295. Clarity

His name is Furlough Thompson—Mayor Furlough Thompson. He was born in November of 1943 while his dad was in the United States Army, which may explain the unusual first name. He governs the small town of Potluck, Arkansas (population 1,236) and he delights in comforting me when I am afflicted and afflicting me when I am comfortable, as they say.

Actually, “he” is the Alien C.W. in one of his favorite shapes. He remains fascinated by the thought of my profession as an urban planner and delights in showing up as the Mayor on occasion to torment me, or as he terms it, “To hep yuh better understand thangs of an urban nature.”

At least that’s the way he explained his sudden appearance this week. When I questioned his assumption that a Mayor of a city of less than 2,000 souls was the place to start understanding urban issues, he had a quick response.

“Assumptions,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He is a tall man in his 70s, still maintaining a full head of brown hair. He ran a hand through it and repeated, “Assumptions,” he said. “Now you just take the first three letters of that word and think of Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter.”

“Beyoncé?” I began to mouth the letters he had specified.

“As in, some are better’n others,” he said.

I stopped and didn’t say anything more.

“Now,” he said, “You have to understand that, as we say in in Potluck, ‘If a hound dog couldn’t howl, he might as well be a pig.’”

What could I say to that? You are correct, so I just listened.

“If you’re fixing to (editor’s note: i.e. if you plan to) be a consultant on urban thangs in the South, you’re a gonna have to work on your u-fer-isms.”

 

“My what?”

“Your u-fer-isms. Your,” here his expression changed, “use of a mild or indirect word or expression substituted for one considered to be too harsh or blunt when referring to something unpleasant or embarrassing.”

That stumped me for a minute. Then understanding settled on me like peace on an Arkansas family that had just enjoyed a good “bate” of turnip greens.

“Do you mean euphemisms?”

“Ain’t that what I said?’

“Okay,” I said. “So give me an example.”

“You can’t keep telling folks they can’t have this or that ‘cause they don’t have the money and they might have to raise taxes.”

I just stared.

“You remember what happened last time?”

“Getaway cars are nice,” I said.

I simply love the way that your so-called
conservatives explain economics. - C.W.

“Revenue neutral,” he said. “That’s what you tell them. It has to be revenue neutral. That’s what your Governor says when he proposes something that the state can’t pay for and he won’t say you have to raise taxes to have it.”

“Revenue neutral. And that means?” I asked.

“That they can’t have it, somebody’s ox is fixin’ to get gored, or somebody's gonna have to crap money.”

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

“And,” he said, “you can’t keep telling folks that their city won’t grow because their schools have too many n…”

“Stop it,” I said. “We don’t use that word here.”

“Non-whites attending classes,” he said, ignoring me again.

“So what must I say?”

“That it is a necessity these days to have a ‘good school system’ in order to grow your population.”

“A good school system,” I repeated.

“Yep,” he said. “Everybody knows what that means. And,” he said, “drop terms like neighborhood of concentrated sociological problems.”

“For what?”

“Inner city. They’ll understand, and know who you’re talkin’ about.”

“What about white flight?”

“Forced busing,” he said.
 

“Income inequality?”

“Takers and givers.”

“Ambivalence toward urban problems?”

“States’ rights.”

“Vestiges of past slavery?”

“Benefits of our national guest worker programs.”

I laid a trap. “Undocumented aliens?”

“I have papers,” he said. “Want to see them?”

I gave up. “I’ll bet,” I said, “you could find a term for child and spousal abuse.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Do you mean a return to traditional family values?”

 

 

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Symbols

Dear Friends and Followers:

Feel free to offer your opinions, but I have decided to use a  thing that represents or stands for something else, (Editor's note: He means "symbol") to explain the approach of your species toward solving problems.

Believe it or not, it is a device that you call "the leaf blower."

I can't tell that it solves any problem at all in a large sense. But it seems to:

Make a lot of racket as though it is really accomplishing something,
Move a problem from one person's area of concern to another,
Make you feel better,
Remove the inconvenience of a cognitive ability (hearing), and
Leave the mess for others to clean up in the future.

Now, isn't this the approach you take to solving most problems, from drug addiction to crime to poverty to the homeless, and things in general? What gives? Just saying, as you say.

I asked Big Dope and he just looked at me and said "Huh?"

Best I can tell. Your attitude is: A problem
 out of sight is a problem solved. - C.W,

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The Blues

Dear Friends and Followers: I found Big Dope asleep at this computer this morning and the following was on it. I snuck in beside him and posted it before he woke up. Enjoy!

 I recall a man I worked with on my first full time day job as “filling-station” attendant. His name, I seem to remember, was Calvin and he was probably in his thirties with a family. His job was washing cars. He didn’t own one himself. He walked home and back for dinner (lunch) and one day he was five minutes late getting back, so the boss, a real Arkansas a**hole, fired him. Being late was just an excuse. The real reason? He was “uppity.” Didn’t show proper respect for his “betters.” I’ve never been able to erase the sight of him as he walked back toward home with his hands in his pockets and his head sunk into his shoulders.

I don’t imagine Calvin ever sang the blues. A person could get fired for doing that as well.

I also recall the “cotton-choppers” that traded at my father’s little country grocery store. A truck with a covered bed would pick them up before daylight to take them to the fields. They would stop at our store and buy food to eat at noon. Then, after chopping all day, they would stop back by after dark and get something for supper and, if there was enough money left, breakfast.

This went on until the crops were laid by. I don’t know what they did for food until it was time to pick the cotton.

I’ll admit I never heard them sing the blues. I never heard them sing at all. They were too tired.

I do know that I have heard stories about this farmer and that one who would “short” them on pay and laugh about it for the victims had no recourse for justice. Maybe they did sing the blues in the quiet and safety of their own homes.

I also know they led a wretched, oppressed life in which they couldn’t drink from a white water fountain, use a public restroom, send their children to a decent school, or—oftentimes—vote.

From what I understand, it must have been
those poor black folks up north that sang
 the blues. Those in the south were happy
 with their lot. Saw that on Fox News. - C.W.

I do know that anyone who would believe they chose such a life would be ignorant enough to believe that we choose our sexuality, or that we should be either rewarded or punished for it.

I do know that these experiences caused me to try to lead a life that would attend to the poor in spirit and the downtrodden and to be wary of those who worship riches too much, whether they be hedge-fund managers, corporate executives, or televangelists. I’ve also remained aware of the many unearned benefits resulting from enough northern-European DNA to have me classified as “Caucasian.”

 

Maybe that’s why I don’t watch reality TV shows about rednecks. Nor do I pay much attention to what they say or think, unless they say something that is really, really, stupid. Then it makes me remember all the Calvins I have known. All the a**holes, too.

Affluenza

Friends and Followers:

Please someone help me. I am trying to explain a troubling news story (Click here)  to the Falloonian Elders. Can someone please tell me what “affluenza” is? Are the rich above the law in your society because of it? Would there be a contrasting disease called “povertilosis” that would excuse poor people from criminal activity? Please, my Cannacopawitit glands are smoking.

Sometimes I have to defend your species from
charges of pervasive insanity and my words
are not equal to the task. - C.W.

(Editor’s note: He refers to a condition in which a Falloonian’s mental processing facilities become overloaded and malfunction. Remember how Captain Kirk would defeat a logical mind by introducing illogic?)
If you have any explanation whatsoever, please comment below.
Oh, and please click on an ad. It makes Big Dope (who doesn't suffer from "affuenza" in the least) a little money.
The Alien C.W.

Buses

Hey folks. This is the Alien C.W. with his “Observation of the Week” while Big Dope is in the shower thawing out.

It is a cold damp day here, with a winter storm approaching. Big Dope decided he had to go walking as he must face the Commandant of Weight Control at the veteran’s hospital soon. And … he decided that it would be a more pleasant outing if I accompanied him.

 Or, as he put it, “Get your three asses out of bed. We’re going walking.”

I protested until he threatened to delete my collection of Kaley Cuoco photos from his computer. What could I do?

It was threatening rain, so we decided to stay close to the man/alien cave. Rain doesn’t bother me, but he assures me that, as a member of your species, he would melt if exposed. We decided to circle the park across the street, it being a mile in perimeter and we could count our laps.

I assumed a shape similar to his and we started out. The sun wasn’t up, and we walked along the park with our hoodies drawn, unarmed and innocent, enjoying happy thoughts—a perfect urban tableau.

Or, as the men and women on Fox News would say, “Hunting Season.”

As we reached an unlighted area, a figure suddenly emerged and said, “Good morning” in a loud voice. It scared the Gutotamibodequeece++ out of me. (Editor’s note: You don’t want to know).

Actually, it was just a lady from the apartments across the street. We see her quite often. She was waiting to catch the bus to go to work, probably for some rich family in the western edge of our city.

Anyway, we talked about fact that it would probably take her an hour, with transfers and all, to arrive at her destination. If she makes any purchases along the way, she will pay a new sales tax on the goods. The money will go to our state’s Highway Construction Department and it will use the money to build new freeways from our city to cities that would not allow “her kind” to live in them, except perhaps as a voucher that can be exchanged for goods or services. (Editor’s note: He means “token.” His translator is out of synch again).

Big Dope got quiet at this point. I think this sort of thing bothers him more than it does some of your species. We walked in silence for an entire lap.

Finally, as we headed north around the eastern edge of the park, the first preliminary blast of cold wind hit us and took our breath away. Well, his breath, I have a different sort of respiratory system.

I guess if these folks would just buy themselves
cars, it would be easier to get around. - C.W.

To get our mind off the cold, I began to express my confusion at your species’ insistence on utilizing the most inefficient methods of transportation in the galaxy. I further expressed my opinion that the poor might become more productive if they had better methods of getting to work. Big Dope turned and explained it this way.

“Shut the hell up and keep walking.”

So I did. We turned west along the north edge of the park, the part that borders a major street. Just as we did, a van stopped alongside us and a pleasant looking woman asked if she could give me a pamphlet. I said yes and she did.

As she drove away, I glanced at the title.

“God controls the world,” it said.

178. Thanks

From the so-called “mind” of the Alien C.W., edited by the Blogger.

 

Since arriving in your midst, I have been puzzled, bemused, amazed, and sometimes astounded at your habits. But your attitude on Thanksgiving takes the soft sweet bakery item. (Editor’s comment: He means “cake”). You seem to have so many fortuitous dynamics that have created a society basically free from the wars and pestilence that plague so many other societies. Yet, on this day you seem to be most thankful for an overabundance of food and the chance to spend money. It makes my boughntacojitet gland smoke. (Editor: it roughly translates to his “brain,” such as it is).

As a visitor to your society, I would suggest other subjects of this giving of thanks. To wit:

- The historical figure of Jesus of Nazareth who, though failing gloriously in his “end of the world” predictions, left you with such epochal and wonderful admonitions ( abandoned since your 1980s) on brotherly love, cautions against judging, forgiveness of your brothers, care for the poor, and honoring the peacemakers. As an aside, I think you might also be thankful for a current President who would risk the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” to pursue the last. But I am just a shifty alien and what do I know?

Buddha, who, if you would pay attention, showed you a path upon which you might not, in medical terminology, be wound so tightly. (Editor: don’t bother. He’s on a roll).

John Newton, who first gained our attention on the planet of Falloonia when he took you from the “take aways” and “goes intas” stage of mathematics and allowed you, eventually, to escape gravity, of both the physical and religious type.

- Charles Darwin, who explained some very elementary things to you. I was highly amused when Big Dope told me about his epiphany regarding the findings of natural selection. Seems he had encountered the basic theories in a junior high school science class and had been pondering the implications for several days when, while taking a shower, he dropped his washrag. As he, without thinking, retrieved it with the toes of one foot, a great truth of the universe opened for him. Goes to cause to illustrate, doesn’t it? (Editor: “show”.)

- Abraham Lincoln, who held your union together and set the stage for the freeing of a huge segment of humanity. Wonder how many votes he would get today?

Would not a quiet day of reflection work as well? - C.W.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who empowered and ennobled the “least of those, your brethren.”

Martin Luther King, Jr., who truly died for your sins.

William Jefferson Clinton, who gave you eight years of peace and prosperity in the face of unprecedented hate and persecution, and, in return, only asked for a simple … (Editor: Censored).

Hillary Clinton, because the Falloonian Elders thinks she is wonderful.

 

Matthew McConaughey, because Mrs. Big Dope thinks he is dreamy beyond words.

The list could go on, but I am at a borrowed keyboard and must bid you farewell. Let me close by saying that I am thankful today for the time I am getting to spend with you.

Peace.

170. Connections

As many times as we have talked about it, C.W. still uses my computer while I’m sleeping. I wouldn’t mind if he used it for research, but inevitably I receive these strange deliveries after one of his sessions.

By the way, does anyone know what a person might do with a used milking machine? I mean a person who doesn’t own a single cow?

But back to the matter at hand, I heard him giggling this morning and went in to see what might be up. There sat a sixteen-year old boy with oversized spectacles laughing and punching keys.

“Loookit, Big Dope,” he said. “your species just cracks me up. They are, like, weird and I’m like, about to roll on the floor.”

I needed coffee.

“No, seriously,” he said. “Are you, like, incapable of linking spots so that contact is established?”

“Connecting the dots?”

“Do you know that you, like, have an annoying habit of repeating things I say?”

As I made coffee, I slowly counted to ten. “And what dots have we not connected this time?”

“I’m, like looking at your ‘Visage Page’ and …”

“My Fa…, oh never mind. So what do you see?”

“Like weird stuff. Lookit. Here’s a woman and she’s, like, angry about people on welfare, and I’m like, ‘Are you kidding me?’ and she’s, like, ‘No, I’m serious They should be left to starve.’ and I’m like, look at where you live, and she’s like, ‘what difference does that make?’ and I’m like, you live in one of those ‘color of snow aviation cities.’”

“Stop for a moment,” I said. He did and I poured myself a cup of coffee. “A color of … do you mean a ‘white-flight’ city?”

“Like, there you go again.”

“When is the last time you had your translator adjusted?”

He ignored me. “Lookit,” he said. “She, like, drives 30 miles into the provider city each day to work.”

“So?”

“Who does she, like, think pays for the highway lanes she uses?”

“I dunno. The Koch Brothers?”

“You make the spontaneous sounds and movements of the face and body that are the instinctive expressions of lively amusement and sometimes also of contempt or derision at me, but I am serious,” he said.

“I’m not laughing at you.”

“You, like, are too.”

“Okay,” I said. “Who builds the highways that allow her to escape reality?”

“Your state uses the sales tax partly to build commuter highway lanes,” he said. “So some of the cost is, like, paid by the least of those among you when they buy winter clothes for their kids.”

“You do have a point,” I said.

“In exact terms, without vagueness,” he said.

Sometimes I think you lack the ability to
analyze a situation and address it logically. - C.W.

“Yes, precisely. By the way, would you have them check your Galactic Universal Translator?”

“My GUT?

“In exact terms,” I said.

“Why?” he said. “I’m not sick.” He typed on the keyboard. “Now here’s a man, and he is a senator, who says that we don’t, like, need national health care since we can simply drop those lacking sufficient money to live at a standard considered comfortable or normal in a society, like, off at the nearest emergency room for their health care needs.”

“You can drop me off with them.”

“Like, what?” he said.

168.Stamping

We were in the midst of one of our marathon question and answer sessions. They wear me out, but it’s what C.W. is here for so I can’t avoid them. When he appears as the Prudent Student, complete with thick-lensed eyeglass, a backpack and a shirt pocket full of pens of every color imaginable, I know I’m in for it.

We had already covered the subject of paying a football coach whose team loses games a salary in excess of $3million a year, why we place such emphasis on winning, and why we seem to be phasing science out of our high school curricula. He was getting exasperated and I was becoming despondent.

“Now,” he said as he selected a purple pen from his pocket and poised it over his notepad. “tell me about this new decision by members of your congress to quit funding the bringing down of one's foot heavily on food.”

“Say what?”

“Don’t you read your newspapers?”

“Not always. It scares me and I can’t sleep.”

“Hmmm,” he said and he made a note on the pad.

“A foot? On food?” I said.

“It’s all over the news. Your state’s four congressmen just voted to cut funding for it.”

“Do you mean ‘the stamping’ of food?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“You need to adjust your Galactic Universal Translator again," I said. "It is undependable.”

“I trust my GUT,” he said.

I rolled over laughing. He falls for it every time.

“What?” he said.

“I think you are talking about food stamps,” I said.

“Precisely,” he said. “Now why do your congressmen find them so repugnant?”

“I dunno,” I said. “Someone told them to, I suppose.”

“Aren’t they designed to help the poor and, how do you say it … the ‘least of those’ among you?”

“The congressmen?”

“No. Food stamps. Please be serious.” He was getting testy now so I focused on the question.”

“That is exactly what food stamps are designed to do. Help the poor.”

“So,” he said taking notes again. “if I am a mother of three children whose husband suddenly departs the scene by accident or choice, and I am, how do you say it … ‘without the basic necessities of life’ …”?

“Destitute.”

“Of course. So I am one for whom food stamps are intended.”

“One of the types, yes.”

“Or, say,” he said. “that I am a father who is stricken with a sudden illness and can no longer earn money to feed my family. I might rely on this expression of love and support from my fellow humans?”

“Something like that.”

“Perhaps I am the brother of a man who is killed along with his wife in a terrible accident and I take in his children and need help feeding them.”

“Society to the rescue,” I said.

“A damaged veteran of one of your many wars?”

“Ditto.”

“Children of your so-called Mississippi River delta who cannot escape their poverty?”

It seems to me that what your species needs
is a philosophy that teaches love for the poor. - C.W.

“Can we talk about something else?”

“One more question please.”

“What?”

“These congressmen of yours … they made this decision while well-fed and comfortable?”

“Quite so.”

Rarely does C.W. shift shapes in my presence, but this was one of those times. As I watched, he changed from a bright-eyed student into a tired old man. When the change was complete, he looked at me and I’ll swear that I saw a long line of tired and hungry people marching across his face.

“I have much to learn about your species,” he said. “I only hope my heart can stand it.”

167. Explanations

“Look here Big Dope, you’ve got to help,” C.W. was saying. “I’ve got some explaining to do.” He reached and grabbed a strand of grass and began to chew on it. We were walking around our farm checking the fences and getting some exercise on the first nice day of early fall. He had assumed the form a hick farmer, complete with a depression-era straw hat and overalls.

I was hoping nobody was watching us. “What do you have to explain now?” I asked.

“A bunch of stuff,” he said, pointing the stalk of grass at me. “The Elder Council on Falloonia is considering recalling me.”

“Recalling you? What have you done?”

“It ain’t me,” he said. He reached down and pick up a dried segment of cow manure and held it up for inspection. He eyed it carefully and seemed about to take a bite of it.

“Put that down,” I said.

He sailed it across the pasture like a flying saucer. “It’s your species,” he said. “Your behavior has them stupefied as with alcoholic drink.”

“Befuddled?”

“That’s what I said. It confuses me when you repeat my words.”

I sighed. “So what have we done now?”

“Where do I start?” he said. He stripped a small branch from a gum tree and began to swish it through the air. “What about this tendency some of you have to vote for individuals to run the government who hate the government?”

“Not all of us do.”

“Enough to arouse galactic curiosity.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“There is this thing called ‘The Prosperity Gospel’ that has some elders scratching all three of their heads.”

“Three heads? You have three heads in your natural form?”

He stopped and turned. “Forget I said that. I was just speaking  in the nature of or involving a figure of speech, especially a metaphor.”

“You may have been speaking figuratively but you distinctly said that Falloonians have three heads.” I giggled.

“I’ll be in trouble if this gets out,” he said.

I couldn’t stop laughing. “What do you call yours? Winkin, Blinkin, and Nod?”

“This isn’t funny,” he said.

More laughter. “Moe, Larry, and Curly?”

“Stop it,” he said, swinging his gum tree branch at me.”

“I know,” I said. “The Fadduh, the Son, and the Gallactic Ghost.”  I was practically rolling. I stopped laughing when he spun around and stalked away. I ran after him. “I sorry,” I said. “Go ahead and tell me about your troubles with our religious doctrine.” He slowed down and let me join him.

There are three things about your species that worry me:
- Your inability to think in linear fashion,
-Your complete lack of logic in making decisions, and
- Your disregard for the rational method. - C.W/

“We wonder,” he said. “How your thoughts get around the inconsistencies of preaching wealth from the teachings of a prophet who despised riches.”

At this moment, the Dark One himself must have invaded me. “Which one wonders,” I said, “Huey, Dewey, or Louie?” I doubled over laughing.

This time he did stalk away. As he did, he yelled back at me. “Go ahead and laugh. Then you can explain why a man wearing a twenty-five thousand dollar watch preaches the gospel of a man who never even had a home to live in.”

“Wait, Athos,” I yelled after him. “Porthos and Aramis are coming.”

Some travels with the Alien are more fun than others.

93. Questions

Once again, we allow the Alien to answer letters from his fans.

Dear C.W.: My wife has a “fart app” on her Kindle. She sets it off at critical points during my favorite TV shows as an expression of her opinion. Should I confront her about this? - Distracted

Dear Distracted: My experience with American women so far leads me to believe that a member of the male species should not confront them about anything. On the other hand, my experience with American men leads me to believe they posses an evolutionarily-formed tendency toward self-destruction (especially politicians). My advice? Watch only TV shows that she approves in writing.

Dear C.W.: My husband snores something awful. Always has. Lately, he has been snoring the tunes to popular music, his favorite being “Achy Breaky Heart.” I suspect he is doing it on purpose. What should I do? - Suspicious

Dear Suspicious: By all means, get your cell phone and video him. This will go viral on YouTube in a matter of seconds and will surely result in a reality TV contract and big bucks.

Dear C.W.: My husband has destroyed two I-Pads playing “Angry Birds.” This is getting expensive. What can I do? Distressed

Dear Distressed: I suggest that you enroll him in one of those Internet Universities. Then he will be eligible for student loans and I-Pad replacement should no longer be a problem.

Dear Um .. Like C.W. or Whatever: My dad, is, like, so totally yesterday. He is like, “You should study,” and I am so, like “Why?” and he is so like, you know, “Cause I said so,” and I am, like “Who died and put you in charge?” and he is, like “Don’t get saucy with me, Bernaise,” and I am like, "Whatever are you talking about?” What should I, you know, do? – Like, Bewildered

Dear Bewildered: Your Dad is wrong. Studying won’t help you. Go to Branson, Missouri and get a job waiting tables.

Dear C.W.: My mom is 80 and on fixed income. She responds to the Joel Olsteen show by sending him money. She owns a 900 square-foot home in need of a roof. He owns the Superdome and several mansions. Shouldn’t he be sending her money instead? – Confused

Dear Confused.: You apparently understand neither the “Prosperity Gospel” nor the “Flow of Money Principle.”

Deer C.W.: I wuz eddicated at home and am now in a local Bible collige. They want me to reed books and studee histry but I just won’t to be an accountint. My daddy says ask you what I can do. Do you have any advise for he and I? – Stubbern


Disappointed that your question wasn't printed?
Remember, in special cases we can arrange
a personal counseling session. - C.W.


Dear Stubbern: By all means. If you hurry, you can catch Bewildered and ride to Branson with her.

Well fans, Big Dope says we have exhausted our allocation of space. Until next time, as we say in Falloonia, “Fapriticasua” or “Get yourself some stronger glasses and keep on trucking.” (A rough translation).

The Alien C.W.

59. Tax Breaks

Someone scheduled a lecture downtown by a conservative tax policy expert. I recently expanded my interests to include multiple viewpoints, so off I went. I arrived early and procured a good seat on the front row.

As the crowd arrived, a tall, heavy-set woman sat beside me. She was attractive, though overweight, and responded to my nod with a sweet “How are you today?”

“Well,” I answered, noticing that her attire seemed dated and worn, but neatly arranged.

She leaned over and asked in an almost-whisper, “Will there be a question and answer period, do you think, Big Dope?”

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

“Waiting for the lecture to begin. What are you doing?” She smiled and leaned back in her seat.

“Please tell me you are not going to cause a scene.”

She simply smiled and nodded that the program was about to begin.

The speaker was engaging, if predictable. He was middle-aged and looked scholarly. He wore designer eyeglasses and sported an elaborate comb-over that originated near the top of one ear and slid fore and aft as the talked.

He spoke quickly, without notes and with only a few charts for emphasis. America’s economic problems exist because of taxes and regulations. He added no real support, only his expert opinion. I drifted off into thoughts of Herbert Hoover until I realized we were in the question and answer period.

Before I could stop him/her, C.W. popped up without even being recognized.

“I’m a mother of three,” she said. “My husband ran away a year ago with his secretary and hasn’t paid a child-support payment in two months.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the speaker began, but she cut him off.

“I receive some support through the “Aid to Families With Dependent Children,” she said.”

“I’m glad that program is there to support you,” the speaker began.

“And I’m called a ‘Welfare Slut.” The tone was becoming belligerent.

“That’s unfortunate,” the speaker said. “Are there other questions?”

She wouldn’t be stopped. She grabbed my shoulder and yelled. “And this character gets a welfare payment every time he makes a mortgage payment but they call it ‘Enlightened Tax Policy.’ Why?”

The speaker leaned forward. “Are you talking about the mortgage-interest tax deduction?”

“I’m talking about a welfare payment to homeowners but not renters,” he yelled.

As George W. Bush would say:
 "Those people need to pull themselves
 up by their own bootstraps like I did.

The speaker waived for her to calm down. “You can’t compare the two,” he said. “People getting an interest deduction on their mortgage payments spend the money to purchase supplies and labor for home repairs and construction. That money promotes economic development.”

“And the money I spend on my kids’ school clothes doesn’t? She was screaming now and I protested loudly as she pulled me to my feet.

As we stood outside the door where the security guard deposited us, I trembled with fury.

“You just had to do it, didn’t you?”

“Never mind. You stay right here. “I’m going to change into an Enron executive.”

39. McBaths

“I’m ‘juvenile form of a planted,’ C.W. said as he plopped on my couch.

“Perhaps you mean you are ‘bushed,’” I said.

“Exactly, he said. He had wandered in late Sunday afternoon in one of his favorite shapes, the Falloonian version of a homeless person. In this case, it was the stereotypical long-haired, unshaven character wearing camouflage and a worn field jacket. He knew it offended me—I have told him a number of times that “homeless veterans” primarily exist in the minds of lazy reporters and overzealous do-gooders. Anyway, he looked more idiotic than normal.

“What have you been doing?” I said.

“House hunting,” he said.

“Say what?”

“Looking at houses,” he said. “They allow you to enter some of them on Sunday afternoon and look around.”

“You went looking like that?”

“Of course,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“You look like a …” I struggled for words.

“Homeless person,” he said.

“They let you tour homes?”

“Aren’t the homeless those most in need of housing?”

“Might they also be the least able to afford it?”

He looked puzzled.

“Anyway, they allowed you to tour?”

“They looked at me funny but I went in anyway.”

This didn’t surprise me.

“Know what I saw?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Most of those houses would accommodate dozens of Falloonians. Why are they so large?

“Status symbol I suppose, or some form of compensation.”

“Compensation for what?”

“Never mind,” I said. Then I couldn’t resist a joke. “Did you buy one?”

“No. I asked if I could move 20 or 30 of my colleagues in and they said ‘no.’”

“Oh really?”

“Know what else I saw?”

“I’m all ears.”

“In the bathroom …”

“I can’t imagine.”

“You know those things you people use to dispose of your bodily wastes?”

“Toilets?”

“They called them commodities.”

“No, ‘commodes.’”

“That’s it. Well, this one had a ‘large flush’ and a ‘small flush.’”

“No kidding!”

“They said it was to save water.”

“That makes sense.”

“Well not exactly. When I examined the shower, it had eight nozzles aimed at different body parts. It must have used up the equivalent of 20 additional large-flushes over the consumption of a normal nozzle during a shower. Explain that.”

“I can’t.”

“Know what else?”

“No, what?”

“When they weren’t looking, I sprinkled some bath powder in the solid waste disposal unit.”

Where's the connection between wealth and taste? - C.W.

 “And?”

“It took four small-flushes to get rid of it all.”

“For goodness sake.”

“Know what I think?”

“I think you are going to tell me.”

“You people need to learn to think things through a little better.”

32. Indifference

C.W. and I were sitting on our balcony watching the sun sink over western Little Rock. Its rays combined with the ozone layer to produce a marvelous sight—physics and nature in a whirlwind of jagged colors. He whacked the railing with his “thumping stick” and regarded the sights our planet can produce.

He was in the form of a service station worker, complete with an insignia of a long-forgotten oil company. I would guess his assumed age at about 18.

“Where have you been?” I said. I guessed that he had been “enphasing” as he calls it—going back in time to revisit life in the past.

“Working in a service station in your hometown back in 1960,” he said. “Just a temporary job parking cars during the holiday season.”

“Seeing anything interesting?”

“Not much. Just observing how much calmer things were back then.” He paused and whacked the balcony again. “Oh we did fire somebody yesterday … that is the two bosses fired this colored man.”

“Don’t call people that,” I said. “Why did they fire him?”

“He didn’t call one of them sir, or something. They said he was a smart aleck.”

“Is that all?”

“Well he was a couple of minutes late coming back from dinner.”

“You mean lunch?”

“We call it dinner. Anyway, they said they wasn’t going to pay some smart assed ni…”

“That’s enough!”

“They wasn’t going to pay somebody like him 50 cents an hour and have to put up with his disrespect.”

“So they just fired him?”

“Well, he had to walk home every day for dinner since there wasn’t a place downtown for him to eat. He evidently lived way over on the east side and sometimes he was a few minutes late getting back.” He whacked the balcony again.

“So they fired him,” I said. “For being two minutes late?”

“Yep. Kinda sad seeing him turn around and head back home. Guess his wife was pretty disappointed when she found out.”

“Did you try to help?” I asked.

“Wasn’t none of my business,” he said.

“Hmmm.”

He whacked once more and turned to me. “Did you ever help one of them back then?”

“No, I lacked the courage.” I paused and offered, though I know it was weak. “I never knowingly mistreated anybody of any color, though.”

“I see,” he said. “You know, your species has made an art form out of indifference.” He whacked the balcony.

“Careful,” I said. “You’ll chip the paint.”

The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference. Elie Wiesel

“I just keep thinking about that man walking back to his family.” He stared at the city. “Well, got to go.”

“Where?”

“Got to select a shape for the peace march Saturday.”

“It’s been cancelled,” I said. “Not enough interest.”

“Crap,” he said, whacking my balcony rail again.

23. Pins

He was one of the happiest looking men I ever saw. I noticed him wheeling himself along Bill Street (President Clinton Boulevard) whistling and speaking to everyone he met—a real delight to behold. As he neared me, I noticed both legs were missing from just above the knee. When he reached me, he suddenly pivoted directly in my path and stopped.

“Hello brother,” he said. “Ain’t it a wonderful day to be alive?”

Then he winked.

Yep, it was C.W., the little Falloonian himself.

“Come over here and sit,” he said. “I got some questions to ask you.”

We moved over to a bench, and he pointed to pin attached to my shirt.

“What’s that?”

“It’s my Red Cross Donor Pin,” I said.

“What’s it for?”

“It means I am an 11-gallon donor.”

“Of what?”

“Blood. I donate blood and platelets that are used when needed in operations or other medical procedures. I started doing it years ago, at my wife's suggestion.”

“Well bless you, brother, and your wife as well. I must have needed a bunch of such stuff once upon a time.” He nodded at his legs.

“C.W., you didn’t really go through that.”

“Never you mind. Now here’s the thing: I see a lot of folks wearing pins. Is that what they all mean?”

“No, different ones mean different things.”

“I see. Well some folks wear these little flag-looking pins. Does that mean they are veterans of the military, like you and me?”

I winced. “Not exactly.”

He looked puzzled.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“In my experience, it almost always means that they never served in the military.”

“Sort of making up for it, huh?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, answer me another one. I saw this woman wearing the symbol of a cross on her blouse. That’s all about your Jesus, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me why she was wearing a bunch of expensive clothes and jewelry while she was cursing a homeless person who asked her for money.”

“I can’t explain it.”

“Wouldn’t that sort of make your Jesus wince? Or maybe even weep?”

“He’s not my Jesus, but, yes, as he is presented to us in literature, it would.”

“I don’t understand.”

He stopped to greet a group of tourists walking by.

“Bless you folks,” he said as he smiled and waved.

“What do you not understand? I said.”

“I don’t understand all this disconnect in the logic of your species. We’ve been through this before.”

“And I’m sure we’ll go through it again. Many times.”

“Well I have decided …” He stopped.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“No. What?”

“You’re sure you want to hear this?”

“Yes.”

“It seems to me that not everyone who waves a flag is a patriot, and not everyone who waves a Bible is a Christian.”

Out of the mouths of strangers.

6. Water

Today we met in an isolated portion of the park, C.W. and I, for he insisted on assuming the shape of a Bedouin Tribesmen and I refused to be seen in public with him. He sat cross-legged on an elevated ledge overlooking the Arkansas River. I sat beside him and waited.

He turned and, as he did, the numerous necklaces he wore made a rather pleasant tinkling sound. “I see your people doing many strange things,” he said.

This from a man dressed like a desert nomad near downtown Little Rock, Arkansas. I didn’t respond.

“Tell me about these devices they carry with them everywhere.”

“Devices?” I asked.

“From what I can tell, they are suspended noxious chemical compounds formed into a container for your hydration source, how do you say … Dihydrogen Oxide?”

“We just call it H2O,” I said. “Yes they carry water.” I was a little peeved since he was assuming an accent today, something he did rarely and, I guessed, when he did it was to jack me around.

“May I ask why?” He was as polite as an insurance salesman on Valium.

“Maybe they’re thirsty,” I said.

“All the time?”

“Maybe not all the time.”

“Do not they have sources of hydration in their homes?”

“Yes, they all do.”

“I read in a recent magazine article that 46 percent of the people on your planet do not have such indoor sources.”

“Probably true,” I said, wondering where he was going.

“Aren’t they the ones who should be hydrating from containers?”

“Well, yes.” That made sense to me.

“So does this containerized hydration provide some other health benefit?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does it keep the liquid safer?”

“Uh, no, quite the contrary. Water from public sources is highly regulated whereas the water purchased in containers is, well, it is not regulated at all.”

“Totally unregulated?” he asked. “Even as to the source?”

“Even as to the source.”

“So it could come from this river?”

“Quite so.”

“Explanation?”

“It just seems to be a fad that started several years ago and caught on. It’s one of those things Americans do that has no logical basis whatsoever.”

“It is free?”

“Oh no, one must pay extra for it.”

He said nothing, just watched the river roll by for what seemed like hours. Finally he spoke, as much to the river as to me.

“I suppose it is a harmless extravagance given the fact that they re-use those poisonous containers and don’t release them into the environment when they are empty.

I didn’t say a word.