Wednesday, November 30, 2011

All Is Forgiven When You're Dead

A local TV channel's weatherman committed suicide. True story. I hadn't personally ever heard of him, since I don't watch that channel, but of course I feel sad that something, whatever it might have been led him to do that.

I heard about it on one of the competitor channels, and they gave a nice presentation on him. Apparently he was something of a cut-up on air, since they had him flapping like a wild chicken, dressed in a Superman costume, and so forth. Perhaps not the most flattering images, but they meant well, that he was well known and respected for various antics.

OK, but I have some objections. If the people on the competing channel aren't watching the other guys' shows, how do they know about him? And how did they become so chummy all of a sudden, since it's usually a cut throat business. Even while they were praising the deceased weatherman they were still using slogans for themselves like, "The most accurate weather report," as if to say the competitors' weather sucked. Maybe that's what pushed him over the edge, everyone questioning his accuracy.

The whole thing has been on my mind, as you can tell. It reminds me of the old truth that once you're dead, everything's forgiven. You can kill a hundred people, but once they get done executing you in the electric chair, you're in for an honorable burial. No one comes around and kicks your body. At least in America. In Libya they probably do. Or Iran. I think it makes a certain amount of sense. After all, it is your body. Why not pulverize it if you were that bad?

The weatherman, of course, wasn't a bad guy. According to what they're saying. They didn't mention why he committed suicide. Maybe no one knows. But they are definitely promoing the various signs of suicidal behavior, that the rest of us might be vigilant in the face of similar behavior in our loved ones. So that's a positive.

When they started promoing the upcoming story of the dead weatherman, I figured it was going to be some old 80-90 year old retired weatherman who was beloved in the area. Because I believed they used the term "dearly loved" or "well loved." So I was expecting to see an old black and white picture of the first weatherman in the area. But then it turned out to be this young guy, 41, flapping like a chicken, and I thought, "Whoa." They used the word suicide and I was thinking that's unusual! Who's happier than a weatherman? No one! Maybe the sports guys, whose constant happiness lies in their superficial approach to life.

Monday, November 28, 2011

A World Of Wonder For Jimmy

My board of editors and I left the garage where most of my blogging is done and went out on a story, to interview Jimmy. Of course Jimmy needs no introduction, if you read my post on the 17-year-old boy whose parents restrict him to the Children's Room at the public library. This is one of the library's actual rules:
A parent or guardian must accompany a child under 18 to approve their child's card and can choose to restrict it to materials from the Children's Room.
My board of editors is also well known. We have Trade and Mark Smith, Dale, and Delilah. Last week we had a guy named Frank but he's since been fired.

I worked it out with Jimmy's father to set up an interview, telling him it would be a human interest story. But my secret plan was to ask such pointed questions that I knew Jimmy would rebel and insist on using the big people's section of the library. But that didn't actually happen.

For the interview, the library made us so comfortable in the Children's Room, with the little cups of milk they provided, that I also felt at home there. But for the tiny chairs, I might've restricted myself! Jimmy, though, looked entirely comfortable, having never known anything else.

Watching him before we sat down, I began to be more and more impressed. He treated the Children's Room like his own personal domain, and  I could see by the way he pulled books off the shelf that he definitely knew his way around. Yet none of it was old hat to him. It was all a world of wonder! And it's easy to see why. The Children's Room has books on giants, fairies, and all manner of other weird beings. It'd be easy to get lost in your imagination there!

Anyway, we got ready for the interview. Jimmy was behind a small table. His father sat at his side, obviously prepared to run interference. His mother was off to the side, knitting. I and the board sat facing Jimmy. Trade, Mark, and Dale were off to my left, leaving Delilah on my right to take notes, obviously the secretary.

I did all the talking for our side. The board was there to offer whatever moral support I might have needed, although I didn't need any.

I asked Jimmy if he felt the restrictions imposed by his parents had hurt him any. He looked at his dad, who gave him a helpful frown. "No,"  he said, going on to state his happiness with being able to easily read 18-20 books a day, while his friends using the whole library could barely get through one book a month. The board and I nodded. If you look at it like that, he could read through the entire Children's Room once a year while his friends were stuck on one shelf!

But I thought I'd try again, asking if he felt his outlook on life had been stunted in any way. "No," he said, first glancing at his father, saying he was aware that life was a mixed bag, with smiley faces and sad. And that's the way it is in children's books, too, he declared. Sometimes you laugh, sometimes you cry. He referred to one interesting story that I hadn't heard of before, in which the evil witch is pushed into a blazing hot stove while the children make their way back home via a trail littered with bread crumbs and pebbles.

And one other probing question. I asked if he had any secret desire whatsoever to sneak into the big people's sections of the library. I thought I detected just the slightest hesitation, but a quick glance at his dad steeled his resolve. "No," he said, stating that he felt he was presently getting the best preparation for life ahead. The Children's Room gave him a solid basis for life, and his dad would be there to help him with the rest. I couldn't argue with that, of course, since he was clearly a big help to him.

Overall, though, I had mixed feelings. One, Jimmy looked very immature for 17-years-old, but maybe that's the whole point: His parents are keeping him young! In a weird way I could envy him. I'm 58 now and feeling old, but what if my parents had restricted me to the Children's Room? I might feel 35 now instead of old!

Soon we brought the interview to a close. Jimmy's parents put a dark hood over his head and walked him to the car. I lingered behind for a few minutes, checking out some of the titles. 18-20 books a day? I thought. Amazing!

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Why The Old Vets Are So Quiet










Friday, November 25, 2011

The Editorial Board -- I Fire Frank!

Well, just like that, the brand new editorial board for my blog has been whittled down to five, including myself. I wasn't expecting it to happen, but it did. Frank turned out to be a bad seed, couldn't be trusted, so now he's out.

It's only been a little over a week since I named the board. And, frankly (no pun intended), I had high hopes for Frank, since he was, as I said in introducing the board, a serious person. I had hoped we would have a long, happy relationship, giving me the chance to bounce serious ideas off him. Now that he's gone, I'll have to hope that either Trade or Mark are serious characters willing to help. Dale has a funny side, and Delilah being a woman, well, say no more...

But play with fire, Frank, and you'll get burned!

As it turned out, Frank became critical of the blog's direction, apparently being upset overall with my recent posts on "The Imaginary Stud." In particular, he seriously objected to the post on "Your Biological Clock Is Ticking," and what it might mean for premarital sex and pregnancies, although he didn't bring his concerns to me. He took it to the rest of the board in a secret meeting, with what looks like the intention of forcing me out and taking over.

It happened like this: I was watching TV, then I went to the kitchen to get a snack. I happened to glance out the window and saw the lights on in the garage. That's strange, I thought. So I went out and heard voices. I peeked in the window and there they were, holding their little secret meeting! I opened the door and made my presence known, resulting in a lot of guilty faces. Delilah quickly covered the minutes book with her hands.

I had an intuitive sense of what was going on. I demanded the minutes book and glanced over the page, seeing that Frank had called the meeting to order, etc., and saw a summary of his complaints. I declared, "This is not an official meeting because I wasn't notified. You were brought on board to help me fulfill my hopes and dreams for my blog, not to immediately usurp my place and take it over for yourselves through blind ambition!"

I let the others slide and trained my fury on Frank alone, telling him how painful it was to find a shiny knife with his initials thrust squarely in my back. I shouted, "If there's anyone going to be cut, it's you, Frankie boy!" He turned white as a ghost, white as a sheet, extremely white, white as the driven snow. Of course he knew he was ... busted. And there could be no reconciliation. We went on like that, with blustered rejoinders and hasty, non-scripted parries.

Then I accused him right to his face. I accused him of making passes at Delilah. He insisted on his innocence and said that was "The furthest thing from my mind."

I countered, "The furthest thing from your mind? Is it really? You're thinking of it right now! Even now you're forming a rather nasty picture in your mind of you and Delilah making mad, passionate love on my kitchen table! Try to deny it!"

He looked guilty as hell but had a convenient comeback. "Yes, of course I'm thinking of it now, because you said it, making it impossible for me to not, fleetingly at least, have some mental conception of such an act!"

I was spitting mad and declared, "You've convicted yourself with your own words!" Frank immediately shrunk in my sight like the maggot he was, and I had to count to 10 to restrain myself from squashing him underfoot like any other vermin. To think he'd do that to Delilah, and on my kitchen table, when I had made such a point of warning them away from her. Disgusting!

As for the rest of the board, after Frank vanished into the night in disgrace, I gave them a stern talking to, making it clear that I knew what was best for the blog. Still, to be conciliatory, I said if they had any ideas about it to please feel free to come to me personally. I assured them I'm a reasonable man, which I believe to be true.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

The $700 Gun Case

November 2011:

MR. ANDERSON -- How would you like a $700 gun safe for Christmas, dear?

MRS. ANDERSON [sarcastically] -- Yeah, heh heh, that'd be great.

November 2016, Eyewitness Action News 9:

JOVIAL MALE NEWSCASTER -- Mrs. Anderson of the city has a real story to tell!

FEMALE CO-ANCHOR -- That's right, she doesn't own a gun but has repeatedly been the victim of gun thieves.

MALE -- Eyewitness Action's Piper Klinebeck has the story:

PIPER -- Mrs. Anderson wouldn't know a Mannlicher-Carcano rifle from a Yamaha tuba, but that hasn't stopped gun thieves from targeting her home. In the last five years, she's been the victim of 10 break-ins, and every time the criminals were looking for guns in her gun safe. But all of them left empty-handed, because Mrs. Anderson has no guns. Why does she have a gun safe?

MRS. ANDERSON ON TAPE -- A few years ago, my husband asked me if I wanted a $700 gun safe, actually the furthest thing from my mind. I thought he was kidding. And when I said yes, I chuckled, and figured he knew I was kidding. Then when I saw a package 6 foot tall under the tree, I started having my doubts.

PIPER -- Her husband indeed gave her the gun safe, and by then what could she say? So there it's been, in her home for the last five years. Somehow then word got out that the Andersons had the safe, with everyone assuming that anyone who had a safe like that would also have some valuable guns. And obviously the wrong kind of people heard it as well. Mrs. Anderson says she was surprised to have so many troubles over the years.

MRS. ANDERSON ON TAPE -- I was surprised when the troubles started, the first break-in. No one was home, we weren't expecting it, and when we got back, there it was, standing wide open, completely pulled out from the wall and scratched.

PIPER -- That was the first break-in, but it was destined not to be the last. Since then, thieves have repeatedly visited the Anderson home, breaking into the safe and continuing to scratch it up, in some cases causing some considerable damage.

MRS. ANDERSON ON TAPE -- This huge scratch, my husband said they must have whacked it with a tire iron trying to get it open.

FEMALE ANCHOR -- Piper, you say Mrs. Anderson never kept guns in it?

PIPER -- That's right. Her husband got it for her more or less as a joke. Then when she got it, it took up so much room she needed to use it for something. Actually, what she keeps in it is her collection of vintage Bohemian Santa Clauses, all reproductions, not valuable at all, with only sentimental value. The safe has done its part in a good way, but with the break-ins, a few of the Santas of course have been broken. Piper Klinebeck, reporting for Eyewitness Action 9 News.

FEMALE ANCHOR -- It looks like the lesson for the Andersons is, "Live and learn."

PIPER -- True enough. But there is one sad side note to the story to share. Two years ago, Mr. Anderson was home and tried to prevent the thieves, who unfortunately bludgeoned him to death with one of their tire irons, also again scratching the safe. So it's not all good...

MALE ANCHOR -- That is a sad note to end on. Another lesson would have to be, "Next time, pick more practical gifts."

It's Thanksgiving All Over The World

One of the reasons Thanksgiving is so great is it's one of the few holidays that brings the entire world together in a common celebration. Most of the other holidays, while being great, are so much more provincial, Christmas, New Year's, the Super Bowl, and even Arbor Day.

But for at least one day a year -- this day -- we can all be Pilgrims and Indians, recalling the old days. That's what they mean by "Celebrating Thanksgiving in the Olden Manner," that we bridge the years back to the holiday's original spirit.

The fact that Thanksgiving is held in common, and treasured in common, around the globe makes it something so much more special. Because we're truly able to see, much as when we glimpsed the Earth from outer space in the days of the astronauts, that we have one planet and one family, one common humanity.

Thanksgiving of course has a religious significance, as we give thanks to the one true and living God for His rich bounty. It's a day that brings all men together in harmony, even atheists, to reflect on our blessings from above and to yield up the spirit of thankfulness from reflective hearts.

We see Thanksgiving's magic in the micro sense around our own dining room table, with loved ones who won't speak to each other any other day of the year suddenly embracing in tears before enjoying the sumptuous feast. Every divide is bridged!

Abraham Lincoln, one of our best loved presidents, having a special place in the hearts of his countrymen, had it right when he proclaimed what Nature had already dictated, that men everywhere need to and long to give thanks to a beneficent Creator. We are suddenly reminded, as though we could forget, that who we are and what we have is found in that common, ultimate Source.

Lincoln issued the first proclamation long ago, declaring that, "Few will remember or long note what we have said here today." But he was wrong on this point. Indeed, few were present in that small room as the president spoke. But those few took his word to a few more, then those to a few more, and so forth, until the proclamation had touched the entire world.

And so it is today, in places as different as the Ukraine, the Netherlands, Africa, the Congo, Europe, Asia, and, yes, the United States and the Americas, men will sit and break bread, as well as roasted turkeys, and offer up a heartfelt word of "Thanksgiving" to Him who sits on high.

Our children will watch with wondering eyes, perhaps not entirely aware of the significance of the day. But the lessons they see will sink in, until the day they reach the fullness of manhood, and are called upon to pass it on to their children, and their children to their children, as long as life and the world shall be.

Happy Thanksgiving, world!

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

The Imaginary Stud -- Your Biological Clock

I'm a little reluctant to put this out there, because it's killer information. The actual secrets of our species are contained herein. And putting it out there as I am, it could have consequences I'm not prepared to deal with. Such as a terrible backlash, for obvious reasons: The average family doesn't want their sons and daughters hearing this. But I'll just hope I'm not too badly dragged through the mud for it.

If you're reading this and getting hot under the collar, please realize that I myself didn't make it up. And I'm not responsible for the consequences. Although, think about it, if there's a sudden baby boom, a population explosion thanks to me speaking up, it'd be kind of cool to have an entire generation named after my blog, The Grandma Slump Generation. Looking at it that way, maybe I don't feel so bad. Let's get this party started! Just because you came with one guy doesn't mean you can't leave with another! I better get a grip, because it's that kind of talk that really could get me in some serious trouble.

It's this guy I know who told me -- whom I call the Imaginary Stud, because I'm not sure his exploits and conquests are 100% true. But even if I'm not completely sure he's really the father of most of the babies in this area, as he claims, what he says does make a certain amount of sense. I'm a Human Environmental Scientist, and my gut feeling says there's something to it.

In short, here it is: The Imaginary Stud says the in he often gets with women comes after some discussion of their "biological clock." It was a secret to me, but apparently this is the Number 1 button, or source of anxiety, with women. It's not, "I love you, Ginger, let's procreate," as sexy as that sounds. It's not, "You remind me of my sister, let's have a non-cross-eyed rug rat," which is somewhat less sexy. And it's not even, "You've got me so hot, baby, I've gotta have a baby with someone, how about you?!" Desperation is so overrated.

No, it's none of that. According to the man, and he seems to have the confidence of experience, if you casually say something about her "biological clock," not in the heat of the moment but a day or two before, she's going to be mulling it over time and time again. She might laugh at first, but when she's alone, she'll be looking in the mirror for wrinkles, checking her body for any unusual sagging, and, most of all, flushing her pills down the toilet. She might try telling herself, "I'm only 19!," but it'll be only temporary relief.

It's kind of sad in a way. If only she hadn't been tainted by the idea of her ticking biological clock! How much happier she was before he said that! Now there's no recourse but to call the fine, young, intuitive, wise gentleman who obviously knows so much about it. If he brings flowers, who cares? If there's foreplay, who cares? I can't waste another second! I'm virtually dead. By the time my baby's 18, I'll be in my upper 30s! Where have the years gone?!

All this time, of course the Imaginary Stud is expecting a call. And ... "like clockwork" ... there it is! ... The phone is insistent; it jumps out of his pocket. "You wanna come over and ... watch TV ... or something?" she purrs. "I just checked Netflix and it seems to be working." That's rare, he thinks, a sign from above. Then he remembers, We won't be watching much TV tonight!"

We'll follow him just a little further. He gets there. And he is sweet. He has a bouquet of flowers he picked from her yard. But she still very well might back out. It's here that he treads a fine line. If he meets the slightest bit of hesitancy, he will not -- I'll repeat that, he will not -- mention her "biological clock." But he will use the word "clock" a few times, spaced over time. Such as, "That looks like an antique clock, an old one. Gotta love the old days!" Or, pointing at it, "Time really flies. Always later than you think."

She gets the message and there's no more delay. And now, pretty soon, she'll be thinking a lot about time, months, trimesters, etc. While the Imaginary Stud has skipped down the stairs on his merry way, brightening the lives of many others as he makes his frequent stops.

Note: Check my archives for a few more posts on "The Imaginary Stud."

Church Meets For Worship, Preacher Preaches

I pity the poor guy at The Miami Daily News-Record (Miami, Ohio), in 1948, who had to write a headline for every local church's news. Instead of just having a listing, each church's news was a separate article. But how many different ways can you say the preacher will be preaching a message? And the church will meet as usual?

Let's look at the variations, from the paper on Sept. 26:

The pastor's name is in the headline and we're told the Methodists will hear him preach.

By theme they mean he has prepared a sermon on a particular subject. And if you come to church, he will lay it on you.
The Episcopal has some events happening at church today, like always, and we're listing them.

I didn't make note of which church Rev. Curtis was from. But it's a variation, leave out the church name, lead with the pastor's name, and the usual news that he's preaching today.

Similar to the Rev. Curtis article.

The pastor will give a sermon today.

By "Friends" they mean the Friends church. The pastor will talk today and they will hear him.

No mention of the pastor's sermon, only that he's planned services.

I think the Christian Science church had/has a list of topics they cycle through. It wasn't any different this particular day.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Why Would These Tweeple Unfollow Me?














Monday, November 21, 2011

The Imaginary Stud -- What's In A Name?

So the Imaginary Stud was beaten to a pulp and his two front teeth knocked out, and of course he was upset. But I used some of my great people skills to calm him down and send him home to find a comfy chair and settle in with a good book. I told him I'd come check on him.

When I got there earlier this morning, he was stretched out on the floor. The blanket was half on him and stretched to the chair. On the nightstand I saw evidence that he had been trying to drown his sorrows with a half can of beer. How sad. He looked every bit a dead man, the illusion only broken by his rough snoring and violent thrashing about. He was obviously reliving the experience of the deranged sister and wild bulls who had put him in this sorry state.

I shook him and gently called his name. He came up fighting, swinging his fists, and had a hard time breaking the dream's hold. But he finally realized it was me and settled down. "What time is it?" he asked, provoking me to mercifully relieve his curiosity as to the hour of the day by glancing at my cellphone and faithfully conveying the information back to his wondering mind.

He got up, went to the bathroom, did his personal cleansing rituals, then came back and went into a whole yoga/exercise regimen he follows. But before that, he tossed me a "Composition" notebook that he uses to keep track of his dates. He motioned me to open it, which I immediately saw was his way of convincing me that everything he says about his conquests is true.

Indeed, it appears that maybe he really is the father of a very large number of children in the community, assuming the notebook itself isn't part of the ruse. Until I know for sure, I will continue to refer to him as the Imaginary Stud.

He kept the yoga exercises going, bringing his hands together, dangling his foot, breathing in/breathing out, and stretching as I quizzed him on some of the names.

CARMEN -- "She definitely sounds hot," I said. Carmen is a fiery name. I'm sure she was with him every step of the way, a gal who could keep up and give as good as she got! If she had red hair, I wouldn't be surprised. And if she did, I'm sure she had everything that goes along with it! He gave me a gesture that said, "I'm not that good at names, but you're probably right." The two scratch marks indicated twins.

KAYLA -- She sounds like a handful, just going by the name. I'm thinking of kiss, ecstasy, la-la land, and climbing the walls, Kayla clawing his back, Kayla calling out for more, more, more. "Where do you find these chicks?" I asked with a laugh. He kept up the yoga, only gesturing as if to say, "It's really nothing, dime a dozen." There was only one scratch mark, so that'd be a litter of one.

ESTHER -- I'm thinking, Esther? "Come on, you gotta be kidding!" I said. And yet, I got a hold of myself, names aren't everything. She wasn't responsible for her own name. If he had her in the notebook, she must have somehow raised herself above the limitations immediately suggested by her name. I started thinking, maybe he's not kidding me, because what's the chances of him putting "Esther?" If it were all a scam, surely he would've come up with something a little sexier, like Mildred. Be that as it may, there were three scratch marks, so at least she was fertile. Traditional girl from some little village, her first date, stoved up with eggs.

TAWNY -- OK, Tawny, now we're back on good soil. I can well imagine him meeting and sweet-talking a stripper into submission. Of course they can be the toughest cookies to crack, having had all kinds of bad experiences with the male race. But a charmer -- whose charm is real and doesn't quit -- is all it'd really take. And a sweet promise: "I'll take you away from this life and share with you my riches." She'd fall into his arms. Then a quick trip back to her place at the Pine Cone Motel, a roll in the hay, and an angry goodbye. She was good for a single scratch mark, a single kid to keep in the dressing room, sucking his pacifier while Mom grinds out another set.

I thumbed through the book, estimating there had to be at least a hundred names. But his exercises only took 15 minutes, then he needed to get out, see the dentist about a couple of implants, and perhaps work in one or two seductions before lunch.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

The Imaginary Stud -- Something So Precious











Saturday, November 19, 2011

Three Cheers For Brains

The Wizard of Oz famously said, "Every pusillanimous creature that crawls on the earth or slinks through slimy seas has a brain!"

To which I say, "Hallelujah! Someone finally gets it!" Because I've been saying a version of that for years. And not only about brains but lots of other body parts, too. This realization came to me early on, which, frankly, might not be something a kid would think of today. They're not as close to nature as we were back then, since we were always going fishing and hunting, then cleaning/dressing the fish and other animals.

I'd look at the animals and point it out to my proud dad that a rabbit has two eyes, a nose, ears, etc., just like we do. And I'd do the same for squirrels, deer, dogs, and even fish. Fish are a little different but the same basic body parts and functions are there. When we'd clean fish, it was one of my least favorite things to cut out their digestive track. But I held my nose and did it anyway. And now I'm glad I did, because it made me aware very early in life that fish also excreted waste.

Of course we had pets, mostly dogs. I really learned a lot about life by observing dogs. One, they appeared to have a brain, just like the man said. Then there were all the other things I'd come to expect, including eyes, a nose, and so forth. Now that I'm thinking back, I actually remembering pointing out to someone that dogs had heads and the basic design of their heads were just like ours.

If you want to think of differences in dogs, between them and us, look where their nipples are. If we were built like that, our nipples would have to be near our waistline! Thankfully it's not that way! Imagine what it'd do for cleavage! The thing about dogs in this regard, though, speaking in practical terms, with evolution in mind, is that they generally have multiple young. So they adapted, the ones with nipples where the young could get to them tending to pass on their genes. Thankfully, they found a happy medium, i.e., where they're located now, since clearly they were running out of room, stopping just shy of the genitals.

I'm sure glad I have a brain. I use it all the time, really for everything. There's not a day goes by that I'm not using it. But I still don't know how to spell pusillanimous without looking it up. Although, since I'm a man, I can come a lot closer than every pusillanimous creature that crawls on the earth or slinks through slimy seas, which also, regardless of their inability to spell, still have brains.

Friday, November 18, 2011

My Board Of Editors

I want to thank everyone for their applications to join the Grandma Slump blog in an official capacity.

When I first had the idea, some weeks ago, I was apprehensive, thinking maybe no one would apply. Or just a few internet scoundrels and ruffians trying to cause trouble. But I was very gratified, and frankly overwhelmed, when the applications started pouring in. I didn't count them all, but it had to be several hundred. The fact that you took the time to fill out a 70-page application, and did it with such optimism, and most of you with such false hopes from the get-go, is something I'll never forget.

Well, today, I'm happy and relieved to say the long and involved process of getting just the right people is over! Whew! The positions are all filled. Gentlemen, I give you The Board of Editors:

Of course that's me on top. As publisher and editor-in-chief, I keep the supremacy. It's my voice you will continue to hear, pretty much exclusively. The others are new, wet under the ears, and it's not been determined what exactly they will do.

Below me, and occupying a rank together above the last three, are two guys named Trade and Mark, the Smith Brothers. Both have facial hair, as you can see, and other talents. I put them in the middle mostly for symmetry, one on top, two in the middle, three as a base.

In the lowest position, then, under the Smith Brothers and myself, more or less in a supporting role, so far also with undetermined duties, are Dale, Frank, and Delilah. I'm not going to worry about their last names at this point. We'll first let them prove themselves fit for the job.

Dale doesn't seem as serious as Frank, just my impression. Which might come in handy, because sometimes I'm looking for someone to bounce off crazy ideas. But  Frank, being more serious than Dale, might also serve me well, since sometimes I put away the crazy stuff and am serious.

Delilah comes in for special mention for a few reasons. One, she's a woman, a lady, and that's how we're going to treat her, with respect. That's going to be my rule. And if I see any of the guys coming on to her, particularly when they're on duty, that's going to be it. I don't want her sexually harassed in the slightest.

One of my first duties, I guess, should be to come up with a written policy on what I mean. When she's in the bathroom, let's say, there better not be anyone at the keyhole. If I catch them, that's it! They'll never work at this blog or any other blog again. I'll be paying special attention to what everyone says around her. And if anyone so much as hints certain things about himself and her, he'll be gone.

Of course, if one of them and Delilah strike up a romance after hours, then somehow come out officially as a couple, at that point it will be different. I will work with them if that happens, so they'll be allowed to address one another in a loving way, etc., depending on how explicit they choose to get.

As for her duties, I will be gentle. Being a woman, I will not overburden her. She already makes a mean pot of coffee, so that's good for now. And it's nice to hear a woman's cheerful voice around the place, something I haven't heard much of since Grandma died. And I probably don't even have to say she's easy on the eyes. Something not true of the Smith Brothers, despite their higher ranking.

The artwork I have of Delilah probably doesn't do justice to her actual figure. The jacket's so tight, surely her boobs must be fairly compressed in there. And maybe it's just the pose, or again the tight clothes, but her hips don't show the kind of curves that she likely has. The long legs are just right. And the boots. You've probably heard my Number 1 statement on women's fashion: "Boots always make the outfit." I literally do a double-take on every pair of boots I see women wearing. Even galloshes.

It's going to be nice, I hope, working with a board of editors, an editorial board. I'm very possessive about the blog, as you must know. And I won't give that up easily, if at all. But as we get used to each other, me and the board, who knows how things might change? I might trust the Smith Brothers to take out the recycling.

The first thing I'm going to do at our next meeting is give them each a press pass and a firm handshake. And maybe a brotherly peck on the cheek.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

The Imaginary Stud -- Johnny Peopleseed

There is this guy -- The Imaginary Stud -- I'm focusing on for a while. Because he's so extraordinary. He feels, at least he says, that he's responsible every time a pregnant woman walks by or a woman with a baby. "Hide me!" is his constant plea.

Maybe he is responsible for a few of them. Like I said, maybe he's gotten lucky a few times after a wild drunk. But could he be the father of every baby out there? Somehow, I seriously doubt it!

But whether he is indeed the True Stud he thinks he is, and not just the Imaginary Stud I think he is, that question will have to wait for the DNA results, if we're ever able to get him to take a test. Because he appears to be forever on the run, pausing just long enough, according to the story, to impregnate some poor gal who hasn't heard of him. Assuming he's ever impregnated any actual women...

He fancies himself a regular Johnny Peopleseed. Like Appleseed of lore, Peopleseed also has his mission in life, armed only with a single front appendage and a sack of seed. To hear him tell it, the sack continually replenishes itself like the oil and fishes, the cruse of oil and the 5,000 fish of the Bible. He cruises into town, the tank topped off, an eye out to disperse what is needed, knowing it will be replaced later. Like perpetual motion!

I'm only imagining what must happen on one of these encounters: "Hello." A possible likelihood is at hand, a doll face who doesn't know she's meeting the sire of thousands. He's quite open with her now, until he gets his way, then we'll hear him hiss, "Hide me!"

She's standing there with blue jeans cut midriff-high, with enough buns to start a bakery. His eye scans her like the Six Million Dollar Man. Her beauty is one thing. But the Imaginary Stud makes complex evolutionary calculations. "Her nose plus mine. Her pleasant eyes plus mine. Her fantastic build plus mine. She's got the hips for quintuplets!"

He's done it many times, the story goes. And if that's true, the calculations he makes must become less and less conscious and more instinctual. Like the hidden knowledge of a spore or seed, doing its thing, knowing not how. Spore trailing spore, seed/egg, peach/pit, vital essence, the rupture of the egg, he senses all of it at the primal level, raising his head in a sign of joy at the recognition, hearing distant thunder as the lightning delivers another soon-to-be-born soul. Who can blame him? He didn't ask for this duty of nature, we're assuming.

I was reading a few pages of James Joyce's Finnegans Wake, and came across a passage that reminded me of the Imaginary Stud:
"And, to make a long stoney badder and a whorly show a parfect sight, his Thing went the wholyway retup Suffrogate Strate." (p. 242.)
I couldn't have said it better myself. But I can try:
Needles to say, he epistemologized her, in the bibbling sinse, with an episiotomy probelly in her suture, big heads tending to run in his lying.

Jimmy's Terrible Library Card Dilemma

I was at the library and overheard some kids talking about this. One of their friends, 17 years old, is restricted on the books, CDs, etc., that he can check out from the library. Yes, it seems that's one of the rules in place, thanks to the library and his idiot parents.

I didn't hear much -- I'm not an eavesdropper by nature, I really have to work at it. But according to them, and I think this detail is essential to get out there, the poor kid's name is Jimmy. Jimmy as in "I'm an adult baby, or maybe more accurately, a baby who will never grow up." Thanks to his idiot parents, that's probably what'll happen to him, like this guy (40-50 years old) I saw on a "Taboo" show who sits in an enormous highchair that he himself built and wears big adult diapers by choice. A formerly homeless woman with problems of her own changes him, lovingly, I might add.

Anyway, Jimmy, that's what you have to look forward to! You have problems now with your library card and what you can look at, so you also have a life of weird fetishism ahead. The bright side is there's always some merciful enabler who will gladly change you.

Getting back to the rule. Here's the rule, word for word, from the library's "basic information" page:
Obviously, at some point in the library card getting process, during the tricky negotiations, Jimmy's parents made a conscious decision to restrict their son. Why precisely they would do that, since I don't know them, I can only guess. And honestly I don't have the first clue. But let's just assume they're crazy or sadistic. Maybe Mom's crazy and Dad's sadistic, or it could be the other way around, or it could be that both are crazy and/or sadistic. It makes good sense. They don't want Jimmy in the big-people books looking up things about his batty dingbat parents!

But 18 is coming, you crumbs, then he'll show you! Unless he chooses to self-restrict his library use to the Children's Room as some perverse, sick, infantile submission to their authority, which would be too bad. Because there's a lot of good reading in the big-people section. And I hope he has the chance to discover that.

It's too bad the library doesn't help ease him into the big-people section. My reading of the rule doesn't seem to exclude that as a possibility. Theoretically, he could be reading books in the big-people section. The way I read it, he can only check out books from the Children's Room. So if he wanted, he could be reading all the volumes, say, of Frazier's Golden Bough, definitely a big-people set, then taking home the latest exploits of Where's Waldo. If you want to get technical about it.

But perhaps, probably that would violate the spirit of the rule, which he probably shouldn't do. When he gets home, Mom and Dad would see a guilty look and that would be bad. He might get sick and spit up pabulum all over Mommy's nice clean dress.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Bringing In The Sheaves Yeah Yeah Yeah

I'm going to entertain you with a few impressions I've been working on. I'll be including the immortal voices of some of our favorites, Foghorn Leghorn, Jimmy Durante, James Cagney, and The Beatles. That's quite a variety, I know, everything from cartoons to '40 radio to movie classics to the swinging '60s!

What I -- or maybe I should say they -- will be singing is the old church classic, "Bringing In The Sheaves."

OK ... [clearing throat] ... here we go ...

    Sowing in the morning, sowing seeds of kindness, I say, there boy!
    Sowing in the noontide and the dewy eve; you dirty rat.
    Waiting for the harvest, and the time of reaping, yeah yeah yeah,
    We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves. Ha-cha-cha-cha!

        Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves, I say, the sheaves!
        We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves; yeah yeah yeah.
        Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves, ha-cha-cha-cha!
        We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheave, you dirty rat.

    Sowing in the sunshine, sowing in the shadows, here now, boy.
    Fearing neither clouds nor winter’s chilling breeze; Inka Dinka Doo.
    By and by the harvest, and the labor ended, you dirty rat,
    We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves, yeah yeah yeah.

        Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves, you dirty rat,
        We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves; Mrs. Calabash
        Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves, yeah yeah yeah,
        We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves, I say, I say!

    Going forth with weeping, sowing for the Master, Schnozzola!
    Though the loss sustained our spirit often grieves; yeah yeah yeah.
    When our weeping’s over, He will bid us welcome, I say, welcome, boy!
    We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves, you dirty rat.

        Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves, why don't we do it in the road?
        We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves; you dirty rat.
        Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves, that's a joke, son,
        We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves. Stop da music!

Dr. Momus Of The Museum Of Art

Dr. Momus of the Museum of Art likes to vary his habits. One habit involves going out for breakfast, which he usually does unless there's something else afoot to prevent him, such as an important meeting or another responsibility. Like schmoozing a rich museum patron who's already eaten.

His habit, as I said, is going out for breakfast, but I also said he likes to vary it, which is just a roundabout way of saying he doesn't go to the same place every time. He spreads the wealth. He supports most of the restaurants in town, not in any regular way, but going wherever strikes his fancy on a given day. You can be sure, though, that his fancy is not to go to the same place over and over without varying it. OK?

There's some good to this scheme of doing things. "Variety is the spice of life" is what the old saw says. Who wants to have the same old bagel and coffee at one place if you can have it somewhere else? At least occasionally. I definitely know what he's thinking: It's a drag going to the same old places all the time. But I've been going out for breakfast so much that I've also worn out the new places.

Then, and this is where Dr. Momus' role at the Museum of Art comes into play, who knows what he might find of an artistic nature if he varies his eating habits? Because restaurants sometimes have artwork on their walls for sale. Seriously! If you go to McDonald's all the time, of course you're not going to see it. (Dr. Momus actually does go to McDonald's once in a while, but not that much.)

Anyway, here's what we're getting to. One day I went to a particular cafe for breakfast, a place I'd never been before. I saw some rudimentary artwork on the walls that tickled my funny bone (I'm trying to be merciful here.) I was like, "Look at that one!," while making disparaging remarks about it.

PERSONAL INTERLUDE: Over a year ago I bought a canvas and some paint. I haven't used them at all. Because I don't have any idea how to paint, but I know what I like. My excuse for not painting on this canvas is that it's too small; I need a bigger canvas. My small canvas isn't even out of the plastic yet. The only reason I don't buy a bigger canvas is that I haven't used the small one yet! But not everyone is as reluctant as I to get going on the thing...

The painting I'm pointing to, in my opinion, is no good. It sucks. It's a house and a tree, both very elementary, both very primitive. So imagine my surprise when I'm sitting there right when Dr. Momus (Dr. EFFEN Momus of the EFFEN Museum of EFFEN Art!) comes in, immediately espies this crappy painting, and declares it a work of genius, even going so far as to describe it as a lost Van Gogh! (He says Gogh like he's clearing his throat, so it has to be right. The only other name I know like this is Bach. If you had an expert talking about Van Gogh and Bach in the same breath, you'd need a spittoon!)

I'm like, "You can't be serious, you crazy ninny!"

"Serious? I'm as serious as a heart attack. This is a lost Van Gogh, priced at only 20 bucks, I'll take it!"

The Imaginary Stud

The imaginary stud is a guy whose eyes perk up when he sees a woman walking by with a baby. "Hide me," he says, because he doesn't want the mother of the child to see him.

Except you keep going down the road and eventually see a woman pushing a stroller built for two. "Hide me," he says, quickly averting his face, because two kids, that's so much worse. If she sees him, knowing he hasn't paid whatever child support he would be obligated to pay, he's going to be in big trouble.

You keep going. The imaginary stud is wiping the sweat away from his brow, so much so that the tissue (or cloth) is wringing wet. And he's checking out some of the sweet femininas swinging their hips down the sidewalk. These are some of this thoughts: "Ooo, mama! Look at the butt on that one!" and "Yesss! Come to papa!" And, "I'll take a piece of that ... right now!"

Since we, along with everything else, were meant for reproduction, with the result of our reproduction being meant for reproduction, all the way out to the most distant generation being the same, naturally the guy's eye is going to rove, only finally coming to a rest when he sees something worth feasting his eyes on that would, given the right circumstances, fulfill nature's purpose.

He's in a state of agitation even if you can't see it, because, let's face it, he's socialized (civilized) to a certain extent, and able to keep his pants on and pass by undetected in ordinary circumstances. In other words, we're not talking about Herman Cain, although the guy of our story is still potentially an actual stud.

He is definitely an "imaginary" stud, because, look, he can't physically be the father of every baby in every stroller! There's others out there being the bull in most of these cases. But who knows, maybe he's gotten lucky a time or two -- after some especially wild drunks -- and you never can tell whose kid may be whose! Even if twins, triplets, or quadruplets don't run in his family, there's no way of absolutely excluding the possibility; they could be his!

Speaking of triplets, that's the next group we pass. The mom looks like she might be overwhelmed, because a stroller built for three is rare, and yet there she is, the proud (maybe not) pusher of three. A boy, a girl, and another boy, just to give an example of what we might see were we to stop and look inside. But the proud papa, the imaginary stud, won't be looking that closely, averting his eyes and face: "Hide me," he says, himself overwhelmed, thinking maybe he actually does know her. What a life of drudgery and expense! Diapers for three!

The only thing worse than that .... for our possible papa .... is an even more unusual sight, a woman pushing a stroller with four babies. Four? That's an entire litter! Now we're talking some severe fertility drugs! Something's made nature go haywire! The imaginary stud isn't ready for that kind of commitment! He's barely able to support himself! Still, he did the crime, why shouldn't he be doing the time?

If indeed he did it.

I'm With Stupid

I like to think I'm a reasonably smart guy. All depends on what you mean by reasonably. It's definitely a qualifier, in my opinion meaning, "By ordinary standards, nothing fancy, such as putting me up against Einstein or Hawking, I'm smart enough to get by in typical human settings without sticking out like a sore thumb for being stupid."

It's all relative. Although I suppose you could make the case that since everything's relative that nothing's relative. But if we have have even one guy who's smarter than another guy, which is easily demonstrable, then obviously there is relativity in this important matter. So the other guy has to be stupider. He's stupid, just maybe not the stupidest guy there is.

What's the chances of the first stupid guy you meet being the stupidest guy ever? The chances of meeting the stupidest guy ever are slim. Of course if you eat a lot of fast food, you have a better chance. If he messes up your order, even a simple order, maybe you've found him. I tend to be more lenient, more merciful in these cases, especially if I'm thinking. Because maybe he had a fight with his girlfriend before coming to work, or his car's getting fixed and he knows he can't afford to pay for it, or his child support is due, or his kid is sick or something. That would explain why doesn't realize a Number 7 comes with coffee without being told. Still, if he's able to function at a job at all, he can't be the stupidest guy in the world.

Anyway, let's say you find a really stupid guy -- and he's not only apparently stupid because of troubles with his girlfriend, his car, his kid. Chances are you could find someone stupider, given enough time and the freedom to travel. So this guy is stupid, but he can tell you someone stupider. And that guy can tell you someone stupider yet. And that guy knows someone even stupider. We keep tracing the line of stupid people from this one particular branch till we find their stupidest guy. Then even he knows of another branch where the smartest guy is stupider than him.

I'm reasonably sure that you're never going to find the absolute stupidest guy, because at some level it's going to just be a pool of brain dead people who are identically stupid. If you got there there would be nothing really to cling to to quantify their intelligence or lack thereof.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

I'm On A Reading Jag











Friday, November 11, 2011

11-11-11 In 1911

From The Syracuse Herald, Syracuse, NY, Nov. 11, 1911, page 6.

From Hutchinson News, Hutchinson, KS, Nov. 6, 1911, p. 10.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Pastor Wadd: The Sexual Root Of Everything

One of the more influential people in my life has to be my preacher, Pastor Wadd. He's right up there in the top 50 overall, for sure, and the top 5 of those having to do with understanding the underlying nature of life.

You probably remember, Pastor Wadd's special area of expertise is sexual addictions. He counsels guys on that topic day after day, plus a few ladies. I've never actually been to one of these sessions, not having that problem. My willpower is impeccable. Plus, several years ago I had the zipper permanently welded shut on all my pants.

Anyway, in addition to his counseling, Pastor conducts regular Sunday services, and that's where I hear his teaching. I just wanted to clear that up so no one gets the wrong idea. I've never even been to Penn State!

Whether you have a problem in that area or not, it's still interesting to hear the man hold forth with his various theories. Whatever he says, he's always definitely convinced, and with a spirit of power like he has, it's hard not to be impressed. This past Sunday his message was on the pervasiveness of sex in our culture and psyches, with religion serving to replace that, if God's grace is allowed entrance, and we're lucky.

Of course, the man's doctrine is that there's a sexual root to everything. If you turn when a woman passes by, there it is. If there's any undue perspiration, prolonged eye contact, or even the slightest variance in your breathing patterns, you're guilty. And I hate when he gets started on what it means when you move your legs -- you want to stay perfectly still around him -- because what he defines as rubbing is very subtle.

Sometimes, though, as much an expert as he is, I can't help but think he's making things up. Or seeing connections -- like with the rubbing -- that simply aren't there. He's like Freud. If you drink milk, you're lusting for your mother. That kind of thing. He sees strange linguistic stuff, unlikely connections, that seems like an obvious stretch.

Like "proclivities." He parses it for us, the root of the word, that "pro" means "for" and "clivity" is what every woman has. It may be normal size or it may hang down like the end of a scarf. It may be dainty and ladylike, like your pinky, or it may be heavy, with the girth of a Marine's duffle bag. So women are the ones with proclivities, making them so darned tempting to men.

The corollary in men is a word I hadn't heard before, "prodermis." "Pro" again meaning "for" and "dermis" meaning "skin." Put it together, he says, and you have "foreskin." Which the children of Israel were supposed to lose that they might be true. OK, I'll give him that one. It sounds convincing.

Be that as it may, Pastor Wadd is definitely serious about being true, even to the point of making his counselees suffer to attain it. A guy from the church, whom I also know from the exercise club, he counseled on being chaste, meaning preserving his "vitality," his "vital essence" in the most extreme way, going months. But he bloated up so much, some of the guys started calling him Lugnuts, and he finally had to go in and have it lanced.

My own take on it: There's a time and place for everything, and let's face it, that includes using the equipment God gave you and not letting it go to waste.

Grandma Slump Takes Ukraine By Storm

Look at the global reach of my blog this week. (For the graphic, I dropped off all the countries after Germany who aren't keeping up. But they were United Kingdom (7), Malaysia (5), Romania (4), Sweden (3), United Arab Emirates (2), and Canada (2).

What's precisely wrong with Canada, I don't know. Don't they have the internet up there? 2, that's barely one per province. They have provinces up there. They're very provincial. I could go up and teach them a few proverbs, see if they could prove themselves, and dump a little provender on the ground, anything to provoke them. Wake up!

The United Arab Emirates, I'm not sure what that even is. Is that the name of a country? It sounds like a subdivision of a country or a sports team. I suppose they're very into oil. I remember my dad teaching me how to change oil in the car. Over there, it's probably a dime a gallon, so it doesn't cost much for the kids to have someone else do it.

Sweden. I like the Swedes. I knew some Swedes, they made a big deal of the fact that they still knew Swedish after all these years. There was this one old guy, 90-something, and his wife would tell me, "Pete's talking the Swede!" I couldn't understand a thing. And one day I found a bunch of Swedish books. Tried to sell them on eBay but no one wanted them. If only I'd had these three visitors back then!

Romania and Malaysia, I think they're doing very good at 4 and 5. Because the last time I consciously visited a Romanian or Malaysian site, I can't remember when it might've been.

The United Kingdom, they're tied with Germany at 7. I'm a little more disappointed with the UK, which is why I clipped them from the graphic. After all, we share the same language, and I've listened to music from England (the Beatles, Stones, probably others). They need to step it up and read my stuff, or, who knows, I might turn on them, too.

That brings us to the big boys. Russia and Ukraine. Look at that, 13 and 77 from the Ukraine all by itself! Obviously something happened, because I don't remember any spike like that from there before. The thing is, I'm just guessing, one of my posts must have been linked on one of their sites. I can't figure it out, but I've had a number of traffic sources that appear to be Russian gambling sites. And the traffic is all centered on one post of mine from 2009, "Sternness Meets Creampuffness."

I had to look the post over, because I forgot what it was about. It had to do with self-esteem and personal pride, bringing forth strength in your personality. I used wrestling/rasslin' imagery, with Sternness facing Creampuffness (psychological states) and beating the crap, or cream, out of Creampuffness. So my guess is, these Ukrainians are visiting gambling sites that have something to do with wrestling matches, and in there somewhere, this post got linked.

It's still a good message, so I hope they're lingering long enough to be encouraged. Bring forth the stronger sides of your personality, and, seriously, don't let Creampuffness get the upper hand.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

The Blog Post Adoption Program

Unto us a son is born, a child is given. The child given, the son born, is your opportunity to adopt my blog posts. Where you can pick up the little tykes, so to speak, that I have written, and care for them and really make them your own. Are you up for that?

This is part of a personal goal I have to make my readers feel more involved and invested. It would be more fulfilling for them, and as far as I'm concerned, I'd get a kick out of it. Just so there's no fighting over any of my "kids." I don't want to have to cut one in half, let's say, to find out the true parent!

At the heart of this idea is the fact that people like to have responsibilities. People want little tasks. It makes them feel useful and a part of the larger whole. Like when we were in school and different ones wanted to clean the chalkboard, or monitor the hall, or taste the teachers' food to make sure it wasn't poisoned. We lost a couple kids that way, but the bright side is they got a full page memorial in the yearbook.

People want to have a part! And so it is with a blog like this one. There's always an upside and a downside. If they aren't included, they drift away. They're always looking for a role to play. That leaves the writer, me, with a couple options. One, do my own selfish thing and let the people drift away. Two, include them, whether in an intrinsic way, like having co-writers, which isn't likely to happen, or get them involved in some other aspect of the blog.

The latter option could of course include nothing more than busy work, like writing me "Attaboy" letters and getting a nice response, but I don't want to go that route. I want it to be something fairly intrinsic without it being entirely so, something just good enough to keep you committed. As they used to say about the canned milk, "Contented cows are happy cows."

So the idea is that my readers will adopt my posts, like Cabbage Patch Kids. Each already has a name, a title. You simply get to know it intimately, kind of nurse it along in the public square, promote it in the world, then sit back and feel the pride of watching it succeed.

You adopt it! It's your "baby!" I would then have a list of the adopters, and periodically send you by email an update on how your baby is doing. If it got 40 visits from around the world, that'd be good. But what if it got 400? What if it just got 4? Of course if it's just 4, you'd have to promote it more!

I haven't got it fully worked out, but we would have to have some rules. Like if you were neglecting your baby, I might have to step in and take it away from you. But I don't really want any unpleasantness to intrude on the relationship at this point. Stay positive, keep everyone smiling!

So let's get started. So far I have over 1,300 babies up for adoption. You can go back to the very beginning, or check out the nursery from 2008, 2009, 2010, or some of our more recent deliveries.

One of my recent favorites is baby "Fahoup Fahep Fitzguh", a recent child, that could use some tender loving care. It tells the hilarious story of how the rock group came up with that name. I can see how a lot of people would like to adopt "FFF," because it'd be easy to promote a child who's a rock star!

You might want to adopt "The Legend of Paul Boone," from October. This child was an underachiever, but I still think it's got something valuable to say. All it needs is a little TLC, a loving parent to take it under his wing to help it make its way in the world.

Here's a good one that'd make a fun child, "Pitbulls, Sex Offenders, and Jake Brakes." This is the only post I know of that had people on Facebook organized against it. You realize, pitbull owners have no scruples against an angry response, and I was the unfortunate target of their ire. But if you're adventurous and can stand the heat, it'd be a lot of fun to see that post adopted. With that one, though, I'd need a full background check of the parent-applicant, just to make sure the pitbull people don't get their hands on it and kill it.

Go through the list and see if you can find a baby of your own. There could be great benefits in it for you. Like if you're a childless couple, can't have kids, and you're struggling with your marriage. This program might put the spark back in your relationship and give you something truly blessed to share. And one other benefit, it's a lot cheaper than an actual squalling rug rat. You get all the benefits of a child but none of the headaches!

Let's get you started. Leave a comment, telling me which one you want to adopt. And if you think you can handle twins, triplets, or even quadruplets, theoretically you could do that, but the process could also be that much more complicated. Definitely the parent who takes the pitbull post will want to stick with that one alone.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

The Human Union

The burning issue of the day, and I'm finding myself to be pretty liberal on the subject, is whether animals should be allowed to join the Human Union.

Those who take the conservative position say, "It is called the Human Union," which is a great point. And they are 100 percent correct that since the inception, all these years, only humans have had admittance. But whether that's the way it should remain, of course that's key to the issue.

I don't think I'm too far off the mark to say, Just because something's been that way for a hundred years (or whatever it is) doesn't mean it needs to stay that way. On this issue, how do we know our forefathers were correct in their judgment? It's not like we were there to give our opinion or the opportunity to hold sway with decent arguments in favor of animals. So, say they made a mistake in excluding them, should we and the animals of today have to to maintain it? I don't think so.

And another thing, not just looking at the past but at the future, if we kept the argument that the forefathers' system should stand, those of the future will look back to our ratification of it for further justification that it should remain that way. And if we're simply ourselves ratifying the past because it is the past, then I can't see how we're passing on a valid basis for future generations to make their own determination. In that case, they would be as foolish (or more so) than we are now -- I know the word foolish is harsh -- and there will never be progress.

It seems that common sense cries out that the forefathers' opinions and choices are not of necessity more valid than our own. What leads us to think they would be? That they happened to live before us? So what? There's no infallibility because you live before someone else. In that case, we also have infallibility in relation to future generations. I don't see it!

Let's say we allowed animals in the Human Union, but future generations, as opinions shifted, thought animals should be excluded, would they then be prevented from making that determination simply because some conservative voice of the future reverences our present generation as past and thereby infallible? It's lunacy, and ironic, that conservatives now would say one thing, yet conservatives of the future would take the exact opposite side, simply out of a reverence for past opinion or precedent.

I say, let's debate it rationally, then decide the issue, not centering on precedent. Let's look at the actual implications of what it would mean for animals and humans both. It could very well usher in a new age of animal-human relations, where we're not always simply at one another's throats. Yes, it might make the separate Animal Union somewhat obsolete, somewhat, because animals of course could maintain their own union if that were their choice. They've already said as much, with some of their conservative members already saying, That's the way it's always been, and that their own forefathers knew what they were doing when they set it up that way.

The truth, of course, is far murkier. As I recall the history, the Animal Union started as an animal version of the Human Union. It looks like the animals never would've thought of it on their own, previously being content just to eat each other, yet complain that no one was doing a damned thing about it.

Friday, November 4, 2011

The Dawn Of Vigor Vivus

That's a really fantastic graphic, isn't it? I told the guy I wanted explosions, planets, beams of ethereal light, shafts of light, or shards, streaking across the newborn virgin sky. Which is a lot to expect for 20 bucks. You might get a small planet and a couple shards for that, but he really went all out. He blew my mind with this one!

So, instead of getting right into it today, I want to offer big praise, sincere plaudits, and enthusiastic kudos, and plenty of them, to my friend Jake across town, who tinkers with computer effects, etc. He said it'd be 20 bucks an hour, which seemed a little high, but then he said it'd only take an hour, so I got off easy. Especially when I think, something like that had to take more than an hour!

But, and this is understandable, he said he also wanted to get his name out there, and have something for his portfolio. I told him I represented one of the larger, more popular blogs on the internet, which I believe is true, so please, if you're visiting today, back me up on this. Jake's a good guy and needs to be encouraged any way we can. If you can throw a few bucks his way, whether on one of your own projects or as a tip for the pleasure of seeing this particular graphic, please feel free.

Jake, you did good, buddy. So, get ready, I'm coming over for more. I'd love it, just as an example, if you could work me up a killer "Devil" graphic -- think you got it in you? Something that really conveys the real evil of Satan, yet belittles him... I've got a project in mind having to do with Satan (the personification of what I'm talking about) communicating the anti-spirit of Rigor Mortis, the opposite of Vigor Vivus. If you need any guidance on the particulars, get with me. Basically it needs to be 425 pixels wide like this one, and you've got carte blanche, if you can keep it around 20 bucks again.

OK, without any further ado, and no further kissing up to sensitive artist types, let's get right to it ...


(You can read my other great posts on "Vigor Vivus versus Rigor Mortis" at the link just given.)

Let me take you back to the olden days -- the really, really olden days -- back before there was anything except however you might conceptualize Pure Spirit/Mind and potentiality without limits. Are you game?

Like in the Tao Te Ching, there was really nothing, nothing differentiated, but all was one. Somewhere in that miniscule, yet infinite vastness, lay the spores of everything we now know and beyond. Picasso was in there, as well as Jesus Christ, Einstein, the Grandma Slump blog, Leonardo da Vinci, Buddha, Lao Te Tsu, Elvis Presley, Martin Luther King, Jr., love, and the 7th Billion Baby, just born the other day. Tao was unruffled.

In there as well, on the negative side, was the Republican party, Satan, all the jinns, the Oakland Police Department, Pol Pot, Milli Vanilli, scurvy, rickets, fundamentalism, jaundice, the Black Plague, increases in the price of stamps, spam, Walmart, and chick flicks. And once again, Tao was unruffled.

Then, according to Jake's great vision above, fulfilling my own brief instructions for him, everything erupted. You might call it a cataclysm, but I like to think it looked more like a gentle scene from a really cool ballet, a pastoral ballet if there is such a thing. The planets seethed and tugged at each other, but it was all good, like it says in the Bible. Shafts of light zoomed around, bowing to one another. God was pleased, being that Spirit of life-fulfillment at the heart of it, the play (lila) of the Hindus. And whatever James Joyce meant by "the excelsissimost empyrean (bolt, in sum) earthspake," that occurred. It was a stunner. And there was a half hour's silence in heaven, for the Divine to catch its breath (Spirit).

Here, then, my friends, is what the spirit of life had, has, and offers today: VIGOR VIVUS, life vigorously present and lived, the true life, what each of us needs for our own perfect fulfillment. All the possibilities are present for you. Yes, Tao was unruffled, but that doesn't mean there wasn't a positive, purposeful side, and a negative, destructive side. The negative is RIGOR MORTIS, death present as well, taking the fullness away and leaving you destitute and empty.

So, you see, it goes back to the very beginning, the life you and I are meant to live, the life of VIGOR VIVUS, then and now. But RIGOR MORTIS is always here as well, not to be denied, but not to submit to either. What was true in the beginning is now and ever shall be. The good and the bad. Which will you choose? I hope you fulfill all your personal potential by embracing the life-affirming values inherent in eternal VIGOR VIVUS. Please, get up off your ass and do it! Don't let another day go by! Let the words of Frank N. Furter be your guide, "Don't dream it, be it!"

OK, Jake, yes, go for it! Get me the "Devil" graphic ASAP. I'll raise the 20 bucks somehow. The cornier the better, horns, weird tail, and pitchfork. I wanted the Vigor Vivus graphic classy, but I want the Rigor Mortis one ridiculous. Stereotypical and hackneyed is OK, thanks. 425 pixels.