Removing All Doubts

No. 7 of 31 -- Thermometer series

Everyone's heard of the wise man and the fool. The wise man is smart enough to keep his mouth shut. But the fool opens his and removes all doubt. If you have to think about that a bit, I get it. I've thought about it many times and I'm still not real sure. No one really likes the supposed wise guy because of jealousy. And no one likes the fool because he is a fool. So basically we don't like anyone. And the lesson has to be -- wise or fool -- keep your mouth shut and skate by. At least be that wise.

Do I have a degree of foolishness? Yes, more than my share. Except for wise survival skills and a complete fear of tomorrow, it looks like the joy of life is foolishness. No one ever thinks I'm a Brainiac. Never have been. If you’ve read this blog more than a day you know that. But am I a complete fool, a total moron, the mayor of Stupidville, the dunce of Dimsville? I don’t think so, but it’s a quandary, because if you’re that stupid you’re too stupid to know. So it's possible.

I actually don’t think we should ever get tied up in knots in these kinds of blind alleys, with the conclusion that we’re logically or illogically bound. I have been called the stupidest man on earth many times by well-meaning critics. But that’s just the way people talk. They’ve never met every man on earth, let alone tested everyone with clinical controls. Think of the effort, the call for papers they'd need, the groups and seminars, etc. So when you hear things like that — "You're the stupidest man on earth" — factor in some exaggeration. But if they say you're "literally" the stupidest man on earth, call the Guinness Book people and get it verified.

I was judged big-time by teachers a few times, and of course the guidance counselor, and didn't know how to respond. That’s one of the things I hated about school, that I didn’t have the vocabulary or analytical skills to reduce the teacher to a blubbering piece of jelly writhing and shimmy-shaking on the floor. Which would’ve been great. Then I'd be taking home a note to my mother that read, “Dear Mrs. Kundalini, Dippy reduced me personally and to the molecular level to a pile of dust during class with his many keen insights into my stupidity and the whole folly that the work of being a so-called teacher is when everyone knows I passed the training by the skin of my teeth and haven’t been able to improve myself with 25 years of experience; in fact, I’m getting worse.” That would've been sweet.

I didn't do any of that, because even then I had a reverent fear of tomorrow. But you have to agree that that teacher would've learned her lesson. My surgical dismemberment of her would've removed all doubts where she stood. And from that point on, whenever I had a criticism, people would've taken it seriously, or they too would've lost life and limb, and that instead of being expelled I would've been promoted immediately to the next class simply so I’d be someone else’s problem.

Do you, dear reader, want to avoid being reduced to dust and all the rest? Please send my thermometers sky high with your kind and loving attention. Did I tell you I lost my parents a few years ago? Have a heart. Several dogs have died too. Fish, guinea pigs. Show mercy. I don’t post everyday, sometimes I skip most of a month. Why? Because I don’t have anything to say? Sometimes yes, sometimes I’m afraid it will be such a word of power that no one can gaze upon it and live!

"Removing all doubts" today means I'm advancing boldly with the thermometer drive. Fearless, not looking back. Because there are so many hungry minds and eyes out there, all craving, hungering, and desiring fervently the full story -- they show it by filling and exploding my thermometers -- and that gives me the confidence I need to satisfy their hunger, minds, and eyes. 

The Three Stages of Me

No. 6 of 31 -- Thermometer series

Sorry to immediately personalize the chart, but “Been There, Done That...” I started off the proverbial 98-pound weakling, grew into a fitter specimen, then hit the magical status of 100%. And what a moment it was. I tossed confetti till noon. Then ate a cow. For a while I even thought that was as good as it got, then I heard about 150% and 200% also being actual numbers and went for it. And it wasn’t really hard; if you can hit 100% everything beyond that's a piece of cake.

Because you can go from Scrawny directly to Brawny, I put those together in one panel. But most guys, let’s call them Average Man, get fed up with what can become a constant struggle when they’re around 57% fit, and start thinking, “If I get to 60% that’s good enough, my goal's average, I'll slip into the middle of the pack. And it’s true, you can, which is why it's called Average.

It’s only the few — small guys like me and guys much larger — who say, No, I’m going for 100%, then the sky’s the limit. I won't be held down by gravity! I will soar into the skies of fitness, physically, mentally, psychologically, with stamina to spare, brawniness to boot, in every way tough, tougher, and toughest. Shoe leather's got nothing on me. Nothing can hold me down. I shall not be bound.

And I won't be musclebound either, one of these guys so thick in muscles and head they put you in tire commercials. Instead, I'll be smart and wise, with a mind like a computer that’s reliable and doesn’t have to be continually rebooted with updates and still shows unknown errors. People talk to me and I respond by squeaking and clicking as I perform calculations and spit out answers: "Mr. Knowledge, what is the secret of everlasting life?" Answer: If you're smart enough to ask, you're smart enough to know.

I say the secret of everlasting life is Vigor Vivus and kicking ass. But you can be stuck in its opposite, Rigor Mortis, while in the best of health. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking, another Vigor Vivus message from Mr. Know-it-All. Please spare me! OK, but I've seen enough guys sink away and vanish; you may as well survive. Because it's true, Vigor Vivus is the spirit of life, that we're born with but fritter away by our lack of attention to the inner slob.

And Rigor Mortis is its constant counterpart. You settle for Rigor Mortis, pretty soon you think that's all there is; you’re hard as a rock, then softened like chaff, till that disintegrates and you’re a pile of dust. Whereas Vigor Vivus, when that’s your spirit, you puff out in confidence, you bulk up mentally/spiritually, you're a multidimensional success, and finally you hulk out and reign over all enemies. Just be careful, though, when you "arrive," because delusions come in pretty packages.

There’s only one thing about hulking out and reigning I don’t like: so often I have to do it alone, which is lonely. I was out with some other poor guys in the Big City, looking for cans. I had about a 12-pack box full, and another guy had a Hefty sack full. But he had Rigor Mortis like you wouldn't believe, sadly making him the poorest man in town. He died under the bridge, leaving me great memories and about 65 cans.

Bad news for that guy, but his piss-poor end is great news for you, what you can avoid. This blog is open to all. But if you never felt welcome, that was your own psyche excluding you. Even before I plastered the place with thermometers, you were welcome. The thermometer drive is meant to put all misconceptions in the past. We are explicitly telling you, You are welcome, whether you’re 60, 100, or more in percent. Hell, if you’re 30%, 20, 10, 5, get with it. If you’re literally a pile of dust looking for the next hint of a breeze, as long as you are at least a few specks of dust with some semblance of coherence, that's better than nothing. You can reach out and we promise to keep the breeze down where you are. And whisper to you occasionally, "You still there? Come on, Dusty, start clumping."

We’re forever discussing the issues that can help you. Whether it’s bettering your best (obviously one of my personal favorites) or having at least something and adding a few more specks to your collection of dust with the hope that you'll build and grow, advancing perhaps to a leg, an arm, anything beyond the little you are now, we're here for you.

How Much Longer?

No. 5 of 31 -- Thermometer series

Grandma is a memory to me now, like the Beatles, my hair, and the city dump. A lot of us are in that situation. You have the dearest people on earth to you, grandmas, who were already old when you were born. Then they're suddenly gone.

That’s what happened, and even though I regret it tremendously, with everything wrong with her I’d never wish her back -- sniffle-sniffle -- never wish her back --- blowing nose -- O hell, Grandma, if you're somewhere near by, the key's still under the pumpkin. But we haven't got the phone anymore -- it's a long story -- just report to a place called "Verizon" and sign up for a new one. If you don't know what Verizon is, ask around...

But when she was alive, wow, she did everything. Things I could never accomplish if I worked all the time. Look at her pulling on the yarn, working on a spool there, picking it up and tying it together, or churning it out, maybe even making it in the first place. We think you just go to the store and get another spool if you need it, which I don't because now I buy my undies ready made, but somehow she had the skills to fidget strands into form from scratch. If she could handle that, Verizon can't be too hard.

What I have for myself now, in addition to the memories, is the knowledge that SHE knew what she was doing. And the same lesson has to apply here: Do I know what I’m doing? Do I know what I have to go through to get places? Yes, sometimes I do know. But sometimes I don’t. My memory, for one thing — please don’t get bummed out by this — is a little shaky. I’m not quite in the total pits yet; the worst thing is figuring out who the ugly guy in the mirror is. But with discipline, mental devices posted here and there, and a notebook for my enemies list, I'm doing all right.

Today I'm clear as a gun shot, what I’m engaged in, this filling of thermometers, each thermometer indicating the popularity of my precious blog. I started out a long time ago, just a guy and a keyboard, then I saved up and got a computer. And slowly, more or less daily, I filled in the blanks and those were my posts. Then I needed friends to read them and give me constructive criticism: "Go to hell, loser." So now I'm filling in thermometers, a whole box full, trying to get better friends.

You go back to your sewing, dearest Grandma! Knit that thread, tote that bail, piece that thing together -- work it, work it! -- making Grandpa a new sweater, or a pair of undies too, whatever he needs. And call me if you ever figure out the phone thing.

Honor System, My Final Offer

No. 4 of 31 -- Thermometer series

I’m having a hard time starting this post, my eyes are transfixed by the beautiful shield of the Honor System. First, because who even knew the Honor System had a shield? It came as a surprise to me when I first saw it years ago. And I never knew who came up with it. Whoever it was, thumbs up. Because that’s the system I operate by.

I hear lots of guys of apparent honor say their word is their bond, but do you ever see them hold up the shield? I’ve never seen that, never. Not that I think it’s absolutely necessary. I’ve known lots of people of honor who maybe didn’t know about the shield. And so were content to grind it under foot in the dust, unknowing, uncaring. But they were still true to their word, with all the honor you’d want.

That’s the way I function, too. Like in the movies: “Sheeeelds? We don’t need no steeeenking sheeeeelds!” It’s true, and the same thing goes for flags. All a flag's is is shorthand for "That represents us." You can be a skunk and fly the flag. But have you ever heard of taking a knee before the Honor Shield? Hasn't been done. Why? Because people know in their marrow, their core, the Honor Shield is a holy, sacred thing that would immediately explode in your face if you dared try. Properly rigged. Whereas a weak flag lies there like a dishtowel, disgusting.

This I vow to thee, Honor System: I plight my best troth, my very best. With Vigor Vivus as the spiritual principle of the good things of a life well-lived, vigor in all you honor and offer. And Vivus also means something.

I’m such a serious person on these high flown values, I remind me of my dad. He went out addressing clubs and places, like the Valor in Excelsis Club. Maybe someday I can do that. I could put my good values out there against anyone's, run 'em up the Honor System pole and see who salutes. Of course it’s easier to keep to myself and never venture out. I could be lazy. I also don’t like listening to opinions I disagree with, but I'll stand up for my right to walk away and let someone else endure them.

We’re still near the beginning of this great push, calling attention to my blog and hoping to get more readers, readers who will engage me and others, who will debate the great matters discussed here. Then gladly adhere to my opinions and proudly march forth in absolute lockstep. The only debate I would allow is: Should we dispense with the Latin phrase "Vigor Vivus" and use a contemporary equivalent? I like the pageantry and zip of the Latin, but I suppose "Strong Persistent Enduring Spirit for Living and Life" would be just as catchy.

I have a particular personal cudgel that I want to be pushing at some point. Do you read world blogs? I do keep up with around 1,000 blogs. It is, in fact, so many that I have no attention to give to very many of them. So I couldn’t tell you ABC about very many. But there’s a few I have my eye on, the ones written by Pastun tribes and Iraqi herdsmen. Of course they have dominance in their part of the world, and they do a great work for their audience. I laud them in every way. But I'm extremely jealous of their influence and I want that same influence here.

Ask yourself, Is it really right that I should suffer in silence, when I just got done proclaiming my love for the Shield of the Honor System? On my honor, folks, the present situation cannot stand. Hence, this thermometer system. I need more, more, more -- more continents, more countries, planets, more and deeper influence on the state of world discourse. And for that, I’m asking you, please do your part, again, on your honor to make it happen.

Are we Number One? Let’s shout it: “We’re number one! We’re number one! We’re number one!”

The Great Ape

No. 3 of 31 -- Thermometer series

How’s this for luck? No more do I get started on the Blog Drive for the Ages — thermometers registering my progress, subscribers, commenters, etc. — when there's suddenly a threat out of nowhere... That's not luck, that's conspiracy.

It happened in one of the Big City alleys, the worst alleys in the world. I was scanning the littered corners and dumpsters for soda/beer cans for pin money, which I’ve done to the point of hanging around nursing homes/apartments, glancing at my watch, waiting for slow-drinking old men to finish, when what do I see? Signs, which I suspect are being transported around town and strategically placed, but to what purpose? Could it be: 1) To scare the crap out of me with threats? 2) Or warn me that if I come messing around here someone’s gonna know why? and/or 3) An ultimatum: Put your tail between your legs, little boy, and GIT! I almost turned back, I almost cried, then I got a grip and said, “Uh, we shall see about that!”

Back home I reasoned it out: This is only the third day of the thermometer drive; these people can’t already be that invested in stopping me. Are they reacting to what I’ve done or somehow anticipating all that is to come? How does either of those scenarios make sense? I’m not the center of the world, am I? I guess I am to myself, but I seriously can't be to everyone else. Like when I have to go to the bathroom, no one alerts me, I just know. That’d be freaky, you start getting calls reminding you to go. That must not happen, not on my watch.

I calmed myself, and being brave once again I went out, and what do I come across? Literal signs that a Great Ape (possibly more than one) is about to be released! It took my breath away. I fell to the ground and started pulling my shirt up and pushing it down. The way we recovered as kids when we got the air knocked out of us. And it’s the old ways that still work best. I was quickly better, but not mentally.

What was this? I questioned myself. I went through the possibilities: A conspiracy against me, something to destabilize society, a false flag operation, the counterculture disrupting all norms, even a movie ad? I seriously had to think it was directed at me alone, like most things. Maybe a threat, but more likely a sick promise! The thought came, This could be a premonition and a warning from my main blogging competition, darker versions of my own blog. Or maybe even the world's most popular bloggers, Pashtun tribes and Iraqi herdsmen in the far flung parts of the world. Bad things may be coming if I don’t back off this thermometer drive. But where are they? If the world’s round, they're clear on the other side. But if it’s flat, they're straight thataway.

I got clever, too clever. I looked around, then set my phone on a ledge to video the place with the signs. But when I went back, it was gone! I did the whole 'Find Your Phone' thing and there was no sign of it. So they had turned it off... I swore to myself, "I won’t be any chimp’s chump!"

Good For What You're Sick Of

No. 2 of 31 -- Thermometer series

In any promise of a long trip or new adventure, a lot of us get excited and can’t wait. I personally get sick and fear the troubles and bad times ahead. And me getting sick doesn't just happen. It starts with malaise, becomes a dark sense of foreboding, morphs into paranoia, then various physical challenges. Right now there's a weird sense of utter confusion, similar to what a completely other-abled person might feel if you put him on a diving board. It'd be hopeless...

But life isn’t what merely happens to us, the semi-pleasant passing of moments occasionally up or down. Instead, it’s a drastic curtain call, and you’re on stage, empty and embarrassed, with no clue what your lines are, what the play’s called or even when practice was. Then you see you're in a movie theater and the first three rows are pelting you with hotdog wrappers and pieces of bread. They're shouting, “Get the bum off the stage!” But I think they’re saying “bun” so I’m kicking it back into the orchestra pit. Finally, the curtain falls, knocks me out, and I wake up in the alley...

So forgive me if I go through my meds before we start. I see bottles of Sure Cure, Invigerator, Restorative, Pills, Specific, a truss-like jock strap, a squirt device, belts, and Mercurochrome aka Red Dope, a very old bottle. It could’ve been that stuff, with its mercury levels, that stunted me as a kid, physically and mentally, since we put it on every cut or gash. My mentality being affected is a problem I'm dealing with right now, because I feel terribly compelled -- it's beyond my will -- to lift a stack of thermometers to the rafters and see who salutes.

Of course I can’t foresee all the dangers and every need for the road ahead, so that’s why I'm going overboard. If it fits, pack it! Have it on hand! I don’t know what all I’m in for, but I’ve been injured a bunch of times in the past. Broken leg, arm, gash on my leg, gash on my arm, along with all the childhood diseases. My huge fear is some other guy will come against me because of the thermometer idea. That’s always my fear. Just because I thought of it independently, that doesn’t mean some mega thermometer guy hasn’t already done it, then he'll beat me up. It pays to live in fear.

Let me see how prepared I am for the diseases I might meet up with. Polio. I think they wiped that out. Plague. If it were around it'd be in the news. Dog breath, Italian breath, regular bad breath, those still run rampant. Mold, mildew, stains, mosquitoes, dizzy spells, road sickness, antiseptic wipes for motels, I'll pack the large size. I hate motels and the feeling that some completely infected guy was just using it last night. I need one of those glow-sticks that shows infection in all its horrible hideousness. Or maybe I'll sleep in the backseat of my car, which hasn't been used for its true purpose -- dating -- for years.

C’mon, get a grip on yourself! This is a blog drive, trying to get people interested in your nasty little blog, looking for new subscribers, commenters, visitors, everything short of real-life visits, which I already know are terrible. Next thing, my computer would be gone, my bags rifled, my passwords ransacked, and my dog stolen. She’s cute, her a good girl, yes she is, yes she is...

I’m gonna pop open this nausea medicine and drink it all down ... Bottoms up!

Shoot The Moon

No. 1 of 31 -- Thermometer series

Friends, you see on this page our very first thermometer and theme, the beginning of a great push for what promises to be an exciting effort, Shooting the Moon. That means giving it all we've got. And so there's many inspiring thermometers to come, all with the goal to increase this blog's readership and reach around the world. I hope for many subscribers and page views, and I can envision all kinds of things beyond that: conventions, speakers, seminars, ladies popping out of cakes, group tattoos, walking each other's dogs, there's no limits. How high will it go?

How fondly I remember the Lion’s Club back home raising a bunch of money for their good work, and the way they kept track of it on a thermometer. I said, "O Momma," trying to stutter a few words on how inspiring it was, but I was tongue-tied before I had a decent vocabulary and the ability to express awe. And of course thermometers were long a thing before we had phones to gauge the temperature, inside or out, plus one other major thing, in your mouth if you were sick.

I believe my experience with thermometers is common. And that you, being smart enough to read this far might feel insulted when I explain it like something you might not know. Please don't be, because I've heard the average reader isn't very smart. So whereas I might have my doubts about people in general, I’m sure you know everything. No offense meant and hopefully none taken. And please don't be so sensitive.

Something else should be obvious, but please bear with me as I say it: If you’re reading this first post, obviously you didn’t need a thermometer to lure you in or entice you. That makes you among the most wonderful people in the world, who happened to get here by your own talent. No one lured you. You came anyway. You merely had nothing better to do in a world of endless possibilities and here you are! That’s great! I can see how many visits the page gets and there’s always some. The thermometers hopefully will help us get much greater traffic, leading to subscribers, commenters, friends helping friends, and so forth.

This is going to be a real drive, going forward, onward and upward, and not reverse or down. We'll keep the windows down to get the cool breeze. And maybe if I make a ton of money I'll buy a convertible and we’ll put the top down on it too. We’ll put the name of the blog on the doors. I'll drive it in parades. We’ll throw candy kisses for the kids. A beauty queen will sit on top of the back seat with me. And if I’m lucky she’ll give me a ceremonial kiss and lift my arm in the classic victory pose. That's my goal.

(I actually did ride in a parade, but it’s been a long time ago. And that was a Volkswagen bug without a beauty queen or kissing of any sort. The next time will be special.)

As the days go by, please keep the blog in your tender thoughts. I’m hoping that with everyone’s help and the superior being out yonder somewhere, one of my biggest fans, that in just a few short weeks I'll have the Number One blog in the world and it'll be obvious to all. But you have to remember, I’m not just battling blogs like mine -- rants, etc. -- but all kinds of blogs, such as porn and famous people. And when it comes to blogs I've heard there's a few very formidable ones run by Pastun and Iraqi herdsmen, no less. Can we beat them? I don't know. The word 'round here is they're master bloggers with some of the greatest traffic registered in the world! No joke. So this is going to take an all-out effort.

Please join me for this sweet ride. Together we too can post some numbers we’ll be proud of while doing it all in a can-do spirit, then succeeding beyond our wildest dreams, always kicking ass and taking numbers, and always with the best of intentions and behavior.

The Burnt Bacon Codicil

Back where my people are from -- far back in the sticks but still on the right side of the tracks -- live a people where they still have common sense. For one thing, they don't mollycoddle wives, which is one of my big complaints in the alt society we suffer today. Back home, if they don't get it right, it has eternal consequences: "You're out!" Or the old man's simply gone and no one knows where.

O! the things guys suffer these days! I've heard their cries everyday since my coming forth from the homeland so very long ago. A lot of the problems are of a sexual nature, which is easy enough to overlook. Who among us hasn't been so stoved up he'd bust or so dried out he thought he'd blow away? That's how they make raisins, you know...

Yes, the problem today is sexual, but of a different sort. Rooted in sex, since sex is the main purpose in marriage, as in bearing young. They've been doing it forever. Adam and Eve, all the way up to Little House on the Prairie, and still today. Although -- I'm not trying to take us too far afield -- there's a lot more sex of a selfish nature, Me/Myself/I, now clean it up... It's a revolting subject, get it out of my sight!

Our main point today is to report on the Burnt Bacon Codicil in marriage vows. It used to be done, you know, and a man stood by it, and a woman (God spare her) had to face the judgment: "No more marriage for you!" With that and just that fast, the old man was gone. Did he have help on his journey? Yes, the whole clan pitched in! And that's how it should be. A woman like that has no place among our people, not watchful enough to cook bacon? I need to pause before I wet myself cussing...

Anyway, the Burnt Bacon Codicil is a true thing, and back home it had pride of place in our marriage vows. "I vow to love you forever, until the stars fade, until the moon fizzles and falls, until the sun hides its face, until the cows run away and someday find their way home... Or until you burn the bacon, which is a real danger." But, like in most things, there could be mercy. For me, I know, say you burnt the bacon once, I'd have mercy and try to step you through the bacon-cooking process, then maybe you'd do it right. Once or twice or three times and maybe even four times, I might endure it, then say you got it right once or twice, then burnt it again. At that point there's no promises.

I'm very realistic. You have a hard time getting the bacon done right, you may as well be gone. How goddamned hard can it be? You set the stove, you clean out the ashes, you give the burners a good 24-hour scrubbing, maybe you pick out less than completely dry wood, then you get it stoked as though you have a purpose, you're not sloppy, you pay attention, you turn the bacon, your eyes are glued to it and its progress. The kid's fallen out of his crib, he'll keep, that bacon won't! The kid's not on a set schedule, that bacon's nearly burnt!

And speaking of kids, you know what, Missy? There might not even be any kids if you're slow on the uptake with the bacon. Think long and hard about that, or maybe you won't have anything long and hard to think about. It's true. There's lots of kids -- bless their failed souls -- who aren't with us today because their would-be mama didn't know the first thing about bacon. Whatever angel wings they started with, they still have, which is sad or happy depending on how you look at it. For them, it might be mostly happy... Who wants a bacon-burning mama?

So look there, cooking the bacon good is a matter of life and death. As an aside, we need men to care, to set the example and lay down the law. Who won't give into their wives' sexual urges till their bacon drive is well satisfied. Give 'em an inch, guys, and they'll want the whole thing.

This whole business of the Codicil and the keeping of the standards also affects dogs. How's that? you ask. Explaining it in detail would take us too far afield, but here's a summary: Teach a man to fish and he'll eat for life. Give a dog bacon and he'll expect it forever. Something to ponder, dogs and their expectations.

It can be a sad business. I'm old, but my memories of back-home are still clear. An aggrieved husband, a clueless wife: "My daddy never told me, my daddy never told me," she whimpers, crying, shrieking. "Shut your fool mouth!" the husband wails, "Your daddy's the fattest man in three counties! He ate bacon by the bucket! Your momma was a good cook or you wouldn't even be here!"

Are There Other Countries In Outer Space?

I am the visionary layman. To my eye, this imagined alien culture is frightening. I don't know why they're climbing, maybe to paint that building. I'm afraid they might fall and get hurt. Hope they don't. 

In this short space, I can't say everything I think about alien cultures. Most of it would be familiar to you anyway from old movies. The robots, one-eyed octopus people, weaponry retooled from vacuum cleaners, and horse-creatures that have evolved simultaneously with the people, their backs conforming to people’s butts. Which is something to be thankful for, that when we’re looking for something to ride, our bottoms and the backs of creatures are simpatico.

To me, the presence of life on other planets is a given. Two keys, one, our own existence. Add to that our own problems with reproduction and you’ll see the lesson. It takes about three minutes of pleasure, depending on how stoved up we are, to saddle us with kids forever. The terrible ease of human reproduction, along with that of the other species on earth, is probably all we need to know about everywhere else. Just fall in bed, bang, a kid! It’s always amusing to me to look at upstanding moral people and know what’s “secretly” seething within. When I was a kid we thought the proof against sexual reproduction was the fact the Methodist pastor had kids. As it turned out, yes, he did, he went there! Morally worse than bartenders, who've done it all.

With this in mind, let us turn to our main concern today, whether there are other countries in outer space. We shall answer affirmatively immediately. What use would it be to say NO? There is absolutely no evidence that there aren't countries out there. While we have something more than a strong hunch that there are. There is strong evidence that we exist. The existence of aliens is conjecture, yes. But compare it to that time when you were a kid and found a dollar on the sidewalk. You have no doubt that if you searched an infinite span of time in an infinite number of places that you'd find another dollar. Maybe more.

Any grouping of people, historically done for the raising of families, joint defense, and increasing the odds of mutual survival, speaks to me of a certain universality. Say they're shirts and skins like in school. The groups naturally take their place in the gym, clustering together and conferring, "How can we beat those bastards?" Countries have similar anxieties. I don't see nature being different just because of a different location, outer space. Like the old waitresses of fiction who wait tables through the midnight shift, then turn tricks until the wee hours of the dawning day, nature does what it's gotta do wherever it is.

Society -- countries -- is the individual family writ large. Family life concentrates the drive for individual survival, making a thick stew thicker yet, and the country is its logical end. So we start with survival, then perpetuation through reproduction and the family, and then joint defense. Six of one... You see it everywhere, even Jerry Springer reruns. This guy’s in love with the other guy’s girl, she’s been pregnant and born various neighbor kids, and each one insists on survival. Her skanky boyfriend looks virtually brain dead, himself a genetic nightmare, but bottom feeders always have huge survival skills. In the same spirit, my family used to hog fish overgrown catfish. You crawl up the river, pet fish along their side, and then fling them to the bank; they never see it coming.

As far as I’m concerned, outer space has a similar dynamic. Which is easy to understand, because, doubtless, they're likely more like us than different. In fact, right now, this very minute, they’re out there lounging around in outer space trying to imagine the exact same thing about us! Are there people on Earth? And if so, do they have countries? Do we have countries?! Only everywhere you look! We split up the land, we fight for it, we conquer others, we take what we need, then we make a defense of it. Of course we allow others to take it from us, if they can.

I’d be sincerely interested to know other things about the alien countries there are, of course. But right off, I’d assume that for the most part the things they want — comfort, security, sex, meaning — are the same things we want. With the lesson being this: The best way to study alien civilizations is to know a lot about ourselves, then make a checklist and when we visit other planets, check it off, this, this, this, yep, another planet of insecure horny bastards casting about to find meaning in things beyond themselves, the same ignorance we have here everyday of the week.

All right, having established the existence of countries in outer space — the only way I would ever retract these statements is if it were proven to me that there weren’t sentient beings in the endless reaches of space. And to go further, absent other creatures, I would also concede there aren't countries either.

Sumpin Better Nuttin -- Threebee

The Querulous Question Mark

I like that big rugged question mark (above), the dot big as a tire, the curves dominant with confidence. There’s no doubt I’m asking a question, to the point with edginess, even elegance. Asking boldly, couched in fearless determination. Prying into your precious business — perhaps — or asserting the question with such insistence, if you don’t answer, the next time it's gonna be in your face. I tried it the easy way...

My way of asking, though, is rarely edgy. But more like, “Hey, I asked, it’s OK if you say no,” stopping just short of being miffed or querulous. That's a good attitude in my opinion, because at least I asked. And whoever the other guy is, The right of first refusal might just be a refusal. And if I’m ill-tempered, I can keep it secret.

But is this a day for being fractious, cantankerous, or liverish? Liverish? Don’t think I’ve heard that word before. I might adopt some of these words into my everyday vocabulary. Someone asks me how a third person was, and while I can’t speak for the third person, I can address the issue of the third person's apparent state. “Friend, the third person was liverish, or should I just blabber a more common lingo and say she was sour, bilious, and dyspeptic? Time fails me to mention choleric or splenetic, although I do have just time enough to fit in scratchy.

Are those words good words? A question mark like that hopes the answer's yes. Does my question mark convey that degree of snottiness without coming right out and saying it? Careful how you answer. It could be bad news.


One Word in Front of Another

Looks like a theme today. Words in front of other words, in other words, words, words, words, for what they’re worth. Ask Wordsworth, he can tell you what a word’s worth. There was a word in the beginning, the word says, and there’s a moment of silence in the end, then they lower the boom. And boom might've been the first word, the Big Bang. Trailing off with the OM.

My very first words as a kid — and I have actual documentation on this — were get (git) and mama and dada. I don't remember it firsthand, but when a baby says GET it means something I want. Acquiring something with which to start my collection, or a down payment on my next meal: “Reach over and get me that box of chocolates.” Which explains my present-day bad teeth, too much getting of things I shouldn’t have been getting into.

In a way I miss those days of obvious unconsciousness and growing consciousness. What do any of us know at that age? We’re not as experienced as now when we want something. We want it, we may get it, we may not. Just saying “Get” to Mama or Dada comes with the possibility of them saying no. And then I’ve got another word: “No? Excuse me. Why’d you even give me life if all you want to do is say No.” Then I throw the back of my hand against my forehead, lamenting, “If I’d known how cruel life was I never would’ve been born! Thanks, Mama and Dada, for nothing!”

The honest truth of the matter is, I didn’t speak to my parents that way. More que sera sera. Yes, I got in trouble for things, and we had disagreements. But 'nuff words. That day was a day for learning.


From A to Zed

Here’s one I didn’t know the details of. Why the British say Zed and Americans say Zee. We need to defer to the English on this one, since it is English. Although this is one where I have the inside track, since a bunch of my people were English. I haven’t taken the DNA test, but others have, and online genealogical information bears it out.

We used to have a pool table when I was growing up and I even did the billiards version of English, never content just to poke the ball in the default straightforward way. I’d spin the thing from below, which meant it jumped back in my lap several times. I polished my knuckles for the achievement. Or I'd use English on it from the top, and I think with that one it stops when it hits a ball.

Anyway, I’m an English speaker by genetics and upbringing. But no one ever cleared it with me this business of saying Zed for Zee. It sounds weird, but, hey, it’s just one letter off. Hard to figure, though, how one little letter makes it sound so prim and proper, even high falutin’. You might see me with my teacup and my little finger out at the same angle as my lifted shoulders. Keeping a stiff upper lip and all that poppycock, guvnor. Harumph!

Eating my pigs in blankets -- right, mate -- keeping my nasty little piggies warm, my piggies in heat, the whole sloppy farmyard abuzz (a couple zeds in that buzzard), and a big old piggie — a damned boar over there with balls the size of Texas — honored to bear the distinguished, historic name Winston Churchill.

Was The Lunch Lady A Hag?

I had an unfortunate run-in the other day with a couple of friends from childhood. You always think it’d be great to get the old gang together, then you know it’s a disaster when you see them more than five minutes. But having my home base right there in town — when I’m not in the Big City — such run-ins are guaranteed unless I'm in disguise.

Flashback, these guys were the terror of the lunchroom, holding sway over all, and once battling the lunch lady royally for something like four days straight. Sometimes I'd be at their table, sometimes not, depending on what note I had or didn’t have from my mother. Me, though, I thought of lunch as a time to eat fast and get outside, not something to get in trouble over.

OK, the talk in this recent meeting focused on whether the lunch lady was a hag. Benny said she was definitely a hag, the very definition, and even alluded to a particular edition of the dictionary, without citing it specifically enough to verify his claim, that her picture was published adjacent to the entry "hag." I waved it off, but he was willing to swear on a stack of Bibles (of any publisher) that it was so.

Be that as it may, I’m a grown man, I’ve put aside childish things. I don’t even think calling people hags (for the sake of argument let's say lunch ladies are technically people) is even a thing we do anymore. Now, today, supposedly, there's a more enlightened way of dealing with people. They're considered to have the same dignity as everyone else and should not be diminished in any way with terms that detract from their full value as members of collective humanity. Or something.

It is true, however, that one guy can be a real bastard or one lady an obvious bitch, etc., and if we’re not willing to call a monster a monster, then we’re dishonest. There’s good people, there’s saints, there’s bad people, there’s evil seeds, there’s dipshits, morons, dweebs, and losers. All, however, with each one having the full value of human beings, even if they have gone off the tracks for some reason — stupidity, lack of insight at the chromosomal level, or something about the inner person being soured and them being consequently rotten to the core. But I don’t want to make this political. A decent guy like me could get killed by some of the halfwits, morons, and losers we see these days. I will stay out of that all together, except for the bitching I do in private with other decent people.

Anyway, I did my best to steer my old friends (losers in their own right) away from dehumanizing language like “hags.” I don’t think Mrs. [lunch lady] was a hag, no sir. Was she thoroughly the wrong person for the job of lunch lady? Did she miss her true calling of lion tamer? In our modern age, would she be charged with child abuse? That’s an interesting question. She might've avoided charges because she was slippery. But back then we didn't have video surveillance. So she could get away with the despicable defense of, "Who do you believe? Me, the responsible lunch lady, or a whole gym of irresponsible halfwit eyewitnesses?" I'm sure she had lots of bad days, but did that make her a hag? There was a lot of pain in her withered soul, but “hag," I won't go that far.

So I offered excuses for her: 1) She was popping pills and that would obscure anyone's judgment. 2) She had friends who were also lunch ladies, but they served more prestigious schools; her bitterness of spirit was compensation. 3) The hairnet she was forced to wear was much too tight, constricting blood flow to her head, making her semi-wacky.

But my old friends couldn't see anything past the starkest black or white. The lunch lady was a hag, a bitch, in short, a despicable troll, rotten to her withered core with no redeeming qualities that could ever lead her from the world of the hopelessly lost to the new world of politeness, etiquette, and beauty that we share today. I had to get out of there and quick. Another five minutes and we would’ve been pissing on her grave. And my time’s valuable. I'm not running across town when the bathroom's only 20 feet away.

Timmy's Doing Well

The other day someone reminded me of one of my favorite TV shows when I was a kid. Which was very long ago, making the show an oldie but a goodie. About a boy named Timmy and his dog, whose name isn't coming to me, wait, it's Dane! Thought I had it on the tip of my tongue, but I had to think about it for a minute and there it was.

I was thinking, Was it Digby? Delbert? Great Delbert? I thought it started with a D. The picture I found online said Dignified, but that couldn't be right. I knew right away it couldn't be Dignified. Then Dane came to me. One thing I know for sure, Dane wasn't a collie; my first dog was a collie and they're a lot bushier.

Timmy, though, that's the kid's name for sure. Because I've often heard Timmy mentioned over the years. Let's say he came close to falling in a well. Or came close to being lost in the haymow. I had that happen a few times. One of my favorite activities as a kid, actually, was playing in barns. Haymows feel dangerous. I was genuinely afraid and excited. You're stepping around the cracks of the bales, the hay, and it feels like you could be swallowed up. But no kid was ever swallowed up, not while the dog was around.

Dane could be counted on -- and I'm talking about the show now -- to rescue Timmy before anything bad happened. You might think, That's not much of a show, since you need a plot, you need conflict to have a show. True, there's lots of shows like that. Those are the ones I hated. I never wanted conflict, and yet I didn't want shows to be documentaries where nothing happened. The only conflict I wanted, just for the sake of argument, was this: The fear that something might happen. That was my true life story: Something might happen at any minute, but if I'm smart -- smart and careful -- it won't.

OK, the plot of the Dane show is coming back to me. Timmy's parents would be playing cards with a neighbor couple. The kids would be running wild, although they were good kids. They made up adventures that took place in the haymow, for instance. There was always some danger, but Dane would growl, and everyone would know they were doing something wrong. Once they had Dane's warning -- Knock it off -- they changed their behavior and were good.

Toward the end, everyone would go back to the house, the kids and Dane. The family up the road would throw in the towel on the card game and head home too. Mom and Dad would be wondering how thing were going with Timmy and Dane, and how it went with the other people's kids, and it was always the same: Thanks to Dane, nothing bad every happened. The perfect show.

Dane would bark, a couple of quick barks, his nose in the air, seeking Timmy's Dad and Mom's praise. "You did good!" Mr. Douglas would say, lightly scratching Dane's nose and offering praise, "Timmy's doing well! Good boy! You, too, Dane!" And mother, Jacqueline Douglas, would offer the same sort of praise, said in that soft, sensual purring style that she was known for, "Such a good boy, yes you are, good Dane... Keeping Timmy well!"

Everyone would enjoy an evening biscuit, brush their teeth, and hit the hay, so to speak.

The Summit of Old Age -- Angel Wings

If I hadn't lived so long and become so old, I never would've believed it. I never knew there was a great shift in consciousness when you reach a certain age. I probably should've known. When you turn 13, you're immediately horny; that you can't deny. When you're 30, your boyish good looks are gone. When you're 40, you yearn for one last go-round, just don't name it after me. When you're 55, you pray you'll see another 30 years. But when you're 65, any minute now would be just as good. Suddenly longevity is nothing but more of the same. Even if you're cheerful like me.

Now, alas, when I see on Facebook that someone's father or grandpa "received his angel wings," I run to the mirror and check my back. Are there at least nubbies? It could be that angel wings are like pubic hair, one day they just puff into place. The thought that I'll soon get my angel wings has become an emotional thing for me, like when I got my first car. It was a beautiful, emotional thing; I even named it; I couldn't wait to show it to everyone. But getting your angel wings, that's nothing your friends and family celebrate. "Get your damned angel wings outta here and don't come back!"

Friends, I'm pleading with those of you smart enough to listen, Don't grow old. Antiques are fun, being an antique isn’t. The young try to force you to get a facelift, have your chin tucked, anything to perpetuate their persistent denial of life's course, taking away your joy and destiny. Which, if it involves visions of loving arms reaching out to me and celestial choirs and lucid dreams of the Great Beyond, the Rainbow Bridge, the Endless Horizon, and Angel Food Cake, has to be good.

You might remember that I got a message from My Friend Death himself, that I will live till 85. That happened a few years ago and I was very relieved. But now I'm thinking that might just be a thing Death says to placate you when you're between 55 and 60. You have an optimistic outlook while the Guardians of Time cycle around till you're around 65, then drop it on you that 85 might be a curse. And I'm not even in that bad of shape. I don't usually think it'd be a curse, but who knows... There are definitely shifts in consciousness over time.

OK, the Summit of Old Age. Looked at from a strictly evolutionary point of view, we old people become more and more superfluous the longer we live. Yes, I can see the point in keeping us around. If for no other reason than to keep younger people more content. Because they could experience terrible societal anxiety with all the attendant downsides, if they knew old people were hogtied and frogmarched to their death at a particular age. They’d quickly imagine their own fate, always sooner than you think, and pretty soon they’d revolt.*

Look at it like this: If older people were marched to their death, that still leaves survivors who are older than other survivors. But soon and very soon the oldest people left would be eight or nine years old, with five-year-olds gunning for them. Shortsighted, yes, because who’ll look out for the five-year-olds when the three-year-olds come for them? Along with this killer truth, you have to be a certain age before you can even sire or bear children, around 12; soon there’d be no one to kill the three-year-olds, with birth levels at zero or below zero. The last generation of three-year-olds would suddenly drop dead, miserable. Suffering a shortage of diapers and rattles.

As for me today, I somehow escaped every threat of generational slaughter, and here I am, a very old man, devastated in other ways. I outlived my house, for one thing. It became so full of fungus, dry rot, wet rot, walls alive with shortsighted bacteria, water feeding the mold, which then foolishly ate its way to its own oblivion. Plus, I needed new shingles, but was shortsighted, preferring to spend my money on online TV services. The beauty of my folly is this, the movies I purchased are still mine, but they’re online at various sites and will be mine forever, although I don’t know about survivor rights. Least of my worries perhaps. Should've bought shingles and had the place fumigated.

Angel wings, get me outta here!

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*Which wouldn't do any good.

Gorilla Testes May Cause Impaired Judgment

I had something wrong with me -- a dreadful disease or condition -- so Doctor S recommended a few boxes of his own Gorilla Testes Vitality pills. He said it'd restore what I was lacking and help get my normal symptoms back in whack. The pills aren't bad. You merely swallow them, but since you need a half box every day there is some lingering gorilla testicular aftertaste. Doc says that's how you know they're working. But still, it'd be bad to go the zoo and have a lady gorilla catch a whiff of my breath...

Oh, it's terrible getting old and needing outside stimulants! But that's the ingenuity of man, able to diligently study every issue, then extract a cure from the things of nature, in this case the delicate privates of our first cousin in his non-evolved state. Which is better than having to call our actual first cousins and ask for help.

I was reading over the possible side effects, and it was all pretty straightforward. "May cause impaired judgment," which I was prepared to risk. Because when your vitality's zapped, you want help. And you think you'll stay home and get your rest. Take the pills and sleep. But it must have given me new vitality right away, because they're all saying I made a pretty big night of it.

All I know is, I went out for dinner and had a very nice time. I made a lot of new friends when I stood up and announced I was covering the tab for everyone. Then I was also very popular with the waitresses when I tipped each one 50 bucks. I think I can handle the extra charges but it'll be tight. If I make the minimum payment on the credit card every month for the next three years, I'll easily have dinner covered...

On the way home, they're also saying my foot was heavy on the gas. It seems that every cop in town was personally chasing me. What an adventure! I've always been proud of my ability to elude capture, enemies, anyone on my trail. Here in the Big City, though, it's extra easy, with a lot more roads as well as the interstate to dodge capture. But eventually they had me cornered. So I abandoned the car and made my way into a thicket of trees. Anytime I'm in any sort of altered state of consciousness, it feels like I make very fast progress when I run. So I easily stayed ahead of the fuzz till they finally caught me.

Which wasn't till I got all the way back to my place, in my yard. There a cop was waiting and jumped me. I tried to elude him in the backyard and climb a tree, but it was soon over. There was just a tiny bit of excitement left when I managed to yank the gun out of his holster and shoot the brick wall in back. So many chunks of cement were flying, I probably should've had goggles on. It wasn't long till he had me in irons.

There's a guy in my cell called Shivs. And he let me borrow his phone to write this blog. Witnesses said I dropped my own phone in the aquarium at the bar. I don't remember any of that.