "Floral Wholesaler" -- and present myself to the mortician. Naturally, I'm looking to cut a deal. The guy's nervous, he hasn't seen me before. But obviously I know more about the scam than the average guy. And I'm flipping a coin. His denials won't hold up, because I'll keep pressing him, telling him, "You either play ball or they'll be buying flowers for your funeral, and I mean full price!" I honestly can play hardball, especially if my sense of justice is riled up, as it is on this issue.

I love the above graphic. I think it really drives the point home. Look at the expression of professional grief on the schmuck's face. It's Valentine's Day, and he's portrayed handing out flowers to sexy women in their underwear, you'd think he could manage a smile. But no, he's a professional frowner, looking a lot like an underpaid, unappreciated butler, so even naked ladies don't move him. Then we have the women themselves. They're not the least bit suspicious why a frowning mortician would be handing them a flower. They're just gung ho for flowers, they don't care where they come from!

But I care. This is the honest to God truth: In the last year I have personally sent two big floral arrangements to people's funerals. You ever do that? It costs a fortune. I bet they were $60 apiece. The last thing I want is to have these damned morticians -- very unethical -- reselling them on Valentine's Day. To me, that's simply wrong.