Valentine's Day -- The Love Machine

ELVIS PRESLEY - "The Love Machine"
(Click pic for YouTube video)

Here's a great song for Valentine's Day, Elvis Presley from the movie Easy Come, Easy Go, doing "The Love Machine." I listened to it earlier this morning and now it's all I can think of.

In fact, I'm giddy as Scrooge after his ghostly visitors, with everyone stopping by -- the milkman and paperboy -- both perplexed as to my joy. They must think an old single guy can't be overflowing with joy on Valentine's Day, but they know not the source of my happiness ... Elvis' happiness. He's like my older, more successful brother, and if I stick with him, surely one of these gals will notice me in the shadows. "It may be Susie or Maybelline. She could be Kathy or Angeline. Let the wheel go round, round and round, try your luck right now on the Love Machine."

Beyond me and my love troubles -- and please be in prayer that my many trips around the square tonight are profitable -- I do get some measure of joy, and dare I say, satisfaction, from Elvis' work in this movie, putting the Love Machine out there for his mates in the Navy, that they might immediately get not just the girls' measurements but their phone numbers. (I pixellated all phone numbers on the off chance that they've changed since the mid-'60s.)

One great thing about the Love Machine that gets my imagination running wild is that this definitely beats the dating scene today. I see these guys on TV with their dating websites -- that one old white-haired fart -- and it makes me sick. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned nature, this person sniffing around and this person sniffing around and they happen to bump noses? Every three-legged blind dog hobbling down the street gets a date, how did the human race go so wrong? We've all had ancestors, and the world has even somehow become overpopulated, but now, suddenly, we're such wallflowers we need to go through a thousand computer profiles? Gimme a break.

You say, "Yeah, but what about you driving around the square, tonight of all nights?" OK, fair point, but in my defense, I'm old, wasting away, with bad hair, bad teeth, and conversationally-challenged, the whole bit. You won't believe what I did, though, just yesterday. Knowing Valentine's Day was here, I went out and bought $218 worth of new clothes, true story. But while there, trying on one of the shirts, I caught a glimpse of the back of my head in a three-way mirror, OK? How horrendous! My bald spot's grown! Not only that, the tangle of wild hair around it makes it look like a clearing in the jungle. Big enough to set down a small plane but not big enough for a settlement. That's why I'm so down on my chances.

But all hope isn't lost yet. The Elvis video's great, because it presents a definite alternative to websites. You get the cards and information from many women, put them on a wheel of fortune, and spin it. Take down the number and you're off. It's social media without the computer! They've apparently all agreed to this system, so when you come calling -- if you've got $218 in new shirts and pants and have trimmed your jungle -- they're gonna be up for it. Certainly if you happen to be Elvis himself, or one of his good-looking Navy brothers, it shouldn't be any problem.

Maybe I will try a few of these phone numbers. This movie was made around '66 or '67. If these gals were around 22 then, that'd make them only 70-something now. Heh heh, this is gonna work. I'm only 62, which would be a good match for a 70-year-old lady. So screw the square, tonight I'm spinning the wheel!

February -- State of the Month

We're halfway through February, and the excoriation of this the worst of months has been merciless. I'm doing my best, laying into it with everything I've got. I feel like I can't rest, because in so many ways I'm carrying this whole cause singlehandedly. That's not to say there aren't supporters out there, both silent and vocal, but only that I'm not getting good reports from the field as to any activities.

So now, today, it's time to pause, being halfway through this short, shrimpy month, and take time to evaluate our progress, and see what more we can do. We'll redouble our efforts if that's what's necessary, to make the final push, to destroy February once and for all. Our vision is good, our vision is great, but it will remain but a vision unless each of us does our individual part.

First, the good news. Again, it's been my efforts that have carried us thus far. You can look back through my posts in late January and in recent weeks and see that I've taken the fight to the enemy. There's been resistance, of course. Even a pathetic 28-day month like February, inexplicably has its share of supporters. It doesn't matter what it is, somebody's a fan of everything, whether it's sadism, tofu, or tattoos. 

But one fight at a time, right? Right now I've got enough on my hands. Media coverage of our cause has been virtually nil. Many folks out there haven't even heard yet what we're doing. That's where you, my supporters, have to take up the slack. I'm not sure what you've been up to, but one thing I'm pretty sure of, you haven't been doing much to help. I'm going to ask you -- no, I shall demand -- that you get up off your flat ass and get busy. You supposedly want this thing as much as I do, only you have a funny way of showing it. I'm sorry if I'm coming across as harsh, but, friends, we have to strike now, and make a mockery of February now; because once it's over, the public will forget the little bit they have heard.

Let me thank you for the many "Attaboys!" I've gotten. Many of you are very faithful, at least to the point of paying lip service to a good cause. It's just that, yes, you're a lot like the rest of the general public, lethargic if no one's physically lifting you off the couch, putting your hat on, and pushing you out the door. I knew a few deadbeat kids like that in school, and of course they've grown up and aren't much better as adults. I'm simply asking you to change your ways temporarily, until we win this fight.

There are others of you, I've heard, who are essentially laid up and think you can't do anything. I was inspired to get a note from a guy who was literally 950 pounds midway through January, but because he believed in this fight, in solidarity with me he refused to eat, and he shed 700 pounds. This is true. He went from 950 to 250, but unfortunately died. Let's win this thing for him!

I've also gotten notes from some of you who hate February but say you can't get out and do much. You're on disability or whatever. But I'm going to ask you to do something, to show that what you say is true, OK? I saw this on TV so I know it works. If you could send your best gift -- I don't care if it's $500 or $1000 -- whatever you can put together, perhaps by hitting up relatives or neighbors -- that would be great. It will pay rich dividends -- that's my guarantee -- when next year at this time we're enjoying a year without February.

Maybe there's even a few of you in a hospice bed, also at your life's end. You know you can't take it with you, but you'd still love to look down from heaven and see a world without February. If that's you, please call in your attorney, and leave your family in the hall (this is just between us), and sign the papers to get the money to me ASAP. When I hear that you've gone to your reward, I promise I'll tip my hat in your general direction.

We can do this, we really can! And I'm going to say something to demonstrate the utmost boldness: With God's help, February shall not stand, not today, not now, not ever! When we've wiped this scourge from the face of the earth, we shall all win!

Get up, then, and join me in this fight. Get up off your couch, turn your TV off, get out your checkbook, and let's have your best gift. February's going down!

Extremely Stupid Recipes

Everyone has their own favorite meals, chosen from the familiar food groups. Steak, potatoes, spaghetti, oatmeal, and miscellaneous whatnot. But it's all so common. Sometimes I wish there were other things besides that, like if everything was edible.

You might have an old desk you want to get rid of. It's a shame to let that much food go to waste. Or how about this, I threw out an old printer a few weeks ago. I'm sure with the right set of choppers and a digestive system more advanced than mine, it might've made a nice diversion from my usual boring fare.

The whole thing reminds me of a tour I took of a psychiatric hospital museum in Missouri. They display a bunch of metal, safety pins, screws, and assorted things some guy ate there years ago. He was on the right track of what would be more desirable, if only we could digest it. It truly did look yummy.

What'd that guy have? Let's establish this much, he had an appetite. What did he not have? Just guessing, I'd say he didn't have a cookbook, recipes. He was simply eating the stuff raw and letting it go at that. But think of it, he could've been fixing delicacies, mixing screws and things with actual food, and perhaps other non-metallic non-food objects, for more of a taste sensation. I might've recommended to him something along the lines of a raisin bread, but instead of raisins the things he obviously craved.

Of course he needed his metal -- that's where you get iron -- but what if there were a few softer bits of wood in this bread, even something fine like the shavings off a small dowel. It'd give just a hint of wood grain flavor, then it'd be nice to have a few safety pins glazing the crust; in addition to being delicious it'd be beautiful. Might've won a blue ribbon, which are also delicious, significantly tangier than red or, certainly, green. Green ribbons need to ripen.

I'm not putting a lot of effort into the following sample recipes, because I know most of you are prejudiced against them. But let me warn you, for my own piece of mind, that you should not try any of these recipes without at least consulting with your nutritionist. And probably your doctor.

The first one is pure food, so you could try this one:

Spaghetti for One
1) Fix a normal batch of spaghetti.
2) Eat all you want.
I like this recipe, since there's no tedious measuring to get a precise single serving.

The others are more off the beaten path, so all warning and disclaimers apply:

Gorilla Stew
1) Capture a gorilla.
2) Since you can't do that, eat a turkey sandwich.
3) But since it's also hard to catch turkeys, have a peanut butter sandwich.
4) Spread peanut butter on bread.

Rubber Ducky Chili
1) Prepare chili according to the standard recipe, with one major change. Use rubber duckies instead of beans.
2) Serve with quackers.

Railroad Spike Soup
1) Boil railroad spike until soft.
2) If the spike doesn't soften in five hours, remove the broth from the pan so it doesn't all evaporate.
3) Boil spike another five hours. On the off chance it never softens, cut celery to resemble a spike.
4) Mix celery with broth.

Macrame and Cheese
I don't have a good recipe for this. Even if I did, I can't sew.

You Live Forever! Roughage

A few days ago I announced I have a new dog. She looks a lot like the picture, except there's no spots. She's pure light tan color, very nice, tight, tidy fur. Quite a bit different from what I had with my last dog, Underbrush, who was true to her name, being wildly furry. With Underbrush you never saw the same dog twice. The current dog, I'm seeing her over and over.

I didn't announce the other day what her name is, but here it is, for your approval, Roughage. The name has some real meaning for me, which has to do with this. Roughage is the dog of my old age, and aging can be rough. I'm actually telling her she's the dog of my old age. Making her the only dog I've ever had that I believe might outlive me.

That's bittersweet, because like any nice human being, I don't want my dog at her wit's end were I to die, wondering where I am. Plus, there's no one to take her if that happened. Although, of course, someone would probably step in and take her. So, depending on how rough my old age is, I might have to really work to hold on extra long, just to spare her the grief.

Another good meaning for Roughage is it's sort of like the boy named Sue. In the song, the dad names his son Sue because he's not going to be there for him. And he knows if he's named Sue, he'll have to fight bullies so much he's more likely to survive. To which I say, "Thanks Dad! Sheesh! How about you just stay here and take care of me? Either that or next time keep your zipper up." I'm not going to abandon Roughage, but if I die, of course she'll have to be rough with a name like Roughage. No bullies.

Maybe other dogs wouldn't even get it, or other people. "What's your name, little one?" "Ruff! Ruff!" That's pretty good, assuming she won't ever be able to enunciate the second syllable.

So she's the dog of my old age. Right now I'm 62 and Roughage is around three months old. In dog years three months is close to 2 years old, right? One year equals seven years for me, so it's conceivable she could catch up with me. Then we'll both be old together. Right now she's full of piss and vinegar, destroying stuff, chewing stuff, kind of a rascal. By then she'll be laying around and completely used to my routine, also laying around.

My big gnarly paw will rest on her back as she snores away, and she'll be like in her momma's womb, that's how close we'll be. I don't know what will happen beyond that, except, as much as I want her to live forever -- like every dog -- it'll be a relief to me if she goes before me. That'll be it, then, no more dogs to worry about and take care of.

But all those days are far away! Right now we'll still spry and having fun "getting to know you, getting to know all about you." Good old Roughage, currently 4.5 pounds of tight fur and wiggling muscle.

The 10 Days of Old February

I've mentioned it a few times that our plan for destroying February actually preserves 10 of its days together. It's really been quite a process hammering it out, as the team often couldn't see eye to eye. We blamed our disagreements on February itself, since, obviously, it always brings out the worst in people. As a great example, I happen to have a headache tonight, very uncharacteristic.

The other days will divided up among the other months. But 10 days, right in the heart of it, starting midway, will remain as a kind of stump. Like when you cut down a tree and leave a stump. Then everyone who passes by taunts that filthy stump, "You're not so tough now, are you, tall tree! You thought you were such a big tree, baddest tree in town, quick to lord it over the rest of us! Now look at you! You're hacked to the ground! Just a worthless stump, no glory, no grandeur, nothing to brag about now, is there? Ha! Of course not! Your day of pride is gone!"

Anyway, the team probably needs no introduction. I insisted on the best, men like myself of impeccable judgment. There's of course one holy man, Pastor Wadd, from my church, who counsels men daily on the folly of sexual addiction. The others -- maybe I could've gotten better, but it's only February we're working on -- are men I knew I could get on a minute's notice. They've never been chosen for anything so it's only right. Each one tends to shoot first and not ask questions. Men after my own heart. Only the best. You've never heard of them so I won't list their names.

I explained the parameters of the task to them. A 10-day stump of old February, with those 10 days being the foul haunt of every crazy thing. Pastor Wadd, naturally, wanted to get his specialty in, as you'll see in the list. I actually spoke against it, because I don't like blue material, but he insisted on the righteousness of his work. Also among the parameters was that each day should be thematic, lifting to the fore the foulness of the month we've destroyed.

First, the 10-day period will be known as "The Scourge of Time." The 10 days will be known as:

1) Trash Talkin' -- I personally like trash talkin'. Depending on your capacity for rage you can really work up a head of steam. As I've confessed before, I even trash talk melting snow: "You heaped yourself in enormous drifts and thought you were so tough! But look at you now, little more than a silly dusting! I need a spoon to scoop you, not a shovel!" The first day is for all of us to trash talk each other, giving them what for.

2) Dry Heaves -- I feel a sickness coming on. I'm queasy, a little lightheaded, down in the gut. But there's nothing there, I haven't eaten since the day before Trash Talkin'. No appetite, worrying about what they'll say about me. So I go around, just dry heaving, which is actually more painful than coming up with something. Because it just goes on and on. With everyone doing it. If you can't think of anything to heave about, I'll be writing some very gross things that day as a public service. Grapes that seem like they're eyeballs, etc.

3) Shivs a' Flashin' -- This is the day that we open every jail and prison and let the prisoners go free! Everyone from simple murderers all the way up to the tougher bastards, given to outright meanness. Of course they'll be up to some mischief. But since we want society to survive, they'll be on their honor to not commit any terrible crimes, and, this is something we'll insist on, they have to promise to return to prison the next day.

4) Piss 'n' Vinegar -- The term's fairly self-explanatory. Lots of piss 'n' vinegar. Whether you want it to be just sassiness, or actual piss and vinegar. There'll be lots of beer drinking and salad eating. Don't forget to watch your step, the gutters will certainly be running yellow that day.

5) Sexual Addiction Counseling Day -- Pastor Wadd's day. He has a curriculum called "Solomon's 1000 Wives." The gist of it's something like this, that all of us have appetites, some small, some medium, some huge. But one man can only handle so much. Wisdom is knowing your limits, then whittling it down, by personal discipline, to one man-one woman. Take me, I could probably handle a convertible full of girls, give or take, but I know better.

6) Mass Maypole -- I've always thought the maypoles of olden days were something on the very edge of impropriety. They have the ribbons, they're going back and forth, and it's all quite dainty. But speed it up, intensify it, and it'd be explosive. It'd be an insane sight. It might even erupt into something that'd make Solomon look like amateur hour, such a bacchanalia, maypolers falling into one another's embrace.

7) Gross Out! -- This is more a day for the kids, sticking their tongues out at each other, disrespecting adults with hand gestures, and making foul noises with their hand under their armpit. I tried that the other day, and something's wrong, I can't do it anymore. I guess my flesh up there's a little too saggy to get the good suction. And to think I used to do "I'm Popeye the Sailor Man" at school assemblies. I even shaved my armpits, hoping to get it back, but no.

8) Cocoon Nightmare -- Anyone originally born during any of these 10 days has been excluded and kept cooped up at home. As though they were in a cocoon the whole time, but storing up enough orneriness and cussedness that when they come out they make it memorable. The rest of us are laying low today, having survived so far and not wanting to tempt fate. It's not called Nightmare for nothing, because their pent-up energy is dangerous. This is actually the day when any dishonorable prisoners from Shivs a' Flashin' are scared straight and head back to the safety of the pen.

9) Mardi Gras -- The great day of celebration, for any devilry that no one's done thus far. Parades, flashing yourself, getting beads, the whole thing. I've never been to Mardi Gras so I'm not sure what goes on. But I'm sure this won't be the usual tame brand.

10) Lent -- The old five-week period of penance and spiritual disciplines is compressed into one day, everyone's faults by now being crystal clear. No measly daub of ashes on your forehead -- Oh no! -- this will be like the Desert Fathers, flagellation with whips and glass shards, nails, the whole works, gargling firecrackers. The life we've lived these 10 days is such that if Lent has any value whatsoever, this is when it'll be proved.

It's All Been Done to Death

"Happy birthday, you!" Oh, and it's another day and another friend, so "Happy Birthday, you, have a great one." Oh man, this is endless. Yes, you were born, and today's your birthday. Hasn't it been done pretty nearly to death?

All these years you've been passing the time, enjoying regular meals. A little this, a little that. Cereal products, different cuts of meat, occasionally grilling. It's nice to see it on the plate, of course, and then you down it and it's all gone. What a lovely memory, unfortunately fairly boring to me.

Your life of growing up was oh so fascinating. You lived in a town much like other towns, or a big city, with challenges of its own. I had an upbringing too, with dear old dad working all the time and mom working as well, raising us kids. I guess my own experiences fit in with many others, which, to a certain extent are quite mundane.

School's one of those constants in life. You had Mrs. Smith in Kindergarten, Miss Jones in 1st, and so forth, right up the list, and those were great memories. But think about it, they're cut and dry, common, run of the mill stuff, basically tedious.

College is even less interesting, except for the experiences you might've had going crazy, which I'd leave out if I were you. Just say you showed up for class, did your work, kept your grades up, and eventually graduated. Yes, it's 100% boring, but some things don't need to be said.

In there somewhere you've had a few love interests. They've come and gone, as is true for the rest of us. When we come to sex, that's one of those areas like college you're not going to talk about. But even if you were to talk of it, we already know the basic moves, and definitely the way it ends. Every animal in the street could tell the same precise story, not even slightly interesting unless, and this is a biggie, you're getting revved up for next time.

Maybe you got married, maybe you had kids. Enjoy your wedding pictures while you can. Someday they'll look outdated. Your mustache will be out of style, your glasses will seem quaint, the colors will fade, the minister's toothy grin will seem out of place.

I like religion, except... so often the story ends the same way, trite, overdone with weird zeal or the lack of zeal. You walk into a church, virtually any church, and you say, "You gotta be kidding me! This is all it amounts to?"

Finally, there's death itself. You've lived all your life for this, your big moment. Even death, then, can be done to death. You're in an accident, you're decapitated, at least that's mildly interesting. Still, what a crappy driver you were. If you didn't know how to handle ice, you should've stayed home. Or you get a typical disease, which, even though there's tons of agony, you might've avoided. Or you have whatever, and you're laying there in the hospice room, listening to the soothing music, and you die. Just thinking of it's about to kill me, from boredom. Move to the Middle East, let them cut your head off. Then you'll have a story to tell.

February -- Stimulant or Depressant?

Among the great questions meant to draw a distinction between two equally true points of view, the classic example is the chicken and the egg, which came first? Further examples are then multiplied: fried or poached, white or brown, original recipe or extra crispy. One choice is as good as the other.

It's not my purpose here, obviously, to examine and answer all the questions man has had over his tortured existence. To do so would be beyond the skills of even me, which is not to say it should not be attempted. The question would have to be Why?, if it can't be done, which is a question for another day. What drives me today, much like the prophets of old, is something much more vital in world debate: February -- Stimulant or Depressant?

When it comes to everyday stimulants and depressants, chemical interactions come into play that settle any debate. We take the substance -- such as sugar -- and examine its interactions in consumption. These are studies, incidentally, that I personally conduct everyday of my life, candy, popsicles, or just straight from the cane. So far, I can say it's all good.

When it comes to the month of February, of course that's a marking of time, different from sugar. Assuredly it's not a chemical compound, subject to the lab. Still, the question is a good one: Is it stimulative or depressing? When we answer that huge question, we will have arrived at the truth.

If the reader will permit a shortcut, just let me say that I haven't asked anyone their opinion. But just looking around the room (I'm at the public library), I'll simply guess that half the people here would say it's a stimulant, half would say it's a depressant, and the rest wouldn't understand the question. Many of them are children; in this day and age I'd be afraid to even talk to them. (Has it ever occurred to you that parents now are the same kids first tethered to dog lines to keep them safe? Naturally they're touchy.)

I have said all that to say this, that I shall be the tiebreaker. For me, February is a depressant. It is well known that I don't like the month, having publicly advocated against it. I've openly sought to have it destroyed as a month, with most of its days then being added to other months, with a 10 day period made up of renegade February days leftover as a kind of no-man's land in time. All kinds of weird things could go on in that period, zombie parades, human sacrifice, Mardi Gras, horror movie marathons, with prayer and fasting (Lent).

For me, it's not just that February tends to be a downer in terms of weather; it's winter's halftime. It's just that I don't like it. The name February reminds me of burrs, or being cold (brrr), or having fur stuck in my throat. I'm choking even now as I write this, trying to hack something up, something not even there. That was also one of my ideas, to rename one of the 10 remaining days of February Dry Heave Day.

Frankly, I'm not even the kind of guy to get down, depressed. For me everyday's a new day, a day of wonder, a day of opportunity, except -- and this is huge -- when February gets in the way. So to say it's a depressant is really to say something; I'm despairing of life itself!

On the other hand, I've been standing boldly, loudly proclaiming my opinion, and even holding forth on the street corner protesting February for most of the last month. And I don't know that I've ever felt better, perkier, and on top of my game. To that extent then, ironically, February has been a stimulant! But the key distinction to be made, before anyone declares victory for the month, is that I can't see myself year after year stimulated while acting for its destruction. Any worthy goal, the success of which is forever in abeyance, for me becomes a depressant. I was late growing pubic hair, so I know what I'm talking about.

The predictable conclusion is that for some people February is a stimulant and for some a depressant. Maybe it's this, maybe it's that. For me, however, and this is where I hold sway, having the final word, February is a major depressant, that needs to be destroyed, now, if not sooner.

The Dogtown Gutters' Ball

As a pet owner myself, having gotten a new dog this past Christmas, I know all about dogs. They can be secretly vicious when things are normal, and openly vicious if they think you're on to them.

Of course my own style of dealing with a dog is to give it anything it wants, letting it gorge itself with food, for example, on the theory that being full it won't go for my jugular in the middle of the night. Sometimes I ask myself, Why, O, why did I get another dog? My other dog, Underbrush, died in December 2013. I told myself, No more! Then, and this was the rub, there was a female dog in the family taken advantage of by a chihuahua, and next thing you know these little guys gestated out.

My current dog, then, isn't very big, 4.5 pounds of wiriness. Tight fur, unlike Underbrush's. She's not nearly as obedient yet, meaning I have to step up the bribery. What's her name? I was thinking of Pitbull, but it's trite to name an animal the opposite of what it is. I don't want to discuss her name tonight.

What I want to get to, rather, is the viciousness and potential viciousness of dogs. Even though they don't usually attack us. They see their food coming in the bowl and they devour it. Of course, you say, but think about it, That's what they'd do with their prey. Just because they're domesticated doesn't mean they're domesticated in the heart, in the DNA; they're still wild animals under wraps, just waiting for an excuse, a made-up threat, to lash out and exact their pound of flesh. I see people's dogs gently pawing their babies on Facebook, and I think, They could turn on a dime.

If you have more than one dog, that's when they're at their worst, since their ancient history is hunting in packs, attacking, devouring, and fighting among themselves. You might be a meerkat or some other little varmint, and if the dog can get you by the softest part of your throat, they'll be ripping feverishly and making a fine meal of you, devouring the entirety and burying the bones for later.

Think of that next time you're outside with Fifi, and she seems to have love for you. She does, when you're looking. But look more closely at the situation, over to the trees just beyond the property line, how the dogs have had it scoped out forever. That's where the pack is, with the alpha dog getting the inside information from your dog, and other dogs farther from the periphery.

It's logistical stuff. Fifi says, He takes me out this time everyday. His scent is such and such. He doesn't exercise, and even if he did he'd never be able to outrun us. In other words, your dog is a traitor, just waiting for the chance to betray you to the pack and enjoy eating you. Seriously, that could be your last experience, the beloved family dog looking into your eyes with its big red, bloodshot eyes, saliva dripping from its fangs. The others push her into the fray. She's given the honor of devouring your brain with one big slurp. Prove you're one of us...

I have really old experience with dogs, when we used to hunt rabbits. It's a freezing cold day. You can see your breath, and really anything hot. You slice a rabbits underside and the hot guts immediately steam. They're a mess when they hit the ground and the dogs fight each other to slurp them up. And that's exactly what they do, slurp, as big a bunch as they can grab. They're voracious, merciless. And they don't care if it's a rabbit ... or it's you!

After that time, I was taught that's their true nature, and I've seen it in action. Neighbors who've disappeared, leaving behind a dog to rest on their grave and fake sorrow. Actually they wish they could get at the remainder of your corpse, not realizing your body has become "corpse soup" and is far from edible, especially when pumped full of mortician chemicals. I'm just glad I'm being cremated. Dogs hate that.

So beware... Next time your dog's dressed up and heading for the Dogtown Gutters' Ball, just make sure it ain't your guts they're going to eat.

How Smart Super Brain Is

I'm just going to admit it today, then let it pass. I am pretty smart. Sometimes the smartest people humble themselves so they don't seem so smart. And, yes, I've been guilty of that many times, like in school. But not today. Today, you're looking at Super Brain, fully exposed.

If you knew me in everyday life, you'd know I more or less live at the library. I'm a regular fixture there, with others nodding to me, giving me a wave, and coming by to ask what I'm researching or interested in today. I love that, too; that's part of the fun of being smart; a symposium can break out at any moment. Our minds being together like that, it's like mentally swimming in the air, drifting up to the rafters. Very stimulating.

Here's another interesting detail to throw in. I'm not bragging, but the library literally invested in a fleet of shopping carts because of me. Some of the staff saw me, the way I go through the library, as though it's a grocery store, picking up many books for the day's perusal. I must have presented quite a sight, my arms loaded down with books, books spilling over, and some even falling to the floor! I'd scoop them up and manage the best I could, but truly it got to be too much.

Now that we have shopping carts, my day starts out in a much more orderly way. I walk in, get a cart, and begin my journey up one aisle and down another. Of course I start in the new books section, where they keep the freshest stuff. I like non-fiction, since that's what keeps me on top of my game in terms of actual knowledge. Fiction's good, I've found, more for concepts "acted out" by characters, and characterizations themselves.

I take my cart down each of the aisles, then, picking up whatever catches my eye as something that would feed me intellectually and stimulate my thoughts. I'm voracious like that, whether by native curiosity, or it could just be another obsession I feel must be fed. I've always been obsessive, and age hasn't slowed it down. Rather, seeing time slip away, I'd say I'm more obsessive. Think of it: I didn't always need a shopping cart for what probably should be a slower pick and choose process. Now I'm so frantic, it takes 20 minutes of breathing exercises to get settled. 10 when I think of time slipping away.

Because time waits for no man, as I just read earlier this morning in Bartlett's, and it waits least of all me, who am always in a hurry, and someone who must be satisfied, whatever it takes, even if some sacrifice is required. I've been up today since the crack of dawn, laboring over my books, then occasionally glancing up at the clock, then redoubling my efforts as time's sped along.

I have that sense right now, in fact, that maybe in sketching out my intelligence for you -- and this labor continues till this very second -- I'm wasting time that could be better spent learning a few more sayings, wisdom, and filling brain cells somehow still empty. That's another thing about age. Brain cells become like cracks around windows on a winter's day; something always needs restuffed. Gotta hurry!

Anyway, to continue on, after my shopping cart (carts) is/are full, it's time for checkout. Everyone stands back as I scan my goods, which can take up to 25 minutes, depending on whether other clamorous intellectuals like me are present. The library then has a kid in a white apron who wheels it out to my car. I make it home, spend the rest of the day at the pursuit of knowledge -- with occasional bathroom breaks -- until the next day, when everything goes back and the process begins again.

It's great being so smart, so very very very intelligent. Super Brain out!

The Most Beautiful Thing

I see a picture like that and my heart goes, "Bing bang boom, gimme gimme something like that, exactly that, that and in that same quantity!" It tells of plenty, like the horn of plenty. I can see the end from the beginning, of course -- it's one of my talents -- but I have enough short-term optimism to set all finitiude aside and say, "Yes, that will do me for a good long while."

Maybe it goes back to when we used to play grocery store, that we always wanted enough, a supply that did not quit. Or just the fact that everything that we have in hand, like the bird in hand, is that much we don't have to scratch for later. In fact there's no scratching, because the vital things of life are taken care of, freeing us to pursue the deeper matters of the spirit. And that's often been what's kept me from the spirit, the sense of lack, needing to get out on a zero degree day to procure toilet paper.

How tough it can be, too, to walk the bazaars, haggling over this much toilet paper. "Who do you think you are, needing that much, while everyone else goes without?" "I know, I know, on the face of it it looks like security issues, kind sir. But sell me this quantity and you shall not see my sort in your exalted shop for a good long time. I will husband each roll, I will keep it above the encroaching floods, I will say 'I shall use this much and no more!', everything knowing its limits, being divinely decreed."

That makes it right. Something that right can't be wrong. To have this much, arms full in hand, and to have it stored on the shelves, properly displayed, in the secret closet, to look at like Midas' millions, that's good. When I first see it, O how I linger, setting aside what I'm usually thinking of, the gnawing reality of finitude. But without really trying, I do mentally posit the limits of this stash. Six months if I'm lucky. I'm turning aside my fellow man for a six month supply.

But to each his own, right? One man hoards fine whiskey, or wine? Artwork, gold, valuable collectibles. Survivalists have their canned goods and ammunition. Learned old men hunch over tomes by their personal fire, guarding their treasure. Trolls are guarding bridges against goat encroachment. "There's gold in them thar hills!" someone cries, and everyone goes running. Except me, I'm not running for that gold, when I've got what I need right here in hand. Call me a Renaissance Man, appreciating the necessities.

I believe someday I will be endlessly happy, in the great forever. This stash of toilet paper goes a ways toward the fulfillment of that day, pointing to it. Were I to have not just these but another dozen rolls, that would be something of a topper, but I'm not sure I'd be happier. Tell not the looters! Maybe they'll never figure it out, even if I fail to make an appearance in the public square like everyone else, clamoring for rolls and using the communal cob chained to the bucket. I will be sly, making periodic appearances, trusting that the supply back home is safe for those moments.

Such worry only attests its worth. Because mankind, his back pressed up against the wall, is always smart. He know this is what he wants. And must have. And that's the rub. I spoke of looters. I hate it, but when desperation runs high, it's obviously easier to be found out. They could cry, "There he is! Get him! We divide the spoil, a little for you, a little for me!" Sorry to end on a down note.

But rejoice today, friends, for the stores are still full of it!

The Chinese Placemat Gang

If you're Chinese -- working in a restaurant or not, and if not we hope you find a job soon -- you've probably been reading with some concerns my recent posts about destroying February and reallocating its days around the calendar. Concerns because of a possible conflict between your own zodiac system (as found on a well-known Chinese restaurant placemat) and my plans for February. I had the same concerns...

I don't know what it was exactly, unless it was still the bad effects of the Chinese buffet I ate a few weeks ago, but I woke up last night, in the middle of the night, feverishly trying to work it out in my own mind, what the plan would mean for honorable placemat. Would it somehow lose its effectiveness and become unusable, even obsolete?

I love those placemats, featuring as they do the animal kingdom from a Chinese perspective. You'll recall they've got 12 animals as zodiac illustrations, relating to the year you were born, with advice for the lovelorn. "Is it good that my husband is a rat? What if my girlfriend's a cock? Should I marry her anyway? Or get her fixed?" I've actually tried its advice a few times and got some real dogs. As for me, going by my birth year (1953), I am a rat. Even though I like to think I'm a tiger.

In the middle of the night, though, I couldn't quite remember what the system was. I was thinking the illustrations pertained somehow to the particular months. So say the boar was February, and you got rid of the boar, it'd throw the whole thing out of whack. The boar's pretty virile. If it was the rabbit left out that wouldn't be so bad. But rabbits are very prolific. Not that that does the Chinese any good, since they can only have one bunny.

It might not be so bad to cut the boar out, just thinking out loud. You get rid of the more virile ones and a sneaky little rat like me starts looking better. Although if, as above, my girlfriend truly did turn out to be a cock, then whether I'm rat, rabbit, or boar, we're gonna have problems. It's not that I'm necessarily that choosy, but I like some truth in advertising.

Even though I was wrong about the system -- destroying February has no effect on the Chinese placemat -- I'm still glad I got up to check it out. China's a big place and for some reason we always associate the word "hordes" with them. They've also got some mean evildoers -- like Fu Manchu and Wicked Wang Fu -- who'd love to sink their big gnarly fingernails into a guy like me. Were I to offend the most populous nation on earth, it could be tragic. Which I would never do intentionally, and if I have done so, accidentally, just let me sincerely say, So solly.

Now that we're all friends again, if each Chinese person out there were to send me a note of support for destroying February, that would be great. And if each one of you could also enclose $1, win or lose, I'd be filthy rich.

February -- Scared Straight

This is an adventure where I am threatened with bodily harm or death, certainly spitting. But my life is enhanced, evildoers are vanquished, and it's a new day of victory and bragging rights. I've been taking on the month of February, trying to get the calendar changed. We would keep the days, just allocate them in the year differently. I never imagined, though, how many people have a vested interest in keeping it as it is, something so ridiculous, a stubby little month that'd frankly be better off put out of its misery. One man's opinion.

As it turns out, I was reminded of a major "vested interest" locally. It's weird I forgot this, since my own father worked there 40 years,  a plant on the north side that makes calendars as one of its biggest products. He used to come home and tell me how many they made, millions, and how far in advance they made them, 10 years in advance. That's a lot of faith that the calendar's going to stay the same and no one will agitate for taking out a particular month!

The adventure started when the newspaper mentioned my blog because of the local tie-in with the company and calendars. The vice president called and invited me down. They'd already pulled the file on my dad, who's now dead. And saw from the records that he had a son, and they also looked at their insurance records -- kind of weird -- showing that I'd received medical care over the years on their dime, paid for, the VP said nicely, with the very calendar I was against! I got the message. Because I got my tonsils out, and a thorn out of my foot, and once rode an ambulance, among other childhood illnesses, I am beholden to them and can't criticize the calendar...

But I wasn't afraid. They wanted me to come and look things over, and try to sway my opinion, so I said I would. I got there and saw they had a nice memorial to my dad in the hallway. As if! I had to assume they'd just put it out. No one would have a memorial to a dead employee in the hall 15 years later, would they? But it was a nice touch, an eternal flame, the standard photo of him, and a quote, maybe a little too convenient: "I've always considered our calendar mankind's greatest achievement, B.C. or A.D." I don't know when he said that.

On the tour, the plant was impressive. It was a lot bigger than I thought, vast, numerous football-fields big, with many dark corners, made even darker by the stacks and stacks of pallets of enormous calendar sheets still waiting to be cut and assembled. Just like Dad said, a lot of these calendars were for years way off, 2023-2027, etc. I examined some more closely, just to satisfy my own curiosity, to see if they had February included, and, yes, they did. Such faith! Although in their defense, most were printed well before this became a global issue on my blog.

I kept walking, looking around, straining my neck to see more, and after a time I noticed my own footsteps were getting louder, until, pausing, I was stunned to realize--- I'm alone! Everything was dead silent. In the dead silence your breathing's very loud. And the pulse at your temples. My eye caught a camera rotating off at an angle. A voice over the speaker crackled: "Each of those pallets has calendars that include February for all the years. Think of it as time frozen in time, ready to be thawed when the time is right. But if something were to happen to February, say, by your interference, all our work would have been in vain. And people would be out of jobs. Your dad never wanted that."

So that's their game? Perpetuating full employment based on protecting one worthless little month. And taking away my freedom of speech. The voice droned on and on, about the little children who would suffer, the families, the grocery stores, real estate, insurance parlors, etc., right on down the line. It all connects together, they said. "If even one of those pallets goes to waste ... you will be personally responsible for the death of many." Very menacing stuff. I was expecting a sniper, and there were random noises, as though I wasn't alone.

But being apparently alone, with my own breath, pulse, and the whole shebang, and the excruciating tension -- as well as the voice, I thought, trying to take over my conscience, to short-circuit me, I guess I freaked out. "These sons of bitches are trying to scare me straight!" I thought. I couldn't think beyond that, except, feeling threatened, to freak out so completely that it's hard to describe what came next. Apparently I commandeered a forklift, and stacked ton after ton of pallets to the ceiling, then moved the fork in such a way that it toppled the whole stack like Jenga. Right there -- assuming it was between four and eighty pallets -- that'd be many millions of dollars worth of calendars!

Obviously I continued this righteous work until all the lights came on. Sirens and big horns were blaring, and people were running everywhere, waving their fool hands and all yelling at once. They finally took me into custody, marching me back through the vastness of the plant, then back to the main hallway. A lady was taking down Dad's memorial and putting it in a garbage bag. While I'm crying out anti-February slogans, belittling Leap Year; in my opinion, Leap Year's a great indictment of February, a month that changes its number of days every whip-stitch. Sheesh!

We got closer to the main offices, where I was exposed to the view of a mob of workers, all of them spitting on me, or trying their best. Last was the old janitor, who did spit on me and immediately mopped up his own mess. That's the kind of responsibility I like to see in a worker. For his sake, not for any of the other bastards, I would forbear and cease the frantic sloganeering, at least till I considered all my options.

Looking back on it, the key thing is they tried to scare me straight, but with my heroic actions, and their mad dash to stop me -- the cowards -- I obviously scared them straight. They'll know better than to ever have me in their fool factory again and to trap me alone, or think they can sway me from my tightly held convictions just because they trot out a picture of Dad, light a candle, and have one of his well-known quotes in gold lettering, even raised printing. I don't remember him ever saying that, but it sounds like something he would've said.

February -- We Barons Confer

The beginning of February brought with it a meeting of the various barons of society. I was eager to get together, being consumed with the issue of February and its continuance as a month on the calendar. To which I am opposed.

It's always quite an assemblage of power brokers, myself the Baron of Blogging in conference with the Baron of Politics, the Baron of Business (not pictured), the Baron of Industry, the Baron of Banking, and the Baron of the Church. Our overall mission is to keep society on track, nudging here and there where it seems appropriate. The Baron of the Church asked the Baron of Heaven's blessing, then we went into session.

Among the items on the agenda was the February Question, a hobby horse I often ride. Naturally, I came in for some good-natured ribbing, the Baron of Business saying, "What about Groundhog Day? The people need it to brighten their dreary lives, being, as they are, little more than boils on the backside of existence and, worse, knowing it." I pointed out, logically, that groundhogs would still exist without February, and sought the Baron of the Church's acquiescence to that point. He seemed to consider it an inscrutable question.

I was then surprised when each baron spoke against February.

The Baron of Banking said that a short month makes their bookwork more complicated, especially with the occasional Leap Year. "That one damned day every four years makes Y2K seem like a godsend." The Baron of the Church nodded in silent affirmation, and said, "The Lord likes balance and is put-off when it's missing. Plus the Church could use more Sundays in the year, not fewer. But with February, I don't know if there's two or three Sundays at the most. It's something to pray about."

The Baron of Business, always more brusque, took the side of the businessman. "Let the Church fend for itself. It has a Higher Power. We've got the bottom line. For us February cuts both ways. Yes, if we had more days to work with, we'd make more money, a huge plus. But factor in this, that if we don't meet our goals, February is our biggest excuse: 'We ran out of time.' See? We put the goods out and we open the doors, but we're not in charge of time itself!" I pointed out, rightly, that he should work more closely with the Baron of Politics.

The Baron of Politics, seizing my opening, cleared his throat and took the floor. "Baron," he said, addressing Business, "I do have the power over time, as in the principle of Daylight Savings Time. If you're willing to get up a few days earlier, I could make it January again right now, February be damned! We just need to work more closely together. You put your hand in mine." At this point Church shifted uneasily before admonishing, "No sir! Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the waters!" Politics, knowing he'd overstepped, smoothed troubled waters, saying through clenched teeth, "Point well taken."

The Baron of Industry, a man of action and few words, gave his opinion another way. He took his jacket off and flexed the bicep on his right arm. We watched amazed as a brief tattoo video showed raw materials being delivered to a factory. He shook his arm and the second video showed the factory manufacturing goods, all so harmonious. The final time he shook his arm it showed a fleet of trucks taking goods away for delivery. I interpreted his point for the group: "Destroying February, if that is our goal, is a step by step process." 

Concluding then, as host, I gave the summation: "Gentle Barons -- Banking, Politics, Business, Industry, and Church, as the Baron of Blogging I am a man of letters. In my work, I must know the great rhetoric and logic, the prose and poetry, that have graced mankind's history. For example, of the five of us, none quotes Shakespeare more than I. Who said, "A rose by a totally different moniker would waft out a scent as pure and sweet." Proving one truth, "Yes, February is a month, the other months are months, but it is entirely inferior, yielding a noxious stench. Simply put, it must be destroyed here and now or this conference will have been a failure!"

The meeting went quiet and I was embarrassed. But the merciful Baron of the Church took the gavel from my limp hand and dismissed us to a time of coffee and sharing how our wives are doing. Since I'm unmarried I could only listen with interest and envy.

February Has Weakened Me

What a terrible few days I've just come through. You hear about the flu and blow it off as no big deal. Till, like every other ridiculously bad thing in life, it comes stalking you. Then it's a huge deal, in this case knocking me flat on my ass. That's why you haven't seen me around. (My posts of the last few days were composed by a bot, after feeding in "February, screed, bad vibes, terrible month.")

Anyway, I noticed flu symptoms coming on. And I denied it. Because I'm strictly a "mind over matter" guy. If I say it shall not happen, then it shall not happen! If I say, "Thus far and no farther," if it encroaches a silly millimeter further, it dies. And so forth. I take a stand, and if reality comes against me, I prevail, changing it to suit my demands. This time, I don't know what happened, I must've flinched, and BAM, I was sick.

The odd thing about this is I'm so seldom sick, it's crazy. So I'm concluding that it wasn't a problem of me flinching, but that I was directly weakened by February itself! That's the charge I'm making. Think about it. The most dreadful month -- this 28-day emasculated limp-along shame of a month -- was looming nearby. Everyone knew of my public praise for January and March. I didn't make it a secret. And no one cared. But February was watching, so like a dark planet, tiny, dwarfish, and yet with enough mass to have gravity -- evil gravity -- it pulled me in and gave me the flu. One more reason to hate it.

Believe me, folks, I fought and kicked. I put up a real struggle. Other men fell on my left and right. Women beat their breasts, their anguish was so bad. Half the town literally fell dead. The hospital threw up their hands. Even the police were powerless in the face of an enemy they couldn't immediately pin down and choke the snot out of. What to do?

I had the idea, relaying it to the governor, that in these darkest of times, we had to try anything and everything. He listened closely, as I started to cough. I described two courses of action: 1) We carpet bomb the entire state with railroad cars, preferable engines, crushing out even the tiniest bacteria; 2) We come out publicly against February and remove it, posthaste, from the calendar.

Just like that, the governor was on the phone to the railroad companies, who rushed to the capital such a massive assembly of (mostly retired) railroad cars, with a few engines still with the vitality of their prime. I watched in awe as technicians hooked those massive hulks to the undersides of airplanes, which took off on a moment's notice and wreaked such havoc that the state will not likely recover till just before the next election. The little shed in my own backyard -- everyone made some sacrifice -- was crushed, as were the homes and every possession of most of my neighbors. Family members were killed, making for a long, gray weekend.

For the survivors, the flu still lingered, getting stronger, slipping out from the rubble, worming its way out, under, through, and sideways, down. I imagined the gathering of bacteria marching their way in victory over mankind. Wouldn't you do everything you could to defeat it? The governor did almost everything I asked. The bastard drew the line at February. Almost persuaded, but lost.

Because February's dread hold on the public imagination, apparently, is so great. Leaving me to suffer the flu in silence, yes, exercising my 'mind over matter' chops to shorten its grip, yes, but nonetheless feeling pretty puny. While others suffered and died, making the ultimate sacrifice in order to keep the worship of one fool month. What a tragedy.

Among the countless missing, there was even a lost cat in the neighborhood, its owners dead, but their survivors offering a huge $500 reward for his safe return. I went to prayer and signs indicate they found him.