Morning Thoughts: Marriage

 C.W. and I were talking …

Left Head—the data-gathering one—said, “We’ve all been talking.”

“You’ve been talking. We’ve been listening, goof-round-object used for play,” Right Head—the frivolous one—said.

“You mean ‘goof-ball’ the middle—or evaluative one—said.

“Anyway,” Left Head said, turning to them and flashing what I’m told is the equivalent of a frown in Falloonia, “anyway, we are amazed at how much you seem to dote on Mrs. Big Dope, especially when she’s not around.”

“Yeah,” Middle Head said, “Explain.”

“I, uh … uh,” I searched for the right word, since they are not above recording every word I say (yes, they can do that), and playing whole conversations back to her.

“Is she easy?” Left Head asked.

“What?”

“Not easy that way,” Right Head said, giggling. “Easy like in, ‘easy to get along with.’”

“Oh yes.”

“Example,” Left Head said.

“Let’s see,” I said. “Oh yes. I knew this man one time whose wife wouldn’t let him crumble his crackers into his bowl of chili. Chewed him out if he tried.”

“Say what?” This got Middle Head’s attention.

“I think it was a Junior League thing,” I said.

“So, she's flexible. What else?” Left Head asked.

“Well, she's kind. Once when she taught elementary school, she caught the kids making fun of a little girl’s ragged, hand-me-down shoes.”

“She punished them?” Middle Head said. “Beat them? Walloped them good?”

“No. She guessed the girl’s size and bought her a pair of new shoes with her own money.”

“I’ll bet they wouldn’t do that in one of these new chartless schools.” Middle Head said.

“It is ‘charter school’ and no, they wouldn’t,” Left Head said. “They would never allow a child in one of those if their parents couldn’t afford new shoes for them.”

“She’s damned funny, too,” Right Head said. “She taught English to the kids.” He looked at me. “That’s when she made up that expression she uses when you offer some complicated excuse for screwing up.”

I was nonplussed.

Right Head continued, “When she accuses you of trying to ‘diagram a f…’”

“Shut up,” I said. “Where did you hear that?”

“She used it on me,” Right Head said.

“I think she sort of likes you, too, at least a little bit,” Middle Head said, re-directing the conversation thread.

“Oh?”

“Quite so. I asked her why. We couldn’t understand it at all.”

“What did she say?”

“She borrowed a line from a movie she saw once,” Right Head said.

“And that was?”

“He always ate everything I cooked for him, and he never hit me.”

“And oh,” Middle Head said, “I take it she allows this cracker-crumbling thing?”

“Not in bed. Not anymore.” 

I think the reputation from her past
 helps keep Big Dope in line. - C.W.

356.Care

Good morning friends and fans. This is, well, let’s see. Oh. Call me C.W. I sometimes take to writing whenever it is a damp, drizzly November, uh, January in my soul. Forget that. I was just kidding. I really start to writing when I want to give my friend Big Dope a day off. He’s presently not attentive or alert. I hear him snoring from here. I left him alone and I’ll take the steering device for an ocean-going vessel today. So … heavy objects attached to a rope or chain and used to moor a ship to the sea bottom away!

You should see me. I have taken the form of a large man with orange hair with two chins. I’m very beautiful. In my home planet form, I actually have three chins, but they are on separate heads. Two on one head is a much more beautiful plan, a great plan.

Anyway, Big Dope has had tough weekend, caring for things while Mrs. Big Dope takes an extended period of recreation, especially one spent away from home or in traveling.

Excuse me for an indefinitely short period of time. I need to make some adjustments.

There. My GUT was giving me problems. Now, where was I? I remember, I was telling you about Big Dope. He is watching over things, or supposed to be. I wonder. Do you really put jalapeno peppers in applesauce? His mother-in-law certainly doesn’t think so. And she has a way of gently informing a cook that she doesn’t care for a certain dish.

She pours a generous helping of ketchup upon it and smiles like a saint that has just fed a hungry baby. That’s how he found out that she didn’t care for his macaroni and cheese.

Anyway, it’s been a give and take weekend. She prefers six dogs in the house at once. He prefers none. So far, they have compromised at six. She saw a seventh on our afternoon drive yesterday and demanded we stop and rescue it. He lied and said he knew the dog and that it belonged to a neighbor. She let it pass, but did remind him that her daughter had once dated a man who had pretty red hair and became a physician.

Later in the day, he asked her who had spread pecan hulls all over the living room floor. “You tell me,” she answered. Then she proceeded to remind him how far she had walked to school each day as a child. That figure has remained a constant three miles since I came here, though the snows have gotten deeper and there are now frequent allusions to roving bands of murderers and child-abductors along the path.

Following such tales, she will ask, “You never had to walk to school, did you?”

 

That smile she gives when
she's bested Big Dope again. - C.W.

She’s a sweet lady, though, and she likes me a lot, particularly when I shape myself as Franklin D. Roosevelt, her favorite president. She also likes my rendition of Lawrence Welk when I need to win her over to my side. It cracks her up when I do my, “uh-on, uh two, uh three.” It burns her son-in-law. He has only one shape: Big Dope. Eueww!

That’s about it for today. I know he wanted to tell you about an experience we had this past week, but trust me, you don’t want to hear about it. Anyway … the state agreed to forget the whole thing. There will be no company producing a product called “Medical Mellows” in our state. The candy company has dropped the logo thing, and Big Dope made me plow up the plots.

Those helicopters that keep flying over the farm are a nuisance, though. And it seemed as though everyone we know had suddenly taken ill for a while. Can you believe it?

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347. Jobs

With apologies to G.O. ...

Oh brother, as if I didn’t have enough troubles, here comes C.W. as Lucky and Lefty, the conjoined twins. I could hear them … him … whatever, coming from some distance away. They entered the room where I sat. They were arguing as usual.

“Guest workers, by god,” Lucky was saying.

“Bull,” Lefty said. They tried to face one another and began to spin in a circle. I could barely make out what Lefty was saying. “Volunteer temporaries. That’s what they were.”

“Fellas,” I said. Then repeated it louder as the circling slowed. “What the heck is going on?”

“Butt-wipe here,” Lucky said, “is invading my territory.” A hand pointed at Lefty.

“Scumbag is stupid,” Lefty said, the other hand pointing at Lucky.

“Prick,” Lucky said. “I’m the Minister of Truth. You’re just the Minister of Love.”

“Screw you and all the imbeciles out there,” Lefty said. “You wouldn’t know a truth if it bit you in one of our asses.”

“I tell you they were guest workers,” Lucky said. “It’s already in the textbooks.”

“Whoa fellas,” I said. “Stop turning and tell me what’s going on.”

“We have jobs,” Lefty said.

“Good jobs,” Lucky said.

That stopped me. “What kind of jobs?”

“Good jobs,” Lefty said. “In the new administration.”

“I’m the new Minister of Truth,” Lucky said. “I write history, served up as ordered, the new way. The better way.”

“What better way?”

“Before it happens.”

“I see,” I said, but I didn’t.

“I’m the new Minister of Love,” Lefty said. “Spreading the gospel to the unsuspecting nincompoops.”

“Ain’t we a pair?” Lucky said. “Folks will never know what hit them.”

I raised a hand, “But what’s his about ‘guest workers’ and such?”

“I have to decide, Lucky said, “what history will call the blackamoors that migrated to this country to get jobs picking cotton and cutting sugar cane, back when this country was great.”

“He wants to call them …,” Lefty began.

“I know what he wants to call them,” I said, “but ‘migrated’’’?

“Talk to the Minister of Peace about that,” Lucky said. “His troops rounded them up and brought them here. All I have to do is decide what history will call them.”

“As if your stupid species will know how to read history,” Lefty said. “The Minister of Knowledge has new plans for education … something about knowledge through ignorance.”

“There’s a spot open,” Lucky said, “if you need a job.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

“The Minister of Plenty,” Lefty said. “I think its motto will be ‘Privation is Pleasure,’ or something like that.”

“Fellas,” I said. “This is all kind of ridiculous.”

“No, no,” they said in unison. Lucky added, “That’s a no-no. Opinion-Speak is punishable. Don’t make me call the Goodness Gendarmes.” He smiled. “I am the Minister of Truth, after all, and silence shouts loudest.”

“Speaking of the Goodness Gendarmes,” Lefty said, “where is Mrs. Big Dope? We need to talk to her? Take her down to see …,” he pulled a note pad from his pocket and read, “… a Franklin Graham, our new Minister of the Gospels. He thinks she needs re-programming to learn that hate is compassion.”

 

There will be no 'takers' in the new economy.
Plenty of jobs. Plenty of jobs. - C.W.

“He talks to God, you know,” Lucky said.

“Directly,” Lefty said.

That got my attention. “He wants to see my wife?”

“Quite so,” Lefty said, Mind telling us where we can find her?”

“And don’t,” Lucky said, “let her know we’re coming for her. We want it to be a …,” he struggled for the right word.

“A surprise,” Lefty said. Both heads nodded. He added, “We might have to keep her for a while, but don’t worry.”

“Bondage is freedom,” Lucky said.

“Actually,” I said, “she’s standing right behind you, with some of her friends. She’s the one with the baseball bat in her hand.”

With that, they shrieked in unison and ran from the room.

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Daily Thoughts

What C.W. and I discussed this morning.

A life worth studying: Lewis Mumford. The meme echoes my feelings on this fourth day before the elections. Only problem is … almost everything Mumford warned of came pass and his advice remains pertinent but unheeded by many. Recall:  “A day spent without the sight or sound of beauty, the contemplation of mystery, or the search of truth is a poverty-stricken day; and a succession of such days is fatal to human life.” 

My favorite of his quotes: "Adding highway lanes to deal with traffic congestion is like loosening your belt to cure obesity."

If only someone could remind the Arkansas Highway Construction Department of this.

C.W. says "Happy Guy Fawkes Day."

Christmas 2015

From the Alien C.W. to his friends:

297. Love and Grace

Oh my, y’all, C.W. has a new shape, and it may be the strangest one yet. He calls it simply “The Galilean.”

Yes. That Galilean —white robes, sandals and all.

It’s not just one shape. It’s two: the Galilean and a pal. (He can do that if he wants). Anyway, they’ve been going everywhere together, the one in his robe and the other in a three-piece suit with vest and tie-pin. They’ve already been thrown out of a Chick-fil-a and menaced at Hobby Lobby.

Did I mention that they don’t bother bathing all that often?

Of course the one wants me to interview the other and pay close attention to his testimony, that is to say that Three-Piece wants me to be pals with the Galilean. Actually, I haven’t minded so far, since he always brings a bottle of “Four Roses Single Barrel” to make the conversation flow more easily. Three Piece keeps the glasses full while the Galilean pontificates.

Yesterday he was grumbling.

“You won’t believe, Big Dope …”

“Wait,” I said, pointing to Three Piece. “Did he tell you to call me that?”

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock,” he said. “Does it matter by which name I call you out?”

Three Piece giggled. “Go on,” I said.

“I get a bum rap,” he said. “Some of your species make up and blame me for all kinds of cr…”

“Careful,” I said. “Remember that the sun rises on the evil and on the good.”

“I am the way,” he said. “Let not your heart be troubled.”

I directed us back to the point of the conversation. “So just how have you been maligned?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of a character named Franklin Graham?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Joel Osteen?”

“Oh, boy.”

“John Hagee? The guys and I call him Piggy.”

“He’s a work of art all right.”

He had a sad, far-away look in his eyes. “Well, how would you like to have them invoke your name?”

“Not really,” I said.

“The worst though,” he said, after taking a sip of his Four Roses and Three Cubes,  “was that son of a …”

“Careful,” I said. “My wife is in the next room.”

“That jerk,” he said, “Algernon Charles Swinburne.”

“Swineburne dissed you?”

“If it were not so, would I have told you?” He drained his glass and handed it to Three Piece with a flip that indicated a refill.”

“What did Swinburne do, exactly?” We waited for Three Piece.

“Ah,” he said, taking his drink in hand. “It’s nice to have a dear companion. Ask and it shall be given.” He winked at Three Piece. “I used to hang out with The Apostle,” he said, “but he wouldn’t get off this ‘thorn in my side’ kick and it got to where I wouldn’t go into a public restroom with him.”

“About Swinburne,” I said.

“He wrote this afwful poem,” he said, “in which he judged others. You know I don’t like that …”

“Others?”

“Well, me,” he said. “Claimed the old gods were bright, colorful, and full of life.”

“And you?”

He gazed off into space and thought, so he would get the passage correct. “Me? Try this on for size, ‘Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath.’ I complained to him about it once.”



Swinburne can just kiss my grits. - The Galilean

“And what did he say?”

“'Everyone who humbles himself will be exalted.’ I sort of like that quote. I’ve used it myself.” He drained his glass. “But I never though anyone would use it on me.”

I contemplated this for a moment, while Three Piece scurried about. “So you think the line is unfair?”

“Thanks,” he said to Three Piece. Then he turned to me. “Don’t you ever read the scriptures?”

I fought the urge to borrow the famous line from General George S. Patton. Instead, I said, “Well yeah.”

“One of the few who do,” he said. “Anyway, then you know we were a bunch of wild and crazy guys, back in the day.”

“Oh really?”

“Hell yes,” he said. “Me and my bros just wandered about not bothering a soul, sipping wine, breaking bread, …” he giggled, “sometimes wind as well, and telling people to love one another as we loved them.” His eyes took on that far-away look again. He sipped. “I don’t really recommend that you do that, though.”
 

“And why not?’

“You see where it got us, don’t you?”

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Ask The Alien: Happy Confusion

Dear Ask the Alien:
My gorgeous wife has the cutest routine during a moment of intense emotional exuberance, actually when we are making love. She starts out by yelling “Oh Matthew, Oh Matthew,” then she goes into a mode I can’t describe herein. She ends by almost purring “Thank you Matthew,” in my ear and falling asleep. The experience is so wonderful that I find myself dreaming about it later. I wouldn’t miss it for the world, and have begun to look forward to it.
There’s only one drawback.
My name isn’t Matthew.
Should I worry or just keep enjoying the fun?
Signed,
Misnamed

Dear Misnamed:

Are you kidding me? The worst possible scenario is that somewhere there is someone named Matthew who is getting a much worse deal than you are.
Your Friend,
The Alien C.W.

240. War and Peace

Talk about being in a bad mood. C.W. hates Daylight Savings Time. I think they programmed his functions in Falloonia without taking our twice-a-year changes into account. It really sets him off course for a few days.

Come to think about it … it does the same for everyone. Oh well.

Anyway, here he comes, in critical mode. For this no form will suit him but Lucky and Lefty, the conjoined twins. Here they came and I began mentally to batten down the hatches. I could hear them arguing fifty yards away. We suffered a late winter storm and I was enjoying the first time it had been warm enough to sit outside and watch the snow melt.

“Asshole,” I heard.

“Douchebag,”

“I told you we needed overcoats.”

“Pussy.”

It continued this way until they stood in front of me. I nodded and braced for the worst. “What’s up boys?”

“I think snow is beautiful,” Lucky said.

“It hurts my feet,” Lefty said.

I tried to bring peace. “Don’t you fellows agree on anything?”

“I try to,” Lucky said.

“Why should we?” Lefty said. “Do you think just because we were born attached that I have to listen to this prick?”

“You could try,” Lucky said.

“Bite me,” Lefty said.

I said nothing.

“I’m going to slug this moron if you don’t make him shut up,” Lucky said. “I’ve had about all I can take.”

“You try, you numbskull,” Lefty said. “Remember what happened last time.”

I couldn’t stay neutral any longer. “Fellas, fellas,” I said. “What has happened to put you in such a state?”

“Might as well tell him,” Lucky said.

“Go ahead,” Lefty said. “You do it.”

“Screw you,” Lucky said. He actually phrased it a bit more directly but you get the picture.

“Cut it out,” I said. “Go ahead, Lucky.”

“Some Xenaprichians landed not far from here yesterday for a reconnaissance mission.”

“Really?” I said. “They landed on our farm?”

“They do it all the time” Lefty said. “They stay around awhile, making extra money doing things they call energetic meetings intended to revive religious faith.”

I was confused.

“He means ‘revivals,’ and they are good at it.,” Lucky said. “I enjoy hearing them preach on love and the joy that grace brings. It is very soothing to one’s spiritual well-being.” He turned to Lucky, “I told you to get that goddam translator fixed.”

“Jump up my ass,” Lefty said.

“Stop it guys,” I said. “So why are you so upset?”

“We hate Xenaprichians,” Lefty said.

“I don’t,” Lucky said. “I want to visit with them more to discuss the way our planets can live in harmony.”

“I want to blow their goddam spacecraft up with their sorry asses in it,” Lefty said.

“Asshole.”

“Crap for brains.”

“Now look,” I said. “It doesn’t seem wise to do harm to them. They may then want to damage to you in return. The rest of us may suffer in the process.”

“My feelings exactly,” Lucky said.

“Chickenshit peace-weenies,” Lefty said.

“Now let’s calm down and discuss this rationally,” I said. “We don’t want to start an interplanetary war on our farm.

“There you go again,” Lefty said. “You’ll never learn.”

“Why don’t we give freedom from disturbance; quiet and tranquility a chance?” Lucky said, turning to Lefty.

It seems to me that your species should try to find
a philosophy that teaches peace instead of war. - C.W.

'“Put your ‘peace’ where the sun don’t shine,” Lefty said. “Anyway, I’ve already talked to Mrs. Big Dope and she has agreed for us to wipe them out. That’s where we were headed now—to talk to her about the details.”

“Wait just a minute,” I said. “My wife won’t make such a decision without consulting me.”

“Poor deluded child,” Lucky said.

“Dumbass,” Lefty said.

They both laughed, spun three circles to the left then three circles to the right, settled on a course, and headed toward the house.

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230. Love

Omigosh, C.W. is using the holiday break to study philosophy. Yeegads. When I walked into the living room this morning there was the form of Albert the Analyst, one of his favorites, sitting on the couch in this tweed jacket—the one with the suede patches on the elbows—surrounded by books. He looked at me through horn-rimmed glasses, partly covered with unkempt hair and said, “Peace.” He immediately followed it with, “Humbug.”

“Tis the season,” I said.

“That’s what I’m trying to make sense of,” he said. “It happens every year this time.”

“What happens?”

“This time of peace on earth and good will toward men turns so ugly.”

“No it doesn’t”

“Oh,” he said, “but it does. Just look around you. That TV show, the fake news show …”

“The so-called Fox ‘News’ show?”

“That’s the one,” he said. “When’s the last time you saw them promoting an intense feeling of deep romantic affection?”

“Uh,” I said, “I don’t think love is the cornerstone of their business plan.”

“Evidently not,” he said. “And it shows in all the strong feelings of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility we see everywhere we go.”

“Anger is not everywhere,” I said. “Look at all those presents people exchange.”

“Exactly what I’m talking about.”

This took me by surprise. “How so?”

“Just a few moments before you came in,” he said, “one of you neighbors called and I spoke with them.”

“What did they want?”

“It was a woman asking where she might find this particular present for her brother.”

“See,” I said, “that’s exactly what I mean. It’s the season for promoting peace on earth and goodwill by exchanging presents. She wanted you to help her express her love.”

He sighed and looked at me as if I had just said storks bring babies. “She wanted to know,” he said, “where she could buy some of that toilet tissue they sell that has your President Barack Obama’s face printed on each square.”

“Oh dear,” I said.

“She thought it was just what he would want,” he said, “i.e. the perfect gift for the Season of Love.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly feeling the need to suffer for humankind.

“Oh,” he said, “that’s not all.”

“There’s more?”

“I didn’t ask her, but she told me anyway.”

What better way to celebrate the birth
of the Prince of Peace? - C.W.



“Told you what?”

“What her brother was getting her for Christmas.”

When I didn’t say anything , he continued, “One of those Glock handguns.”

“I see,” I said.

“So,” he went on, “she could shoot herself the first ni…”

“That’s enough,” I said. “I get the picture.”

He leaned back. “Speaking of Christmas presents, though, have you ordered my copy of ‘No Country for Old Men,’ yet?”

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- C.W.

Gifts

Your favorite alien has once more had a chance to observer your species during this most unique time of the earth year. I must tell you that there is nothing quite like it in our known galaxy.

I must say, this year it was pinch and insert for a while. (Editor’s note: he means “nip and tuck.”) It seemed this year some of your species, especially those in the conservative-leaning media, wanted to use this wonderful time of to cause you to divide and distrust one another. How dreadful.

But, you prevailed and I am glad to say that the spirit lives in the Big Dope household. Even the collection of dogs and cats they have rescued and keep on the farm were on their best behavior. Well, sort of. There were a couple of instances in which Christmas presents delivered by UPS were intercepted and …, well Big Dope didn’t need another shirt anyway.

The days leading up to Christmas ended with their annual visit to their farm neighbors. This year they let me go. It was a treat. What a family. The husband was raised on the mean and poor streets of Laredo, Texas. The wife is a naturalized citizen from Ensenada, Mexico.

For the last several years they have been caring for, in addition to their two daughters (both movie star gorgeous), four foster children who have now returned to their parents. So it was just the four of them when we called on them this year with some small gifts.

It was then that I realized Big Dope has a motive behind his generosity. The wife makes the best tamales in the western hemisphere, perhaps the galaxy. We certainly don’t have anything to match them in Falloonia.

Big Dope made an omnivorous domesticated hoofed mammal with sparse bristly hair and a flat snout for rooting in the soil of himself.

Anyone who would seek to generate division
and distrust during this season of love and hope
is sorely in need of  a hobby. - C.W.

 

The husband entertained us with stories about how, as a child, his family was one of four that would "follow the harvest" in a covered flat-bed truck, each family claiming a corner in which to live during the travels.

 

The wife gave Mrs. Big Dope a knitted headband that covers the head and most of the ears. She makes them in her spare time and donates most of them to St. Jude’s Hospital in Memphis Tennessee for the kids who lose their hair during cancer treatments.

Then, of course, on Christmas Eve, she makes tamales for Big Dope.

That’s what I like about your species, this generosity from folks who, themselves, live in the most modest of circumstances. It is particularly touching this time of year.

As I say, there isn’t anything like it in the galaxy.

You should be proud.

174. Love

“Mock me if you wish, but I know what your species needs,” C.W. said, as I curled up on the couch laughing. “Your kind always scoffs at the prophets.”

Get this. He was—excuse me while I stop and laugh again—in the shape of a 1960s hippie, complete with robe, headband. and beaded necklace. A strong odor of incense oozed through the room.

“I can’t help it,” I said.

He said, “You will see, my friend. Peace be unto you.”

“Oh,” I said, straightening up. “What the hell? What’s up?”

“Simply this,” he said. “I have chanced upon what your country needs to work itself away from this awful state you currently occupy.”

“Awful state?”

“There was another shooting spree,” he said. “Or haven’t you heard?”

“At an airport, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “And it seems the shooter had been motivated by a sinister force that is endemic to your country.”

“And what sinister force might that be?”

“Media inspired hate,” he said. “From radio, television, and printed sources.”

“You mean like hate radio?”

“It runs constantly. It can flow without stop through a person’s mind like a never-ending poison. And your species has no internal antidote for hate.”

“You will provide an external one?”

“It is my destiny.”

I said, “And you have a plan?”

“A simple one. You might say: a kind and gentle one.”

“And that is?”

“Love radio.”

I thought about this. “You would counteract the effects of ‘hate radio’ with ‘love radio?’”

“Exquisitely simple, yes?”

“Love radio.” I pondered this.

“And later we can expand to ‘love TV.’”

I said, “You know that it would cost money to do this?”

He said, “Of course I do, my friend.” He sat and smoothed his robe. “That’s where you come in.”

“Me? I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Of course not. You’ll have to find sponsors.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “And who, may I ask, is going to sponsor a program about loving one another?”

It was his time to ponder a question. “Drug companies?”

“Are you kidding? It would put them out of business.”

“Car makers?”

“They sell on fun, envy, or implied power, not love.”

“Jewelers?”

“You would be direct competition.”

“I know,” he said. “Mega-marts.”

“Uh,” I said. “I don’t know if you have noticed but they don’t even love their own people enough to pay a living wage.”

“Maybe the churches would help.”

“Too late,” I said. “They have moved into prosperity and paranoia as dominate messages. The few that still preach love are drying up and wouldn’t have any spare cash for you.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “There must be some source of funding for love.”

“Afraid not,” I said.

I'm confused. If one can't sell love
in your country? What can one sell? - C.W.

“I’ve got it,” he said and his face brightened.

I said, “Please share.”

“Gun manufacturers.” He pointed a finger at me. “Bang.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No,” he said, giddy with excitement. “I have heard them on many an occasion state that their only goal is to allow us to protect the ones we love. There you go.”

“Maybe you should stick to selling flowers,” I said.

159. Reflections

I’ve always liked grandmothers, so when I found that C.W. had assumed the shape of a SLOL and was sitting in my living room knitting, I couldn’t help smiling.

“Why the sweet little old lady shape?”

“Sit down child,” she said.

I did as she told me. Her hands flashed as the knitting needs clicked against one another. She didn’t say anything.

“Nice morning,” I said. “See we had some rain last night.

“All things come in their own time,” she said.

“Uh,” I said. “Want to give me a hint of what you’re up to.”

“Just reflecting,” she said. “You know what today is, don’t you?”

“Saturday?”

“It’s been 44years since we first took notice of you. The day you took your ‘giant step for mankind.’”

“The first moon landing?”

“We thought you were all so cute.”

“I suppose we were. It was a great day.”

“Well what the bloody hell happened?”

I almost spilled my coffee.

“Oh, excuse me,” she said. “I forgot where I was for a moment.”

As the modern mystery books say, I sat in stunned silence.

“It’s just that you have been such a burden to us all since that day.”

“Since that day?”

“We thought at the time that you had the capabilities to get past some of your shortcomings.”

“Shortcomings?”

“Pigmentation preoccupation and such.” Her fingers flashed with silent fury.

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“You have such a capacity for love, on occasion,” she said. “Why when that little girl out in Colorado was murdered that time, the whole country went into mourning.”

“I seem to remember.”

She studied her knitting for a few seconds, then looked up at me. She spoke softly. “Then the whole country seems to stick its head up its ass and wonder why the lights went out.”

“Something troubling you?”

“Pigmentation preoccupation, like I said.”

“As in?”

“Why doesn’t it bother some people when a young man with black skin gets murdered for walking down the street not bothering a soul?”

“I don’t know.”

She stopped knitting. “Your species calls it, I believe, schizophrenia.”

“And what do you call it?”

“Just being assholes.”

“C.W.,” I said. “I think you may be having one of your cases of, what is it you call it, role warp?”

“Oh child,” she said and offered me a smile that would have melted hardened steel. “I’m just picking up bad habits from your species. You can be so sweet at times.”

“And?”

“And then you can be totally fu…”

“Shhh,” I interrupted her. “My wife may walk in at any time.”

“ … funny beyond belief at others. What’s wrong with you?”

In Grandma's day, a good dose of
Senna Leaf Tea in the spring
cleaned all that meanness
out of you kids. - C.W.Add caption

I sighed in relief. “Oh nothing.”

She smiled again and resumed her knitting. “Oh child, she said. Poor sweet child. You can make me so proud at times.”

“Yes?” She was beginning to make me feel warm inside.

“Then sometimes you make my ass crave a dip of snuff.”

144. Statistics

Walked into the living room yesterday morning and found C.W. busy making notes in a spiral notebook and muttering to himself, having assumed the shape of what could best be described as an “old goat.” He was an exact replica of a Chief Bosun’s mate I served under in the Navy— a man named Zelmer whose hatred for the world was exceeded only by his verbal acuity in expressing the same.

“Marital bliss my ass,” he growled as I sat across from him with my coffee.

“Morning,” I said.

“Goddam your eyes,” he said.

“Glad to hear you are doing well. What’s up?”

It was only then that he looked at me. “How long have you and Mrs. Big Dope been married?”

I can’t risk busting his ‘cookies’ when he gets like this. “In dog-years or real years?”

This caught him up short for a moment, then he snarled. “Fender-head.”

“Nearly 41 years,” I said. “What’s it to you?”

“Filing a report,” he said. “Those idiots back on Falloonia have been reading all these dispatches about ‘joyous mood’ marriages and they want some facts.”

“Uh, do you by any chance mean gay marriages?”

“Ain’t that what I just said?”

 I let it pass. His pre-programmed translation-device insert does that sometimes. “So what do you have so far?”

“Just some notes on marital attraction factors.”

“Such as?”

“Money marries money.”

“Hmm.”

“Opposites attract.”

“And that is based on?”

“You and Mrs. Big Dope.”

“Us?”

“Yes,” he said and, for the first time, I noticed a Styrofoam cup on the table in front of him. He reached over, pulled it to his mouth and spat into it. I instantly noticed the smell of tobacco.

“Gross,” I said.

“Your marriage?” he said, quickly readying himself to take notes.

“No, that disgusting thing.” I motioned toward the cup. “And my wife and I demonstrate your principle of marital opposites how?”

“How tall are you?”

“I was six feet tall but the burden of dealing with you has reduced me to five-foot eleven and three-quarters,” I said.

He wrote in his notebook and muttered something to himself about my mother. “And how tall is your wife?”

“She says she is five-foot two,” I said. “And she says it with an edge in her voice that invites no further inquiry.”

“So there you go. Opposites attract.”

“C.W.,” I said, not knowing quite where to begin. “Didn’t they teach you about the pitfalls of inductive reasoning back on Falloonia?”

“Inductive, shminductive,” he said, mocking me. “How about this one? Marriage is only allowed for those who can’t do without sex.”

“That is a statistic?”

With a failure rate exceeding fifty percent,
it doesnt' seem to bother some folks that the
impact of marriage is confined solely to
couples of the opposite sex. - C.W.

“No, that is a Biblical injunction. Not a statistic. Your species tends to confuse them from time to time.” He smiled. “You want a statistical analysis?” he said. He flipped through his notes and read. “The institution of marriage is an interesting statistical anomaly. Although enjoying less than a 50 percent success rate, it has generated a vast body of legal imperatives and an almost mythical degree of preoccupation among the conservative-minded of the species who wish, apparently, that the impact of its spurious reliability be confined to pairs of the opposite sex.”

He stopped and looked at me. “Is that deductive enough for you?”

At this point I was fed up. “Deductive shmeductive,” I said. “Have you heard the one about the alien who spent three years among Earthlings but didn’t understand a thing about them?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Did you hear about the one Earthling that was so dumb the other Earthlings began to notice it?”

 

96. Mothers

Sometimes I don’t know what to think about C.W. He knocks on the door this morning and when I look out, there stands the perfect image of my long departed mother. My first impulse was to go back to bed when she yelled, “Open this damned door right now, Jimmie Gayle. And don’t make me have to tell you again.”

What could I do? As I let her in, I said, “C.W., I don’t think this is very funny.”

“It’s Mother’s Day,” she said. “Or have you forgotten?”

“How could I forget with all the jewelry store ads on TV?”

“Are you going to ask me to sit down?”

“Sure,” I said. “Have a seat.”

I have to admit, he had done a good job of shift-shaping. It was my mother in her forties. The one who loved to fish and who would help me save up fifty cents to buy the latest Elvis Presley record. The one who tried to teach me to do the Charleston, laughed a lot, and knew one song each on the piano, the guitar, and the mouth harp.

She straightened her skirt and placed her hands on her lap. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“I wouldn’t have one of them cell phones if you was to give it to me.”

“Oh?”

“Some idiot plumb near ran over me on the way here and when she finally passed, she was yappin’ away.”

“It is a problem,” I said.

“Aint’ they go nothin’ better to do?”

”Apparently not.”

“Speakin’ of nothin’ better to do,” she said. “Are you working on mine and your daddy’s history?”

”A little each day.”

“You can get distracted,” she said. "I worry."

“I’m working on it.”

“You put the part in there about that old Bessie Shannon,” didn’t you?”

“Which part would that be?”

“The part where she told Miss Averitt that me and your daddy was so dumb it took two of us to drink a Cocola.”

She looked at something far away. ”She turned into a damned religious fanatic later on. I might have guessed.”

C.W. was good, I’ll have to admit. He had my mother pegged. She always maintained a healthy distrust of religious fanatics and anyone who didn’t like FDR.

“There’s something else I want in there,” she said.

“What would that be?”

“Remember when you got all down in the dumps over some girl you met in college and come cryin’ to me about it?”

“Vaguely”

“Well I want it told right. What I said was this. When I married your daddy, I wasn’t a bit in love with him. I married him for one reason─I knew he worked and if I married him I wouldn’t ever go hungry again.” She paused. “And I never did.”

“Is that it?”

“No,” she said. “Here is the important part. We got married and had it hard. Lord, we had it hard. We sharecropped and done whatever we could at first. Then we bought the grocery store and worked in it together night and day until I woke up one morning and realized that I worshipped the ground he walked on.”

The relationship your species has
with your mothers is one of
its more admirable traits. - C.W.

I pretended something was in my eye.

“I hope you feel that way about your wife,” she said.

“Oh, I do,” I said. “But she can be a pill sometimes, just like you.” I smiled.

“I got to go,’ she said. “Me and your daddy are going to see your Uncle Raymond and Aunt Lucille.”

With that, she was gone. I was left thinking of what an Ernest Hemingway character once said.

“Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

95. Dissonance

Yesterday, I returned from a meeting to find C.W. in the middle of the living room floor with a complete circle of books and notes scattered around him. He had taken on the appearance of a young woman, apparently in the midst of studying some subject. I noticed a couple of Bibles among the reference material.


She looked up at me and smiled. “Mr. uh, Big Dope, I presume.”

“What’s up?”

“My teacher said that I could use your library to prepare my term paper.”

“What’s going on, C.W.?” I said.

“Research.”

“On what?”

“Cognitive dissonance. Are you familiar with the term?”

“Somewhat.”

“Well, I am confused, sir,” she said, maintaining the persona. Perhaps you can help me.”

Past experience has taught me it is useless to resist when C.W. is on his game. “Perhaps,” I said.

“Well,” she said, reaching for a sheet of paper filled with notes. “It says here that ‘cognitive dissonance’ describes the feeling of discomfort that results from holding two conflicting beliefs.”

“Yes, and?”

“I don’t’ find that your species evidences any discomfort at all accommodating two conflicting beliefs.”

I sat. This might be a long evening and my wife was expecting me to meet her somewhere. “And what makes you think that?”

She reached for one of the Bibles. “This Jesus,” she said. “Don’t your people worship him as an ideal?”

“So it is said.”

“Seems to me he was kind and thoughtful, and loved everyone except rich people, divorcees, bankers, and other preachers.”

“Pretty much so.”

“So, a great many of your citizens idealize him?”

So it is said.”

“But then they base their political beliefs on some of most mean-spirited people on your planet.” She paused. “I mean, are you familiar with this sheriff out in Arizona?”

“Somewhat.”

“Or this …,” she paused and referred to a note. “Grover Norquist?” She grabbed another note before I could answer. “Ever heard of Franklin Graham or Clarence …?”

“The list goes on,” I interrupted.

“Want to read something beautiful?” she said.

“Sure,” I said. I was glad to change the direction of the conversation and fully expected the Sermon on the Mount.”

“Here,” she said. She handed me a worn and crumpled page of photocopied material. I looked at it and saw our country’s Bill of Rights.

“I think you have something here,” I said.

“But why …?” she asked, “Has your species always maintained a subset of your fellow humans to which its protections didn’t apply?” She smiled as if she knew a secret.

“We have made mistakes,” I said. My voice dropped as I said it and I knew I sounded lame.

These kids sang me the most
beautiful rendition of
"Jesus Loves Me." - C.W.

“Have made?” she said, reaching for another sheet of photocopy.”

Even before she touched it, I could see the words “Amendment One” printed across the top.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Your mind seems to be playing ping-pong,” she said. “Enjoy the game.”

50. Reality

We hadn’t had much good weather recently so, during one of the rare pleasant interludes I walked to my favorite spot in the park. It was spring and threatening to rain again, so I kept a weather-eye out for clouds. That’s why I didn’t notice someone sitting beside me until I smelled a mixture of body odor and cheap cigar smoke that snapped my head around.

There beside me was a figure as sad as I had seen beyond the movies. He was balding and badly in need of a shave. He was dressed in work pants and a sleeveless undershirt with a large mop of gray-black hair protruding from the top of it. His stomach spilled over his waist like dough overflowing in an oven.

I didn’t have to guess.

“C.W.,” I said. “What the hell are you up to?”

“What business is it of yours?” he said.

“None,” I said. “You are absolutely right. None at all.” I turned to watch the river, now at flood crest.

“If you must know,” he said. “I am waiting for a date.”

“A date?”

“A date. Is that so unbelievable?”

“Well,” I struggled for politeness and chose honesty instead. “Who would date you looking like that?”

“You would be surprised,” he said. “Some women look at the ‘inner-man’ and beyond superficial appearances.”

I nodded and turned back to the river as my lunch began to roil.

“I just may have found a soul-mate,” he said, brushing some cigar ashes off his stomach.’

“A soul-mate.”

“Yes, a soul-mate.”

And how did you happen to find this soul-mate?”

“On the internet,” he said. “They have sites where you can find a date.”

“You matched a date on the internet?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“No,” I said. “But didn’t you have to submit a photo?”

“The Falloonian Elders don’t allow me to publicize my own photo,” he said. “So I used one of yours.”

Now he had my attention. “You used my photo?”

“Yep,” he said. “And it took a long time, as you could imagine, but I finally got a hit.”

“And what was the attraction?”

As close as I could get to reality

“This, he said reaching into a pants pocket and retrieving a soiled paper containing print. He handed it to me and I read.

“Attractive SWF wants man who is comfortable within himself, loves casual dress and good food, and isn’t hung up on physical appearances—who loves to share a smoke and then take long, romantic walks in the spring rain.”

“Don’t I look the part?” he asked.

I was already up and moving away.

“Don’t you want to see her happy face when she meets me?”

He yelled something else but I was already out of hearing range.

41. Hats

Yep, it was C.W. I was processing some early morning photos I had taken of the Little Rock skyline when I heard his footsteps. I was at the door before he knocked, for he bangs so loudly at times that he wakes up my wife, and she manages to twist her head around another 360 degrees when she is awakened ere the appointed time.

Anyway, I opened the door and couldn’t even see C.W. for this enormous cowboy hat. I mean it must have been three feet in diameter. Underneath it, he looked a little like George W. Bush.

“Howdy partner,” he said.

“Come in and be quiet,” I said. Then I had to step aside to let the hat pass. “Take that stupid thing off,” I said.

“Jealous?” he said.

“Of what?”

“From Darwin on, your scientists have agreed that the female of the species has been attracted to large, gaudy appendages.”

“Do you think they meant to include cowboy hats?”

“It’s taught as fact in Texas.”

“A lot of things are taught as fact in Texas,” I said. “Besides, what’s it to you?”

“I’m in love,” he said.

“You’re what!”

“Well, maybe not in the strictest sense, but I am studying this thing called dating.” He paused and looked around. Then he straightened his hat and grinned. “And I have a girlfriend.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Found her down on the river.”

“What? How?” I was stupefied.

“Well, I started out in the bars, but all the girls I met there said that I would never make them wet, so I started looking for beaches down along the river.”

“In the middle of winter?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t having much luck until I found this one fishing.”

“Fishing?”

“Yeah. I worked up this ‘retrieve from the ground’ line I though was pretty good.”

 “Retrieve from the ground line?”

“Yep. Ain’t that what you call it.

“You may mean ‘pick-up line.’”

“Precisely. Want to hear it?”

I groaned.

“Here we go … I said.’Hey, I see you like to fish. Bet I could make you a fisher of men.’”

“C.W., you are whacko.”

“Hey, it worked.”

“It did?”



“Yeah, we’ve had two dates so far. But I had to dress up to make the third.”

“Dress up?”

“Yep.” He pointed to the hat.

“What’s the story?”

“Well, yesterday when I called her, she seemed hesitant.”

“Hesitant?”



From this photo he showed me,
C.W. was doing okay, for a while.



“Well, she put me off.”

“How so?”



“Well, she said she though I was about one cowboy hat shy of a rodeo.”

“Thence, the hat?”



“Yep. I bet now I can get ‘to a point across an intervening space.’”

“C.W.,” I said. “I don’t think you could ‘get over’ if you had some cattle as well as a hat.”

“You’re just jealous,” he said.

37. Dancing

Received the strangest invitation this morning I’ve had in a long time. C.W. knocked on the door well before daylight while I was enjoying coffee alone. Of all things, he was dressed as a modern dancer and looked a lot like, as I remember, Rudolph Nureyev. Yes, it was a bit of a strong sight for 5:30 a.m.

“Come go with me,” he said. “I’m going to welcome the sunrise with a special dance in Riverfront Park. I call it ‘Sprites in the Garden.’”

I stood there.

“Well, come on,” he said. “Daylight defers to no mortal plans.”

I think I must have looked a little confused.

“May I come in?”

“Please do.” The last thing on earth I wanted was for a neighbor to see him standing in the hall.

“Oh thanks,” he said, lighting in a chair with a flourish and graceful hand gesture.

“Oh Christ,” I said, returning to the coffee pot and wishing I had some brandy to stiffen it with.

“Know what?” he said.

I just looked at him.

“The concept of dancing on your planet is simply marvelous.” He made another sweep of his hand as if my living room encompassed the entire store of humankind’s accomplishments over the 150,000 or so years of its existence.

“It is a little all-encompassing, though,” he said, lowering his chin to his head and peering up at me. “I mean it includes everything from the most sublime movements imaginable to what appears, to me, to be young boys lying on their backs and wiggling their legs.” He sighed. “But, overall—fascinating. Simply fascinating.”

“C.W.” I said. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Celebrating the joy of life through dance,” he said. “Hurry up and let us go then, you and I.”

I groaned.

“Come on,” he said. “The fecund stirrings of Mother Earth shall spread exaltation through the very soles of your feet. In short, you shall be unafraid and happy.”

“I have never socked an alien—or a ballet dancer—in my life, but I am very close.” I said.

“Oh, you who spurn the soothing catalyst of dance are the saddest of souls,” he said.

“You’re probably not going to leave until I agree to go with you, are you?”

“You got that right,” he said, settling back in this chair with a gesture of finality. “How did all this dancing stuff get started anyway?”

“I dunno. Maybe it was some effort at imitative magic, as Frazier phrased it: efforts to make the earth bloom again in the spring.”

“Well then,” he said. Seeming to think it over for a minute, he looked up. “It certainly seems to work. Hmm. Let’s see. ‘April is the happiest month, filling life into slumbering feet.’ Hey, maybe I’ll take up poetry next.”

“Oh Christ,” I said, heading, back to get dressed.