303. Diplomacy

“Well I think it’s about time we did something about it.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” C.W. said. “Something.”

“Like what?”

“Anything to stop her.”

“Stop her from what?”

“Whatever she does.”

Oh dear. He and my wife were having another spat—something about leaving dirty dishes in the sink. She actually made him wash some of them and he hates to get his hands wet, claims it is some sort of Falloonian taboo. After she told him where he could put his taboo, things escalated. He immediately assumed the form of that political candidate, the crazy one from Texas. Well then, the crazy one from Texas that makes stuff up as it suits him. No, the other crazy one that makes stuff up. The one who wants to re-institute the draft and invade any country that aggravates us. No, the crazy, lying, warmonger that hates the government and wasn’t ever born in the U.S.A. Yeah, that one.

“We’ll fix her vehicle used for transporting goods or another specified purpose.”

“You don’t,” I said, “need to fix her wagon.”

“I’ll dust her with Falloonian guddramadan dust and make her glow in the dark.”

“Why don’t you just abide by the rules?”

“I graduated from Harvard Law School,” he said. “We don’t abide by the rules. We make them.”

“Why not just sit down and talk to her. You know … discuss things calmly.”

“I tried,” he said. “She wouldn’t listen to me.”

“What did she have to say?”

“Why should I have let her say anything?” he said. “She’s a woman.”

“You wouldn’t apologize, would you?”

He just looked at me.

“Maybe compromise?” I said.

“Do I look like a sissy to you?”

“Try to look at it from her side,” I said. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

“A real man doesn’t change his mind.”

“Jesus did.”

“Not,” he said.

“Don’t you remember the Canaanite woman? He compared her to a dog, but she changed his mind and, some say, his entire ministry.”

“That was Jesus,” he said. “You’d expect that from one of those Middle-Easterners.”

“She’s really a nice person if you abide by her rules,” I said.

“Like you do?”

“I slip occasionally.”

“And then?”

“We engage in diplomacy.”

“Meaning you grovel and say you’re sorry.”

“Why don’t you give her a chance?”

“Because,” he said, “I love America too much.”

“You love America?”

“With all my heart and soul.”

“You are a patriot?”

“I took an oath when I was first elected and I’ll not budge from it one centimeter. And that includes apologizing for anything.”

“You love America?”

“Above anything.”

“So maybe you could impress her with your love of country, your patriotism and all.”



He stopped and thought. “Hey,” he said. “Maybe that’s a good idea. I’ll show her that bending to my will would make her a true patriot like me.”

“As John Agar used to say in the science fiction movies,” I said, “it just might work. Why don’t you think on it tonight and try it out first thing in the morning?”

 

He referred to his little slave children
as his "ebony mites." How could we
not celebrate the birthday of a man with
such a sense of humor? - C.W.

“Oh,” he said, “I can’t do it tomorrow.”
 

“Why not?”

“Tomorrow we celebrate Robert E. Lee’s birthday. I’m scheduled to speak to The Sons of The Confederacy.”

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298. Going to War

Aha. Prepare to be fooled, amazed, and delighted. This is your friend C.W. writing. Why you might ask? Good sentence worded or expressed so as to elicit information. What? Oh. My GUT is telling me something. (Editor’s note: Galactic Universal Translator). Make that “good question.”

It’s this way. Big Dope is preoccupied and asked me to take over the reporting duties this week. As he stated on a VisageDocument post last week, he is now the one looking to make a fast dollar. It’s with a new book outlining ways to fail the military draft induction physical.

When he first mentioned it, I had to ask. “What is a draft induction physical? Better yet, what is a draft?”

“You’ve never heard of a draft?”

“Like when your species pulls young college students out of their classes to make them play a child’s game for money?”

“Kinda, but not quite.”

I consulted my GUT. “Like when poor preparation allows a noxious wind to blow through your environment?”

“Kinda, but not quite.”

“Like a poorly thought out first attempt that deserves much additional thought and revision?”

“Kinda,” he said, “but not quite.”

“Oh,” I said. “I know. It’s like what race car drivers do. You line up behind someone else who is actually putting forth the effort from which you benefit while you do nothing at all.”

“Bingo,” he said. I was more confused than ever.

When he explained, I was astounded. “You claim,” I said, “that your country once forced young men to join the military and perhaps go to war against their will? That’s absurd. I don’t believe you.”

“Trust me on this one,” he said.

“So they are going to resume this barbaric practice?”

“If 53 percent of my species has its way.”

“How does one avoid it?”

“Two ways,” he said, “and the first is how I’m going to make money.”

“Articulate.”

“One simply fails the physical exam given just before induction. I’m documenting all the ways we tried it back in the 1960s, but for this new generation.”

“What kind of ways?”

“Oh,” he said, “ways like eating a half-bar of soap before going to the induction center to cause false readings, or ingesting massive amounts of aspirin to elevate you blood pressure, lifting huge weights to induce a hernia.”

“My goodness,” he said. “Did they work?”

“Nope.”

Now I really was bewildered. “They didn’t work, but you are going to write a book documenting them for future use?”

“Yep.”

“I’m confused. How can you convince people that they should buy a book outlining solutions that don’t work?”

Well ... you have to admit, don't you?
It is nice to feel wanted. - C.W.

“You see,” he said, “a population illogical enough to vote for political candidates that promise to take their country into a foreign will fall for anything.”

He had me there. No use arguing the point. “But,” I said, “you mentioned that there were two ways to avoid this draft.”

“Quite so,” he said. “The other will work 100 percent of the time, but for only one percent of the young men and women facing the military draft.”

“And,” I said, “what is this absolutely foolproof method of avoiding military service?”

“Same thing as always,” he said.

“Which is?”

“Tell them your daddy’s name.”

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254. Flags

Yesterday proved surprisingly contemplative for C.W. We agreed to let him go with us to a Flag Day celebration at a park across the street from our condo. We prefaced this with a long talk. The faithful reader will understand. C.W. doesn’t always behave at public functions. Remember the time he snuck off and rolled a soccer ball painted to look like a human head down the steps from the top of the pyramid at Chichén Itzá? This time he gave us his “declaration or assurance that one will do a particular thing or that a particular thing will happen,” as he put it, straight from his GUT. (Galactic Universal Translator)

So we took him at his “word” and let him go with us. A wind symphony presented an hour of stirring patriotic music as a troop of Boy Scouts distributed free ice cream and flags. Kids frolicked, flags waved, and the band played on. All in attendance enjoyed themselves.

Afterwards, he and I had a quiet moment on our balcony overlooking the city, he in his most faithful Norman Rockwell form and me as, well … just me. We each enjoyed a cigar, which he has taken to relishing, and I enjoyed a glass of wine, which makes him nauseated.

“You know,” he said, blowing a cloud of smoke toward a peaceful city, “your species never ceases to amaze and confuse me.”

“How so?”

“Every time I am forced to file a report to the Falloonian Elders implying that the time for the dompetallendich of your species, a time like this comes along.”

Oh dear. That’s a Falloonian word for final solution that you, dear reader, don’t even want to know about. “Please,” I said, “the ladies might hear you.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “I think events of late have redeemed you for a while, despite those horrible political candidates you are breeding.”

“How so?” I was most anxious to change the subject.

“Did you see the enthusiasm for your country that people expressed?”

I nodded.

“Enthusiasm,” he said, “generated only by the comradeship of a crowd and the effects of music.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “and this only a few days since all those remembrances of the brave young men storming ashore on the beaches of France, willing to face annihilation to rid the world of the dark forces that had emerged on your planet.”

“That was one of our finest moments,” I said.

“We’ve also remember in June,” he said in a somber tone, “some people of your country who gave their lives in seeking civil rights for your brothers and sisters of color, including Medgar Evers, James Chaney, AndrewGoodman and Michael Schwerner.”

“Quite so,” I said.

“Did you know,” he said, “that your country began the so- called ‘Berlin Airlift’ in June, 1947, saving hundreds of thousand German citizens from starvation?”

Please remember, Earthling friends, that your flag flies
 over all your actions, both the just and the unjust - C.W.

“Of course,” I said, squirming a bit. “everyone knows about that.”

“The Civil Rights Act, women’s suffrage, the care of your poor and elderly, the moon landing, the ‘I Have a Dream’ speech, the MarshallPlan, and the Emancipation Proclamation,” he said, “not to mention the stand by the brave few on Cemetery Ridge that spelled the end of the dark forces of slavery in your country.” He paused for a breath, and said, “I’m glad old John Adams did it.”

“Did what?” I said, still stuck on thoughts of Gettysburg.

“Got his resolution passed on June 14, 1777. Don’t you read history?”

“Uh, yes,” I said, “but I forget at my age. What resolution was that?”

“Dope,” he said, "...that the flag of the thirteen United States shall be thirteen stripes, alternate red and white; that the union be thirteen stars, white on a blue field, representing a new constellation."

“Oh yeah,” I said. “That one.” I took a sip of wine and he blew cigar smoke toward me.

“Your flag means something to an alien visitor,” he said.

“And what is that?”

“It means your country can be a great one,” he said, adding, “When it wants to.”

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Patriotism

Friends and followers:

I always had a bit of trouble picturing Big Dope as a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities. (Editor’s note: he means “hero”), even though he served his country during wartime, and in a war zone. The stories I heard from him never suggested heroism, just a willingness to serve rather than denounce his country or be classified as a coward.

Now I understand. After reading more of your history, particularly that of the Vietnam War era, I see that as long as your country can produce young folks of such breathtaking and sublime greatness that they are willing to serve without complaint in an unpopular, immoral, and illegal war—despite being stereotyped by a thankless populace as sociopathic misfits and losers—your country will be safe.

I have traveled the galaxy but have never encountered such patriotism. They truly represent your, “Greatest Generation.”

So, in honor of your day of independence, I offer this tribute to them.

Tommy

by Rudyard Kipling

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,

The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."

The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
    O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
    But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
    The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
    O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
    For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
    But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
    The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
    O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep

Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
    Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
    But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
    The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
    O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,

But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
    While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
    But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
    There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
    O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:

We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
    For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
    But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
    An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
    An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

 Have you hugged a veteran today?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Your friend,

C.W.

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202. Service

“You want to do what?”

“Calm down,” C.W. said.

“Calm down nothing. What are you planning now?”

“I told you. I want to enlist.”

I collapsed onto a kitchen chair. “In the military?”

“Yes. I need you to help choose the branch.”

“Oh goodness.”

“I could join the Navy. You know, follow in your footsteps.”

“Are you insane? Enlist?”

“You did.”

“I had to. Now let’s not hear any more about this.”

He pulled a chair out and sat across from me. “Afraid it’s too late for that.” He had taken the shape of a young, athletic youth of 18, with bright blonde hair and sparkling eyes. “Too late.”

“Too late how?”

“I’ve already talked to the recruiters, one from each branch.”

“Oh no,” I said. “You haven’t.”

“Afraid so. They want to talk to both of us. I told them you were my dad.”

“Oh Jesus. You didn’t. Those guys are like bulldogs when they get a prospect. They put insurance salesmen to shame.”

“Well get ready. The natural or synthetic substance used to add a color to or change the color of something is cast.”

“The ‘dye’ may be cast, but we can uncast it. This is insane.”

He looked at me with surprise. “What’s wrong with you? Aren’t you patriotic?”

“When things call for it.”

“And when they don’t?”

“When they don’t, I tend to agree with Samuel Johnson that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. Anyway,” I said, hoping to change the direction of the conversation, “what prompted this?”

“Simple,” he said. “Tomorrow is Memorial Day.”

“And?”

“Haven’t you seen the great outpouring of love for our service members? Why, even the stores are staying open in their honor. Oh, and by the way, you’re supposed to buy Mrs. Big Dope a diamond for Memorial Day. And a car for me.”

“Memorial Day honors service members who died in battle after they enlisted. Do you want to be one of them?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be. The Army recruiter promised that with my knowledge of aerodynamics I would be a drone operator. Never leave the country. See?” He produced a recruiting ad that encouraged kids to become members of “The Stateside Shock and Awe Team.”

“Oh Jesus,” I said.

“Don’t you love your country?”

“What’s love got to do with it?” I thought I might divert him with the words of a song by his favorite singer.

Ignoring me, he said, “Then there’s Veterans’ Day. I’ll surely be honored on that day.”

“Oh yes,” I said. The flag decals will be shining on every automobile and every store will have a sale.”

He straightened in his chair and said, “Why are you so cynical?”

“Because I’ve been down this road.”

After thinking it over, I've decided.
Maybe the best way to honor the fallen
is to have no more wars. - C.W.

“And aren’t you proud that your country takes two days to honor those who serve?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “But therein reside the reasons I’m wary.” I made a few clicks on my computer.

“What are those reasons?”

I turned the computer around so he could see a news article reporting how one of my state’s senators had voted against funding for veterans’ benefits.

“The other 363 days,” I said.

 

 

 

Click on an ad. It helps me pay the rent. - C.W.

Also checkout www.wattensawpress.com

Friends:

Sad news today. The liberal blogger at www.bartcop.com died. He was one of C.W.'s favorites and he is deeply saddened, as am I. Barcop's greatest gift to me occurred during the great George W. Bush News Blackout following the American attack on Iraq. Major news outlets in the U.S. had been threatened, cajoled, or fooled (by telling reporters they could dress up in soldier costumes and ride in the back of military convoys if they wouldn’t report anything of substance) into a “U.S.A, U.S.A” chorus of non-news. One could, however, get a feel for what was happening by scouring outlets like The Guardian, Le Monde, Al Jazeera, and—yes—Bartcop. He could be caustic, opinionated, and over the top at times, but I will always be grateful for being assured, during that dark, dark, moment in American history, that there were still some people in my country who hadn’t gone bat-shit crazy.

Big Dope

C.W.

 

 

175. Sailors

It was the weekend before Veteran’s Day and, truth be known, I was looking forward to seeing what shape C.W. might choose this year. As the loyal reader will recall, he can be quite talented when it comes to celebrating the military.

This year he didn’t disappoint.

How shall I describe him? Well, he was a 19^th Century ship’s bosun. That’s right, he was an exact replica of a sailor from the days of iron men and wooden ships. He could have stepped right off the deck of USS Constitution or the HMS Victory. He even sported a bosun’s pipe, that little curved metal device that emits a sharp, piercing whistle that can be heard during the roughest seas. It is used to convey orders on board a naval vessel.

Wait. It was my old bosun’s pipe and that’s when trouble started. Before I could protest, he piped “All hands on Deck.”

I suspect my wife, who was still abed, levitated. All I know for sure is that a voice that could have been heard over the guns at the Battle of Trafalgar shrieked, “Don’t make me come in there.”

“Pipe down,” I said. “What do you think you are doing?”

He said, “Avast Matey.”

“What the hell, C.W.?”

“Know what I think?”

I said, “I never know what you think. Why don’t you enlighten me? But first put that damned pipe away before you get us both keelhauled.”

“Stow your jabber, Fenderhead,” he said. “Let me swap a yarn or two.”

I groaned. He continued.

“I’ve been pondering,” he said. “I think you are a ‘fore and aft’ country.”

“Fore and aft,” I said, trying to catch his drift.

“Right, matey.”

“Carry on Lad,” I said, sort of getting into the mood of the moment.

“Take babies,” he said.

“Take them where?”

“No, take babies,” he said.

I waited.

He said, “Take babies. Seems a lot of individuals in your species love and want to protect them until they are born.”

I waited.

“Then,” he said. “If they ain’t born to the quarterdeck, they can be tossed overboard with the day’s garbage.”

He had a point. I forgot for a moment that I was talking to an alien who had chosen the shape of a historical sailing master. “Fore and aft,” I said.

“Fore and aft. Same with us poor military men and women.”

“How so?”

“People love us as long as we can splice a line, fly down the decks at ‘beat to quarters,’ climb the rigging, and fire the cannons.”

“We love our military folks,” I said. “Just look at all the bumper stickers stating as much that you see on the freeway.”

He said, “What’s a freeway?”

I said, “Never mind. We just support our troops, that’s all.”

“What about after the cannons roar, and the smoke clears, and we can’t tie a bowline with our one good arm, or man the crow’s nest with no eyes.”

“Are you referring to the maimed and wounded?”

“Aye.”

Shouldn't you honor him as much after
the battle is over as before it begins? - C.W.

“Well we support them too, or at least we should.”

“So why are our infirmaries and dressing stations so underfunded?”

“Are you talking about the veteran’s hosptitals?”

“Affirmative, Lad.”

He had me. “I don’t know,” I said.

“Fore and aft,” he said. “Makes all the difference in the world.”

“Fore and aft,” I said.

“I think,” he said. “That it has something to do with your ‘port and starboard’ political system.”

151. Memories

It is usually C.W. at his most annoying. Of course I mean his assuming the shape of a question-a-second pre-teenager. This time, though, I decided it might be a learning experience.

He showed up in his shorts, flip-flops, and tee-shirt ready, as he said, “To party-hearty and enjoy the Memorial Day fireworks.”

I waited until he had finished his litany of expected festivities. “Do you think that is what Memorial Day is for?”

“Well yeah,” he said. Then he cocked his head. “Ain’t it?”

“No,” I said. “It should be a day of somber reflection.”

“A what?”

“A day that we remember those who died after they answered their country’s call for military service during times of war.”

“Oh, gross,” he said.

“Go change clothes,” I said. “We’re taking a trip.”

An hour later we were at our city’s military cemetery on the east side of town. It was quiet. Most folks were attending a large festival nearby. A few solitary souls were wandering the grounds. Some stood quietly in front of one of the white tombstones. A small group was placing flags on each one. It was a peaceful, lonely place.

“Lookit,” C.W. said, pointing to a man who was kneeling before one of the graves. Before I could stop him, he had raced over and stood beside the man, a well-dressed figure appearing to be well into his eighties.

Miraculously, C.W. took this opportunity to show both restraint and respect. He stood silently until the man looked up in greeting.

“Is this someone you knew?”

The man nodded. “We served together on the old Nevada.”

“What’s an Old Nevada?”

“It was a battleship.”

“He died?”

“In 1941.”

“How old was he?”

“He had just turned eighteen. We both had.”

“How did it happen?”

“The ship came under attack and we were on our way to our battle stations when a bomb hit near us.”

“He died there?”

“No, he was the only one that wasn’t hurt.”

C.W. looked confused.

“He carried the rest of us to a safe location, one by one.”

“And then?”

“After he saw that I was safe, he checked the group and saw that one of us was still missing.”

“And?”

“When he went back that time, he never returned.” The man lowered his head and sobbed.

I was watching, proud of C.W. who waited until the man had regained his composure.

“I’m so sorry,” C.W. said. “It must have been hard on you to lose a shipmate.”

The man looked up at him through reddened eyes. “A shipmate?”

“Yes sir. A shipmate.”

“A shipmate yes. A hero, yes. But more. He was my sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening, a gentle breeze across my cheek on a tropical evening, and the beauty of the ocean’s roll on a following sea. I have missed him every day for over 71 years. I would have gladly given all those years for one more touch of his soft hand.” He began to cry again.

“Gee,” C.W. said. “Did he win a medal?”

Seems to me that war is crappy enough
without getting the bigots involved. - C.W.

“No,” the man said quietly. “Before the attack, we were both scheduled to be cashiered from the navy. His name was hardly ever mentioned afterwards. They wouldn’t have buried him here except that his family had some influence.”

“That don’t hardly seem fair.”

“The world is not fair, my son,” the man said as he stood. “And war even less so. Now if you will excuse me, I have a plane to catch.” He walked away on unsteady legs to where a taxi waited.

As C.W.came to where I stood, I couldn’t help asking, “Did you learn anything?”

“Shut up,” he said, and I swear he had tears in his eyes.

121. Interpretations

“Jesus!"

 

C.W. came running into the shop where I was woodworking. For some reason, four days before our national election, he had taken on one of his favorite forms, the spokesperson for the Conservative Youth Movement. Today, he had swapped his normal lederhosen for khakis and deck shoes, without socks of course. An expensive-looking sweater sported the CYM logo. He seemed excited.

“Are you finally getting religion?” he asked as a smile lit his face like a moonbeam hitting a rose.

“No,” I said. “I hit my finger with a mallet.”

His smile disappeared. “Still a filthy no-good atheistic liberal, then,” he said. “Who doesn’t accept our Christian nation.” He spat on the floor. “Rotten socialist.”

“Judge not lest ye be also judged,” I said.

He spat again. “Now where did you pick up that liberal crap?”

I ignored him and wrapped cloth around my finger to stop the bleeding.

“You could be doing something useful instead of wasting your time like this.”

“Wasting my time?” I said. “I am building something for my wife. “

“For your wife,” he said, almost snarling. “You should be out making money.”

“House and wealth are a heritage from fathers, but a wife with good sense is from the Lord,” I said.

“Oh please,” he said. “Spare me the touchy-feely gobbledygook. Where did you hear that, from Bill Moyers?”

“I think it was from your Book of Proverbs.”

“I doubt it,” he said. “Anyway, you seem to be doing more damage to yourself than to the wood.”

“But even if you suffer for doing what God approves, you are blessed.” I said.

“You are beginning to piss me off with this liberal line. Are you trying to get my sheep?”

“It’s goat, and that line was from your Saint Peter.”

“You are purposefully trying to upset me.”

“Don't be afraid of those who want to harm you. Don't get upset.”

“Oh yes, who said that, Jimmy Carter?”

“No, that would be your Saint Peter again.”

“Look,” he said. “I’m tired of your fuzzy thinking.” He smiled at his mastery of our idiom. “Besides, I’m going to a Pro-Israel rally.”

“That’s nice.”

I don't care what St. Peter says.
I'll intepret the prophecy of scriptures
as I see fit. - C.W.

“They want us to invade Iran,” he said, smiling at the thought. “I’m going to volunteer to be on the Draft Board. We will all be expected to do our part.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” I said.

“You and those fromage-eating surrender monkeys.”

“Have fun at your rally,” I said. “Kill a liberal for me.”

“We’ll not kill you when we take over,” he said. “We will just enjoy your agonies during your rehabilitation.” He smiled.

“Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

“Spout that crap while you still can,” he said as he walked away. “Our Christian-nation day is coming.”

113. Platforms

There was nothing for me to do but sit there and enjoy the spectacle. C.W. was in full animation sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in the form of an early American patriot. The only modern accoutrements were several tea bags hanging from his three-corned hat.

“Just about finished,” he said.

“Great,” I said, “Finished with what?”

“The most patriotic, god-pleasing political platform ever designed  by …,” he paused.

“An alien?” I said.

“Who do you think oversaw the preparation of your Constitution in the first place,” he said with a taunt in his voice.

That caused me to think. “So how is it coming?”

“Very well,” he said. “Listen to this: ‘No American will profit by, live upon, aggrandize themselves or otherwise enjoy the fruits of another person’s labor’” He stopped and smiled. “That’ll get those deadbeats.”

“You mean like Alice Walton, the Koch Brothers, and the Romney boys?”

He stopped. “No,” he said. “No … just the regular deadbeats.”

“The disabled, the widows, and the orphans?”

“Just listen,” he said. “We don’t need any liberal input.”

“Sorry, please continue.”

“Okay,” he said. “No candidate shall be considered for office without passing the party’s Religious Adherence Testimony. The RAT administrators will be Rush Limbaugh, Donald Trump, and Newt Gingrich.”

“Uh,” I said. “Those RATs have had nine wives, all totaled.”

“So?”

“Wasn’t Jesus of Nazareth sort of clear about divorcing your wife? As in, ‘it’s a big no-no.’”

“Our party is the religious party, so shut up,” he explained. (Proper apologies applied for.)

“Well what about Article Six of the Constitution which forbids religious tests for public office in our country? The preparers were pretty clear about that.”

 

“They didn’t mean our religion,” he said.

“Oh?”

“No,” he said. “Just those others.”

I let it pass.

“But here is a good one,” he announced proudly.

“I am all ears,” I said.

He looked at me with suspicion in his eyes. Seeing none, he continued. “We shall invade the nation of Iran within six months of taking office and proceed with our patented ‘Shock and Awe’ treatment for religious infidels.”

“What happened to ‘Blessed are the peacemakers’ and all that?”

“There you go again,” he said. “Playing the religion card.”

My head began to swim. “But I thought your party was on friendly terms with the Iranians.”

We fired the shot heard round
the world at Gettysburg, and
we are the true patriots. - C.W. 

“Oh, go wash out your mouth,” he said indignantly. “Do you think for a second that the Israeli Prime Minister would allow that?”

“Didn’t your Pater Familias, —one Ronald Reagan—negotiate with the Iranians, while he was fist running for office, to hold the American hostages until after the election?”

“That was simply to prevent four more years of invalid government in our county,” he said. “Extremism in the pursuit of liberty is no vice.”

“I suppose,” I said, “The Iran-Contra Affair was similarly justified?”

“Why don’t you just shut up and learn something?” he said. “Now,” and here he paused for dramatic effect. “You know what evil lurks in the hearts of those women who practice birth control ...”

108. Competition

One of the favorite guises that C.W. likes to show up in resembles the drugged-out stoner from the Cheech and Chong films. He swears it is just for fun, but I’m beginning to suspect that he has developed a penchant for Tuk Fin. At any rate, he can certainly be entertaining, as he was last evening.

I was working on a project in an adjoining room and we had the farmhouse to ourselves as my wife was taking her mom shopping. Suddenly this piercing scream shattered the silence.

“Big Dope,” he yelled. “Commear … this one dude just finished a race a whole tenth of a second before the other!”

Yes, he was watching the Olympic games. “That’s nice,” I said. “Are the fans excited?”

“Oh, man,” he said. “They’re crappin’ en masse.”

He was quiet for awhile. I thought I heard him changing channels but then he started yelling “Go, girls, go,” and “Way to go girls.”

I tried to ignore him until he yelled for me, “Hey man, come check out the beach volleyball.”

Hmmm. Maybe I would.

I walked in and watched for a few seconds.

“Is that a great team or what?” he said.

“C.W.,” I said. “I hate to tell you.”

“Tell me what, man?”

A young beauty ran across the screen, lost the top of bikini, turned and giggled at the camera, and ran off.

“That is the Playboy Channel.”

“Far out, man.”

I eased back to my project after a few minutes and left him to himself. He was quiet for a spell, then started yelling again.

“Hey Big Dope, come see the farm and ranch channel.”

“The what?”

“The farm and ranch channel, man. I think it’s a show called ‘The Jolly Rancher.’”

Intrigued, I went back.

“Lookit the dancing horse,” he said.

“That’s not the farm and ranch channel,” I said.

“It’s not?”

“No, that’s the Olympics.”

“No way, man. Dancing horses?”

“Dancing horses.”

“Who started the Olympics, man?”

“The Greeks.”

He watched the horse dancing to the music, ridden by a woman who could have easily produced diamonds from a length of pencil lead by "the Ferris Bueller method."

“So maybe man,” he said. “Those century-old rumors about Alexander the Great are true after all.”

I ignored him and went back to work. But he wasn’t through. After I had forgotten him, he inserted himself back into my attention with shouts of “U.S.A, U.S.A., U.S.A,” the top of his voice. Believing that something important might be happening, I peeked around the corner. He was still chanting and pumping his hand.

“Hey man, these Olympics of yours are great … U.S.A, U.S .A.”

“Uh, C.W,” I said as a young lady reached her apogee and her skirt flew up over her head, exposing her underwear. “This isn’t the Olympics.”

Far out, man. - C.W.

“Oh, yeah man, it’s the trampoline competition.”

“No, C.W,” I said. “It’s a rerun of ‘The Man Show.’”

“Your species really knows how to entertain, man."

Mid-week Thought

From your friend C.W.: "And also in that day were those of weak spirit who venerated the land above honor and called real estate holy but denied succor to those who dwelt therein and I did not bless them." - Book of Ludicrous, Chapter 1, Verse 2.

89. Mandates

There are times when C.W. can break your heart. I know, he broke mine this week when he appeared in his saddest form yet.

It was late when I answered a knock on my door. There stood an American soldier in the kind of Class A uniform they made military personnel wear in public back in the day.

I say American soldier. Truth be told, he looked more like a kid dressed up like a soldier. He said later he was 18 but could have easily passed for 16.

He was white, thin, and his skin seemed to glow with paleness from deep in his soul. His uniform, though impeccably arranged, hung from his frame like a sheet on a clothesline.

“What the h…,” I began.

“May I come in?” he said.

“Surely.”

As he walked into the room in a slow, funereal gate, I observed him closely. His uniform sported a single PFC stripe and a black nametag that simply said “Armstrong.” The highly esteemed Combat Infantry Badge was pinned above a field of ribbons that seemed to weight him down. They included the two Vietnam service awards and a Purple Heart. Another badge identified him as a “Marksman.”

He stood until I offered him a seat whereupon he sat stiffly and stared at me.

“Your species behaves more strangely at some times than others,” he said, after straightening his trousers and checking his highly polished shoes. Then he stared softly into space.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Vietnam Veteran.”

”Vietnam casualty,” he said. “The last day of January, 1968.”

“The Tet Offensive.”

“I had been ‘in-country’ for two months,” he said. He picked a thread from the sleeve of his blouse. “And there were a great many places where I would have rather been.”

“Drafted?”

He nodded. “Twenty-five percent of us were.” He looked at me and cocked his head. “We accounted for 30.4 percent of the combat deaths.”

I said nothing.

“But that’s not why I am here,” he said.

“Why then?”

“Questions,” he said. “I see where the Supreme Court of your country is considering passing a law that the government can’t mandate that someone do something they don’t want to do.”

“Well, they don’t call it passing a law,” I said. “They call it …”

“I know,” said. “You love to play with words. As your famous writer William F. Buckley Jr. once observed, we could call the act of sodomy ‘following too closely’ but it wouldn’t change much.”

I looked at him closely for a glimpse of a smile but saw nothing but more sadness.

“So what is your question?” I asked.

“Why didn’t they come up with this before 1968?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Seeking to change the subject, I nodded at his nametag.

“Armstrong?”

“Of the Charleston, West Virginia Armstrongs,” he said. “Did you know our state had the highest percentage of combat deaths in Vietnam?”

Can't your species find something better
to rail against than health care? - C.W.

“No,” I said.

“It’s true,” he said. Then stared away again. “They say that when Momma heard the news about me, she shouted and prayed all night long and, as long as she lived, she would tell anyone who would listen that they didn’t know what real sorrow was.”

As I say, he can break your heart.

63. Warriors

C.W. pulled a new one last week. He not only “enphased” as he calls it─presenting himself in an historical context─but he appeared as someone from my personal past. It was more than a bit scary.

I was sitting on a bench in the park, this time with a purpose. There is a new bridge across the river and bicyclists had been terrorizing pedestrians. I was hoping to catch one in the act.

Then who should sit down beside me but a beloved professor from my undergraduate days, Dr. Ben Kimpel. He was a kindly, portly fellow, a lifelong bachelor if you know what that implied back in those days. He once told me that I had to read all of Proust but not simply read him, read him in French, including the earlier versions of À la Recherche du Temps Perdu. Of course I haven’t, making it both a shocking and frightening experience to see him sitting beside me.

“Still underachieving, are you son?”

“Is that you, C.W.?”

“Tell me at least you remember this one.” He produced a worn volume of the collected works of Aristophanes, that wily old Greek.

“What can I say?” It was an admission as much as a question.

“You had some promise,” he said. “Not much, but much more in the potential than in the achievement.”

“Don’t you have something better to do?”

“I want to know about your species and its fondness for war.”

I thought. “It’s a major preoccupation, that’s all.”

“Well you remember this, don’t you? Please tell me you do.” With this, he opened the volume to Lysistrata.

“I wasn’t that negligent.”

“So the plot was?”

“No more war or no more sex.”

“Have your country’s women ever considered that?”

“I’m not sure. Many of our women are more warlike than the men.”

“What if your countrymen simply decided not to fight anymore?”

“That’s pretty much illegal.”

“You went to war, as I understand it.”

“Reluctantly. Very reluctantly.”

“Did you consider disobedience?”

Oh yes. I was once to the gate of a compound where they helped reluctants get to Canada.”

“And changed your mind?”

“And changed my mind.”

“Decided to help protect freedom, eh?”

“Let me assure you that I was not protecting anyone’s freedom, except maybe the workers at the Remington and Boeing plants.”

I once went to war, to save a dying land.
Had an army of ten thousand,
And a big sword in my hand. - Gary Dan Toler 1965

“So why did you change your mind?

“Simple.”

“How so?”

“I was afraid that someday I might have to face my mother again.”

38. Guns

C.W. called Monday morning and inquired if the wife was there. When I said no, he asked if he could come over. This was strange on two counts. First, I had never heard him sound so grave. Second, it was totally unlike him to ask permission. Usually he just barges in. I said come on.

When he arrived, he was in the shape of a World War Two army officer, complete with bloused trousers indicating paratrooper status.

“Request permission to enter,” he said. He was as solemn as I had ever seen him.

“Permission granted,” I said. I still wasn’t sure whether or not he was carrying out some joke.

He walked in, removed his hat, and eased into a chair while maintaining a perfectly straight posture.

“Coffee?” I said.

“Nothing, thank you.” He took a long time gathering his thoughts. Finally he said, “I suppose you heard about Dick Winters … Major Dick Winters.”

“Yes,” I said. “He died a couple of days ago.” As most folks know, Richard Winters was the real soldier who inspired the creation of the lead character of the TV mini-series, “Band of Brothers.” He was a member, and ultimate commander, of Easy Company of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment assigned to the 101st Airborne Division. He and his comrades make the jump behind German lines as part of the Normandy Invasion. His unit also survived the encirclement of Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge.

“Damned shame,” he said. “Good officer. Should have gotten the Medal of Honor.”

“Yes,” I said. “But why the interest and get-up?” I immediately regretted saying it. This was a C.W. I had not known before and the hurt in his eyes seemed real.

“Know what he said when the war was over?” he said.

“What?”

“That he wanted to find a quiet peaceful place to spend the rest of his life. He also said he would never harm another living creature.” He paused and thought for a moment. “They say he stuck to the promise.”

I sat in my chair and didn’t say anything.

“I guess you heard about the shooting out in Arizona as well?”

I had. A mentally disturbed man had opened fire at a meeting held by a politician. He had killed six people and wounded a number of others, including the politician.

“What’s with your country and the use of handguns?” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“This, this …” he struggled for words. “This obsession isn’t showing up in other countries, from my studies and those of my colleagues in other sectors.”

“I don’t know,” I repeated.

“Dick, he was a first rate warrior when he had to be.”

“Yes.”

“Afterwards, he didn’t seem to have a lot of use for violent hobbies.”

“No,” I said. “And that seems to be true of many who faced war and survived.”

“This weapon used in Arizona,” he said.

“What about it?”

“It has no other practical appeal than to inflict damage on a victim?”

Richard Winters

“As far as I know.”

“No sports application?”

“No.”

“Just a desire to inflict harm?”

“I’m afraid you are right.”

“What then? What causes this uncommon fondness for firearms?”

“There are those who correlate it with the relative size of a male’s penis.” I tried to lighten the conversation a little.

But he took me seriously. “That wouldn’t explain women like this Sarah Palin," he said. He thought about it for a few seconds and then added, “Of course there is this supposed female motivator called ‘penis envy.’”

“Don’t tell anyone that I said that,” I said.

34. Imposters

C.W. has discovered that he can use the wireless internet service at the public library and he is showering me with e-mail messages. This morning he sent a particularly anxious one and asked me to meet him at the intersection of Ninth Street and Interstate 30. It’s only around the corner from where I live so, more than a little apprehensively, I agreed.

When I arrived, I had the shock of my life. There, on the corner by a deserted convenience store stood … well, stood me, at age 23. He had obviously “enphased” back to the 1960s and found me in military fatigues. He was holding a terrified man in dirty clothes and wearing a sign around his neck stating “Vietnam Veteran needs your help. God bless you.”

“What the …,” I began.

“I want you to make a citizen’s arrest and have this man incarcerated,” I, or rather C.W., said.

I was confused. “What are you doing?”

“It’s simple,” C.W. said. “This man is breaking the law, and I want him arrested.”

“What law?”

“Ask him to show you his DD-214,” the young Jimmie said.

“What’s a DD- 2, uh, whatever?” the terrified man said.

“Oh, shit,” I said as a police cruiser pulled along side us and stopped. A side window rolled down.

“What’s the problem?” A young officer said.

Before I could answer, C.W.—or the young me, if you prefer—piped up. “We want this man arrested for lying about military service.”

“Oh, jeez,” the “homeless” one said. “I didn’t mean no harm.”

The officer studied him. “Well,” he said after a long pause, “Do you have a proof of service—a DD-214?”

“Aw, man,” the hapless fellow said. “I’m just trying to make an honest living.”

“Take his ass to jail,” C.W. said. “I’m tired of folks pretending to be veterans and grabbing publicity.”

“What about you?” the officer asked C.W. “You have on the attire, but do you have any proof?”

C.W. looked a little startled. “Ask him,” he said, pointing at me.

Up until this point, I had tried to stay out of it. “Officer,” I said. “Maybe we ought to forget about this whole thing.”

“Maybe,” he said. “I have better things to do.”

“You aren’t going to arrest him?” C.W. was regaining his confidence.

“If I arrested him, I might have to arrest you as well,” The officer said. “And if I arrested every homeless person that claimed to be a veteran and wasn’t, we’d have no room in the jails for rapists and murderers.”

“Well, I never,” said an indignant C.W. “It’s certainly different where I come from.”

The officer ignored him and continued with an air of finality. “Besides, I’m two tours in Iraq myself and, believe me, I understand.” He looked at the homeless man. “I’m going to count to three and maybe I won’t see you here.”

The man had disappeared by “two.”

The officer then looked us over. “You guys favor one another. Father and son?”

We didn’t say anything.

“Why don’t you go home and have a nice day?” he said. He didn’t have to say it twice.