I Command You!

We're going to do something that will do you a lot of good. From now on, for a while, you're going to take your orders from me.

First, let me say, Thank you for your lack of sass. It wasn't entirely expected, although of course it was my hope. Docility gets a such a bad rap, I like to call it trust instead. You are to be commended, praised for it. Don't let anyone get you down.

Seriously, don't let anyone get you down, that's an order.

OK, a few ground-rules just to settle any reservations: 1) I command you to reserve enough of your own will that your obedience will be completely voluntary. 2) When in doubt, obey me without question. I mean you no harm. No harm will come to you from me by malicious intent. You are entirely safe (from me) while under my control. Naturally, I can't be responsible for unscrupulous associates who may come into our association, although it is my vow that if I ever take on associates, I will adhere to the most stringent standards relating to background checks and the likelihood of their perfect obedience to me.

You've had a hard life, you told me. You've had troubles making wise decisions. According to you, you've seldom -- perhaps never -- made one wise decision. Don't worry, you're not alone. Most of my cases are like that. But look, you're off to a good start already! Because in submitting to me, you've already made one good decision! So that's one good decision in a row, or one with which to start your row. I will see that you make good decisions all along the way. With perfect obedience, you will make many good decisions.

Now, what are we to do about your family? You told them something of the nature of our relationship. I wish you hadn't, but now that it's done we have to deal with it. You may be surprised to hear me say this, but you do not have to cut them off. Not entirely. Periodic visits and calls are allowable, given sufficient cause and advance notice. In part, it depends on the influence they have over you, whether it's healthy. If it's healthy, who knows, you might see them every fifth Christmas, or every third funeral for verifiably close loved ones.

But enough about you. What am I getting out of this relationship? Of course there is the satisfaction of knowing I could be of help. As the careful apple picker gently removes the worm from the fruit and eventually sets it free to live the rest of its life in peace, so you can look forward to many years of fruitfulness and good things. Then there is, more selfishly, the growth in my own spirit, as the exercise of my personal power has been vigorous, sustained, and successful. I have both done good and received that benefit.

You are a nice person. Thank you for coming to me. In the kitchen -- if you just go through that door you will see it -- is a sink full of dishes. There's soap under the sink -- just open the cabinet and look down. Do you know the steps to washing dishes? If you do, I dismiss you to go do that job. If not, I will sketch them out for you point by point. You do not have to dry them by hand. Just put them in the dish-drainer. I'm thinking it will take you around 35 minutes to get done. I will be in my study, relaxing. When you get done, please come to my study, knock and wait for me to tell you to enter. You will be told then the next chore on the list.

Why The Cow Goes Moo

The cow didn't always say moo. And there's no reason to suppose it did, even if the way it worked out would seem to indicate the way it started. We tend to think nothing makes progress in time. So when God created the cow it came down a shute and the first thing it said was moo.

No, no. And once again, dear friends -- don't be skeptical -- I have traversed the corridors of whatever, most of the time swimming upstream, to reference the Akashic Records. It's not that hard to do, however it is very frustrating because the other quacks who came before me got them very messed up and out of order.

But if you're looking for particular files, things that the average clairvoyant doesn't care very much about, such as on the evolving vocabulary of cattle, they're not too messed up. Most people of course are more interested in the words and travels of Jesus, how Buddha came to be fat and skinny at the same time, and why George Washington cut down the cherry tree. They've pretty much left questions on the various animal vocabularies, and the more subtle things of animal dialects, alone.

Speaking of myself, I'm interested in all these things. One, because I really respect cattle for coming up with something so simple and catchy, and not that far off the mark, as should be clear to anyone, from the Primal/Original Mind sound of OM. It's just flipped around, hinting first at dyslexia, or more purposefully at humor, or perhaps it's merely the same exact thing, only as seen from a consciousness apparently different in typical expression from our own. I frankly don't see a downside to saying MOO, being convinced that it doesn't make a bit of difference.

Anyway, getting back to the Akashic Records. Here's what I have to say about the Records. They're better than nothing. If it weren't for the Records, I'd simply have to make this up, about the cow. And if I did that, perhaps folks wouldn't see in it the same authority. Which isn't to say the original Akashic author didn't simply make it up, but since He and She is a lot more mysterious, we're willing to buy it.

So, please, if you're in that camp, just let me just transcribe the damned thing and be done with it. Here's some of the other vocabulary the platonic perfect cow and its immediate descendants toyed with:

Pistoloops, mamasita, hotsprings, ruff-ruff, lipschitz, palmolive, google, repubpuke, [multiple retching noises based on repubpuke], quaffone, skipbo, passgo, obladi-oblada, poopshute, sadchidananda, chuckbook, checksum, kindlebook, goku, kubball, oompaloompa, cockadoodledo, smorgabord, frootloops, sexawowsa, and vavavoom.

How it was narrowed down to moo is an amazing story in itself. They saw a baby cow walking through the pasture who kept saying MOO. They started making fun of it, then they made fun of it so much, continually, that it finally stuck. It's the old line about "First, they laugh at you..." come to life!

Hardcourt Boys Play Cager Classic

A good-sized crowd was on hand in the Lincoln High gym Sunday to watch the Lincoln Panthers edge the Washington Eagles, 56-54. The two presidential clubs faced off in this year's cager championship.   

Enthusiasm was high as the hardcourt boys marched up and down the floor. The cagers of Washington took an early lead, in keeping with their namesake's primacy as president, but the lead shifted back and forth throughout the game.

Cager Wilt Redwood, Lincoln's big man, was their high scorer with a total of 16 points, by a happy coincidence tying their president's place in the list of U.S. chief executives. All the other Lincoln hardcourt boys put up points, with high-flying Hawk Sandpiper nearest Redwood in nested shots.   

For Washington, their big man, the unhappily-monikered Abe Lanky, was the highest scoring cager, adding 17 points. Fans breathed a great sigh of relief when the hardcourt boy sank a late free throw to put him one over 16.

The other Washington cagers did their best in the losing effort, in part sparked by the torrid play of Kelvin Celsius, playing at fever pace. Zeke Denominator often found the bottom of the net, but was called for numerous infractions and fouled out.

On the Lincoln side, Phillip Nozzle pumped in a quick four points, fueling a short spurt. 4 foot 9 Al Soran was the low man on the boards with a single free throw.   

The boisterous crowd was the sixth cager for each team. Tempers flared and the game was stopped three times to warn them against throwing hatchets and fake beards to the court.

Lincoln fans mocked Washington when their hardcourt boys lost the lead, holding up signs referring to the cherry tree, such as "Sharpen Your Axe!" and "The Tree Still Stands!"

But Washington fans gave as good as they got when the Lincoln cagers fell behind, their signs referring to the 16th president's arguably premature death, "It Only Takes One Shot!" and  "Sic Semper Panthers!"

Lincoln Upsets Washington, And Ghosts

Ready for a freaky story, true in every detail, right down to the ectoplasm spewing from the lady's mouth? This happened just as I'm writing it, and it was just yesterday, so it's clear -- crystal clear -- in my mind.

I was at the Heaven bar for the championship basketball game between the Washington Eagles and the Lincoln Panthers. It was exciting, not just because we watched it on the big screen, but for the obvious fact that Washington and Lincoln are high schools from the same town. Meaning we were all mixed together, with periodic clashes, like with every lead change.

Thanks to Washington having cut down the cherry tree, of course the Eagles feasted on cherry pie. But because Lincoln isn't associated with any particular food, they were eating a la carte. This turned to the Panthers' advantage, because there's nothing Washington can razz them about when it comes to food. But the cherry pie thing can be deadly when Washington loses the lead, and they have to suffer the famous Lincoln quote, used as a taunt, "If I had eight hours to chop down a tree, I’d spend six sharpening my axe."

But the Panthers hate this taunt of Washington's just as much: "We should never despair, our Situation before has been unpromising and has changed for the better, so I trust, it will again." Lincoln sees in that a mean-spirited reference to the Assassination, Washington as much as saying, "Wait 'em out! Lincoln can't go the distance! He couldn't finish a stinking play, he doesn't stand a chance at basketball..."

OK, I was paying close attention to the game as it went back and forth and as the bar rocked with cheers, boos, and the occasional, but rare, flying hatchet. But there was something else going on in the bar. Every TV was tuned in to the game, every one except one, a small set in the corner being watched by local psychic Madame Sosotris. Always in touch with two worlds, she was watching Ghost Hunters.

For most of the time, those watching the game prevailed, as far as the noise, but the psychic was tolerated and semi-respected when she would periodically whistle and call for silence. We'd look over and hear a brief comment on her program, such as, "Grant just saw an eerie light at the end of the hall!" Then it'd go to commercial, and when it came back, she'd learn it was just Jason's flashlight. We'd go back to the game, only to be interrupted a few minutes later with a whistle and again the silence, "Jason just heard a thump in the wall!" After the commercial, she'd announce, "It was just Grant in the next room tapping the wall."

Everything was building to a climax in the game, Washington and Lincoln exchanging the lead as it came down to the final minutes and seconds. Hatchets and cherry pies were flying around the room, and a few of the Washington partisans had grabbed the fake Lincoln beards from the Panthers and were throwing them as well. Then as the last few seconds wound down, the score tied, Lincoln stole the ball from Washington and hurried down the floor for the game-winning shot.

It was pandemonium in the Heaven bar, total chaos, until it was amazingly broken and silenced by the presence of Madame Sosostris literally floating through the place, ectoplasm spewing from her mouth and the stuff forming enormous mounds wherever they fell. The Ghost Hunters show had actually hit on something important! She brought a message -- President Washington's concession to Lincoln -- channeled through Grant and Jason:

"There is a Destiny which has the control of our actions, not to be resisted by the strongest efforts of Human Nature. I shall not be deprived of a comfort in the worst event, if I retain a consciousness of having acted to the best of my judgment. We'll get these Lincoln bastards next year!"

Curious About The Titanic?

The 100th year anniversary of the Titanic sinking is at hand. 100 years ... a century ... 10 decades ... quite a while in human terms, even if in cosmic time it's a mere blip. We are totally amazed. It happened in 1912, and now it's 2012. So in terms of time, it's monstrous. Because 100 years, wow!

But seriously, let's think about it another way. The passage of time has taken away some of the rawness of the event. Really, there's barely anyone left who has a personal and immediate sense of grief over it, probably none. So we can't pretend like we're broken up about it. And yet, we can imagine, were it our loved ones, assuming we wouldn't ourselves have been aboard the ill-fated ship had we been alive in 1912, that the grief would have been horrendous. But as it is, had they not died on the Titanic, they would have been dead by now from something else.

I have an old, old story, but it's true. When I was a young man, and this was in 1964, so I was 11, there happened to be an old woman visiting our town who was a survivor of the Titanic. We all went to see her, me and the rest of the town. I stood in line around an hour, then it was my turn. But wouldn't you know it, she didn't speak English. So I had to talk to a translator who conveyed my message to her. Remember, I'm just 11, so I hadn't yet reached my present level of maturity; that would come two years later. I said, all quite innocently, "Tell her I have heard of the Titanic." The old lady, bless her soul, nodded and chuckled, then reached over and patted my head. I haven't washed my hair since!

Well, let's get to what you came for, a few questions you've sent in that I've researched and answered.

What did the Titanic hit? -- Good question, because it could've been anything. It was in fact an iceberg. It was with the Titanic's accident that everyone suddenly realized an iceberg was a dangerous thing, especially if run into. Because it's not just a soft snowball, it's a chunk of ice packed extremely tight, with most of it lurking under water. If you're ever the captain of a boat or anything, avoid icebergs.

Did the Titanic go down immediately? -- No, it was able to stay afloat till it sank, long enough to get off most of the passengers, although there weren't lifeboats for everyone. For those who didn't get a lifeboat, of course it was big trouble. But the good news is those who didn't die survived.

Was Leonardo DiCaprio really on the Titanic? -- No, he was in a popular movie about the famed maritime disaster [copied from Wikipedia.] The "Titanic" he was on was a smaller version of the ship made for the movie. Although it "sank" during the filming of the movie, ironically it would have been small enough to avoid the iceberg.

Are there any philosophical lessons to be learned from the Titanic? -- You mean like "Watch where you're going in life"? That's a philosophical lesson we already know. So if we take away something like that from the Titanic disaster, it's not really the Titanic teaching us, but our mere calling to mind prior knowledge. I seem to remember something like that when I learned about Plato, things we already know. To actually learn a lesson from the Titanic, it'd have to be something you weren't previously aware of. I can think of one very practical lesson: That every ship ought to be pulling a spare ship, just in case.

Well, we've now marked the 100th anniversary, with solemnity and dignity. And if you didn't see your question answered, these are the only ones we had space for. We'll hang on to them and hopefully get to them on the 200th anniversary. So keep checking, particularly as the 200th anniversary (2112) gets closer.

Where's All The Old Timex Watches?

Hey, great news! I just thought of something to be mad about. In this case, from long ago, back when Timex watches ruled the wrist. I'm wondering, Where are all the old Timex watches? Like everyone, I remember their slogan was "Takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'."

I probably should look it up. I would guess Timex is still a company making watches. Assuming they are, it's curious we never hear of them, when a long time ago when I was kid, that's about all you ever heard. Three channels on TV and Timex ads all the time.

Have you seen the Ed Sullivan DVDs of the Beatles' appearances? They're still available. I saw them a few years ago. Timex ads! They left them in, with the guy, I believe John Cameron Swayze, putting Timex watches to various torture tests. Like strapped to an outboard motor, to a cannonball slamming against a brick wall, and under an elephant's foot that's running across a large asphalt parking lot. Or something. And each time it comes out OK, still ticking!

All of it makes me wonder why all the Timex watches I got as a kid -- virtually every Christmas and every birthday -- quit working under normal conditions. They could handle the cannonball, but normal usage was too much. Back then, though, -- I don't know what my problem was -- I don't remember ever contemplating the dissonance between the ads and reality. What it was, was I was happy enough with a watch and happy enough without one. I was a kid, what'd I ever need to know the time for?

The great thing about Timex watches for adults, it turns out, was they were fairly cheap. And despite the slogan, they broke often enough that you always needed a new one! So it was an easy gift choice. The whole thing about "Takes a lickin', keeps on tickin'" was with a wink-wink to the adults.

If anyone doubts what I'm saying, go to an antique store or flea market. And you tell me how many old Timex watches you see that still work. Actually, you're not going to see very many that don't work, because we just threw them away...

My Plot To Rob 50 Banks At Once

Oh boy, this is going to be big money for me and the Organization! Hi, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward here, crime boss of the Skids gang...

There's no stopping crime, thank God. We just keep going, ever going, ever accruing more, greater and greater wealth. Diamonds, jewels, truckload after truckload of stolen merchandise, and, of course, cash, anything we can lay our hands on. It's all so satisfying! Which we will continue doing as long as we get away with it, which at this point might be forever...

My latest plot involves banks. In particular -- and no one's ever done this before -- I'm going to use peer pressure to raid a number of banks and, I hope, make off with everything they've got. It took some doing to conceive of this plot, and it's going to take some doing to carry it through. Wish me luck, OK?

I started thinking, What bank job has never been done before? What's the perfect bank job? Then it came to me, pick on the rural, backward banks. Not just a hold up. That's been done to death. No, I thought of something deeper, something that involves questioning their self-image, then taking advantage of them to wipe them out.

It seems that these particular banks have not updated their basic facilities in over a century. Meaning, you guessed it, they're dealing with some serious inferiority complex issues. An underlying issue with each of them is the realization that they're backward and behind the times. Because each of them has at least one bank officer -- if not the president himself -- who has visited the big city. They understand what's going on out there.

Now, what do you think is the most obvious, biggest backward thing about them? If you said "round vaults," you are exactly right. Nearly every rural bank, believe it or not, has a round vault, which, inexplicably, was all the rage in the 1890s. Times, however, have changed. And now the rest of us can't imagine anything more ridiculous than a round vault. 1) They're ugly; 2) They're old fashioned; 3) They're space-inefficient; 4) You always hit your head on the sides, and, 5) I've personally never trusted the mechanisms in round vaults, which may be more an irrational prejudice on my part than a real objective problem.

Anyway, here's where my expertise in human environmental science and psychology comes into play. I submit, I put it forth as a virtual given, that if someone goes in and so much as chuckles at their round vault, they'll be ready to do something about it, anything, to make you stop. Just like that, you'll have a contract to take it out and install a square or rectangular one. And that's where we get 'em!

I called in my team of crack underlings and put my plan before them. What if, instead of just one bank, we take on 50 of these rural banks at once? Of course it would take logistics on the most massive scale. No one's ever robbed 50 banks simultaneously. We'll be the first. We'll be the greatest bank robbers of all time. And we'll be rolling in money, perhaps more money than can physically be spent, short of being a governmental entity looking for hammers and toilet seats.

Fleshing out the plan, I typed a list of common numbers into the computer, "1 through 50," then started filling in the blanks, listing every bank within a 100-mile radius that has a round vault. Where do you find this information, you ask? Admittedly, it's old, but I still have a copy of the 1943 U.S. Almanac of Bank Vaults, that of course being the last year the Almanac was released to the general public. Then, just to be safe, I added another 10 numbers to the list, because possibly a few of the prouder banks have updated since '42. (The '43 Almanac came out in October 1942.)

With every background detail fully explained, the underlings nodded, hit a few high fives around the room, and grinned. One overzealous asshole even shot a hole in the ceiling, prompting an angry admonition from me: "Put that gun away, you raving lunatic! What kind of moron..." As that unpleasant moment passed, I called them in closer, much closer, saying, "Here's how we'll do it," at which point I muttered the rest, and in some detail, so only they would be able to hear.

The Criminal Life Teaches Good Values

I've always been a values guy, even back before I turned to a life of crime. You might remember me at some of the school board meetings. I was the guy who lobbied and won against the girls' basketball team wearing shorts. It was way too distracting for me and other red-blooded American men. So now we have the only team in sweatpants. I see it as a distinction.

Other than that, I learned lots of other good values growing up, like looking both ways before you cross the road. Not only is it the safest choice, it keeps drivers from going ballistic and honking their horns and waking up Dad, and saves you the beating of your life. I'm trying to think of some of the other values I learned, but I'm drawing a blank. Oh yeah: Wash your hands before meals and after going to the bathroom. For years, I did it the other way around.

Now that I'm in crime -- Hi, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward here -- I still conduct myself according to good values. And they still do me a lot of good. And that also goes for the guys in the outfit who happen to have rug rats who need to know how to live.

A deal's a deal -- You hear guys complaining, "We shook on it. A man's word is his bond." To me that's a wimpy way to handle it. Instead, simply stand on the truth, "A deal is a deal," and if the other bastard doesn't follow through, put a knife in his back, maybe he'll get the point!

Bring the hammer down -- No one gets anywhere in life with half measures. And that's especially true in crime. You have something to accomplish, get it done! You've got a job, something important to do, like offing some guy: BOOM! It's done, no delay. I might call this the principle of the Texas driver: There's two speeds, 0 and 150.

Keep your mouth shut -- I've always been able to keep confidences. And that's part of my life now. I have enough shit on people to put them away for a very long time. The mayor, the police chief, a couple ministers, various pillars of society, etc., not to mention other criminals. But I keep my mouth shut, and so anytime I need a solid, I have it.

Take time to schmooze -- This goes with keeping your mouth shut. People need to know you. Half your success is your connections. So you're schmoozing, showing confidence, a good spirit, a sense of joy, and, yes, ruthlessness. They'll know better than to pull a double-cross.

Trust your instincts -- Go with your gut, your instincts. A great example of this happened when I was schmoozing the other day. I was with some folks at a meeting and I just "sensed" someone was behind the curtains, waiting to ambush me. So I whipped out my gun and shot six rounds. Damned kids shouldn't have been playing back there!

Others are depending on you -- We're an organization, a team. If you fall asleep in the getaway car, you've hurt the whole team. As long as you're alive, we're in this together. You want to be on your own, stiffs are buried one at a time.

There's no second chances -- Get it right the first time. Don't come to me on your hands and knees. I don't want to hear it. And I'm not going to tell you twice, because that'd be a second chance.

No one likes a stoolie -- If you're a stoolie, just tell me now, because there's no reason for you to be wasting air.

The Pop Goes The Weasel Killings

As a crime boss -- Hi, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward here, boss of the Skids organization, centered in the Skidrow district of our town -- I have many talented underlings at my disposal. Pickpockets, arsonists, snipers, bookies, scientists, prostitutes, drug runners, pool sharks, bootleggers, and a couple of IT kids who can get any illegal MP3 download you want. What a team!

I had an idea for offing some of my worst enemies. I want to terrorize the crap out of them before their death, to make a more sinister and memorable reputation for myself. I myself could do the same old same old, walk up to a guy and just kill him. The big trouble there is they're not exactly going in their pants for fear, and that's what I want. I want, I demand that the name of Machine Gun Ricky Wayward strike absolute terror in my victims.

That kind of reputation is what I need to take over the entire town. Skidrow of course only rules over the central part of town. The rest is divided between four other gangs, The Aristocrats, The Outlaws, The Ciggies, and the ethnic El Conquistadors. I want to loosen those bozos' control, their iron grip, and make it all mine!

OK, anyway, I'm busy thinking, what are some of the scarier things in life? Clowns, zombies, midgets, carnies, gypsies, psychos, teenagers, fundamentalists, hoarders, repo men, and last but not least, jack in the boxes. Then, of all these, which could you trust most? It'd have to be the one non-human thing, the jack in the box.

I've always thought, since I was a little kid, there's no more mysterious toy than a jack in the box. Because there's pieces in there you never see, forever enclosed and hidden under the jack. It's a hiding place. You could retrofit one of these to be a weapon of mass destruction. I said it 10 years ago, and I'll say it again: Saddam Hussein would still be in power had he only catapulted jack in the boxes at the American invaders!

God, I'm shivering even at the thought of a jack in the box. I can remember my heart racing when I heard "Pop Goes the Weasel" and knew the damned thing would erupt in my face. Now, what if it's full of explosives, what if knives suddenly jut forth and the thing flies around the room, or what if a massive blast of poison spews forth from the jack's mouth? You'll be dead!

So I gave the boys in the lab a bunch of jack in the boxes, and they've been working with them. They're making great progress rigging them up. Different variations, just like I said, with explosives, knives, a machine gun, poison, a canister of muffler fumes for asphyxiation, a Star Trek phaser (which in testing never seems to work), battery acid for spewing, a heat-seeking noose, a poisonous monkey's claw, meat infected with rabies, rubbers tainted with VD, a jar of fumes from a grill used indoors, cancerous organs extracted from cadavers, and, to make it really deadly, a DVD of the Republican debates.

Imagine that. You're one of my enemies. I have an underling put a jack in the box on your desk, then we quietly seal the room. You're looking through some mail and -- WHAT?! -- you hear the box start playing "Pop Goes The Weasel." You know approximately how long the song is -- something like 7.1 seconds -- before the jack pops up. Only long enough to frantically rush the door, then finding it closed, start your final prayer, "Dearest Heavenly Father--", then POP, and poison fills the room. You gasp, you feel your head quickly bloating, you claw the desk, your eyes are bulging, you feel your heart slow, then it stops with a sad whimper, and you think your last thought. Your very last clear thought is one of God's grace and happiness: "At least it wasn't the DVD..." With that, you're dead.

Brick By Brick -- Your Criminal Edifice

Now that I'm the new Mr. Big, with Tony's death, I've got a lot more free time, time that I'm using wisely to keep myself focused and centered. I'm looking at it, in part, as time for reflection, with the idea that reflection contributes to my overall success.

Being a criminal, friends, isn't the easiest job in the world, that is, if you do it right. The prisons are full of dumb ass schmucks who thought it'd be easy, but then, and there's no known exception to this, they got sloppy, which is another word for stupid. These days, of course, there's a lot of dumb asses who post their exploits on social media, blogs and the like, which anyone with three weeks experience online can trace in seconds. And so they go to prison. Stupid! The problem is not enough reflection.

I've been reflecting today that establishing and maintaining a good criminal life is kind of like building a building, like building and maintaining a house. There's lots of similarities, and you can almost get lost in the comparisons; it's uncanny how many points of congruence, or overlap, there are. Leading me to think, and it's just a theory, that the first house-builder must have been a very successful criminal. Even to this day, you hear of burglars targeting houses, or criminals apprehended at houses, like a crack house. So there's a real closeness.

Anyway, we reflect, we start thinking, we gather our thoughts, we grant our minds free rein and our thoughts the ability to roam. And they keep returning to this idea that a good criminal life and the building process are very, very -- extremely -- close.

The first thing to our house is the basement and foundation. The basement and foundation may not be the "sexiest" parts of the house. The "sexiest" parts would have to be the shower and bedroom. But the basement and foundation are extremely critical to the house's integrity. It is that which is "foundational" that will stand you in the best stead over the long term. When the winds blow and a tornado or mudslide come through, if the foundation isn't any good ... then good luck! In fact, when vicious storms come, where do we go? but to the basement! Likewise, in the criminal life, you don't start out as Mr. Big. You start out at ground level, but what you first establish there will continue to ground you later.

The house then goes up. You next see its structure, similar to a body's skeleton, 2 x 4s placed horizontally and vertically and nailed, with all the water pipes and electrical conduits where they need to be. Without a basic structure -- let's say you just propped up a bunch of unsupported walls on the foundation -- something less than a doctorate tells you it's going to collapse. Because everything has to be supported. Similarly, in a good criminal life, one in which you're not immediately in prison, you need a structure. This could be a good gang, a network of associates, or looking at it another way, your growth in intelligence and how you let your experience at the foundational base rise up as a supporting structure.

Next, they put in the walls. I've never yet been in a good house that didn't have walls. Walls and windows. I'm serious here, I like good walls. They're useful, like if you have a stoolie and you want to put your arm up against his neck and raise him off the floor. You can't get a guy's eyes bulging out if the wall isn't there for support. Or say you simply don't want your house open to the outside elements 24/7, you need walls. In the criminal life, as we follow our reflections on the good criminal life, the walls represent an enclosure or environment for yourself. In other words, you're not simply exposed. When you're exposed, you're in prison in no time, where they have very good walls.

What comes next? Of course it'd have to be the roof. What good is a roof? Let's think about it a minute. A roof protects the inside of the house from sun, rain, and bird poop. It tops off the house, and helps keep what's inside in good condition, so you can live there comfortably for years to come. In our good criminal life, the "roof" means you've worked yourself up from the ground level and denotes completeness. Also, just as an actual roof makes a great lookout point for cops on the horizon, from your "roof" you can see more clearly the vistas, the opportunities of your criminal future.

I probably should mention all the furnishings, paint, wallpaper, appliances, flooring, alcoves, linoleum, and the like, that make the inside of the house comfy and cozy. You wouldn't want a house that didn't have anything in it! Unless you were just holing up somewhere till the heat died down, or you were doing quick drug deals or something like that. In an actual house to live in, you want nice things, like maybe a fireplace to burn evidence in. Or a toilet with a strong industrial flush. Similarly, in your good criminal life, you're not stealing money and jewels, swindling and cheating just for the hell of it. That'd be pointless. You're doing it so you'll have nice things, bling and other cool things. Because that's what life's all about, enjoying what you have and hoping no one takes it from you.

Honoring Ned Hogan, Great Criminal

Today, we're honoring one of the great criminals of the past, Ned Hogan. When pictured here peeling potatoes at the end of 1922, he had been in jail in Milwaukee a record 117 times.*

Hi, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward writing in honor of our fine brother in crime, Mr. Ned Hogan, 76 years old in the picture, and a native of Milwaukee.

As you will see in this brief tribute, Ned was so often drunk that he couldn't handle his affairs and needed a place to flop. That may not sound like great crime, but we honor it, because it is likely that Ned tied up the system enough -- taking the time of jailers, judges, and the cops -- that other criminals had freer rein.

The Milwaukee Sentinel of Dec. 24, 1922, (easily found on Google) profiled Ned, calling him a bum, derelict, and prohibition fighter. In addition, they said he was a vague and shadowy character.

In earlier times, he worked at the circus grounds in Milwaukee, and also did any odd jobs that would bring him a dollar. But the paper said the nearest thing to a regular occupation he ever had was unloading coal boats. Ned was what they called a dock walloper. It sounds like honest work, but we're very glad he left it, or we wouldn't be honoring him today. Since we don't care about dock walloping.

Alfred O. Wilmot, court reporter at the time, who knew Ned when he, Alfred, was a kid, remembers that Ned was all right when he was sober. The newspaper paraphrases Alfred: "Unless he was waylaid down in the lumber yards and got a pony of beer, he took his savings home to his old mother. He is not a thief. With all his arrests, he has never committed a real crime."

It was after Ned stole a tire that Alfred said, "Except for his lack of culture, Ned was a gentleman. I have heard him give a fellow a lecture for insulting a woman on the street. He was never brought in on a charge of anything but vagrancy until this last time. And this larceny charge was just a ruse of Ned's. He didn't want to steal. He had no use for the automobile tire that he walked off from a garage up near Eighth and Wells street. He only took it so as to furnish an excuse to get arrested. He went right down to the Rescue Mission with it and sat there until the police came."

Ned greeted the officer by saying, "Well, it took me two hours to get arrested this time." At first he had tried to get arrested by taking some bandana handkerchiefs from a dry goods store. There were even hanging out of his pockets in the store. But that plan failed, so he resorted to taking the tire.

Of course all the old cops knew Ned. When he wanted to be taken in, they accommodated him. Younger cops weren't so nice, saying, "Get about your business. You haven't done anything for me to take you in." To which Ned would retort, "You better take me in. If you don't I'll do something so you will have to pinch me." Ned's oldest friend on the force, Ed Baivier, chuckled, "He would, too. He has been known to pick up a brick and heave it through a window when the patrolman was stubborn."

Milwaukee's Judge Page said, "Ned is an old figure around here. He is getting old now, must be nearly 70. He manages, by sleeping on park benches, to get along in the summer, but when cold weather comes he needs a more comfortable place. As sure as the thermometer drops we can expect to see Ned in the bull pen next morning. As you know, it was pretty chilly the night before his last arrest a few weeks ago."

Roy E. Briggs, assistant superintendent of the Rescue Mission, said of him, "His mind is so run down from drink that he is 'rum dumb' as one of our men puts it. He has lost control of his power to think, but retained enough mind to know it. He wants to go right but can't quite reason out the way if left to himself. So he voluntarily puts himself where someone will make him do what he should."

So there you have it! We proudly honor Mr. Ned Hogan, one of the great criminals of the past. To summarize, he got drunk a lot, broke windows, and stole a few bandana handkerchiefs and a tire.

Was Tony A Well-Rounded Character?

A couple of you -- the vocal minority, always the ones hardest to satisfy -- have written in, saying you didn't feel Tony was a well-rounded character. Meaning that, according to you, what I said about him was very generalized and one dimensional.

My first instinct is to say, "This is what I have to worry about?" But then I think back, and in my defense, I said he was a son of a bitch*, and that's exactly what I meant. I mean, really, what more can I say? Like the rest of us, he lived, he did stuff, he died. Whether he had brown hair, red hair, or no hair, or a particular slope to his nose, or chiseled features, or a worried brow, or even a last name, it doesn't make any difference.

Of course they'd say he was Mr. Big, and must have been an interesting character because of that alone, so they're naturally curious. Couldn't I flesh him out a bit more? And I agree, to a limited extent. I didn't really say much about him, except his name was Tony, that he called me to his office, he gave me oversight of the prostitution operations, he had complete control over things, he had a large guard contingency, and a couple of other details, perhaps, and that he apparently reached several climaxes in the course of an average day.  

By that, I didn't mean to imply that living on the floor above a brothel means a guy is necessarily oversexed, but Tony was Tony, meaning he was known occasionally to have a good time. The climaxes were his outlet. I'm not judging. If he had a target on the ceiling, that's his business. Anyway, if living one floor above a brothel means you're oversexed, what about me? I live on the same floor. And I'm pretty chaste. But for some reason people aren't writing in asking more details about me. Maybe because I am so chaste. So now I know what's on your dirty little mind!

Actually, most of the reason I didn't say more about Tony's life is that this is real life. It's all true. I'm not darning a literary creation here -- satin and lace and frilly, flowery prose to satisfy women and fops -- no, this is documentary fact. Of course, I suppose it could be spruced up and spit-shined a bit, to make it fancier. But who cares? I've always been a man's man, preferring to let facts speak for themselves. I can't get bogged down in details like what color a man's hair is, his profile, his interests, and relationships. Tony was a son of a bitch in life, he's a son of a bitch in death, and it's not like he ever wanted to know about you, so why do you care about him?

Okay, to satisfy your idle curiosity: Tony was not just a son of a bitch, he was also scum of the earth.

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*I looked through the archives and it turns out I didn't say Tony was a son of a bitch.

Flaming Wreckage -- Tony's Dead

Well, I said I was going to kill Tony -- Mr. Big of the Organization -- and I did! So now that makes me, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward, the new Mr. Big.

Here's how the whole thing went down:

Tony was ensconced in his office, as expected. I put my gun together and went up to his floor. The eight divisions, the gauntlet of guards, lined the hall -- The Shivs, The Battalion, The Hangmen, The Pulverizers, The Psychos, The Mincemeaters, The Republicans, and The Ethnic Slurs. I knew my way was well-greased, thanks to all the ducats and material goods distributed.

I passed through, walking very confidently, then I started noticing a bunch of grins. But were they good grins or bad grins? Were they with me or against me? I felt a trickle of sweat on my forehead as I realized I might be walking into a trap. What if I got to Tony's office just as these bulls closed in on me, to kill me, and perhaps abuse my body? By now I had no choice but to keep going. To turn back meant I was dead anyway.

Finally, I got to Tony's door, knowing this was the moment of truth. And it turned out I was worried about nothing. The last couple of guards kicked in the door and motioned me in. I pulled up the gun, and was ready to blow Tony's head off without a smile or a word, certainly without mercy. Then I saw what they were grinning about, Tony's bullet-ridden body was in a heap in the middle of the room. The guards themselves, in a gesture of loyalty to me, had killed him themselves. I felt a little pissed off to be deprived of the pleasure, but what am I going to say?

Seriously, this wasn't anything like what I pictured. I was hoping, you know, maybe Tony and I would struggle and the gun would go off. Then he would flee to the window, having planned his escape in a situation like this. Out the window he would go, closely followed by me, and up the fire escape to the top of the building. Then a helicopter comes down, and Tony's grabbing at the landing gear, without a second to spare, and they lift off, me shooting like a madman.

He might easily escape were the pilot to whip the machine around and take evasive action. But I'm relentless, knowing if he escaped, I'd be finished. So there I am, aiming carefully, with time for only one last killer shot. The bullet goes through Tony's head and also pierces the copter's fuel supply -- the equivalent of the machine's lifeblood. The whole thing bursts into flames, Tony's on fire, and everything explodes and crashes to the ground, debris spreading over the courthouse lawn, with pieces later found as far away as the next county.

To have him simply heaped there in the room, thanks to the guards, seemed very anticlimactic. And I wanted to give them the biggest ass-chewing they'd ever had. But all I could do was offer them my thanks, a smile, and a few high fives. The lummoxes meant well. And being the new Mr. Big means taking caution where caution is due, which is not to say I won't throw it to the wind tomorrow. So my decision was to celebrate Tony's demise as the guards' gift to me.

But here's the rub. I'm thinking, If they'd do this to Tony, they'd do it to me. So we're not through here! But, again, I must leave that for later. For now, I need to keep a low profile. With the helicopter debris and so much destruction, and Tony's bullet-ridden body blown all over the courthouse lawn -- it's all very conspicuous -- the police investigation will have a lot of urgency. At the very least, there will be the appearance of all due diligence. The sons of bitches will be loaded for bear!

Tomorrow I Kill Tony

All kidding aside, tomorrow's a big day. It's the culmination of a lifelong dream, ever since I adopted the life of a criminal at the beginning of February, to take out Mr. Big and take his place. Tomorrow, I kill Tony!

I've been preparing for it, having a hand in everything, not just the prostitution operations of which I am the head. If someone wants to know the latest scut on what's going down, I'm the go-to guy. And that's the way I like it. Tony, as powerful as he is, likes to delegate. Then he sits around his suite, and, I don't know what he does for sure, but I definitely imagine there's multiple climaxes a day. Well, how about one more? The climax of a career and a life...

My preparations have also entailed currying favor on a huge scale with Tony's unparalleled guard. Tony has one entire floor of the hotel for himself alone and his guard, eight divisions of men. To get down the hallway is no easy task, lined as it is with these guys. The Shivs, The Battalion, The Hangmen, The Pulverizers, The Psychos, The Mincemeaters, The Republicans, and The Ethnic Slurs. There's probably not a lot to say about them. They're just a bunch of extremely bad ass dudes.

But as bad ass as they are, there's one thing that puts them all in a great mood, and that's largesse, or to put it in English, material booty. Anything you can give them, if they think it's valuable and matches up with their interests, they like it. So I've been distributing some very nice things, and letting each one know how much I appreciate their service to the Organization. And in return they have taken a liking to me.

And that's mainly it. Ducats and stuff. Tons of it, given repeatedly, with no let-up, is all it takes to buy these guys' loyalty. Money, drinks, hookers, iPods, gift baskets assembled around themes (101 Dalmations, NCAA basketball, antique cars, edible underwear, etc.), boxes of grapefruit from Harlingen, TX, gift cards for 1-800-FLOWERS, styrofoam coolers full of Omaha Steaks, overnighters at Hooters, free Kindles (without "special offers"), and, probably most popular, complete bound sets of the U.S. commemorative quarters series.

They know what's coming, complete and total hell for Tony. And I'm simply going to walk down the hall and do it. They're cool with it because they're cool with me. So there you are. Somebody's gonna die!