Miasmic Pepper Shrimp

I went undercover tonight in my crusade against the Chinese. It felt like backsliding, really, because I've been trying to avoid it, but it was for a good cause. I wanted to gain intelligence on their furtive, possibly evil ways. I went to eat at a Chinese restaurant.

This is usually something I regret, for obvious reasons. The food is very spicy, there's a hundred choices, about six of them taste good, and there's enough nasty looking items on the buffet to make the six seem bad.

Yet occasionally it's still a temptation I give in to, because once I had a good piece of chicken there and some kind of red pork. But that doesn't make up for the time the corn on the cob was rancid. In fact, most of the vegetables look bad enough that I scrupulously avoid them, so what do I have on my plate, about five different kinds of meat. Including lots of pepper shrimp. And a little bit of rice.

Tonight, though, as already revealed, I went with an ulterior motive, to seek out signs of Chinese espionage against America, perhaps secret trapdoors, boxes within boxes, finger traps, dripping water, fortune cookies hinting at illicit rendezvous'es (?), maybe illegal aliens serving as wait staff -- if I find something I might become known as the Lou Dobbs of Chinatown. And, who knows, if there's enough clues in this little strip mall dive I might lead a national effort, organizing a Minuteman brigade to guard the porous China/U.S. border.

But after eating there tonight, something weird happened. They must have known I was coming and did something to the food. Some kind of spice designed to overcome my will. With just a few bites of the pepper shrimp I completely mellowed out. I was in such a condition of weakened will that I believe I ate a cheese mussel still clinging to its shell. Yes, it must've been the hyper-spiced super miasmic pepper shrimp. That's my word for it, leading to the state that followed, a psychological bombasia I hadn't experienced since the Leon Russell concert in '72. But this was a salty food unlike any I've ever tasted. It was like dying and going to a potato chip factory. I felt myself becoming very lightheaded and felt a strange swaying motion. I looked over at the chandelier above the broccoli chow mein and everything seemed alive. I felt like I was staggering as I went for more shrimp.

Eating more and more, the sensation of motion left me and instead I felt a real honing of my senses; I could really think, like a computer making typewriter clicks and rings. I started taking in my surroundings. My eyes could see sharply, my sense of sound was keen. I listened to the waiters speaking Chinese and discerned their intent -- normal restaurant business. The people behind me laughed in conversation -- personal trivia with no greater meaning. I could read the lips of the folks across the way -- ordering iced tea. Even the manager and his son over by the cash register I could closely examine -- the boy was playing a game, a handheld electronic game. My senses were alive, but there wasn't a single bit of espionage. But I no longer cared.

I ate another helping of the miasmic pepper shrimp, and it took away a lot of the anxiety I've had lately. There truly was something in it that seemed to make me tolerate the Chinese more and more. I went out of that restaurant no longer caring about their Communist government that much. And everything else I criticized them for, I decided to let bygones be bygones. Shake and be friends.

Perhaps this was their evil plan all along, to make me friends with China. But I don't care a bit.

Our Assault on the Chinese

Our assault on the Chinese continues unabated.

If we could liberate the people of Chinese, we would do it in a heartbeat. But it's not an easy task.

The truth is we don't know what to do. So we're more or less floundering without a plan.

My main thought is some kind of cultural intrusion, to dilute their culture with western influences.

We're going to need the help of Hollywood to put a Chinese translation on their worst movies.

We're calling on various cable networks who are known for emitting pollution -- some of the religious broadcasters, shopping channels, and, of course, Fox News, to help in this effort. Give away your services toward bringing China down.

I'm looking for a highly placed official to serve on a blue ribbon panel on infiltration.

China -- A Nation of Fools

We have been less than impressed with China during the Olympics, to say the least. It has led us to one unmistakable, certain conclusion, that China is simply a nation of fools.

Obviously they have what it takes to get things done, if you don't mind being an automaton subservient to a slave-driving government.

The scandals in the Olympics have given them a black eye, for sure. Some of it was done for simple theatrics, some was out and out cheating. They're definitely control freaks.

Do they think they're doing themselves any favors as to how the international community sees them? Who precisely do they think they're fooling? It's been disgusting.

Maybe China "had it goin' on" at various times in their history. Like when they discovered Chinese food. But it's all been downhill ever since.

They have a nitwit leader named Mao. As far as we can tell he does little but pose for pictures -- and not 8 x 10's either, more like humongous posters the size of a double decker bus. By the way, look at that disgusting, honking wart on his chin!

We hope it's a good long while before we have to hear about China or think about China again. We have a request submitted to the Olympics committee that if China ever makes an application to host the Olympics again that they "conveniently" lose the paperwork.

The Chinese have many sins to answer for, not the least of which is the terrible pollution in their cities. And of course their Communist government sucks royally.

Let us bid a final farewell to the Chinese. Don't call, don't write, don't drop by. If you ever dig a hole in your yard don't come this far. We think you are terrible -- a veritable nation of fools -- you disgust us -- we never want to hear about you again -- you should be ashamed -- you're liars and cheaters -- your people are idiots for submitting to your Communist government -- Mao is a certifiable twit -- your fireworks are very dangerous to children -- your food has intolerable levels of MSG -- you're chronic sufferers of the China syndrome -- a bull in a China shop would be doing us all a favor -- your restaurants are cheapskates in that you can't take home food that you paid for -- Confucius was a fluke; it just so happened that one guy in your whole stinking land managed to have all his chromosomes.

In all seriousness, I am one man, just one man. My life has been pretty good but to tell the truth I've always been kind of at loose ends, drifting, without much real purpose. But all that comes to an end, starting now. From now on, I -- this one man -- bravely, courageously, and triumphantly will lead a quest, a charge, to expose, defeat, and ultimately destroy the nation of China!

Brother Sheridan's Big Bag of Heavy Metal CDs

There's a reason why maniacal laughter has to be cut off at its climax, which was well illustrated in the Austin Powers movies. Because in the denouement of maniacal laughter, or maniacal behavior in general, its absurdity is quickly exposed. And one is left with the uncomfortable question of where to go from there.

The same principle is operative in very rousing revival meetings. I've been to a few, but not very many where you left with that feeling that the Spirit has abandoned you. Which would be the maniac's sense if he weren't in perpetual mania (I'll cite Saul in the Hebrew scriptures). When that denouement hits, the letdown, as it does, it's like a spiritual hangover.

You see it when someone you know "gets religion" and tries to get rid of all their sinful possessions. I've had friends over the years, particularly in record collecting, who suddenly, mysteriously, get the sense that their records are sinful and they need to get rid of everything. The cases I know of personally ended in regret.

I went to a meeting one time of a guy I will call Brother Sheridan. He had a big stack of heavy metal CDs, and now that he'd come back to the Lord, of course these were to be dealt with harshly. So he put them in a large black plastic garbage bag, threw the bag in the church aisle and was stomping on them, while carrying on in a loud kind of way.

At that time I was thinking, "I wonder if he'd mind if I asked him for those CDs after the meeting, and maybe sell them on eBay." But I didn't go through with it. He was young and very righteous, and would have been disappointed that I hadn't gotten the point.

Why do I say all this? Because I burnt my brand new Jonas Brothers CD last night, and I'm so ashamed of myself. Not only was it $15 down the drain, I didn't really have a good reason for my petulance. The offending survey surely had nothing to do with the Jonas Brothers themselves. They aren't against people who are over 35. And even if they might be, they certainly haven't shown it. Plus, there's nothing automatically insulting about saying "35+," for the simple fact that they're not expecting a lot of old-timers to be buying a CD marketed to teenagers. Duh.

But it took the light of day for me to see the facts in a clear way. That's what daylight does; it takes away the devils of the night that compel us to do weird things. I guess I was under the influence last night, much like Brother Sheridan. I was all up in the Jonas Brothers' face -- with the real problem being inside me. To think that by constructing a small bonfire and torching their CD would expel my own darkness is silly.

I will confess there have been other times when I've done this. Once in the '70s I burnt all my Tom Jones' albums when I thought I heard he was throwing his underwear at people in the audience. I thought, that's no good, he should know better than to do something so disgusting. Then after the albums were ashes in my yard I heard the truth, that women in the audience were throwing their underwear at him. I wrote him a very contrite note of apology, and, because now I knew he liked women's underwear, I enclosed a pair of Grandma Slump's bloomers that I "borrowed" off the clothesline.

So now what will I do, now that I have reconciled myself that there was no slight toward old people on the part of the Jonas Brothers? Would they like a pair of bloomers? Probably not. No. I will just say here and now how sorry I am, and maybe I will buy another copy of their CD when my disability check gets here (I have a game toe).

The Jonas Brothers Are So Yesterday!

I'm starting to feel like John McCain must feel, old and out of it.

Just yesterday I was in the grip of Jonasmania and today I barely care. I can't stand them now. I'm very bitter. All because I went to their stupid website -- from a link on the CD -- and there was a survey, "How Old Are You?" And it only went up to "35+"! What's that tell you? If you're over 40 or 50 or 100, your egg money's no good, the pennies you saved, the cans you cashed in to collect nickles to buy their CD's no good. Unwelcome, unwanted!

Yes, it seems that if you're a disabled old man like me (I've got a game toe) you're thrown on the dump heap, relegated to an insulting catch-all category that only has infinity as its natural end. And pity poor Grandma, at 104, don't even talk about her! According to the Jonas Brothers, she's so far out of it there's no hope! There's no welcome mat for the aged, infirm, and disabled at the Jonas household! They'll bump and giggle at you. Boys, don't never, but never, make fun of no cripples. They have no regard for us, our civil rights.

I like to think of numbers sometimes. I remember in school I had a teacher who was always saying numbers are endless. Why? Because you can always add one to a number and have a higher number! I suppose that's logical, but I'm not fully yielding to it, because it's conceivable that if you got up there to one of the very largest numbers, somewhere at the edge of infinity, that you might find one that resisted that tiny bit of addition. Call it The Straw That Broke The Camel's Back Theory. I'd love to prove that teacher wrong. He or she was so mindnumbingly stupid, it was pathetic.

Be all that as it may, I didn't know existence in the world of rock 'n' roll could be so harsh. I've always heard you're as young as you feel, that -- I'm sure there's other young/old cliches like that, but they're not coming to me. But I've just never been one to crawl into the oldies rut, even though I have lots of old records. It's not like the '50s, '60s or '70s somehow defined everything and now we should only stagnate in that swamp.

It is true I have no inclination to put "kissable posters" of teenage stars on my wall, pin-ups of Hannah Montana, love beads or whatever else they're selling. I have definitely moved on from that. The last serious temptation I had with that was with Tony DeFranco, who now sells real estate in Los Angeles, according to Wikipedia. He's also in the 35+ range now, practically 50. Probably time to take the posters down, if there's any other remaining fans out there.

In my review of the Jonas album yesterday, I mentioned The Monkees. I know that's dangerous territory in reviewing current albums. It's a dead giveaway that you're old and disabled. They were big back when John McCain was wrecking planes and becoming a hero. I was thinking of my old friend, Peter Tork, the other day. Let's see, born February 13, 1942 (I thought it was 1943). These are numbers below infinity, so I can quickly subtract here, and, what do we have? He's 66 years old. (Am I really an old friend of Peter Tork? No, but I once was friends with a guy who said he was friends with him -- true. In fact, this guy I knew said he was the photographer who took the picture of Peter on the back of the Birds, Bees, and Monkees album. So, if you're out there, Ralph, yes, it's me and I haven't forgotten! We tried to call Peter on his birthday one time in the '70s -- Ralph had his number -- but nobody answered.)

There actually was a second Monkees comment I was thinking of making yesterday, which was that the talking intro and outro to "Lovebug" is real similar to a track on Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn, and Jones, Ltd. I refrained from making that comment because I knew I would be mocked as an old Mr. Know-It-All who seems to know more obscure Monkees trivia than is healthy. But now the truth is revealed, that I am in the 35+ crowd, a group of old fogies who don't even deserve to have an age category specifically for us! To the Jonas Brothers I'm the same as Grandma Slump, 35 or 104, we're all lumped together, it doesn't matter, just die and leave the world to us! OK, that's it, I've had it with you guys!

[Let's go outside.]

Their album is pretty good, but right now I'm busy constructing a small bonfire, because this sucker's going up in flames! I'm arranging some Popsicle/craft sticks in an upright triangle, tying them at the top with some floss. Now a little newspaper wadded up and stuck in the center. I'm going to put my Miley Cyrus single track I-Tunes download in with it, first burning it on a CD, and now sticking it behind the Jonas case. (She's their friend.) Thank God this thing's a cardboard case. It'll go up real pretty, not too much smoke. Now I'm going to get a little gas from next to the lawn mower, and spritz it on. Good thing they have their umbrellas up! Wouldn't want to get gas all over your nice pretty dandy hair! Here goes a match. Oh! it went out, a little breeze tonight. My hands are sweaty, getting sweat on the matchbook, hard to get good friction. OK, here goes, second one's a charm, I'll just flip it down, and poof! A nice roaring flame. The case is starting to bend and crack. There's some color smoke from the plastic tray and the two CDs. There's actually a law against open burning, but if any smokeys come by I'll -- I don't know what I'll do. Let me get it going. Just spritz a little more gas on it -- Whoa! It flared up real big for a second, might've singed my eyebrows off there! Then I would've had a grudge against these guys. Not only disabled but disfigured. OK, it's dying down now. The CD case is ashen. I can still just see the colors on the front, with the colors distorted, washed out, and light. I'll step on it and mush it up good!

So with that we bid a fond good riddance to the Jonas Brothers and their stinking CD, although it actually was pretty good. But it's my money's that was no good! People over 35 don't even deserve their own stinking age category? Well, speaking for myself, for Grandma Slump, and, of course, John McCain, someday you'll get yours!

The New Jonas Brothers Album

Well, we've got it in our hot little hands! "A Little Bit Longer," with 13 very hot songs, and some of the sassiest vocals we've ever heard.

Of course Grandma was very concerned about the CD case, hoping it wasn't cracked. But that turned out to be a non-issue this time because it's one of those cardboard cases with the little plastic liner. And very little else. If you put it on the computer you get whatever else there is, which is a "30 Page Experience." We haven't seen it yet, but it says it features exclusive video performance and interviews, 60 printable photos, complete album lyrics, and downloadable graphics.

But a record's all about what's in the grooves! And this is a great one. Like I said, very smart, sassy vocals, definitely calculated to tug at your inner anima in her teenagiest manifestations. Example: The talking bit in "BB Good," especially where he semi-shrieks, "I want to kiss you!", followed by a wild guitar.

The instruments are very brash, clean, layered, a great experience. There's a lot to listen to beyond the surface. Everything is instantly likable, except maybe "Lovebug," which the first time through sounds like a downer. But the second time it's great charms are revealed and we love it.

"Video Girl" is the obligatory teen star's protest against shallow girls ("I'm dating a Jonas Brother!"), the spirit of it reminding me of "Star Collector" by The Monkees.

I would say this CD is good for about 20 listens. By then the tunes and lyrics will be in your head with a vengeance, probably in your dreams. It's a very nice album, but I speak the truth about the future.

Now, did I have to fight through a mob of teenage girls to get this CD? No, there weren't any around. And was Walmart prepared, that is, did they have it stocked in the racks? Yes, but I didn't get there till a little after noon, by which time it was out, and there were plenty of copies.

Olympic Lip Synching -- Cute Girl Substituted

This hardly seems right. The Chinese substituted Lin Miaoke (that's her head on top of Grandma Slump's body) for Yang Peiyi (seen on the wall).

You might remember, it was in the Opening Ceremony of the Olympics, a segment that I happened to miss. They had a patriotic song called "Hymn to the Motherland."

Well, that was Yang Peiyi singing, but because she has buck teeth, she was bumped, and Lin Miaoke lip synched to Yang Peiyi's recorded voice.

She wasn't "cute" enough. Mr. Chen, the musical director, said she was "a little too old." And had bad teeth.

Just looking at the picture, though, maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. I think Lin Miaoke's way cuter than Grandma!

"Grandma, I love your body. But the white hair, the dour expression, it's just not the ideal look I'm going for. It's been great, really it has, but I'm giving your head two weeks notice."

A Little Bit Longer? Yes, Tomorrow!

Jonas Brothers fever is raging hot, as we've been waiting for the new CD. Tomorrow is the release, and we'll be there, if I can get Grandma to the car. Or, I might leave her home and dash out and get it myself, which would no doubt be a lot easier. I just hope she doesn't stroke out, since the Lifeline battery's dead and I'm too cheap to buy a new one. Cuts into my discretionary spending, you know.

Really, this isn't like back in the day of The Beatles, when Grandma had all the extra egg money to spend on records. The chickens all died, or, as we like to say, went to roost in Heaven. So if we have to decide between frivolous lifesaving devices and music, it's not even close.

But her concern today won't be the dangers of cardiac arrest and vainly pushing an equally dead Lifeline button. It'll be rocking out to the new Jonas Brothers' album, "A Little Bit Longer."

I can hear her now, "Make sure it doesn't have a broken case!", which is also one of my pet peeves when it comes to CDs. If I have to fight and claw a mob of girls to get one, of course I'll have to take what I get. But if it's a clear shot to the whole rack, I'll make sure the case is OK. Then we'll have it, we'll listen to it, and if she dies, she'll at least die happy.

Kevin, Joe, and Nick, they really are quite cool, aren't they?!

"Just gotta B B good to me, I'm burnin' up for you, baby, I'm not about to be another victim of a video girl."

It'll be hard for us to sleep tonight, that's for sure, with visions of rock 'n' roll dancing in our heads!

The album got a great review at AllMusic.com and in Rolling Stone. It sounds like they did a really great job with this one, and the 30 second excerpts at Amazon sound like it too!

Now we're just counting down the hours.

Except we don't know when to start counting down the hours. Like 10 - 9 - 8 - 7 ... Because it's not like we can rush out and get it at midnight. It'll truly be more around 11 a.m., because those old people in the CD department at Walmart are never in a hurry to get the new stuff out... Alas.

They're never very helpful either, to tell you the truth. They've got the boxes of new stuff setting around and if you ask them if they got such-and-such CD, they'll get out their computer lists, scratch their heads, and go, "I don't know, I never heard of that one, uhhh..." They had a retirement party for one old guy who worked back in the CD/electronic department. I bet I asked that guy five questions over the years about merchandise and he was completely clueless. I would've asked him more questions, but by then I knew better.

Anyway, I don't want to spoil our enthusiasm. The fact that these folks can never do anything right is nothing to get myself worked up over, because I already know the Lifeline's dead. So we'll start the countdown. 10 - 9 - 8 - 7 ... That's quite a title, huh? "A Little Bit Longer." It's been long enough! Lord, get us through this night!

Oh, No! It's DEVO

There's a similarity between the phrase, "I know where you go, and I know what you do there" and the lyrics of Devo's song, "Peek-a-Boo." The lyrics, in part, are:

Peek-a-boo!
I can see you
And I know what you do

I know what you do
Cause I do it too

Good ones, huh? This was a good album, although I don't know that it's reviewed as being excellent. It seems like one time I looked and it wasn't.

It's one we had on cassette back when cassettes were popular. And one we played a bunch of times. I always thought it was pretty good.

The National Enquirer

I'm going to have to start buying the National Enquirer to get my news. I don't remember ever buying a copy. I picked up the Weekly World News once but could hardly stand to pay $3 for it.

I was thinking about making a career writing for them, then they went out of business. Some of my great ideas I still have, which I jotted out on a shoebox lid:

• A guy who made a big map of the United States from pork chops.
• Train graffiti in a museum, and an art professor who diligently studies it.
• Someone who builds their own fountain of youth (that is something Grandma Slump might actually do, perhaps next week if she lives long enough).
• Chinese gong balls curing arthritis in the feet (which is a true life story I have).
• Fortune telling with pizza (this isn't that ridiculous, since I can do it. For me, it's only one step up from crossing my eyes and seeing art masterpieces in terrycloth towels).
• A man whose aura is morbidly obese, yet he is only 98 pounds.
• A woman dies and actually takes her wealth with her.
• A slot machine haunted by a dead gambling counselor.
• A woman named Alma Daeus (amadeus pun) channels Mozart and renounces music.
• Science class skeleton turns out to be the missing principal.

Some of those are pretty good ideas. But as I understand it -- which I don't -- the National Enquirer is not in the market for these sorts of stories.

As we've seen in the recent past, the last several months, they've been hot on the trail of John Edwards. Perhaps he, like I, received strange phone calls, with a muttering voice saying, "I know where you go, and I know what you do there." If so, then I'm sure he was distraught. But for him -- and this is where we differ -- the whole world cares. If they ever caught me "dead to rights" it'd be one brokenhearted 104-year-old woman crying, and a half acre's worth of field mice going on their merry way.

The National Enquirer did it. They got the news when the others were sitting around, too good for actual reporting. It's just like all this nasty business of John McCain's adultery. Someone ought to do something about that story. Maybe the Enquirer will, since they have increasing credibility. It's a sad story what he did to his ex-wife. But so far he's skating by, not a peep.

Volvo Driving Soccer Mom

I know everyone thinks I'm very addled out here on the half acre, maybe hooked on horny goat weed or something. But I'm really not. I'm actually a very demur, thoughtful guy -- who's single, happens to live with his 104-year-old grandmother, and occasionally suffers severe anima attacks.

At those times, when I'm driven out of my mind -- like by a laughing girl in a convertible with her hair blowing in the wind or chicks who are forward enough to order whiskey at soda shops -- I can't think straight. But that's what it means to be driven out of your mind; your thoughts are crazy.

Today, and usually this is true, I'm demur, as I said. Today's one of those days. I'm taking care of business. Yes, listening to a little music, which is OK. Today I was listening to Everclear and their CD with the song, "Volvo Driving Soccer Mom." It's one of those that comments on aging, changing, maturing, and wants to suggest that something essential was lost in the process. Kind of like Bowling for Soup's "1984."

But, c'mon, being gangbanged in the bathroom? That's supposed to evoke a sense of nostalgia for your lost youth? Being a Volvo-driving soccer mom would be way better than that. But there's one part in the song I can really "dig" -- hope the lingo doesn't throw you... If she's now a Republican, obviously that's no good. If there's anything ever not to be, it's a stinking Republican. (Sorry, Grandma, I'm not talking about you.)

I'm Withholding Judgment

I'm withholding judgment till all the facts are in. OK, that's long enough. I see the resemblance.

I have spoken with John Edwards on two separate occasions. That is a true statement. Unfortunately for this article, those occasions were both in 2004 and would have no bearing on the content of this article.

Be that as it may, I am a long time fan of the phrase "love child." I used to read it in Grandma Slump's magazines all the time. Every celebrity in the '60s and early '70s had a love child, or wished they did. Some of course would be infertile, impotent, or otherwise incapable of fecundating or being fecundated. These were left with little recourse but to adopt a love child. Who all had a love child in those days? I can't remember. But those who appeared on the covers of movie magazines back then included: Elvis Presley, Tom Jones, Mia Farrow, Elizabeth Taylor, Lawrence Welk, and the Lennon Sisters. Put any two together and you've got a decent love child story.

It is a cool phrase, though -- "love child." You know, it's weird, if your parents are married and they have you, you're just an ordinary kid. But if there's something illicit about it you get a much more interesting title -- you're a "love child." I remember asking Grandma what a love child was. She always tried to put things delicately back then, and I believe she said it was "a baby that two people had."

When we were kids my cousin Roto told me "a virgin" was "a woman who f***s all the time." So I asked Grandma what a virgin was. And she told me that was "a good girl." Now of course I know that Roto had it backwards and Grandma was right. As for the definition of a love child, she left out one critical piece, that the couple is not married and has been doing what Roto thought virgins did.

Then the Supremes' "Love Child" record was a biggie around '68 or '69. But I don't really remember at the time making the connection between that and the wanton activities of virgins. Looking back it was sung from the perspective of the love child, now grown up, whose Mom and Dad probably never appeared on movie magazines.

Does John Edwards have a love child? He didn't mention it in 2004. But, could be.

Kindness to Bugs

The other day when I thought that guy was spying on me, muttering "I know where you go, and I know what you do there" in a real menacing way on the phone, I was beside myself. I was incoherent. I twitched, babbled, raved. I was literally secreting some kind of fear sweat from my pores that could only be described as black corruption. It was biblical, like Gethsemane.

But -- and there's no need to rehearse all the details -- I overcame certain aspects of my fear, and managed by the power of positive thinking to thwart the guy from calling again.

Since then, and since eating all those white things, I've felt a serenity that is otherworldly. I'm so at peace with things that I really could freelance for Guideposts. "Fairy tales could come true, it could happen to you, if you're young at heart," I might say, which doesn't really fit the context of this situation but it's still a great song.

In this state of renewal, bliss, I've decided to be kind to the creation. That means not killing where I don't have to, although if I forget I'll have to excuse myself.

A couple weeks ago we had literally millions of bugs in the lawn and I had to go over the grass with the mower. I was thinking, to the bugs I'm like a terrorist. Were they to have a news network and newspapers down in their little world, the headlines would've been six inches tall, "THOUSANDS WIPED OUT BY TERRORIST!" But it would appear that bugs don't have history, just their place in "natural history."

Still, that doesn't mean we can't be fairly kind to them, like the Ahimsa. They go around with masks so they don't accidentally breathe in a bug and thereby kill it.

In my kindness campaign toward bugs, I've picked up a few already, gently, with Kleenex, and have taken them outside for release. It's a lot cleaner than just squashing them, too. I saw a centipede or millipede, sort of like the one pictured, and I had to put something away in the other room before tending to it. Then I came back and it was gone, but I knew it couldn't have gone far. So there I am, tiptoeing around so I wouldn't step on it, but it was frustrating. It couldn't have disappeared! After a while I discovered what happened. It was up against the floorboard, in the dark, and now made a run for it. I was right on it with a Kleenex, and it escaped, then I caught it again, and got it outside for release.

But a while ago I accidentally forgot myself. Sitting at the computer I felt something small on my neck and reached back and picked it off and rubbed it between my fingers. I never saw it but it was probably an ant or something about that size.

The Inevitable Comedown

I had the kind of night I knew I would have. Alternating visions of Heaven and Hell.

A victory like that last night -- involving actual sparks and flames -- has its inevitable downside.

Those in the know -- and I'm the only one on my block -- know what personal inflation is all about. It's great for a moment, to get you through the trouble, but you need something to counter it, quickly!

For me, it's the color white. A countering white agent/force that is easy to acquire, and tastes good, is white bread. We had a few slices in the breadbox. That calmed me down temporarily, took away the convulsions and gave me a few minutes' respite so I could manage a quick trip to the grocery store.

I sped through the store -- picking up a few loaves of white bread, a gallon of milk (not chocolate), cottage cheese, and shredded coconut. Starting to convulse in the car, I hastily made a cottage cheese and coconut sandwich and downed it in a couple gulps.

Getting home in record time, I got out our white serving platter, cut the crusts off and arranged the bread in a circular fashion around the edge, placed the cottage cheese in the center, and sprinkled coconut in the zone between. I poured out a big glass of milk. I systematically ate my way around the platter, starting at the top and going clockwise, then the coconut clockwise, then the cottage cheese, ending with the centermost remaining cottage cheese.

It worked. Now I'm sitting here very calmly in clean white underpants looking at a white candle. There's nothing like ritual to restore your sanity.