I Shall Be Pope Ye

I had moderately optimistic feelings about the new pope, Pope Francis. Which was only natural, considering the last guy having been such a scourge. Francis came in, naming himself after one of my favorite saints, a friend of birds and wolves alike. And one of the coolest garden statues ever. And he's done honorable things, like washing the feet of the poor and children and has been Mr. Cool in other ways.

But now, who knows what might become of him? It was in the news that he's staying in a particular hotel in order to get away from it all. In his own words, “I didn’t want to be pope.” And now he says he's living in the Vatican hotel "for psychiatric reasons." I think I get that. He thinks living in the papal apartments, right there in the loneliest place in the Apostolic Palace, would separate him too much from the people. He'd be living with all the various Vatican cutthroats, etc. They'd be going through his stuff, looking for dirt. Then it's simply a matter of blackmail. And next thing, you're retiring, like the last guy. I'd love to see the dirt on Benedict. Just one look at him tells you he's devious as sin. Yet they chose him! They couldn't find a more honest-looking rat than him? When even then Francis was right under their nose?

As for the psychiatric reasons Francis has, of which I've outlined some, to me this just shows that he basically has it together. If only I had the same boldness in life! Maybe I'd move away from Grandma's house here and find my own place. Really, you think I don't know the family's talking about me? He's 60 years old and still there. We ought to burn the place down, that'd take him out. Or dump out some bedbugs by his window. It wouldn't take them long to find his bed. There he is, rolling around in one of his fantasies, only to turn and see a bug the size of a pillow staring him in the face. That'd fix him! Of course, for psychiatric reasons, I'd be better off anywhere than here. Some place where they can't find me. The State Hospital, wherever, I'm not particular, anywhere.

It's refreshing to hear something honest, isn't it? Just like it's refreshing to hear the pope tell us what we've suspected all along. We sure didn't hear anything like that from Benedict. No, he was right there in the papal apartments, padding around the Apostolic Palace, he didn't care. But the walls had ears ... and eyes. He knew his time was limited. That bleeding statue? That's someone inside it who nicked his nose on a jagged piece of plaster. Watching Benedict, just biding his time, getting enough dirt on him that---- Well, you know the rest, the first resignation of a sitting pope in something like 1,000 years. What's the chances?

I'm really hoping Francis makes it a while longer. We had Pope John Paul I. He lived only a month! I'm still suspicious about that. Then Pope John Paul II. He lived forever. He was the only pope some people ever knew. They were born when he was pope, grew up, married, had children and grandchildren, and finally died. Like the queen in England, trying to outlive 'em all. And then ... you know the succession ... finally someone offed JP II, and, surprise! surprise! there was Benedict standing there, eager to pick up the crown! As devious as they come! Then he's caught doing something behind the scenes -- let's say -- first one to resign in 1,000 years -- and the Vatican decides to clean house.

But can Francis make it? He's already talking about his psychiatric health, and telling children he didn't really want to be pope, etc. I have my suspicions of what must be going on behind the scenes. And it ain't pretty.

OK, what about me? Do I want to be Pope? If elected, yes, I'd give it a go. And just like Francis chose his hero, St. Francis, so I would choose my hero, my lifelong hero ... Popeye, making me Pope Ye.

What kind of pope would Pope Ye be? All the Vatican enemies, the various cutthroats infesting the place, would have to be on their guard. Because I'd eat spinach, puff out my chest like a battleship, and destroy them all. I'd BIFF them and BOP them, and always I'd STOMP them. Let's say I punched them so hard, they flew up in the sky. Before they came down, then, I'm punching trees so hard they become boards and fall down as a dozen highchairs. The cutthroats land in the highchairs, which snap into place, leaving them there to fuss and cry, shaking violently their rattles.

As Pope Ye, I would immediately ordain women. Yes, Olive Oyl isn't the strongest role model for women. She always needs my assistance against Bluto, who's almost sexually deviant enough to qualify for the military. But once Bluto was out of the way -- a type of devil, or Benedict, if you will -- then Olive would be free to bloom and grow. I'd immediately ordain her as priest. It would be a complete renaissance for the church, which to this moment is stuck hopelessly in the mud.

Then, as Pope Ye, thinking of little Sweet Pea, the baby in Popeye cartoons, as well as Popeye's four nephews, we would immediately address the child abuse bullshit that has given the Catholic church such a black eye. I would gather all the male priests and demand them by everything holy to immediately confess their sins. The sheep and the goats. Spinach cures all ails, and in this case it'd guide my judgment. And if it's just a matter of them being too horny they can't keep it in their robes, of course I would open it up so they could get married.

That's how it'd go as Pope Ye, if I were to be chosen. Just as my patron saint, Popeye, always brings everything to a happy finish, so I would completely reform the church. Then I would take on Protestantism, ridding it of snake handlers, Pat Robertson, strychnine drinkers, fundamentalists, and mission trips to Haiti (there has to be some other place these people can do good!). As Pope Ye, just to show I care about the unfortunate, I would personally go to Haiti and knock some heads and get it straightened out down there. It has to be a corrupt government. If we were able to get rid of Benedict, of all people, the persistent failure Haiti represents shouldn't pose an insurmountable problem.

Lastly, my ascension as Pope Ye has a biblical foundation, like when Jesus said, "Ye of little faith."

The Government Is Coming!

Now we all know the full extent of the government's snooping program. They felt it wasn't something we should know, and since we democratically elected them, and they serve the people, with the people being their bosses, it seems only right that we should've had to learn it by underhanded means. Whether the information will do us any good is still to be determined.

Many, of course, are unhappy that they've been doing it at all. As we know, though, many are simply unhappy people and are never satisfied with anything in life. Others normally have a happier outlook and so their unhappiness is a little more legitimate. I fall somewhere in the middle: I'm sometimes unhappy and sometimes happy, so I can see both sides. And on this issue, I'm a little on each side. It doesn't seem like it needs to be secret entirely. What kind of terrorists are we protecting ourselves from? Are they so innocent that they don't know we're even slightly devious?

Most of us are happy when there aren't terrorist attacks. That's the justification for all this. On that subject, though, there's a couple different ways to look at it. Which we were saying in the Bush years when all this bullshit was going down. 1) Are we willing to give up all our liberties and privacy over the miniscule chance that any one of us would be the victim of a terrorist attack? You have a better chance of dying from secondhand smoke from three counties away. We ought to be following the Cheney Doctrine, if there's only a 1% chance secondhand smoke from three counties away is going to kill us, we ought to be building a big wall and installing fans. 2) Can't they just kill the terrorists and leave the rest of us alone? Or maybe make a more wonderful world where people don't become terrorists? Like in the Tao Te Ching.

Personally, I see it as overkill, needing the complete records of all of us, just like it's overkill to strip search grannies at the airport. They've been perfectly normal, harmless people all their lives. They have no criminal record, they haven't done time. Their friendships are mostly with other members of the Doily Club. The idea that they should suddenly be strip-searched, and given this potential thrill in their lives that late in life, might be bad for their heart. Then the government would have blood on their hands, not that it's bothered them thus far.

Take me, though. A strip-search now and then would probably do me good. I've honestly never carried contraband or presented a second of harm to anyone in my life, but you never can be too sure. I feel shifty sometimes, that normal malaise the daily battles of life gives, I carry a certain amount of existential guilt, thanks mostly to my religious upbringing, and that extra punishment, the strip search might be redemptive, depending on how far it goes. Go far enough -- one drop of blood -- and I could redeem the whole world! IHS. Then 2,000 years from now, an unknown citizen -- we'll call him Walt -- will be testifying in church, at that point held under bombed-out interstate bridges: "The Grandma Slump guy was thinking about me. Had I been the only sinner in the world, He would've died for me." The imagination of people runs wild. And the imagination of Saviors.

Then once the whole world is redeemed, we won't have to worry about terrorists. That's the idea, anyway. But how to get everyone to accept the redemptive work (1), then to live 24/7 in the light given them (2), means we're going to need a whole new missionary emphasis. We'll be sending missionaries to the ends of the earth, meaning terrorists will be coming out of the woodwork, confessing their sins and accepting the new grace. Whatever phone records the NSA missed, the redeemed will present in hand, detailed printouts, of how, yes, indeed, they did conspire with my Grandma to blow up the World Trade Center, meaning the surveillance on her was justified all along. Turns out my whole family was involved, from Cousin Roto scheduling flight school classes in the barn to my blind Cousin Connie (a man) hiding Mohammed Atta in the outhouse. Guilty as charged!

Part of the complaint we the public have about government snooping is how secure our personal information is. They assure us it's perfectly safe. No one's looking into it. No one, that is, except this one guy, a lone wolf, who managed to download everything they have without anyone noticing. Not only that, but he was able to flee to Hong Kong. Sounds secure! With all the logistics the guy needed to do it, I'm suspecting UPS. (I wouldn't have the first idea how to flee to Hong Kong, let alone what I'd do once I got there!) The fact that our government had someone in their midst like that alone means heads should roll. How the top man still happens to have his job -- assuming he is a man -- is beyond me. We should examine some of his phone-computer records. Was he playing Farmville on the job? While the fox was in the chicken house, was he in the barn rolling in the hay?

It's a Hogan's Heroes moment. "No one has ever escaped Stalag 13! I know nothing, I see nothing!" Yes, I have all the information in the world at my fingertips, but still this one guy was able to steal the whole store. Wouldn't you think they've have some sort of software good enough to detect massive downloading? I think I'm more pissed about that than anything else. If they're so incompetent at oversight, how is it they're fully engaged at the switch protecting us from terrorists? While this guy was on the phone arranging the logistics of his world travels with UPS, why wasn't anyone noticing? Someone needs to order something from Amazon. I know the only time I never see a UPS truck is when I'm expecting something.

The lesson for the rest of us is to flee now! We're governed by incompetents! They can't even keep track of the people working for them. What do you mean Ed's in Hong Kong? I thought I just saw him in the hall! We could be safe from terrorists if the government wasn't asleep at the switch. Maybe we need to get George Bush back. He was stupid and looked it, so we had no temptation to trust his sorry ass.

The Order of The Patchouli Leaf

Great news, everyone. I feel I've crossed an important threshold. I'm actually certain I did. I've worked hard for it, as I see now in hindsight, although at the time I wasn't even conscious that it was possible. Now I just need to wait for the distinguished gentleman to get here. Hope he hurries.

For those who have no idea what I'm talking about, of course everything about this communique will be inscrutable. But for those into patchouli leaves, and those who happen to be very lucky, naturally you'll rejoice with me.

I've long been an admirer of the patchouli plant, having started out like many of you with only the essential oil. Which is nothing to sneeze at, because you can make important strides with merely the oil. But then I realized something was missing, as a person wants to get to the root of things and not just enjoy the fruit.

It was probably 10 years ago, or a little more now, that I brought home my first patchouli plants. That seems like a long time, and in the modern world, I guess it is. But in terms of eternity, as the old cliche has it, it's a blink of the eye. It was a long time, but it sped by. In that "blink," I've gone from youngish to old, from fairly well-coiffed to bald, and in stamina ... honestly, I can still go the whole way, Katy bar the door...

Be that as it may, the oil and leaves were there. I hung them upside down by floss, then kept the dried harvest in plastic containers. Only taking one out now and again to prompt myself in the ways of the arts, a beautiful thing. They have aged well, having packed away enough sunshine and air for their long journey. They're rife with promise, O God, how it thrills me!

Recently then, feeling that I've stewed long enough -- only the individual knows -- I have gone out and found, and procured, five beautiful new plants. When it happens, you will know. Let me say, dear friends, I'm lightheaded just thinking about it -- it'd be the purest folly to descend from this cloud, although intoxication's never been my ultimate aim.

In tending my plants, then, recently, I saw a leaf wither. At last, the time was right! I lovingly removed it, as one must, and brought it into my home and into my life. As nature instructs, I rubbed it between my fingers, then back and forth on my wrist, and so forth like that, bringing forth the pleasant, strange fragrance. It was seriously enough to knock me over, but I remained upright and confident.

But the rest of that day became crazy. Everywhere I went, and in everything I did, that scent was with me, covering everything like a blanket. The honest to God truth is, it completely overpowered me. I didn't know what to do, I started to get frantic. You know me and my problem with olfactory hallucinations. I blew my nose, went outside, went out to eat, took a shower; I tried anything and everything. Yet it was right there, ever pushing against me, in some weird way both from the outside and within. There was nothing I could do. With my remaining strength, I put it out of reach, in my briefcase, and spun the combination.

The next day was far less crazy. The fragrance had receded in the night. But dare I open the briefcase? I worried about it, then faced my fears with bravery. I opened it and there it was, harmless. I bent and sniffed and there was nothing overpowering about it. I touched it and my skin felt nothing out of the ordinary. This was the beginning of the threshold experience. Something like a completed initiation.

Outside, then, later, within the hour, I went to water the five new plants. At that time and in that place, within a sort of bower or leafy enclosure, all the domains of heaven and earth opened unto my senses. I was in the company of a magnificent world fellowship, revealed in lights, announced without words, yet still clear to my senses, as "The Order of the Patchouli Leaf." I did not turn away but stared into the essence of the vision until it reduced itself to a solid point of light, then vanished all together.

Alone, now, in my study, I write this in my own hand and without compulsion. I can still see the point of light -- like retina burn, like the old flashcubes Grandma used to use. I blink and it's colorful for a second. It probably should go without saying, I have a fresh patchouli leaf on my desk. My little companion. I have fingered it a time or two, maybe five or six times, at the most a dozen times.

I have been given to understand that I am to expect a distinguished gentleman visitor later, who will confer on me various honors and instructions, and will open to my understanding more fully what my life is to be as a member of The Order of the Patchouli Leaf. Every car going by might be him. I don't know whether to expect a Corvette or a Model T. What a day!

That Infernal Mexican Music

Hell of a picture, huh? That's one of mine, a Hipstamatic edited. I saw a reference the other day to "El Vez" the Mexican Elvis. I'm thinking this isn't him, but it might be. Whoever he is, he's definitely got it going on. "You ain't nothin' but a chihuahua, you ain't never caught a rabbit, and you ain't no amigo of mine."

If that was the face of Mexican music, I'd be OK. In fact, I'm OK right now. What do I care? I well imagine if I lived in Cuba, I'd get used to seeing cars from the '50s all the time. And if I lived in Mexico, if that's the music I had, I'm sure I'd eventually fit in. Get me a big old weird accordion and show me a few notes, I'm sure I could grind out something. Or one of those fat assed guitars.

You have to give the Mexicans this much: They have the happiest music I've ever heard. It's always perking along, bubbly as it gets. Which is a feature of accordions. It makes everything sounds like jelly beans. Bubble pop clown eyes music. It just gets tiresome after a while, some days like five minutes.

I was out for Mexican today -- with a date (it's true). I like this one place where it's authentic. Which of course leaves out the shams like Taco Blech and other places like that. If you want the little tacos with the enormous chunks of steak, and the onions, and the little greenery, you gotta go authentic. Only, they haven't been making it near greasy enough for me lately. I don't know what the problem is. I like it greasy. I've been having pain in my finger joints, which I blame on them not giving me enough grease. Seriously, folks, do I have to bring my own grease? I don't know how to make it as good as them.

When you're out on a date, of course you want to make a good impression. So I did what any paramour does, stuck a napkin on his hand and moved his fingers on the table like two legs dancing. And what dancing! The happy authentic Mexican music was bubbling along. That was fun. But once the amusing stuff is over, and you're just sitting there listening to the music -- this happens occasionally -- you start getting a queasy feeling.

We had to laugh. Yes, this is one of those days! Good grief, that's awful! But they seem to love it ... they must love it, it's constantly on, the same thing over and over. How can they stand it like that, forever? Surely there's cultural differences, I appreciate that. But this is strange. It's like it is the '40s or '50s forever. Big old tubas, and weird whiny instruments. And accordions as far as the ear can hear! The style never changes!

Usually, I like it -- or am indifferent. Not today. It was absurd. It really got to me. And I'm not one of those guys into ethnic judgments, even in jest. I'm a bleeding heart. I'm no Don Rickles. Live and let live.

Born To Sin -- A Swimming Pool Right Outside

This one is hot ... I'm still shaking, a bit, sitting here at home. I'm thinking, Wow! this guy actually lives there! Lucky dog, that's for sure! The view outside my window hasn't changed in years, certainly not for the better. I've had a good view of the garage since the '70s, that's the biggest thing.

But this guy ... whoa! He's a guy from church. It just so happened he needed a ride today, and you know me, Mr. Volunteer. There was a column in the paper one day where they asked if you ever volunteer. I felt guilty, then a month later I'm regularly picking a guy up for church.

Today, he needed help getting stuff from the car inside, since we'd had a potluck lunch. Right away, we're unloading the car and I'm noticing some activity off to the left, where there's a beautiful pool. The sun was beaming down and the water was shimmering, as you can tell from the undoctored photo. But that wasn't the best part!

We got to his apartment and he pulls open the curtains of the picture window. There we are, gazing down on enough bathing beauties to stock five years of fantasies. I started joking around with him, "Are these your nose prints on the glass?" Which he seemed to be embarrassed by. "How do you get anything done around here?" I could barely contain my enthusiasm. "This is like dying and going to heaven, and finding it's better than you could've ever hoped for." But he wasn't sharing any of this, waving it off and putting away his Tupperware.

I thought, OK, you go your way, I'll go mine, and left a few nose prints of my own. One of the bathing beauties was a truly modern woman, having a tattoo of something on her chest, which was peeking out of the suit. It's a hard image to shake, even though I couldn't make it out. I doubt it said "Come to Poppa." Plus, of course, I'm wondering what she's doing out there getting sun. I thought that was out. But no matter, sun cancer be damned! And of course she wasn't the only one, right there on display, sunning herself and taking up everyone's attention. Some of these ladies must work out, or eat right, or get exercise some other way -- I'll bet they do! They're definitely fit! Fit for lots of things.

And lest I be accused of being one-sided and showing gender bias, which I'd never do, there were a few rather buff young men. It seems the summer brings them out. The pool brings them together like a magnet. I was amazed at this one guy's beautiful six pack. I glanced down at my own two liter bottle and felt ashamed. Still, wouldn't it be a real treat for an old guy like me to be parading himself out there? Dipping his toe in the water and giving one of those ugly shivers, arms on the chest to get warm? That didn't happen. I'm decrepit. I don't think I could affect the look of nonchalance anymore. When you're old you remember wasting your youth.

I'm over at the window making yelping noises, and stuff like the noise of bacon sizzling in a hot skillet. And this lucky dog, my church friend, acted like, "Yeah, so what?" He's a true church mouse, that's for sure! I looked over and saw an Einstein poster on the wall. Oh, into your studies, eh? Good for you, not me. Good things come to them that wait, and I got all day. If I lived there I'd be up with my glasses cleaned, binoculars, and telescope, and a veritable feast for the senses, a buffet, particularly the sense of sight. I've probably said enough!

I sort of agree with everyone, Pastor Wadd and the white-haired elders, etc., lust is a terrible thing. (I'm honestly not quite as gung ho as them. I'm just not that open, because I know it'd mean more counseling.) But it does have some redeeming uses, such as letting you know, even if you're virtually dead in appearance, everything's still working fine inside. Whatever the evolutionary impulse is behind our instincts, it works all by itself, on autopilot. And that has something to do with the Divine.

Pointers For The Next Ricin-Attacking Idiot

We've had a couple of cases just recently of idiots "allegedly" sending ricin in letters to the president and other government officials.

We know this much about it: 1) Someone sends the ricin; and, 2) They have a person of interest in about the time it takes to gargle. The SWAT team breaks down the door and you suddenly realize, "My life's over."

And yet -- Oh, how you can picture them rubbing their hands earlier in sinister delight -- it's obviously the perfect crime ... No one will ever know! All you have to do is buy the beans on eBay in your own name and have them shipped to your own address. Then you grind them (I guess) and have traces of the powder everywhere. Then you mail it, getting tricky here, from the mailbox down the street. Then all you have to do is lay back and picture the president getting up and hustling out to the mailbox, somewhere there at the curb next to the White House. He's like, "Hmm, something about this mail smells weird, sniff-sniff ..." And that's it!

The perfect crime? In case you haven't been keeping up, law enforcement has everything at their disposal. Did you catch the word I used: They have everything at their disposal. Even if you use the mailbox on the other side of town, they're going to nail you. Even if you spell your name backwards on the return address, they're going to know it was you. In fact, that's the first thing investigators do. They hold things up to the mirror to see if you wrote it backwards. They know how to find evidence. And the president's never going to see your letter.

Seriously, folks, you really have this image of the president running out to get his own mail? Maybe Abraham Lincoln did it like that, I don't know. We know security was very lax back in those days. But it certainly hasn't been done since. I think it's even been very well publicized that they have big mail sorting places around Washington, D.C., or somewhere, for the president's mail and that of Congress. By the time they get the mail, it's been cleared. And perhaps everything is photocopied before it gets to them, so there's not even the slightest threat of anything getting through. I know that's how I'd do it if I had anything to do with security. Then if underlings were dropping dead -- like the old food tasters kings had -- we'd see the wisdom of our caution.

So the biggest pointer is: If you think what you're doing is a worthwhile thing, think again. If you're really so troubled, get a stick and a cardboard box and go to the backyard and whack it. Or if that's too violent for you, take a deep breath, count to 10, and be thankful you won't have to spend the next 40 years in prison. Go gargle in peace, knowing the SWAT team isn't right outside.

Things You Can Still Do Without The Government Knowing

What in the fark was I doing losing it anyway? Except that 9/11 happened, everyone (you know the sort) got frightened, at at least pretended to, and next time you went to open a savings account you were treated like a terrorist. Because if one person in a cave (we thought) in Afghanistan was a terrorist, maybe we all were. It got so bad we even had various litmus tests. I went to a gas station where they wouldn't sell you fries if you asked for French fries. Seriously.

Now, in the last few weeks, there's been revelations that all our phone records are a matter of top secret information-gathering on the part of the government. I wasn't shocked. I thought that was happening already, that and more. There's nothing in the world I wouldn't put past them. And when that's true, just let your imagination run wild. Certainly we know our every move is tracked or traceable, with video cameras everywhere, the trail of cell phones, internet usage, ebooks, cloud drives, bank withdrawals, etc. And even if it's not the "government" doing it, we know they have instant access to it any time they want, as in, and legitimately so, the Boston bombing.

So, alas, those were the good old days, those thrilling days of yesteryear, back when we went around pretty much without a trace. No cell phone. If you were a block from home you might be anywhere. The only video cameras were the ones Action News used, which you never saw. And so forth.

But surely -- you gotta be kidding me -- there have to still be things you could do without the government knowing. Although, if you're willing to toss in informants everywhere, heat-seeking devices (like in Boston), and various bugs, it looks like it's getting pretty tough. So we'll say these are things you could still do without the government necessarily knowing.

Library book sale -- Of course if the government wanted you to know if you went to the library book sale, that'd be easy. You traveled public roads and paid with a debit card. But they don't necessarily know what you bought. There's a couple of checkout ladies, who seem fairly nosy about what you've got, but they're being more friendly than anything. You could buy something from this checkout lady, then something from that one, etc., until you worked your way through the whole box.

Silent prayer in the garage -- Silent prayer is always best anywhere. It's closer to actual meditation, closer from making a production of things before the Divine. Who are you trying to impress? My thought is, naturally the house is bugged, if anything is. But they don't know you're going to be in the garage. Then if you do choose to pray silently there's really nothing for a bug to pick up. I don't know of any current technology that picks up silent prayer. How God manages it? God's the ultimate snoop, I guess.

Drink coffee at coffee places after paying with change -- Again, you're on video getting there. And you might have bugs in your clothes. And your money might be marked. But it's conceivable that you could go to a coffee place, let's say with change. Dollar bills have serial numbers, change doesn't. Who you meet there could be dicey. Personally, I wouldn't meet anyone. They might be informants. And the coffee lady, she might be one. Drinking coffee at home might be safer. If you must go out, drink it as fast as possible and get the hell out.

Dreaming -- It's obvious. This is like silent prayer. They're not going to know what you're dreaming. Unless you're stupid enough to write it in a Dream Journal, which New Age magazines suspiciously always give away as subscriber premiums. Hmm. As for me, I dream a lot but I don't remember them clearly after the first few waking moments. I met a guy a few weeks ago who said he never dreams, which I take to be either an outright lie or he's mistaken. Now, though, on reflection, I'm thinking maybe he thought I was an informant.

Listen to music -- I'm putting this on the list even though I know it's tricky. You will need an old fashioned CD player. Even a record player won't do, because the vibrating stylus is easy to bug. Your player can't have Bluetooth either. And your ear-buds have to be completely inserted, no gaps. Then you'll need to play it at the absolute minimal volume. Of course, any MP3 is encoded with identifying information, especially if you're getting it off a Cloud source. The best recommendation here is to be discrete and to avoid guilty pleasures, just in case.

Picking your nose on a boat -- If you're on an open boat, thanks to telescopes, it wouldn't even be a matter of privacy to pick your nose and toss it to the fish. They might even see the very minimal ripple on the water and charge you with littering. But if you had a houseboat, you could go inside, allowing for all the usual rules of bugging and video devices perhaps being present, turn out the lights, pretend you were silently praying, then pick your nose and palm it. Then, with the appearance of washing something off your hand, you let it go, and the fish get it. If the fish shows up at the shore, opening its mouth with the picking on its tongue, bearing witness to a game warden, you're on your own! I used to go fishing with Grandpa, who had the greatest luck by merely farting on his bait. But Grandpa lived in a different era, when you could get away with that. Thanks to the Patriot Act and the NSA, I've quit farting all together.

Visit my blog -- No, you can't visit this blog without leaving a trail. They know you've been here, and obviously I know you've been here. You know that little camera on your computer? That's right, straighten your hair a bit ... what a mess. Why look so quizzical? I can see your hair and everything else. Including the old Sitting Bull poster on your wall and that stack of erotica on the shelf. You've been a bad boy. You've offended my sensibilities...I'll be reporting you. Sitting Bull, wasn't he an enemy of the U.S. Government in his day? You don't think they've forgotten, do you? Now you're palling around with him! And as for the erotica, we know what that's all about. There's a heat-detecting sensor built into your bed. And they've charted some interesting heating/cooling cycles when you're in bed, right before you're dreaming and "forgetting" your dreams. You're busted!

The Drug-Sniffing Dog

As the police have faced greater and greater challenges from ne'er-do-wells and their ability to commit worse and worse crimes, so they have had to come up with better ways to enforce the law. It used to be they could simply ask you if you were doing something wrong and the guilty look on your face would give you away. But as crime has gotten so much worse, so the brazenness of the criminal has increased.

The police have had to up their game in virtually every aspect of law enforcement. From the affairs of school truancy all the way up to grand theft auto. The old rules no longer apply. What was good for one generation has proven dismally ineffective for another. Jesse James was a handful, the newer breed can't be contained. I think it all started with Capone and Dillinger, very tough groundbreaking hombres.

So that's the situation. You have to fight fire with fire, you have to match what you give with what you get. Like breeds like. Yesterday's techniques are old hat. You either stay one step ahead of the criminal, or you're five steps behind. They've given themselves over to crime so completely, if you don't give yourself over to law enforcement in equal measure, they'll always be that much farther ahead. If you start out behind, you'll never catch up.

One way of catching up and even going ahead is in technology. Police scanners, private radio channels, bigger and more powerful guns, cars with overdrive, louder sirens, and spike strips. Another way is an old fashioned way, the usage of dogs, man's best friend. It's true. The dog is no longer good for nothing but to be the family pet. He can also be deployed as a member of the force, an actual officer on the force. Using dogs in police work, they call them the K9 division, a play on the word "canine," another word for dog.

What can a dog do in this K9 work? We might answer the question more easily by asking what they can't do! They can't fill in paperwork, although they can carry it desk to desk. They can't read someone their rights, although there is a push for a recorder to be hooked into the collar that reads someone's rights, triggered by the dog hitting the switch. And they can't drive the car, although, again, with an increase in technology, such as the Google cars that drive themselves, it's probably only a matter of time before dogs will do the whole thing!

In the last few years, something they've discovered dogs can do (and do very well) involves their powerful sense of smell, already legendary in the animal world. They can smell your trail, giving them the ability to do reliable "bloodhound" work, tracking you. And they can smell drugs, having been trained. If you have heroin, cocaine, or marijuana, along with any other drug, they'll find it. Presently, the human officer gives them a signal, "Smell, boy!" (in German; K9s are often trained with German commands) and off they go, alerting the officer to the presence of whatever illegal substance there may be, whether under the seat, stitched in the ceiling, or simply on the seat in plain sight.

A K9 I was personally able to witness one day, when I was given a community tour, sits in the backseat of the patrol car. At the times the K9 is there, the window is rolled down. Over the window is a plastic mesh screen. The human officer might be over yonder somewhere, looking for a perp. Then he's suddenly in danger -- the perp is after him. The officer simply pushes a remote, the screen flips down, and out bounds Officer Fido, to the rescue. It's awesome. This same officer, at the tour, had on a big heavy indestructible suit. The dog clamped his mouth on his arm and the officer waved him around in the air. The dog was flying through the air with the greatest of ease, but he would not let go of that sleeve. Let's say you're the perp. You don't want a K9 with that kind of tenacity holding you! You'll give up!

How, though, is life unfair to the K9? Let's say the human officer stops for lunch at a BBQ place. The dog is sitting in the car, the window's down, and the smell of the BBQ is filtering in like crazy. He's sitting there, salivating, wishing he could have some. This is where it'd be interesting if the dog could flip the remote somehow himself, then go into the restaurant and clamp on to a rack of ribs. The cook is waving him through the air trying to dislodge him, but he may as well give up. The ribs are ruined anyway, since the dog's already had his mouth all over them. They may as well give them to him, except, of course, for the fact that once trained in this, it's tough to break them.

In conclusion, I'm sure K9 animals eat well, although probably not that well. As far as sniffing drugs, that's just a part of their job. They sniff them and find them. They get a treat, perhaps, and the police nail their perp. It's all in a day's work ... for the drug-sniffing dog.

You Were Divinely Led To My Blog Today

That's right. Today's the day. I have this weird weight in my soul, whereas you'd think it'd be incredible lightness. It's a strange burden, an overwhelming conviction I can't shake, that on this day of all days you were divinely led to my blog. What a thing! Great, isn't it? It just happened, I didn't do anything to make it happen! It's wonderful, I suppose, like the Magi.

It didn't just hit me today. I started getting a sense of it a couple days ago. I had a rumbling in my belly. Like anyone would assume, I just figured it was a problem with one of the six faces of the Rudra-linga, being out of sorts. But everything checked out fine upon examination. This was no ordinary cosmic fart, but an order to receive guests. A massive inflow.

Then yesterday I reacted badly, in prolonged doubt, imploring the heavens to find a more suitable vessel. Surely somewhere on the vast internet, already fabled in world history, there would have to be someone more worthy than me, someone who would be able to handle an influx of this kind without completely freaking out. Just the idea of it is enough to send me over the edge. Call me reluctant. But it's an honor, an honor, an honor...

I'm trying to look at it that way. What? It's one damned day, right? So far. It's not going any farther than that, surely. Because I'm not going to have the time for it. I'm here and I'm busy with my own life. The toaster hasn't been shaken out for three months. I have a mousetrap to empty. There's a small limb in the yard from the last tornado. Such devastation. It's endless.

Anyway, like it or not, today's the day. They're all here. Divinely led. It's a big deal, something not to take lightly. Heaven has opened. The Magi are breathless, they've done this before. The ordinary manger is exalted, through no fault of its own. I won't be able to walk for the press. Before the day's out, some visitor will reach out to touch me, maybe needing a leg extension to cure a limp, hoping virtue will flow from me to them. They'll be cured, maybe, and I'll be wasted. It'll be nothing to do with me personally. I keep telling myself that. I'm just writing a blog, and I usually something to offer. What a responsibility!

Unfortunately, on this day of days -- this is embarrassing -- I'm standing here empty, I've basically got nothing for you, nothing really. The whole thing is like a massive kick in the pants, it knocked the wind out of me, and I'm going blank. The more I strain my brain, the less gets through. Nothing? Something? Anything? I've been going through my notebooks, nothing. I'm watching TV, it just makes it worse. I despise sitcoms. La, la, la.

Any other day I would've been fine. That's how it is usually. I'm striding forth, with my rhetorical shitkickers on, slaying fantastic one-eyed giants, lots of piss and vinegar. But those days I'm not expecting anyone, certainly not on this scale. I don't know who comes here. No one, really. I think they've got links to me on Chinese gambling sites. They don't even read English. Why they'd come here, I don't know. Unless the Chinese gods are leading them everyday ... could that happen? Without them telling me?

I guess I should see that as a comfort. I actually prefer not knowing. Because when I know something like this, I don't really know it. I merely suspect it, then it messes up my day. I'd rather just look back and be amazed that it happened, past tense. Then I could say, At least I had a nice idea that day, the day they all showed up. Whereas, this is torture -- enhanced interrogation, I mean -- to have such a platform, divinely ordained and all, and to come up empty...

If each one of you could send me a dollar, that would really be nice.

NBA Justice - Live In Peace or Face Obliteration

I like NBA justice, very swift and certain. The replays don't lie. A muscle-headed jock says something, he can't unsay it. It's a quick suspension or thousands of dollars in fines, just like that!

I really haven't followed basketball at all till just recently. And even now I'm not diehard to the point that I know very many people, their careers, their records, etc. But now that I've dipped at least my toe into the clear waters of major league competition, over the last year or so, I'm starting to hear the news. Had you heard Michael Jordan retired? Me either!

Now, if a guy like Roy Hibbert, who I hadn't even heard of before a couple weeks ago, says something stupid and immediately gets a $75,000 fine, actually before I even heard of the fact that he made the remark(!), that's registering with me. Or if Chris "The Birdman" Andersen pushes a guy to the floor and proceeds as if nothing happened, then gets a suspension, I'm noticing. I've been listening to some of the commentary on the games, although I've usually got the sound down and my iPod on, and the guys are weighing whether the fines and suspensions are adequate to the various offenses. Only to a certain extent are they questioning whether the NBA should be able to go back and look at replays, then come up with charges beyond what the refs called. Essentially, they're OK with the system.

And I'm OK with it, too. That's the way it was when we were kids. If we had a pact and someone ratted out on us, it wasn't even a formalized process, you'd be immediately suspended from club activities. I'm happy to say, I was a pretty faithful club member. My clubs were The Bee Club and The Spy Club. I'm a little ashamed of the bee club, but I guess it had scientific value. We'd get a few bees in a jar, keep them till they were very worn out, then let them crawl on us. The fact that they never stung us was amazing to people. As for the Spy Club, we investigated things and thought we had an enemy club, although there were never any actual confrontations. We did a lot of sneaking around. In both clubs, as I've mentioned before, I was the baton twirler.

Clubs and teams -- sports leagues -- have it better than the normal justice system. Like the justice system in Kafka's "The Trial" has it better than the normal justice system. They're able to make their own rules, and no matter how inscrutable they are, you either abide by them or pay the price. With sports leagues, maybe they're somewhat scrutable; I'm only speaking in ignorance of their rules; it's hard to believe they're entirely arbitrary. If Roy Hibbert says something that is currently socially-unacceptable, though, it's different than if he would've said it several years ago. So there's a varying standard, no doubt. Whereas flagrantly pushing a guy to the floor would've always been frowned on.

It must be a big responsibility for those in charge. Because how do you decide precisely what the penalty's going to be? $75,000 is probably nothing to someone with tens of millions of dollars. But it's immediate cash flow, rather than something tied up, and maybe he needed it for daily expenses, dinners out. Suspending someone from a game where he might make a difference in the series, that's a pretty big penalty. But it had to be something like that. It'd be sad if basketball went full hockey.

I like the old movie "The Day the Earth Stood Still." We used to see it all the time as kids and it terrified me. Klaatu came to Earth and made it stand still to give us a message from the other planets. It seems they all formed a big league, the major league of planets, the National Planet Association, and put their own created robots in charge of the law. And now we have to adhere to the same law ... or else! Klaatu says, "It is no concern of ours how you run your own planet, but if you threaten to extend your violence, this Earth of yours will be reduced to a burned-out cinder. Your choice is simple: Join us and live in peace, or pursue your present course and face obliteration. We shall be waiting for your answer. The decision rests with you." So far we've done OK, having not found life. But I'm sure if we ever do find life out there, we'll ruin it.

Obliteration! Couldn't they just suspend the Earth's rotation around the Sun a few years? That way we'd behave ourselves and never grow old. 

Your Happy Adult Friend

The scene is a cavernous auditorium. The sound is reverberating off the walls and ceiling. Five hundred notebooks are open, with participants jotting notes, learnings, gleanings, and techniques. It has a very nefarious feeling, which is an accurate feeling.

The lecturer, a slimy guy in a slimy guy suit, you know the sort, has a darkened visage. His main features are literally in the shadows. You can barely make out his eyes, they're just that shadowy. He's looking down at the overhead, adjusting the transparency. It is a chart. It is scientific to the nth degree. They've got this stuff down to a terrifying science.

The participants have paid big money to come here. It's all quite hush-hush. I'm not here, you can't prove I was here. And it's true -- you're never going to know. They've got something to hide. They really do. Although, and this is particularly nasty, they don't seem to have a guilty conscience about it. Their consciences have apparently been seared.

How do I know about any of this? I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to reveal how I happened to be there. Only, I wasn't there as a waiter or server, nothing like that; I was trusted. Why I was there wouldn't do you any good anyway, or any of the thousands out there who, quite frankly, are in danger of losing the most joyous part of their lives. Instead, look after your kids! I feel I have to say it, Parents, please know what your kids are up to ... and what the agenda of their "happy adult friends" is really all about. If they go to a meeting somewhere, check it out; know what they're doing!

The auditorium becomes a bustle when the leader instructs the assembled group to break into smaller groups. This in itself is a weird socialization exercise, because you don't know these folks. I'm looking around -- Does anyone want to be in a group with me? What if I let something slip? Such as my pure opposition to everything these bastards and their network of like-minded individuals stand for? That asshole who had a Hefty-sack full of heavy metal CDs and was stomping on them, I don't want to be in a group with him.

Of course, it's all group-think. That's my word for it. They've got one ultimate agenda, and while some arguably mean well, they're mistaken, deluded, dangerous. How much better it would be as a kid to grow up with your mind developing in good ways, and not with someone else's weird agenda. My basic objection would be: These people ultimately don't know what they're talking about. If it could be demonstrated they had the sense of a fruit-fly, then maybe.

Here now they're going over some of the basics of child psychology, the making of decisions by particular ages, the ways of persuasion, when to give rewards and when to withhold, the latest techniques of multimedia, including computer graphics and video -- "Cartoons are a great tool..." -- how to divide them up to reduce resistance, on persuasive touch, and being the kind of person they will trust with their lives.

The whole dynamic of the thing, concerning the last point, is that you have to be their "happy adult friend." Because most of their adult friends, and they may have very few, are keeping their distance, not having a point of view to convey; they're usually friends with their parents, people not looking for an in. Meaning, and this point is set forth as a major aha point, that "our role" is usually completely unfulfilled. It's like a turkey shoot. Shooting fish in a barrel!

So what becomes of these specimens? They've got the follow-though to show up, you have to give them that! They show up with a vengeance, like an entire laboratory on two legs, and they're very insidious. These are your children's happy adult friends. Wake up, parents! The whole thing stinks to high heaven!

Monet Did It Better

It's my day to grind an ax, or stand here with an ax to grind ... that's how the phrase goes. I'm sorry if you came looking for something better. Like someone in a good mood. Sometimes I'm edifying, sometimes I'm just peed off, and this is one of those subjects that does it to me.

How many times have you heard the old taunt, when you've done something, anything, that someone, like five years ago or whenever, did it better than you? In my opinion, it's a wonder anyone's ever been able to do anything! Although maybe those people, the true creators, have had the good sense not to listen to the naysayers. All those folks who'd just as soon you knew, no matter what you do, not only is it not good enough, but someone else already did it ... better.

LOL. It's kind of funny, really. Not only that they say it, but that I let it get to me. As to the last point, of course I know better. I usually have a fairly thick skin. I'm not generally given to listen to criticism. I really don't have that many people around me who are stupid enough to chime in their little piece. Social couth. Or cheer you along, whatever you do, "Good job. Helluva effort." No, it's always the true critic, your basic Rex Reed wannabe, who has the background to know what's been done in the field, then the balls, to tell you to your face, "So and So already did it ... and better."

My first thought has to be, "How am I supposed to know what everyone else has done ... and how well they did it?" The internet helps on this, but, still, is it expected that each one of us is spending our time 24/7 researching the world of what's been done, how it's been done, and what's left? I don't even know that there is a resource, a website, telling us what hasn't been done, or if it's been done how much better it needs to be next time.

Of course a guy might come up with something famous that's already been done. Just yesterday, I was humming a song, which I thought was a song from the '40s, and I hummed it to a friend, and she didn't know what it was, hadn't heard it before. I knew better -- I knew it was a song -- but I said, "Then I just composed a great song." Then later, listening to my iPod, I started searching around, and it turned out to be "Stardust." Then I remembered having seen the word earlier in the day, and that's how it got in my mind. In this case, though, the song I was humming wasn't better than "Stardust," because I was leaving out some notes.

OK, that's an isolated example. But there's plenty of lesser stuff, like this blog post, let's say, that either hasn't been done before, or it's not going to matter if it's better or worse than the last guy to attempt it. It's my thoughts at the moment, la la la, who cares? And that's the attitude I need to keep. Just simply accede the point, "Yeah, sure, someone else thought of it, and they all did it better than me, satisfied now?" It stands to reason: The history of the world is virtually infinite, surely some caveman has done a fuller treatment of the subject. For all I know, there might be entire books on it. Or theses, well researched.

So, where's that leave me? Fortunately, I'm a glutton for punishment, it appears, and I ain't going nowhere. And if someone's done that better than me, I'm going to have to accept it that that's true. I'll just be happy with my bare minimum of life and existence, knowing of course there are people at the absolute bottom who are living happily. As for "better," at this point it's like a rock sitting still better than a truck, it doesn't matter.

They might come around with counselors. They're trying to spoon feed me psychological advice that everything you do, regardless of how much better than you it's been done, is your own life. And that life isn't meant as some sort of competition where only one can survive and advance. I'm able to mutter a forlorn, and at this point somewhat inscrutable, "Yeah, tell that to the Dave Clark 5" and immediately fall into my soup.

Of course they keep working with me. It's someone's job to do it. And the disability pay I normally get, because of my game toe, is meant to cover psychological recovery in the event of a total psychic crash. They keep going with the happy talk, taking me for minimal walks, and giving me the personal care of young nurses.

Finally, I'm in the home, and I'm able to scratch a picture of a flower on a paper with a crayon. When some asshole says Monet did it better, but by now I'm not even hearing it. Monet probably heard it from the folks around him, too. Some other artist from years ago, whoever they might have been -- Growlie, Walnut, I don't know any names -- Growlie did it better than you ... Walnut had a better technique, and at least his art stood for something.

I grew up with the idea that everything I did was great ... and that's where we'll leave it!

Dancing Tornadoes Away

With everything we're facing from global warming, and our leaders having no political will to pull our ass out of the fire, we're going to have to try something to make it better. I know around here we're about frantic with all the tornado watches, warnings, and actual visitations -- HELL! ... Excuse me, there went another one, a full twister ... just carried away the neighbor's shed! If he sees me looking, I'll have to go help with cleanup, so I'm going to keep writing...

Of course, I've been wracking my brain, thinking, Show me a way! We can't live like this. That's the third tornado just this morning. And the night was worse, since an EF5 interrupted one of my major dreams, the one where all the hedonists who've, incidentally, somehow managed to pass with flying colors a battery of sexual disease tests, are just settling in for a luxurious orgy here on the grounds. Then I'm woke up by the shutters flying off the house -- dammit! -- the tornado just grazing the place.

Anyway, I'm wracking my brain, and an idea comes to me, something I'm seriously going to try. I don't think it's been tried yet. If so, it hasn't done much good, so they must not be doing it right. That's dancing the tornadoes away. The idea just came to me, because there's some analogy there, a tornado is twisting the night away and that's what we do when we're dancing. It's fighting fire with fire; you've got a trouble, you combat it with the same trouble; a kid eats too much chocolate, you force feed him chocolate till it's running out his ears, he either quits, dies, or kills you.

Think about it: What if mankind stood up to these SOB tornadoes rather than running and hiding? You can't run from a bully. The bully will never let you live it down. He'll be on you everyday until you finally stand up. It reminds me of the story of "The Geese and the Poodle," one of my old stories. We had geese that let a poodle chase them, till they got tired. Then they flipped around and chased him, almost scaring him to death. He tucked his tail between his legs, or would've had it reached, and ran ... and he'd probably be running still, years later, if I hadn't let him in the house (1), and (2) if he hadn't died some months later from an unrelated car running over him in the drive.

So, what if we just stood up to the tornadoes and fought fire with fire! Meaning, we dance! We get all mankind, everyone in the state, out there when there's a tornado, morning, noon, and night, dancing up a storm! The jitterbug, the fox trot, even slow dancing. But you say the tornado, being an inanimate thing and not conscious, won't care. But maybe there is consciousness there. The yogis teach the same cosmic consciousness is in everything, so that could be our trump card. Our dancing and the consciousness in us, and the tornado and the consciousness in it, come together ... it's a beautiful thing. Beyond that, we have the pebbles in the pond theory, like in time travel movies, that every change in life, no matter how small, has unknown consequences. Running hasn't helped. We need a different pebble.

Holy crap! A tornado just went across the field on the other side of the road. It took out a cow. There go milk prices!

This might even become a moneymaker for me. Because until the idea catches on, I can hand out fliers and business cards (you can get 300 of them online for 10 bucks), and stand out in people's yards and dance the tornado away from their house. I'll do it myself and collect all the money. Or get a partner and cut him or her in for 30%, since it's my idea and I'm entitled to more. Most people don't get hit. So if a tornado doesn't show up 99% of the time, even if my idea lacks in basic science, it's still going to be apparently successful. Safe customers mean happy customers means big bucks!

Maybe the native peoples of the world knew this all along. They've been doing rain dances for centuries, and appeasing the gods by sacrificing virgins, the whole thing. My idea might not be that crazy.

Friends, I need to quit. Another tornado just touched down on the half acre, and I think the blackberry patch is gone. I saw some smaller thorns fly by the window. I need to get my boogie shoes on and find my groove thang. Someone's got to stop this SOB. That someone is me!

Me and Wordsworth's Dogs

At the end of William Wordsworth's huge poem, "The Prelude," in the Modern Library edition being almost 220 pages, longer than any poem I'm ever going to write, he says, "Oh! yet a few short years of useful life, And all will be complete..." That tells me he was an old man at that point; he lived to be 80. Which is only 20 years older than me!

All this matters today for my blog because of one passage I want to celebrate, from Book Four, lines 93-190, which has some good stuff about his dog. I have lots of thoughts about dogs. One, I'm glad a great poet like Wordsworth took time to write about his dog. He's all right.

Of course, when I read it, I have to think of my own beloved dog. Who would've made a great dog for the great poet, had she not been born in the wrong time and place for it. On the positive side, she was born in exactly the right time and place to be my dog. So that's equally cool. She beat the odds. Because I'm happy to say, If you're not going to be Wordsworth's dog, you may as well be mine. Not second best, mind you, but equal or better. When it comes to poems, Wordsworth has me beat, but not at dogs.

I want to lift out some bits from Wordsworth's poem about his dog. Wordsworth had been away from his home and stomping grounds, at school, far enough away he had to stay there most of the year. Then he's back for summer vacation, then he goes up in the heights, the rocky crags around there, thinking up poetry and getting the inspiration from a favorite romantic locale.

At lines 93ff, he says his dog, a rough terrier, was among his favorites "whom it pleased me well / To see again..." I bet! Who wouldn't want to get home and see his dog? But this is more. Wordsworth was out there kindling "with the stir, / The fermentation, and the vernal heat / Of poesy, affecting private shades..." In other words, his poetic impulses were sizzling hot. But what of his dog? He continues, "Like a sick Lover, then this dog was used / To watch me, an attendant and a friend..." And this even though Wordsworth was so absorbed in his poetic inspirations that he had to halt walking a hundred times, making the dog somewhat tired and uneasy.

LOL. Of course I can relate to the dog's faithful presence. My dog's right here as I write, watching me with concern as I virtually tear my hair out, what's left of it, trying to get every word just right. I have very demanding readers and a very easy-going dog, which means if the situation were reversed, I'd be taking the dog for a walk with a constant lash at my back, or any number of other means of goading someone along. But my dog's very patient.

I'm running long, so I'll summarize the rest of Wordsworth's section on his dog. I like it how he celebrates an especially good burst of poetic inspiration by darting toward his dog and caressing him repeatedly "with stormy joy..." Then they'd be walking along and he'd give Wordsworth advance notice of anyone they'd be meeting on the way. The alert meant Wordsworth hushed his voice, since he was thinking out loud. The dog saved Wordsworth's reputation! Lines 129f, he says people would've started "piteous rumors" about him, saying that he was "crazed in brain."

My dog tries to help me like that, a little. Say I'm writing a blog, she barks anytime I'm about to hit the "Publish" button, knowing I'm only digging my hole deeper. You only see the crap that gets through, you should see what she prevents!

Back to Mr. W. In lines 131-190, he doesn't mention the dog much. Here, though, he's writing as the old man in the present time, not so much remembering past memories. So in lines 182ff, he sat in "the sheltered coppice" and heard "the straggling wind" in the hazel leaves, and it reminded him of his dog: "a breath-like sound, / Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog, / The off and on companion of my walk..." That gets me! How wistful! The straggling wind reminds him of his dog's panting. But of course the dog is now long gone.

I know my dog's getting up there, 14 years old and in failing health. Years from now -- let's say I survive another 20 years -- I'm going to be looking at photos of my dog and ... whatever. But at least I have pictures. Wordsworth had what? The straggling wind. And a great memory.