30 Days Hath September

I came out of my self-imposed hibernation to wish everyone a Happy 30 Days Hath September Day!

This is one of the first days most of us ever heard of. When I was growing up, learning about the days of the year, no lesson would be complete without mentioning it. And thank God, because it rolls around every year.

Other than that, there's not much to say about it. Although, just giving it a minute's thought, wouldn't it be wild to have your birthday on September 30? As many people do, no doubt. Since no one can help when they're born. It's all up to their mom and dad. Still, let's say you were born on Sept. 30, and they were teaching you the calendar and your birthday and "30 days hath September" were the same day! You'd never forget it.

Water -- A Great Diluting Agent

This post is about some troubles I've been having with heartburn. If you've ever had heartburn, you know what I'm talking about. You get this basically indescribable bad feeling in your throat. It feels like something you wish would go away.

At this point, I'm dealing with it myself. When it first flared up, I took antacid tablets, and they soothed the burning sensation. But then I had an appointment with the doctor, so I told him about it, and he prescribed some medicine for me. I took the medicine right along, very faithfully.

But I started noticing some weird stuff going on that, according to research on the web, are side effects. Unpleasant, disagreeable stuff, like loss of balance, dizziness, and vertigo. I took a trip out of state and the drive was rough. I had to stop every half hour or so and get out and stumble around just to get myself mentally halfway back on track.

So when I got home... I should back up... On the road I still wasn't really chalking up the weird stuff as side effects of the heartburn medicine. I didn't know. It was much later that the thought came to me that it could be a result of the meds, and I only thought of it when the loss of balance became so much worse. Peeing on the wall was the last straw.

I quit the meds, and everyday became just a little bit better. Finally the bad side effects were more or less gone. But guess what came back, the heartburn!

OK, this is where water comes in. I thought, hmmm, water is used to dilute things. You always hear it. If you want to dilute something, use water. Then I'm thinking, there's something in my stomach that's not quite right; if I dilute it with water, that might make it better. To a certain extent, but not fully, I've done that. I have drunk maybe an extra three or four glasses of water in the last few days. And I might drink one in the next couple minutes, thanks to me writing this and having it fresh in my mind!

Well, maybe it's what they call psychosomatic, or the positive benefits of wishful thinking, but I actually think it's helping. My heartburn isn't near as bad. Water is part of it, plus I have taken a grand total of two antacid tablets today. And another thing, which is extremely tough for me to do, I've been trying to chew my food just a little more than usual. Because I heard once that a big part of digestion has to do with chewing more. But for me it's tough, because I like to gobble my food down so I can have more time for more interesting things. That, and my teeth aren't the greatest and I don't want to overburden them with chewing.

I really think the water thing might help, drinking more. Because, aren't I right? Isn't water what they use for dilution? I've never really heard of them diluting stuff with anything but water. If I get better, thanks to water, I might literally save a fortune in doctor fees. It's worth a try!

Our Hungry Feathered Friends

I'm updating everyone on how my feeding of our feathered friends is going, which I mentioned two months ago.

I would say everything has gone apace, pretty much like you would expect. When our fine feathered friends get the taste for food, it's very hard to shake them of it, and I haven't tried! They're still here eating! All I can say is, What an appetite!

It's even starting to look like maybe I'm now the only thing between them and extinction. Because they'd probably starve quite literally to death if it weren't for me. They're all so lazy, all they do is hang out in the trees and wait for me to divvy it out. Which, as long as my health and my budget hold out, I will do. But if something happens to me, they'll probably all die. Of course I'm very proud to know I'm so necessary to nature's continuation as far as being alive, not dead.

This is my vow to our feathered friends: As long as there's a hungry feathered friend anywhere in the world, my job is not done. I don't care if it takes me to every continent, to every country, and to every city and town, and every backyard in every town, they are going to eat. And as to the food, I don't care what it costs. I'll take out loans if I have to. I'll hold fundraisers. I'll sell pancakes to the neighbors, anything to get the seed, whatever it takes.

You want to hear my lowest point in this whole thing? I had a terrible rash -- a terrible rash -- break out on my left arm, the underside. I treated it myself for a week but it kept getting worse. I put Listerine on it, Neosporin, hydrogen peroxide, and tons of soap, but nothing would help. Then it suddenly occurred to me. Maybe in feeding our feathered friends, I had come in contact with some kind of bacteria, the creeping crud. I said one morning, I won't feed them anymore. Because it might've gotten worse. But then I went to the doctor and he said he didn't think the feathered friends had anything to do with it. He gave me medicine and it's clearing up very well, except for some red discoloration (scarring?) that's still there.

So the upshot to that is, I didn't stop the feedings. Our feathered friends are getting their daily portions. And there's a ton of them! I want them to use the honor system, not to sit and eat more than they need, as long as others are waiting in the trees, but it's real hard to regulate.

Everyday I'm up before they are, getting the feeder filled, etc., and refreshing the water, and everyone is very very happy. I've done a lot for them, but they've also done a lot for me. They've certainly taught me the importance of breakfast, which doctors say is the most important meal of the day. That's obviously true for our feathered friends. It's so important they literally fly in for it.

I Believe In An America

I believe in an America where a man can start his underpants down around his ankles, and by pulling them up can get them around his waist and cover his ass.

I believe in an America where it's up to each man to tend to his own underpants. Who knows better than each man himself, in the privacy of his castle, where his underpants stand? He can look down without any help from anyone and see whether they're on. And if they're not, he can get them up over his feet, lift them up next to his ankles, then pull them up around his waist and cover his ass.

Be he rich or be he poor, if he has a place to stand, only momentarily, this is a task, a effort, an undertaking, he can accomplish.

The pilgrims and pioneers, we know, were the ones who started it all. They came over on ships, and according to the old world standards, a fact of history to be accepted and, with all due allowance made to varying cultural mores the world over, not to be deprecated, they were bare butt naked. Totally naked but for a kind of smock or tunic or robe, meant for the most part to keep them from being totally naked. It wasn't much, but they called it clothes. It helped keep them warm. But one thing it did not do -- it did not do this -- it did not cover their ass in that total way that underpants does. They could still feel the sway of their natural assets. They were uncomfortable with the chafing, but what were they to do, having grown up with different cultural mores, and totally idiotic ones at that.

Well, when they got to America, some Guiding Divine Providence, perhaps it was God, opened their eyes, that they might realize that except for those smocks or tunics, they were naked. So they sewed the first primitive underpants from leaves and weeds. And from there it was a hop, skip, and jump to the more comfortable cloth underpants we know today.

Boys and men came together around the sacred circle. The chieftain was in the middle with the communal supply. Then, and I know this sounds weird, all the participants ran around the perimeter of the circle, until they were nothing but a blur. One by one, and in some unconscious order, similar to the motions of birds, they spun inward, and accepted a pair of underpants from the chieftain. He made a silent sign to each, and each, individually, performed the ritual of getting his underpants around his ankles, then pulling them up to the waist secure, so they covered his ass.

And evermore may it be. We are not a naked race. We are proudly clothed. We wear underpants here in the America I believe in, in the America I know, and ever shall.

Hair In The Bathtub Drain

I stand amazed in the presence of a hair clog, and wonder how it could ever be, eight to ten hairs and a tub backed up, threatening to run over. You're that close to catastrophe, simply because water can't find a way around a few pestilent hairs!

Hair in the drain, that's all it takes. You could build a dam out of hair and get just as good results. Beavers could skip the gnawing of trees and just lay in some hair. Lay in a few hairs in a random pattern and the water will stand forever!

You couldn't do it with rocks. If you put rocks in the tub, the water would still find a way around them, and down the drain it'd go. Or anything else except hair. Paper, bricks, even a nuclear bomb. You can't plug a bathtub with a nuclear bomb. It can't be done. Only hair. Hair and nothing else.

Somehow hair, by its fineness, has an immediate ability to form a watertight seal, and stops water in its tracks from draining out. I had a hair clog in the tub. (This anecdote is based on a true story of what could conceivably happen.) It literally took two men, seasoned plumbers, working all night, and they couldn't break through or remove a measly ten hairs! And I thought it'd be cheaper to pay by the hair and not the hour! Boy, was I wrong!

Some of the memorable hair blocks that I've seen, other than that one, and they run the gamut, would be:

1) Fairly good flow -- Only a single hair
2) Moderate flow -- A couple more hairs
3) Impeded flow -- Five to six hairs
4) Essentially blocked -- Seven to eight hairs
5) Completely blocked -- Nine still drains after some hours, 10 is hopeless. Anything greater, the hopelessness simply intensifies.

What can we do about it? There's nothing we can do. It's going to happen. Alternately, we could clean the drain after every use. And if everyone could somehow stop losing hair all the time, that would be the perfect solution.

Here's how I've found it's best to clean a hair clog: If you can get a good hold on it, it's easier to pull out. But pulling one or two hairs at a time is time consuming as well as frustrating. The best method is whatever takes the least amount of time and effort, like most things.

Ice Can't Sink A Ship

Where have I been? I haven't written much lately. That's no accident, because I've been very blah and not feeling up to it. I'm pretty sure it has to do with the political scene. Presidential elections get to me. The Republicans are so completely shitty as a party, anytime the country flirts with putting one of those bastards in power again, the consequences being so mindblowingly horrendous, it's enough to depress any reasonable person. Which I am.

But then, like today, when I hear of something also revolting to me, although truthfully not as revolting, I just have to shake off the doldrums and come out and state my case. So, like the tortured genius artist with his first album of original material in 10 years, here I am again, today to offer a well-deserved defense of ice. That's right, ice, the slick stuff that water turns into when it goes from its liquid self to a harder shape.

All this has come about because I just happened to see part of a show on National Geographic about the Italian cruise ship that sank a few months ago. What was it called? The Cordon Bleu or something like that. I need to Google it. Oh yeah, the Costa Concordia. It was an accident that costa lot, and left very little concord with the passengers, who might have been eating Cordon Bleu, till it all went down.

As far as accidents go, I don't really know much about it. It seems like a rather minor thing to someone like me who doesn't know much about it. Most of the folks got help, I'm assuming. Whether anyone died, I don't remember. Be that as it may, that's not my point. That's not what outraged me enough to shake off my politically-induced blahs and come back to writing. If you had 100 people trip over the same little crack on the sidewalk, three or four of them would die. Next paragraph! 

What I saw on the show -- and I only saw about a minute and a half of it -- was that ice was the cause of the rip in the ship. Or at least, That's their claim! For I have a very hard time, an impossible time, believing that ice can do that much damage. And if it turns out I'm wrong, then so be it, but I don't think so. Still, if I am wrong, and presented with enough evidence to convince a staunch unbeliever, I will be the first to confess it. But I don't think that's going to happen.

The charge -- the false charge -- is that ice was the culprit! That the ship, apparently veering off course, slid up against a bunch of ice -- frozen water -- and somehow (no one knows how) it managed to cut a lengthwise hole in the ship, basically from the front to the back. This then, they claim, opened up what they call compartments of dead air, that then allowed a situation where air was going out and water was going in. To me, that's a standoff. But to the so-called experts, water beats air every time.

OK, so last night as I was thinking of this subject and thinking how I might mount a credible defense of ice, I had a glass of iced tea in front of me. I clinked the ice around a bit. It tinkled, that's all. I swished it harder, and the noise was a little louder. Then I sloshed it like the town drunk, and it made a somewhat louder noise, but in no case, no matter how hard I sloshed it, did the ice cut a hole in the glass. And, mind you, the glass was plastic, not the tougher material they make ships out of, iron. 

The results of my experiment prove that ice is harmless.

I've seen films of ships busting through ice. And never have I seen a ship go down in it. At least not very often. Meaning there had to be some other reason for the accident. Whatever else it could have been is anyone's guess. It just could not have been ice. OK?

Pepper Comes With Instructions

Pepper comes with instructions. And this is something we can be glad for. It saves us having to rely on endless past experience, which takes a lot of mental power to keep straight. It makes things a lot clearer and thereby much easier when dining, so we're no longer plagued by constant mistakes.

Even now I'm reviewing the instructions, because you never know, the next time I eat could be any minute. I've pretty much worked myself up to three basic meals a day, so the next one is probably sooner than you think. I get this kind of inner signal, a kind of gnawing, that tells me, in words to this effect, that I'm hungry. And when those times come, I don't want to be left high and dry without knowing what to do.

So, let's see: "Use to flavor meat, eggs, potatoes, or vegetables." That seems easy enough to grasp, especially if I read it a few times. Pepper has something to do with flavoring. Meat, eggs, potatoes, or vegetables. I wonder what that or is in there for. You see, right there I've been doing it wrong all these years, since, if memory serves, I believe I've been using it on meat, eggs, potatoes, and vegetables.

I'm hoping I don't make any other mistakes. Meat, eggs, potatoes, or vegetables. And I've glanced ahead and can see that salads and cottage cheese will also be mentioned. I wonder what macaroni and cheese is, because, honestly, I've been putting pepper on it for years. It's not exactly meat, of course. Or potatoes. It's pasta, right? Which I think they use eggs to make. And if cottage cheese takes pepper, probably regular old cheese could too. I'm good at loopholes...

Something to notice here, since we've already looked ahead at the salads and cottage cheese, is that it says to "Sprinkle on" those things. But for meat, eggs, potatoes, or vegetables, it only says to "Use." Now I'm at something of a loss. If sprinkling is the explicit instruction for salads and cottage cheese, and thereby presumably excluded for the other four foods, what's the best way to apply it? Dashing? Dumping? Shaking? I really don't know what to do with this. Because just saying "Use" is not entirely helpful.

Still, all in all, it's better to have the guidance they've given than to complain too vociferously for the things that are either left out or are ambiguous. And I shouldn't say too much, because maybe they have a fuller set of instructions on their website. I haven't looked yet, and I don't know if I will. I'm afraid I might find out I've been doing things seriously wrong all my life. And the way I am, along with my age, old habits are hard to break.

I will start with these instructions and see how it goes, proceeding as carefully as I can. Then when I'm sure I've gotten them down pat, completely mastered, maybe I'll venture to their website and see what else I might be able to add to my dining repertoire. I want to get it right.

I'm A Gentleman And A Scholar

I was the recipient of a rather great honor the other day. In one of the picture-sharing social-media sites where I have an account, I complimented a guy for one of his pictures, and he messaged me back, "You, sir, are a gentleman and a scholar!" Read that again ... It's awesome!

Of course I was floored. I honestly never heard anything so nice, in addition to it being unexpected. I probably don't need to say it, since it's something you can obviously guess, but I've thought about his statement over and over ever since. Remember, this is a guy who's never actually met me in person, and somehow, some way, he was able to capture something of my essence and compliment me in such a great way.

Really, it affirms some of my own thoughts, even though, as they say, we're always our own worst critics. And it's true. I'm always getting on my own case about something. Maybe I left something undone, or I put off a needed task, or I let my usual perfectionism get in the way, blah blah blah. I'd love to be two separate people in those moments, at least split myself off temporarily, so I could kick my own ass. But then, whatever criticism I might offer myself, when it gets right down to it, I'm also an unabashed fan. I stand back and survey my accomplishments and think, "Good God, man, you've truly got it going on!"

But to have some other person like that, someone I complimented for a photo -- I think it was a colorful sunset, or maybe a rustic oak barrel snapped in black and white; it was something -- to just come right out and lump me together with two classes of extraordinary individuals, gentlemen and scholars, that's really quite an extraordinary honor.

Also, it actually came at a point in my life where I was feeling a little down. I have regrets about childhood. I was such a typical kid, playing outside, having a good time with friends, riding bikes, messing around at the creek, fishing, etc., that I didn't always have time for academics. Rather, I didn't take time. Looking back on it, I really wish I could've been a prodigy, like a kid they promote out of kindergarten straight to college. Brainy like that. That's a scholar!

So what was the problem? I guess the honest-to-God truth is I was very much a typical kid, with the average intelligence of a kid about my age. You could probably say I was even lagging behind where I should've been. In sixth grade I probably had the mentality of a fifth grader. Then in seventh, a sixth grader, etc. So about a year after graduation, I went, "Oh, that's what they meant in 12th grade." If I was a scholar, it was very much hidden, buried, a hidden potential.

As to being a gentleman, that was my upbringing. Saying goodbye to people when I left. Saying please and thank you when there was a pressing need, like when someone needed to get the hell out of my way and finally did. As I recall it, I always got high marks for being a gentlemanly boy, then teen, then young adult, then older adult, and now, as I am, standing at death's door. There's no reason to be a bad ass now!

OK, I thought you'd like to hear about the compliment I got. And if you have any other compliments for me -- like if you think I'm a third thing in addition to being a gentleman and a scholar, you can leave it in my comments. But what could it be? A gentleman, a scholar, a great blog writer, a friend to animals, a compassionate person to the down and out, a live wire, a coffee-lover, or all that and more!

SSuffering SSuccotash, It's SSibelius

Today I'm going to show you my cultural side, that I'm able to swing culturally with the best of them, critics, reviewers, various experts.

The subject today is music, and in particular, classical music, also known as the most mysterious form of music there is. The purveyors of classical music, except for Leonard Bernstein, and, as I've recently discovered, Sibelius, all lived hundreds of years ago. They died and that was it, the classicists were gone.

But somehow Sibelius made it to more recent times, having died when I was four years old.

I bring all this up because I have a CD by the composer called Sibelius. There seems to be some dispute -- I'm going to call it a good-natured debate, i.e., without rancor -- as to what his first name was, Jan, John, or Jean. It seems like a simple glance at his long-form birth certificate might clear it up, but that's a controversy for another day. We will simply state as a matter of fact that it likely starts with J.

I'm looking at my picture of J. Sibelius, and the first thing I notice is that he looks like Jackie Coogan, aka Uncle Fester, which might be why everyone liked him so much, assuming they did.

OK, the CD I've got is a symphony called No. 2, indicating to me that he probably also had at least one other symphony. That's two more than I've ever written, so I won't mock him  for it. No. 2 is called "Finlandia," so I'm guessing he was a big fan of Finland. To me, that's closer to the North Pole than I ever want to be. If he was from Finland, no doubt he wrote music by the light and warmth of a very large candle, although unless you have more than one wick it doesn't matter how big the candle is, you're going to get the same little flame. So much for candles.

My commentary on Sibelius is this, his name sounds like the name of a substitute teacher. "My name is Mr. Sibelius." "Good morning, Mr. Sibelius." Being a nice student, I probably would have offered to stay after class and clean the erasers for him.

Other things we could say about his name, it's kind of like the Sibyl, the fount of all knowledge in the ancient world. "O mighty Sibyl, should we attack the Huns, or just leave them alone?" Or how about this? The S sound -- Sibelius starting and ending with an S -- makes me think of lispers, with many sizzling sibilants spitting forth from his lips, "SSuffering ssuccotash, you sstudents sstay in your sseats!"

Then Mr. SSibelius passes out the ssyllabus and the ssemester is finally underway.

Update: The picture doesn't do Mr. SSibelius any favors, I know. But in high contrast black and white, everyone looks like crap.

Everyone's Comfortable With Themselves

There's something very interesting I've noticed. The old discomfort people used to have with themselves seems to be gone. It's obviously a new day for self-confidence and pride, which I think is a great thing.

We used to have this whole thing with magnifying our supposed imperfections, thinking we were ugly, etc., and we didn't have the same attitude prevalent today. I don't know why we did it. I guess it could've had something to do with our parents, always worrying themselves sick with how we looked. "You can't go out with your hair like that! Is that what you're going to wear?! I'd be ashamed to be seen with you!" So we'd carry that attitude with us, like a constant burden.

But now everything's a lot more swinging. Babies get their ears pierced, parents are proud of everything their offspring do, and style is really any old thing you can throw on. I love it, it's a new day! Our lives are on display! Everyone's happy!

Another thing that might explain the lack of discomfort is all the cameras we're toting around. Digital cameras. We see people taking pictures of everything, whereas we didn't do that 40 years ago. You had a roll of 24 pictures and it cost money to get them developed. But with digital, it's all free, so everyone's walking around town taking pictures of themselves with the camera extended arm's length. "There's a cool expression! Look how I can cross my eyes! I'm cool!" It's great! You're more proud of yourself when you're clicking pictures.

I have to confess, I still carry over some of the old discomfort myself. I say, I'm too bald, too fat (although my doctor says I'm by no means obese), my teeth suck, there's nose hair where there used to be none, etc. It's hard to get with it, with the new way of doing things, but I'm really trying. I look and see guys who look far worse than me, only they don't know it. And I think, I should act like that, then think like that, and without comparing myself to those who look worse, be simply proud of myself.

People today, I honestly think, have got it going on! And I'm getting into the flow of things. I may be an old man, but I'm trying to be the best old man, even a folklore-looking codger, let's say, that young hipsters might like to have their picture taken with. I'm flashing gang signs that I just made up. I'm with the best people on earth, the average guy and gal on the street! Take off your suit jacket and break dance on the street. Spin on your jacket, it's just cloth! True!

So I'm out there ... and more. And what do I see? People who are psychically healthy, very healthy. They're proud of their tattoos, their bra straps, their headbands, shirt tails, and underwear. They're flashing cool hand signs everywhere, one finger, two finger with a gap, five fingers straight up, the A-OK sign, etc. They're proud if they're bald, furry, wearing black, wearing white, in make-up, without make-up, if they're Plain Jane or Jane Mansfield, Bubba or Burt Reynolds, whatever may be may be, world without end, Amen.

I was out today, sitting in a restaurant, and saw some of the greatest cleavage of my life. This was breakfast. I drooled egg yolk on my shirt, which I'm proud of. It's like a shirt tattoo. Lastly, my complexion -- like I said, I'm old, but once in a while I still, even I, get a pimple. Who cares? It's not like anyone cares anymore.

The Oldest Powder In The World

I hate brick roads. Just hate them. In fact, you remember all those letters to the editor in the newspaper from the guy who hates brick roads? That's me! So there you have it... I have a track record on the subject... I have credibility.

Why, one might ask oneself, would they ever have made brick roads in the first place? I'm thinking maybe back then they didn't have cement. A guy would need to find out when they first started mixing cement to know for sure. Or it could have been that they had cement but it wasn't very good. A brick, on the other hand, can be tempered and hardened, whereas poor cement will instantly go to chaff.

If that's really the reason, then I guess I'll have to accept it as a pretty good reason. You can't be driving six white horses, as they did back then, down a poor cement road and have them sink to the top of their fetlocks in chaff. But that's been a long time ago, and I know cement's come a long way. I used to have an uncle who poured cement and he often spoke highly of the stuff.

OK, cement's come a long way, we all agree. And yet still we suffer old brick roads from the 19th century. It's a disgrace! Because bricks go haywire. They're small individuals that can go cockeyed any minute. The ground sinks somewhere and they're raised up on edge like icebergs. Which can take out a ship, as we all know!

One of the reasons we still have brick roads, like it or not, has to do with people's sense of nostalgia. Since bricks have been around for a hundred years, Oh good God, we can't get rid of them now! Which doesn't make a bit of sense, because if they're bad, they're bad. And they're not going to get better, only worse. Then when they get worse, we can't get rid of them then, because by now they've been around a hundred and twenty five years. And on and on. They're always going to get worse, and they're always going to get older.

Eventually then -- and the ancient Egyptians knew something about this when they made the pyramids -- they'll be so old, they'll crumble away to powder. But because the powder is so old, and we're so nostalgic, we certainly can't get rid of it. So we eventually end up with the oldest powder roads in the world!

Maybe it'd be good for the bricks to go totally to powder. Because then we could mix it up with new cement, add water, and have the old road incorporated with the new. And everybody would be happy. Whether that happens in my lifetime, though, I'll just have to wait and see. But if I die first, someone else will have to check for me.

Our Policy On Napkins

Before I get to it, the hilarious blog post you came here for, "Our Policy on Napkins," entirely written by me, I want to take a personal moment to address the latest Fareed Zakaria controversy. Actually, the first Fareed Zakaria controversy I know of.

Fareed Zakaria has confessed to plagiarism and so has been suspended from CNN and Time magazine. Yes, a brainiac like him! It's hard to believe. I used to watch his show on Sunday -- I probably saw three episodes total -- and was vastly impressed by his apparent intellect. He has a foreign look and sound that makes him sound much more knowledgeable than the average American. By that, I mean, we associate actual news and in depth commentary with foreigners, since Americans, with our shallow outlook, are so easily distracted by celebrity gossip and anything to do with blondes and boobs.

Now I find out -- quite to my shock -- that Fareed Zakaria hasn't had an original thought or word in his life. I don't know if he's gone this far in his confession, but I suspect he's plagiarized everything he's ever written, and hence has no independent intellect of his own. How, though, he was able to do that, to discern the good stuff and plagiarize it and somehow avoid the bad without any independent intellect is a mystery perhaps best left for another day.

I remember we used to plagiarize stuff all the time, more or less, as kids, copying out of the encyclopedia. Because we didn't know anything. Seriously, I was much dumber back then than now. Now I'm very scrupulous, like on this post on "Napkins," to only use my own imagination and experience. I can truly say I'm not copying it from anyone. Sometimes I use graphics to illustrate my posts that I get from various sources, but I'm not claiming to be an artist, just an independent genius when it comes to words, words, and nothing but words. (In this case, though, with Fareed Zakaria in mind, I took the extra time to take my own picture of napkins, seen above.)

So, that's it, my thoughts on Fareed Zakaria. I'm sure he can get back in everyone's good graces. He can find someone to write him a real good killer apology, and then he'll be back to normal. OK ... on to the festivities at hand, "Our Policy on Napkins."

---------

When I go to a restaurant, I can barely enjoy myself. I'm sitting there worrying about whether the owner and staff and waitresses are making enough money to make it pay. Because I do not want to be interrupted in the middle of a meal with them telling me the place is closing. That'd be terrible. Guys carrying away the tables, taking pictures off the walls, dumping the mints and toothpicks in a box, etc.

Since I'm so worried about it, I try not to take things I haven't explicitly paid for. Like toothpicks. I restrict myself to one, or two at the most. The mints is another actual example. I take one and that's it. I don't want anything free. And I'm also thinking that this is what they're thinking too. We need to keep an eye on this guy, so he doesn't rob us blind. Which I would never do!

In my opinion it might be more helpful for them to just come right out and say it. Although it looks funny to have signs around warning you, "In order to keep our prices low, we must insist that there be no sharing from the buffet." Chinese restaurants are big on this: "Absolutely no carryout box on the buffet, our prices to keep low." The average person might be stunned. You mean I can't load up?

I'm phrasing the policy on napkins just as an example of how it would go. Yes, based on warnings I've seen in the past (cf. Fareed Zakaria):

In order to keep our prices low, we ask that patrons please restrict themselves to one napkin each.

This might be trouble at some restaurants. Like the ones with sloppy hot chicken wings, where you need a roll of paper towels just to keep your face barely clean. But the price of napkins, however low it is, adds up if you multiply it times millions of patrons. So here's a more lenient policy:

If you need a napkin, please help yourself. Take all you need, but please wipe yourself with all you take.

Saying "Help yourself" sounds dangerous, and yet they're usually pretty trusting when it comes to napkins. The only place I've really seen anyone abuse the trust is McDonald's, where the poor basically stock up on napkins for toilet paper at home. Which is why the price of Big Macs keeps going up, to subsidize the poor so they can wipe and have good hygiene.

Our napkins are for our guests' immediate cleansing process in regards to the meals they've purchased on this visit, and are not to be used for wiping places not used in the actual eating process. We recognize that digestion is ultimately part of the eating process, but because there's no immediacy to it in regards to your present visit to our facility, we must ask you to refrain from stocking up on our free napkins for your bathroom at home. That is entirely inappropriate, and disgusting to visualize. Even though everyone does it.

The National Loners With Guns Registry

I've been trying to think of some way to stop all the senseless gun violence we've been suffering, without infringing on anyone's rights. I have to agree with our most rabid gun proponents -- Second Amendment enthusiasts -- that, yes, obviously this is what the Founding Fathers had in mind, every crazy person being able to stockpile his own arsenal with no restrictions whatsoever. When they wrote about "a well regulated militia," what they clearly meant was, "Every man for himself with nothing to do with militias or well-regulations."

That established, agreeing to the obvious sense of their phrasing, society (individuals who don't feel like dying today) has discerned some desire to keep crazy assholes from going off full-cocked, ballistic and dangerous. When a person goes nuts with guns -- whether it's an arsenal of just one gun or a million -- the results can be unpleasant, in fact deadly. But what can we do about it? That's the question. We can't restrict guns in any way, of course. But we can do everything short of that, in the spirit of "An ounce of prevention..."

Let's look at what we have so far, as in time we have looked out over the bleak landscape of apocalyptic America. The people committing the worst violence have been loners. Loners. They're alone, sometimes they're OK, but the rest of the time they're seething about one thing or another. OK, with that we've been able to piece together the first scraps of a pattern, which I believe is full of important insights. We've concluded that since the perpetrators are troubled loners with guns, these are the ones that need to be watched.

Of course we ideally have to start with the loners before they become troubled. If we get a preliminary census of loners that will be an important first step in monitoring them and whether they're troubled. Every 10 years, five years after the general census, we have the loner census. We do it the same way they do the other census. We go door to door and find out how many loners live there? If they say more than one, we figure they're lying and just put one.

Then we discover if they have guns. And we make a registry of them and their arsenals. Then we check on them periodically to make sure they're not troubled. If they are troubled, we check up on them more frequently. If we find they've been buying ammunition, or they're doing drills and maneuvers in their backyard, we check up on them even more. If we see them in weird face paint, hair oddly colored, a dazed look in their eyes, in full combat gear, and with their arsenal in their cars, we put some kind of robotic device on their motor that will automatically drive them off a cliff. Good riddance. Then we cross them off the registry, making room for others.

It all starts with the registry. Because if we don't know who they are and what they're up to early enough to prevent the next massacre, by the time they go berserk and kill half the town, it's virtually too late.

The Pit Version Of Everything Else

I'm bustin', I have to get it out of my system. I'm putting out another virulent, heartfelt condemnation of pit bulls everywhere. When God created the pit bull, let's face it, He was in a bad mood. He threw the damned thing out there and said, "Yes, it sucks, but I bet you can't make one better." To which we said, "True, but if you think this is good, you're insane!"

I wrote about pit bulls earlier, getting me an insane amount of publicity from pit bull lovers. Yes, there's such a thing! Just like there's lovers of women sitting on men's faces and lovers of snuff films. There's lovers of every crazy ass thing, including pit bulls.

Anyway, what has got me in this freaky snit about pit bulls all of a sudden? I'd let the fervor die down for quite a while. Well, it seems, I had a terrible experience with a pit bull downtown just today. We were walking up the sidewalk and a couple was walking three dogs, none of them a pit bull. Just then, here comes another couple the other way, with a pit bull. The pit bull took one look at the three dogs and went ballistic, struggling to get to them, making all kinds of fearsome noises, tugging with all its might, etc. And I'm right there! This berserk dog might've gotten me as collateral damage. The owner cussed a bit about it and kept going. The stinking dog was tugging hard, like a marlin on a rod and reel!

We got where we were going, a restaurant, where I was finally able to catch my breath. Naturally, that was the topic of conversation, how anyone could take one of these vicious monsters out in public, especially when we all know people bring their normal dogs downtown all the time. What? Are they willing to let their dog maul other dogs, just for the excitement of it? There's also little kids. Who knows how long it'd take to maul them if it took a mind to? Five seconds?

After a while, having survived, and having not lost my appetite to the sight of three dogs being eaten on the sidewalk, we started laughing about it. That's a great way to deal with trauma: Horray, we survived! But of course the dog is out there somewhere ... so maybe we won't be so lucky next time.

Our conversation veered off to a discussion of, What if everything else had a "pit bull" version, a "pit version"? Like cats. I guess the pit version of the cat has to be the lion or tiger. So cats are covered. But how about birds? There aren't that many vicious, berserk birds. They're extinct if they ever existed. You see a bird and it can't wait to get away from you. They're basically not attacking each other either. The ones at my bird feeder definitely coexist. I was thinking maybe an owl would be a good pit version, since they always seem like they're waiting, waiting, waiting, sitting and waiting. They could swoop in and go nuts.

And it's obvious we have the pit version of human beings. They're the disgusting creatures who show up and shoot 70 people in a theater or temple or military base or political gathering. I saw an article about the guy who shot Gabby Giffords, just a picture of him, and I forgot what tragedy he was part of. Then I was reminded, "Oh yeah, that guy." He looks something like a pit bull. And the suspect in the theater shooting, shave his head and he'd resemble a pretty good pit version of a human being.

How frightening, these pit specimens! Fortunately, we still love dogs, not lumping them together with their weird pit relation. Not too many intrinsically pit versions in other species. Snakes. I don't care for snakes at all, but some are worse than others. Elephants. Once in a while one goes rogue. Etc., etc., etc.

But for all that, the pit bull stands alone. As much as pit bull owners want us to think they're loveable and great, the evidence is as close as the sidewalk today ... what a crap dog.