The Paranoia Debate

Paranoia

Part 6 of 30

Please forgive a little diversion into my debate notes from 7th grade. They gave us our assignment and we went off to do the research. Then the third day of class I was the debate foreman for the affirmative of this proposition: "Exposure of anything to the light of day and the careful study of those qualified to judge, not swayed by prejudice or simply a mind already made up, is among life's greatest antiseptics and stimulants toward truth, hereby spurred on." I'll never forget it. We wiped out the other team, and to this day the question to me is irrefutable. It was such a moment, really, and everyone was so blown away that we spent the rest of the semester arguing about the merits of particular baked goods. And brownies won!

Along those same lines, I used to hear the great beloved song, “Count Your Blessings,:which was a decent song that also had a lot to do with your attitude. Because no matter how bad things are -- there are always great antiseptics and stimulants, and, yes, you can accomplish anything, and that's the truth! But enough about debate, now to real life...

The setting here is a town dump, which allowed public access. And our parents didn't care if we played there, killing rats, blowing up aerosol cans, anything. It was great. Among the personnel there, let’s see, Edgar was the first manager, then a guy named Stubby took over, then a guy named Harmon. That’s when I left home. Anyway, we did go to the dump to play, shoot rats with bows and arrows and watch them bleed and seek out the quarters where the poorer rats go, their holes.

I suppose some of my bad luck is karma from those days, because I couldn’t stifle my killer instincts, thinking it was so fun. I caught a piece of the karma even as a kid, cutting myself on a tin can and needing shots. Mom asked WTF happened, and what could I say but the truth? We were throwing bricks through old TVs and watching them explode. But I was too close to this one -- a Philco -- and the blast carried me 40 feet through the air. Quite a flight, too. Half hour later I landed in some rubbish and sliced my finger pretty bad. I went through the rubbish and found an old chunk of cotton, a little sticky with something, and bandaged it good enough to survive the walk home. And so forth, I threw myself on Mom's mercy, she sewed it up, and I went to bed and had dreams and nightmares, most of them in quick succession, some of them on a seemingly endless hold while they threaded the projector, a type you couldn’t get parts for today.

So what happened next? I can’t remember what just happened! Ever since that time, my memory has been very faulty. I’m hoping to find the cure someday but have had great difficulty … My memory’s so bad … I have vast experience with paranoia ... I hope they can cure me. Something happened. Whatever it was is, what was it I said? Anyway, I believe there’s a whole slate of enemies, see? Out to get me, see? My life was essentially ruined, somehow. People from the old days who see me also wonder what happened. I’m always like, “What are you talking about? Nothing happened to me.” Then I fall asleep and wake up crying out. It’s a bastard. Whatever I said. Somethings out there, just biding its time, somewhere nearby, waiting to get me.

They took me to a doctor. His favorite word was “Interesting.” He'd put the listening thing up to my chest and say “interesting,” and so forth. I just lost my train of thought again. And this might be too much a downer. I’m fearful it is. It really gets to me. Look at my hand, that’s some shaking, huh?

Really, though, that’s nothing. I could shake it twice as fast if I needed to, and I just might...

Reaching The Happy Land

Paranoia

Part 5 of 30

Do you get the distinct feeling these days that there’s a lot more outright glee when people die than there used to be? I’m running over it in my thoughts and that's how it seems. We may not hear a lot of happiness about deaths but I don’t hear much sorrow either. And if the sorrow isn't there, we're left with some degree of happiness. But then again I might not be the best witness on the subject, since I don’t hear much about anything. Essentially in my own little bubble.

Now that I think of it, I was always in a kind of bubble. No one was coming to me with their problems, their joys and sorrows, but I still heard it. The widow would be in seclusion, walking in slow motion around her house dressed in flowing black. If you ever saw her the veil was so dark you thought you were in a horror movie. Just hanging there, about three inches from her face. Flowing forth from a full-headed outer veil holder, probably mostly so the veil wouldn’t bump against her nose and get wet, like if she were crying a lot and her nose running.

It’s the kind of thing I remember we never felt comfortable to stare at. But back then they practically closed up the house, and really got into the full art of grief. And this also went for men although they didn’t wear a veil, just hung around the house poking into the cupboard trying to figure out how to cook food. And they may not have been very hungry, because grief took their appetite away. Those were the good old days when people really took grief to heart and sometimes howled for a month.

I hate to go overboard characterizing grief these days in the full negative way I imagine it. Suffice to say, these days if you’re inclined to do anything at all in the face of death, people think there's something wrong with you. “Eww, you’re morbid. Death is a fact of life, get over it. Grief? We remember your husband, something of a bastard, good riddance to bad rubbish.” I’d hate to have someone say that about me, but in these coarse days -- “La la la, he died!” -- there’s nothing so scurrilous that one of our modern-day shallow grievers wouldn’t say. “C’mon, Maude, let’s strap on the bikinis and hit the beach!” An actual quote by a couple of 20-something widows. Their guys supposedly died of grease fumes at the factory, but I suspected foul play, leading me to surmise the love of sunbathing and swimming overrode the supposed love of their lives! But I haven’t got the proof. It's under lock and key. The police would throw me out on a writ of nolo contendre, a confusing topic for those who don’t know the law.

OK, well it’s no secret that I’ve thought a few times about my own death. It hasn’t happened yet, but when it does… Let me repeat that slowly, When-it-does… Don’t assume the worst in my intentions. Because there’s no there there. Look to my family. Are they grieving apparently too little? Or similarly, are they grieving too much? And we may as well throw in, Are they grieving just right? That might be a BINGO. Because they’ve given a little too much thought to the subject to be completely innocent. I’d round up the usual suspects, which with my well-placed, fully-justified paranoia, includes every stinking one of my survivors and friends. Make sure you give them the third degree before a single cent is distributed!

Scavenging For Acorns

Paranoia

Part 4 of 30

My life of paranoia is one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had. But that’s not to say I’m miserable every moment of every day, because I’m not. I’ve really worked on it to the extent I can, and have been doing the things a doctor so wisely told me, “Try to make the best of things. And remember, there’s lots of other losers worse off than you.” That one took me by surprise, because, really, when it’s just me in my constant thoughts, I have a constant nagging pain. But when I compare myself to others, it helps me to know I'm leading the pack even if it's only narrowly.

So this guy's a pretty good doctor, and the insurance company isn’t paying him because he’s a quack. He obviously can make some halfway decent pronouncements. And if I can’t believe him, who am I going to believe? Some guys at the local bar talking dirt against him? I mean, they might be right, but there’s a big difference between him and them. The insurance company wouldn’t pay squat for the opinion of guys at the bar. And they’re a profit-making company, so you can trust them.

It's really going pretty well. Maybe not everyday’s a good day, but on the good days I'm following his advice to the letter. And for the most part, two thumbs up. The more miserable others are, the better. The other day there was a guy bleeding from the leg. Apparently too dumb to handle an ax. We were trying to call the ambulance -- not so much me but this other dude -- and he and the ambulance driver got in such an argument about the case, thinking that the guy had something to do with it, or was perhaps the innocent victim’s brother. I myself was confused, and he had a towel wrapped around his leg, but maybe it didn’t look as bad as it was. But the ambulance guys, confused, just fingered us all and sped off. It took me to pronounce the guy dead, and I’m not even medically sure when the exact moment of death came. The police came back and called him “A. John Doe.” So, my condolences to the Doe family. It could be that he was a nice guy, but I'm not really his judge.

Anyway, fast forward. I’m always looking for people worse off than me and trying to make the best of it. So imagine the valuable goldmine I inherited when my neighbor’s furnace wasn’t working. Right about the time of the biggest blizzard in the state since the time of Christ. Cold? Like my dad used to say, “Colder than a well-digger’s butt,” and something about a witch’s tit.

So, again, it was very therapeutic to watch my neighbor out foraging for acorns to burn to keep his house heated. My own paranoia receded and it was one of those rare times of comfort that I’d almost forgotten existed. The only problem with the whole scene, I needed to put some caulking around my own picture window. It’s a little drafty. And, dammit, a draft like keeps my furnace running, money down the drain. It's always something, but this is ridiculous. Things were going pretty well, then this. I just can’t catch a break...

The Terror of Meeting People

Paranoia

Part 3 of 30

You know me, Mr. Social, yes, perhaps a little paranoid. But I also know you. And skittish isn't the right word. More like damaged. But in your favor, you're always optimistic that you can do better and make progress. I pray for you daily, "Lord, take away his crippling skittishness, but -- high five -- Thy will be done." So you're you and I'm me. And I'm pretty close to being right in my element. Give me a group of people, none of whom I know and I’m comfortable going around the circle, getting this guy’s name, and her name, right around the room. I do my best to remember their names so I can impress everyone by making it personal. Sometimes it works, and sometimes I accidentally spit out the mental device I use, “Hello, Chick With The Fat Calves, er, I mean, Nancy.” That's when I collapse.

In all seriousness, Nancy should be an easy one because I’ve known other Nancys that look similar. And the way life operates, they’re not ever going to show up together in the same room. Life seems to have a way of doing things like that in a helpful order. You meet Nancy in kindergarten, then a different one a few years later in college, then a different one yet at work, where it’s almost impossible to make friends because you’re too focused on job evaluations. Right now, just skimming through my head, I don’t know any Nancys that are actually likely to show up. But if I do meet one -- it might happen today! -- I’ll tag-pneumonic her with this blog post...

I kind of like meeting people, and yet most of me sees the downside from the start. I’ve been going to church, trying to broaden my horizons, and I’m seeing how hard it is to keep people’s names in line. So far none of them are Nancy. I’ve been there probably 6 months and I know about eight names. Whether they’re paranoid about me or my paranoia about them is the hindrance, I haven’t figured it out yet. I remember in some of the churches of old, very judgmental, the direction of the paranoia was easy to see. But the new way of doing things -- I’m OK, You're OK -- no one’s quick to judge me, at least orally. And I’m not quick to judge them. I'm very wary.. So far -- it might be easy to guess -- I fit in OK in the general activities, but the interpersonal stuff’s a rough go, a hellish nightmare.

The obvious downside of meeting them and investing the time is you might get sick of it and want to drop off. Which is easy enough to do, it’s true, if you move out of state, to a different country, or have a facelift. But even in The Big City you have a smaller area you’re ranging in, so it’s much like a small town, and now you’re suddenly needing to take alternate routes to get anywhere. With the hope -- hope against hope -- that you won’t meet anyone else, because there’s only so much one guy can handle.

If you feel the same way, please don’t tell me. It might lead to something. It might even turn out that you live only a block from me. Then we’re waving, then we’re speaking, then something horrible happens -- your landlord throws you out because your cat’s pregnant -- and I’m left alone. Or you want to move in with me and ... that's not something I could allow.

Paranoia: Greatly Challenged

 

Paranoia

Part 2 of 30

No, not ill, haven’t coughed all day, except for the bacon I swallowed wrong. Am I right? What is it with bacon? How come it’s so hard to cook it so the meat of the goodie -- the non-fatty parts -- aren’t hard as hell? I don’t remember this growing up back when Grandma used to cook it. It was uniformly soft, from stem to stern, particularly if you were taking extra care while it was in the pan. But these days, whether they’ve changed bacon's secret formula to compensate for tougher times, it’s always hard. And all the trying I do, my level best, nothing I do makes a difference.

But that’s one for my cookbook series, not yet planned. There is, though, an element of paranoia that goes with it. And if the problem originates with me, I’d like to know it. But there’s no way to know it unless a huge group has the same experience. And I know a lot of people have given up bacon entirely for health reasons. Was it the impact on their health from the weird hard bits that you really can’t give your dog?

I’ve gotten real sensitive about what I give my dog, real careful, that is. Because she had some bowel obstructions that I was a slow to realize. And here I am, her only full-time caregiver. I definitely don’t want her death on my conscience, even though, yes, it would be mostly her fault. Because she’s extremely undiscerning about what’s good for her and what’s not. Anyway, the bowel obstructions: Those came from dog treats and the fact that some of the ingredients of dog treats are relatively hard. And they get harder over the course of a month or so, especially if they’re exposed to the air on a daily basis. For some reason they don’t tell you that. And it’s not in the fine print on the bag like we’d expect human food to come with warnings if it were so dangerous.

It’s funny I haven’t even lifted a finger for my cookbook series; I’m sure there’d be all kinds of stuff that'd appeal to the average person. Like my Grandpa used to say -- I think it was him, maybe some other guy entirely, “Everyone’s gotta eat.” That’d be a decent series for that reason alone, I'd be getting the traffic from the vast pool of people who have to eat. Whereas with paranoia, they say not everyone has it, and most are too paranoid to admit it. It's just the unfortunate few, I guess, like me and a few other guys I know who not only have it but explore it. Not that that makes it anything to be proud of. I’m not proud, and if I were I’d be afraid to admit it, because how much grief can an innocent guy stand?

About these dog treats, though, I took her to the vet a couple times. And the last time they kept her overnight. Then I paid my $100 and got her home. They told me only, “She had a bowel obstruction.” No word about what the obstruction was, and I didn’t ask. And she went back to pooping like normal. I resumed her normal diet, including the dog treats. And after a couple weeks, guess what, the same signs of a bowel obstruction started in. Then I thought, What could it possibly be? She gets her normal food and two dog treats a day, nothing else. Wait! Replay that last piece, “and two dog treats a day.” I grabbed a dog treat and examined it. As the month goes on, they become very hard.

How did I fail so badly on that? What other problems are coming that I should know about? One interesting thing about the bowel obstruction is it wasn't all bad. I had to walk her farther to get her to go. Which led one day to me finding $100 on the ground. I was happy with that, but the vet was over $100. Meaning I nearly broke even, just a little short. About how my luck goes, better than nothing, but nothing worth writing home about either.

Alas In Paranoialand

Paranoia

Part 1 of 30

Alas, I've died and gone to the land where paranoia reigns supreme, everyday one pitfall after another. I’ve ventured these parts before, the sights and the whole spectacle. But really, I'm likely not really dead, but this is my sad lot in life. It happens a lot, these universal shoves into the mud, the bony cosmological knee to the metaphorical crotch, a seemingly beautiful conch at my ear but no reassuring sound of the sea. Just a far off voice from the past -- traveling light years to arrive and just in time to say, “Your party's not available. Hang up and try again later, loser.”

I slam the phone to the table and the murmuring voice goes dead. The vastness of space then reminds me, I'm a slug. So how’s that for luck? It sums up my life experiences, sour from day one. And now I’m out of trust, out of hope, my optimism's shot, and I am, above all, paranoid. A strain of paranoia for every occasion. From “Woe is me” to “What’s a guy gotta do to catch a break?” Plus, it might sound trivial and I should leave it out, but I'm also out of Pepsi.

I hesitate to go on -- I have big plans for the blog but I'm reluctant. And yet, when there's grief for one, there’s joy for the rest. I could help so many other people just by plummeting through all the usual supports and landing with a thud. Just my luck, the role of the redeemer. All this time with the huge grief and now you're cheered up. The same thing used to happen to me. I'd hear of someone with a terrible life and I'd thank my lucky stars it wasn't me. I'd even get giddy, call a few friends, they'd come over and we'd jump on the bed and throw bags of confetti into the air. When we were real happy we'd open the bags.

But, please, don't worry about me. Whatever you might've done for me, that time is long past. Please, not one pathetic syllable. But there are other worthless sufferers out there moaning and groaning, turning over in their bed, falling out occasionally, crying like babies, shrieking at their window, raising a ruckus and driving everyone crazy. Possibly say a little prayer for them. I'm still able to talk in sentences, so I'm actually doing pretty well. My blog helps me. Ten years ago a reader told me "Attaboy" about something, my good spelling. So when I'm real down I find his friendly word and reread it. I also emit forth a cleansing shriek now and then. Let me see if I'm in good voice: "Shriek!" I bet they heard that across the street!

Anyway, what's a constant 24/7 paranoia really like? First, possibly to shake up your assumptions, it’s not sooo terrible. It’s not great, but there are worse things. This is mostly mental, which is still painful. But no one’s twisting my arm behind my back, no one’s depriving me of meals, and despite the constant fears, no one's broken down the front door and made off with my TV. It helps that I pay for security, an alarm. But I do have the paranoia that it might be false security, just an empty box that'll do nothing in my time of need.

Come by this month and I’ll let you know if things get any better. Spoiler alert: I already know you won't show up. Who would? But maybe by the end of the month I’ll somehow be magically reconciled to life even with this horrendous burden. It's hard to picture. This ain't flag football, it ain't beanbag. It's real life with real life consequences, one cruddy thing after another. And I’m very aware of what I’m up against. I know how life turns out, in wretched bloody shambles, the main beam of the house crushing me.

Oh well. As Aunt Alice used to say, “Cheers dears!”

Leap Year Day, Coronavirus

This could really be a red-letter day for someone, being the leap year date squeezed into the calendar every four years. It's one of the oddest days there is, so odd there's nothing else quite like it. Maybe your birthday. But they add a second or take away a minute every once in a while when the orbit of the planet goes out of whack or the sun exerts enough extra oomph of gravity to pull us closer to the inferno. And the same thing goes for days.

On that last point, it was just in the news that we had either one or two new moons enter the earth’s orbit, which was or were very small. I saw the headline on a video that one of them was about the size of a volleyball, but on the news they said it was about the size of a Volkswagen bug. Either way, it’s not enough to make my backyard a lot bigger, but it’ll be a bastard if it somehow hits the house. I've always heard that a penny dropped from space could go through your head and continue its path about 3 foot in the ground. Twice as deep as the neighborhood cat that died and I buried.

But enough about the disasters this date might bring. I’m going to focus on the pleasant, the happy, always trying to put a smile on your face whether you deserve it or not. Leap Year Day always reminds me of the one or two kids in school who happened to be born Feb. 29. And these things -- what they were able to say -- didn’t happen very often, obviously, because in another four or eight years we’d be in middle school or high school.

I do remember, though, two kids -- can’t remember who they were -- saying, “I’m only 4” (or 8 or 12.) And giggling like it was a riddle, how’d they do it? what could they possibly mean? I believe scientists knew, but to the rest of us it was mysterious. So ... this one day pops up once in a while like the rare pimple before puberty. Wash your face and maybe it won’t happen again.

I wanted to get to Leap Year Day this year, with the Coronavirus disease, a weird sprouting thing from certain strains of Chinese food, weather, livestock, or something. The Chinese are pretty smart. If you’ve ever seen their parades, they don’t skimp on exactitude. If anyone could come up with a super killer, it’d be them. And in fairness, if they set their mind to it they could come up with something that would benefit us all, like an antidote right now.

So, what if a few of us die on Leap Year Day from the Coronavirus? It might actually be one of the things that would redeem our lives, giving the survivors something to brag about: "Derek’s been dead four years and it’s been a tough year since his passing." They’re like, “What?” It was almost four years, but it’s much fresher because he only died a year ago...

It could be a benefit politically too, which might not be that great. But it’s true. A whole bunch of people die of Coronavirus on Feb. 29, say it’s a million. They could spin it quite easily, “A million, yeah, that’s bad, but it only averages 250,000 a year, typical.” An even better spin would be this: “Look at all the Leap Year Days since the bubonic plague hit big-time in the 14th century -- killing 50 million. There’s been around 570 Leap Year Days since then, so, hell, that’s not even 990,000 a year, next to nothing when you compare it to cigarette deaths. And if people choose to smoke bubonic that’s their business.”

Anyway, Happy Leap Year Day. I hope most of us make it. There’s a few, of course, no matter what day it is, the Twelfth of Never, who'll never make it.

The Big City Over & Out

The Big City

Part 28 of 28

Happy Leap Year tomorrow!

A Whole Additional Day of Life

and You Did Nothing to Deserve It

We’re at the last chapter of our little talks on The Big City. As far as a dedication of the series to someone, that's something I’ve never done but I’ve been encouraged to do so. So I’d just like to commend it to everyone who has feelings whatsoever about the good old cold Big City and the smaller, homier places we all revere so much. And then, more particularly, I want to dedicate it to a guy I met near the interstate the other day, Griff. Griff's a guy who's down on his luck and has a sign asking for whatever you can spare. Griff appears to be a religious guy with many good values, wishing as he does, continually, God's blessings on all who share the interstate with him. It could very well be he's sucking up. If so, at least it proves he knows about the sweet spot of American culture. And proves he's conventional in upbringing whatever his deviance from the norm today. But he's using it as a cudgel against us to loosen the old purse strings. Duplicitous! I don't think I like that. What's he going to be doing tomorrow, waving the American flag? Get this guy in politics. "I'm down and out, I deserve your vote!" Way to go, good Griff -- hope that's your name, something like that, maybe Lief, whatever, love you, Bro. But I don't anything smaller than a dollar, so not today.

OK, enough foolish preliminaries out of the way, this is the last post of the month which, if memory serves, very well could be February 2020:

Personally, and just let me say this simply enough so everyone can understand it, I have a soft place in my heart, at times, more or less equal for Big Cities and little towns. So I have an anecdote today for each place. (Please don't fear if you've already been immunized, no anecdote will be needed.) Then those times come, of course, when I say, “The Big City? I can take it or leave it!” And there’s a variation on rejecting it immediately, abruptly, and forever that's not nearly the tugger of the heart, but sometimes the heart also deals with things by a stern attitude, not just the usual mush.

I’ve had a bunch of significant days in my life in the Big City. Huge profound, significant days, like my first day here, making my first call to the police concerning crime, then having to look at the mugshot books, then while I was there I got to bid on some unclaimed booty.

The Big City gets the greatest crime, naturally, thanks to the gargantuan population, the great amount of things to steal and numerous places to burgle. The other side of that coin is that the general public is wary and getting in some good jabs at criminals with door cameras and boobytrapped boxes and packages that help recycle common body fluids and solids. The devices in the packages are where the real excitement is, how they’re able to start spinning and emitting chemicals, poisons, just totally triggering the device, it's spinning, it's wild!

The littler towns also have had a soft place in my heart many times. I used to live in a small town, several years, and knew the place like I knew my own body, skills I was able to hone further with puberty. I was just thinking of a guy I used to know as a kid, then I saw him one single day as an adult, then he was gone, died sometime shortly after that. I looked him up today to see what he died of, which was, damn! I forget now. It wasn’t a broken heart, of that I’m sure, because it mentioned he had a wife.

What was my theme? I keep forgetting, because I have so much on my mind on every subject; it’s hard to narrow it down to one thing. But now as I recall, it was The Big City, my feelings, thoughts, and, yes, insights into The Big City. A place that exists and a place that, like it or not, I call home. And probably will till I'm able to get the hell out.

Mystic Innate Child Of Promise

The Big City

Part 27 of 28

I’m a big believer in the mystic, the innate, the wise words of innocents who “don’t know” in one sense of the word but potentially know it all through some sort of inner sight that’s mysterious to me and other living creatures.

I keep hoping I’ll find that mysterious quality, and maybe I have to a certain extent. I think if you have it, and I’m not saying I do, it’s news to you. Meaning there’s a certain level of complete innocence at play. The actual Messiah might know He or She is the actual Messiah, but they’d know it in some UNknowing way apart from ego drives. Which might be part of the interpretation of the old phrase “A Child Shall Lead Them,” because if it were an adult, and this is not necessarily true, with the adult’s baggage of ego and adult drives -- hubba hubba -- everything might be as corrupt as the very system that needs transformation.

The Big City can’t save itself. Just as the smaller town can’t transform itself into the Big City, not that they should ever want to but they all do. Yes, Podunk City’s out there saying, “We could make the name Podunk City synonymous with Metropolis if we only joined backbone to assbone and got it done.” How hard could it be? First, you believe. Second, you get the Pure Child to lead the way. Third, you get the bastard done!” A dream, settlers, builders, roads, and of course a city landfill where kids can play, throwing bricks through old TV tubes, shooting unwanted vermin with bows and arrows, and all that fun stuff. You’ve never really seen it all till you’ve seen that, at which point you repent.

But I’ll leave the genesis of the Big City from a small town to another day that shall never arrive. And focus only on the Big City of today, which doesn’t have a landfill available to the general public to even see, let alone play in. I’m in the Big City, that’s obvious, and do you think I’ve seen the garbage processing centers and their place of ultimate repose. I certainly have not, but they're out there somewhere, hidden away. That’s why the garbage trucks never show up at a particular time. They’re so busy obscuring the path lest anyone see where they go. Just yesterday I saw a garbage truck on the freeway trying to outrun the snoops. So a word to the wise, don’t even try to follow them. They've got a free run on the town and they can drive all day long and weeks at a time without penalty if they even suspect they’re being tailed.

What about aerial photos? This too they’ve dealt with, because the sky’s an easier thing to monitor than the road. Still, they don’t leave anything to chance, and I’ve seen more than one garbage truck shoot planes out of the sky.

See our boy of innocence pointing to the sky? He knows by intuition where the dumps are, but he has more on this mind than trivia. He not only wants to escape the garbage trucks and planes, he wants the life of transcendence that he’ll never know within the Big City. Because the Big City keeps you busy on its own brand of trivia, who’s sleeping with whom and where the garbage trucks go.

The old father used to be the young boy, in his day. But he was sidelined, a terrible thing. It's a terrible thing, too, to be the young boy of promise in your day, only to be sidelined. I could break down right now and cry. I was the child of promise, board-flat naked like that kid and without shame. And now here I am, an old has-been, no longer a child of promise. I spend my day worrying where the garbage trucks go and not that which transcends the Big City and time itself. Grandpa would be ashamed of me. Although I should be ashamed of him too. He was never board-flat naked either. He was a good guy, but I never saw him do the least thing that showed him to be the child of promise.

Every Hideous Siren

The Big City

Part 26 of 28

Wanna know how big the Big City is? This has to do with sirens. OK, say you’re at the south border of the Big City blowing a siren. That’s loud. But if you're a listener at the north border, you won't be able to hear it. That ruffles my feathers a bit, because everyone in town should know: "Help is on the way! 

I come from a much smaller town and there was one huge siren everyone got to hear if there was the slightest problem: Tornado, nuclear attack, shady peddlers in town, discounts at the car wash. The tiniest town on earth, but one huge honking siren. But here in The Big City, they need a whole siren network, and of course they can blow all of them in many different places, because everyone's having an emergency at the same time. Maybe the airport’s on fire or the river’s out of its banks or peddlers are pushing cheap knockoffs, the sirens are much more localized.

Whether they’re localized very often like that is hard to say. Just sitting here with the typical layman’s ear, depending on what the traffic’s like in the neighborhood, I can focus and hear a siren somewhere, a virtually constant thing. There was the weirdest siren I've heard just today somewhere. It appeared that an ambulance was tuning their siren, or maybe clearing a dead duck out of the horn. It was kind of a whining quacking noise. I passed by kind of fast but the attendant definitely looked embarrassed.

I came back into the Big City on Christmas Eve this past year and was thinking, “The holiday, no one should be in an accident tonight.” Which held true for all my travels, until I was literally less than a mile from home. Sirens and particular roads blocked off because of maybe three vehicles that slid on the ice and went boom. Of course I was miffed, being that close. I had to detour around streets that I’m only half familiar with. Fortunately I’d seen most of them when I’d been lost previously, so there were only a few surprises. I played it instinctively, thinking things like, “This road can’t be an alley because it’s wider than an alley.” Then when I caught sight of definite things I always see, I let out a huge sigh of relief. 40 more feet of ice, about a third the size of a football field, and even with that, I could step on it too much and still end up dying. Thanks to these idiots who lost it on the ice; what’s the matter, don't you know how to drive?

Anyway, about the sirens. It’s quite remarkable how many are going off -- one just a minute ago, in fact -- and as often as they are. When I was in the small town before moving to A bigger town, every siren was a subject for discussion. In the bigger town, it was divided into 4, so you only heard every fourth siren. But in the Big City, if my ears can localize a dozen sirens just in my vicinity, you have to multiply that out by all the different vicinities and it’s shocking. There’s something like 1,300 sirens going off in the Big City every day! No wonder geese avoid the place. They're disoriented and end up in Honduras.

Sometimes It Takes A Fish

The Big City

Part 25 of 28

If you have a million people in the Big City, imagine how many fish there's gotta be. I've only have old statistics here -- the last official census of fish took place in 1950 -- but the numbers are undoubtedly close enough to at least get a rough idea. In 1950, though, it was established there were 4 million fish for every million people. Which sounds high, but think how that averages out, something like four fish for every person. I'm just gonna pause and take that in ..... Wow .... Plus, fish die fast but they breed like crazy, often times even eating their young, doing their best to keep overpopulation in check. It follows then, every time four fish die, one person goes too.

I myself was a big expert in fish many years ago when I worked at an aquarium store. Among my takeaways in this field, you should buy whatever life insurance is available because fish drop dead pretty much without warning. And eat their young, as just mentioned. But lots of things happen, something goes wrong with the heater, or there’s the least bit of bacteria, or if you turn the light on at night and interrupt their sleep, that alone can kill off half the colony. Anytime you have fish and the majority of them live to see tomorrow, you’ve succeeded. But don’t get too comfortable, because just because they lived to see tomorrow once doesn’t mean they’ll set any records by doing it again.

So, really, the only way to guarantee that you’ll have any fish at all, is to have ten times more than you want. At the aquarium store we had a supplier who I’m sure would give us a few dying fish just to maintain his business. Because it’s impossible to trace, these shysters will do anything, all with a completely innocent face. It’s definitely true, though, that you’re not going to send the bodies in for post-mortems, because the expense outweighs the profit. And it’s always your word against theirs. Making you stop and think, convincing yourself of the impossible, maybe I was a bad owner and that explains the massacre.

Anyway, fish are a pain in the ass, but they’re also good, and a comfort to dwellers in the Big City who may not have other friends. The Big City, of course, has no paucity of people, which is what makes it big. But in the nameless faceless crowds of people there aren’t that many close friends. They’re speeding by, usually with a bad muffler, making a nuisance of themselves. Why would you want them for a friend even if you could? My biggest obstacle to making new friends is the fear that they’ll eventually rob me blind. Whereas back in the small town, sure there’s criminals, but it’s only a fear, nothing to presume.

That leaves pets. Dogs, you have to go out in public so they can poop. Cats, there’s so many wild cats in the Big City, they’re sure to corrupt your own cats. I had a neighbor guy who was stupid when it came to cats, the cat had kittens, which pissed off his landlord (my friend wasn’t actually paying rent but living free as a kind of caretaker of the house to keep out criminals) who didn’t want cats peeing and pooping all over his place. Which happened when the kittens were unfortunately born: I lost my friend because he vanished one night.

What, though, if he would’ve had fish and not a cat? Obviously everything would’ve been different, a more positive outcome. Are you lonely in the Big City of a million other lonely people? Get a fish, it’ll keep you from being thrown out.

The Big City Morgue

The Big City

Part 24 of 28

Can you imagine working at the Big City morgue? I can only imagine. You never run into anyone who works there, and never anyone who's been there, so obviously it's hush-hush. Meaning, unless I get a job there, if ever, I’ll can only imagine the craziness, the intrigue it must be. And probably if you tell anyone what it's all about, that's the end of you! You've gone from lab to slab just like that...

But common sense tells us that you’d have new arrivals all the time at the Big City morgue. With enough attendants to keep up with the constant flow, of course. The attendants will occasionally get a newbie attendant and they’re always amused to see the looks on his or her face when the fatalities start piling up around them. To the point, of course, occasionally, where they try to make it look worse than it is, just to keep the newbie on h/h toes. Like on Star Trek, “We can’t take much more of this!” They make it sound like the whole thing’s gonna blow and there'll be body parts strewn everywhere.

I have some idea of what harried Big City morgue employees must go through. Not based on ever having been at the morgue, but from my employment at a fast food pizza joint once and trying to keep up not only with pizzas coming out of the oven but delivering them. I was there a little over a week and it could’ve been the death of me. My funkiest delivery was to the city limits and a guy on a motorcycle waiting there. That went well enough, he had exact change. My most disappointing delivery -- and there were several -- was to a guy in the shower. “I told them to tell you I’d be in the shower and leave the pizza on the table.” Naturally they didn’t tell me any such thing, so how was I to know to walk in and put it on the table? That guy got a free pizza. I’ve tried that a few times myself over the years and the pizza place hasn’t been as understanding.

It would’ve been a good thing, really, if I'd gone into the morgue business, started out on the ground floor, learned about corpses, where to tickle them to see if they’re really dead, etc. By now, with my aptitude -- unmatched -- I could’ve owned a whole fleet off morgues and set up my own rules. A sign on the door, “I’m in the shower. If you’re here with a body, put it on the table.” Then I come out and see a dozen bodies stacked against the wall, strewn about on the sidewalk out front, etc., and think I need to call someone, but I’m the responsible party. Get out there and clean up the sidewalk before that stiff contaminates the whole earth! We only have one planet! (Of course, once they’ve been thoroughly processed with formaldehyed they’re kosher.)

But before you can own a chain of morgues you have to gain experience at the actual task. I actually might have enough experience. A great number of my own family have gone on to their reward. In fact, every single relative I’ve ever had that was born before the 1930s is dead, which ranges in the hundreds, thousands, and even millions. If I have that kind of experience going so far back, imagine what I could contribute today. Get that on my resume and I might take the Big City morgue system by storm. There's been so much death in my family there’s nothing about it I don’t know.

Skunk Security For Break-Ins

The Big City

Part 23 of 28

It’s official! According to Skunk Security, I’m averaging a higher than average break-in rate at my place in The Big City. Which is a mixed blessing when you think about it. One, I'd rather not have any break-ins, but, Two, At least I’m getting my money’s worth … and more.

But it's kind of weird because some of the other houses in the neighborhood don't get this kind of traffic and most of them don’t even have a security system. You'd think they’d be hit harder, but I can't complain, I'm getting great service with Skunk; they’re always here within the hour, and the police generally show up at some point.

I was at a movie the first time and it was a big shock to get the message that my alarm had gone off. Just what I feared! As soon as you put a security sign in your yard it’s the same as saying you have something worth stealing. Most of the neighbors don’t spring for a security system and they’re doing all right. About the worst thing I heard of was a few grudge break-ins, people who know the neighbors and have something against them. There’s a family up the street whose daughter was dating the guy who shot up the liquor store a few months ago. He’s been in the area and shot up their mailbox.

But back to me: You don’t forget the first time you’re broken into, no matter if they took something or not. The first time they got an old VCR and a video camera I had since the ‘80s.The second break-in I was actually at home but in the basement. The security system didn’t go off since I was home. I went upstairs and didn’t see anyone. I flagged down a neighbor and he helped me search the house. I hoped the perp was already gone, but there he was, like vermin, in my closet! He got up, creeping toward the living room, not wanting to make a big deal about it. Then he made a dive through the window and ran up the road. I gave chase but couldn’t keep up.

Some of the other break-ins were probably by friends of his, even though you'd think he would've told them I ain't got crap worth stealing. A lot of sentimental stuff, Grandma’s picture, some things from Grandpa, a Univac computer from the ‘50s that’s not good for anything but I'm still hoping to power it up if I can find the right nuclear power plugs. Then, more sentimental and irreplaceable, I have Grandpa's toupee, which still has the original masking tape on the underside. Otherwise it's in terrible shape. My dog was shaking it one day, but as long as there’s even one hair left, the damned thing stays! And thank God the cops came back with it, dangling it on a stick like they were afraid to touch it. The bullet holes bore mute testimony of their confusion.

And, I can’t even remember the other break-ins. The alarm took care of them, I vacated the premises, with the worst part being I came this close to tripping over a white ‘possum scurrying up the neighbor’s drive-way! About scared me to death, truly. I’d like to sic it on the thieves; they’d never come back. Trade in my Skunk for a Possum, that’d show ‘em.

Big City Local Action Weather

The Big City

Part 22 of 28

It doesn’t take a long time living in the Big City before you know certain truths that are so unambiguously true that at some level you already know it. Remember books like “Everything I Ever Knew I Learned On My Own” or something. The way I took it was that everyone already knows everything and that the ultimate cause of school, etc., is merely to bring out this innate knowledge. That was Plato, maybe, which if it’s true it's something at some level I’ve never forgotten. If only I’d known this or realized all my innate knowledge when it was time for the final test, I wouldn’t have ended up with a grade-point average equal to the population of the typical ghost town.

One of the most obvious truths in the Big City is this, that the most respected guys in town are meteorologists. I upchucked this innate knowledge one day while watching the news. I watched their demeanor, the way they constantly referred to their next report “in two minutes” with the “latest updates” of “life-threatening storms” and “critical information.” After a while of watching the news, that’s all I could focus on, how well-respected, all-powerful, and righteously situated these guys are. They’ve got it going on, they know they do, and they’re riding it all the way to the bank. They've got a rare thing happening for them, to be the most respected people in town and know it and deserve it.

And everyone plays favorites, which is critical for the stations. Because I’m new to the Big City I didn’t get a bit of guidance from Mom or Dad or Grandma on the best weather guys. I merely watched, liked their smile, their dress, the demeanor of various ones. Then in my private time I assimilated all the information and charted it out, the one I liked the absolute best. That’s the only one I watch now. And if he ever dies I’ll just have to look out the window and see what the weather is. But doing it that way it could be too late, since it takes me some time to get my bottom sat on the top step and inch my way to the basement. It’s a scary process, because some basement urchin could crawl in my pants if I’m too slow and bite the crap out of me and my precious privates, used mostly now only for the most innocent purposes.

But the weather’s a terrible thing to mess with, of course, so I'd have to pick someone. And hope the new guy's cut from the same cloth, or I might turn to trusted friends for their advice. I don’t want anyone too close to retirement, so age is a factor. But I don’t want too much of a newbie, because experience counts for a lot. I would probably cut corners on the auditioning and do a search for the highest rated, most respected, etc. My only hang-up on that would be the teaching I got as a kid not to follow crowds. Although crowds are wiser than my parents gave them credit for. If they’re stampeding a particular direction, there’s always a good reason. You can corrupt a few people, and that’s a crowd you don’t want to follow. But when the crowd’s in the millions, and they’ve survived every storm the Big City’s thrown against them, they didn’t just do it on their own. They had the help, the gracious assistance of meteorologists, and that’s good enough for me.