Nightmares

It's this way... I never know whether C.W. sleeps or not. He pretends to, but then he may just be having some fun at my expense. In either case, he slides in this morning as I was writing, looking much like a sleepy, confused teenaged boy, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
"I had a nightmare last night," he said.
I continued typing. "That's nice," I said.
"It scared me."
"That's nice."
"Are you even listening?"
That got my attention. I stopped and looked at him. "What's up?"
"I had this scary dream."
"About what?"
"That weird preacher who's running for president."
I thought. "The one that acts a little crazier each day?"
"That's him."
"So what did he do in your dream?"
"It was about that bizarre woman in Kentucky, too."
"There are lot of bizarre women in Ky...." Then it dawned on me. "Oh," I said. "That one."
"Yeah," he said. "The one they locked up."
"Yep. But what did she have to do with the crazy preacher?"
"Did you see where he offered to take her place in jail?"
"Seems I read something about that. Why?"
"In my dream they took him up on his offer."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. They let her out and locked him up."
"A real zero-sum exchange," I said.
"He got out after awhile, in my dream."
"None the worse for wear, I hope."
"Oh no. He seemed very happy."
"To see his wife and family, I suppose."
"Oh no," he said. "Just the opposite."
This really got my attention. I turned and said, "Tell me more."
"He was holding hands with someone."'
"Really?" I said. "His lawyer."
"No, another inmate."
"No. Who?"
"A big, ugly, mean-looking man."
"Get out of town."
"Really," he said. "You won't believe what he told the reporters."
"What?"
"He said, 'I have quit ignoring this thorn in my side, and I'd like to introduce you to my fiancé, Rufus Lee.' Then he started to leave."
"What happened next?"
"He said, 'I'd talk more but we're going over and get my divorce papers and a marriage license. You can get them both at the same place in this county.'"
"C.W," I said, 'why don't you go back to bed?"

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252. Running

We seem to have developed a monsoon season in the Arkansas Delta, so it gives C.W. and me some time for quiet conversation. He doesn’t like to get wet—says it causes his Galactic Universal Translator to become, as he put it, “Characterized by lack of consistency, accuracy, regularity, or uniformity.”

There was nothing erratic about his GUT today, though. He had taken on one of his favorite forms, that of Todd, the TV pundit. From time to time, as we discussed the weather, the latest book I’d read, or the current report he was late in sending to the Fallooninan Elders, he would make notes on a reporter’s notepad and smile.

“So,” I said, “I think in the end, Fitzgerald was presenting the modern version of a heroic quest within the wasteland.” I waited while he filtered this.

“I think I have answer to our problems,” he said, ignoring my last. Outside, the rain continued to fall.

“What problems?” I said, peeved at his not paying attention.

“My new computer, for one.”

“What about a new computer?”

“I need one,” he said. “You know that.”

“So what does that have to do with Gatsby?”

“And that new car you’ve been wanting to buy for Mrs. Big Dope.”

“C.W.,” I said. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“You know that trip you want to take to Southeast Asia with your Navy buddy?”

“We were discussing literature.”

“Look,” he said. “I must depend on you sometimes for transportation. I really need that new motorcycle we’ve been talking about.”

“But you don’t have a driver’s license.”

“And your poor wife is driving a ten-year old car.”

“She likes that car,” I said.

“That’s not what she tells me,”

“So what are you getting at?”

“Kudaclarupitti?

That is Falloonian for “What the hell do you mean?”

“Why are you mentioning all these problems?”

“Because,” he said, broadening his face into his best television smile, “I have the solution.”

“And your solution is?”

“Simple,” he said. “Run for President.”

“You can’t run for President,” I said, with despair in my voice, “you are an alien.”

“Not me, silly,” he said, “you.”

“Are you insane?”

“Not a bit,” he said. “You wouldn’t make that good a candidate, but you would do. I’ve already started lining up donors. You’ll be the ‘I hate mimes’ candidate.”

“Mimes?”

“All the other hate targets have been spoken for already.”

“C.W.,” I said. “This is idiotic on so many fronts. First, I have this very checkered past. You know that.”

“No big deal,” he said. “I’ve already picked you a ‘Salvation Date.’ It’s March 20, 2003. That’s the day you ‘got saved.’ Nobody can question anything you did before then. Don’t you remember? We’ve discussed this. It worked like a charm for that guy from Texas.”

My mind was racing. “Isn’t the day America began bombing Iraq?”

“Seemed as good a date as any,” he said. “and it would strike a patriotic chord. Now here is the deal. I’ve set up a campaign fund account, and your staff will consist of Mrs. Big Dope, your mother-in-law, and me, all with annual salaries of half a million of your dollars or so.” He smiled again. “Of course the campaign will need things like computers, vehicles, and headquarters. I’ve picked out a nice beachfront home in Key West, Florida for that.”

“But someone like me could never be elected President.”

“Of course not,” he said. “Who would elect you President?”

“So why are you bringing this all up?”

“Because we could make enough money for the short duration of your campaign to solve a lot of problems.”

“What problems?”

“The ones I mentioned earlier.”

“Those were financial problems.”

“So?”

“They were,” I said, “personal problems.”

It seems to me that all it takes for political
disaster in your country is for enough people
to quit listening and remain silent. - C.W.

“So?”

“Look C.W.” I said, “a person in our country runs for President because she or he wants to address the country’s problems, not personal ones.”

“Since when?”

“Since, uh, … say, I said. “I’ve been reading this book called One Hundred Years of Solitude.”

“Wait,” he said. “That gives me an idea. You could also be the ‘I hate education’ candidate. That would get you donations from some real rich people.”

“What real rich people?”

“Corporations.”

 

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247. Choices

C.W. can get under my skin if I let him, like he did this morning. He walked in wearing a kimono and looking a lot like Orlando Bloom. He smiled at me and cocked his head to one side.

“I’ve decided want to be gay,” he said.

I dropped my dictionary—yes, my dictionary— and knocked over the remnants of my coffee. I placed the dictionary back on the table, dabbed coffee with a napkin, and shook my head, bewildered.

“What the hell are you doing and why do you look that way?”

He sniffed, and placed a hand on his hip. “How many times,” he said, “have I heard you say that you’re not gay but, that if you were, you’d be gay for Orlando Bloom? I just want to be gay.”

“C.W.,” I said, “you can’t be gay.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’re a go… because you’re an alien.”

“Aliens have rights. You do recall your Alien Visitation and Exploration Contract, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t say you can be gay.”

“It says that you must allow me a wide range of choices in my behavior.”

I sighed. “But being gay is not a choice.”

“That man on TV, your former governor what’s his name, ‘Hucksterable,’ or whatever, says it is and he’s a preacher. He ought to know. He’s running for president.”

Preachers don’t establish scientific facts,” I said. “Thank goodness. Neither do presidential candidates.” I stopped and thought about this for a second and relief spread over me. “Besides,” I said, “you can’t believe that everything you see on television is real.”

“You think Big Bang’s Penny is real.”

“Shhh,” I said. I lowered my voice. “How many times have I told you that we don’t talk about Penny when my wife is in the house?”

“Mrs. Big Dope knows you are an idiot.”

“No she doesn’t.”

“Does too. She told me so.”

We were drifting off course. “Well,” I said, “she did marry me.”

“It was her choice,” he said, “for some reason. Now I want to make my own choice.”

Sometimes C.W. can lead you into a logical minefield. “So what would you do,” I said, “upon becoming gay?”

“I want to find a mate and get married, so we can be as happy as you and Mrs. Big Dope.”

I studied him carefully to see if I could detect any signs of sarcasm. Seeing none, I continued. “But you couldn’t get married in this state, at least not yet.” Then I shook my head. “What am I doing? C.W. …,” I said it loudly to get his attention, “you’re a frickin alien. You’re job here, as I understand it, is to observe and report, not set yourself up for abuse, beatings, rejection, and denial of basic rights—maybe even murder. Why would you choose that?”

“For the same reason Martin Luther King, Jr. did, I suppose.”

Oh hell, there I stood, square dab in the middle of his minefield of logic.

“And what would you do after you become gay and get married?”

“You have a spare bedroom.”

An image flooded my brain. There stood Mike Huckabee, in front of a Fox “News” camera spouting away, with our condominium building in the background. That building had already been the focus of another presidential election, you know. I felt a peace spread over me as that image gave way to the exploding head of the preacher who would be president.

“You might have a point, here,” I said. He smiled and, for the briefest second, I saw Orlando Bloom and me stranded on a desert island. I shook the scene away. “You’ll have to know though, that you’re in for a rough ride.”

“Oh, I’m ready,” he said.

For some reason, Big Dope
thinks this is all funny. - C.W.

“A lot of folks will make their own choice, and that choice will be to hate you with an unfounded but unbridled passion.”



“Let ‘em.” He said.

“You will lead a life of challenge,” I said. “And some religions will refuse you. I can’t imagine a more rocky road than the one you choose.”

“Oh,” he said, “don’t worry about the churches.”

“Why not?”

“We, my spouse and I, will choose to be atheists as well.”

 

 

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Monday News

Dear Friends and Followers:
I found this on Big Dope's Computer Journal this morning and stole it.

What’s happening on Monday?
 

- Mike Huckabee says there is sometimes more freedom in North Korea than in America.
- Sean Hannity, the Koch Brothers, Fox News, and the Teabaggers are encouraging open rebellion against the United States in defense of a man who doesn’t recognize the validity of our country.
- Television stations in Oklahoma are editing out portions of Cosmos because “it is causing demonic possession of young children.”
- The Waltons, their rich friends, Jeb Bush, and the editorial staff of the Arkansas Democrat Gazette want to do away with public schools.
- A white supremacist nut job murders three Jewish people and nobody makes the connection with hate radio. 
I am very afraid, not for myself—for my “use module” is nearing the end of its depreciation cycle—but for the children and grandchildren of my friends. And for my country that I took an oath to defend.
I am also confused. The current agitations are being fomented by those who already have everything. What else could they need? Or want?
Finally, I am bemused by the adage that life imitates art. We are well into George Orwell’s "1984" and are heading, it seems to me, for H.G.Well’s “The Time Machine” in which the world is occupied by the the dark Morlocks and guileless Eloi. There is also Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaiden’s Tale” in which women exist only for service.
Of course, TV news has become exactly as depicted in the 1976 movie “Network.”
I don’t think it will all come to pass for I believe, as David Simon does, that the bricks will start flying before then.

I just hope that too many innocents aren’t harmed or killed by them.

 

The time to be afraid is when the dancing stops. - C.W.