Yucky Mejias Bad, Yuca Masato Good

Chapter 6 (1st part) of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Law of the Forest

How would you like to be a professional yuca chewer? (Yuca is a particular plant's root.) The way they make the sacred drink masato de yuca (in the book called masata) is actually to chew the yuca in their mouth. I'm not an overly queasy person, but at first that sounds terrible. But I'm guessing once it's chewed and spat out and has fermented the appropriate time, any bacteria is neutralized in the fermentation process. Note: These are my unprofessional, uninformed surmises. If you ever drink masato and find your Uncle Leroy's dentures in the glass, I cannot be held responsible. All information on grandmaslump.com or any of its affiliated companies, of which there are none, is for entertainment purposes only and should not be considered factual. Except for the disclaimer just issued.

Our chapter opens with the explorers waiting for Mejias. At the end of chapter 5 they had met this Columbian trader who carried on a fairly shady trade. They traded with him, then leaving, left their canoe and stores at his post while looking for Indians for the expedition. That came with a three week delay. When they got back to Mejias' place, he was gone. As was their cache of stuff they had left there. But their Indian helpers followed his trail and they caught up to him. They intended to hold Mejias to account at the point of a gun! But once encountered, he ran to the edge of the "open space" area, looking "plumb hostile," so they shot and ... Mejias was dead.

A couple days later they were at another rubber-post, a place established by a Senor Abarca. The talk about Mejias was he'd had an unsavory reputation and that Up de Graff and Jack Rouse had acted in accordance with the Unwritten Law of the Land. For trade, Abarca referred them to another guy two days downstream known as the King of the Napo, named Andrade. His place sounds like our equivalent of a big truck-stop for truckers, an important post in a well-chosen spot at the junction of the two of the most important rivers northwest of Iquitos.

Staying with his family for a couple days, the explorers ate and had their fill, then were treated to some masata. Andrade said, "I can recommend this specially: it has been chewed by my daughters." The daughters blushed in acknowledgement of his compliment. 

Vampire Bats Gotta Eat

Chapter 5 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Napo

Up de Graff got a companion in Jack Rouse, who just showed up at the door. He was about 45, rugged, not broadly built but giving the impression he was strong. And he didn't stand on ceremony. Up de Graff called him Mr. Rouse and he put in, "Cut out the titles." They shared a decent meal of rice and beans, very welcome to Mr. R--, er, Jack. But who could blame his appetite, he'd had nothing to eat for two months but bananas. Reminding me, I have a problem with bananas: Fruit flies! I wouldn't make a great companion on their journey when even fruit flies bother me...

Jack's story was he'd run away when he was 14. Most of his family was killed by Indians. He’d drifted to the Klondike for gold. Then he was a messenger and driver on a stage-line. Somehow he made his way to South America, probably under shady circumstances, and there he was. He said curtly, "Uncle Sam is looking for me," which is all kinds of nasty! Still, a perfect resume for a job equally as nasty in what lay before them. 

Their journey would commence in the morning, so they hoped to spend a comfortable night on the floor of the shelter. As they lay talking, Up de Graff noticed something periodically flying in one end of the shelter, crossing over them, and disappearing at the other end. In fact, they flew so low they could feel their wings on their faces. Thinking it was owls, they let it go. (Who does that?) When Up de Graff woke at dawn, though, he felt dizzy and weak. Then he saw "a great ugly clot of blood" hanging from the back of Jack's head. He thought it must've been the Indians. Then he noticed blood on his own blanket. He called the Indians in to explain it, but they laughed it off, saying the "night-birds" had been feeding. Vampire bats!

Larger than an ordinary bat, its wingspan is between 10 and 12 inches. And of course it lives on the blood of live animals and people. It has two pair of very sharp eye-teeth, and there's a lot of other information here I'm never going to need, and certainly if I ever do it'll never happen twice. It's a constant thing, though, for those unfortunate enough to be there, to the point that if you're under an awning, say, the Vampires will make a hole the size of their head in the material and proceed to suck you dry! Not at all good for your awning.

Anyway, terrible as all that is, the got up, did their business, and were off by 2:00 p.m. on the Napo River. With a stiff current they made good progress. They found a place to sleep, but when they awoke they found they'd been tapped again by the bats. Doh! Which was apparently a problem over the years. 

After a few days they reached the mouth of the Suno River and found a Columbian trader, Mejias, who outfitted them with some important goods, guns, etc. He then turned them on to some inside dope on a little river, an unexplored job (you didn't hear it from me), called the Yasuni. Savages there? Yeah, yeah, lots of savages. But, you know, I've heard they might be descendants of the Incas, that's Inca as in GOLD. So they went up the trail to Loreto to find Indians to help on an expedition. But it would take three weeks for the Indians to prepare their marching kit.

Who Needs Mules, You Got Men

Chapter 4 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Jack Rouse

Up de Graff left Quito with two Indian muleteers and four mules, headed downhill for Papallacta. The mountainous area made the going rough. Arriving there, he made his way to the governor's house. He presented his passport, which the governor couldn't read. Up de Graff read it to him, embellishing the text to say that the governor was to give him eight guys to help on the journey. (They later had to abandon the animals because the trails below were only good for foot travel, making me think, How'd they get up there? They must've been born on top of the mountain by virgin birth and possibly without a mother!)

The governor responded to the president's supposed command and got eight of his best guys, apparently with nothing else to do, to help carry Up de Graff's things. They actually offered to carry Up de Graff himself, since that was other times done for priests, but he preferred to walk.

The group went down about 8,000 feet, then the Indians cautioned him not to make any noise or it'd rain non-stop crazy, in sheets, as much rain as anyone would be unlucky enough to see. But he, wanting to prove their fears folly, fired his rifle. And guess what, the rain came down in sheets. Not his best decision.

They came into Archidona where there was another governor, who put up Up de Graff in his house, where he slept well. Up de Graff flashed his passport again and said he needed a canoe and this governor was also quick to help. He would deliver a canoe for him in the town of Napo. So he -- our hero -- was ready to get going in a couple days, off to Napo.

He set off, the forests swallowing him up, and recalled again the great explorer Stanley. Up de Graff looked ahead himself to unlocking a thousand secrets of those little-explored areas, if you discount the wealth of knowledge the natives in those places had for thousands of years, which .... What can you say? .... he did.

Then at the town of Napo, Up de Graff had to wait a tiny bit for his canoe to be ready, when someone came up behind him and said, "I've heard you're pulling your freight downstream." That was Jack Rouse, who joined him in the journey.

A few things stand out in these amazing details. Just telling the governors they were to help him in certain ways when those instructions hadn't really been given, that's balls. It pays to know how to read. And how about him shooting his gun when the Indians coming down the mountain told him to keep quiet? I'm sure I would've thought those guys knew what they were talking about without making a mess for myself and the others.

And who among us would prefer to walk if you had eight guys offering to carry you? "Yes, I'm a priest, upsy daisy." Take a book, get another governor to fetch me an umbrella, read a little, maybe doze off, of course giving the strictest orders, "When we get there, put me down and let me walk in the town first, just so they know who's in charge here."

Turning Toward Adventure

Chapter 3 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Exodus

Our chapter opens with F.W. Up de Graff still working at Salinas for the Cordovez family. There had been a revolution and its head was Alfaro, who became President. Some of the folks were completely opposed to Alfaro, but once the jig was up they changed their clothes and marched in support of him. Gotta stay on the good side of power... In terms of democracy, though, this might mean there's only half as many people as we think we see!

When the revolution kicked into gear, Up de Graff happened to be there (in Guaranda) on business and took in some of the action. Then headed back to the Cordovez estate. A few days later a party of 20 officers show up to arrest him. But he'd had some warning, so he showed up at the front door with a gun. They wisely handed him the warrant and left.

Skip this, skip that, he finally left the Cordovez place for good, no longer entirely welcome, and was staying in a "hotel" (his quotes) in Riobamba, which was a worse dwelling-place than he had on the estate. He wondered, What shall I do, what shall I do? Then took a horse-drawn stagecoach to Quito, where he ended up meeting with President Alfaro and getting a passport for other travel in South America.

At the end of this chapter he shares a letter he wrote to his mom, telling her that "tomorrow" (Jan. 10, 1897) he'd be leaving on foot on an expedition toward the Napo forest, about 600 miles away, with some Indians employed to carry his equipment. He expected to camp on the Napo River, build some canoes, and start on a 4000 mile trip. I like this part: "I take absolutely no money with me," except what he'd need years later to get back to New York. The rest of his cash he invested in machetes, and beads and trinkets for trading with the Indians.

He finishes the letter with basically, 'Don't write back,' because there'd be no way he'd get the letter. And that was it, he was off!

That'd take a lot of bravery. One, I'd hate to be involved with a bunch of (probably) crooked cutthroat politicians in the midst of a revolution. I'd barely survive peacetime there. It's always better to fly a little more under the radar, which hadn't yet been invented. Still, Up de Graff lives a fairly humble life in his journeys henceforth, off to see the headhunters and escaping the powers that be (Alfaro, Cordovez, revolutionaries) who might've also had his head.

I'm trying to process his thinking process. Which must come down to this, get out there, go for all the gusto, if you live or if you die, it'd be worth it for the sheer adventure. And, importantly, for the riches of gold he expected to find. I'd probably be much more skeptical about the gold. Even if you found all of it you'd ever want, the idea that you'd get out of there with it is farfetched. The place is crawling with cutthroats. You really think you're going to be boarding the boat later, declaring your only possessions, a hat, machete, and three tons of gold? Don't think so!

But the adventure of it would be great, gold or no gold.

The Cordovez Brood

Chapter 2 of 25 -- Head Hunters of The Amazon

A Land of Opportunity

Recall, Up de Graff went to Ecuador on the invitation of a friend from college days and fraternity. Being a guy who loved outdoor living, Up de Graff went hunting. This wasn’t just squirrels or rabbits like I used to hunt, but monkeys, turkeys, wild pigs, parrots, deer and jaguars. He remembered how hunting monkeys (baboons) really excited his enthusiasm. But it was the taste of them that stood out so clearly in his memory, saying, “The gastronomical possibilities of a baboon probably occur to only a very few of the millions who gaze at him through iron bars.” I'm not able to disagree.

Beyond that, he met the rest of the Cordovez family, including a brother most famous for the picturesque cursing of the peons. Which, though I disapprove, it'd still be nice to have a sample, maybe extending to a minute. “You worthless shiftless son of a bitch, I’m cutting you off from rum at the fiesta! You can die of thirst for all I care!”

But it was the father of the clan whom Up de Graff ranked the most egregiously worst of the bunch, and this goes along with modern sensibilities of fairness, honesty, and respect. Meaning, I may as well brag, I am personally more refined than the average Cordovez (of that particular group, now dead). Few of us are as wealthy as they were, but their riches seem to have been amassed in large part via hook or crook.

I’ll try to tamp down my righteous anger and stick the bottle of vitriol back in the cupboard and remain as dispassionate as a person of my sensitive sensibilities can reasonably be expected to muster or attain.

Further, Up de Graff says the Cordovez menage at Riobamba included, in addition to the terrible old man himself and his sons, his wife who kept house. The old man was generally unkempt, having little use for soap and seldom changing his clothes. But my qualms with the old man — it’s something of a simmering rage, threatening to boil over any minute — has to do with his abominable treatment of others. Which Up de Graff also had a hand in, to the extent he could stand it, when he finally quit.

Old Man Cordovez sent him to Salinas. Which is an interesting place for its elevation and views all around. North of there are mountains that rise over 22,000 feet above sea level. Making the average everyday mountain look like a pimple. On a good day, when the sun’s just right, other mountains have to pack it in in frustration.

The main sins of the Cordovez family and the old man in particular have to do with him not paying his workers, and additionally always scheming to keep them in servitude by being indebted to him. I thought I had a bad boss or two, but this guy was scheming people into perpetual slavery. And I have a hard time overlooking that, no matter how pretty the mountains are.

Headhunting South America

 

Chapter 1 of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

The Beginning of the Trail

Fritz W. Up de Graff in the U.S. (1890s) had a frat brother from South America, D. Enrique Domingo Cordovez, called the Count. They talked about the backwardness of his country Ecuador, which fired in Up de Graff a determination to go help make some modern improvements. Maybe street lights, shoes on horses, and eventually cars and the internet. Lots of big dreams.

But he and his team first had to deal with other exploration and discovery, finding their way around forests where in just a few minutes you could be lost forever in a swamp or bog. It’s no small undertaking to avoid the undertaker there unless you were swallowed whole by an alligator or burned at the stake in one of the worst pagan rituals. The darkness lit only by wild flames, discouraging war cries, the sharpness of handmade spears, and a total absence of law enforcement added to the generally bleak outlook.

Still, other explorers of the past had done their thing and lived to tell, like Stanley from “Dr. Livingstone, I presume” fame, in Africa. Up de Graff’s youthful, untamed spirit vibrated in sympathy with the Count, probably the same feeling young men get today when it’s Porn Week on streaming TV. How will it work out? Will there be a happy ending worthy of the name? Will he find vast treasures of gold, caves of gold, trenches glistening with unbridled, untamed, unparalleled quantities of gold, shimmering, shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen waxen GOLD?

Personally, I don’t know what I’d do with gold if I found it. I'm sure no one would really respect my rights when I registered my find: “I claim the gold of South America, having found the main vein at such and such coordinates, in my neighbor's backyard.” 20 minutes later I’d be overrun with guys with pick axes and guns aimed in violent intent at one another and me. It’s the kind of thing -- finding gold -- you should never tell another person, including friends, who’d step over you in a second in their lust and crazed abandon. It'd be better to find cotton candy.

Anyway, Cordovez tamped down some of Up de Graff's hopes, assuring him that there was indeed the possibility of making “a handsome capital,” just fabulous fortunes, which were already ripe to be had with various enterprises in America. But in 1894 to an adventurous spirit, “a handsome capital" was good enough. So off he sailed in 1894 with only $100 in his pocket, hoping for great adventure. He was there for seven years without so much as a day off.

The Company Mugs' Mugshots

Part 30 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

This is what the past looks like, formal pictures of guys from the neck up as far as the eye can see. Most of them being a link in the chain that goes back as far as we can imagine, the dark, the slime, the ooze, and that’s just their parents’ honeymoon. They came on the scene exactly as did we, humpa humpa, “Guess what,” Mom says to Dad. In that regard they’re no better or worse, but the same.

But Junior does his thing, climbing as high as President of the Firm! Busy making parts for machines, then as President overseeing the work, engaging salesmen, training them, getting the railroad on board for deliveries. And at the end of the day he sits back in his swivel chair and watches the smoke curling its way from the smokestack into nature’s loving arms. “This is the good life…” he thinks, then remembers, “Damn, Hilda was supposed to call the photographer to get everyone’s mugshot! Hope she did it. Everyone from me down to Buck Tinsdale mopping Warehouse Z, who said he 'reckons as how he can come up with a suit.'"

But all that's in the distant past. It's all done. We wouldn't know Buck Tinsdale from Rockefeller. And if he had a suit or not, no one really cares. I'm just scanning the picture, though, and it looks like everyone has a suit. No bib overalls spotted.

But now the only suit they have to worry about is the one the undertaker put on their lifeless body. And you know how they do that, cut the thing up the back and tuck it under your body. A simple earthquake and you'd be naked. But I guess they do pin it behind the shoulders and press the silk pillow in a little tighter.

Back to the picture: When it came time to assemble the portraits from the president down to Tinsdale, they needed to be arranged to show the pecking order, the hierarchy, without embarrassing anyone. Which was only a minor concern in those days, meant to encourage ambition and drive.

I wonder who the first 10% were to die. I could correlate obituaries with the names, but I can't quite make out the print. They seem to have been obscured somewhere along the line in the chain of custody of their memories. Perhaps out of jealousy in middle management, or later in the transmission of this data so that no one’s memory would be besmirched. I can see that happening. Like by the family of one of the guys, one of the last few to live, who bragged about him and besmirched the others.

A psychic could look at any one of these guys, especially if they weren’t obscured, and figure out their deepest secrets. But what goes on in the parts department behind the farthest stack stays there. Weird, the past has a veto over our knowledge of the future. Telling us in so many words, "You worry about you, let us worry about us. We’re dead anyway, so what do you want to know? 'Is there a literal hell?' We’re not saying, just let this suffice, bring fire extinguishers."

Wow, there wasn't a good guy in the bunch!

Maynard And The Blonde

Part 29 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

Before I speak ill of dead Maynard, let me commend him first. It shows real spirit to do what he did. I only wish I were so bold, to show up dead at a party! I don't think I'll get any argument when I say, If you can’t be the life of the party, there’s always the other option. If it’s a Halloween party and/or a costume party, as above, so much better. Whatever heavenly robe you have, angel wings, halo, the whole bit, you'll still fit in, with everyone assuming you’re as alive as them!

If you can do it, that is. I don’t believe in anyone limiting him- or herself in decent pursuits, alive or dead, if you can do it. Right now I’m alive, and barring reincarnation being true, I’ve never been dead. Yes, there was a time I once wasn’t here — this is my feeling and if my parents are truthful it’s a fact — but I wouldn’t say I was dead, just not as fleshed out as I'd like. But when you mention it so starkly, it's kind of weird to have not been here but not to have been dead. Some people say they have memories that go way back; I knew a guy who remembered the radio in his cab ride home from the hospital; I presently don’t have memories like that. Just a big blank nothing.

So Maynard had it going on! But he was a fresh corpse, with his lifeblood and whatever else he lost in the wreck still in the car he drove up in! That’s dedication to the party spirit! And he’s able — still manifesting horniness — to approach a cute blonde and impress her with his angel clothes and even a harp! I’d be like, “Hey, baby, this party’s dead, your cloud or mine?” Get a few floor-mats to cover the puddles of blood in the car, and off we’d go.

It’s funny to me that the guy is swirling the dipper in a party bowl of red punch while at the same time telling the bad news of blood everywhere. Clearly a thirsty guy, not losing his happiness over an apparent fatality just outside. I’d like to think I’d be the same way, The Party Must Go On. People die everyday. I drive by funeral homes and don’t give it a second thought. Through those doors, turn left, 12 paces, you’ll be standing at the end of a long aisle. Look at the other end and you’ll see a box open, the dead in perfect repose, awaiting our kind memories and concentrated thoughts on his individual immortality. “Today we consign Maynard to the clouds, in our mind we see him flapping his arms, lifted up, beating the air and making his way toward the God's throne.”

That’s all after the present-day party, of course, Maynard and the blonde. Truly an interesting dead guy! If I had to speak ill of him at all, it’d probably be on this, How terrible it'll be for the woman when she realizes she was literally with a dead guy. OK? That should be clear. Put it right up front and be honest, “Honey, I am literally dead. Full disclosure. But if you’d go with me, I’d be honored to spend some time with you, wherever it leads.” At that point the ball’s in her lap, if she wants to play ball, that's her choice.

Thelma's Tom Died

Part 28 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

At this point Thelma hasn’t full processed the workings of fate, taking from her a spouse that was pretty good, but never as good as you’d want. That’s a common problem in marriages, when occasionally the spouse has a bad day and each has to return to their mutual corners. Who knows why?

Tom wasn’t a bad guy — not terrible, we've seen worse — and he was faithful and a good provider. But he had an odd quirk, being overwhelmed and doing stupid things when confronted with life's complications. You see, when the Good Lord created dumb Tom took his half out of the middle. Just thinking of him is to wish you never knew him. But let me hammer one important point his friends all make, he was a good provider; providing wasn’t an issue. Sure, others had a lot more, but Tom and Thelma did OK.

And it’s one thing to be crazy kids on your honeymoon, the love light always shining in your eye. It’s another to have the years pass mercifully along, your full happiness somewhere just out of reach. On that score it feels like everyone’s in the same boat. Although there’s a select few born with a silver spoon in their mouth. The rest of us get a ceremonial spoon as a wedding gift.

Certainly Thelma and Tom followed the same clock and calendar as everyone else, and time went by reliably, tick after tick, inch by inch. They were never exactly “stuck” in the same place, but if getting there is half the fun their lives were two halves drab. Thelma kept the wedding gown in the closet and checked it for moths once in a while.

She never wished Tom dead. Not just because that’d be wrong, but because “any old port in a storm.” There were few options in those days. Cheating and unceremoniously dumping the slug weren’t easily done, not on their budget. Which was always tight.

Then it happened, the great tragedy, Tom caught a particularly virulent bug going 'round the factory, and fell dead welding a bolt (some say hinge.) The details naturally aren't that important, but I think it was a bolt. You want a bolt to stay in place, never to swing back and forth; it’s a lot more likely you’d weld a bolt. But whoever says hinge, you have to think they’ve wisely considered the rarity of welding hinges, so that's obviously a sincerely held belief. Or obstinacy.

I heard from other employees who said it wasn’t beyond them to weld everything they came across, including lunch-meat sandwiches so no one would steal them! And it could be that Tom came down with the bug and might’ve said “To hell with it” and brazenly did start welding everything. You'd probably put it among the dumbest decisions of his life, just going by the talk. But I’m not his ultimate judge.

His ultimate judge, he soon met. Tom fell dead. Sadness ensued, the usual palaver.

A few weeks passed and Bill came into Thelma’s life. What Tom totally missed in the personality department, Bill more than made up for. A real charmer, but maybe lacking carefulness. I can certainly understand why they’d tell him to be more careful — who wouldn’t be? — after one husband dropped dead in uncertain circumstances.

From Symmetry To Cemetery

 

Part 27 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I know it’s hard to say any one person deserves to die more than another — barring hideous capital offenses, crimes against humanity, and unrepented pigheadedness. But could we at least make an exception for the overly-fastidious and those with strange quirks? This is something I could head up, although my deep seated tenderness will eventually be the death of me. I can only resist it for a while, because nothing hits me like a sob story.

But of course there’s sob stories and SOB stories. Bob would be in the last category, a real SOB. Mostly because he's annoying, with a very pronounced longing, even demand for symmetry. Have you ever had the symmetry bug? An overabundance of balance? If there's a shrub on the left side of your house there has to be one on the right? That kind of thing.

There’s nothing more predictable than symmetry, which is why every freethinker's first impulse is to mess it up. Symmetry sufferers have too much thought for harmonious arrangement. To the point of even their shaving cream, wanting it to stretch nicely from ear to ear. If there's something neat about it's upper border, it needs an equal lower border. And maybe a dab on top of the head and one under the chin.

Do I personally have trouble with symmetry? I believe so or it wouldn’t upset me so much thinking of Bob. But I try to foresee it and work fastidiously to make things less harmonious. Take this blog post up until now. It started with a general beginning, introduced a particular case, and now I’m in the process of giving and taking, my own problems with symmetry. Even now I can see what it'd need for good symmetry to the end. Which, if Bob were writing it, would flow as predictably as sexual waste in a prison shower. But I’m going to purposely mess it up with something unrelated.

By the way, have you ever seen a prison shower in real life? I’ve never been “in” prison but I toured one. Our hands were marked with invisible ink visible under a black light. I had such fear that day. I even pictured a guy jumping me, cutting off my arm, stuffing it into his sleeve and going through the black light. With me bleeding to death in his cell and the rest of the tour group going on without me. Anyway, I saw their shower, just a big room, shower heads all around, a big old public shower for men. Thinking of it over 30 years later, I still get nightmares.

See, my prison story ruins the symmetry. Meaning, I'd get kicked out of Bob’s Club, him and his fluorescent shaving cream! I'm not sure how they shave in prison. They don’t want anyone cutting their throat and getting out early. Hey, do you think maybe Bob had a record? Maybe Bob “served time”? I hadn’t thought of that! I just thought he was a neat freak, but maybe he was sending prisoners a message...

Right there's a good enough reason for him pass on. With him dead we can sleep better, knowing he’s not going to be shaving his symmetrical arrangement and “accidentally” slipping and cutting our throat.

Umpire, You're Out Out Out!

Part 26 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

This umpire guy (probably another wannabe) could've very well been one of the umpires behind me in Little League. When I was whiffing at the ball after it’d been in the catcher’s mitt for two full seconds. The ump was screaming “Ouuuuuuuuuuuut” like it was a 16-syllable word instead of the short, simple, and to the point word I see when I write it out. Like that. Notice the simplicity, “Out,” compared to the jaw breaker, “Ouuuuuuuuuuuut.” Big difference.

I really wish I could go back and do baseball better. I don’t know why I was so wimpy. Just didn’t want to do it, I guess, or I didn’t feel near as good as the other players. But my parents still sent me to the park to do my thing, even though I was like, “This is going to be a disaster... Kids with my delicate introversion are better off taking their easel into the closet and painting stilllifes of Dad’s suit. Or Mom’s bra, which would’ve been a more marketable subject. Can you imagine that? I could’ve beat Andy Warhol to the whole pop art happening/Campbell’s Soup Can thing with Closet Wall In Repose and Mom’s Outgrown 38D.

It’s simply amazing how easy life is in hindsight. Meaning, we need to come up with a time machine very fast or I'm gonna die a complete failure. I actually still could be a success but it’d require changing the rules slightly. And even with that I’m not so sure. I’ve seen kids playing baseball these days and it’s just like I remember. They suck. But put someone with some confidence in there — like me today — and I could be the best Little Leaguer in the country. Especially if someone else would run the bases for me. Give me a bat; it’s not just your sex life where remarkable things can happen; it'd be with baseball like it is with sex, I’d swing at everything that moves. (You believe that, right?)

But the past cannot be undone, not with current technology. I was hoping like everyone that with the Large Hadron Collider they'd do something to help. In case you forgot what that was or never knew, you better look it up because I’m not sure either. It had to do with electrons going super speed to prove something interesting about the nature of existence and/or baseball. Maybe studying whether an umpire calling balls and strikes is harder if they're pitched at the speed of light. And even if they haven’t yet worked out all the conclusions, it's definitely known that any ball going the speed of light that you attempt to hit will likely slip by you.

Anyway, none of that does any good for my childhood failures at baseball and the mean-spirited umps we always had. I have one happy memory to share, though, in closing. It was the last game of the season. My team — the Dodgers — were winless, but on that last day — God’s honest truth — our forlorn team managed to win! And the coach took us downtown for a bottle of Pepsi. And who do I see sitting in the booth, moping? The Umpire... Who grimaced at me and muttered, “I'm really gonna get you next year.”

Somehow later that day, though -- a matter of perfect justice -- something came from outer space at the speed of light, avoiding the Hadron collider all together, and took out the ump and his truck with one strike. Rest In Peace, fool...

Not Afraid Of Grizzly Bears

 

No. 25 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I haven’t figured out yet what happened, the system of “more-enlightened” times. With hunting completely out. And gigantic elephants, tiger, lions, all the way down to the smallest things, rabbits, squirrels, and even rodents completely running amok. I remember, not very long ago, when a man could “put food on the table” by his own stealth. Sitting in a tree waiting for a deer. Seeing a rabbit in the ditch and hoping it didn't move till you got your .410 shotgun assembled.

But life is full of contradictions, so in the abundance of animals going to waste we continue raising and slaughtering others. Even though scientific people who don’t weigh as much as the rest of us — when they pick their teeth it’s always bio-engineered scraps— tell us meat is not only unnecessary but actually harmful. Say what you want about animals, as mean as they are, they make up for it by being delicious.

Anyway, it’s obvious true to a point that there’s danger in everything. And yes, we’re all going to bite the dust someday. If it comes from a lifetime of eating, what’s the beef? We’re hungry, of course we’re going to eat. Death is a fact of life period. Nothing to be denied, of course, but nothing to be so afraid of. I get lessons from friends passing. Whatever they died of, I avoid that for a week or so. If they had an unpleasant pallor, I use rouge. (I’m not a female impersonator all the time, I just like to look alive.) And if it’s someone close, I cry like a banshee. Until the pastor steps in, touches my wrist and says, “He’s in a better place.”

Still, friends don’t like friends to die. But we’re not beyond challenging each other. “If you’re a man, do such and such," take this challenge, live your life on the edge, and prove you’re tough enough to go the distance. When we were kids, though, that was the worst thing, being a wimp. It's illustrated there, the whole gamut of childish behavior. Feeling like you can do anything. You actually can, almost, if you get lucky. But when you grow up you realize, just because Superman jumps off buildings and is OK, there’s no guarantee you can. If there's doubt, the default assumption has to be, You can’t.

So they ask the kid, "You wouldn't be afraid to hunt grizzly bears with a club?" No. But if I kill one, that means I have to take on at least one more. Then the second grizzly swipes a big paw out and takes the kid's head off. That kid was stupid. Don't do it. And now that you've done it and died, don't do it again. There's nothing you can do about him. Dumb kid, real stupid. But pretty good skills, if you as a kid could actually kill the first grizzly. That's something to talk about, big praise.

As for the rest of the kids, his funeral meant a day off from school. So there was something worthwhile about it for everyone.

Rest In Peace 1911

Part 24 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

I recently came across this graphic and didn’t recognize it, never saw it before. I have a whole room of hard drives and computers and there’s no telling what I might find. But a few years ago some guys who read my blog came over and were helping me catalogue a ton of clip art. Then we had a falling out, because there's zero nudity in antique clip art beyond the New Year's baby's butt, and they became disinterested. The cataloging process was halted and nothing more done.

But going through it the last few days, this one hit me. I was struck by the sudden realization that I never actually heard that the year 1911 passed away. Of course all of us know at a certain level that past years are no more and future years are still to come. But when we think in those terms — if ever — it's generally years we've lived through, and we have stark memories of them, for instance 1999. I remember buying a cassette boombox in 1999 in case the computer grid went down (Y2K), so I'd have something to hear emergency news on.

The truth is, I’ve been through most of the years of my life in detail, so I’m familiar with each one starting and ending. The other years I've heard of and am generally aware that they ultimately met their fate. Grandma was born in 1903, so I’m squared away on it. And Grandpa had his year, my various aunts, parents, and friends all had their years, as I’ve conscientiously observed: “Those years are no more. There's no bringing them back from the brink. They’ve shot plumb over the edge into the bottomless pit. A brink no longer looms, it’s attained.” Brinksmanship all the way. But somehow 1911 — miraculously? — sailed past my notice! Making me think it sneaked past me with an enemy's help. Which I'll be looking into, because I have some very clever enemies.

1911. It's a year I know nothing about. I do not know one historic thing that happened in 1911! But it was surely a year like any other. There were big cities, there were smaller towns, there were villages, farms, communities of people with hopes and dreams as real as my own. Back then one of their dreams might’ve been to imagine what 2010-2020 would be like, our current time frame. I suppose they imagined us in buildings that float, people with personal planes for getting around, and grocery stores where there aren’t pesky lines. Maybe the next 100 years will bring hovering buildings.

Anyway, 1911 died, awww, sad. So speaking ill of 1911, I can certainly say it is a nondescript year, fairly anonymous, and maybe shouldn't have wasted everyone's time. Just skip from 1910 to 1912. But let’s raise a tankard of JR anyway along with the old Father Time, an Englishman, and the semi-nude New Year's baby. It's 1912! 1911 is finally gone, may it Rest In Peace and in our precious memories with its ups and downs, the good and whatever evil it so maliciously cradled and nursed.

A Pacyderm Packs It In

Part 23 of 30 -- Speaking Ill of The Dead

Did you know they used to enlist elephants for military service? Quite the thing. A family would raise one from a calf, then on the day of the Big War would say, “Horray, Jumbo’s all grown up and ready for war! Put a star in the window, let the whole town know we're patriots!” Sounds unlikely these days, I know. When the price of elephant food went sky-high, plus liability insurance, etc., it suddenly wasn't common for a family to raise them. Which is a damned shame, because if we'd been raising elephants, think of all the things that wouldn't have happened. 9/11 for starters.

Of course elephants have always been big, but they were larger than life in the days of the Roman Empire, when all kinds of crazy stuff happened. Back then they didn’t have everything we take for granted, cannons, bunker busters, bazookas, and gun shows. If they wanted to conquer someone they had to unleash an elephant. Yes, they had bows and arrows, swords, and spears. But it was elephants that trampled out the vintage and made the grapes of wrath flow. One big reason, they were hepped up on firewater, hootch, and booze, and went plain loco. Which was a good thing.

Personally, I don’t know entirely how it was done. For me to depend on an elephant to distinguish the enemy from us, that’d take a lot of trust. But it was accomplished like everything else, by experts. They pointed the way for them to go, they fed them a truckload of peanuts, and before you knew it, it was V-Day over the Huns! World War I ended! Hallelujah!

Am I glad we won World War I? Of course I am, I'm always for the home team. But at that time I wasn’t even thought of, nor were my parents, so I sat it out. Later, I took coursework in history in college, but most of the stuff I learned I've forgotten now. World War I, though, was a war to end wars. And elephants' days were also numbered.

It's hard for me to speak ill of an elephant that died. But keeping to the theme, let me think of something ill for this one. Looking at the picture for de-inspiration: What's the matter, you fool, staggering and stumbling like that, breaking through the fence, the cannon tipping over! Next thing you're going to make a mess! And next thing, the enemy's going to say, "That elephant's loco! Shoot the guys on top of it! We'll capture it!" So all that stumbling was a huge mistake, because you took a bullet right through the temple, a terrible place to be shot. Killed instantly. Very bad job.