February -- Stimulant or Depressant?

Among the great questions meant to draw a distinction between two equally true points of view, the classic example is the chicken and the egg, which came first? Further examples are then multiplied: fried or poached, white or brown, original recipe or extra crispy. One choice is as good as the other.

It's not my purpose here, obviously, to examine and answer all the questions man has had over his tortured existence. To do so would be beyond the skills of even me, which is not to say it should not be attempted. The question would have to be Why?, if it can't be done, which is a question for another day. What drives me today, much like the prophets of old, is something much more vital in world debate: February -- Stimulant or Depressant?

When it comes to everyday stimulants and depressants, chemical interactions come into play that settle any debate. We take the substance -- such as sugar -- and examine its interactions in consumption. These are studies, incidentally, that I personally conduct everyday of my life, candy, popsicles, or just straight from the cane. So far, I can say it's all good.

When it comes to the month of February, of course that's a marking of time, different from sugar. Assuredly it's not a chemical compound, subject to the lab. Still, the question is a good one: Is it stimulative or depressing? When we answer that huge question, we will have arrived at the truth.

If the reader will permit a shortcut, just let me say that I haven't asked anyone their opinion. But just looking around the room (I'm at the public library), I'll simply guess that half the people here would say it's a stimulant, half would say it's a depressant, and the rest wouldn't understand the question. Many of them are children; in this day and age I'd be afraid to even talk to them. (Has it ever occurred to you that parents now are the same kids first tethered to dog lines to keep them safe? Naturally they're touchy.)

I have said all that to say this, that I shall be the tiebreaker. For me, February is a depressant. It is well known that I don't like the month, having publicly advocated against it. I've openly sought to have it destroyed as a month, with most of its days then being added to other months, with a 10 day period made up of renegade February days leftover as a kind of no-man's land in time. All kinds of weird things could go on in that period, zombie parades, human sacrifice, Mardi Gras, horror movie marathons, with prayer and fasting (Lent).

For me, it's not just that February tends to be a downer in terms of weather; it's winter's halftime. It's just that I don't like it. The name February reminds me of burrs, or being cold (brrr), or having fur stuck in my throat. I'm choking even now as I write this, trying to hack something up, something not even there. That was also one of my ideas, to rename one of the 10 remaining days of February Dry Heave Day.

Frankly, I'm not even the kind of guy to get down, depressed. For me everyday's a new day, a day of wonder, a day of opportunity, except -- and this is huge -- when February gets in the way. So to say it's a depressant is really to say something; I'm despairing of life itself!

On the other hand, I've been standing boldly, loudly proclaiming my opinion, and even holding forth on the street corner protesting February for most of the last month. And I don't know that I've ever felt better, perkier, and on top of my game. To that extent then, ironically, February has been a stimulant! But the key distinction to be made, before anyone declares victory for the month, is that I can't see myself year after year stimulated while acting for its destruction. Any worthy goal, the success of which is forever in abeyance, for me becomes a depressant. I was late growing pubic hair, so I know what I'm talking about.

The predictable conclusion is that for some people February is a stimulant and for some a depressant. Maybe it's this, maybe it's that. For me, however, and this is where I hold sway, having the final word, February is a major depressant, that needs to be destroyed, now, if not sooner.

The Dogtown Gutters' Ball

As a pet owner myself, having gotten a new dog this past Christmas, I know all about dogs. They can be secretly vicious when things are normal, and openly vicious if they think you're on to them.

Of course my own style of dealing with a dog is to give it anything it wants, letting it gorge itself with food, for example, on the theory that being full it won't go for my jugular in the middle of the night. Sometimes I ask myself, Why, O, why did I get another dog? My other dog, Underbrush, died in December 2013. I told myself, No more! Then, and this was the rub, there was a female dog in the family taken advantage of by a chihuahua, and next thing you know these little guys gestated out.

My current dog, then, isn't very big, 4.5 pounds of wiriness. Tight fur, unlike Underbrush's. She's not nearly as obedient yet, meaning I have to step up the bribery. What's her name? I was thinking of Pitbull, but it's trite to name an animal the opposite of what it is. I don't want to discuss her name tonight.

What I want to get to, rather, is the viciousness and potential viciousness of dogs. Even though they don't usually attack us. They see their food coming in the bowl and they devour it. Of course, you say, but think about it, That's what they'd do with their prey. Just because they're domesticated doesn't mean they're domesticated in the heart, in the DNA; they're still wild animals under wraps, just waiting for an excuse, a made-up threat, to lash out and exact their pound of flesh. I see people's dogs gently pawing their babies on Facebook, and I think, They could turn on a dime.

If you have more than one dog, that's when they're at their worst, since their ancient history is hunting in packs, attacking, devouring, and fighting among themselves. You might be a meerkat or some other little varmint, and if the dog can get you by the softest part of your throat, they'll be ripping feverishly and making a fine meal of you, devouring the entirety and burying the bones for later.

Think of that next time you're outside with Fifi, and she seems to have love for you. She does, when you're looking. But look more closely at the situation, over to the trees just beyond the property line, how the dogs have had it scoped out forever. That's where the pack is, with the alpha dog getting the inside information from your dog, and other dogs farther from the periphery.

It's logistical stuff. Fifi says, He takes me out this time everyday. His scent is such and such. He doesn't exercise, and even if he did he'd never be able to outrun us. In other words, your dog is a traitor, just waiting for the chance to betray you to the pack and enjoy eating you. Seriously, that could be your last experience, the beloved family dog looking into your eyes with its big red, bloodshot eyes, saliva dripping from its fangs. The others push her into the fray. She's given the honor of devouring your brain with one big slurp. Prove you're one of us...

I have really old experience with dogs, when we used to hunt rabbits. It's a freezing cold day. You can see your breath, and really anything hot. You slice a rabbits underside and the hot guts immediately steam. They're a mess when they hit the ground and the dogs fight each other to slurp them up. And that's exactly what they do, slurp, as big a bunch as they can grab. They're voracious, merciless. And they don't care if it's a rabbit ... or it's you!

After that time, I was taught that's their true nature, and I've seen it in action. Neighbors who've disappeared, leaving behind a dog to rest on their grave and fake sorrow. Actually they wish they could get at the remainder of your corpse, not realizing your body has become "corpse soup" and is far from edible, especially when pumped full of mortician chemicals. I'm just glad I'm being cremated. Dogs hate that.

So beware... Next time your dog's dressed up and heading for the Dogtown Gutters' Ball, just make sure it ain't your guts they're going to eat.

How Smart Super Brain Is

I'm just going to admit it today, then let it pass. I am pretty smart. Sometimes the smartest people humble themselves so they don't seem so smart. And, yes, I've been guilty of that many times, like in school. But not today. Today, you're looking at Super Brain, fully exposed.

If you knew me in everyday life, you'd know I more or less live at the library. I'm a regular fixture there, with others nodding to me, giving me a wave, and coming by to ask what I'm researching or interested in today. I love that, too; that's part of the fun of being smart; a symposium can break out at any moment. Our minds being together like that, it's like mentally swimming in the air, drifting up to the rafters. Very stimulating.

Here's another interesting detail to throw in. I'm not bragging, but the library literally invested in a fleet of shopping carts because of me. Some of the staff saw me, the way I go through the library, as though it's a grocery store, picking up many books for the day's perusal. I must have presented quite a sight, my arms loaded down with books, books spilling over, and some even falling to the floor! I'd scoop them up and manage the best I could, but truly it got to be too much.

Now that we have shopping carts, my day starts out in a much more orderly way. I walk in, get a cart, and begin my journey up one aisle and down another. Of course I start in the new books section, where they keep the freshest stuff. I like non-fiction, since that's what keeps me on top of my game in terms of actual knowledge. Fiction's good, I've found, more for concepts "acted out" by characters, and characterizations themselves.

I take my cart down each of the aisles, then, picking up whatever catches my eye as something that would feed me intellectually and stimulate my thoughts. I'm voracious like that, whether by native curiosity, or it could just be another obsession I feel must be fed. I've always been obsessive, and age hasn't slowed it down. Rather, seeing time slip away, I'd say I'm more obsessive. Think of it: I didn't always need a shopping cart for what probably should be a slower pick and choose process. Now I'm so frantic, it takes 20 minutes of breathing exercises to get settled. 10 when I think of time slipping away.

Because time waits for no man, as I just read earlier this morning in Bartlett's, and it waits least of all me, who am always in a hurry, and someone who must be satisfied, whatever it takes, even if some sacrifice is required. I've been up today since the crack of dawn, laboring over my books, then occasionally glancing up at the clock, then redoubling my efforts as time's sped along.

I have that sense right now, in fact, that maybe in sketching out my intelligence for you -- and this labor continues till this very second -- I'm wasting time that could be better spent learning a few more sayings, wisdom, and filling brain cells somehow still empty. That's another thing about age. Brain cells become like cracks around windows on a winter's day; something always needs restuffed. Gotta hurry!

Anyway, to continue on, after my shopping cart (carts) is/are full, it's time for checkout. Everyone stands back as I scan my goods, which can take up to 25 minutes, depending on whether other clamorous intellectuals like me are present. The library then has a kid in a white apron who wheels it out to my car. I make it home, spend the rest of the day at the pursuit of knowledge -- with occasional bathroom breaks -- until the next day, when everything goes back and the process begins again.

It's great being so smart, so very very very intelligent. Super Brain out!

The Most Beautiful Thing

I see a picture like that and my heart goes, "Bing bang boom, gimme gimme something like that, exactly that, that and in that same quantity!" It tells of plenty, like the horn of plenty. I can see the end from the beginning, of course -- it's one of my talents -- but I have enough short-term optimism to set all finitiude aside and say, "Yes, that will do me for a good long while."

Maybe it goes back to when we used to play grocery store, that we always wanted enough, a supply that did not quit. Or just the fact that everything that we have in hand, like the bird in hand, is that much we don't have to scratch for later. In fact there's no scratching, because the vital things of life are taken care of, freeing us to pursue the deeper matters of the spirit. And that's often been what's kept me from the spirit, the sense of lack, needing to get out on a zero degree day to procure toilet paper.

How tough it can be, too, to walk the bazaars, haggling over this much toilet paper. "Who do you think you are, needing that much, while everyone else goes without?" "I know, I know, on the face of it it looks like security issues, kind sir. But sell me this quantity and you shall not see my sort in your exalted shop for a good long time. I will husband each roll, I will keep it above the encroaching floods, I will say 'I shall use this much and no more!', everything knowing its limits, being divinely decreed."

That makes it right. Something that right can't be wrong. To have this much, arms full in hand, and to have it stored on the shelves, properly displayed, in the secret closet, to look at like Midas' millions, that's good. When I first see it, O how I linger, setting aside what I'm usually thinking of, the gnawing reality of finitude. But without really trying, I do mentally posit the limits of this stash. Six months if I'm lucky. I'm turning aside my fellow man for a six month supply.

But to each his own, right? One man hoards fine whiskey, or wine? Artwork, gold, valuable collectibles. Survivalists have their canned goods and ammunition. Learned old men hunch over tomes by their personal fire, guarding their treasure. Trolls are guarding bridges against goat encroachment. "There's gold in them thar hills!" someone cries, and everyone goes running. Except me, I'm not running for that gold, when I've got what I need right here in hand. Call me a Renaissance Man, appreciating the necessities.

I believe someday I will be endlessly happy, in the great forever. This stash of toilet paper goes a ways toward the fulfillment of that day, pointing to it. Were I to have not just these but another dozen rolls, that would be something of a topper, but I'm not sure I'd be happier. Tell not the looters! Maybe they'll never figure it out, even if I fail to make an appearance in the public square like everyone else, clamoring for rolls and using the communal cob chained to the bucket. I will be sly, making periodic appearances, trusting that the supply back home is safe for those moments.

Such worry only attests its worth. Because mankind, his back pressed up against the wall, is always smart. He know this is what he wants. And must have. And that's the rub. I spoke of looters. I hate it, but when desperation runs high, it's obviously easier to be found out. They could cry, "There he is! Get him! We divide the spoil, a little for you, a little for me!" Sorry to end on a down note.

But rejoice today, friends, for the stores are still full of it!

The Chinese Placemat Gang

If you're Chinese -- working in a restaurant or not, and if not we hope you find a job soon -- you've probably been reading with some concerns my recent posts about destroying February and reallocating its days around the calendar. Concerns because of a possible conflict between your own zodiac system (as found on a well-known Chinese restaurant placemat) and my plans for February. I had the same concerns...

I don't know what it was exactly, unless it was still the bad effects of the Chinese buffet I ate a few weeks ago, but I woke up last night, in the middle of the night, feverishly trying to work it out in my own mind, what the plan would mean for honorable placemat. Would it somehow lose its effectiveness and become unusable, even obsolete?

I love those placemats, featuring as they do the animal kingdom from a Chinese perspective. You'll recall they've got 12 animals as zodiac illustrations, relating to the year you were born, with advice for the lovelorn. "Is it good that my husband is a rat? What if my girlfriend's a cock? Should I marry her anyway? Or get her fixed?" I've actually tried its advice a few times and got some real dogs. As for me, going by my birth year (1953), I am a rat. Even though I like to think I'm a tiger.

In the middle of the night, though, I couldn't quite remember what the system was. I was thinking the illustrations pertained somehow to the particular months. So say the boar was February, and you got rid of the boar, it'd throw the whole thing out of whack. The boar's pretty virile. If it was the rabbit left out that wouldn't be so bad. But rabbits are very prolific. Not that that does the Chinese any good, since they can only have one bunny.

It might not be so bad to cut the boar out, just thinking out loud. You get rid of the more virile ones and a sneaky little rat like me starts looking better. Although if, as above, my girlfriend truly did turn out to be a cock, then whether I'm rat, rabbit, or boar, we're gonna have problems. It's not that I'm necessarily that choosy, but I like some truth in advertising.

Even though I was wrong about the system -- destroying February has no effect on the Chinese placemat -- I'm still glad I got up to check it out. China's a big place and for some reason we always associate the word "hordes" with them. They've also got some mean evildoers -- like Fu Manchu and Wicked Wang Fu -- who'd love to sink their big gnarly fingernails into a guy like me. Were I to offend the most populous nation on earth, it could be tragic. Which I would never do intentionally, and if I have done so, accidentally, just let me sincerely say, So solly.

Now that we're all friends again, if each Chinese person out there were to send me a note of support for destroying February, that would be great. And if each one of you could also enclose $1, win or lose, I'd be filthy rich.

February -- Scared Straight

This is an adventure where I am threatened with bodily harm or death, certainly spitting. But my life is enhanced, evildoers are vanquished, and it's a new day of victory and bragging rights. I've been taking on the month of February, trying to get the calendar changed. We would keep the days, just allocate them in the year differently. I never imagined, though, how many people have a vested interest in keeping it as it is, something so ridiculous, a stubby little month that'd frankly be better off put out of its misery. One man's opinion.

As it turns out, I was reminded of a major "vested interest" locally. It's weird I forgot this, since my own father worked there 40 years,  a plant on the north side that makes calendars as one of its biggest products. He used to come home and tell me how many they made, millions, and how far in advance they made them, 10 years in advance. That's a lot of faith that the calendar's going to stay the same and no one will agitate for taking out a particular month!

The adventure started when the newspaper mentioned my blog because of the local tie-in with the company and calendars. The vice president called and invited me down. They'd already pulled the file on my dad, who's now dead. And saw from the records that he had a son, and they also looked at their insurance records -- kind of weird -- showing that I'd received medical care over the years on their dime, paid for, the VP said nicely, with the very calendar I was against! I got the message. Because I got my tonsils out, and a thorn out of my foot, and once rode an ambulance, among other childhood illnesses, I am beholden to them and can't criticize the calendar...

But I wasn't afraid. They wanted me to come and look things over, and try to sway my opinion, so I said I would. I got there and saw they had a nice memorial to my dad in the hallway. As if! I had to assume they'd just put it out. No one would have a memorial to a dead employee in the hall 15 years later, would they? But it was a nice touch, an eternal flame, the standard photo of him, and a quote, maybe a little too convenient: "I've always considered our calendar mankind's greatest achievement, B.C. or A.D." I don't know when he said that.

On the tour, the plant was impressive. It was a lot bigger than I thought, vast, numerous football-fields big, with many dark corners, made even darker by the stacks and stacks of pallets of enormous calendar sheets still waiting to be cut and assembled. Just like Dad said, a lot of these calendars were for years way off, 2023-2027, etc. I examined some more closely, just to satisfy my own curiosity, to see if they had February included, and, yes, they did. Such faith! Although in their defense, most were printed well before this became a global issue on my blog.

I kept walking, looking around, straining my neck to see more, and after a time I noticed my own footsteps were getting louder, until, pausing, I was stunned to realize--- I'm alone! Everything was dead silent. In the dead silence your breathing's very loud. And the pulse at your temples. My eye caught a camera rotating off at an angle. A voice over the speaker crackled: "Each of those pallets has calendars that include February for all the years. Think of it as time frozen in time, ready to be thawed when the time is right. But if something were to happen to February, say, by your interference, all our work would have been in vain. And people would be out of jobs. Your dad never wanted that."

So that's their game? Perpetuating full employment based on protecting one worthless little month. And taking away my freedom of speech. The voice droned on and on, about the little children who would suffer, the families, the grocery stores, real estate, insurance parlors, etc., right on down the line. It all connects together, they said. "If even one of those pallets goes to waste ... you will be personally responsible for the death of many." Very menacing stuff. I was expecting a sniper, and there were random noises, as though I wasn't alone.

But being apparently alone, with my own breath, pulse, and the whole shebang, and the excruciating tension -- as well as the voice, I thought, trying to take over my conscience, to short-circuit me, I guess I freaked out. "These sons of bitches are trying to scare me straight!" I thought. I couldn't think beyond that, except, feeling threatened, to freak out so completely that it's hard to describe what came next. Apparently I commandeered a forklift, and stacked ton after ton of pallets to the ceiling, then moved the fork in such a way that it toppled the whole stack like Jenga. Right there -- assuming it was between four and eighty pallets -- that'd be many millions of dollars worth of calendars!

Obviously I continued this righteous work until all the lights came on. Sirens and big horns were blaring, and people were running everywhere, waving their fool hands and all yelling at once. They finally took me into custody, marching me back through the vastness of the plant, then back to the main hallway. A lady was taking down Dad's memorial and putting it in a garbage bag. While I'm crying out anti-February slogans, belittling Leap Year; in my opinion, Leap Year's a great indictment of February, a month that changes its number of days every whip-stitch. Sheesh!

We got closer to the main offices, where I was exposed to the view of a mob of workers, all of them spitting on me, or trying their best. Last was the old janitor, who did spit on me and immediately mopped up his own mess. That's the kind of responsibility I like to see in a worker. For his sake, not for any of the other bastards, I would forbear and cease the frantic sloganeering, at least till I considered all my options.

Looking back on it, the key thing is they tried to scare me straight, but with my heroic actions, and their mad dash to stop me -- the cowards -- I obviously scared them straight. They'll know better than to ever have me in their fool factory again and to trap me alone, or think they can sway me from my tightly held convictions just because they trot out a picture of Dad, light a candle, and have one of his well-known quotes in gold lettering, even raised printing. I don't remember him ever saying that, but it sounds like something he would've said.

February -- We Barons Confer

The beginning of February brought with it a meeting of the various barons of society. I was eager to get together, being consumed with the issue of February and its continuance as a month on the calendar. To which I am opposed.

It's always quite an assemblage of power brokers, myself the Baron of Blogging in conference with the Baron of Politics, the Baron of Business (not pictured), the Baron of Industry, the Baron of Banking, and the Baron of the Church. Our overall mission is to keep society on track, nudging here and there where it seems appropriate. The Baron of the Church asked the Baron of Heaven's blessing, then we went into session.

Among the items on the agenda was the February Question, a hobby horse I often ride. Naturally, I came in for some good-natured ribbing, the Baron of Business saying, "What about Groundhog Day? The people need it to brighten their dreary lives, being, as they are, little more than boils on the backside of existence and, worse, knowing it." I pointed out, logically, that groundhogs would still exist without February, and sought the Baron of the Church's acquiescence to that point. He seemed to consider it an inscrutable question.

I was then surprised when each baron spoke against February.

The Baron of Banking said that a short month makes their bookwork more complicated, especially with the occasional Leap Year. "That one damned day every four years makes Y2K seem like a godsend." The Baron of the Church nodded in silent affirmation, and said, "The Lord likes balance and is put-off when it's missing. Plus the Church could use more Sundays in the year, not fewer. But with February, I don't know if there's two or three Sundays at the most. It's something to pray about."

The Baron of Business, always more brusque, took the side of the businessman. "Let the Church fend for itself. It has a Higher Power. We've got the bottom line. For us February cuts both ways. Yes, if we had more days to work with, we'd make more money, a huge plus. But factor in this, that if we don't meet our goals, February is our biggest excuse: 'We ran out of time.' See? We put the goods out and we open the doors, but we're not in charge of time itself!" I pointed out, rightly, that he should work more closely with the Baron of Politics.

The Baron of Politics, seizing my opening, cleared his throat and took the floor. "Baron," he said, addressing Business, "I do have the power over time, as in the principle of Daylight Savings Time. If you're willing to get up a few days earlier, I could make it January again right now, February be damned! We just need to work more closely together. You put your hand in mine." At this point Church shifted uneasily before admonishing, "No sir! Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the waters!" Politics, knowing he'd overstepped, smoothed troubled waters, saying through clenched teeth, "Point well taken."

The Baron of Industry, a man of action and few words, gave his opinion another way. He took his jacket off and flexed the bicep on his right arm. We watched amazed as a brief tattoo video showed raw materials being delivered to a factory. He shook his arm and the second video showed the factory manufacturing goods, all so harmonious. The final time he shook his arm it showed a fleet of trucks taking goods away for delivery. I interpreted his point for the group: "Destroying February, if that is our goal, is a step by step process." 

Concluding then, as host, I gave the summation: "Gentle Barons -- Banking, Politics, Business, Industry, and Church, as the Baron of Blogging I am a man of letters. In my work, I must know the great rhetoric and logic, the prose and poetry, that have graced mankind's history. For example, of the five of us, none quotes Shakespeare more than I. Who said, "A rose by a totally different moniker would waft out a scent as pure and sweet." Proving one truth, "Yes, February is a month, the other months are months, but it is entirely inferior, yielding a noxious stench. Simply put, it must be destroyed here and now or this conference will have been a failure!"

The meeting went quiet and I was embarrassed. But the merciful Baron of the Church took the gavel from my limp hand and dismissed us to a time of coffee and sharing how our wives are doing. Since I'm unmarried I could only listen with interest and envy.

February Has Weakened Me

What a terrible few days I've just come through. You hear about the flu and blow it off as no big deal. Till, like every other ridiculously bad thing in life, it comes stalking you. Then it's a huge deal, in this case knocking me flat on my ass. That's why you haven't seen me around. (My posts of the last few days were composed by a bot, after feeding in "February, screed, bad vibes, terrible month.")

Anyway, I noticed flu symptoms coming on. And I denied it. Because I'm strictly a "mind over matter" guy. If I say it shall not happen, then it shall not happen! If I say, "Thus far and no farther," if it encroaches a silly millimeter further, it dies. And so forth. I take a stand, and if reality comes against me, I prevail, changing it to suit my demands. This time, I don't know what happened, I must've flinched, and BAM, I was sick.

The odd thing about this is I'm so seldom sick, it's crazy. So I'm concluding that it wasn't a problem of me flinching, but that I was directly weakened by February itself! That's the charge I'm making. Think about it. The most dreadful month -- this 28-day emasculated limp-along shame of a month -- was looming nearby. Everyone knew of my public praise for January and March. I didn't make it a secret. And no one cared. But February was watching, so like a dark planet, tiny, dwarfish, and yet with enough mass to have gravity -- evil gravity -- it pulled me in and gave me the flu. One more reason to hate it.

Believe me, folks, I fought and kicked. I put up a real struggle. Other men fell on my left and right. Women beat their breasts, their anguish was so bad. Half the town literally fell dead. The hospital threw up their hands. Even the police were powerless in the face of an enemy they couldn't immediately pin down and choke the snot out of. What to do?

I had the idea, relaying it to the governor, that in these darkest of times, we had to try anything and everything. He listened closely, as I started to cough. I described two courses of action: 1) We carpet bomb the entire state with railroad cars, preferable engines, crushing out even the tiniest bacteria; 2) We come out publicly against February and remove it, posthaste, from the calendar.

Just like that, the governor was on the phone to the railroad companies, who rushed to the capital such a massive assembly of (mostly retired) railroad cars, with a few engines still with the vitality of their prime. I watched in awe as technicians hooked those massive hulks to the undersides of airplanes, which took off on a moment's notice and wreaked such havoc that the state will not likely recover till just before the next election. The little shed in my own backyard -- everyone made some sacrifice -- was crushed, as were the homes and every possession of most of my neighbors. Family members were killed, making for a long, gray weekend.

For the survivors, the flu still lingered, getting stronger, slipping out from the rubble, worming its way out, under, through, and sideways, down. I imagined the gathering of bacteria marching their way in victory over mankind. Wouldn't you do everything you could to defeat it? The governor did almost everything I asked. The bastard drew the line at February. Almost persuaded, but lost.

Because February's dread hold on the public imagination, apparently, is so great. Leaving me to suffer the flu in silence, yes, exercising my 'mind over matter' chops to shorten its grip, yes, but nonetheless feeling pretty puny. While others suffered and died, making the ultimate sacrifice in order to keep the worship of one fool month. What a tragedy.

Among the countless missing, there was even a lost cat in the neighborhood, its owners dead, but their survivors offering a huge $500 reward for his safe return. I went to prayer and signs indicate they found him.

Destroy February -- Are You Wid Me?

THIS CARTOON REPRESENTS 2 THINGS:

MY ENEMIES ATTACKING ME, AND
ME ATTACKING MY ENEMIES

As we come to the end of January, a great month, we find ourselves on the eve of February, the worst month ever. Hard to stomach, really, that this stubby block of days, put together apparently like Frankenstein's monster, out of the leftover parts of previous versions of the calendar, can be so close to January. Even the sound of the month's tell the story: "January," sexy, zippy, strong vs. "February," sounds like being stuck in a briar bush.

The last few days I've been trying my damndest to garner support for my side, and, I gotta tell you, support's hard to get these days! 1) Everyone's got their own fool opinion; 2) "I'm too busy" to learn the facts, or to even care; and; 3) There's more important things to worry about. Let me just say, each of these excuses is simply blather. People have learned (probably thanks to the internet) how to gum up any issue. Well, let's "black 'n' white" it, OK? Are you wid me or agin me?

Whether there's more important things to worry about or not, and there very well could be, what good's your worrying doing? Everyone I've talked to on this issue has been your average idiot, whose life in this world is more or less locked on the default setting, which is lethargic. Man on default is the most worthless creature the world's ever belched out. The other species have to use their wits, their instincts, their wiles -- not man. Man's such a fool he expects everything to be handed to him on a silver platter. Then he'll sell the silver for drugs. It's little wonder he doesn't care about February.

Seriously, folks, this struggle of mine, has really opened my eyes, that if folks aren't wid me they truly are agin me! And I've told them that, too: "If you ain't wid me you're agin me," I said to this one fool. He stood there silent and I thought I had him. You know the kind of conviction a person can suddenly have, like when they realize their own home is under attack by the enemy, and if they don't do anything about it they themselves will be homeless. His hands quivered, his lips shook, his eyes were downcast; I saw a bead of sweat pop out right above his left eyebrow. I knew I had him. Then the fool goes off, sneering, "Them I guess I'm agin you." Stupid turd.

So that's how they want to play it, eh? In the face of such opposition, I stood defiant, thinking, "We'll see about that." I also thought to myself, "I hope the enemy does attack your home and that you're left on the street, you bastard." It's true, I can be vengeful, even though you basically think of me as a pussycat; I'm not proud of it; it's just I care about this issue so much. February must be destroyed, and that guy!

OK, the opposition -- more or less defiance identical to apathy -- has forced me to up the date, now to Feb. 12 before I think we'll see a glimpse of success on destroying February. Believe me, with my efforts only just beginning, I don't believe we'll have to revise the date again. I'll be pulling my hair out in frustration if that happens. Let me just throw out the plea: "Be wid me, not agin me!"

Here's something I'm gonna do to garner support, and show my disgustitude with February. I'm going to post at least one blog post everyday in February. Got that? If I can't gum it up on the front end, I'll sabotage it from within during its idiotic run. Like that. It'll probably make the nightly news: "World Known Blogger Seeks Destruction of Month." I actually am "world known"; I get a number of people from Ukraine and Russia, if that's any good. I believe they're definitely wid me.

Bright Future -- No More February

As January comes to an end, we're on the verge of something big having to do with February. The stubbiest month, hallelujah, at long last is going down! To defeat! Once and for all, forever, to be purged from our calendar. Dead and buried in an unmarked grave. Let us rejoice!

But wait! Having said all that, let me also say -- this is regrettable -- that even as I sense its destruction, I also sense an inexorable shadow over the proceedings. The vision's hard to pin down, but I see looming just ahead, in my consciousness, that our 28-day foe may still have few tricks up its sleeve. Will it be brought down so easily? Of course I hope it will, but I feel we must proceed cautiously.

There's definitely something being unleashed, OK? Even now as I write this, I see the light. And yet, the shadow also grows, impinging on the light of January. Of course we know in a few days January will go away for another year. But what follows it? That's what we're trying to influence. This year, yes, we know it has to be February. The calendars have all been printed, passed out by the banks. And the banks more or less run things. Screw with their calendars and they'll keep our money. Basically the shadow says this: "February has many friends, not just enemies."

I don't want to discourage anyone reading this, far from it! But this spot, this shadow is becoming bigger in my mind's eye. Could it be a tiny bit of sawdust, something in my eye, that always looks bigger up close? No, this is not a physical thing. This is like the shadow of evil itself! Telling me, and cackling about it even, that February thinks it shall have the final victory! I know what you think I should say: "Not over my dead body!" But I'll stand back, because I don't keel over so easily.

Because I'm not accepting thee vision, not now, not ever. Instead, I feel that we have the power of light on our side, which shall drive out every shadow. As in days of old -- eternity -- the darkness cannot comprehend the light! Am I right, high five! Woo woo! Would everyone here kindly step to the rear and let a winner lead the way! We've got this bastard, bastard! Feb-RU-ary! You gonna be ruin' the day you ever set foot in this world, for you shall see your ruin! Pack your bags, Joe, hit the road, Jack, and don't look back. (A little trash-talkin' always makes me feel better.)

And yet, the darkness grows, exasperating me to no end. I stomp my feet, it's there. I hold my breath, it continues to loom. I'm turning blue, about to pass out, but I feel I cannot give in. How can such a short month stand against my powerful will? I'm getting consternated. That could be it, the key to my victory. Will and anger, consternation! My tantrums have never been known to fail. Must remain defiant, with confidence and faith, and all will be well.

Still, just to be on the safe side, I'm nudging my declaration of just yesterday, that by Feb. 3 we shall glimpse success against February. Playing it safe, I'm now saying we shall surely glimpse success over it, much more likely, by Feb. 6. We're ceding only three days! And what's three days, when our suffering has gone on for ... so many dark years...

The swift demise of February is still assured!

Chipping Away at February

It feels great to be taking a stand on an important issue. I indeed have finally stepped out and accepted my calling in life. And I hope I have your full support, for then our common goal will be so much easier to accomplish. That is, destroying the "month" of February, and finally having a calendar we can be proud of.

Of course I know it's a huge step. And if the critics are right, it's a huge challenge. Although I'm extremely confident it won't take that much. I'm honestly thinking that as early as Feb. 3 we'll probably glimpse ultimate success. Mere days away! But there's a lot of work to be done, if we're going to not just glimpse success but grasp it. For me, putting that knife through the calendar was a real rush. It did something powerful for my resolve, having taken such a decisive step. And now, once the knife's in, there's no turning back!

As I said, the critics see "a huge challenge." Which, as I recall, is always the way with critics. It's probably "a huge challenge" for them to tie their shoes, especially since their hands are always so busy wringing themselves! Frankly, if we left life up to the critics, we would've never evolved beyond the slime. They would've been slime oozing from a bit of moss, clinging to their precious comfort zone. While the rest of us were looking to trade in our gills for a set of lungs and get on with the damned thing.

Part of the challenge with February, as I understand it, is that the world's had too much history with it to dump it now. People were born in February, they commemorate anniversaries, their loved ones died in February, the calendar appears set in its ways, etc. Well, check the history of the calendar. It's changed a lot over the years! September through December are named for the numbers 7-10, but obviously they're known by different numbers now. I can't remember why they needed to add August, but they wanted July for a place to put July 4.

My current proposal is that we add a number of February's days to January and March, then leave, say, the last 13 days of the old February as a mini-month. That'd be like crazy time. Like a desert on the earth, a time of desolation. Lent's usually about then. We'd squeeze it into 13 concentrated days of ashes and mourning. Any new births in that 13 days would have their birthdays reassigned to the happier months, as would happen with existing birthdays. Eventually the word February would be synonymous with sticks in the mud, the sorrowful, the unhappy, and of course the deranged.

I think we could shame prisoners even further by reassigning their birthdays to those 13 days. It'd be like a hot brand they could never overcome. They probably already do this on some other more intelligent planet, so we'd just be keeping up with them by switching. Having said that, I would not leave the word February in the mix. To give those days the ultimate shame, thus making us more reflective, we would need to go beyond the old with something completely new. What would it be? Right now I'm in destroy mode, so I can't think of anything. Scorpion, Lizard, Dry Heaves?

Friends, I said I'm confident, and that is true. But there's still things that could go wrong. And yet -- All praise to the native god in the photo! -- I'm sticking to my prediction. February 3 sounds just right as the day that I believe we will glimpse our ultimate success. Meaning, if you want to share in the credit of this seismic shift in time, you'll need to jump on board right away. Our deliverance is less than a week away!

February Totally Bites

WORKING WITH A NATIVE GOD,
IN HIS POWER, WE RUN FEBRUARY
THROUGH WITH A BUTCHER KNIFE

AND CEREMONIALLY TURN IT OVER

TO THE FLAMES FOR JUDGMENT

I have been working in the deepest intuition through 2015, discerning things at their most basic level. It's frankly blown my mind, or, rather, expanded it, giving me once again that Super Brain feeling I've known numerous times in my life. As a kid I used to conduct a census on dust motes floating in my room -- learning much in the process -- before letting them collapse and vanish when I went down for breakfast.

That said, January has presented me with one enormous insight: That February is an aberration in time and time-keeping. The evidence against February flashed in rapid procession in my spirit. Like the dust motes of old, but a lot more apparently high tech, like 100,000 JPG thumbnails flashing by. This has to do with the honing and greater use of my mind over the years, along with incidental aspects that may have come from movies or TV. (If I have been bionically enhanced, I don't consciously remember it.)

Be that as it may, I don't feel I need to justify this too much. After all, we're only talking about stinking February. The worst month on the calendar, a short little hobbled period of time, maybe not even technically a month, a la Pluto not really being a planet. January's a month, March is a month, February's a rest stop in the middle! And not even one with major facilities, but one like truck drivers use to blow carbon out of their rigs, perhaps catching a bit of shuteye, and whatever other quickie XXX activity they may be into.

My great revulsion against February is fairly recent. But I do seem to remember being at least slightly queasy about February all my life. What other month do we feel so sorry for that we add a day every few years? There's none, just this stubby little passel of days. And if they weren't actual days of time, but existed simply on a pretend calendar, I'm sure we wouldn't be so merciful. We'd take it, rip it out, and burn it.

You know what? I feel led right now -- this is true, from on high -- to symbolically, ritually, cleanse ourselves of February. Which doesn't mean we won't have February this year, but it might be more tolerable. That's what a lot of ritual is for, to make life easier; you feel badly for your sins, so you sacrifice a lamb. You call in sick from work, then to compensate for it you actually get sick.

You're invited to join me in this sacrifice. As I type this, I'm also cutting the little month of February off my checkbook calendar. (The ceremony is illustrated above.) Now I'm holding it up. Notice how small and harmless it is, physically as well as small compared to the other months. OK, the rest of the ritual will be in two steps. 1) I'm holding it up and lighting the bottom corner with a match. Now as the flames rise higher, I'm rotating it and trying not to get burnt. Repeat after me: "I burn you to ashes. You shall never again arise." 2) I'm putting a little piece of PostIt® note in the hole and drawing an arrow from January to March.

Wow, that feels good. Except I've got this cursed little bit of ash leftover, which could simply go in the trash or be cast to the wind. But I will carry the ritual through to the end, by putting it in the garbage disposal, with these words of power: "How dare you, unspeakable so-called month, pollute my life? Now I am cleansed of you. Now I am free."

I'm giving my readers a special thanks today for standing with me. To be in agreement as we are is very valuable for the cleansing. We now have the power to carry on, at least for this day. Let us resolve, if not this year then next, to go directly from January to March!

Post-It® Brand is a trademark of 3M.

The Time Machine Got Me a Domme

Earlier this month I watched the 1960 movie "The Time Machine," based on H.G. Wells' novel. Maybe you remember it. The guy goes far into the future, all the way to the year 802701, farther than anyone's ever gone before, to my knowledge.

Well, it just so happens that the H.G. Wells Museum is only 35 miles from me, the pride of Silage City. And to add one more incredible coincidence, they've had his actual time machine on display the last couple of months. To get right to the point, I messed with it, accidentally taking it back before the museum was built. But Grandma's house has been around forever, so I hauled it home. Then when I realized no one would be looking for it, I started carting it around in the back of my pickup. And had no good reason to use it ... until the other night.

My current lady was a meek and mild gal, delighted with any little thing I might do for her. I asked where she wanted to go for her birthday. At first she said I should just save my money and not bother, but I'm saying, "No, I want to treat you right, kitten. C'mon, let's go, you're worth it." So I took her to the nicest place in town, steak, potato, salad, endless bread, the works, and desserts to die for.

After we ate, I suggested one of the desserts. In her meekness, she was very reticent, until I convinced her it'd be OK. "It's only money." "OK, darling," she said, "If you think it's best." So meek. The guy brings us the most delicious looking apple caramel cake sticky ice cream mountain plate thing and two spoons. I can see this will be bad for me, because now I wanted it all for myself and not to share it.

So I excused myself and ran out to the time machine. I had a plan. I would go back to the time and place of her birth, across town, thinking that if I could just delay her birth 10 minutes, it'd give me time to get back and eat the dessert. Then 10 minutes later, likely, she'd appear across from me. So that's exactly what I did. I'm at the hospital, 1953, and pulled the fire alarm. It put her parents in a panic and her mom's contractions completely stopped.

I get back to the present and my lady's not there, just the dessert, which I'm able to eat in peace. Success! But then I'm waiting, waiting, waiting, and she never shows up. I'm thinking, Crap, maybe there was a problem with her not being born. At this rate I'm not even going to have a lady! And I'd hate to walk out of here alone, always a bad look for a guy. OK for losers, not me.

So what other choice did I have but to fix things? I told a waitress I'm going to the can. Then out I went again, through the restroom window.

I get back to 1953, this time two minutes before I would arrive the first time. I hid around the corner, saw myself going toward the alarm and killed "me." I looked down at my body and dragged it away. Always one of my greatest fears, to be dumped in a janitor's closet. But there was no time for anything better. Now I'm heading down the hall to the birth chambers, when what do I see but the waiting room is actually on fire. I pull the fire alarm again and hurry down to counsel anyone having fits.

But this time I see her father pumping up her mom with confidence. The only difference apparently was the first time there wasn't a fire but this time there was. The first time uncertainty led to anxiety but this time certainty gave them confidence. I made a note of it, a great self-help point to tweet in the future.

Before I could get into the delivery room I heard her mother doing some extremely loud pushing, out of her confidence, then the cry of my future lady, a very bold cry for a baby, like something from Wagner. One of those big gals with the winged helmets. A real take-charge sound!

I rushed back to the present as fast as I could, and found my lady already at the table. Not only that, but her whole new life had been one of boldness, daring, and confidence -- all these years -- meaning that in this present continuum she's always the boss. She demanded to know where I'd been. I said the restroom and she called me a wimp. "You can't hold it 10 minutes?" I sat down and saw that she had not only eaten the entire dessert, but heard her setting down a new rule, that since I am hopelessly out of shape and a constant disappointment, I must never eat any dessert without her permission.

And that's the way it's been the last few days. She went from Zero to Hero. I now have to ask her permission to do anything, get up, take a nap, go for coffee, spend a nickel, etc. All of it's kind of kinky, if you know what I mean, but the micromanaging has a huge downside too. I mean, so what if I want an occasional beer with a friend? I can't get the permission! A friend calls and I'm like, "Brunhilde says no, and for you to never call again." I'm her slave!

All because of H.G. Wells and his stinking time machine, which I also had to ask her permission to destroy. So embarrassing crawling in. "Mistress, I know this is an odd request." I looked up at her, just narrowly not breaking the rule against eye contact, and saw her look of imperial impatience and disdain. "But I have a time machine I have to destroy. May I use the crowbar, just this once, Ma'am?" She kicked my ass and sent me on my way, which I took as a reluctant "Yes."

Before I destroyed it, the temptation occurred to me, I could still fix this.

Does Coffee Feel Pain?

We're zeroing in today on the possible experiences of creatures other than humans and animals. Weird tales, huh? I saw it ages ago, somewhere, that seemingly inanimate pieces of metal have feelings. Which can be good news. Like with some of the old cars I used to own. They wouldn't start, causing me pain. But I'm glad they knew how I felt when I took a crowbar to their backside.

I've been thinking of this a lot, since I'm in the habit of getting up every morning and making coffee. Which involves a horrible grinding of the beans and pouring hot water on them. It's a devastating process. If coffee, like metal, is a living thing, wouldn't it have to be? It grew, matured and ripened. And now...

Coffee beans really were part of a living plant. Meant by nature to make the next generation of plants, not to be harvested for drinks. Whether they maintain life after being picked, I wouldn't swear to it, but I think it's likely. After being processed, most might be dead, but there's always the possibility that some were up against the side of the processing bin, missing the worst of it, and so are quite alive.

It's those few beans -- however many it'd be -- that I'm most concerned about. And take it from me, I'm a sensitive guy who loves coffee, so this is a real issue. Grinding it right out of the bag as I do could be the worst torture there is, the blades going a million miles an hour, ripping the soul out of the beans, who wonder with their last thought, "Is this what we were born for?" Then there's the metal blades, thinking, "Were we born to murder coffee?"

It was better off before I heard of any of this. You're always happier in ignorance. The best I can do, apart from giving up coffee, is this, to be quick with the hot water, hoping to mercifully drown whatever life might still be there, now mangled beyond recognition. I'm not cruel; a swift death is best.

However it's done, though, the whole thing has to be terrible, not just for their pain, but also for the confusion. We have our journey of life, and the thought of being picked, processed, bagged, then ground, and scalded to death is terrible to contemplate.

Coffee started out like us, with a life of fullness and promise, and had no idea what was to come. How joyous it would've been to suddenly bud out and realize, as a budding bean, that you're in the world! What will you be? A doctor, a nurse, a policeman, or even one who tends to plants similar to yourself? Moving and growing in the sun, part of life's harmony.

But life is also hard. Sometimes your choices aren't honored, sometimes your life is determined for you. You're treated like crap, you look up and wonder, "Aren't I as good a bean as any other? What's to become of me, my hopes?" etc., etc. These are the things we think...

Actual scientific studies on whether coffee feels pain are limited. Then even if we get them, I'm afraid I'll be cynical. In something as huge as coffee -- the economics of it -- I can only suspect the large conglomerates will have the scientists in their back pocket, with the research similarly hidden away, neat and tidy and unseen. In other words, the conglomerates will see to it that conclusive results never see the light of day. But until they take this site down, at least we have my rudimentary study, which, at least to my mind, tentatively shows the life of coffee is no cup of tea.