Joining Westboro for the Traveling

I got this idea as soon as I heard the Westboro Baptist Church was picketing the funeral of former Speaker of the House Tom Foley.

(My first thought was Tom Who?, since my brain doesn't work with the same efficiency that it did years ago. Then I scoured my memory banks and finally came up with a hint of recognition at the name.)

It was that -- exactly that -- the obscurity of Tom Foley, that made me think, Maybe I should join them and get in on all the traveling. I never do anything but stay home, while these people are all over the country and maybe abroad.

Plus, it'd be kind of fun, a growth experience. I normally treasure it when people like me. But everyone's become so selfish these days they don't really like anyone, just themselves. That leaves an insecure guy like me wondering What's wrong with me? Till I think a little more and come up with the answer: People hating you is really the same as people liking you; it's attention; they LIKE you while hating you because they're getting a kick out of your existence. Follow that? It's basic Psychology Today 101. Not only will people love me if I'm carrying a picket sign proclaiming God's hatred for them, but I'll be able to travel ... and love myself more!

So you can picture me at Westboro Central. We're scanning the papers, looking to see if any two-bit historical figures have died. Or someone's shot up a school. Or a hurricane's happened. Or the price of rice has gone up in Japan. Something! Anything! It's been two long weeks since I was a thousand miles from home! Ahh, here it is: TOM FOLEY IS DEAD! The less-intelligent members of WBC go, "Who?" But pretty soon we're all on the same page, with me casting the deciding vote: "Yes! We go to Washington, D.C.!" (We honestly ought to be protesting Lou Reed's funeral. He's a rock God, which the actual God has to hate.)

In Washington, since I'm at heart a very responsible person, I hold the protest sign, even if it's only for 30 seconds, then duck out to take in the historical sites, including the newest statue showing the Republicans not only shutting down the government but helping reopen the World War II memorial they closed for the PR. I check out all the great places, including Ford Theater, where God showed his hatred for the end of slavery by killing Abraham Lincoln.

Back in Topeka, a few weeks have gone by. A kid in Kansas City was expelled from school for a Jesus tattoo on his forehead. But I don't feel like traveling to Kansas City (big whoop!), so I vote no on that. And there's a few other close-by places. The governor's poll numbers are slightly down because God hates the price of tea in China, but if you live in Topeka obviously it's no fun to stay in Topeka, so we all vote no.

I suddenly come up with a good one. France! I've always wanted to go to Paris, so I photoshop a fake newspaper article, "Homosexual Man Discovered in Paris." Which is plausible; if they have them at the Vatican, you realistically could find one anywhere. Out with the signs! I've got a free trip to France! Where we search high and low and never find the guy. But to make it worthwhile, we march around the Eiffel Tower, hoping against hope that it might fall down, helping to make our case. Again, I only protest for about 30 seconds, then I'm off to eat at the French McDonald's and get coffee at the French Starbucks.

My Dreams of Open Carry

My dreams of open carry are coming true! And this is even one of those weird things I never thought would happen, like flying cars. I figured the Old West was gone and we'd never get it back.

This is true, that as a kid watching westerns, I always complained that they carried guns all the time and we couldn't. Our guns were hanging on a rack -- unlocked, mind you -- and we only took them down for hunting or cleaning or showing someone.

Parents didn't believe in safety as much then, which was OK, because we did all right. We had the run of the town. We played lots of war games, cowboys and indians, and killed each other all the time, only in our imagination. Even though we had guns, we never actually killed anyone. Although I remember having a grievance against the sheriff one time. All water under bridge...

I gave up all hope of open carry -- walking around with holsters, dangling guns down to your knees. Never thought I'd live to see it, but now... All praise and glory! They're back!

Frankly, I don't know how long it'll last. His term is only so long. Meaning, we need to groom future black presidents so we never have to go back to a ban. There's definite benefits to a generalized paranoia, which we're reaping now.

Only, I don't see any decent candidates being groomed. On the bright side, we might get a woman president for eight years. Of course that'd give our testosterone a workout, meaning open carry would be safe. Yet, it's all temporary. What we need is a constitutional amendment -- call it the Second Amendment Part B -- that presidents can only be black and/or women.

The worst case scenario for open carry is that we get another white man like Bush, especially like Bush. He had that whole ignorant good-old-boy thing going so strong there wasn't ever the slightest temptation to allow open carry. And the more dishonest he was -- we frankly didn't have time to plumb the depths -- the more people liked him. I still see various idiot assholes on Facebook pining for those supposedly "good old days" of a white male president, with absolutely no understanding of what it meant for open carry.

I personally haven't taken the gun plunge yet. The openness of open carry is still a little too primitive for my taste. If you kill someone you still have to account for it. I want it like the westerns. You do your killing, you have a drink and play cards undisputed. Or go upstairs to Diamond Lil's room and do whatever they did back then. Teach her a thing or two with your barrel.

The Key to My Mouth

I'm able to go profound lengths of time profoundly silent. Witness what I've done here at my blog. I've resisted the temptation all month, until now, when I feel I have something to brag about, to write. I have literally let the pearls of wisdom that I normally transfer from my mouth to my hands lie dormant. They've been locked up.

Now, though, only when I have something to brag about, my profound silence, do I break my silence and proclaim it. Quite the deal.

I guess I've always been that way. Starting way back, when I first heard of the concept of zipping your lip, then, more impressive to me, of locking it all together. I was like the fainting goat of speech, everything I was meant to be by nature, but with the added discipline of just keeping to myself.

Someone would interrupt me, let's say, then ply me for my opinion. But by then, whether stealthily or in the open light of everyone's field of vision, I would have taken an invisible key from my pocket and locked my mouth. Then, no matter how they begged and wheedled about it, I would sit silent, stone-face, breathing only through my nose.

That's a dynamite feeling, too. If you've never tried it, try it. Let a roomful of people sit there and see you with the discipline it takes to not unlock your mouth. I'm getting a head rush just thinking back over my life, and hoping, as strange as it sounds, that someone offends me very soon so I can do it again!

So often, though, I've been very civilized. I might be sitting there in a group, trying to offer my two cents' worth, and all the others are filibustering. Then I try to pipe up with something and some blowhard across the room will talk over me. So often I've just let it go.

But it all depends on how I'm feeling, and you definitely feel more civilized as an adult than a kid. But say I'm feeling cantankerous, like a kid, I'll reach for the key and very publicly lock my mouth, and that's it! Now, all of a sudden, everyone wants to hear me! Funny how that works! So, again, depending on how I feel, I might unlock it quickly, or I might just sit there and not.

It'd be cool ... How about this? I'm offended right away, then I lock my mouth and throw away the key. It's over there somewhere, invisible. They're begging me, "Please tell us what it was!" and I just point to my locked lips. Then I sit there the entire hour or two, whatever it is, letting the lock do its thing! It'd really flummox them! Later, they see me on the street and I'm talking, because I always carry a spare key.

Anyway, you have two lessons today. Locking your mouth is something to do. And, don't interrupt me, or get on my nerves in any other way, or I'll lock my mouth and you'll never know what you missed.

HealthCare.gov Is Down

Well .... fark! I was looking forward to getting healthcare coverage. October 1 and all! But it looks like everyone else had the same idea, and the damned thing wasn't ready to go.

"We didn't know there might be lots of traffic -- millions and millions of people -- so we didn't have the website crap ready to go when they got here. Our bad! But we are working to resolve the issue as soon as possible ... the issue being that this could've been foreseen, probably, since we've only been looking forward to it for -- what? -- three or four years.

"But what would it have taken to have been ready? Maybe a few more servers? Frankly, we don't know how it works. Please try again later."

My Bucket List

I was late to the party on the phrase "My Bucket List." Honestly, I never heard anyone saying it, then suddenly I heard it all the time. So unless it was a matter of spontaneous combustion -- and I don't think so -- people were already using the expression widely, then it suddenly hit me.

I watch "The Price is Right" and a bunch of the contestants say it was on their bucket list to be on the show. That's  how pervasive it is, and apparently how trivial it is. Not that it wouldn't be a terrific honor to be on the show. But you have to figure, they have a huge crowd, and only a handful of people can be contestants. I'm pitying the poor folks in the audience who don't make it, yet it is on their bucket list. O! To be that close!

(Just let me mention here, Drew Carey is the nicest guy on TV. He's a fantastic guy. I heard someone a few weeks ago bemoaning not having Bob Barker, and I'm like, "What?!" I seriously would not trade the nicest guy on TV for Bob F'in Barker! That's not on my bucket list!)

Anyway, the bucket list. My opinion of bucket lists is, Who cares? Whether you do something or don't do something before you die is a matter of little importance. Once you're dead, you're not going to be drifting around somewhere -- pure consciousness enclosed in the full reality of its source, let's say -- complaining that you didn't win a scooter and trip to Aruba on Price is Right!

And the same thing about whether you're able to see your great-great-great granddaughter graduate from college. It doesn't even slightly matter.

Rip Van Diner

We've all had this happen. The waiter is incompetent. So we sit there, waiting and waiting. Me, if I were a waiter -- God forbid -- I'd be so hyper about my tables, the people would have a whole different thing to complain about.

It happened for me a few days ago, being out for breakfast. The waiter gave us "a few minutes" to decide, which extended to 10 minutes at least. He seemed to arc way out then anytime he was near our table. Then when he finally got back to us, he had the ignorance and/or audacity to ask if we'd had time to decide. Good grief, that was the kicker.

We were talking about where to go for breakfast today. I mentioned this particular restaurant, just joking, and got laughter in response. So it definitely makes a difference for business. You're a waiter, wait on us!

(In April, I wrote the post, "Peacetime Has Ruined Our Restaurants," about the same place.)

Going Back in Time -- 1948

Too bad I can't actually go back in time. I promise I wouldn't mess up anyone's life. Of course if I stumbled in the street and the guy who would've been your father swerved to miss me and accidentally got killed, I'm wouldn't be able to help that.

As for my own parents -- both passed on now -- it'd be great to see them as younger teens. Let's see, my parents in 1948 were around 14-15. And Elvis Presley was 13. I'm a big Elvis fan.

That'd be wild, in my opinion, to show up and make Elvis' acquaintance before he was ever famous. It was possible for people, once upon a time. For people actually alive in 1948, the key thing being if they'd only known. Just like for us, we don't know which unknown kid now will be a superstar 8-10 years from now. Although, who cares? Whoever they are, they're no Elvis!

Anything Helps -- God Bless You

I'm a bleeding heart, but I don't give to these guys ... ever. I'm honestly not convinced that it "helps," especially when it goes on for weeks, months, and years.

But, hey, it's a job, of sorts! As good as anything else, in the capitalistic spirit of things. If you can convince your customer base to support you, then, indeed, God bless you! You've got a good thing going. May as well keep it up.

I do always like the "God Bless You." Throw in a little religion, that softens us up.

From Feeble Man Stagger to The Beatles

Me and my mates -- Dozy, Beaky, Mich, and Tich -- came up with our own group, me on drums, of course. (I learned a few years ago when I built a platform over the couch to give me something to do during commercials. And now, amazingly, I keep a beat with the best of them.)

The biggest problem for me and my mates has been to settle on a name. We wanted something fairly decent. A good name is ... good to have. But it seems like most of them have been taken. There's not much left.

Anyway, me and my mates got serious about it, and pretty soon we were coming up with ideas. In my opinion, my best idea was Feeble Man Stagger. I was driving uptown and saw an ordinary guy walking like he was drunk. Who knows, maybe he was, but it was early in the morning. Might've been an early stage hangover. The guy looking pathetic, I said to someone, "He's doing the feeble man stagger." Inspiration's funny like that!

Not long after, we got a letter from another group called Feeble Man Stagger and their lawyer, demanding that we cease and desist.

Now, here's something ironic. Me and my mates were drinking our disappointment away and saying over and over the words "Cease and Desist."  You can guess the rest; we immediately started calling ourselves Cease and Desist. Until we got a letter from another group -- Cease and Desist -- and their lawyer, demanding that we cease and desist. Damn.

Anyway, me and my mates weren't sidelined for long, and in the complaining about it, we switched to Desist Again. But not for long, because other groups have been through this, too, and Desist Again was already taken. At first, I was incredulous, "You're telling me you have a group Desist Again?" Yes, that's what they were telling me, with the guy getting real snotty: "That seems to be the gist of it." 

Me and my mates were getting desperate, and drinking ourselves back to health, and cussing this guy in abstentia, we repeated his stuffy patrician retort about "the gist of it" until we decided that's IT! We'd be The Gist of It. Which lasted only a couple weeks before some other "The Gist of It" came visiting. They couldn't afford a lawyer yet but we got the message. We tried to argue, but of course we'd eventually lose. In my anger I justified us, saying, "You know, you're not exactly The Beatles! How were we supposed to know?"

So that's how we got the name The Beatles. I figured, sure, there was a group called that once upon a time, but they're dead and gone. As I told my mates, "What could possibly go wrong?"

Tabasco Sauce -- My One True Love

My Wolf Lobo

FOR THE TEACHER -- This story will appeal to young readers because it conveys a sense of adventure and danger. However, if you notice any lingering fear on the part of your students, pleasure assure them that Lobo is a kind wolf, who would never in a thousand years hurt the bunny.

Facts Worth Thinking About

If you cite any of this information in scholarly papers or journals, please credit this website. But it'd be a good idea to misspell the footnote badly, so the prof will finally give up and just assume you had a credible source.

Other than that disclaimer, I will say these are all facts as far as I know...

I Love You For a Hundred Thousand Reasons

"I Love You Because" is a song on Elvis Presley's first album. It has the lyric, "I love you for a hundred thousand reasons." But you have to think the reasons would be fairly thin by the time you got to 100,000...

Fangs of Hell Security Systems

There's probably people out there with actual security systems. Stands to reason. They're advertised all the time, they can't all be fake.

But I know I go plenty of places where the signs are carryovers from old companies. The subscription ran out -- one thing or another -- and all they have left are the signs. Like little shields, they're right there by the door, fading and maybe falling over. Or there's decals on all the doors, also shabby with age.

The bet is the criminals won't know which is which, protected homes from unprotected. Although it seems, the shabbier the sign, the less likely it's connected. Or, if you throw a brick through the window and nothing happens in two hours ... maybe Sasquatch is sleeping.

One of the first fake signs I ever saw was in the early '80s, at Goodwill, no less, where the sign said something like, "This store is protected by a really sensitive security system." No name, no clue as to what it might be; they could only divulge it was "really sensitive." Very primitive ... and not convincing.

I personally have the signs of about five different security companies in my yard, and, I'm not going to say if any of them are true. Although you can probably glance up at the roof and see if the sniper's there or not. There's only two sides of the house he could be on. As for my Superman sign, I'll just admit, that one's definitely fake.

My "Screen Door Has a Hook" sign is absolutely true. But it's very loose, and just a little pressure, like a three-year-old halfheartedly bumping it is all it'd take. Please, though, if you're in my neighborhood, don't try it. Sometimes I put a frozen turkey on top of the door. And I always hope I remember it when I get home.