Control

I couldn't help but ask Big Dope why so many of your species respond actively to falsehoods rather than facts. What he said was interesting. He noted it has been said that one person can only manage a limited number of people through direct contact and rational supervision. Some argue that, in order to control vast numbers of people, for good or for bad, you must employ mythology.

That has my right head twitching. The left just said, "Groovy man, groovy."

410.Fads

“Aw, come on, you’ll like it.”

“Get lost.”

“They say it’s fun.”

“Scram.”

“You won’t forget it.”

“Didi mau.”

“We never have any fun.”

“Like the time you trained one of my wife’s dogs to pee on signal?”

“You have to admit, it caught the missionary man by surprise. He even dropped his handouts.”

“My wife didn’t think it was funny.”

He laughed. It was C.W. of course, in the form of Little Ricky the troublesome ten-year old. “Mrs. Big Dope still thinks you did it.”

“I know.”

“Come on,” he said. “I have fresh box of Tide pods. They say they make your tummy tickle.”

“Who says?”

“That woman who explains stuff on TV for the president, the preacher’s daughter.”

“She explains stuff?”

“Every day. She’s the best at it there ever was.”

“She says it is safe to swallow pods of laundry detergent?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean ‘not exactly?’ Does she say it’s safe or not?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“She says if the news says something, it’s not true.”

“So?”

“The newspaper says swallowing Tide pods is dangerous.”

“So?”

“That means it isn’t.”

“They also say it has made people sick and may have killed some.”

“That’s not true. The Press Information Simplification Secretary lady explained that as well.”

“That it hasn’t killed anyone?” I winced as what he said registered. “The what?”

“That woman that explains the news. If anyone has suffered any harm from anything, she says, it’s Hillary Clinton’s fault. She got that from a reliable news source. Did you know that Hillary has a secret army hidden in a bunker under the White House that she and Bill had constructed while he was President? They used it back then to do forced sex-change operations on children they stole from church Sunday Schools. Now she trains liberals there to kidnap children and make them read books.”

And where did the … uh, … press lady learn that bit of news?”

“A man named Sean told her all about it.”

 

A Tide Pod Pizza. Yummy. - C.W.

“So, you believe it is true?”

“She said it was.”

“And you believe her?”

“A preacher’s daughter wouldn’t lie, would she?”

I couldn’t speak, but I’m sure I was mumbling something.

“What did you say?”

“Oh nothing,” I said. “Just something about acorns. Never mind.”

“Does does this mean you’ll do it with me?”

“Of course not.”

“But all the other kids are doing it.”

Ah, I saw a “teaching moment.” I thought for a few seconds and came up with what I thought was both a moral and “coming of age” example. “So,” I said, “if all the other boys were grabbing girls somewhere inappropriate, would you do it too?”

He thought for what I considered much too long a time. “No,” he said at last.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and managed, “Good.”

“That’s only okay if the President does it. The PISS lady said so.”

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It makes him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

396. Truth

  “Want to go for a walk?” C.W. came into where I was reading. He had assumed what is rapidly becoming his favorite shape, the Galilean.

“Not with you looking like that,” I said, “you know how much road-rage you cause in the South.”

“We’ll stay off the main roads,” he said. “Besides, I have a problem.”

“You have a problem? How can the savior of humankind have problems? Did your last batch of wine go sour?”

“Up yours,” he said. I knew that he was serious.

“Let me get a walking stick.”

“It’s the Falloonian Elders again,” he said once we were out of earshot from our farmhouse.

“I thought you had soothed things over with them.”

“Oh, this isn’t about that speech I gave at the old-folks home.”

“The one where you told them they were exceeding expenses and were going to become expendable?”

He ignored me. “Each day has problems of its own. This is a new one,” he said. “Well, verily I say unto you that it is a recurring one, but much more serious. The rain falls on all of us, you know.”

“Yes,” I said, “the just and the unjust.”

“Everyone,” he said, “The tellers of truth and the ones who know not truth.” He paused, “Although,” he said, “that last bunch has been getting away with a lot of crap lately.”

“Are we talking politics here?”

He had perseverated on his last thought and ignored me. “The sun riseth on their evil daily.”

“Is that the problem?”

“No,” he said. “The Elders think I seek to exalt myself. You know as well as I that I only seek to be humbled.”

I stopped and thought for a few seconds. “Let’s get back to that,” I said. “Tell me what’s bugging you.”

“I am being persecuted for my righteousness.”

“What righteousness?” I said before I thought. “You know I catch a lot of grief on account of some of your stunts.”

He turned and glared at me. “Were I not blessed in being a peacemaker, I would terminate our friendship.” He paused and I could feel him relaxing, “But,” he said, “I suppose you are also blessed when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.”

I suppressed a groan. “Why don’t you just tell me your problem?”

“You know I am the truth and reality for you Americans,” he said. “No one comes to the Elders except through me.”

“So what is the problem?”

“I am being falsely accused of ahmekencheatep.

“Of what?”

“Don’t you remember when I told you that, back on Falloonia I had wanted to become what we call a “chronicler of imaginary cosmic pathways?”

“Yes,” I said, “our equivalent of a writer of fiction.”

“Close enough,” he said, “someone who binds himself not to the truth, but to forgetfulness of reality.”

“A writer of fiction.”

The trick of being a good liar
is to have an honest face. - C.W.

“But not harmful fiction, unlike those who write for that imitation news channel named after a small furry animal.”

“Okay,” I said. “So why is that a problem? People read real fiction all the time most would agree that it is good for them.”

He stopped and pulled a small dead branch from a tree. He thrust it toward me like an attorney producing evidence. “It is not the healthy who need a doctor,” he said, “but the sick.”

“Elucidate.”

“I’m not sending fiction to the Elders I’m sending truth. The reason I was created and came into this world is to testify to the truth. Everyone on the side of truth listens to me.”

“And well they should.”

“The Elders don’t believe me. The say I lie. They say that an honest alien does no deceive but a false witness—me, they say—pours out lies.”

“What are they saying you lie about?”

“Only that you American band of homo sapiens has elected a man as ruler who would start wars causing millions of deaths, would allow the unhealthy to die, bears false witness hourly, loves riches beyond all things, covets his neighbor’s wife, rules according to the color of one’s skin, thrives on intemperate speech, promotes the wicked to violence, mocks the differently abled, enters into divorce—and you how that gets under my skin—ignores those who mourn, mocks the righteous, and hates those who are poor in both spirit and riches.”

“I see.”

“Oh,” he said, “and they can’t believe that he hates aliens. They think we are lovable and have come here to testify to the truth.”

I turned to him. “My friend, I’m afraid that in these frightening times, that is a dangerous thing to do.”

See also:
Delta Dreaming
All Hat No Cattle

Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

Morning Thoughts: Stupid

C.W. and I were talking …

Actually, I was drawn into the room by commotion going on among the three heads. When I came within range, Left Head and Middle Head were berating Right Head.

“Shame,” said Left Head.

“My conclusion is that you have behaved poorly,” said Middle Head.

“Bite me,” said Right Head.

I interjected. “What’s going on here?”

“He’s been misbehaving,” Left Head said.

“A danger to our mission,” Middle Head said.

“Up ya’lls',” Right Head said.

I said, “Ya’lls'?”

“I’m picking up on my Southern roots,” Right Head said. “The rural south has been the moral backbone of America since before your Civil War.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Let’s all calm down and tell me what the matter is.”

“He’s breaking the primary rule any rational person would follow, and we’ve put a stop to it,” Left Head said.

“And that is?”

“I can’t say it,” Middle Head said. He turned to Left Hand. “You tell him.”

Left Head took a breath. “While we’re taking our naps, he’s, he’s, he’s … .”

Middle Head blurted it out. “He watches Fox News.”

“No,” I said.

“All of you just jump up our …” Right Head began.

“See what it’s doing to him?” Left Head said.

“Are you really doing that?” I asked Right Head.

“What if I am. How else would I know that Santa Claus and Jesus are both white? It certainly wasn’t reported on the ‘lamestream’ media.”

I couldn’t speak.

He continued. “Or that Obama and his "communist" cronies wanted to kill 10 percent of the population?”

Two sets of eyes rolled and then looked at me.

“Or that the Obamas had a secret terrorist fist jab?”

Left Head looked at me. “See the problem now? He’s been sending some of this stuff to Falloonia. The Elders are threatening to have us shipped back.”

I looked at Right Head. He smiled, “Did you know,” he said, “that gay marriages will lead to interspecies couplings, humans to goats and the like?”

“Stop it,” said Left Head. “Enough is enough.”

“Poverty Isn’t that bad, because poor people have fridges.” This time Right Head had a most defiant look.

I finally had to ask, “Did you really get all this from Foxnews?”

“It might interest you to know,” Right Head said, “that Travon Martin’s hoodie was responsible for his death and that Newt Gingrich's infidelity might have made him a good president.”

“That’s absurd,” I said. “And that’s enough. We don’t watch Fox News in this house. You are hereby prohibited from it. It makes you stupid and we won’t allow it.”

He looked, at first, stunned. Then his look changed to disappointment. We waited for his answer. Would he agree, or argue? He finally spoke.

“Please?”

“No,” I said. "Prolonged use has shown to reduce your understanding of the world, and, as I’ve said, it will make you stupid and unable to understand reality.”

In the voice like that of a teenager, he looked at me a tear came to what they call an eye in Falloonia.

“Can I just watch it until I need remedial English?”

373. Truth in Advertising

“I’ve been thinking.”

Oh no.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I said I’ve been thinking.” C.W. was in the form of Reggie the Young Conservative. (Picture Sean Spicer without the disarming personality). Any wariness developed from a memory of the last time he admitted to thinking. This time, we were driving around looking for ideas for a column on urban planning due in a week. It was no use resisting. When he gets in this shape, he is like a bulldog.

“Okay. Share.”

“I still think I could make it in the advertising business,” he said. With that, he produced a notepad and began to study it.

“We’ve been through this already.”

“I know. We’ve had some rough times before.”

“Correction. You’ve had some rough times before.”

“Oh?”

“Remember the time you wanted my wife to become the model for ‘The White Aunt Jemima,’ and what happened?”

“Like I explained to Mrs. Big Dope, it was a brilliant plan to take racism out of an otherwise successful ad campaign. It would have worked, too.”

“Do you still have the bruise from the iron skillet?”

He pressed on. “I’ve done the research, this time,” he said. “I plan to capture and utilize the three major elements of the current mood in your country.”

“Which are?”

He consulted his pad. “Braggadocio, brevity, and bullsh… .”

“Stop there. That’s enough.”

“So, what do you think?”

“Try me." I had turned the car and was headed home.”

“Okay.” He looked and read. “Our light bulbs last a whole two weeks.”

“Oh, that it were so. What else?”

“Our print cartridges will print 20 sheets, guaranteed.”

“If they could do that, you’d have a winner.”

“We don’t have to win,” he said. “We just have to sell.”

“Ah.” A minute passed. “Have any more?”

He looked and read. “Our clothes even look good on fat people.”

“Hmm.”

He was on a roll now. “Be thin, win, never exercise again, no matter how big you’ve been.” He stopped. “We’ll have to have a spokesperson from the South, so all those words will rhyme.”

“Of course. Do you see any applications in political campaigns?”

“Oh,” he said. “That where we will excel without a doubt. Here … ,” he turned a page in a notebook and read, “Feel trapped? We tell the truth, and it will set you free.”

“Oh please.”

The truth may set us free.
But it doesn't pay the bills. - C.W.

“We fear no woman alive.”

“Barf.”

“We love everybody and everybody loves us.”

“Stop. Stop.”

“Win with us and stop the fuss.”

“You’re getting worse.” We had completed our touring by then and were back home in the living room. He had gone nonstop and was still going. I was having a beer, and he was on fire. “Here’s a great one,” he said. “Our vision of America is so simple a public-school teacher could understand it.”

“Suggest you don’t try that one out around the mistress.”

“Oh,” he said, “here’s one I did just for her. He flipped a page. “We promise to round immigrants up like a bunch of stray dogs and … ,”

A voice from the kitchen interrupted him. “As soon as I find my skillet,” it said, “I’m going to round somebody up.”

I had turned toward the sound. When I looked back, Reggie, C.W., whoever, was gone. Since then, I’ve heard no more about this advertising business.    

See also:

Delta Dreaming
All Hat No Cattle
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

372. News

“Gone? For how long?”

“Don’t know. It depends on the punishment they mete out to me.”

“Punishment?”

“Punishment.” It was the Walter Cronkite—C.W., his most somber form, the one he takes when things are serious, very serious.

“By whom? What kind of punishment? For What?”

“The Falloonian Elders are punishing me for sending them fake news. The sentence will depend, of course, on my defense.”

“Fake news is punishable now?”

“In Falloonia, yes. We take information much more seriously than your species does.”

“So, have you just been making stuff up, like our …, uh, like some folks are doing?”

“Certainly not,” he said with an uncharacteristic vehemence. “Everything I’ve sent them is fact-checked and accurate.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“They’re saying what I reported could never have happened.”

“Too complicated, or too controversial? Do the events not translate? Are they cynical, or too critical?”

“Oh,” he said, “it varies. Some are quite tragic.” He fumbled in a pile of papers and handed me a sheet. I recognized it at once. It involved an incident in our state that happened just last week. During a heavy flash flood, a woman in a mountainous community donned a helmet and life jacket and went “tubing” down a raging creek. They found her body later.

“This really happened,” I said. “I can vouch for you here.”

“Would you?” he said. He thought. “But you can’t help me with this one.” He retrieved another sheet and handed it over. It was another flooding incident, one of numerous similar stories published during the recent flooding. This one involved a man from a neighboring state who drove his pickup truck around a police barricade and was swept into the floodwaters.

“But,” I said. “Look where it happened. Won’t they make allowances for that?”

“No,” he said. “Unfortunately, it came on the heels of this national report.” He handed the next sheet over. It was an account of plans to market a cell phone shaped like a banana. Yes, really, a banana.

“I see. Well, these are easily proven.”

“Those aren’t the most serious,” he said. “Here’s the one that got me into the most trouble.” He handed over a sheet and I recognized it at once. It occurred just this week in our very city.

“But this happened,” I said. “It really happened.”

“Try convincing a bunch of aged creatures from a civilized planet of that.” He read from the sheet, “Three drunken men steal a three-foot livealligator from a nature center.” He stopped, looked at a wall clock, and stared back at me, his voice breaking. “I’m doomed,” he said.

 

I call this, "Hold my beer
and watch this news." - C.W.

He stiffened and his eyes turned metallic. This means one thing. He is getting a message from his home planet and responding. He listened, then nodded slightly. Then he did the strangest thing. He let out a soft laugh. Next, his face brightened with a smile. He nodded once more, relaxed and turned to me.

“It’s over,” he said. “They’ve received verification from the other resident aliens.”

“That’s great, but you almost laughed once,” I said. “What was so funny?”

“It seems,” he said, “that reading these reports has become a huge source of planetary merriment on Falloonia. They want more, and they want them fast. Do you think we can manage? I’d hate to be in another kind of trouble for not fulfilling their orders.”

“C.W.,” I said. “This is America. Don’t worry about a thing.”

See also:
Delta Dreaming
All Hat No Cattle
Or order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

366. Shapes

Oh boy oh boy! It was “New Shape Saturday.” I had a fresh rum and tonic and a new cigar ready. C.W. and I were alone in the back yard of the farm and he was in high spirits. One head wore a construction hat, another a police officer’s hat, and the third a Sioux chieftain’s headdress. He, they, looked strangely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them.

Anyway.

He had chairs sat up under a tree and would disappear behind a storage building, wait a few minutes, and emerge as his new shape. I would try to guess who he represented. This is always fun, or it is sometimes. It makes my wife nauseated, so she was off visiting a friend. Hot dog! I lit my cigar and yelled, “Ready.”

A middle-aged man, well dressed in a business suit emerged and took a seat. “One hint,” he said, “TV pundit.”

“Expert?” I said.

“Very much so.”

“Education and background?”

“Bachelor’s degree in business administration and 30 years of military service.”

“Rank?”

“Went in as a second lieutenant. Came out as a major.”

“Hmm.”

“Come on,” he said, “you’ve watched the news. Make a guess. I can’t provide any more information than that.”

“I give up.”

“Expert on military affairs,” he said. "On that so-called news channel named after a wild animal."

“But you retired as only a … ,” I began, but he had already departed. “A 30-year major hardly qualifies …,” I said, mostly to myself. Then he yelled over his shoulder.

“It’s television, dummy. That’s today’s theme. Truth in television.”

A few seconds later, and a great new shape appeared. A disheveled character with a shaved head and long beard came in and sat in front of me. He had divided the beard into two prongs, each held by a rubber band. “Expert,” he said.

“Education?”

“Community college in Charleston, West Virginia. Associate’s degree in restaurant management.”

“Current job?”

“Consultant, on the cable network that you call the History Channel.”

“Previous jobs?”

“Fast food trainee programs … several.”

“You are a janitorial consultant?”

“Get serious. I’m a featured star.”

“I can’t imagine. I give up.”

He took in a breath, expelled it and said, “Scientific consultant. They identify me as a UFO expert.”

That stunned me. “So, you use your real expertise as a visiting alien to educate the viewers?”

He frowned. “Get serious. I can’t divulge that information. Educate our viewers? Jeez. I just say whatever I feel like saying. The show’s motto is ‘We make it up and you lap it up.’ Can you imagine getting paid for blowing stuff out of your …?”

I interrupted. “Now cut it out.”

“Accumulated superfluous storage,” he finished. Then he disappeared again.

A few moments later, a buxom blond with hair teased to a height of a foot above her head, and billowing across her shoulders, sashayed in and perched in front of me. She teased the front of her blouse to allow more of her ample cleavage to show, and then tried to cover her nether regions with a skirt made from no more than a yard of material. No luck. Glimpses abounded.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.

“I doubt it.”

“That’s right, you’re wondering what I do for a living.”

“No,” I said, “I’m wondering if my wife knows about this.”

“Exactly,” she said. “You are man of the world. You’re from the big city and you married your childhood sweetheart.”

“Born and reared in the country, and I didn’t meet her until we were both grown.”

“Precisely,” she said. “And something tells me she was from the city too.”

 

I just know that all my fans would
like for this woman to advise them
on investing in the stock market. - C.W.

“A farmer’s daughter,” I said.

“That’s right,” she said. “And don’t you forget: something tells me she still dreams about getting that education she always wanted.”

“She has two college degrees.”

“Like I told you. Now,” she said, leaning back in her chair as I tried not to look. “You’re thinking that you wish I would tell you what I do. Don’t ask me how I know that. I just see things. That's all.”

“No,” I said, “I’m just hoping my wife doesn’t come home before you change shapes.”

“I knew it,” she said, “I just know things, see? That’s what they pay me for. Speaking of shapes, you are going to love this next one. It’s going to be the best shape you ever saw. It’s going to be wonderful. I have this plan, and it is a great plan, the best plan ever, to astound and amaze you with this next shape because it is going to be wonderful. And you will love it.”

I was never as happy in my life to hear my wife’s car coming down the drive.

362. Progress

 C.W. taught me a lesson in equality yesterday. I think he had fun. I didn’t.

 It happened this way.

I woke up, made myself a cup of coffee and wandered into living room of our condo. The sun had not yet risen, but there was light enough. There, sitting on the couch, staring out at the skyline lights, was a man who resembled me in many ways: my age or older, Caucasian, blond, and nattily dressed in a sport shirt, khakis, and penny loafers. “Good morning,” he said.

I nodded and waited. He appeared to sink deep in thought for a moment before turning to me. “Do you believe in self-reliance?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“Would you like to hear my story?”

“Why not?” I said. I don’t know why. I guess it was because he looked so sincere and honest. He began.

“From the earliest age I can remember,” he said, “I’ve done everything more or less as expected. I obeyed my parents, who were hard working and honest people. In grade school, I was an exemplary student. In high school, I excelled at one of the finest educational facilities in the state. I took home awards. Garnered scholarships. Gave up many of the social activities enjoyed by the other students so I could study. My parents never stopped instilling in me the value of hard work, dedication, honesty, and sacrifice.”

I nodded, and he continued.

Then I made a seamless transition to college. I graduated with honors and prepared for a career.”

“You sound like a perfect American example of self-reliance and hard work paying off,” I said.

“There was war, then, and the draft,” he said. “I volunteered, served my time and ended my career with a thankless assignment in a foreign war. When I finished, and the plane took off over the South China Sea, I saw the blue water beneath me and relaxed. I knew that I would return unscarred. I dozed as the plane ascended into the clouds.”

The most amazing thing happened next. As the first gleams of the morning’s sunrise landed on the distant buildings, a change occurred in the room. As it lightened, he darkened. All of his features changed as if electronically synced in reverse with the emerging sunrise. His hair soon turned from straight blond to a tightly curled black, His face transformed itself into ebony, and an African-American of my age sat in front of me.

“The plane landed,” he said, “and I was soon back in my home town. It was a large metropolitan area and I felt opportunities would abound. They didn’t. Employers seemed almost surprised that I would apply for executive positions. A few offered me jobs driving trucks or managing cleaning crews.

“What about public-sector jobs?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? Neither the police nor fire department would hire persons … persons like me, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do,” I said.

“The only job I was ever offered in the public sector was as part of a road crew in the street department, and it wasn’t a supervisory job. You never enjoyed that kind of experience, did you?”

Still somewhat in shock over the identify shift, I could only shake my head, and say, “No.”

“Finally,” he said, “one of the railroad lines offered to hire me and teach me about diesel engines.”

“And?”

“I took it, what else?” he said.

“Were you interested in diesel engines?”

“Are you kidding? My degree was in accounting, with a minor in finance.” He shook his head. “Diesel engines.”

“What then?”

“I met this girl,” he said. “We dated, most often at the movies, where we had to sit in the balcony. She cooked meals for us. There were few restaurants in town that served our kind.”

 

Once a sign for resaturants.
Now a political slogan. - C.W.

I said nothing.

“Then we married.”

I said nothing.

“I was eligible to buy a house on the GI Bill,” he said. “Nothing down, and what was a reduced interest rate at the time.”

“What happened then?”

“You don’t want to know.”

We sat in silence as the light finished filling the room. After a long period of nothingness, he slapped his leg. “Well,” he said, “things got better after that. Jobs opened up, but my college classmates had years of seniority by then. At least I didn’t have to come home smelling like diesel anymore.” He smiled.

I said nothing.

“Yes,” he said. “Things got better and better, until the country elected a president who looked more like me than like you.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. It was like a long-standing resentment lay like a deep boil, unseen and forgotten. But there were plenty willing to prod that boil. It burst.”

“And now?”

“More and more, I’m thinking back to that long plane ride home.”

Also check out www.allhatnocattle.com

And buy Big Dope's book at Amazon

or  www.wattensawpress.com .

Morning Thoughts: Miracles and their use …

C.W. and I were talking …

He noticed I seemed in a pensive mood and offered his normal sympathetic entree, “What’s eating you, Big Dope?”

I explained that I was thinking of topographic maps. That puzzled him. Those are maps used in my profession that show representations of ground relief, usually using contour lines. The best and most expensive are prepared by professional surveyors.

The cheap ones can be assembled from topographic maps prepared by the United States Geological Survey. That’s what we did years ago. I spent many a day or two, in my early career as an urban planner, assembling such maps for a specific property, city, or region. It involved multiple trips, sometimes, to agencies, photographers, and printers. The final result was a taped-up affair presented to a draftsperson for use in a project.

He wanted to know why I was thinking about it.

I told him, “current times.”

“Current times?”

“Yep. Want to know what it takes to produced such a map today?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Maybe half-dozen punches on a computer keyboard.”

“So?”

“That’s just a personal example of the miracles of the digital age and for what marvelous things a computer may be used.”

“Why does that bother you?”

I pointed to my computer screen. He looked. There, on a social media website, someone had accused one of his dear friends of being a baby-killing cult member because of his socio-political view of the world. The time-stamp indicated a point well into evening “drink time.”

"How long do you think it took to develop that friendship?"

He thought before he spoke, a bit unusual for him. "Maybe years. Many years."

"How long to produce such anger?"

He thought long and hard this time. "A year or so, if one watches the right TV networks and listens to the right radio stations. Some of the churches your species has produced could speed the process. Hours on hours of concentrated effort might shorten it to months."

"And this posting?" I pointed to the message on my computer screen again.

“That only took one punch on a computer keyboard,” He said.

It takes eons of love to built a city.
Hate can destroy one in days. - C.W.

Morning Thoughts: Causes

C.W. and I were talking …

He was wondering how the so-called pundits manage to get things wrong so often, not only wrong but wrong to the extent of assigning contradictory causes for the same incident. He was quoting from the book The Black Swan by Nassim Nicholas Taleb, who said therein,

“It happens all the time: a cause is proposed to make you swallow the news and make matters more concrete. After a candidate’s defeat in an election, you will be supplied with the “cause” for the voters” disgruntlement. Any conceivable cause can do.”

I agreed, and pointed out how the causes stated often fail to come near the real reasons behind the failure. For example, in the recent election, a number of reasons for the outcome are, according to the pundits, responsible: unrest in the heartland, poor campaigning, lack of empathy, voter apathy. Take your choice. There is a pundit espousing each, and they are all right.

Not one yet, C.W. pointed out, has mentioned the possible effect of eight years of hatred spewing into the living rooms and waiting rooms of America from so-called Fox “News.”

340. Music and Awe

 C. W. was waiting for me when I arose this morning. At least let’s say Arnold Awesome was waiting for me. In this shape, C.W. is an eighteen years old boy that’s full of wonder and admiration for all things earthly. He can be inspiring at times, but tedious at others. Somehow he had found an old tie-dyed slipover and some bell-bottom pants in the attic. Of course I have no idea from where they came.

“Awesome,’’ he said. “Did you see the sunrise this morning?”

“I’ve asked you not to use that word,” I said, “it’s the most overused word in our country these days and has totally lost its meaning.”

“Like, it was really cool,” he said.

“And don’t insert the word ‘like’ in a sentence when it isn’t necessary to convey an image or idea.”

“Like,” he said, “when you say ‘far out’ for no apparent reason?”

“That’s different,” I said.

“How?”

I thought. “It just is.”

“Awesome.”

“Why are you up so early? Just to catch the sunrise?”

“How do you ‘catch’ a sunrise? Wouldn’t that burn your hands?”

“Just a figure of speech,” I said.

“How can speech have a figure? Women have figures and accountants figure and you are always figuring to do something for Mrs. Big Dope and then you don’t. I can’t figure your language out at times.”

I ignored him. “So what else have you been doing?”

“Remember when we went to that rock concert? The awesome one,” he said. It was obvious he was being evasive.

“Have you been on my wife’s computer again?”

“You changed the password on yours.”

“Answer me.”

“Just a little bit,” he said, “I was waiting for the sun to rise and, like, got bored.”

“You weren’t back on those …”

“Oh no,” he said, rubbing the side of his head in an unconscious gesture. “She explained about that. I was just watching, uh, the news, that’s it,” he said. “The news.”

“And what was on the news?”

He thought. “Football scores?”

“Is that a question for me?”

“There is this guy who may be elected as your president who has no qualifications whatsoever. They had posts of these news reporters talking about what a great job he would do because he would, like, bring a fresh face to politics through his ineptitude and ignorance.”

“Those weren’t news reporters,” I said.

“They claimed to be. They even called it a news channel where they report and we decide.”

“Whatever.”

He cocked his head. “Whatever what?”

“Just whatever,” I said. “It’s a figure of speech.”

“There you, like, go again,” he said. He shifted gears. “Hey,” he said, “have you ever listened to those old songs that were popular when you were a child? You know, Bessie Smith and such?”

“I wasn’t a child when Bessie Smith was alive,” I said. “But yes, I have heard her music.”

“Gimme me a pig foot and a bottle of beer,” he said. “That’s awesome.”

I groaned.

“Wait,” he said. “There’s a better one … my sportin’ man … his barrel’s hot … he rams his ramrod in …”

“Hush,” I said, “you’re going to wake my wife.”

“I think I heard her,” he said. “She’s already up.” He stopped and turned white. “Uh oh,” he said.

What can I say? - C.W.

“You didn’t,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “I was listening to one when the sun started to come up.”

“And what were you listening to?”

“It was a song about your capitalistic system of finance.”

“Oh,” I said. I relaxed. “What was the name of that song?”

“I think,” he said, “it was called ‘You Can’t Git That StuffNo More.’”

“Oh no,” I said. I started to get up

Too late. A voice erupted from the next room. “Get in here right now.”

“I think she means you,” C.W. said and nodded in the direction of the voice. “Better see what she wants.”

“I’ll be back,” I said and started toward the door.

“Awesome,” he said.

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333.Solutions

I was minding my own business when in walked a young man much in the style and appearance of the actor Harrison Ford. He stopped in the middle of the room, assumed a pose of thoughtfulness, and said nothing. It was clear to me that he wanted to appear cool.

“C.W.” I said. “Sup?”

His cool demeanor sank. Confusion spread over his face like ants flooding a hill.

“Sit,” I said, and motioned to chair opposite me.

He sat, but was still confused. “What does ‘sup’ mean? Is it short for ‘supper’ or something?”

“No,” I said. “The young folks use it as short for ‘what’s up’ when they meet.”

“Why don’t they just say ‘what is up,’ so they won’t confuse strangers?”

“Kids these days don’t converse with strangers,” I said. “Anyway, you seem to have something on your mind.”

He relaxed. “I do,” he said.

“And it is …?

“A new business.”

“And that business is to be called what?”

“Solutions Are Us.”

“That sounds like an interesting business. What kind of problems will you be solving?”

“Oh,” he said, “we won’t be offering problems. Just solutions.”

It was my turn to be confused. “You will create solutions for no particular problems?”

“A great business plan, don’t you think?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “What gave you this idea?”

“The fascination that some of your species has with voter ID requirements.”

“Say again?”

“In my studies, I deduced that someone saw value in a solution that would make it hard for certain voter groups to vote.”

“And?”

“They needed a problem to fit the solution.”

“So,” I said, “it was a simple matter to envision voter fraud.”

“Precisely,” he said. “As they say on the Planet Santural, “when the solution appears, the master will provide the problem.”

“That planet,” I said, “is it an advanced one?”

“No,” he said, “very undeveloped, barely five tetra-centuries ahead of yours.”

“You have other solutions in your repertoire?”

“How about drug testing?”

“And what problems might that work for?”

“You name it,” he said, “voting, college entrance, financial assistance, home location, marriage, sex, cell phone usage, Facebook access, …”

“I see,” I said, interrupting him. “Any others?”

“Forced reading. That’s a good one.”

That got my attention. “And what problems might that be aimed at?”

He just looked at me as if I had given the wrong answer to a simple question. “For starters,” he said, “religious fanaticism, conservatism, addiction to fake news channels, internet-generated ignorance, belief in male dominance, bigotry. Should I go on?”

You have to admit, creating a solution is
much easier than identifying a problem. - C.W.

“I think you have made your point. Any others?”

“Social justice.”

“That’s a good one,” I said. “Lots of promise there.”

“Unfortunately,” he said. “It’s not selling well in our test markets.”

“Oh, and where might those be?”

“In what many people refer to as your Biblical-strip of leather or other material worn around the waist.”

“Say what?” Then it hit me. “Do you by chance mean our Bible-Belt.?”

“That is exactly what I said.” He stopped, took a pencil and pad from his pockets and wrote as he spoke, “Hearing aids.”

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322. Humor

“You know what I find odd about your species?”

“You find a lot of things odd about our species.”

“I mean really odd.”

I played along. I was taking C.W. for a ride in my new truck to let things cool down a bit back home. Since we were in the country, he was in the shape of a farmer, or rancher, or how he assumed one would appear: khaki shirt and pants, and a “stockman’s hat” perched over a sunburnt face. He was trying to develop a proper wave, since rural men each have a unique wave that identifies them, even if their face isn’t clearly visible while driving. He had about decided on the “two-finger flip," modified to make it slightly different from that of a neighbor. Then he worked on a “turkey tail,” as he called it but couldn’t decide whether to unfurl it as part of the wave or simply flash it full blown.

Did I mention that he was getting on my nerves?

“So,” he said, flashing his “unfolding turkey-tail” wave at a woman mowing her yard. She looked at him as though he might have been, well, an alien or something. He turned back to me. “Want to know what I really find odd?” He flashed a motorist who shot back a one-finger wave, and it was not a friendly one. "Would you?"

“I think I’m fixing to,” I say in a mocking rural tone.

“You Americans have no sense of humor.”

“We what?”

“Not a smudging bit.”

“That’s a smidgen bit,” I said, “and most of us do.”

“Not around your house.”

“Are you referring to my wife?”

“I report. You decide,” he said, mocking a fake news channel he turns on when my wife isn’t looking.

“You don’t think my wife has a sense of humor?”

“Reports are,” he said, “the last time she showed one was the night she married you.

“You’re blaming her for the little dust-up this morning.”

“She certainly wasn’t exhibiting the quality of being filled with cheerfulness or merriment.”

“She normally doesn’t exhibit much jollity when someone uses her best and most expensive sewing scissors to cut tin cans for making their artwork.”

“I was making a mobile, and I told her it would be hilarious.”

“She didn’t think so.”

“It would have been. It was little figures of Mickey and Minnie Mouse, Popeye and Olive, Charlie Brown and Lucy, and others. Their little arms and legs would be coiled pieces of tin can and when the wind blew them into one another the springs would pop free, and their limbs would wrap around one another. It would look like they were …”

“I know what it would look like,” I said, stopping him. “And she didn’t think it was funny.”

“Case closed … you have no sense of humor.”

“Americans have a great sense of humor,” I said. “I can prove it to you.”

“How?” he said, flipping his fingers to a passing farmer who returned the “modified salute” greeting.

“Ted Cruz.”

“The one John McCain called a ‘wacko bird?” he said, suppressing a smile.

“Rand Paul.”

The smile broke through. “That toupee. The horror. The horror.”

“Michele Bachmann.”

He giggled. “Oh please, not Michele ‘Carbon dioxide is harmless’ Bachmann.”

“Sheriff Joe Arpaio.”

He guffawed, “Prisoners in pink. You can stop now.”

“Sarah Palin.”

“Oh please,” he said. I looked over and saw tears forming.

If he had said, "Joel Osteen" I really
would have had an accident. - C.W.

“And Bristol,” I said. “Don’t let’s forget the Czarina of Abstinence.”

He was convulsing. “Oh stop,” he said. “I can’t stand it anymore.” Snot was coming from his nose.

“Donald Trump.”

“Oh stop. Stop,” he said. “You’ve got to stop.”

“I have more.”

“No,” he said. “I mean really stop. Stop the truck.”

I braked and pulled over. He shot from the truck toward a stand of trees. I could see a dark stain forming in the seat of his farmer’s khakis.

He flashed the Turkey Tail at a passing pickup and disappeared into the woods.

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