Our Feathered Friends Smell Food Miles Away

I'm clear way far at the store, three miles from home, coming out with a brand new bag of feathered friend food.

My intuition has been spot on lately, thanks to prayer, meditation, and a very deep sense of oneness with nature. My St. Francis garden statue told me some of the secrets of how it's done.

Anyway, enough about me. So there I am, and suddenly it hits me, the ripples in the current from home. I can sense it clear as day, my hungry feathered friends are perking up. Before, they had been down, very down, not singing. The usual morning food wasn't in its place. It was all gone, nothing but chaff.

But now, there in the parking lot, I could sense a revival. Which is a two-way sense, since the feathered friends are on the same exact wavelength. One old wren, very old, very wise -- Wise Grandpa Wren -- shakes his head and says, "Hush, chill'un ... it's happening again..."

"What? What's happening?" the younger ones ask, squealing, thinking Grandpa might be something of a crank. One thing, he's always mysterious, as in this response: "You shall see ... the Days of Plenty will soon be here ... But forgive me, I go to rest." I have to smile as I sense these fantastic goings-on.

The rest of the scuttlebutt around the yard picks up with his word: "Days of Plenty, Days of Plenty..." Young female feathered friends are nodding toward each other and touching beaks. The males are bumping chests. Younger ones are in the feathered friend bath, splashing to beat the band.

I get in the car very happy. Except I have to drive all the way home. But I'm still happy, knowing they know what's coming. Hallelujah, touch your toes! Praise the Lord, for He arose!

Then I come in to wild acclaim, hefting a 40-pound bag of feed. The trees are hushed for a second, as the life-giving food, something from the hand of God, is lovingly poured into the feeder. I step back and smile at the movement in the trees. Then as I close the door, going in the house, I look back and see a wild stampede, our feathered friends literally stampeding through the air, hand over fist to get to it.

No one was hurt. And I just happened to have a slice of apple I didn't want, so I cut it in fours and tossed it out there, too.

I'm Going Behind a Paywall

I have a huge announcement! Wish me well! Starting just a few days from now, there will be something very different about my blog: It will be behind a paywall, to be enjoyed only by paying customers.

Of course I'm very excited about the change. Because up till now -- it's been well over five years -- I've been writing my posts and putting them out there for free. But now, at long last, I've decided that I need to make a living. Getting disability for my game toe is fine, but it's not giving me enough disposable income to get out there and really enjoy life. Which is something that would be good for me. Also, it would give me more interesting things to write about, meaning more subscribers, meaning more money, meaning more disposable income...

I have a love for writing, of course. But love doesn't start to cover the expenses. And a freeloader readership, while nice for the added sense of life they offer to a site, doesn't generate a single dime. So now, or in a few days, all that's going to change. For those of you who can afford the subscription, you'll be in for some great things. But for those of you who can't afford it, or are too cheap to spring for it, that'll be, unfortunately, IT. But wait, I have a little good news later...

When the paywall goes into effect, the modest subscription fee to access the blog will be $100 a day. Or, if you'd like the convenience of going monthly and the chance to save money, I'll be offering a special $2,800/month plan. That gives you two free days in an average month, up to three days sometimes. February will remain full price, so I can recoup some of the costs of January and March. (Rates guaranteed not to increase through the end of the year.)

I know what some of you are saying, probably. You're questioning whether that's really modest. To you it seems like a steep subscription price. I don't know. It depends on how you look at it. If you want the best, of course it's going to cost a little more. Through hard work and endless dedication, I've taken this blog from literally nothing to the internet powerhouse it is now. That can't be free. Not if it's going to do me any good.

What a big step this is for me, huh? No more will I be writing merely for the love of writing, or to express myself, or to unburden myself of various compulsions! From now on, it's going to be cash, money, the big granola, that's my driving force. Like it was for Charles Dickens, and virtually any other famous author. Ducats.

OK, I said there was good news for those who may be financially strapped, or at least using that as an excuse. The good news is I'm going to make available four $5 vouchers a day. If there's a big demand for these, I will have a lottery to assign them randomly among those seeking additional help. Think of it as a "scholarship" for those who are hard up for five bucks. If you're lucky enough to get one, it drops the price significantly, into double digits. These will be good as a discount toward a one day pass.

Now, just to get into some logistics. It's tough building a firewall. I don't know the first thing how to do it. But my guess is everyone will need a user ID and a password. The key thing is, once I get your money I will put forth my damnedest effort to get you logged on. Eventually it will be so good it wouldn't be slicker if you used WD40. That is my vow.

This is it, folks! For those who won't be making this jump with me, it's been nice. I'll be sorry to see you go. C'est la vie, c'est la guerre. For those who will be continuing on, you are to be congratulated. Maybe -- it could happen sometime down the line -- I'll spring for some crackers and cheese when you're in town.

Government Snooping -- Infilitrate, Big or Small

I carefully studied my instructions under a streetlight.
The lighting made it look very weird, kind of a greenish yellow.
I was struck. The color's so weird.

But there it was, in the bad light. A mysterious ticker tape printer in a culvert, right where the voice on the phone told me it'd be. Low, husky, likely a man, maybe a big woman. I'd been recruited into an elite cadre of government spies. Which is very cool for me in particular, having been as a child not just a member of the Spy Club, but its baton twirler.

I wasn't a bit afraid. Even though usually when I get weird calls, anonymous, unannounced calls, I'm paranoid as hell. It looks like I'm getting hardened to it. I've gotten worse calls. It used to always be some unknown guy saying, "I know where you go ... and I know what you do there ..." I always hated that. Because, honestly, I never went there, and, besides, I don't remember doing anything that was so bad.

This new voice, even though it was a big woman trying to sound like a man, wasn't threatening at all. I heard something of benevolence in it. Saying between the lines that I was trusted with a task, which, if I'm not mistaken, is something the government is putting forth to every citizen they trust. And, yes, the government can trust me. I hereby raise my right hand and solemnly swear that I will protect this nation from all enemies, foreign and domestic. Looks like domestic, since it's local here.

You see my instructions. There's no particular task. Just "INFILTRATE," with the unspecific, but assuring, "EVERY LITTLE THING HELPS." And I like the pleasant nod to modern linguistic conventions, showing that we're not taking ourselves too seriously here, no doubt meant to put me and my fellow trusted citizens completely at our ease, "GO 4 IT."

This is the kind of task I like. I can set my own goals. And I obviously have plausible deniability if I'm nabbed by a saboteur, "I know nothing. I'm digging in your garbage for recycling."

All right, I got this message a week ago tonight, and I got right on the job. Since "EVERY LITTLE THING HELPS," that's what I started with. It gave me a great excuse to go to the river. But not just anyplace. I wanted to go to the backwoods. There's a place back there where a gang of guys called the Backwoods Men live. I've always been suspicious of those guys. We have a law here that in fishing you can only use one hook for one line, no more.

I was successful at infiltrating their place by the river. When, Holy Cow, what did I find? Not only did they have poles lined up on the bank, I pulled in a couple and they had a dozen hooks apiece! So I pulled in the rest and left them lay on the bank. It would be a big surprise to them in the morning!

Also, I did some reconnaissance around their property -- the dog was sleeping -- and noticed what turned out to be some '60s vintage Do-it-Yourself Heathkit nuclear missiles, lined up in homemade silos, and aimed toward town. I moved them off kilter, so when they're fired they'll rocket straight up and -- I hope -- destroy the Backwoods Men themselves.

The next day I was up with the roosters, 9:00, and went to troll Goodwill for what I might find. The problem with Goodwill is it's completely unregulated. You can buy stuff anonymously. It's not necessarily scanned, it's cash transactions. Theoretically, it's the world's best place to make a terror connection, because you can leave notes in a particular jacket, say, then someone comes along and gets it. Well, the bottom line is, I did my best, so sue me.

Methodically, I took each jacket, one at a time, to the dressing room, and went through the pockets. Noon came and went, then 2 p.m., before I was finished. But nothing. Then as I'm leaving, some madman goes running out of the store, and runs straight into a city bus, blowing up himself and 40 passengers, an inferno. The note had been in a pair of pants ... damn it! But 'every little bit helps,' I'm telling myself.

This actually taught me a lesson, that to catch terrorists, you need to think like a terrorist. We think they sleep in the day when we're all awake. That's what they want you to think. But, thinking like a terrorist, why would they do that? No, naturally they'd sleep during the night just like anyone else. But they're tricky, see? That's actually what they want us to think. Taking it one step further, they do sleep during the day when we're awake. Then use the "cover of night," when we least expect it, to do their flight training.

So I went to the airport, the local airport, late at night. I flashed my ticker tape at the door and got right in. I yelled, "Stop that plane!" They radioed out and brought back a disgruntled man in a business suit. The president of our biggest industry, headed for a convention. So we let him go. Next, I told them to stop a second plane. The boss of the airport headed for a convention. So we also let him go.

That left a third plane. But by now I was gun shy and didn't stop him. I made a mistake! He simply took to the air and immediately shot down the other two planes, killing both distinguished men and their pilots and fleeing. Next time, I resolved, slamming my fist on the desk, that guy gets stopped first!

If Your Name Was Judd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now Hiring Groomer

You know what is one of the toughest jobs to get someone for? Maybe you'd think it'd have to be ambulance driver, triage nurse, or mortician, something that involves the depths of human pain and suffering. Because who in their right mind, besides Mike Rowe, would want to do those jobs? Someone who's simply in it for the money, that's who! So, no, the toughest job to get someone for is none of those. It's actually ... dog groomer.

There's a dog washing business over on the other side of town that I sometimes drive by. And I've noticed, ever since I first saw the place a few years ago, that they have constantly had a sign in their window advertising for a dog groomer. I can only imagine what the problems are, but I'm sure my imagination isn't too far off the beam. And no doubt you know this for yourself. Because you don't have to think about it for even a second: You'd never want to be a dog groomer!

I have my own dog -- Underbrush -- and sometimes I have to groom her. I make the attempt. It's a thankless task, believe me. She has a dog's brain and doesn't understand that I'm trying to do something good for her, undo some of her tangles, the matting, and get out burrs and things. I named her Underbrush for a reason. It's like a thicket in there. For all I know, there's a hidden treasure in there somewhere, which no one will ever find. I've broken the heads off more than one shaver, and I've never once seen skin.

So if the problems you have with your own dog are legion, imagine for a second how terrible it'd be to handle someone else's dog. Dogs are a suspicious animal. They don't like strange hands near them. They're ever on their guard, looking to reach around and bite you off at the wrist. I've heard that the better dog washing businesses try to do their work in a holistic, respectful way, never putting a muzzle on the animal, but always trying to reason with it, or treat it so respectfully that it'll get the positive message and settle down. Fat chance, of course, which is why the muzzle's never too far from reach.

But the owner is standing there, watching his "little baby," in actuality a man-eater, and the groomer want-to-be has to use kid gloves, and baby the silly beast along as best as he can. Before they can get the muzzle, the owner, on average, has to witness four close calls, then they consent. Right there's a mark against the groomer trade, because it should be at least three strikes you're out. No one wants to put up with that. Four times the dog will get lucky.

Then the dog has usually been let go until it's too late to do any good. Because people are poor, their first instinct isn't to waste their money on dog grooming. It's only when they've thrown their hands up for the hundredth time, and given up, that they resort to the dog groomer. So our dog groomer -- this sad sack -- is sitting there and sees the dog come in, looking like an overgrown shrub with or without eyes. It's a thicket, like a giant sticker bush. In the amount of time they can allot to each dog and still make a profit, they can't make it. They'll be working forever, making the dog's owner grouchier. So if they think they're going to make back lost money on tips, they can forget it.

Probably the key thing we're up against here is that a dog is part of nature, like a grizzly bear. It was never meant to be babied and groomed. It was meant to live its life in the wild, and if its grooming became life-threatening, it simply died. Man has actually overcome a lot of the things of a dog's nature -- all the breeds of dogs we have, etc. -- but there's one thing you can't overcome, that grooming is foreign to their nature. Underbrush loves me to death, but she stares daggers if she sees the shaver...

Honestly, the best way to groom a dog is to leave it alone. I went hunting with a guy whose dog came out of the trees with a skunk in its jaws. That dog stunk something fierce. But do you think we could legitimately take it to a dog groomer to get cleaned? That'd be a farce. They can't find a dog groomer, for one; the sign says so. And even if they could, a dog with a skunk is going to fail the entrance exam.

The only way to groom that dog was to leave it there. My friend put his coat in the ditch, so the dog would have a reference point. Then we left. Three days later he went back. By now the dog had found a pond somewhere and bathed. Then he had rolled in the grass of a thousand fields -- we saw the burn-over left by the skunk fumes to prove it -- then he returned to the coat. He was good as new. No groomer would do all that!

Paradise Restored -- The Monk and The Nun

In my opinion, this has to be the happiest story ever. If you're ever down and blue and want a happy story to cheer you up, anytime, anywhere, please bookmark this page, then you can return to it time after time. I know I'm going to, because, frankly, there are those times when even I, an ordinarily cheerful person, need a lift. Here you get that lift! This is a story of "Paradise Restored."

We're all familiar with "Paradise Lost." Not only was it a great poetic work by John Milton, beyond him it is a concept, from Milton's point of view biblical, but really a common story in humanity's experience. Even if it's something as minor as a child's disappointment over a toy. But we're not all familiar with "Paradise Restored," which also was one of Milton's works, but not nearly as good. I for one haven't bookmarked it.

OK ... on with the feelgood experience of a lifetime ...

This is the story of two young lovers, probably a lot like Romeo and Juliet, head over heels in love. As is typical with two hot hormonally-driven kids. You probably remember the feeling. Nature is calling, and, by God, if your soul mate isn't standing right in front of you! Two legs, nice smile, and all the rest. You fall immediately into one another's arms, and pretty soon it's all over ... all but the intense guilt. "I'll never do that again ... Nor shall I!" But how's it going to go three days from now?

Well, in this case, of A and B -- him and her, respectively -- they saw the vanity of it all, the flesh, and immediately withdrew after that one time. They were true to their word: "I'll never do that again ... Nor shall I!" A immediately joined a monastery, B a convent. (These institutions were some religion other than Catholic, since neither A nor B were Catholic.)

The Father Superior and the Mother Superior, both, were skeptical. They weren't sure of their vows. So to test them, they sent them to a place for that purpose. Two towers across from one another with a direct line of sight between them. The stairways down were clear, the doors unlocked. All they had to do was motion, one the other, and they would be joined again somewhere in the middle.

But they were among the lucky -- I should say, the disciplined, those true to their vow -- that they were able to withstand the temptation. Not that temptation was that great. They had made vows and they stuck to them, incorporating the essence of the vow into their thinking, into their very marrow. If you read about the three gunas in the Bhagavad Gita, they lived the good one all the way. They weren't concerned about the fruits of their actions. And they were way beyond dark inertia.

Both windows remained open, the line of sight ever clear. They could look across whenever they chose to. But for the most part they were studying their devotionals and finding ready connections between the enduring truths of life and their own thoughts and essence. They had some little duties for the monastery and convent, like calligraphy and making repairs to cassocks. These duties they tended faithfully.

When it came to lust one for the other, they simply didn't have it. It didn't enter their minds even once. They transmuted all those drives and it became an honorable energy within them that strengthened them more and more in their devotion. What is earthly in most of us, and even devilish, was for them a perfect heavenly stream of light and power. They never -- A and B -- regretted their decision even for a moment and never doubted that their calling from above was real and blessed.

Naturally, then, when it came time for their prayers -- and this was almost constant, not as a task but as a way of life, as immediate and normal as breathing -- there was never a "Forgive me, for I have sinned." It is truly no exaggeration to say they simply experienced bliss upon bliss and grace for grace. Paradise indeed was restored for A & B! May it ever be the same for each one of us ... for you today!

Commentary on the picture -- The dog and fox represent the daily passions of life, which stood at a distance ever calling for attention, but were unheeded. The lobster represents the deeper drives from below, the chthonic impulses, which was never able even to get out of the water. It simply sat there and flexed its claws in vain, wondering why no one cared about it anymore.

What Is It with Sexual Diseases?

Which one of us, in his position, would do any less? If I could be there on the scene, let's say, and I had a personal stake in the issue, or maybe even if I didn't, and had certain knowledge that something permanent and awful was about to happen ... well, I won't incriminate myself as to what I might do. But it'd probably be deadly, approaching a 99.9% certainty.

Look, why should this cad's momentary pleasure -- sick and twisted as it is -- take away this poor girl's health forever? That's quite a tradeoff! One I would definitely try to prevent, if I could. "Come on, honey, he ain't worth it. I've seen what he's got, and I've seen what it's got! It's crawling with it! And you don't want it!" Far from it, if you know what I mean.

I know sexually transmitted diseases are terrible. That I've heard all my life, since I was barely able to even fathom what was going on. And the key thing, that which makes them so bad, is the permanence factor. You  never hear of STDs that are anything but permanent. One you have them, that's it. You're 15 and get on, you're still dealing with it when you're 95. Eighty years of whatever: bleeding, itching, breaking out, terrible rashes, runny spots, etc. ... I don't want to get too graphic, not this early in the post.

The first one I ever heard of -- probably in 5th grade -- was venereal disease. (I should say, I'm not a doctor. I am not offering reliable medical information here. I certainly am not able to diagnose any disease. And I'm not going to try ... keep that nasty thing far away from me.) Venereal disease, aka VD, was related to me as something down there, that was caught by contact with someone with it. I still believe that is true. It was something soldiers and sailors came home with.

And the worst thing, once again, is the permanence. At that time, and I haven't heard anything different, it was incurable. You might have times of lesser pain and agony, but the same old pain and agony would be back soon enough. You would have trouble going to the bathroom. The problems simply multiplied upon themselves. It's not very funny to read about, I realize, nor is it any great pleasure of mine to write it.

Since those early days, I'm come to understand there are plenty of other STDs. And whether they're related to VD, that I can't say. I've done myself the favor of remaining wonderfully ignorant on the subject. All I know is I would avoid all contact with anyone until they were proven to be healthy. Among the other STDs I've heard of are chlamydia, gonorrhea, AIDs, and I think there's a handful of others, which I can't think of now. Yeast infections??

Once again ... we get back to the permanence of these sons of bitches. They can cure virtually everything else, from dandruff to cancer. (Seriously, even cancer can be put on the run, thanks to radiation, chemo, and occasionally a prayer from a well-paid televangelist.) You can cure (or outlast) measles, mumps, chicken pox, and even the shingles. You can endure and/or treat arthritis, pneumonia, halitosis, catarrh, rheumatism, piles, the dropsy, water on the knee, toe fungus, ankle pain, hemorrhoids, dog breath, Italian breath, rickets, polyunsaturated fats, fatty limpids, cuts on your elbow, chigger bites, poison ivy, toothache, hearing loss, blindness, olfactory hallucinations, game toes, quicksand, kryponite, bee stings, ingrown toenails, driver's ed, fish ich, ptomaine, the heartbreak of psoriasis, funny-bone slams, and loneliness. All that and more. But not STDs.

That's just too weird, and if you've got one, I'm sorry. The idea that this one thing besets us -- and all because we wanted to have a good time and possibly breed. It's only natural. But, no, we're simply stuck, forever stymied, forever frustrated, with no way out ... but to become monks and nuns and live out our days shut in, taking cold showers and bundling ourselves up in diapers with Super Glue adhesive. I'm at a loss. Mankind has been defeated, despite our best science.

Is there any way around it?

100 Naked Ladies Jumping the Fence

The doctor gave me something for the troubles with itching I've been having lately. It turned out the problem was a mix of poison ivy and chiggers. A bad combination. So now I'm taking medicine for it, which the doctor said would probably keep me wired and awake nights. Of course her words were repeated in my mind a thousand times as I tried to get to sleep last night. It would've been better if she'd just kept her mouth shut, or said you'll sleep like a baby. Because I know this is 80% mental. If you think it, it happens. I could not get to sleep, whatever I tried.

I thought, I could count sheep, then systematically aroused a mental flock in my mind, jumping as they do, one by one, over a fence in a pleasant pasture. I know from frequent experience with jumping sheep that they're used to it, they don't care, and, anyway, it's usually 10 minutes effort tops, nothing to complain about. And they're free to go back to whatever they were doing.

But the sheep weren't really catching my fancy, and I kept getting up to check one thing or another. Back to bed, then I was up again with an idea I had to jot it down, etc. My inner voice said, "You're not even giving it a chance." To which I snapped, "Yeah, well, you don't know what I'm doing, so shut up and leave me the hell alone!" Talk about wired, cussing out my inner voice! I owe myself an apology.

Then the idea suddenly hit me, Why not call forth a bunch of naked ladies to jump the fence? Just the prospect of lining up 100 girls would be appealing, yeah?  But it turned out to be harder and less satisfying than I had hoped. For one thing, they're not sheep. They had many complaints: "You brought us out here for this?" "Where are we anyway?" "Why are we naked?" And a few covered themselves like they were ashamed.

I looked over at a bus driver, and he shrugged, as if to say, "They've been that way the whole trip." I had to wonder: I only had this idea five minutes ago and someone organized a trip, which would've taken hours? Someone had to find the ladies, get them to consent to a trip, explain to them they would be nude, find the buses, the bus drivers, and others to take care of their comfort needs along the way, etc. The logistics being extraordinary for such a potentially minor outing -- with me likely to go to sleep in 10 minutes -- it had to be UPS! And who's paying them? Who's taking out the taxes, keeping track of the bookwork, and all that? Life is complicated. You can't eat, sleep, or even die without it being big business.

Regardless of all that -- and I never found out the answers -- there they were, 100 of the finest naked women this side of my wildest fantasies as a 14-year-old, which were normally far more exciting than those of a 60-year-old. A lot of these gals were clearly old enough to know better, and actually one had no qualms about ruining it for me. "I ain't jumping over no damned fence, sugga," was what this flashy woman said. I helped her with her purple kimono -- I could tell she'd had a hard scrabble life -- and suggested she sit this one out on the bus.

That left me with 99 who were more or less game for jumping the fence. That is, after we wasted a bunch of time talking it over. "No, seriously, I really want you to jump the fence." I got various responses. Again, some were covering themselves, talking it over with boyfriends, saying they wouldn't, etc., and, "Who are you anyway?" I patiently explained again, "I'm just guy trying to get to sleep." Then I had a question of my own: "What are you doing naked in my thoughts if you don't know me?" "This is no good," one of them said, dismissively. But once the others started, she didn't sit out.

But then it became very clear very fast that the jumping wasn't going to work. Only a few gals managed to jump. We had some dives, some side straddles, and one Fosbury flop. In each case they were banged up pretty badly. These girls weren't at all used to the basics of fence jumping, which UPS might have considered when picking them. After a while, if I wanted to salvage anything, I really had no choice but to simply open the gate and let them walk through.

OK, so they're walking and I'm counting: "1, take a look and let her go. 2, take a look at let her go. 3, take a look..." Then the bus driver came up to me and said, "What are you doing, bro, just counting? I'm not complaining but that's it?" "Yes," I said, "were you expecting something more?" Then I looked across the field and saw such an assortment of beds, bathtubs, hotel attendants, and druggists stocked with all manner of protection, that I could only think, "Such logistics, UPS had to have done this!" But someone had gotten ahead of himself, since counting was all I had in mind.

And yet ... as they passed, 1, 2, 3, etc., it was working its special magic on me -- something of the sparkle of life that you don't get counting sheep. 40, 41, 42. A lot of bowing and blowing of kisses. 50, 51, 52 ... hey, don't forget 55, wow! By now I had really stretched out and was taking it in, stretched on my bed, that is. We got to 60-something and I felt like Hefner, warm in his terrycloth bathrobe. The 70s passed, which was an international group, mostly Eastern European. Lots of odd looking hairdos and tough muscular gals doing boastful leg squats, very unappealing. By the time the 80s passed, I was happy for the change, as these were some of the ladies from home, about my age and relatively uncomfortable in the nude. But they were reasonably well-kept, better than me, frankly.

Then the 90s came, and -- please, may I have a moment? -- we were getting much warmer. I literally fell in love 10 times. But the love I had for the first nine was nothing like the love I had for the last one, Number 99! I love you, 99! UPS kept the best till last, the sweetest, coolest, and most beautiful girl of my dreams!

I should explain. She looked like everything I've ever wanted. You know? Miss July meets Farmer's Daughter meets Mom-as-a-Teenager meets Joan Jett meets Hayley Mills. And a great personality, whoa! And she also writes a blog, the female version of mine, and she's also very obsessive/compulsive! The perfect match! We were locked there in a feverish embrace, rolling around, grabbing one another like the supermarket sweepstakes. I was going for the bigger stuff, almost too much to handle. She also was going for the bigger stuff, which I know by experience can be dynamite.

Suddenly, and unwelcome to one and all, there was a clouding over of the sky and a torrential downpour. The heavens opened with such fury, it couldn't be stopped, a terrific deluge. Everyone ran for cover, myself and my darling 99 included. But as I trudged along, my feet became sore from sinking in the mud, and I felt myself becoming so sleepy that I collapsed. I was only able to look up once more, and saw 99 had also slipped in the mud. But by now I was gone, I couldn't help her.

You Can't Dress a Wound at the Library

All of us are amateur doctors. Sometimes we have to doctor ourselves. First aid and beyond. Taking care of things that have festered and erupted or that have been picked. That's your experience, too, isn't it? No big deal. Nothing to make a federal case out of.

This being then our common lot in life, wouldn't it stand to reason that you would be welcome to do your doctoring anywhere? That's definitely the way I see it. You don't want to bleed to death because you're untreated, or allow infection to get in there and make things worse. So.... where's that leave us?

Well, apparently there's one isolated place in the world where you're not welcome to doctor yourself, the library. Ordinarily this would come as a real shock to me. I used to think libraries were like centers where the next Renaissance could break out at any minute.

But over the years I've repeatedly seen that bubble burst, with all the things they don't allow: Children checking out adult books, anyone who might want to read their Bible and/or pray to do so, and anyone to read the daily newspaper without having to go through the histrionics of putting their keys or other valuables up as collateral. It's ridiculous the things they do. Oh yeah, of course, they don't allow sleeping. Although I'm given to understand that each one of them sleeps on a daily or nightly basis. Yes, I'm bitter ... but I'm trying to tamp it down.

They have this one old gal, very narrow eyes, prominent nose, hair pulled back tight in a bun, very pasty features, high collared, and puffed out dress like an iron maiden. An old schoolmarm reincarnated from the 1910s. Sucks on a lemon before coming out of the coffin they keep her in. Doesn't really walk, just floats on a cloud of hate. She's got her finger on the pulse of every activity, to discern it, then grab it in a stranglehold. It'd take a wooden stake, a gallon of hemlock, and a truckload of garlic to get rid of her. I certainly wouldn't waste silver bullets without a backup plan. It'd be interesting to know what she was like as a girl. No doubt a fearsome little prune.

Well, she was lurking about, just like clockwork, right when I needed to change the dressing on a sore on my arm. A small little sore it was, nothing particularly infectious to anyone else, I'd say. It started as a mosquito bite, then I scratched it raw. It joined with a second bite, then a third. The mosquitoes had zeroed in right there, like dive bombers trying to systematically take out the arm, methodically hitting it in the sweet spot. So I put on it a dollop of Neosporin and a bit of dressing, a bandage. Then I believe in changing the dressing frequently, every 7 to 12 minutes right on the dot.

OK, I got it accomplished a couple times, when, guess who came floating by? She must have been sniffing the air and following the breeze. But the first couple times I was done and had my dressings hidden in my stuff. I aimed my eyes studiously at the book and waited for her to drift out of sight. Ghostly! My forehead's still moist from the anxiety. My hands were shaking. I had to look like I was having withdrawal pains from something!

The next time I was more careful, getting up and going over by her station. It looked like she was involved in an ongoing project, pulling the wings off a pile of flies, some kind of weird experiment, so I returned to my place and got my stuff out. I'm imagining her nose went up quickly, smelling it, because out of nowhere she reappeared, looking particularly noxious. She's always bold, in this case telling me that dressing wounds isn't allowed in the library, and insisting that next time I would be dragged out, and perhaps flogged in the parking lot. She didn't use those exact words, which I don't recall, but with her it'd have to be something medieval.

I'm actually still here, but I'm trying to be on my best behavior. I might bleed to death if I leave. The wound is oozing some kind of vile corruption. It's been dripping on my pants for the better part of an hour. I might need to seek out professional help, if there's anyone with that much expertise. Get someone who knows about mosquitoes and what's going on with them. I think maybe they've interbred with wolves. You get a deep chunk bitten out of your arm like this, and it's itching to boot ... it leaves very little room to scratch, so sometimes I have to scratch the other arm and hope for sympathetic relief, a crosscurrent.

I hope I survive. Is that so much to expect? I still believe I have things to live for. I have a daily newspaper subscription I just mailed in the check for two weeks ago. Someone needs to feed my dog. I've got plants to water, including tomatoes. Plus there's always spite. Sometimes, dammit, I keep living just out of spite, pure cussedness. A lot of people want me dead, these librarian bastards for one. They see me as a thorn in their side. Sure, they keep up the renaissance facade, but someone -- me -- keeps pulling the mask off. If they didn't have so many good books and CDs I'd say, Shut the whole place down!

I'm not for sure the iron maiden isn't eavesdropping on me typing this. She has a computer in front of her. Probably knows how to use it. If you were so toxic that people couldn't stand to be around you, wouldn't you look for every advantage? Some use the computer out of goodwill, and some with bad. I suppose I should rejoice that people use them at all. If it betters them. Or hones their craft. Although in this case, when it's pure evil, whether that should be encouraged remains debatable.

No doubt she has her reasons. And probably even a weird, perverted sense of joy ... Which, honestly, I guess would be kind of fun, to nail people left and right for offenses, if you're into that. It'd be an interesting job. Except my personality is more or less such that I'd allow almost anything. Then people would be running wild and I'd suddenly realize, I should have been more strict. Still, she could loosen the puss strings a little, couldn't she? ... get the sour off her face.

Oops, gotta go! She's floating this way!

The NSA Cleans Out My Garage

The news reports are telling us these guys -- the National Security Agency (NSA) -- can do anything. They're able to keep track of every call you've ever made, every piece of mail you've ever sent or received, and every note your friends used to pass in school. There's nothing they're not good at! Giving lie to the old complaint that the government can't do anything right.

Seriously, with this record of efficiency, we need them to keep going and take over the rest of the government. Get in there and start with Congress. Congress can't get anything done, anything that does anyone any good. Put the NSA on the job. Start right at the top and maybe they can accomplish something. Then they can work their way down. Far down, as in helping each one of us with our day to day lives. I know I could use some help cleaning out my garage.

And if they didn't want to do it just to be nice guys, maybe I could trick them into doing it. Sort of like Tom Sawyer and the fence, except I'll have to drop hints that maybe there's something incriminating in my garage. They're actually is ... more about that later ... but by the time they get here, of course I'll have that stuff safely tucked in the hidden room I've been building. Which is right there in the garage, but it's small -- they probably won't notice it.

For the most part, all I have in my garage is the typical everyday crap of life. Stuff that would overrun the house if I kept it in here. Nothing too important, but still too good to just throw away. Old books, records, rugs, lamps, a typewriter, and just boxes and boxes of miscellaneous stuff. There's quite a few Christmas decorations, some of which are only in sacks, and some of those are tipped over. It seems like I step on and break an ornament every time I'm out there. If I can get the NSA to clean it out, that'd be great. Who knows? They might find some unregistered nicknacks, bought with cash at garage sales, very tough to trace.

Then there's the other stuff, which will have to go in the hidden room. I know everyone will think I'm kidding, but that's only because you didn't have a Great Aunt Natasha working as a secretary at the Pentagon in the late '50s and early '60s. The fact is, I have extensive Soviet correspondence from the '60s, going into the '70s. I was one of those kids, thanks to Aunt Natasha, who was a "goodwill pen pal" with Khrushchev, which later bloomed into a nice relationship with Breshnev. For them it was an in with America's youth, hoping to undermine us, but for me, I was only doing it for extra credit in Social Studies.

Still, it probably should've been cleared through official channels. As it was, I was only too happy to fulfill their strange requests. Like going to Air Force installations and using my "secret spy binoculars," which they provided and periodically showed up "to have developed." I never knew what that meant, developing binoculars? Other than that, we had quite a bit of correspondence about the comings and goings of local Civil Defense volunteers. I still remember this one old guy from town and the day his Jeep blew up. Must've been something wrong with it.

Natasha's husband, our Great Uncle Boris, was also a help. Anything he needed, us sneaky kids were happy to help him with. Especially if it meant being paid off in rare Russian candy. Which I, ever the entrepreneur, used to trade with other kids for Krugerrands and Cuban cigars. It was very good candy, they say, but the cigars were better. There was more than one bright side ... The kids at my school did great on international affairs quizzes.

Later, and this is stuff I shouldn't mention; it's all more recent, there were Uncle Osama and Uncle Saddam, not really uncles but that's what they called themselves. Wow, the things they used to send! Gift certificates for flying lessons. I always figured they were kidding. And the things they would say! No one could be that crazy, wanting that much destruction for the United States. After all, I was like their favorite nephew. OK, they did tell us they wouldn't completely destroy America till they got us to safety. So we didn't say anything to the cops. Those records will go in the secret room, for sure.

I just got back from the garage. And speaking of Christmas decorations, there's a bag of ribbons on the floor that must puff up with air by miracle, because every time I try to walk through the garage, I step on it, and I can hear the air hissing out again. Weird. The things I put up with.

I looked around and there isn't much else that would be incriminating. I have a hymnal from Burma out there. But that's nothing to worry about, is it? Only the channels I went through to get it, it probably involved some persecution. And maybe a death or two. I need to hide it.

Hitler Loved Vegetables ... But I Digress

Well, folks, you may remember me saying it, my annual physical's coming up, next week. And like any test worth taking, I've been cramming for it. I started in May, eating right and getting regular exercise. I may have tapered off on the exercise, since it's so extremely boring, but I've kept up on the eating. Cold turkey, I dropped ice cream, all desserts, cookies, bacon, sausage, etc., and I've been 99.9% successful.

So when next week gets here, and I go in there fit as a fiddle, I'll be happy. The doctor will tell me I have 40 years to live (I'm now 60), and I'll come home happy. Really, it's then that I'll face the true test, how much I'm able to keep my present discipline. In some ways, eating my vegetables seems like the most natural thing, and in other ways, it's a real challenge. It's definitely hard to keep them fresh. Even in the fridge, they wilt and turn weird colors, and get slimed over. Like everything, they're in the process of rotting, which is very hard to staunch.

Speaking of vegetables, you know who loved vegetables? Hitler. Which is something to think about next time you recommend them to someone. You'd think anyone so into butchery would be carnivorous. I just learned it this week, Hitler was a vegetarian, a nonsmoker, a teetotaler, and more or less abstained from sex. I think I heard he was missing a chromosome, so maybe that governed some of his choices, as well as his general unruliness. Definitely not a guy to mess with...

I've long known he was a badass from way back, I just didn't know the extent of it. But his mind was rotten, and now I think I know why: Poor refrigeration of vegetables. They were going bad and he was eating them anyway. It's tough enough with modern refrigeration. What'd they do back then? They had to wait for the iceman to bring a chunk of ice. And since Hitler was so afraid of being assassinated, by the time the iceman cleared security it was melted. But I digress.

Anyway, my physical's coming up. And I've always thought my doctor is a hard guy to please. He barely knows me, for one, which is my own fault -- if I weren't generally so healthy I'd be in there more often. So every year when I show up, it's like we're starting from scratch. We've never been able to form any kind of relationship. I'm sure he reviews my file, then comes in and acts like he basically knows me. We've just never gotten close.

It kind of reminds me of John Wayne, really. I'm thinking back to the '50s. John Wayne had a wife he couldn't get along with, maybe he didn't know her well enough when they got together. One thing led to another and they ended up in divorce court. By now she had developed expensive tastes, being married to a Hollywood star, and naturally she thought she needed some big alimony, something like $9,000 a month! Which was huge money back then, even if it's chump change now.

The judge, as the story goes, looked at her somewhat askance. "You say you need $9,000 a month?" I'm making up the quotes, "I find for the plaintiff in the amount of $1,100 a month, case closed!" Well, John Wayne got a big grin on his face, and his fans, packing the courthouse, erupted in applause. His wife, Mexican by the way, was downcast. But I digress.

As far as my physical goes, you're probably dubious that I had such a strong will that I was able to stop eating desserts and all that. Yet, it's true. But I'll admit, it's hard. One of my favorite places to go is DQ. It's so easy. They've got the soft serve and all. I love it, and just writing about it's giving me a craving. A big old ice cream cone -- I like the vanilla ones dipped in chocolate, a large. I try to savor it, which works for a while, until I can't stand it anymore, and it's quickly down the hatch!

I was thinking of this just yesterday when I drove by the lake. I remember a crazy story, which tells you something of how the earth works. You might remember, Florida has some crazy sinkholes. A few months ago the earth gave way and swallowed some guy, him, house and all. Well, the same thing's happened with entire lakes! This one was sometime in the '70s -- remember it? It was Lake Grady -- a sinkhole opened up right there at the bottom of the lake and drained the whole thing! Afterwards, they said it looked like a desert!

That'd be insane, if you were out on Lake Grady in a boat at the time. You might actually end up going down the hole like a bathtub drain. The only way you'd escape is if you had enough hair on your head to stop it. More likely, you'd be headed toward the middle, then realize, "A sinkhole!", and start up the motor. Which would be a great time to have a good motor! Definitely, if you own a motor, you want to keep it in good shape. It's like a car engine, it can go bad. And you never know when an ounce of prevention might save a stitch in time. But I digress.

I personally don't like living dangerously, which is why I schedule an annual physical. That way, if the doctor finds anything that needs to be addressed, we'll take care of it. So I'm expecting good things, for sure. And even if there's something wrong, which wouldn't likely be much, since I feel so good, we'll fix it.

I know some people like to live dangerously, so they take the bull by the horns. You hear of all sorts. For some, they even make it their profession. Like tightrope walkers. We had the guy a few weeks ago who walked across the Grand Canyon on a tightrope, or tightwire. He was praying to Jesus, who was telling him, "Yes, I hear prayers, but don't be an idiot ... I've given gravity the final word in these cases." Thankfully, the guy made it.

It's an old profession, tightrope walking. I looked it up, and found a reference to a guy way back in 1905. "Reno, The King of Wire Walkers!" On that occasion, they strung a wire between the two tallest buildings in town, in Muscatine, Iowa. Reno was going to walk it with wooden shoes, stand on his head, and ride a bicycle across the chasm. Just the thought of it gives me the willies. Although I take some relief in the fact that it didn't really matter if he made it, because obviously by now he would've been dead anyway. But I digress.

Squatchs Is The Craziest People

I've seen a couple episodes -- bits and pieces -- of the TV shows about people looking for Sasquatch, Bigfoot. First, my opinion of TV drops by the day, with every moron (except me) having his own show. Don't you think I could have a show? We have cake shows, gator shows, turtle shows, hog-fishing shows, children with their own shows, redneck shows, Bigfoot shows ... there has to be room for one more. Me just staring at the camera till I get a cute idea. Who blinks first, me or the viewers? Sounds similarly smart...

It seems that finding Sasquatch -- or Squatch, as he's familiarly known -- is one dead end after another. There's one grainy 28 seconds film of him from 1966. The rest is commentary. Yes, they try to be proactive. They take their night viewers out in the forest and look for him. You can probably guess what happens next? Just missed him.

I was thinking what it'd be like to be the secretary of the Sasquatch Seekers Society. You'd go into it thinking, "Wow, I'm on the front lines of history. We're gonna find Bigfoot and be famous. How hard can it be? With satellite technology, heat-seeking gadgets, video cameras that can be placed in every tree, various entrapment devices along the way, high-powered weapons, and trained seekers, it doesn't seem like Bigfoot could remain elusive for long. Especially since he's a beast that doesn't actually know we're looking for him. And even if he has an inkling about it, he certainly doesn't share our technology and resolve. Piece of cake!"

Then the meeting starts. You're poised with your pen, only to take notes on a rehash on the '66 film, that indeed Sasquatch walked up a particular hill, looked back at the camera, then disappeared behind some brush. Let's review the film one more time, just to be sure. Yep, that's him walking up a particular hill. Yep, he's now looking back at the camera. And, by golly, there he goes, disappearing again behind some brush. Let's put the film away till next week. When we see it with fresh eyes, maybe we'll see something new.

Of course there's going to be skeptics, always the worst scourge for the true believer. Whom we want to convert as soon as possible. Here's the evidence, all gathered in this thin manilla folder, sketched out in as much detail as we could muster, on this handy 3" x 5" card. Hey, you say it doesn't look like much? It's enough to base an entire show on. Because the viewer never knows, this might be the week we get out there and something happens.

Really, I think that's what you need to do. Actually prowling around the forest, the green light showing your startled faces at every cricket is very dramatic. Don't they sell calls in the back of hunting magazines you can get to simulate the bleats of wounded animals? Various urine scents? That'd be cool. "Bleat, bleat... Pee, pee." And, yes, here comes a hungry Squatch, just broke the animal call, drank the pee, and stole the 3" x 5" card!

We could have a whole episode focusing in on our courage for having spent the night out there. Even if there's no such thing as Squatch, meaning the danger from him was minimal, still, a snake might bite you. Which I'd hate. Or mosquitoes. Probably worse. With snakes, you can see them reasonably well. But mosquitoes are so small and devious, it's tough to get a bead on them.

OK, so I'm the secretary, as described above. I need to summarize the many reports that are coming in from all over the forest. There's lots of noises, very eerie out here. What's that?! I'm checking it out. I heard a noise down there. OK, it was a family of grubs building a nest. Ouch, a family of grubs?! LOL. But let's get closer to the stream. Squatchs have to drink, right? Stands to reason. What's that?! I hear some rustling around over by that little dam. Which -- I'm getting closer, ever closer -- appears to be ... yes, it is ... a family of beavers sharpening their teeth on a sapling. Damn! A family of beavers and a family of grubs, all in one night?

Must-continue-believing! That in spite of scientists having had no trouble already finding most of the thousands of species of life on earth, this elusive creature is still out there, unseen, except for that day in '66. It seems to me -- and really, I'm nothing -- that if there's one, there has to be more. Like his mom, his dad, then their siblings, then the whole clan, the whole pack, going back many generations. Then home sites, places where they've gone to the bathroom, places where the females are busy nursing babies, etc., etc. Did one Squatch simply fall from space and is waiting for the ship to get back?

Of course we don't have to worry about all that. Because it's a show, and the show must go on! But for our loyal secretary, filling in the minutes and the findings, it's getting frustrating. Page after page reveals the terrible truth: "Same old story ... nothing." "Same old story ... nothing." "Same old story ... nothing." Then nothing but ditto marks all down the page and all the pages following.

He finally leaves the society, after dutifully filing the minutes book on the shelf, very disillusioned. He steps outside and is mauled and eaten by something, either a Squatch or some other UCT (Unidentified Creeping Thing), big as a house, which then walks up a hill, turns to look back, and disappears in the brush.

Disaster! Playing Frisbee Golf With My Cap

I was at the church picnic on Sunday. So far, so good.

You figure you're out with the redeemed, everything's going to be paradisaical. So why did it turn out to be such an embarrassing disaster for me? I'm a nice guy. My sense of justice is crazy overboard, that's how just I am. I just don't believe in false weights and balances.

Lunch was fine, good potluck that didn't quit. Then it was time, after I got invited, for some of us guys to play Frisbee golf. The park's set up for it, with big goals scattered here and there, at the end of the various greens. My big problem was I didn't have a Frisbee, and there weren't any extras. Except, and this is only my suspicion, surely one of the guys had an extra in his trunk. He's got five kids. But how to prove it ... I can't.

Naturally, I tried to beg off. You farks have never noticed me before. Why do you want me to join you? Unless I'm their mission project -- which I hadn't heard of -- or they know I'm going to be at such a disadvantage, they can humiliate me and thereby feel better about themselves?

One guy suggested I use my cap, which sounded unreasonable, but he talked me into it. It has a bill you can hold, and if you give it a good toss, he said, anything could happen. On the other hand, I reasoned, it doesn't have the same sleekness of a Frisbee, or any of the other apparent qualities that might make it particularly efficacious as a flying thing. You can flip it up on the hat rack, beyond that it's best left on the table. Just looking at it, in terms of taking the place of a Frisbee, you see it's got a big hole where the head goes. Wouldn't it seem like the air's going to get up there and play havoc with it when airborne?

The same guy started making chicken noises, which of course was all it took for me to join the game. I'm actually up for anything, within reason, but looking back, I should've gone for something else and just ignored the chicken taunt. I would've done better with a rock, a big stick, a can filled with dirt. Of those three things, a rock would've been best, since it has weight and you can throw it straight with a big heft. But I went with his suggestion and just used my cap.

Right away I was behind. The other four guys took their turns. Some were deadly accurate, another average, and one wasn't good at all, the same guy who suggested I use my cap. Even he showed me up. My hat sailed along pretty good, as far as it could go. It just didn't have the same drive, no matter the force with which I flung it.

Two of the guys got their first goal in no time. The average guy took a little longer. The one who wasn't good at all made it a few tries after him. Then there was me, without exaggeration taking 10 shots for every one shot of the better guys. And it wasn't that I was veering off too much. For the most part, I was throwing it straight. But the floppiness, the lack of a sharp edge, the head hole, the weight, all these factors hampered me.

Due to some of these factors, by the time we got done with the first goal, I was 11 points behind. And there were still eight holes to go! The second hole was as bad or worse, because it was uphill. The first two guys were terrific, as before. The average guy kept his place. And the poor guy was just as bad, throwing it with next to no sense. Just couldn't get the hang of it. So how embarrassing for me to have to concede, he was still better than me, by far. The wind was coming down the hill, that very direction, making my hat catch it and sink. I was something like 30 shots behind. The weird thing was how the poorest player reveled in my misery.

OK, it was time for the third hole. This was not uphill or downhill, but across. The wind being unpredictable, some of my tosses were totally off. The game had proceeded apace, the great being great, the average guy being average, and the poor guy poor. Then me. Now, I'm not one to complain that much about my place in life, but I'm usually the average guy. It screwed up my sense of self as well as my confidence to be coming in last. And yet, because these are guys from my church, I couldn't cuss a blue streak, which likely would've helped. I didn't want to damage my carefully cultivated holier-than-thou image. The poor guy was really bugging me, though. The good guys acted nonchalant about it, probably hoping I'd quit so they wouldn't be wasting so much time.

That's the "voice" (which I imagined) that I went with. "Guys, I'm better than this, I really am. I just can't get any lift from my cap. I don't know what's wrong with it. Probably needs a new bill, or maybe the material in the headpiece is just too flimsy. I've had it for a long time, and I think it's lost its form. It's been stretched, it's well used." Indeed it is well used, my doctor having recommended a cap to help prevent skin cancer.

The guys who were great were cool with me dropping out, the average guy semi-cool, and the poor guy was royally pissed. "Come on, it's better not to start a game than to drop out in the middle. Didn't the Lord say, 'He who looks back is not fit for the kingdom of God?'" "Yeah," I said, wanting to tear into him worse, "But Bible scholars are divided on that verse having anything to do with Frisbee golf." He was cussing under his breath. With me dropping out, that meant he was in last place. His only hope to make any kind of respectable showing was for me to play with my hat.

You know what? He's the guy I suspect having an extra Frisbee.

My Next Life in the 28th Century

I'm becoming an old man in the current century. I'm literally 60. And now I'm getting dizzy if I lay on my right side. That's no good. Obviously, I can't go on much longer. 20 years goes by too fast, and next thing you know I'll be 80, with even more problems. I'll probably be dizzy all the time. So I have to make plans for what's next, what's to become of me.

My idea, which I think is pretty good, has been to make careful arrangements to be cloned in the future. I'm looking toward a distant time -- the 28th century -- figuring that by then cloning will be old hat. Plus, you know, it just sounds good. The 28th century, a nice round number. And distant enough that I can look forward to a fresh start, but not so distant that I'll be dead forever. It might be like the first time I was born: Billions of years passed and I didn't even notice it. What's 700 years?

I'm also optimistic about the 28th century for another reason, that I've always had great faith in the younger generation. These are people who won't even be born for another 600-700 years. Realistically, you can't get much younger than that.

To accomplish this, of course I can't just die like everyone else, forgotten. Before that, I need to preserve my DNA, and let the folks of the 28th century know about me. I'm still working on the DNA, although I have already preserved some samples around my place. And as long as I hold out, I'll be working on it.

The 28th century people will know about me because they will be able to refer to this blog. I'm sure, with Google's efficiency and the government's careful preservation of everyone's records, that the content of this blog will outlive me, in my present incarnation, by many centuries. I have given my exact town and address numerous times in previous posts. Also, I have a prepaid full page ad with all the details in the Daily News to be published on January 1, 2750, right in the middle of the century. That seems fail-safe.

"Please clone me so I can come back. I have a great appreciation for 28th century culture, which I believe will be greatly enhanced by my actually experiencing it in person. So far, unfortunately, I have nothing but guesses about what it will be. Still, that's a lot more than those around me, my ignorant 21st century peers."

Like I said, there are DNA samples on my half acre. I have buried samples of phlegm, dandruff, blood, saliva, etc., with the containers clearly marked and wrapped in grocery store bags, which I'm given to believe will never decompose. I'm also keeping samples at the post office, Box 734. (There are also samples of a more personal sort, which I had quite a time producing. I'm reluctant to mention this, only because I don't want ladies desperate for children trespassing on my property looking for the ideal donor.)

If anyone can think of other ideas -- better ways to get the word to the 28th century -- which I seriously doubt, please leave a comment. But let me just say up front, I've already thought of groundhog holes; I just don't see how to make it work.

OK, what's in this for the 28th century? I think it's win/win, as I'm already a time traveler, one who has already straddled two centuries, the 20th and 21st. I have proved my adaptability in different settings. When I was a kid we had a home phone. Now we carry our phones with us. I can tell them about our great progress. Like how we used to use the same phone in our homes all our lives. But now we need a new one every two years. Plus, I'll be able to tell 28th century archaeologists all about our times, how everyone got along so well, except for minor exceptions, like our unfortunate world wars.

What I'm hoping for in the 28th century is the simple life. I figure by then, with the apocalyptic chaos still to come in our time, that life will be generally agrarian, folks keeping it simple, being one with nature, going fishing and whistling. I'm expecting there will be lots of time for reading, pleasant conversation, and congenial village life. Like the Andy Griffith Show, without the conflict.

I'm also hoping, and call me visionary, that when I'm in the 28th century, that I'll be burying my DNA once again, placing a prepaid ad in the newspaper, a sample at the post office, etc., with a message to the people of the 35th or 36th centuries, to clone me again. I'll leave it up to the folks of those centuries to decide which one they think will be best for someone of my tastes and abilities. If the 35th wants me, fine. Or the 36th might tell them, no, they'll take me.