Wouldn't Easier DNA Be Great?

DISCLAIMER - I know very little about DNA or DNA testing. I honestly don't have the first clue about the science of it. But no disclaimer is really necessary, because I don't have the first clue about the science of anything and that hasn't stopped me writing about it.

Hey, everybody knows about DNA. We know you can't father a child and get away with it forever. And we know it's tougher to do the crime and escape the time, thanks to DNA. In a remarkable way, it's like you never left the scene! Yet you know you dashed off just seconds later! But some damned thing, a small thing, usually a hair -- which should've stayed securely attached -- inopportunely loosened its grip and fell.

So we have the wayward hair of a criminal. Or in the case of anonymously fathering children, what you needed to leave behind. With the hair, once they have it, they run it through the DNA mill and, years later, it comes back a match. With your ex-girlfriend, unknown as she may be, when she reappears with your child, they match up samples, and suddenly you owe money. In both cases you can end up with visitation rights.

The thing about DNA, though, is it's billed as extremely hard to test. It used to be it took them weeks to test it. Now, probably thanks to miniaturization, much smaller scientists, they're able to get it done overnight, if needed. Maury Povich gets a lot of the credit for the progress, since on TV time is of the essence.

Now I'm wondering what's the holdup on making it instant, like pregnancy tests or microwaving bagels? And with that, making it equally as accessible, so that all of us could do it. Yes, the police and Maury have had DNA testing as their exclusive bailiwick and would be reluctant to give up their advantage, but that's progress. Once upon a time the rest of us couldn't do fingerprinting either, then ink pads started showing up, in office supply stores of all places.

Personally, I like the idea of DNA everywhere. Right here at home -- I live in my grandparents' old house, and they've been dead since the '70s -- I think it'd be cool to test dust and old sticky spots. I haven't touched some of Grandpa's tools in my whole life, so I might find him still lurking in the garage, in that sense. Then there's my own DNA. I have to have a rich presence here. I used to have a full head of hair and now I'm virtually bald. They'll be finding pieces of me for a century!

If we could test our own DNA, even if the police objected at first, think of how we could solve crime that much faster. There's a crime, all of us descend on the scene, we've got about 200 simultaneous investigations going on at once. Then we come together in an auditorium and one by one present our findings to the group. I can't think of any downside, unless, of course, with the mass of people on the scene tainting the original evidence with our own samples, we ended up arresting each other. But that's a risk worth taking. Most crime scenes had unrelated people there before the crime, this just extends it a bit.

Other than that -- which isn't very exciting -- think of the other possibilities. The more people have access to DNA, the more progress we can make in the science. I'd love it, just as an example, if the DNA testing machine could be rigged to develop a photo of the person, then to make a rudimentary video of him, how he would move, etc., then a hologram type of thing, then who knows what! The twin brother I never had?

Or they might come up with a thing like a metal detector. You sweep a room, like at the Playboy mansion, as a random example, run the test, and you'd have the latest thing, a miniaturized orgy right there on your nightstand. You could collect various human scenes, monasteries, mechanics shops, a March Madness game, or the local Goodwill store. Lots of specimens there!

Probably accomplished science fiction authors have already envisioned this much better than I ever could, especially as they would take some time with the idea and not dash it off in a few minutes on a Tuesday morning. That's fine, I can live with it. Although, as revenge for them showing me up, I could see myself "borrowing" their typewriter, taking all the DNA out of it -- the crap under their fingernails in addition to hair -- and creating a race of mutant science fiction writers, mixing their DNA as I would with lesser human types, like accountants, and putting them out of business. Show me up, will ya?

No, seriously, I don't have a devious bone in my body (eventually the DNA will prove it). I would only use my DNA kit -- Petri dish, eyedropper, thermometer, and roboenlarger -- to do good. One thing I'd seriously like to do, if I could find the DNA for it, is bring back milkmen and their cute little trucks. I'm thirsty for some good old fashioned milk. The good stuff!

March Madness -- Punish The Coaches

I'm a victim of March Madness this year! Watching basketball. Not all of it, but a bunch. I should say, the phrase March Madness is a trademark of the NCAA, as is March Mayhem, Final Four, and maybe the Big Dance, and who knows what all else.

And after I get this blog done, maybe Punish The Coach will be a trademark, too, because I believe it would be super popular.

The coach, as everyone knows, is the man in charge. He's the one who's taken a bunch of rough-cut know-nothing guys and introduced them to basketball. He's shown them the ball and explained to them what it is. They've learned the basics from his hands and lips, that it rolls, bounces, flies, and goes through circular things called hoops, then through net-like things called nets. After the basics, it's on to the advanced stuff, like the court, the various lines on the floor, and the rules of the game.

Having learned all that, it's time to form a team and chalk up some victories. The way I understand it, by the time they're allowed into the NCAA Tournament, they have proven themselves on the court in something called the regular season. It appears the criteria for admission is to win more games than they lose, then they apply another factor, the quality of their opposition. If they've got all their dunks in a row, they're in.

Now it's time to win or lose in the tournament. And lose they do! In fact, any rational survey of the situation has to conclude that they're nearly all losers. Only one team makes it through the tournament unscathed. The others have signed up more or less for a completely predictable loss. They're putting themselves through all the agony (which is up to 99% assured) for the rarest of chances that they'll win.

My proposal is, if they lose, as most of them must, we should let the coach experience some of the anguish. As the representative of the team, the head, he must submit to the worst rigors.

OK, we'll leave the last two teams, those in the championship game, aside for a moment. (The last losing coach will face his rigors just prior to the winning team getting their trophy). So this means we have 66 teams who have already lost. At halftime of the final game, we want to bring the 66 coaches out, and have them submit to punishment. Obviously they've done something very wrong that their teams haven't won, although, yes, it's assured that all but one will win.

We line them up by first out, with statistics of the game governing final placement. Then it's on to the festivities, dunk tanks, pie throwing, children pelting them with Nerf balls, and rotten tomatoes. It's a gentler form of what we see in mythology, in tribal societies who are concerned about fertility and crops, the death of the king. I can see that coaches would love to do it, because it might just work, swaying the gods to give them a more fruitful season next year.

All the nastiness out of the way, we have the same line-up, and we pass out the laurel wreathes. I'm very merciful, so I'm saying we add one to the Sweet 16 for purposes of this ritual, 16+1. The top 17 coaches get a bigger laurel wreath for their head, along with a kiss from the prettiest cheerleaders. Of the next two divisions (16 each), one gets slightly smaller laurel wreaths and a kiss from the more average cheerleaders, and the other gets even smaller laurel wreaths and a kiss from the below average cheerleaders.

The next-to-last division is only 15, to account for the 1 we added to the Sweet 16. They get a laurel sprig and a kiss from whoever's left. The last four teams of the 68 in last place, the coaches of the teams, get to sniff a laurel sprig, and look at whoever's left. Plus a kick in the ass.

The Ignorance Of The Purebred Libertarian Student

I love stories like this, where ideology screws up reality, and the guy ends up a total shipwreck. Usually, however, you don't have the pleasure of such a pure case; often you're faced with an admixture, generally rooted in a life somewhat inconsistent with the ideology. I was very fortunate to come across this story. It's pure! I'm sure that thinking of it will give me many pleasurable nights, sitting by a warm fire somewhere drinking brandy or something else.

OK, without further ado, we have a kid from a poor Libertarian family. That's the setting. For legal purposes I'm going to call him Walt.

Because Walt's family was poor, they couldn't afford to put him up in a private school teaching Libertarian values. And yet they didn't have the option of no schooling, thanks to the unnatural rules of government on compulsory attendance. And they couldn't home school him.

Walt was just a kid, but that didn't mean he hadn't imbibed his father's ideology. Dad made a point of loudly sharing his beliefs in limited government, taxes, individualism, and hyper-individualism. So when Walt got to school, he cried like a banshee. With him it was me, me, me; nobody could do him any good.

In short, he was completely uncooperative at school, because he didn't want to be on the public dole. That's how he put it. He felt he wouldn't be pulling his own weight were he to cooperate in a system based on taxpayer-funded institutions.

Even at five years old, he was a real go-getter with this nonsense. If the teacher tried to talk, he might put his fingers in his ears and go, "[various babbling noises]." Walt was extremely disruptive. They put him in the hall and passed him to the next grade as soon as possible.

He wouldn't take part in music, for the same reasons. He didn't want a publicly-supported instrument. He didn't care if it was a bass fiddle (large) or a piccolo (small), he had his crazy, inscrutable principles to abide by.

Other kids were advancing like mad, learning how to read and write, how to add and subtract, how to play their instruments, how to take care of their bodies in physical education, and so on. But not Walt! Walt was stuck with his pre-K mentality, except of course to the extent that he just naturally learned things once in a while by brute experience. Still, he started out a fool and was even a fool years later.

Years came, years went. Walt never brought home anything for the refrigerator door. As far as I can tell, his life was a blank, except for his stupid principles. Sad, but funny in a way.

He made it through school without learning much of anything, got his diploma, asked a friend what the damned thing said, and was told it said "Diploma." "That means you're smart." "Damned right I'm smart," Walt was able to vocalize, "smart enough to throw away this diploma, which was taxpayer-funded and not of my own making." Now that's radical!

Fathers, if you're wacky, a Libertarian, if you think UNICEF is a Communist plot to overwhelm the world with their well-fed healthy children (an element of the plot that should be mentioned), keep it to yourself. Your kids are worth more than that!

Commentary:  Is this a parable on modern times? Is it a condemnation of Libertarianism? Am I trying to make a large, relevant point? No, none of that, none whatsoever. It's simply the story of a kid, a purebred Libertarian, who imbibed his father's ideology, and managed to make it through school without learning a thing, simply because he wanted to pull his own weight and not be on the public dole.

The Gaping Maw of Death (Woof! Woof!)

I've really been enjoying my friendship with Death (see links below). Especially the times when we're able to talk. Not just chit chat, but on some of the deeper philosophical questions involving life and death. He's a very meticulous craftsman, of course, eventually getting each of us. So who better to share with?

Earlier today, Death and I were out on the half acre where I live, walking along, and talking over these things, life and especially the nature of death. He was explaining to me in some grim detail about the death of numerous folks, how badly they take it, their intense struggle, etc., until finally he said, "They are ground up in the gaping maw of death."

At that point, almost involuntarily, I went, "Woof! Woof!"

Up till then he'd only known me as a serious person. Which is true. But I couldn't help it. He asked, "What's the woofing for?" I had to laugh, realizing I had woofed. I told him the whole story of my old dog, Wuss, who always barked back when Grandpa would call for Grandma, "Ma!" It became something of a family joke, something to mimic. "Woof! Woof!"

We sat down in the shade by the garage. Death laughed, but proceeded his talk, again getting serious. He went into a long explanation of the process of death, in great detail, including not just people, but animals, etc. He said, "All of you, and nature, at some point are chewed up in the gaping maw."

Again, I went, "Woof! Woof!" Death slapped his forehead, a little pissed that it seemed like I was cheapening life and death -- his work -- by constantly harking back to my old dog and what was apparently his single trick.

The third time we were over at the well getting a cold drink of water, and Death again got involved in the discussion of death. He was very serious, because I had asked if it's actually a universal process, quite apart from our mythology of it being the penalty for original sin, etc. And he said, "Yes," explaining that it's in the nature of creatures everywhere to eventually die, sin having nothing to do with it.

By universal, I had meant just that, life on other planets. He went on, sharing with me very illuminating revelations, with parts of his talk granting me inside knowledge on civilizations thousands of light years away, if only I could remember what he said. Parts of it were very philosophical and, thinking of the inner makeup of alien lifeforms especially, were quite dry. The key point I remember was this: "All of them are eventually consumed in this vast gaping maw."

I started to say it, then he anticipated me, and put his hand out as if to prompt me, "Woof! Woof!" He asked, "Have you about got it out of your system?" I threw up my hands as if to say, "I'm sorry, it's a dreadful habit, but, you know, the dog and everything, Grandpa, Grandma, it's in my system like a heroin addiction!"

Finally, back in the house at the table, we continued our discussion. I reflected on Death as someone who obviously relishes his work, while being one of the rare ones -- the only one? -- to have such a thorough philosophy on his job and its nature. Perhaps the only other ones would be strippers, who like saints are the most rewarded when they have the least.

Again, he was completely serious, expounding at length about how misunderstood the reality of death is. He ruminated on our vanity of denying and hiding death and the process, and on everything we do to try to stave it off, which he agreed is understandable; perhaps we're looking forward to the graduation of our first grandchild, etc., something irrational but understandable as part of our present egoism, acting as dualistic, not holistic beings. He thrust his hands up in something approaching complete exasperation, then said, "And all the while this is what's awaiting them, exactly what they dread the most, the gaping maw."

This time Death caught himself, and looking at me, jumped in with his own, "Woof! Woof!" Of course I gave him two thumbs up. He laughed and said, "Now you've even got me doing it!"

Links:
Death -- I Now Pronounce You Dead
Out Drinking with Death
Death Goes to the Dentist with Me
Death -- When Your Number's Up
Walt's Suicide -- Death by Water

Walt's Suicide -- Death By Water

My new best friend Death (see links below) is a busy fellow. Everyday -- virtually everyday -- I read of his exploits in the paper and online. He takes down a maniac holed up in a mountain shed (yea!), or he's snuffing out the life of a baby at the hands of abusive clowns (boo!). Clearly, Death, with the nature of his work, doesn't have the same social mores and scruples that I was conditioned with. Who's right, who's wrong? I guess he has to be right, not just because of cause and effect, but because of his rootedness in nature, whereas I'm obviously socialized and sentimental.

But that's a discussion for another day, which may or may not come, because I'm not feeling so well myself. Although I have to say, if Death kills me, I'm going to seriously reevaluate our growing friendship. Although, furthermore, who knows if I might enjoy the afterlife even more, when I'm finally reunited with my grandparents and dad somewhere in the sky, on a cloud without the fear of monthly bills I can't pay.

Anyway, I asked Death -- how about it? -- could I go with him on one of his runs? To my delight, he said yes. It was just a matter of temporarily transforming me into a form of mist, since being merely flesh and blood is not the best way to go on these runs. He sat at my table and mistified himself; I could see just a vague, light black mist in the air. Suddenly, I also was a mist, but more white. There would be no way to tell us apart, save for the color of the mist and the fact that I was here and he was there.

His run this night was to a downtown hotel in the big city 40 miles west of here. It was one of the upper floors, an office where a guy, older and depressed looking, was wringing his hands. I'm big on making snap judgments about people, so I could see he was clearly in deep trouble, likely some financial malfeasance, or political shenanigans, or they were bearing down on him for breaking serious laws of some other sort, or he was complicit in a sexual matter involving himself and a younger mistress. Whether she's underage, barely legal, or what, I don't know. I'm guessing she's probably in her 30s, old enough to know better.  And there's his wife, a fat old biddy, sitting home somewhere, about to sic the lawyers on his ass. Or it could have been he had weird fetishes I could never guess, although I didn't see any tattoos or piercings.

Death and I -- clearly invisible to the guy -- hovered in the corner. I watched the guy toss and turn in his chair, sweat all over his forehead, his hair very wet. I had to sympathize with him, even though he looked like the kind of guy who'd step over me for a dime; I'm just naturally sympathetic, a nice guy; it's my cross to bear, again, my own blasted conditioning. I just had to remember, there was nothing I could do to help. In fact, I tried to hover down to him, but it was like I banged up against a force field.

What I witnessed next is the crux of the matter. And if you don't want to hear about a successful, agonizing suicide, please read no further. I write none of this out of jest or to celebrate. Because I feel the guy's life was still worth living. He could've given his wife the Cadillacs and jewels, he could have plea-bargained on the financial malfeasance, or if it was big enough, he could've endured the shame of a public slap on the wrist. But at those points of the worst depression, of course you're not always thinking of "could'ves." This guy was only thinking of escape. And Death was only thinking his number was up, time to die. I saw a look in Death's misty eye, like an evil hypnotist.

The guy -- let's call him Walt -- had an elaborate suicide machine installed in his office, just for occasions like this. It was pipes and a faucet. He was going to flood his office! He reached over and, with an unusually feminine hand in appearance, twisted the knob full blast. I had to reflect: Wrists are made to connect your hand to your arm, not to kill yourself with. But water gushed everywhere, making the floor wet and no doubt promised mold for the whole hotel for the foreseeable future. Walt sat in his chair motionless, then on second thought pulled out a final cigar and lit up.

Excruciating time passed, the office continuing to flood. I looked over at the door. It seemed to have a good seal at the bottom. The windows were shut with a good seal, too, and waterproof glass, so they weren't about to break. Then the water was to his knees, to his hips, to his chest, to his neck, etc. Suddenly, whether he was having second thoughts or what, he was out of his chair, swimming desperately around the room. He had a purpose, which I took to get to the spigot to turn it off. But he couldn't do it, and I was trapped behind the force field. Even were I to break free, how does white mist operate a spigot?

The look of desperation and terror on his face was the worst thing I've ever seen. A memory seared in my mind, likely to endure the rest of the month. I glanced at Death. He still had that hypnotist look. He would make one hell of a levitator. With those eyes he could sell moonshine to Mother Teresa, had he not already killed her. I looked back at Walt, swimming like crazy. I started thinking, a bunch of water gathered together weighs a ton, and it was almost up to the upper wallpaper line. Walt was on his back, kicking and gasping for air near the light fixture.

At that point, I knew Walt was going to drown. But, wait, what's this? The floor suddenly gave way from the weight of the water! And right down went the whole works, office, Walt, and water all. We hovered downward and the poor dude was dead from the fall, a broken neck. The force field was totally gone, but I was too late to help. Alarms were going off everywhere, it was nutzoid. The police came and rounded up the usual suspects, who all had great alibis.

Back home, back in my body, with Death again at the table, we reflected on the journey. I commented that their alibis, unlike the office in the end, were completely watertight.

Links:
Death -- I Now Pronounce You Dead
Out Drinking with Death
Death Goes to the Dentist with Me
Death -- When Your Number's Up

Death -- When Your Number's Up

I was walking the halls of a nursing home with my friend, Death. (See below for links). I wasn't 100% sure why we were there. He simply said he had an errand to run. Anyway, we went to the room of a nice older lady, Maudie F-------. He was a gentle soul to her, because her number wasn't yet up.

We were in the foyer, and I called Death's attention to the aviary. I mentioned to him how things have changed in nursing home philosophy, in particular the installing of aquariums and aviaries to give them that added natural dimension. He chuckled, being close to nature himself, and commented how the fish are usually distressed and dying, and, as for the birds, a lot of the deaths he administers these days result from airborne fecal particulates and dander. Then five minutes later, Maudie was dead and Death said, "The birds helped me with another one..."

"So you waited five minutes, then took her?" He answered, "Yep, her number wasn't up."

We got in the car, and I had an idea, since apparently my number wasn't up. The whole thing led me to attempt a series of tests. First, we drove out to the interstate, where I jumped out and started running at random on the road. I believe for all practical purposes I was hit three or four times, without injury. Next, we went over by the depot, where I took a nap on the train tracks; a train came through and somehow missed me.

We then went out in the country where I walked blindfolded on the edge of the tressel, without falling. I climbed up some guy's barn and took off the weathercock and cold cocked myself, but it didn't even hurt. And finally, back home, I literally ate a whole pound of bacon, which inexplicably made me sick. Death stood there, laughing, and saying, "Try your worst, your number isn't up!"

We had a mildly philosophical discussion about numbers and why the mortality of organisms would be on a number system. He explained that it's like everything else. When you set up a system you have to make certain choices, and none of them is perfect. At first he left it to chance, then, because the system has to apply for everything from bacteria to dinosaurs, he didn't want to be overworked.

I argued that he probably didn't need to literally be there for everything to die, although, of course, he gets an obvious satisfaction from his work. Which means he's one of the few ones. Since the only ones I can think of who get satisfaction from their work are prison guards, able to lord it over the rest of their species; artists, because they're able to allow their spirits to soar; and, truck drivers, because of the satisfying anonymity of truck stop sex. Death just grinned.

Then he said, if it'd please me, he would test out a system without numbers. I added, "That would make it more fair, because there are some who take care of themselves, and others who are idiots." He agreed, but said he would need to work out a special dispensation for those under 25, whose idiocy is not completely their own fault. Their brains haven't developed sufficiently to grant them sufficient paranoia to be consumed completely with their own personal safety.

DISCLAIMER: Death said he knows I'm writing up these reports. He told me to warn anyone else who might try dangerous things meant to test him, that no matter what age they are, their number will be up. You will die. Because there are certain unspecified "other factors" in the mix, making the whole scheme of things indecipherable. Any false assurance you may have derived from the contents of this blog post is indeed false, as it is for entertainment purposes only, not for risking your life.

Links:
Death -- I Now Pronounce You Dead
Out Drinking with Death
Death Goes to the Dentist with Me

The Easter Craft Sale -- Post Mortem

I've had a long and hard day, so I'm really not in any mood to make comments about the Easter Craft Sale at the shopping center. But I feel I owe it to everyone to say something, and I'll try to put a good face on it, regardless of how terrible it seemed at the time.

The day started badly. The set-up time is between 7 and 8 a.m. And for some reason my alarm didn't go off, meaning I overslept for the first time in something like 25 years. I'm thinking I subconsciously didn't want to go, and so whatever internal timer mechanism I have tried its best to spare me. Except I did need to go, since I'd already paid the exorbitant $40 fee for my table, up five bucks from last year.

After I did everything I had to do, including loading the bunnies in the car, and going to the bathroom, etc., I headed out to the shopping center, knowing it was going to be rough. Spots for the tables, except for the higher class people, the real long-termers, is first come, first serve. Which ended up meaning precisely how I knew it'd go, the other bastards would grab the best spots, leaving me, the latecomer, the crappiest spot in the world, a few tables past where even the diehard customers are likely to go.

I got a few nasty comments from some of the ones who know me: "Bedhead," "Look what the cat dragged in," "At least you're well-rested," and "Good luck -- You're going to need it." The worst part of the process of getting in was that I needed to make multiple trips past some of these cretins, giving them plenty of opportunities to level their best taunts.

But I finally made it, and got my stuff all set up: A nice blue tablecloth, my signs -- "Lovely to look at, wonderful to hold, but if you pop off an eye or mess up the styrofoam head, we mark it sold.", "Cute, crazy, cuddly," "No photographs or sketches please," and the price card, "$5 apiece, 2 for $9." Now it was just time to settle in for a day of bustling business.

I guess I'm always an optimist, at least going in. Then as the day drags by, I'm nothing but a realist, "I'm sunk, this sucks, I should've stayed in bed..." For customers I had the usual dregs, lots of lookers who can't be bothered to spend a quality minute examining my stuff, kids who have no qualms about bending the pipe cleaners, and preoccupied mothers who foolishly ignore their children's desire for a nice bunny. Then occasionally -- but never often enough -- one will be persuadable, and it's those ones I like. I'm quick to get their cash before they have time to reconsider. They might walk away and the kid immediately breaks the bunny, but no matter ... I just look the other way.

Around noon, I saw some clown with his phone out, snapping pictures of some of the crafts upstream. For which I came prepared. I whipped out two other tablecloths and covered my stuff, then prominently put the "No photographs" sign on top of the whole works. He got down to me and looked a little put out, but I only smiled, knowing I'd scored a major win for our side. Hell man, if you want a picture of a bunny, buy one, then go home and photograph it to your damned heart's content. I don't want my stuff on Pinterest. Knock off someone else's art ... or craft, in this case.

It slowed to a dead crawl around 2 p.m. I was able to get out and talk to some of the other crafters. My day was terrible but they had even more gripes than me. That's one of the great things about craft sales. If you really want to hear complaints, crafters should be your go-to guys. The sale was poorly advertised, the shopping center doesn't respect us, the increased table fee was egregious, and a lot of the browsers are only in the vicinity to use the bathroom; they don't care about us. Plus, we kick around the bad economy and people's decreased disposable income, despite the evidence to the contrary, poor people going by carrying $5 coffee and their grubby little rug-rats eating $4 cotton candy.

I had a few anxieties of my own. One, my sales were worse than previous years. Two, just because I caught that one photographer doesn't mean I didn't miss a few others. A few of these knockoff artists have someone distract you with friendly talk, then they're snapping pictures, only to have the friend drop you like a hot potato when they've got what they want. On that point, I suspect the friendly girl with the deep cleavage who visited with me -- stunning eye contact! -- might have been a photographer's confederate. But she was sweet enough it was almost worth it. And, three, offering a twofer (2 bunnies for $9) about kills my profit margin. I like the come-on aspect of it, I just have to hope not too many customers abuse it.

Oh, I used the word "customers." In crafter language, the word for them is "fresh meat." That's one of the biggest complaints. Listen for it if you get close to a crafter. If they're complaining about "Not enough fresh meat," all it means is they wish we had more customers. If only the stinking shopping center would advertise more!

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Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

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

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

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

2013:
Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End of Crafts?

Death Goes To The Dentist With Me

I was wrought up with anxiety today, like I am every time I go to the dentist. So I wasn't exactly happy when my newest friend, Death, showed up at the door. I tried to be nice about it, looking at my watch and saying I was in a hurry. Which had exactly the opposite result I wanted; he invited himself along.

He's been dropping by ever since I let him guest-blog for me one day. Then later we went out drinking, which, with three deaths, is still being investigated. It might get suspicious after a while. Even the police might be able to connect the dots. I'm starting to realize I need to hang out with a better breed of company, but I'm also realizing he's a tough old bastard to shake.

I really noticed that when we got to the dentist. I figured he'd excuse himself and go off on his business. Surely someone's number was up in the area, not to mention the world. But he wasn't in any hurry, and tagged along with me right into the office, a potentially dangerous situation. No one seemed to notice him, and by now all I could see was a very faint black mist.

I muttered under my breath, "Please, no killing, OK? These people work on my teeth, a thankless job all by itself, the last thing they need is to lose their lives over it." I heard a faint chuckle, as if he meant to say, "I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself." To which I also replied with a chuckle, as if I meant to say, "That's what I'm afraid of."

The way it worked out, I really felt like he thought he was protecting me. And a near death experience never hurt anyone, so the damage was definitely limited. In fact, a near death experience can wake you up to appreciate your life more fully. A friend was telling me about a popular book about a preacher's little son who "died" and went to Heaven. But they sent him back, so he could write the book. From which, I understand, he made a lot of money on ... Smart kid, reminds me of myself, except I'm still poor.

To his credit, Death was on his best behavior ... most of the time. He sat in the corner. Occasionally, I noticed the X-ray vest twitching on its hooks. I was hoping they wouldn't do any X-rays, since the radiation might reveal him in the corner. I don't know the science of X-ray machines very well. My suspicion is they're like the old X-ray glasses we used to get, generally a fraud with a feather in the lens. But if so, the dentist is the world's greatest liar. Because I can barely make out the feather pattern when looking at pictures of my teeth, so it's at least a stunning illusion. I was also afraid Death might even be scared of the X-ray and thereby compelled to kill someone.

I saw him start to react whenever I showed discomfort. The light was bright in my eyes, so the dentist gave me sunglasses. I had to have several casts made of my teeth, which made me gag. You start imagining the sticky thick gunk going down your throat, it's a killer. Forget water-boarding, send Al Qaeda to the dentist! Then there were those inevitable times I needed to scratch my nose, but didn't want to interrupt the doctor. I had to be very careful not to cry out. The last thing I wanted was a dead dentist when he still had work to do. Death can be just that quick.

The good news is no one died ... at the dentist office. The near death experience I mentioned came when I was checking out. First, the checkout lady needed to finish a call with someone else; I guess I showed the tiniest bit of edginess, nothing big. Then when she told me how much I owed, a little over $400, I felt myself wince. And that's all it took. The poor lady clutched her throat, her face went red and from dry to sopping in a flash, then she fell off the chair. I cried out, "No!," at which point Death released his grip. Everyone came running from the back, saw what was going on, and called an ambulance. Which of course by now she didn't really need, but what could I say?

That was the good news. The bad news came moments later, as the ambulance came racing around the corner and ran over some poor old guy. I guess Death had his work to do. But the idea that it was rooted in my visit to the dentist bothered me. It really bothered me, that and the fact that I was very hungry. I hadn't eaten before my appointment.

Out Drinking With Death

I'm very shaken up. It's weird, I'm usually so calm, but this is craziness hit crisis proportions. Can you really believe the price of drinks? I'm old -- I remember 25 cent draws and dime pitchers! So to say I'm aghast is an understatement; this goes way beyond that!

Why haven't I been out binge drinking in decades? you ask. I've never been that great at making friends. But now -- it's bizarre -- I got to know Death himself, and it's like we're inseparable. I hadn't seen him since the other day, when he guest-blogged on my site. Then he was suddenly gone, just vanished. Then this past Saturday, early afternoon, during breakfast, I noticed a black mist -- kind of dark in color -- taking shape at my table. There he was again.

Of course I asked, "What's up?" and he shrugged his shoulders. I had an immediate suspicion that he'd been out on his unique business, so I just said it, "Spill the beans." He put his hands up in mock surrender, as if to say, "You got me." In enumerating his deeds over the past couple days, he went on and on. For him it was a typical day, nursing homes, hospitals, alleys, schools, prison showers. He yawned, then perked up when he told me about an elephant sitting on a guy in the circus up in Minneapolis. I said, "How'd that happen?," genuinely curious, and he just smiled, "Must've slipped ... or something."

Anyway, now that we're friends, I suggested that we go out to one of the local watering holes and tip back a few. Even though I don't drink much, usually, it's proverbial that a few stiff drinks can wash your troubles away. Death looked at me like he was stunned, and then smiled, saying, "You know something? No one's ever asked me to go out like that, I appreciate it..." It's true, I'm an extremely nice guy.

We got to the bar and settled in with a couple beers. Then I had another beer and a whiskey chaser. He said, "Ah, a boilermaker." I said proudly, "Yup, that's the ticket." At least I thought it was the ticket till the barkeep told me the price of admission, very high; I was stunned.

Pretty soon, I was brought moderately back to reality when Death killed a guy for wasting seltzer water and hogging the bottle. The guy was out with his buddies, and apparently hadn't gotten the memo that such a thing was a mortal sin. I thought, "What? You just killed a guy?" but really what can you say when everything you say might be used against you? I chalked it up to "Better him than me," and proceeded to have another drink, and at these prices, it was shocking!

Well, you know me, drinks go right through me; the alcohol settles in my liver and I'm immediately drunk, but the remainder heads straight for the exit -- I had to pee. I was in the can, trying not to make eye contact, but still looking very interested at the graffiti. How do people have enough privacy to write such filthy things? "For a good time, call...blah blah blah." Shocking. And of course disgusting drawings of anatomically correct figures in flagrante delicto. It's all revolting, my senses were shocked. Just then I heard a scream.

I rushed out to see quite the row, screaming, shouting, some pushing their way to the doors, only to be pushed back by police on their way in. I thought, Just what I need, to be made a public spectacle in the company of these losers. But the spotlight wasn't so much on me as on two fresh corpses draped over the pool table, and Seltzer Guy. I glanced over at the bar and Death was still sitting there like nothing happened, nursing an overpriced drink. The police swarmed the place looking for the lowdown.

I said I'd been in the can when it all went down. I glanced over at Death to vouch for me but he had vanished. The police thought I looked shifty, I guess, so I answered a few questions. Did I have any idea what happened? I tried my best to beg off, till at long last, I blurted out, "It looks like Death got them!" I wasn't smarting off, but that's how they took it. I only managed to get them back on my side by complaining vociferously about the cost of drinks these days. One of the officers was about my age, and he also remembered with fondness the cheap drinks of yesteryear.

The guys from the County Morgue came and emptied the trash, at long last freeing up the pool table and seltzer bottle. I went home -- don't worry, Death drove -- but even being lubed as I was, I still couldn't stifle my loud disgust at today's prices. Yes, three guys were dead, but I bet those beers were three fifty a draw! It was a complete shock to my system.

I Now Pronounce You Dead

Editor's Note: For the first time ever I'm turning over the blog to a guest blogger, a character called Death. I've been familiar with Death for quite a while, having met him back when he came for Grandma and Grandpa, and of course my first dog Eggard. I don't know that he will say anything offensive, but it's worth cautioning you, and exculpating myself by declining credit or blame for anything too edgy. All statements and opinions are those of Death, and do not necessarily -- I'll just say they definitely do not -- reflect the views of me or this blog.

I now turn it over to Death...

Death -- Thank you for that warm welcome. Yes, I certainly remember coming for your precious Eggard. You were something like seven or eight years old, and, as I recall, you cried your eyes out. I remember watching over you as you buried him down by the fence. It was quite a touching sight, which is why I let your other dogs all live to a ripe old age.

Editor -- Hold on, wait a second, before you go any farther. It's not exactly true that my other dogs all lived to a ripe old age. Perhaps you remember Fritz, the dog I had only a week, having gotten him at the Rescue League. You gave him a major attack of the worms and he crawled under the stairs and died. You came for him after one damned week, one week! Excuse me, I'm not done... Then there was Curly, surely not in a ripe old age. I had him what? A year, a year and a half at the most, and someone ran over him; you were right on the scene to snatch him up. And that's not all. What about Frankie? Who choked to death on a chain. I didn't usually chain him up, but because I had to go out of town to visit someone at the hospital, whom you also took that same week, you came by to choke my dog and take him, too!

Death -- Are you going to let me write this column or not? I'm sorry about your dogs. I had you confused with someone less worthy. Plus, since they all go to Heaven, what do you care?

Editor -- OK, but I still haven't wracked my brain to remember the other pets there might've been. But since you say you had me confused with some other guy, I guess I'll let it go. So we'll chalk it up, we'll call it even.

Death -- Fine, I can live with that.

-- Death's column begins now -- 

Look out, dear reader, I'm coming for you and yours. If not today, then someday. Be on the lookout, because I'd love to meet you, and I'm sure you feel likewise about me. But even if not ... [LOL].

I've been thinking about you, yes, you in particular. Of course I know you're reading this. You're actually a rare person in that respect. The editor of this blog showed me his readership stats. They're puny. He gets around 100 weird hits a day, mostly from Russian gambling sites that aren't even actual readers. He doesn't know why they keep coming. Then there's about five posts he has (the biggest seeming to be one of his posts on Strongheart dog food, speaking of dogs) that everyone else hits. But the semi-daily posts only get something like 10 hits, seriously. And you just happen to be one of them. So you're one in 10, obviously I'm talking to you directly. You're going to die, I'm coming for you ... very, very soon.

What's your big offense? you ask. Surely it wasn't that I read this blog. No, of course not. I was meaning to come after you already; you just happen to be one of the very rare individuals who are getting advance warning. That's lucky. For which, in my opinion, you ought to be glad. Because look at it this way, now you have time to prepare. You can tell your loved ones, you can settle your affairs. If I were you, I would check with the editor of this blog, because he always needs money. Since he provided the opportunity for this open forum, you could show your appreciation for the advance notice by willing him all your property.

Editor -- I'm sorry, I meant that you had full reign over the blog, Death, but please don't bring me into the picture. I honestly don't want to have anything to do with the property of my 10 readers. It is very much my preference -- I insist on it -- that they will their property to their family and loved ones. They are the ones it rightly belongs to, unless, as may be true, their kids are a bunch of miserable snots -- riding skateboards and getting tattoos -- then naturally I would appreciate the portions that would otherwise go to them.

Death -- So you have your scruples, eh? I can accept that. Please let me continue ...

I haven't got that much more to say, except, again, to give warning. And to let you know basically how it's going to happen. For a couple of you it's going to be a terrible car accident. I'll be there, pluck your souls from the scene, and we'll be off before anyone knows what happened. For a couple of you, I have a medical emergency lined up, specifically a heart attack for one, and bleeding hemorrhoids for another. Out of the 10 readers, I believe each of you will know who you are. But look on the bright side, you won't have to put up anymore with nagging about exercise for the one, and for the other with that terrible itch.

When I come to visit you, no one will see me but you yourself, and I will have only one thing to say as I swing my scythe -- that's what I call that big sharp cutter thing I carry, very hard to spell. And that's, "I now pronounce you ... dead."

Editor -- Thank you, Death, for those good words. I appreciate your time, knowing that you have a lot of appointments to keep. And to my readers, let me just say, as far as I know, this blog is "For Entertainment Purposes Only." I don't really think you're going to die. But just to be on the safe side, please drive carefully, get your heart checked, and take good care of your bottom. Don't strain.

The Damnation Of Sam Hell

"Go to Hell!" he cried, in a fit of pique, an expression of hostility and ire, when confronted by a friend when he was caught doing something wrong and upbraided. Some people are like that; they could just say sorry -- after all, they're the one in the wrong. Maybe it's pride -- it probably is -- or maybe it has something to do with being surprised, then embarrassed -- it probably does.

Sometimes we think Hell is mythic. Mythic in the sense of something that isn't literally true. But when it comes to Hell, can there be any doubt it's real? I tell myself, We have black holes the size (diameter) of the earth's orbit around the sun, oceans 5,000 miles deep on Uranus, planets that are solid diamond through and through, what's so tough about carving out a little niche for Hell?

Well, Samael Heck, said it, "Go to Hell, and then ... guess what? ... He woke up one night; it seemed like a nightmare but it wasn't, there he was, dangling on a ladder, halfway between Heaven and Hell -- true story. It appears he had died. And he saw the souls of the other dead either going up or being dragged down by demonic creatures. It was one or the other. There was no exception. Until, who knows how it happened, somehow Samael swung back up to the ladder. And he must have been hidden from view by the others on top of the ladder, as he managed to shimmy back down, flip over the top of the ladder, and run. He escaped back to the world, and reentered his body.

So much for the 12th century, for that's when all this stuff happened. A long time ago. Leaving us to contemplate something equally fantastic, that this guy has since lived all these centuries. The whole list would include the 13th, 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th (in which he briefly knew John Wilkes Booth), 20th, and now the 21st centuries. Meaning, unless he hurries up and dies, he's going to surpass Methuselah! Another guy who must have flipped the ladder.

Anyway, maybe it was back when he knew Booth, he toughened up his name to Sam Hell, becoming proverbial, like Waldo and Carmen Santiago, with his question being, "What in the Sam Hell?!" My grandpa used to say that all the time, openly, although perhaps ignorantly, invoking someone who was at least familiar with a presidential assassin, not to mention being a rare escapee from the fiery judgment. But what did Grandpa know, and when did he know it? Probably not much, with the date indeterminable.

Because this is going too long, I'm just going to list some facts about Sam Hell, without ordering them or fleshing out any meaning or significance:

• Sam Hell's thoughts are tortured during the day ... and the night is worse.
• He has olfactory, auditory, gustatory, visual, and tactile hallucinations. It's all he can do to keep himself grounded in reality, whatever that may be.
• He's doomed to rail against his own fate in this world. But one thing he hates above all are the ghost shows on TV. Because your body and messing around is a portal to bring these now-terrible spirits back into the world... bumming everyone out. They missed the ladder, let 'em fry.
• Of course, like all things of this nature, the holy and secular, the sacred and profane, he soon became a byword for hillbillies and old men in coffee shops. (See Grandpa above). They'd be chewing the end of your average weed, invoking him in astonishment every time a cow died.
• To combat the old men would be hopeless. But he could open the minds of those yet too young to be old, children. Which opened up a perennial career as a speaker at elementary assemblies, having to soften his stage name to Sam Hill.
• Have you ever met the real Sam Hell, in his essence? Of course you haven't, very few have. Only advanced spirits. I count myself among that number. I met Sam Hell a few years ago. We enjoyed a time of spiritual reverie, then he was gone. At least from sight... How else I know him, my lips are sealed.

Over And Back -- My Favorite Basketball Infraction

Like everyone else, I'm completely absorbed in the big basketball tournaments. I really appreciate sports on TV. It saves you all the headache of buying expensive tickets, fighting traffic, and wasting your time actually being there. I look at the people in the stands and wonder why they haven't discovered this.

Being here in the quiet of my home, I have a lot of time to reflect on the games. I put on my comfortable slippers, brew a hot cup of tea, and sit there relaxing. Then when my own teams come on, I scream, tear out my hair, and bite my nails to the quick. Truly the best of both worlds.

In my reflection, I pay attention to the rules. I don't know the rules 100%, even though I was briefly out for basketball in school. I was never a player on the team, but practiced with everyone else. But it's been a long time, and rules may have changed a bit.

One of the infractions I know is traveling. But I wonder why it's not OK to take a puny mini-step here and there but it is OK to run the distance from the key to the basket while driving. I keep trying to reconcile that one. I tell myself it must be legal, the refs know what they're doing.

Basketball is a rough sport, and you wouldn't think it would be. There's elbows flying, tripping over each other, and being whacked in the face. They've upped the penalties now with things like Flagrant 1 and Flagrant 2 fouls. The higher the number the worse the infraction. Depending on how much worse the injuries might go, they have plenty of numbers beyond 2 to use. Flagrant 10, intentional emasculation with malice.

My own personal favorite infraction is over and back. Not double-dribble or palming the ball. (Speaking of palming the ball, do they still have that? I don't see it.) I've just always liked the over and back. Once you've left the unfriendly confines of the opposing team's court, you can't go back. Does that make sense? Why would you want to be there in the first place? Where they could steal the ball and more easily score on you.

I like over and back so much, anytime a guy gets close to the line, I'm begging him to cross it. All it takes is a toe. And I get my way more times than you'd expect. But even so, in my opinion, there aren't enough over and backs.

I think the over and back rule is probably archaic, vestigial in basketball. Before they had a shot clock, let's say there wasn't an over and back rule, a team would have the entire court to hold the ball and stall. It was boring. Heck, it was bad enough as late as the '80s, before the shot clock, when they held the ball for 10 or 12 minutes in one court without taking a shot. It was a strategy, a very boring one.

Now, though, with the shot clock, there's no obvious reason why you'd want to linger in the back court. You have to make forward progress or you're finished.

Speaking of forward progress, this is where I get a little philosophical. I like the over and back infraction for that reason, too, because we're a forward-looking people. We don't believe in going over and back, and when you see someone get caught doing it, it cautions the rest of us, in life over and back isn't good.

Really, think about it. When immigrants came to the United States, they had to pull up roots. They spent their money and took the first ship for the New World. They couldn't go over and back. The ship went one direction. That's what the expression "You can't go home again" means; it's too damned far to swim!

And that's not all. We've  always had that western thrust. "Westward ho!" went the cry, as the caravans and wagons headed west. It literally wasn't till the early 1900s that anyone went east, partly because of avalanches in the passes and ambushers in the hills, but mostly because booze was cheap in the western saloons. But they also lived by principles. The old drunk parson gave them the Bible verse, "He who looks back, hic, is not worthy of me, hic."

Then there's the whole linear scheme of things, and that's tied in with our predominating fear of death. We advance, we don't recede. We know death is coming, then the judgment. So, no, over and back isn't for us.

It's different in other parts of the world. Have you ever watched a basketball game in India? They don't care about death, so it's totally different. About the only thing they do is over and back! They're centered in the court, then it's back and forth. No forward progress. Cyclical. They frequently have 0-0 overtimes, the tie only broken by a few token players brought in from the west, who in the end can't help themselves.

The Well-Built Wife

It only took a glance to see, She was a well-built wife, very fine!

Their situation was like this: Both Robert and Toni had decent jobs. They worked for the same company. They brought in a good income. You know the story...

In my opinion, what happened was, Robert probably had some issues from childhood on managing money. Maybe it was something his mom did wrong, or his dad. And then it carried over into adulthood, so much that he was destined to become a little over-controlling of their finances.

But not at first. At first, they did what most couples do, pooled their money; what's yours is mine and what's mine is yours. That makes good sense. You file jointly on your taxes, you live jointly as does any decent couple, which also made perfect sense in this case, for Robert and his well-built wife.

But then it got dicey, not all at once, but as these things tend to go, over time. Robert wasn't all that controlling at first, but it sneaked up on him, so to speak. He found himself a little more concerned about finances and meeting their bills, then there was the recession, then he was looking to save for a vacation, etc. In other words, outside events conspired with inner psychological wrangling, and all of it crept up on him, to the point that he was stifling his well-built wife.

As anyone could guess, she chafed against it as it got worse. "What happened to us? We used to be so happy," were probably things she said in their private moments, which, unfortunately, I wasn't privy to. But, Oh! to be a fly on the wall! I'm sure I would have gotten an earful, and since she was so well built, an eyeful.

But I had to hear it like everyone else, except to a certain extent I did have the inside track, since I was briefly friends with both of them. They talked it over with a trusted supervisor at their company, who also had a well-built wife, and he advised them to talk to a counselor.

In the end, it all turned out well, which isn't always the case when counselors get involved. Robert saw his complex for what it was, and as time went on, both he and Toni, still well built, were able to go back to the original (and more equable) arrangement they had when they first were married.

Running Circles 'Round The Baby

You know me, I'm as normal as anyone you've ever met. I pride myself on that. I see unusual people, and while I may envy them for a few minutes, I'm actually glad I'm so normal. But even normal ones like me -- who knows the exact reason? -- can erupt, especially if push comes to shove.

Well, darn it all, that happened yesterday. Maybe because it was Sunday, a day for going to church, then erupting in euphoria, which the ancients controlled by an afternoon of blood sacrifice, a luxury we don't typically indulge in, unless of course we're country folk. Still, as you know, any sublimated desire, impulse, or instinct is still there. And finally -- call it the devil, if you will -- in the end it can't be denied. The Nazis proved that completely, which makes me feel better, although I know I'm still to be blamed.

Anyway, I felt the impulses rising up in me. You probably know exactly what I'm talking about, an inflationary surge of light through the spine that has to spill out, the metaphysical equivalent of piss and vinegar. You have to rotate it just so. I nearly had time to offer up my dog on a makeshift altar, the patio table, but then they were here -- relatives -- to take me to the party.

Party? you ask. Parties on Sunday afternoon? Yes, if it's your birthday and you happen to be one-year-old. There's a youngster in the family, and in a few days he turns one, although they had his party a few days early. It was a joy to see him, there in his top hat and his little suitcase, naked except for a diaper. He waved at me cheerfully as he walked by, his walk very tentative. It seems he has been walking for only a week or so, and even with that he's not very good. He takes a few steps, then sits, ending in the family's applause.

OK, like I said, I'm blaming my behavior on the piss and vinegar, the lack of blood sacrifice, everything but the Nazis, who already have enough to answer for. The surge of light was so great -- it was a rather nasty concoction, actually, of light and dark; inner cleansing carries many risks. I couldn't help myself. When the baby finally plopped down in the center of the room, eliciting applause, I erupted, running over and then running in circles around him, becoming, according to the sworn testimony of survivors, a tiger-like blur (cf. Sambo story). Then, to save myself from a buttery end, I ran up the wall all the way to the ceiling and fell with a thud. I cried out, "I know how to walk, too!"

At this point I might hope for sympathy (I couldn't help myself). But once you've ruined a birthday party for a one-year-old, in the eyes of the spiritually bereft you're nothing but dirt. Aunts and uncles, friends of the mother, including quite a few guests I don't know personally, lambasted me with severity, saying things like, "This isn't a competition! If you're somehow a better walker or runner than a baby, no one cares!" What could I do? I rubbed myself in the places where I hurt, and a few where I didn't.

But they kept giving it to me, the full impact, piling on. These aren't exact quotes, but it's the gist of the damned thing:

"Even though this child is 11 months old, just short of being one, he will grow! And he will get a better education than you! He will succeed where you failed! Then one day when you're in the nursing home, unable to get from your bed to the wheelchair without a Hoyer Lift and five CNAs, this baby -- by then fully grown and able to walk, if not fly -- will visit you, and he'll run circles around you! He will also dash up the wall, leaving muddy footprints for you to look at, if you're still able to see!"

There was everything but forgiveness.