I've Got The Razzle Dazzle

I completely covered the fact that my instincts are always spot on. And I believe I did justice to my contention that I always bring it. Today, just for these few moments, briefly, I want to highlight my character, and particularly the nature of what I accomplish, such as you see in my blog posts. For that, the words that come to mind, the key words, are razzle dazzle.

Other people have said it about me, this isn't just my belief or me tooting my own horn. Really, I'm just trying to catch up with the nice things that they say about me. Such as people who write me at my actual email address (give it a try!): dbkundalini AT gmail DOT com. Hope you can figure it out...

It's all quite unsolicited, the comments. But you probably know as well as I, people like to be nice. They really do. It's odd. I don't see five nice people in person on any given day, but the ones who write me are usually nice, almost always. And the ones who aren't I believe are just jealous of me.

What have I taken away from other people's comments? That I'm as effervescent as a glass of Alka-Seltzer. Now that's razzle dazzle! Have you ever had a glass of A-S? I actually haven't had any since I was a kid. Grandma used to let us kids drink all of it we wanted. We seriously would drink A-S for the fun of it. And it was good, especially when you consider we were making it with water from our own well, pure and cold.

The razzle dazzle has definitely been there for me! I agree with them! Because I stand back and look at what I do objectively. And I like what I see! It's only the coolest stuff, always with an edge, and always based on some kind of almost superhuman inspiration coming from God knows where! The process might not be pretty. I brood over it. I labor over every word, more or less. I pace myself. I don't use the phrase "of course" twice in a paragraph. That kind of pacing is always good.

So what we come out with: Let's say I'm describing a situation. It's all killer stuff, from the first little green sprouts of thought all the way to the mature tree ready to be chopped down. Really, no one can touch the razzle dazzle. And that's the way I want it to stay!

Thank you for your kind words!

-------------
Note: I'm sorry if this post is kind of flat, lacking the razzle dazzle. I haven't been feeling well the last couple days, and today has been especially bad. Very blah.

I Always Bring It

In addition to my instincts being spot on, I'm always able to bring it. Which I'm very happy for.

It stands to reason that bringing it would have to be the next step. It's the same as delivering on your potential. It'd be vain to be able to do XYZ -- with spot on instincts -- if you somehow failed to bring it. It'd be like a delivery truck that never left the warehouse, the epitome of worthlessness.

That's not to say that sometimes I don't debate with myself exactly how I'm going to bring it. Sometimes, frankly, I don't know. Then other times, my ability to bring it is immediate and without hesitation. Of course I love those occasions, even if, honestly, sometimes afterward there's a letdown. Whereas, on those occasions where bringing it is not immediate, afterward I feel more a sense of relief than a letdown. The key thing is, whether it's immediate or with some strained labor, I always somehow manage to bring it.

I was watching a team practice their sport tonight. I wasn't watching it closely enough to know what the sport was, because I only saw it out of the corner of my eye as I drove by. But it was a mix of women and men, practicing some kind of field sport -- it might've been soccer, field hockey, lacrosse, rugby, or even football; there weren't any horses so it couldn't have been polo. In those seconds as I drove by, I wondered, "Are they bringing it?"

And if I'm being totally honest about it, I also started thinking about what they might do after practice, as sweaty bodies and raging hormones can make an interesting situation. My thoughts ran wild -- I probably should leave this part out -- and I started picturing how it'd be if they were to motion me over and attack me. It's something that might happen to Hugh Hefner, but to the rest of us ... not as often. Had that occurred, certainly I would've learned by now what their sport was, and whether they could bring it. But I drove on, alas, without noteworthy incident. I'm sure I could've brought it!

Part of the ability to bring it in a confident way is established through past success. Sometimes I review my past accomplishments and it keeps me certain that I'm going to keep bringing it. So I always know, until senility strikes, I'm likely to succeed. Again, it's not happening in a vacuum. Not only is there the past success, but the spot on instincts are working themselves out in a natural, profitable way.

What does all this mean to you? Maybe you can look to my example for your own confidence and abilities. We're not so different, you and I. Except no one had to tell me how it was done. I never had to stand on someone else's shoulders. I simply had the drive, the spot on instincts, and the ability to bring it merely followed. But that's not to say that you, with a little secondhand knowledge and a boost up, can't also attain part of that, perhaps, if you believe it can be done, maybe. Just tell yourself, "Stranger things have happened."

Being able to bring it is important to me! How about you? Bring it! Bring it! Bring it!

My Instincts Are Spot On

I really believe I live a charmed life. It's amazing. My instincts are spot on.

I've thought this so much and so long, all my life, that it was the greatest discovery to me a few years ago that not everyone has the same sense. I was like, "You mean to tell me those folks are not spot on?" And that's exactly what they meant. Which was very weird, because since my instincts are always spot on, it seems like I should've known. I'm chalking it up to some grace in my psychological make-up meant to protect me. Buddha went through the same thing. Then, finally, it was judged by Providence that I could handle the shock and my eyes were opened.

But I'm not looking for thorns in the garden of my existence. I don't think thorns would even grow in my special brand of soil. They'd be choked out by the profusion of blooms, the sprays of foliage everywhere, and the utterly bright sunshine that makes up my environment. It's all spot on. If others are damned to a bitter existence while I've known only Providence, beneficence, and the charms of life, that's their business. Enough said! I'm not even going to try to imagine the terror of their lives. I will only hope there are fewer of them in the world all the time, since the Republicans have already given us enough troubles.

Let's get back to me. And what I have. A charmed life, as I said. I just basically will a blessing, like in the twinkling of an eye, or between random breaths, and there it is, all very spot on! And along with that, enough pure-minded instinct to keep me in the sunshine of prosperity for as long as I live ... and it always seems to work. It's never failed yet.

Spot on instinct! We think of instinct as how animals do what they do. And that's a good meaning of it. A dog is born with instincts, so it barks, howls, eats dog food, and so forth. My dog Underbrush is a great example. I saw a documentary one day that said she was descended from wolves. So when I looked at her, I thought, "Down there somewhere are the instincts to tear me apart." But my instincts, being spot on, and my ability to smooth talk her, along with her routine of eating food provided by me, has thus far kept me safe. And I probably wouldn't do that much worse against an actual wolf!

An average day -- it doesn't have to be anything special -- is enough for my spot on instincts to be on display. I sleep perfectly. I fall asleep just like that. I don't wake up in unpleasant ways, like having to go to the bathroom. I have good enough sense not to drink coffee or quantities of anything before I go to bed. When I wake up, I'm ready for the day. I read the fan mail for my blog (dbkundalini AT gmail DOT com), and usually answer them with a blessing. Everyone likes to hear from me. And I appreciate all your 'Attaboys.' I enjoy three meals a day. Nothing gets me down. I check mousetraps and throw dead ones to the road. And so forth.

I hope life is always this good. My spot on instincts tell me it will be, that it has to be. There's no clouds on the horizon, not one. And I'm not expecting any. Steady as she blows! Clear sailing! Life is good, very good, when your instincts are spot on!

Foreigners Are A Little Too Foreign

I was at a meeting the other day (absolutely true story, my hand's up), where the supposed benefits of foreign travel were set forth. The guy had been to Africa, and in his life, Pago Pago, Timbuktu, Europe, and probably Copacabana. And he had a display of rough handmade trinkets to prove it!

I sat there respectfully, for the most part, only clearing my throat and shifting uneasily in my chair a couple times for effect. As I watched his slides, replete with straw huts, shrunken heads, headdresses, nose-bones, and bare-breasted women, and everyone living in close proximity to trees, I felt a little queasy. But I was thankful, thankful that I'm not a foreigner!

I don't know how many of you have been to a foreign country. I actually have not been anywhere but right here on home soil, the homeland. Not even Canada. And certainly not Mexico -- God forbid. You can't even drink foreign water.

It always turned me off, what we used to hear about foreigners, and even now I feel the same revulsion at how they do things that are basically crazy. Such as the things they eat. Human flesh is of course the worst thing. But even the stuff we might consider better is still stuff they're fighting monkeys and anteaters for.

Foreigners. Even the word has a foreign sound to it. Because that's what they are, the other, something or someone apart from civilization. They're out there doing their thing, more or less one with nature. Nature as it was lived by primal man thousands of years ago. Nudity is natural. It's still how we're born. But in their case, it's also how they stayed! They're closer to nature in that.

One tribe of foreigners I saw on TV -- and it's an image that's seared in my memory, regrettably -- had big long sticks on their penises, like maybe 18 inches long, with something, maybe a string hooked to a counterbalance behind their ass to keep it erect. I saw that and spit my drink, "No! Don't tell me!" I fell to the floor laughing, and the ridiculousness of it all still makes me chuckle, after all this time.

I don't see any penis sticks in my top picture. But there's plenty of sharp erect dealyboppers on their heads. And I love the caption! "The chilling sound of the Boo-Boos!" You get poked with one of those spikes and you'll have a Boo-Boo! LOL. But for them it's "a summons to frenzied dances." If they go at it too hard, someone's going to lose an eye! Myself, I wouldn't approach to within 50 feet of that, let alone dance barefoot in such a crazy crowd!

And look at the other picture. Our civilized man is shaking hands with the foreigner, who's obviously sizing him up for a meal. But such plans could be hasty and premature, as we see that we're armed and ready to defend ourselves. The situation is clearly perceived to be potentially dire, as even the lady is armed. But it looks, amazingly, like the savage is armed as well, meaning it's more dangerous than I'd like, since I'm thinking he stole the gun from one of our guys, possibly his breakfast.

You noticed I called the foreigner a savage. Yes, I realize nowadays that's usually thought of as a politically incorrect word. But I feel we can use it anyway, especially when we reflect on its meaning. Since they are savages, we may as well call them that. And they don't know what we're talking about anyway. To them "boog-uh-de-boo" is a word. They're babbling gibberish, so of course they're not going to be real offended. And even if they are, it probably wouldn't take a lot of persuasion and they'd agree, they are pretty wild.

No, my friends, I'll leave the rest of the world to you. I'm happy right here! I seriously don't want to deal with foreigners!

He Had His Wisdom Nuts Removed

This guy I knew had to have the worst operation a man can imagine. It's what a lot of us fear but have never dealt with, the removal of the wisdom nuts.

They're always up there, like wisdom teeth, but they're usually in a state of quiescence, more or less twiddling their thumbs. The theory is, if there's nothing to trigger them, they're simply dormant your whole life. That's what usually happens. But if triggered, God forbid, their descent means nothing less than certain death, or in milder cases, excruciating pain and embarrassment.

What triggers the wisdom nuts to descend? Most men have nothing to fear, since the basic trigger is the fairly uncommon practice of masturbation. Thanks to the discipline of self-control, begun in our teen years, most of us are completely safe. But there's always that foolish few... And they are in even greater danger if they happen to be fantasizing about larger women or dinosaurs. That's not a slam against larger women, because it's an evolutionary fact that a man will psychologically feel less capable of satisfying a bigger gal, hence the triggering of the extra nuts.

As for dinosaurs, many of our ancestors were the victims of dinosaur attacks. They'd be climbing a tree to escape and a dinosaur would bite off their nuts. Then, if they somehow made it to safety, their wisdom nuts would descend, of course not knowing there was no sac to hold them, as nature had somehow neglected to create a wisdom version of the scrotum.

So what happened to my friend? He told me not to tell anyone, but since no one reads my blog anyway, I guess I can say it. He was fired from his job about six months ago, and he's been scraping by with barely any cash. So he had to move back in with his mom. It's a bad situation. OK, here's the thing: He got his old room back, OK? Which just happened to have his old dinosaur wallpaper from the '90s. And his mom's a rather large woman, so I'll leave it to you to figure out his fantasy life...

Anyway, he noticed some uncomfortable shifting, some painful movement of a tectonic nature down there, and next thing he knew he was writhing in agony. They got him to the hospital, and the tests showed he had a serious problem, his wisdom nuts had to come out!

(Plus, I'm not a doctor by any stretch of the imagination, but looking at the picture, it looks like he's having trouble passing a Mitt Romney-shaped turd. The Republicans have the same complaint, but they're looking on the bright side: "He may be a turd, but at least he's white!")

So what's the main problem with wisdom nuts? There's not really a good place for them to be in the human anatomy as it's presently arranged. And they don't have a dedicated path down. So they just plow through whatever tissue happens to be in the way, causing terrific pain. Again, look at the picture. That's three lines of radiating pain on each side, extremely hard to endure.

Let my friend's trouble serve as a lesson for you: Mom and Barney don't mix.

I'm Saying Horrible Rumors About You

Hi. Glad you found your way to my site. You're probably here to check out the horrible rumors I've been saying about you. You've heard someone was saying very bad things about you. And so you were wondering, "Could it be true? Is there really some complete stranger on the internet, someone with absolutely no connection to me who might actually be spreading around crap about me, things I'd rather no one found out about?"

Well, it is true. I have been saying very bad things about you. And the worst of it is, I'm not through; I have tons more rumors to drop. It's not going to be good for you, that's for sure. Although, looking at it from the point of view of our aggrieved society, having put up with you for all these years -- and you've been insufferable -- getting the truth out there will be beneficial. You had what? -- about a million chances to make it right? Or was it more? I know you haven't exactly taken advantage of your opportunities. So now, the truth is out there.

I'm calling them "rumors," although you and I both know how it really is. You're guilty as hell, and I'm the guy who's got the goods on you. I tracked you down, I kept a laser-like focus on your comings and goings, I had other guys trailing your friends, we tapped your calls, and we have recordings. I even have printouts of all your private messages. And there's been a bunch, so far I've got eight standard file cabinets stuffed full. Office Depot's on their way with a ninth as we speak.

A great question would be, "Why'd you do it?" And by it, I mean the full complement of things you did. Did you think no one would notice? Did you think that you, of all people, could somehow get away with it? The first few times, even I wasn't paying that close of attention. But when a pattern emerges, that's when I perk up. I started looking. Then, by God, you did it again! And again! At first, I'm standing there with a newspaper up. Finally, you were so oblivious to observation, I stood there in the open, very conspicuous, as you drove by, totally clueless.

"OK," you're wondering, "Does this guy really have the goods on me, to the point that he's tweeting me about it? And what does he want?" Yes, I do have the goods on you. And not only in some kind of rough outline, I've got it all charted out, mapped, pinpointed as to times, your arrivals and departures, who was with you, what kind of damage you did, everything from who was using condoms to where the bodies were eventually dumped. Sleazy stuff.

Now you know I've actually got the goods on you! Because if I know that much, the way it all started all the way up to its tragic end, what's the likelihood that I missed any of the middle stuff? Let me quickly say, I didn't miss a thing! I've got it all, and you are busted, as busted as any perp can be! All it'd take from me is one telephone call and a transferal of a few select documents -- remember the picture of the girl with the big sunflower tattooed on her left boob? -- and you'd be looking at -- what? -- a life sentence? Parole in 90 years? Sharing a cell with Manson?

This is great! Great for me, that is. So what do I want? Hmm, what makes you think I want something? Maybe all I want is justice. Stranger things have happened. Or it could be that I do want something. But what that might be, I'm not going to say just now ... I want to wait a little and see what it's worth to you. But, please, don't insult me by bidding low ... oh no, you wouldn't want to do that!

I'll be in touch.

Dressing Down The Uniformly Dressed

I like to dress down people in uniforms. Not to their face, of course, only when we're not together. If I'm there with them, I'm properly respectful, all the while thinking, "[Grumbling] You dirty rotten...."

I might clarify, I don't have anything against them, and I don't really grumble, "You dirty rotten...." I know people have to have certain uniforms to do certain jobs, and even agree it's helpful. If you're doing the job of a policeman, it's helpful to the public to be able to see your uniform.

Still, just to take the example of the police, how corny their uniforms are! Yet they still wear them with such pride, all the way down to keeping their shoes spit shine. I can see myself respecting the reflective officer who stays nicely uniformed in the office but pulls his shirt out of his pants when he's in public and wears tennis shoes. With his badge moved from the side to the center of his chest, like Superman. Or with his shirt open and his chest hair hanging out.

I was reminded of this the other day while driving out of state. I noticed they were out in force, solving the low-hanging fruit of crime, speeding offenses. Although this one guy went by me like I was sitting still -- I was going 70 -- and there wasn't an officer in sight. The only ones I saw were on the other side of the median. I just happened to see one guy pulled over right now, as it was happening. And I saw one who was already pulled over, with the officer strolling to the car and getting to the window.

So there he is, strolling to the car and getting to the window. And what do I notice? His uniform! So proud of his corny looking uniform! I pictured myself as the offended motorist who was pulled over, dressing down the guy (although of course I'd never actually do that. When you're pulled over, which frankly doesn't happen to me, you have to kiss butt.)

But in one's imagination: "Excuse me, officer, why do you wear that strange looking hat? What are you, a Canadian Mountie wanna-be, or do you tastes run more toward Smokey the Bear? Let's take a look at the secondary badge on your hat. Hmm, right in the middle, such predictable symmetry!" Then I'd move down to the cliche blue shirt, "So you went with the standard blue shirt, how typical ... and boring. And that brown strap across your chest, I assume that's something for your holster. It certainly can't be for looks! Because it looks ridiculous. And how about those meticulously polished, ridiculously shiny shoes! To me, shoes are like photos, I want matte, not glossy!"

And I have one more complaint about the pants. What is it about the typical patrolman's stride? Is there a regulation corncob built in the seat of their pants, inside? Know what I mean? They walk like it. They come sashaying up in a subdued Frankenstein gait. Whipping out their old fashioned ticket book. They never have their place marked. They always have to thumb through it to find the next available page. Real high tech stuff! Nutso stuff! This is what our tax dollars are buying: dorky old ticket books!

Cops are human beings. They're turned off by criticism, I'm sure of it. That's why it never pays to criticize them. Personally, I'd hate to be a patrolman. I think they'd feel like such hypocrites for giving people tickets for stuff they themselves have done. But somebody's gotta do it. The city, county, and state need the money. And as long as they're not pulling me over -- since I never do anything wrong -- I can live with it.

Motels: Something's Always Wrong

I was out of state a couple days and needed to stay in a couple of motels. Which is always an adventure, since you never know what you're going to get. But one thing you can pretty much count on is there's always going to be something wrong.

The first one wasn't bad. Really, I can't think of anything wrong with it now off the top of my head. I checked in, they had a luggage cart with a tire that was almost flat. And when I checked out the next day the motel staff was using it -- and complaining about the tire -- so I had to carry my luggage back to the car.

In between those two times was my stay, which was comfortable enough. I should say, I guess, that the pillows were extremely out of my comfort zone. Too mushy and flat just to use one, but too bulky to use two, meaning I used only one folded, which also wasn't comfortable. So I guess I do have some complaints. But other than the cart and the pillow, I can't think of much wrong. And it was my own fault for not taking my own pillows, since I've had that problem lots of times.

The next night the second motel had a few more problems, causing me to reflect on how hard it must be to run a motel. The number one problem was that there weren't enough electrical outlets. The room, apart from the bathroom sink area, had one main electrical block that was accessible. And in that they had gang-plugged the coffee pot, the refrigerator, the TV, the cable box, and the lamp. The cable box had a bigger plug, that could only be wedged in crooked. There's was nowhere to plug in my computer.

As to the alarm clock and light by the bed, the outlet in for those was somewhere under the bed, inaccessible unless you moved the bottom springs. That left the outlet over by the bathroom sink, meaning I had to carry the table across the room to have a place to put my computer. Not an ideal set up!

Apparently 40 years ago when they built the basic motel they figured no one would ever need electricity. So that's Challenge Number 1 for the motel operator. Because no one is going to willingly check in there if they know about the problem.

Among the other problems: No luggage cart, a filled-in ex-swimming pool, a weird perfume smell when I got to the room, and the fact that someone from the staff, probably in error, tried to get into my room. I had the deadbolt thing on, but it's still a shock when someone's fidgeting with the door, then opening it! I cried out, "What are you doing!?" and heard a muffled, "Sorry about that." It was still early.

It seems like it'd be hard to run a motel. All those rooms and all those things that can go wrong! It'd be expensive after a while. But it also costs a lot in the long run if you don't keep up. Such as having electrical outlets. Because my obvious resolution to myself is, I'll never stay there again!

DNA Tells The Truth -- Lassie Was A Collie!

Thanks to my enrollment in an obedience school for dogs, and something of a happy accident as a result of my enrollment, I have finally been able to clear up a mystery that's kept the world guessing for decades: What was Lassie anyway? What kind of dog?

I grew up watching "Lassie," and I have to say, I always thought I knew dogs. But Lassie was a total mystery. In part -- and I believe this with all my heart -- it was a mystery encouraged and perpetuated by the producers of the show. They knew there would be more interest, more buzz, if they kept it up in the air and kept us guessing. We'd eagerly tune in looking for clues, while from the producers' point of view, we'd also be watching the ads, so they could rake in the big bucks.

Actually -- and this is the sad part -- it worked! The producers exploited a poor, innocent dog, feeding the sad creature table scraps, and it was lucky to get that, while they themselves rolled in piles of money and selfishly smoked big cigars, never once sharing them with their star. We the viewing public were so caught up in the mystery and fantasy, being so fascinated with Lassie, that, ironically, we bear some responsibility for the poor dog's fate.

As to our guilt, of course at this point we can't do anything about it. Just repent and hope we'll be more discerning the next time someone comes up with a dog show. But people are funny. I can see us falling for the same damned thing, for the most part because we're ignorant. And Hollywood's always got a razor up to our family jewels, and if we're not immediately discerning, then whoops, they're gone again!

Anyway, I've always heard over the years, after the general interest in the mystery died down, that there was still one entity that didn't let it go. And you might guess who that might be, the United States government, of course! There's more to this story. One, we all heard that Lassie was played by numerous dogs, anywhere between five and six separate dogs! I personally never believed it, trusting my eyes over the propaganda: Lassie always looked precisely the same. And, two, that Lassie was a male dog, although Timmy always called her "Girl." Who should we believe, Timmy, who was right there on the scene, or anonymous people very likely with their heads up their asses?

So let's say it was very clear that Lassie was just one dog and a female. This is where we can see the government at work. If there's five or six different Lassies, and if we can't trust an innocent child to know his own dog's sex, that's just the government trying to confuse the real issue: What kind of dog was Lassie?

OK, being recently enrolled at the obedience school, after the other dogs were all picked up and the schoolmarm, Mrs. Biscuit, left for the day, I stayed behind, hiding. In her office, the file cabinets were miraculously unlocked, where I found what I was looking for, a folder marked "Top Secret," with a strange code work: "LASSIE," which to me spelled, "PAYDIRT." This is it, the actual government file, cleverly hidden in an obscure obedience school file drawer, where no one (but me) might expect to find it!

Imagine how my fingers must have been trembling, with the convulsions working their way through my body like an earthquake, as I opened the file. And there it was! I won't go into great detail, except to say, yes, Lassie was only one dog and was female! With her death -- itself surrounded by mysterious circumstance -- she was taken to an Air Force lab near Dayton, Ohio, and there she lies today! Extensive DNA testing was performed on the remains, with one unmistakable, wonderful conclusion headlining all the others: Lassie was a collie! Oh my God, now I knew, a collie! Of course!

I got the hell out of the office, never to return, and I was frantic. What can I do? They'll catch and kill me! I need to get this report out to the world! I drove and drove all night, fighting to keep my eyes open, hoping the government wasn't trailing me. Finally, I ran out of gas right next to this computer that just happened to be set by the side of the road, where I'm typing up this report for the world and am about to hit PUBLISH.

Obedience School -- Getting My Do.G. Degree

People have been making jokes about sending their loved ones -- husbands and wives -- to obedience school for as long as I can remember. You might remember Hal Boyle's "Poor Man's Philosopher" column from Nov. 1955, in which he quotes a reader, "Obedience schools for pets have worked out very well, so why not an obedience school for pet wives?" Hal concluded the column by asking the same thing about obedience schools for husbands, but said they'd be unnecessary, since marriage itself is their obedience school! Ain't it the truth!

But in my case, with no wife to push me around, let's say I wanted to go to obedience school. It'd just be for the experience of doing it. I used to say I wanted to be a professional student. And had I done that, pushing 60 as I am, I would've already learned everything worth knowing in the realm of human knowledge. It'd be a natural for me to learn what a dog has to go through. That'd be cool.

I'm thinking about it today because I drove by an animal hospital that said it's also an obedience school, and that they're "Now Accepting Enrollees." So what if a guy went in and said he wanted to enroll, with the full understanding, of course, that the other students would all be dogs? They'd probably take me, because my money's just as good as theirs. Plus, I'm already fairly obedient to the dictates of society, I'm sure I could handle anything a dog school could put me through.

It sounds weird, but I can well imagine it'd be like a spiritual experience. Communing with nature in a very strange setting. The dogs would be in rows, like in schools, them all naked, me in sweats. We'd be waiting for the teacher to get there, knowing if she was 10 minutes late we'd be out for the day! Then, being only nine minutes late, she shows up and looks us over. There's all of us, with our tongues hanging out, eager to learn. But since I'm looking at it as more of a spiritual experience, since it's almost a yoga class, and dogs have Buddha nature (maybe, depending on what Mu means), I've got one foot against my opposite leg and have praying hands.

It might be good for the teacher, too, because if she showed me the lesson, I'd be able to help her out. Like if the lesson was going to the cupboard, getting our dish, filling it with water, and setting it on the floor by the door, that'd be a cinch. Just hearing it once, I could do it point by point without error. I would walk to the cupboard, open it, etc., etc. The other dogs would be watching, not really having a clue, until the teacher and I kept demonstrating -- one dish each, turn the faucet like so, carry it over without slopping it everywhere, and set it down gently.

Some of it might be foreign to me. Like "Beginning Bone Burying." I'd go, "Excuse me? I'll just chew my bone, thank you." But they make a good point, because what if I want a fresh bone to chew tomorrow? Underground is where it will keep the freshest, where it's moist and cold. And where no other creature can get to it, unless it's a snake or ants or grubs or something. On second thought, how about I just put mine in the fridge? All I need is a Ziploc bag and a fridge, and maybe a way to cut my bone down to bite size chews for later, and it'll be perfect.

Training for nap time would have to be my favorite lesson. There's a pillow for each student in the modular storage cubes against yonder wall. And all we have to do -- obediently, of course -- is go over and pull one out with our mouth and drag it to an empty space on the floor. I could do that. Since I'm a person, it wouldn't be very hard, the basic maneuver of doing it. Still, it might take me a longer time than the others, because I would want a pillow without a wet corner, one that wasn't used in a previous class. So I'm over there feeling all the pillows, and looking for other signs of dirt and slobber. Then, if we napped till noon, that'd be a decent class! Get up, dig a bone chew out of the fridge for lunch and the day's half done!

No One Knows He Was A Sergeant

No one knows he was a sergeant. Technically, of course, somebody knows he was, like his daughter, a couple guys he has coffee with, and the doctor at the veterans hospital. But most of us don't know he was. I'm maybe the one exception, and even I wasn't privy to this strange fact until I started asking him about his life.

Let me climb up on my soapbox for a bit. Indulge me that? Because I for one am sick and tired of nobody really caring about the life stories of other people. I mean it, I'm sick of it. Take my own life story. I know my own life story pretty well, but the people I run into -- church, in the community, in meetings, etc. -- don't care a thing about it. That's cool, leave me out. It's anyone! You see an old timer, like this guy -- I'm going to call him Walt, just to be on the safe side -- privacy concerns -- and basically nobody knows he was a sergeant!

He came over to do some work at my place. I had him fixing the window in the garage. Someone put a rock through it, one of the neighbor honyocks probably. So I called Walt, a handyman. OK, here's something you might not realize: Handymen like being handymen not so much for the money, but for the fact that it gets them out of the house and with others. They're always extroverts. So whenever I'm dealing with a handyman, I know there's the chance for some decent conversation. They like to talk about themselves, but hardly anyone wants to hear it. But if you open yourself, you'll find a nice guy. It's worth breaking the window yourself just to try it...

So Walt comes over. And I'm standing there chewing the fat with him, shooting the breeze, and I start probing into his life story. And he comes alive, telling me all kinds of things about his life, such as the little known fact that, indeed, he was a sergeant! I thought, Wow! An actual sergeant, just like on TV, on the old shows I used to watch, Sgt. Bilko, Sgt. Carter, and others. Walt has a background! He was a sergeant in Vietnam!

I'm like, "Where were you?" and he answered me with a bunch of places, like Vietnam vets always do, that I have no idea where they were, making my question kind of stupid in the first place. "What was it like?" Etc. When I start probing, it goes on and on. And you know what? Just like Brian Lamb on C-SPAN could tell you, people like to talk about themselves, if you're mildly interested.

Walt told me a hair-raising story no doubt true in every detail. That he was a sergeant in an office, and guys would come in stoned out of their minds; it was the '60s. Some of them were like potential mass-murderers. He feared for his life, to the extent that he taped or affixed in some way a gun to the underside of his desk. Some of these stoned guys would come in, start seeing crazy stars or whatever, and get crazy. He'd tell them with the greatest confidence in his voice, "Turn right around and march your ass out of here, or else." And they'd go.

But it all came to a head when this one "crazy sick bastard, stoned out of his gourd" (Walt's words) not only got threatening, but started to come over the desk. Walt reached down and blew the guy's crotch all to hell. Seriously! It didn't kill him, but he (the guy) wished it had! He lived, but was never the same. Really, Walt had no idea what happened to him. They flew the guy out and that was it. Walt had to give a deposition and was cleared. Presumably, though -- I don't know -- the guy might still be out there, a veteran without a crotch, who, once he got over being stoned, came back down and had to wonder what happened to it. That'd be my first concern. Walt said, "The craziest shit happens in the Army!"

We talked like that for quite a while, with Walt pausing once in a while from fixing my window. He was laughing, I was laughing, it was great. I learned lots of other stuff about his life, which I'm not going to go into.

After he left, I started thinking, that'd be very cool, to have a gun taped to the bottom of your desk. You can never be too safe.

When Nature Kills

There it is again, another one of those terrible headlines, "Men Faint in Grip of Death." The newspapers blare it out, another one is gone, two more have met their demise, or three have all, each one, met their maker through death.

But what are we supposed to do about it? Prevention of course is always the best medicine, but having failed to administer it in time, what are we supposed to do? The short answer is, There's nothing you can do. Maybe throw up your hands in despair, that's always an option. Worthless, but doable.

And we haven't even gotten to the worst part. The worst part is, It could happen to you! I personally have a number of plans for tomorrow, which I will very likely be around to accomplish. Like I usually do when it gets tall, I'll probably mow the grass. I'll be taking the garbage out to the side of the road. And a few things like that, incidental stuff. But it could happen to me! Sudden death could happen, my own senseless end, which is truly unfathomable from the point of view of the normal continuing ego.

But think about it. I'm not that much different from anyone else. And tomorrow, like it or not, there are going to be thousands of people -- 100,000 to 200,000 people, who will croak. Google it! We'll split the difference and say 150,000. 150,000 immortal souls will shed their robe of flesh and ascend into the ether, and be gone. Which means the "Ghost Hunters" show ought to be considered a growth industry. It literally could happen to you!

OK, what do you think the number one cause of death is? It's not drive-by shootings, war, or the ravages of acne. Although of those three, only the ravages of acne is a subcategory of the number one cause. The number one cause of death is "natural causes." A bad heart, whether your own fault or not. Bad lungs, whether your own fault or not. An overdose of Cialis, always your fault, but a hell of a way to go ... I hear. The visitation goes on and on. Takes the undertaker six days to shut the lid.

All those things are ... natural causes. Nature itself, poor, innocent, benign nature ... Mother Nature, even ... is a cold, calculating, heartless serial killer. There's no getting around it! Nature itself is worse than John Wayne Gacy, and all the rest of 'em put together! Yet, what do we like to do? "Go out to nature!" I hear that and it makes me sick. A lady I know does this screwy new age meditation out in "nature," listening to the bubbling creek, the nearly silent flit-flit-flit of butterfly wings, and the "sound of silence" of the passing clouds, not to mention the dulcet warbling of an unseen bird. In my opinion, that's crap.

Another way to look at it, and probably more realistic, is this: You could drown in a bubbling creek, you could open your mouth in wonder and the butterfly could choke you, and the passing clouds could be hiding a tornado. The bird could dive-bomb you and peck your eyes out, leaving you to stagger sightlessly toward home till you fall off a cliff. Then you're dead! And what about the sun? Anyone who's ever crawled halfway across a desert could tell you something about the sun...

The bottom line is, Beware of nature!

Everyday we hear of them, our fellow creatures, who die of "natural causes." And, yes, it sounds so nice. They lived a nice long life, they say, but they don't always speak the rest of it: Nature got them! You can do what you want, that's on you. But as for me, except for what I absolutely have to do tomorrow, like taking out the garbage, I'm staying inside!

Having Just Eaten A Grilled Steak

That's what it looked like before I got it all eaten. Now that I've eaten it, who knows what it looks like. Probably not as appetizing!

While it lasted, it was great. And it was fairly thick. Before I grilled it, I started thinking, you know, this might be too red inside, because what I know about grilling ... it's not much. Still, I did my best, cut into it a few times and checked the redness, then when I thought it'd be just right, pulled it off the fire and set it there proudly on my plate.

I started slicing into it, and it was good to my taste buds, very much like what I anticipated. A little A-1 sauce, and ummm-ummm, nice. And I kept going, too, not stopping -- stopping just long enough to take this picture -- till I was done. I should say, I had to quit giving my dog Underbrush food at the veterinarian's orders, since it's killing her, but this was so good, she got three bites. I don't think it'll do her any harm. She had the right of first refusal.

Now, virtually a half hour after the last bite, I'm still feeling pretty good. Although for me eating like that means I start losing my mental sharpness. My mental sharpness goes like this: First thing in the morning, it's 70 miles an hour in a 20 mph zone. Then it steadily loses mph till it's time for lunch. Then with lunch, it's crawling. The only way I'm able to write this post at all is out of simple delirium from such a great lunch.

You know, this is Easter. Going to church was number one of my blessings today, and a close runner-up, number one-B was this steak. The choir was knocking numbers out of the park, the children's message resonated with me (a black jellybean is sinful, a red one is Christ's cleansing blood, the white one is saved), and of course Pastor Wadd had a great resurrection message with his usual anti-fornication tie-in. Then I went to the store and actually ran into a guy from the church, a guy I don't know. I said, "Didn't I see you at my church?" He had some weird response, like, "I was there today," then he was more obscure and mysterious. All I wanted him to say was, "Hey, yeah, how are ya?" So I got my steak and left.

While eating it, I started thinking of one of my old cousins (not a first cousin) who we always called Cousin Beef. True story. The guy could grill like nobody's business. Never talked, just made satisfied eating noises, like I did above, with the ummmms; in fact, when I said it, that's what made me think of Beef. At one of our reunions I tried to talk to him about his cooking. And all he could do was make these noises. His wife had to translate for me, like, "He says, 'Yes, it came out really well.'" That kind of thing. It was all the same noises, maybe with a different stress here or there, and the wife always had the gift of interpretation. Wonder where Beef is -- I really don't know.

So here I sit, about to bust. Blessings and well-cooked beef to each one of you on Easter Sunday! That's a heck of a picture, isn't it? Look at that, I had two knives going! The knife on the right's the one I was checking the beef with while it was cooking, and I also used it to stir the corn. The other knife, even though I had it out for slicing the steak, I didn't use it. I used only the knife on the right.

Quick reading comprehension test: Which knife did I use for eating my steak? What did I do with the other one?

Easter Bunny Moves His Schtick To Next Week

This is going to take a lot of kids by surprise, since it will be the first Easter without eggs, but we finally got it taken care of. We've heard the complaints for years about the Easter Bunny screwing with "the true meaning of Easter," by getting it mixed up with candy eggs, and, our personal favorite, solid milk chocolate idols of himself.

Welcome to the first Easter without the Easter Bunny! We got it accomplished, and it wasn't that hard; he's a reasonable guy, and once he heard the issue explained, he was more than willing to compromise. It's kind of odd, I think, but he's operated with a whole different way of thinking. He wasn't even aware of the issue. Somehow he'd never heard the story of Jesus, his death and being raised from the dead.

I know when someone is lying, and the Easter Bunny was really on the level! So I'm busy sketching it out for him, the basic story. Then I'm backing it up a bit and giving him the whole background, just whose death and resurrection he's been messing with. And I could see his furry forehead start to moisten; his agitation was real. He was even afraid, looking up, like he expected a lightning bolt at any moment.

At that point, I had to handle it carefully. Were I to be callous in the face of his extraordinary ignorance, he might completely go over to the dark side and turn Easter into a heretical grudge match. If his soul were to be damned, without grace and hope, then why not! I comforted him, letting him know the purpose of the Lord's work, that he might be forgiven and have new life.

What an important discovery! "All these years I always sensed there was something else going on, but what? Who do you ask? I just figured, everyone seems fairly cool, so I kept doing my thing. Now, though, looking back, I was blind, but now I see!"

I helped him along, as he saw his quandary. He doesn't want to screw with religion, but what about the kids? They love him! "When could I share my eggs and candy?" he asked. We looked at the calendar and I said, "What about next week?" There's nothing next week. Jesus gets raised today, and by tomorrow it's all over. Next week is nothing. "Do it next week! Then we'll have two special days!"

So from now on, that's what's going to happen. Easter will be reserved for spiritual meditation and whatever. But the Sunday after will be given over to the fun and excitement of the Easter Bunny bringing all the tasty treats we've forever known and enjoyed!

But he wondered again about the kids, really, how would they take it?

I explained that, yes, it's going to come as a shock today, but I don't think they'll be too disappointed. It's just one more week, and it'll give them something to look forward to, a whole Sunday for eating candy and getting sick! The anticipation will be fun in its own way, as they count down the days. Then it's here!

"Yes!" the Easter Bunny said, doing a happy dance to match his spirit. "They can get the resurrection of the Lord out of the way today, then they'll have the whole week to look forward to the goodies I'll bring! They'll like that very much!"

I'm Selling Easter Bunnies At The Craft Sale

Like I've been doing for a number of years now -- I think this must be 10 years -- I'm selling Easter bunnies at the shopping center craft sale. Thank God Easter only comes once a year, because sitting here, and of course putting up with all the crap, can be almost too much.

I'm always an optimist. Especially when it comes to religious holidays. I always think religious holidays ought to bring out the best in people. So that, say you're at a craft sale, they ought to be a lot more willing to part with their hard-earned money for whatever trifles people are selling, for their own benefit, and also because I'm helping them get more into the spirit of the holiday. But no, it's the same old crap, a big disappointment from my point of view

And then there's the craft sale business period. It's gone to hell, I think. The shopping center doesn't respect the hard work we put into crafting They don't respect crafters, period! Except for the bigger crafters, who are practically moguls compared to the rest of us, the peons. That really came out this year especially. The way they had us set up this year, of course we were down at the far end, in the vicinity of the stores that start up and shut down a few weeks later.

But here's the twist this year: They set up the moguls first, then dribble dribble dribble, you have the next top dog, then another, and so on, until you get to the true peons, the few of us with only one table each. I was right there -- those bastards -- at the very end of the line. So that by the time any customer might ever wander down as far as me, they'd most like spent all their money, or were looking like they thought they'd be mugged if they went much farther.

I'm very fortunate that I only do this one sale now in the year. Because there's nothing more unpleasant than hearing the grousing of crafters at craft sales. Which I actually caught myself joining in, because, for crying out loud, what are we, scum under people's feet? By the time you put money into your supplies, your table rental, and the entire day's time, you're lucky to make pennies on the dollar. You're sitting there like some kind of off-scouring, with squalling kids and cranky mothers who don't feel like buying them cute bunnies, etc. It's enough to drive you wacky.

But I'm focused on my own grief. My own grief keeps me very busy. Although, yes, I was listening to what everyone else was saying. About the moguls and the rest of us. That was a big topic of conversation. What I really think might be behind it, ultimately, is the old tactic of divide and conquer. Like this: The shopping center knows we hold a cudgel against them for the yearly mistreatment. But what if they divide the crafters and get us at each other's throats? Suddenly, we're not standing united and the shopping center steamrolls us. Not that standing united really has done us that much good in the past.

But take this year. If we'd been united, maybe they would've rethought the increase on table fees. Five damned dollars more! And I can't raise my prices. I'm already scraping the bottom as far as any profit goes, but in a bad economy, you tell me, is anyone going to pay top dollar, even though they're clearly worth it, for a few styrofoam bunnies? No, the morons are pinching pennies, probably saving their money for food or cable TV, which also goes up all the time.

Add to my misery the fact that I always feel I have to give them a bargain if they buy more than one. They're $5 each, OK? It's set in stone, because I can't raise the price, as I said. But if you buy two, then they're $9 total. I'm losing a whole buck everything someone wants two, which is about the same as giving the damned things away. A few twofers I can absorb. But if people knew my margin, they could wipe me out on these sale just like that! So I'm sitting there praying two things, 1) For a sale period; and, 2) Please buy them one at a time; the twofers aren't helping me...

That's the financial beef. Then there's all the rest. Like everybody and their damned cameras! You tell me: Isn't it widely known, universally known, that you don't take pictures at craft sales? It's simply not done! It's forbidden! And for very good reason. We don't want the rest of the world taking pictures, then stealing our ideas and making their own crafts at home. This is a point all of us agree on, mogul or peon. On this, in fact, it's the moguls leading the way. They go to enough craft sales, they have professionally-made signs, full color with illustrations, a camera in a red circle crossed out, meaning, "No cameras allowed! No pictures, please!"

But the big difference between now and, say, 10 years ago, is there's a lot more cameras. And people, especially kids, who aren't shy about popping out their phone, then whipping it up to take a picture of your stuff. They don't think a thing of it! It's in their nature now! They're stupid! "My hand is permanently affixed to an iPhone camera." People used to have five fingers, now they have a sixth finger, their camera! That's what it looks like. So there we're sitting, the crafters, rolling our eyes at each other, trying to bite our tongue, and casually putting the signs a little closer to the flow of traffic. Fat lot of good it does. They don't teach reading in school anymore!

I'm sitting there, watching all this go on, and I was that close, I was about to bust. But thank God I held it in, for the most part. Because this one guy, two tables up from me, he had his fill, and he did bust. It was after noon, he hadn't eaten, thanks to being at the end of the line and only making two sales -- he paints smiley faces on jelly beans -- so he busted. And I know that's no excuse. But these brainless teenage girls were going in real close on his beans, snapping pictures of the smiles.

Well, he showed them a scowl! "Do you not see these signs? 'No photos allowed.' This isn't a photo studio, darlin'! The items you see on the tables are for sale. Otherwise, everything you see is copyrighted, my intellectual property. So no pictures, thank you!" That was a very snide 'thank you,' which really showed them, since they immediately left with a bunch of swear words barely concealed under their breath, and, incongruously, giggling. The guy was sitting there, red as a beet, and fuming. He looked around for some support and our eyes met. I gave him a thumbs up, then decided to rearrange my table.

It's been dead since then. Like some kind of cutoff point. Like maybe the girls went back and spread the word. Probably not. It's just always that way after noon. The ones who wanted something got here early. Anyone who shows up after noon is here by accident, and they don't care. To them you're just garbage blocking the halls. Except for me, I'm so far down no one generally makes it that far.

So the bottom line is, I sold only a few, less than 20. Some of those were twofers. The good news, if I'm willing to dig for good news, is I won't have to make quite as many next year, since I still have plenty of stock.

-------------------------
2011 - The Easter Craft Sale
2010 - Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center

Roller Coasters And Syringes

I agree with the Reese's ad, chocolate and peanut butter are two great things that go great together. I can't even imagine one without the other. Although I do like them separately, too. A few other great things that go great together includes wood and toothpicks, stainless steel and table knives, and cotton candy and sugar. You have one, you're naturally going to seek out the other. It's a matter of satisfying a craving.

But there's two other things that definitely don't go great together, roller coasters and syringes. In my opinion, the two have no business being involved in the affairs of the other.

The whole thing came to my attention some years ago, and I've seen it several times since, when I was at an amusement park. I was in line to get on the roller coaster, and there was a lady next to me who wanted to do her insulin shot. It just so happened that at that very second we were at the front of the line. So there she was, fiddling with a syringe and a little vial of liquid, wondering what to do. We got on and she was still debating, wasting precious seconds when she could've been taking the shot. She was just about to do it, then, when the roller coaster lurched forward.

OK, so there we go, and she had the syringe out, and was very conflicted. She was raising her shirt, exposing her belly, then covering it again. Finally, she thought, she'd go for it. Which was a disaster. Just as she was about to give herself the shot, the roller coaster bumped violently side to side, going around a sharp corner, which turned out to indeed be a sharp corner for her. The syringe was jabbing every which way but loose, not being embedded in her flesh long enough to actually release the insulin, then it was back out. Had to hurt.

It went on like that for most of the ride. (These rides are always exactly 48 seconds long, but with an exposed weapon and no way to get off, it seemed longer.) There she was. The first corner wasn't the worst. A bunch of terrible corners were coming up. At one corner, not only did she jab her leg and pull the syringe out just as quickly, but the vial went flying.

I don't know why, but corners on roller coasters always get worse the farther you go. We went down a steep hill and then we started left but quickly turned right. This time the syringe went backwards against one of her legs, depressing the thruster, spraying insulin everywhere, then as we quickly turned right, it went into her other leg, with no juice left. It looked painful, and probably was!

By the time we got to the end, only a few seconds later, she was distressed, mentally and physically. The vial was gone, the syringe was empty; there was nothing but puddles of blood and freshly flayed, hanging skin. It was very unappealing to me.

Brady The Coroner

Here's an idea for a sitcom I sent to Hollywood, "Brady the Coroner," the life of a coroner who'd rather be doing anything but coronering.

The background is this: His grandfather was a coroner as was his father. So he felt somewhat pressured to go into coronering, he was coronered. But his true love, what he's got his heart completely fixed on, his one passion, is anything but that. He works out the conflict by living every variation of the secret life he can think of, selling antiques, being a clown at kids' parties, taking on odd jobs, etc.

The show itself has conflict, in that every time they need a coroner, our hero, Dick Brady, is hard to find, which is reflected in the theme song, sung to the tune of "Brighten the Corner Where You Are":

Brady the Coroner, where are you?
Brady the Coroner, where are you?
They found another body out on Highway 42.
Brady the Coroner, where are you?*

We cut back and forth from the scene of death to whatever Brady is doing instead. People on the scene, the police, the judge the police are in touch with, everyone, are at their wits end. They're calling him, messaging him, but he ignores them.

Finally, though, responsibility rises up in him and he takes the call, gets out there, does the coroner's job that has so terribly encroached on his life and joy, and then disappears again in the excitement when his part is done.

Brady also has a love interest, so sometimes he's over at her place.

I hope Hollywood likes the idea. I sent it to "Any Big Producer, General Delivery, Hollywood, CA." So I'm expecting to hear back from them any day.

---------------------
*Song lyrics Copyright 2012 dbkundalini, reprinted by permission

As You Are Now, I Once Was

"As you are now, I once was. As I am now, you also shall be."

Forever, this is one of the greatest sentiments I've ever heard!

Back when old folks died in their late 40s, this great sentiment was reserved for gravestones. But now, when you can easily live into your 70s, or even exceed 80, we're hearing it a lot more. I hope you don't think it's too amazing, but even I've been known to mutter it, and I haven't yet turned 60!

Just the other day, I think it was, there was some young scamp giving me the eye as youth is prone to do in the dessicated face of age, as if to say, "I'm cool and you're an old codger. I'm still in the first flower of youth, able to frolic through the streets with long hair, hip clothes, and buff legs. And I've even got some of the cooler eyeglass frames that look like crap on anyone over 29. Look at me, I'm able to turn heads, make entire groups of girls giggle, and name my fee, were they to put me out to stud. I'm pretty! I'm poetic! I can dazzle with the best of 'em! If I'm sitting on a rock playing with a weed, I'm a god. If I'm lounging on a bench outside the bar reading a paperback, I'm a genius lost in thought. If I brush my hand against the ragged whiskers of my chin, I'm the image of beauty. I might just stay up all night! I certainly could! I could stay up all night and laugh about whatever, the universe! And I'm into vintage vinyl!"

Of course I'm looking at him somewhat askance. Vintage vinyl, huh? I bought those new. Honestly, I'm not begrudging him his imagined supremacy. If that's the way he wants to think, I know exactly how it goes. Because that's the first part of the epitaph, "As you are now, I once was." Other guys like me -- dumber guys -- probably are bitter. But what's there to be bitter about? We knew we were going to lose it. Your skin starts to sag and wrinkle up, but you're still obviously you. Your teeth fall out and you're depressed, but look on the bright side, you've still got a tongue that's pink. For every bad thing, there's something good. You sleep more, but what's there to stay awake for? Your hair looks like a mangy dog, but the bald spots aren't that bad, as long as you keep your cap on.

I might be quite a bit better at this than others of my years, to tell the truth. Because I was with my grandparents a long time, so I saw right up close what it means to deteriorate. I should say, however, that old folks were different back then. They actually were keeping the epitaph for their grave. And they had next to no bitterness, because there never were cool. This goes back before teenagers as a dominant market force and 20-somethings as the ideal person. In fact, back then, it was just the opposite. They respected folks older than themselves who'd somehow managed to survive, and as for kids, they thought they were morons. So the epitaph was more of a cautionary thing about life and death in general than the bitterness of age ranting against the blitheness of youth.

Yes, I'm definitely convinced. Everyone else is bitterer than me. I'm barely bitter at all. Really, I mean if these guys I see, like the young scamp above, thinks he's hot stuff and in his eyes I'm an animated corpse, that's his trip. I wouldn't expect him to understand fully the sentiment -- given his lack of years and sense -- "As you are, I once was."

My picture, though, has the young woman, her back cut down to there, being observed by the older gal, whose bun might be too tight. "Look at her, lost in his arms, probably doesn't even know what an emergency dime is! Her precious back is cut so low! Honey, just drop the skintight rag and be done with it! Of course she'll be nude soon enough, and keeping Lothario entertained all night long! With no one to answer to!" So much for women.

OK, then the other side of the coin is, "As I am now, you also shall be." Ah, yes, our revenge! We shall have our revenge, if only we're able to live long enough to see it. And leaving out that we'll be even more wasted, while the once young scamp will still be relatively young. Be that as it may, if he's out with his long hair, etc., and it all looks like crap, that's good revenge. Or she with her low-cut back, "Cover it up, Grandma, your skin's leather!" She's been surpassed by the next generation and is now the butt of bitter remarks. Teaching her a lesson or two: 1) She should've avoided tanning booths; and, 2) Hold on to 16 as long as you can.

Remember, you young rascals, the Grim Reaper is coming for you, too. And I'm loving it! So enjoy it while you can, because before long you too will be a miserable shell of your former self. Before you know it! LOL, I offer you knowing laughter, because I know exactly how you're going to feel, like crap. LOL!

---------------------
Related post: "Enjoy Your Youth -- It's About Over"

Washington Vs. Lincoln -- The Pregame Show

The Big Championship Game was already played, on Sunday, March 25, with Lincoln beating Washington. In the newspaper account of Wednesday, March 28, we learned the score, seeing that the Lincoln hardcourt boys had edged Washington in the cager classic, 56-54. Today, Monday, April 2, we're listening to the pregame show, which of course was recorded before the game but only now is presented, thanks to the miracle of tape delay.

The voices we hear are those of the various announcers, whose identities are not all that important. But they include Bud, Bud, Dick, and Ralph.

-- Both teams will be giving it all they got. They are well aware, you can be sure, that there's no tomorrow for either team. Today, right now, this very minute, is all they have. There's no more days to count. It all comes down to this, the present moment, the eternal now, if you will. If they don't leave it all, everything's they've got, on the floor today, and I mean today, it's not going to make one damned bit of difference tomorrow. You can take it to the bank, it's gonna happen...

-- I'm picking Washington, Ralph, and I'll tell you why. Washington was our first president, and any team that takes that name knows it has to fight like George himself to be Number One. There's no second place for a team called Washington!
-- But of course Washington has lost before, Bud. There's no team in America with an perfectly unbeaten record over the years. They've come in second before, clearly, as you well know, so it could happen again, but I believe I get your point.
-- Exactly, my point is not that they haven't lost before -- even they would admit the obvious truth, not being able to tell a lie. My point is they're going to give it all they've got, not just for the sake of the game, which is big in and of itself, but to bring honor to their name and Washington's primacy.
-- Agreed.

-- Lincoln's looking good this year. And you have to hand it to them, I think they're going to come out ready to play. And I believe with a lot of scrappiness and gettin' on it from the git-go. I can see them throwing Washington off their game. You know, Washington may have the primacy in terms of being the first president -- that's indisputable --, but Lincoln in poll after poll is people's favorite president, hands down. Get me?
--I do, Dick, I get you. It's like this: Washington, being first, never had to live up to someone else's reputation. But Lincoln, coming after, knew he had to be a scrappier president, and get on it from the git-go, if he was going to overtake the previous giant. He started a Civil War, for crying out loud, that's damned scrappy, if you ask me! But that's what he had to do! If you want to fill a giant's shoes, you gotta go for the glory. And I think that's exactly how Lincoln's going to play today.

--Who do I like? I like Zeke Denominator for Washington. He starts down low but divides the crowd and comes out on top. And they've got Kelvin Celsius, whose had the hot hand lately. He's a lot like Denominator. He gets down low and before you know it, rises high to the rim and has the other team sweating it out. And of course Lincoln has Phillip Nozzle. When they put him in and he's pumping shots, Lincoln's miles ahead. And their big man, Wilt Redwood, stands head and shoulders above 'em all, dropping the ball in for quick scores or giving cover to the rest of the team.
-- Don't forget Washington's Abe Lanky, Bud.
-- No, no, of course not!
-- It's a bad name for a Washington man, but it forces the big man to play that much harder, to show he's not a Lincoln plant. I can see him matching Redwood point for point.

-- Everything's set for a great championship. The setting, the rivalry, the atmosphere, it's all just right. We have the Washington Eagles, with their hatchets and cherry tree branches, and the Lincoln Panthers, pushing their angular faces forward with fake beards and tousled, nondescript haircuts. Someone's hopes die today, and course Lincoln's always watching their back. Will Washington remain standing to cross the river of victory? Or will Lincoln leave the building, not in a box, but by the power of their own two feet? Time will tell. The coming together of past, present, and future will tell the whole story. And we already know the outcome in part: One of these two great teams will go down in history for glory, and the other in shame.