Dirty Tricks

 I'm in real trouble. C.W. stayed up late and created this meme that he posted on the internet so my wife could see it first thing. I'm hiding from her and he is hiding from me.

DAILY NEWS

 C.W. came by this morning. I hadn't seen him in ages. He had worried about Covid and hasn't been around much. Anyway, today he looked a lot like I imagine Charles Darwin might have looked.

"What's up?" he said.

"Where have you been?"

"Somewhere safe, watching," he said.

"To what do I owe the  pleasure?"

"Does your species understand natural selection?"

I thought. "Some do. Many don't."

"The species may get hit by it, and not in a pleasant way."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Remember that the role of a male is to impregnate as many females as he can to propagate a species much like himself."

"Yes."

"And remember that the role of a female is to propagate wisely, as with most things. That's why we don't understand why they aren't the rulers."

"So. Do you have a point?"

"Yes. What happens if they aren't allowed to choose wisely."

"What do you mean?"

"What if rapist and child-molesters decide to develop a dominant species by spreading their seeds abundantly and pervasively?"

A crack appeared in the clouds of my thinking and a shaft of light emerged.

"And what if the results of their base decision were now protected by your laws so propagation would prove inevitable?"

"You mean the products of wickedness might be protected by the courts?

"I mean floods of mutants infiltrating your species. Nothing more. Nothing less."

"Did you come back after all these years just to make me feel worse than I already do?"

INVOLVEMENT

 The Alien C.W. was très upset. I could hear him from the next room.

“Shtoo++pitdazoles+,” he said, loud enough to be heard outside. I walked in and found him shaped much like a middle-aged Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

“Say what?”

“Foul increment,” he practically screamed it at me.

“Bitte?”

“Listen to my GUT,” he said. I heard his Galactic Universal Translator begin to hum.

“Never mind,” I said. “I think I get the picture.”

“What is it with your species?” he said, aiming the question at me like he thought I might answer.

“¿Qué?” I like to screw with him when he gets like this.

“What does it mean,” he said, “when one of your leaders talks about waging a war with ‘no boots on the ground’ in some foreign country peopled by your own species.”

“It refers to using war to settle international differences with another country without actually having our military personnel involved in that country, so to speak.”

His GUT hummed and he listened. “And how is this accomplished?”

“Remotely,” I said. “We can send planes from ships and unmanned drones from Iowa, wiping them out like cleaning a windshield.”

“To settle differences?”

“Yes.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“Then we send troops.”

“And who comprises these troops? Do they hunt down individuals to conduct these ‘boots on the ground’ operations?”

“Uh, no. They rely on volunteers now.”

“Such as the children of the leaders?”

“Uh, no. Others.”

“Like you?” he said. “No, I remember now. You actually volunteered for war, didn’t you?”

“Kinda sorta.”

His Gut hummed. “Elucidate.”

“I reluctantly volunteered for what I thought would be an assignment that wouldn’t involve my boots being on the ground, i.e. naval forces.”

“So what happened?”

“They sent my boots and my ass to be on the ground.”

He thought for a moment. “Can you see why Falloonian Elders think your species might need recalling?”

A HOME

 The Alien C.W. and I were walking about the farm talking, he in his best impression of Albert Einstein and I as, well, I'm stuck with myself. We were taking bets on whether we could solve the pressing crisis in the availability of affordable housing.

He had been silent for a spell, but then turned and began to speak. “Someone once said that ‘the poor will be with us always.’ Is this not true?”

“What? That someone said it or that we are stuck with the poor and huddled masses that Lady Liberty welcomes with such graciousness?”

“This is no time for levity,” he said. “Did someone say that?”

“Yes,” I said, “the Galilean is credited with that bit of wisdom.”

“Was he correct?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he missed it this time. Or maybe he’s changed his mind during the last two thousand years.”

“You are familiar with this Abraham Maslow and his so-called ‘hierarchy of needs’ are you not?”

“A passing acquaintance,” I said. “We’re not joined at the hips, or anything like that.” I forgot about his beloved shape of Lefty and Lucky, the conjoined twins.

“You know… you are still being pissy.”

“I think you mean ‘pithy’ don’t you?”

His Galactic Universal Translator hummed. “I’ll stand by what I said.”

“You always trust your Gut, then?”

“Consider the need for basic shelter,” he said. “That was one of Herr Maslow’s most basic needs, am I right?”

“So far so good.”

“I’ve done some research,” he said.

Oh hell. I hate it when he does this to me. “And?”

“The places that currently have affordable housing available are those where many people do not want to live.”

“To a large extent. Some neighborhoods in pre-Katrina New Orleans broke the pattern, and ‘pre-gentrification Greenwich Village. A few still exist.”

“And the places that need affordable housing are the places where many want to live.”

“One might say so.”

“Ostensimately in order to have homes that appreciate in value along with basic retail and services?”

I think you mean ‘ostensibly’ but yes.”

He consulted his GUT. “Ostensibly, they want services, but don’t want the service workers nearby.”

“One might say so.”

“ And if we could  build affordable housing in those very places to which people are fleeing in such droves …,”

“That’s not a likely prospect.”

“Why?”

“Another day. Another walk.”

“If we could place said affordable housing there on the free market, experience indicates that it will not remain affordable for long.”

“That seems to be the case.”

“Then why does a new study indicate that if we just made it easier to build low-cost housing in high-growth cities, the problem would solve itself?”

“Because the study was done by east-coast grads of ‘Ivy-League Schools’ and not by people who need basic shelter or those who profit from housing.”

He stroked his chin and drew on his pipe. After exhaling a dense, choking cloud of smoke he said, “That doesn’t make any sense. Helping the poor from a comfortable room on a full stomach doesn’t actually scream empathy, now does it? Clichés will not solve the affordable housing crisis, only bold action that has, to this point been only voiced by prophets, philosophers, and penniless preachers. Am I correct?”

“Let me get back to you on that.” He was on a roll but I was wearying of our talk.

“I mean, wouldn’t that be like appointing a group of women to create laws addressing this sexual addiction among the males of your species? Is this how you seek the truth?”

I turned to look at him. “Hey,” I said. “Let’s go check on the football scores.”

CHOICES

 The Alien C.W. had been hiding from me since that incident over the antique sewing machine. I was looking for him.

“Oh wow.”

I heard that from my work area and knew it meant trouble. Surely enough, I walked in and found Arnold Awesome at my computer. Yeah, it was the Alien himself in one of his favorite shapes. He turned and saw me.

“Hey sir,” this is beyond awesome. Come look.” he said, pointing at the screen and seizing the initiative in one swift move.

I looked. “What? And don’t use the word ‘awesome.’ It makes you sound like a sophomore.”

“I am a sophomore,” he said. “But never mind that. See here?” He pointed at the computer screen.

“It’s just the daily news,” I said. I’ll read it later, after you have straightened up your mess in the sewing room.”

“Mrs. Big Dope said for me not to worry about it,” he said. “All is forgiven. Now check this out.”

“What?”

“I’m special.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

“How?”

“I’m a man, least I will be in four more years. This is, like, great.”
“Don’t insert ‘like’ into your sentences. It makes you sound illiterate. Besides, you are an alien.”

“Exactly.”

“Elucidate.” He loves that word.

“Means I have choices now that I didn’t have.”

“What choices?”

“In Falloonia, we have no choice about ‘Shtukwida++kreap,’ don’t you see?”

“With what?”

His Galactic Universal Translator hummed. “What you might call ‘marriage’ in your society.”

“Ahh.” I sipped my coffee.

“So look what I can do here. Your Elders say so.”

“What?”

“What are the main two things in choosing a mate-partner?”

“You tell me.”

“Making sure you like them and making sure you can procreate with them.”

“That’s the way you see it?”

“Yeah, but the order is important for us men.”

I felt my eyes start to roll but controlled them. “How so?”

“Some guys tell me that it seems that you like one until you procreate and then find out that you were wrong. By then it’s too late. You are left with all sorts of responsibility.”

“And?”

“Your Elders say now we can procreate first—a man like you or me can—then decide if we like them.”

“I’m confused. What happens next?”

“If you don’t like them after the unit is born, you just try another choice. What is it you say, ‘No harm, no foul’ or something like that?”

I sighed. “And what happens to the object of your first attempt?”

“Who?”

“The other half of the species required for procreation?”

“What do you mean?”

“The non-male bearing the child from the experience.”

“Oh,” he said. “They aren’t among the chosen.” He closed the computer. “Look,” he said, “I have to run. I wasn’t being exactly truthful about Mrs. Big Dope forgiving me. I’m lighting out for the next territory over with some buddies.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, we’re trying out for parts in a movie they are filming there.”

“A movie, you say?”

“Yeah, it’s one of those ‘coming of age comedies’ about a boy like me spending his summer vacation seducing his girlfriend to win a bet with his pals.”

 

 

FAME

 I came through the living room and C.W. was reading news on my wife’s Ipad. He was in the somewhat unusual shape of a well-dressed, and very attractive, teenage girl. He/she was shaking his/her head.

“What’s up,” I asked.

“Seelishkrepi++sar,” he said, being himself, the alien. Then I heard his Galactic Universal Translator hum.

“Say what?”

His Gut was Telling him something.

“Bizarre,” he said.

“What?”

“There’s a feature article in your news source about the passing of a woman who became famous for having sex with every member of a Rock and Roll band in one night. The lead singer mentioned it in one of their hit songs.”

“I seem to remember,” I said. “So?”

“Did you know her?”

“Someone pointed her out to me in a bar once,” I said, “but I can claim neither acquaintance nor recipience.”

“And she was famous for that act?”

“Well, that and stories she told about performing same-same for other bands and famous musicians who came to town. They call them ‘groupies’ and she was the national heroine.”

“So what worthwhile achievements garnered her such notice? How did she earn the acclaim?”

“Just being famous, I suppose. You aren’t the first visitor who asked me about her.”

He retreated into his character.

“So,” she asked. “If I do the same, can I, like, be famous? I mean, like, you know, for, like, having sex with a famous person or maybe more than one.” The eyes that looked into mine were as blue as a quiet winter’s sky and beaming from a face as fresh and innocent as a newborn lamb’s. “My friends, like, tell me I should become somebody, and I’m, like, I don’t know how.”

“Why don’t you read something besides the news,” I said.

COUNTING

 The Alien C.W. was bent over my desk this morning looking much like a harried accountant. He looked up, raised his green visor, and stared at me. “Ah,” he said. “Just the person I wanted to see.” He stopped, took a pencil, and drew a line under a line of figures and returned to staring. “Did you find out?”

“About what?” I sipped my coffee with a great deal of deliberation. I like to mess with his three minds.

“About the census that your people take ever few weeks.”

“Ten years,” I said.

“Earth years,” he said. “When are you going to switch to Galaxy Time?”

“In ten seconds,” I said. He didn’t laugh.

“Well, was it accurate? Did you ask her?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She’s been retired for some time,” I said. “In Earth years. She said it was a bit different this time. Said the census was a good as the people and institutions that undertake it.”

“And it is important?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“To orient government aid.”

“Your government does that?”

It used to. Now the main purpose of the census, according to the news, is to determine legislative power.”

He stared.

“Oh,” I said, “And bragging rights.”

He leaned back and put his fingers over his eyes in the universal gesture of exasperation. I could tell he missed his other two sets of eyes and hands. He took a deep breath and spoke. “You Earthlings,” he said. “Bragging rights?”

“Yes.”

“Elucidate.”

“It’s like this: If your community, city, or state is growing in population, it is a good place.”

“And if it doesn’t?

I made a gesture of a knife being drawn across my throat.

“Do your people understand the principle of Skroodeep++,” he stopped. Thought and stared at the ceiling. I could tell his Galactic Universal Translator was speaking to him. He nodded and said, “The principle of ‘cause and effect’ at all?”

“A few do.”

“When they do, how do they assign a cause to population growth?”

“Most often they attribute it to what they call a ‘quality school system’ and leave it at that.”

“A quality school system?”

“Bingo.”

“What?”

“That means you are correct.”

He stopped. A frown of thought contorted his face. Then he relaxed. “Wait one,” he said, turning to a note pad on his far side. He scribbled something and turned back. “Okay,” he said. “Where were we?”

Before I could speak, he said, “Just a second. I forgot something I was supposed to do for Mrs. Big Dope. I’ll be right back.” With that, he arose and left the room. He no longer takes promises to that individual lightly.

I couldn’t resist. Checking to make sure the wasn’t watching, I walked over and checked his note pad. On it he had written a brief note, which puzzled me.

“Falloonian Elders' Report,” it started. Then, “Dog whistles.”

JOBS

 I found the Alien C.W. picking my new guitar when I arose and went to my "music room" this morning. You won't believe what I saw. He had chosen the shape of a country singer and was belting out a marvelously weird rendition of the old standard "Working Man Blues."

He stopped when I walked in. "Tell me something, Slick," he said.

"I told you once not to call me that."

"Oh yeah, I forgot, Hotshot."

I ignored him. "Put that guitar down, I had to lie to the Commanding Officer about how much it cost. It's not for you to destroy."

He returned it tot the case. "Tell me something, Sport."

"As in, what?"

"Hit's Fridee, ain't it? trrying his best to imitate a southern drawl.

"All day."

"Why do your people hate their jobs so much that they only live for Fridays?"

"Not all of them do."

"Then let's you and I write a song titled, "I Love My Job" and see how it sells."

He had me there. "Don't you have something to do?"

"I'm doing it. It's called 'research.' You ought to try it sometime."

"Tell that to the Magahatters."

"They hate their jobs the most, don't they?"

I sensed a rocky road ahead. "Do Falloonians love their jobs?"

"You wouldn't understand. Why don't employers make the jobs more fun?"

"I don't know. Profits I suppose."

"But look," he said, pulling a worn and dusty book from a table, "This says that happy workers produce more."

"I'm going to leave you to your research now."

"Good," he said. "I'm working on another hit."

"I don't think that's a good idea," I said. "You had the Political Correctness Police descending on us with your last."

"This one's different," he said. "It's called 'How You Gonna Walk Straight With This Job Up Your A…?

"Stop it," I said.

"Asset account," he said. "What?"

I walked out, closed the door, and went for breakfast, walking straight as I could.

 THE ACT OF  WAR

An old friend showed up this morning. Yes, it was the Alien C.W. Showed up, best as I can guess, as Mark Twain. He was still up to his old tricks. Said he had been visiting other galaxies where the craziness wasn’t as severe. He acted as if nothing had happened, which was unsettling.

“Had a question,” he said, “how long do your wars last?”

“What do you mean?”

“What is the Standard Unifying Consistency Kinetic for engaging in a war. Your government must have an SUCK factor for controlling costs and casualties. And the private sector must have a metric for projecting Pundit Underwriting costs. The PU factor must be severe in times of war.”

“And you want to know how long they last?” I asked.

“It’s a phenomenon unique to your planet,” he said. “Same as your penchant for knowingly being burnt by overexposure to sunlight.”

“They last as long as they last,” I said. “No longer. Once side just quits and then the other has to as well.”

“Sort of like your standard act of sex?”

I stopped to think, and he continued.

“If you don’t have a SDF, they, wars that is, could last 20, maybe 100 years,” he said. See, some of the other galaxies are wondering about your planet passing the Chiroptera Scat Stability test. Too low on the CSS might bring about serious action. The ship from Tulegria that dropped your Initiation Cells on Earth are beginning to fear they have made a mistake.

“The what kind of test?”

“It’s named after a joke about bat dropping and insanity. Tulegrians have this weird sense of humor.”

“You mean like bat sh--?” I stopped.

“Precisely. Now our research shows that not only might these irrational acts be indeterminate, there is also the profit motive. Is it really true that both sides in these CSS acts are financed from the same sources? If so, that will increase scrutiny and accelerate repercussions.”

“What sort of repercussions.”

“You are familiar with the concept of a virus, aren’t you?”

Film

Sunday mornings offer the best hope for a standard routine at La Casa Big Dope. (How do you like that dear readers? I’m learning to write in what my GUT calls, “your idioms.”) Anyway, it is comforting to know that we will watch a film on a show about a movement called “Film Noir.” I think that means “dark films,” literally “black films.”

Odd, there’s few black actors in any of these films. The only ones play maids, servants, or eternally comedic characters afraid of everything from ghosts to their masters. I had assumed that the style featured the so-called “race films” produced between 1910 and 1950. Some of those avoided the stereotypes. I don’t think white Americans liked them very much.

But no. These films, from what my GUT tells me, represent a a style or genre of cinematographic film marked by a mood of pessimism, fatalism, and menace. See? Dark, like I said. I don’t think Falloonians would like them very much. I like them better when I assume the shape of some cowboy actor or other. Hopalong Cassidy works well.

Next question: why does your species like them so much? Is darkness of spirit appealing to your species?

In the real “black films,” there is music, laughter, and dancing, lots and lots of dancing.

I like dancing. Music too. I even like black people.

I’m not sure I would make a good American, no matter what shape I chose.

Frustration

Being in the same room with Big Dope while he works on his computer is more fun than a Falloonian game of Grubendimbihgdewhasit.

Don't ask.

I curled up shaped as Timmie Joe the 14-year old nerd and worked some kindergarten puzzles based on matrix algebra. They were simple so I could watch BD and do them at the same time. He was trying to program a new Christmas present onto his laptop computer.

To say it was sorta funny would be like calling your president sorta odd.

He claims that software applications used to come with instructions. I guess I believe him.

"Nothing but these %$^**&^! cartoon sketches." I just listened. "How am I supposed to know what they mean?"

He punched some more.

"Notifinga!"

He had me on that one so I waited.

"Numbah &^%$*#@ ten."

I think that was Vietnamese for something bad.

"Du bist und Arschloch!"

Uh, my GUT tells me that is German.

"Ewwscray ooyay"

Can't force my GUT to respond to that one. I'm sending off for an update.

"Bastardo!"

Most of you probably understand that one.

"Fils de pute."

"Vive la france,"  I say.

Finally, sweat pouring from his face, he turned to me. "One favor I ask."

"And that is what?"

"My obituary."

"What about it"

"To read as follows."

"Yes," I turned the puzzle page over and prepared to write.

"Died from multi-lingual exasperation brought on by an over-exposure to learning curves."

Happiness

Mr. and Mrs. Big Dope are taking the day off, so I slipped in to use the main computer. Here's wishing you, on behalf of all Falloonians, a wondrous Christmas Day, although we still have a hard time understanding why your species chooses to argue even about what to call your most beloved time of the year.

Training

I'm frustrated. I'm trying to get my month-end report ready for the Falloonian Elders. Big Dope is trying to train their rescue dog to behave.

"Sit!"

"Sit!"

"No!"

"Sit!"

"No!"

"Now you behave!"

"Cut that out."

"No!"

Of course I could shape up, then go in and talk to the dog for him. I tried that once though, and it didn't turn out too well. I even sat down and talked to the mutt. I explained to her that if she would quit chewing the furniture, wait until she was outdoors to "excuse herself" and not jump on everyone she met, things might go smoother.

She just barked and sniffed my backside. "Wooof," she said.

"No, really," I said. "The just want some peace and quiet. How do you think this bad behavior makes them feel?"

"Rough," She said, then laughed.

"Now cut that out," I said. "And where are all your toys?"

"Roof." she said, pointing a paw upwards.

I gave up and started walking away.

"Well really," she said, "do you want to take away the only pleasure I gain from being stuck in this veritable prison?"

Paradigms

Ask the Falloonian Time: People ask me all the time to name the biggest difference between Falloonians and your species here on Earth, as if three heads and the ability to shift shapes at will weren’t enough. There are too many others to list, but here is one.

We enjoy a practice known as Chivumibreek. A rough translation in your language would be “Allow those things that have occurred in the past to remain those things that have occurred in the past.”

My research shows that you employed such a philosophy in the past, but large segments of your population seems to regard it as a sign of weakness these days. The man who fashioned Christianity, this Apostle Paul of yours, reportedly wreaked havoc on early believers before he obtained the spirit. King Henry the Fifth of England enjoyed quite a rounder’s life before he quit and saved his country. They say that Catherine the Great was a little loose in the uterus.

That’s all changed. It seems that within the most liberal-minded segment of your American society, a mistake, no matter how distant in the past, or juvenile in conception, stays branded one’s reputation like a tattoo on a sailor. I’ve heard they even have groups of “purity warriors” who guard against redemption in any form. There was a distantly related, and self-annihilating, practice among a group I read about called “The Shakers.” They became defunct, it appears, after abandoning the practice of sexual intercourse because of its original sin nature.

Not so for those on the right who practice a particular brand of, shall we say, "ad hoc morality." From all observations, they pick out what we might call a “salvation date,” or the date on which they assumed the persona of righteousness, and forbid anyone from questioning any actions that occurred before that date. For some reason, the press obliges.

Of course, some don’t even have to take that step. All they must do, it seems to an alien observer, is to denounce the things and people you hate, and the mantle of righteousness falls on them like fairy dust descending on an angel’s wings.

Since this group is unified, internationally connected, free from traditional societal paradigms, and heavily funded, they seem destined to rule your planet as long as possible.

That’s why the Falloonian Elders have ordered me to stay packed for a quick departure.

Blue Eyes and Polio

This time of year, I get confused. There is so much mythology floating around, that it is hard for me to accept that your species has managed to escape Earth’s gravitational field. Yes, the distance involved is only relative to a fraction of a layer of soap film compared to real space travel. But it is an accomplishment for a species that accepts that an old fat man delivers free presents to every believing kid on the planet in one night.

Big Dope says I must develop what he calls a “suspension of logic.” That’s one term that my Galactic Universal Translator cannot accommodate.

Although my GUT recoiled at the suggestion that I try to make my Earth hosts happy, I tried. I failed. Suspend logic? It was logic that enabled me to travel to your planet from a couple of galaxies away. It was logic that has nearly rid your planet of polio, although I understand that a breed of your species that calls itself “libertarians” wants to bring it back, along with other nearly defunct diseases.

Anyway. The thing that confuses me this time of year, is what you call the “Nativity Story.” That’s the story of the birth of the figure Big Dope calls “The Galilean.”

As he would say later in life, the Galilean, in what one of my friends calls “The Gig on The Hilltop,” assures the crowd that he is not about to destroy “The Law” but to fulfill it. He’s referring, of course to the Old Testament law, largely set forth in the book of Leviticus and Deuteronomy. Here’s the rub, to a lover of logic. According to the latter source, The Law, as the Galilean calls it, would have had his mother taken to the gates of the city and stoned to death before he was born.

I mentioned that at the supper table the other night while shaped as former president Ronald Reagan. My companions both laughed. The answer? If a snake can be made to talk, a pregnant virgin can withstand a stoning.

It’s going to take your species a long time to reach the next galaxy over.

Sorry, must run. One of my favorite films is about to show. Ironically, it’s about the life of the Galilean. Oddly, the main character has blue eyes, but who cares?

Joy

Do I have to be careful or what? Take this morning for example. I got in trouble for trusting my GUT, my Galactic Universal Translator. I maintain my innocence. See what you think, dear reader.

Big Dope constantly loses his wife. That’s partly because he loses things and partly because she’s a diminutive person and moves in random and undetectable movements, like some distant star which we can’t see but we discern its presence by the movement of other celestial bodies toward it.

Big Dope is walking around looking for his wife and can’t find her anywhere. I’m in my usual early morning shape of Arnold Awesome watching a Bowery Boys movie. He interrupts my act of minding my own business and asks if I’ve seen her.

“Nope. Want me to look for her?” Sometimes she hides from him early in the morning because he goes around singing old church hymns, and that gets on her nerves something awful.

“Nah,” he says. “I guess the Rapture has occurred.”

“The rapture?”

“Don’t you know anything? Look it up.”

I go back to the movie. Halfway through it, guess who walks by looking for her husband? I disavow any knowledge and go back to watching Huntz Hall and the gang.

“I guess he thinks I have disappeared forever again,” she says.

I make the mistake of trusting my GUT to try and help. “You may be right,” I say, “he did mention something concerning a feeling of intense pleasure or joy.”

Now I’m on what they call “double secret probation” and can’t watch TV for the rest of the day.

What did I do? I can’t seem to acquire or secure anything as a result of a contest, conflict, bet, or other endeavor no matter how hard I try. Oh, and those celestial bodies that we can't see but we know are there? The Falloonians discovered your planet by a similar, but opposite, phenomenon. We knew you were here from the sight of so many other bodies moving away from you.

Christmas

I made Big Dope go with me for a walk last night. I shaped into Arnold Awesome the 18-year-old who’s always full of wonder. I didn’t want to embarrass anyone. We went looking for at the holiday decorations around the neighborhood.

As usual, he was cynical. “Look at all them lights,” I said as we walked by one house with maybe a zillion lights flashing.

“Waste of time.”

“They look so neat.”

“They could feed a lot of poor people with money they spent on this display.”

“Makes you feel, like, uh, like, loving people, doesn’t it?”

“Makes me feel like wanting it to be over.”

"Here," I said. "I’ve kept it ever since I’ve been on Earth. I reached into the pocket of my coat and retrieved a scrap of paper.

“Remember what Ron Wild wrote?” I said. I moved him toward the light of a street lamp and told him to read it aloud.

“Seek the wisdom of the ages, but look at the world through the eyes of a child.”

“You gave me that the first Christmas I was here.”

He blinked.

“They haven’t gotten to you that bad, have they?”

He smiled. “Merry Christmas,” he said. “Hey, look at that one down there.”

Loneliness

As an alien it your midst, Americans puzzle me. So many of you express the desire, through your social media posts and your voting habits, to be just "left alone."

That is one of the few primal fears among Falloonians, to be left alone. Lonely, isolated units allow evil to flourish, or, worse still, join welcoming cults that cause evil to flourish.

Perspectives

The three of us surfed The Net for movies last evening. No, I don’t mean my three heads, but our family unit. Mrs. Big Dope (MBD) was in a good mood. Big Dope (BD) was in his usual state of confusion. I was shaped as Reggie the Young Conservative for balance. I didn’t include Daisey the Demon Dog in our unit, for we don’t watch animal films. They always include so much torture before ending in the death of the animal hero. MBD claims that the film Old Yeller created more PTSD than all the wars since.

So, our commanding officer said she was tired of old black and white films. If we couldn’t watch a film with cute animals, could we watch something with a cute human. BD wanted something hip but ambiguous. I wanted something where none of the characters were all that admirable.

The 1968 offering Alice’s Restaurant seemed to fit the bill.

MBD thought Arlo Guthrie was cute.

BD himself thought all the characters were self-indulgent little rich kids. The exceptions were Ray and Alice, who were self-indulgent rich adults. BD further thought the scenes in the Induction Center were the most realistic. Of course, he went for his induction physical at the San Francisco Bay Area center in Oakland in 1966, so his view may be a little jaundiced.

Reggie, (I) thought the whole bunch were sissy “libtards.”

BD kept saying that his perspective had changed over the years. Said he always thought the 1960s were happy times for everybody. This seemed odd for a man who escaped the draft (and, ostensibly, combat duty in a foreign war) by enlisting in the U.S. Navy, only be sent to Vietnam as a member of a security (combat) unit. When I commented on this, he said, “If experiences don’t change our perspectives, then what good are experiences?”

I tried to process that bizarre thought through my Galactic Universal Translator. As usual, my GUT told me that BD is a bit on the weird side.

MBD kept saying how cute Arlo was.

I said they were all sissy libtards.

BD said the ending was ambiguous.

Demon Dog barked her belief that the Pal the Wonder Dog, who played Petey the Our Gang mascot dog was cuter than Arlo Guthrie.

We all agreed the music was good.

Recognition

I’m such a pushover. Big Dope is enjoying his last hours without adult supervision. He’s acting a little strange, even for him. I won’t say what he’s up to for other people may see this and report to the authorities, or “The Authority,” if you choose.

Sensing my amicability (a Falloonian trait known through numerous galaxies) he asked me to take the current rescue puppy for her morning walk. I put on my best smile. “Hell no,” I said. “do it yourself.”

Falloonian kindness only goes so far.

“I’ll get you your own laptop,” he said.

“With Kingdom Hearts 3?"

“And Resident Evil 2.”

“Could I have some fun on the walk?”

Minutes later I was leading the little demon through a city park near here. The first shape I chose was the Frankenstein monster. There were only a few kids playing in the park. One was swinging and looking at her cell phone as I walked by. There were a couple of others walking around the track. One was talking on her phone. I walked right past her. The other did look at me. She frowned and said, “Halloween’s past, old Boomer.” I pondered this and walked on.

Feeling discouraged, I led Miss Demolition into a wooded but vacant lot. I shifted into a shape I knew would elicit recognition. Oh yes. Elvis. I tried it out on the track. The two girls looked at me and walked right past. I couldn’t resist.

“Ladies,” I said. “Don’t you recognize me?”

They looked at me intently. “No,” said the older of the two. “Who the hell are you?”