Morning Thoughs ... Music and Religion

C.W. and I were talking this morning …

He was asking me about the support of our new president among some of the more stringent elements of protestant Christianity in America. “Whatever one may think of chances that your new president may prove successful,” he said, “and we shall see, no one who has the least understanding of the Judeo-Christian religion could argue that he is a righteous man. I can see the support for him among some elements of your species, but hardly by those who call themselves godly."

I had to agree.

“There were signs,” I said, and explained that I saw it coming maybe 15 years back, but it didn’t register until lately. I used to volunteer for a community-based radio station to present a bluegrass music show once a week. (I’ve always had a fascination, to C.W.’s great amazement, with the banjo).We had a small but loyal audience, most of them religious, many of them elderly, and almost all genial and sweet … at first.

Because that type music has a strong religious element, I devoted a portion of the show to gospel bluegrass. It was a popular and graciously received segment. Groups performed many of the old gospel hymns in bluegrass style and the audience loved them, showing genuine gratitude. They would call in and make requests, thanking me for my volunteering.

Then things began to change. Callers became hostile. Comments shifted to the personal. I didn’t understand what gospel music was. This group also performed “raunchy” music and should be banned. That group had a “jap” playing in it and couldn’t love Jesus. I only played old music and didn’t play any new stuff. (What some call “Jesus is my boyfriend" music with the word "awesome" appearing at least six time). I didn’t play music about “killing all them babies.” Was I sure I had been “saved?” Contacts became more and more strident. Live festivals even began to include sermonettes against “the unholy ACLU,” liberal do-gooders (like Jimmy Carter), and disavowed politicians. A cloud of anger settled over things. Hostility joined the anger.

I soon had enough and gave it up. Had I thought it through, I might have envisioned the replacement of The Galilean with the likes of Franklin Graham.

"I've always liked the Galilean," C.W. said. "Wasn't he the one that told your species to love one another?"

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Morning Thoughts

C.W. came into where I was drinking coffee just now and demanded that I come and see what he had found while surfing the net. I followed, half-awake and fully annoyed. He looked like a young Boy Scout with rusty hair and freckles, though, so I couldn’t stay mad.

He sat in front of the computer and and turned toward me. “Who was Voltaire?” he asked.

“A Frenchman,” I said, still trying to clear my head. “He was a philosopher and writer during the Age of Enlightenment.”

C.W., or “Rusty” if you will, pointed at the screen. “Look at this,” he said.

I looked. On the screen was a painting of the famous man and a quote. It said, “Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.”

 

“So?” I was still trying to awaken fully.”

He shook his head as if to pity me. “Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

“This is what is wrong with your species.”

“What’s that?”

“They have become divided into groups, each one hating the others, and all their ideas, to the point of seeking mutual destruction.”

So what is one supposed to do?
Lead by example or something? - C.W.

I said, “What exactly is your point?”

“That’s not the way the advanced species of our galaxy think.”

“And,” I said, “How do they think?”

“They think,” he said, “that the goal of civilization is progress, not victory.”

I thought. Good point.

"And," he said, "you can quote me on that."

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Rage

Friends. It always amuses me to hear that so many of you are angry at your government, as if this phenomenon just happened on its own.

301. Protest

Oh lord. C.W. wants to stage a protest.

Don’t ask.

He was busy making posters when I came in this morning. In fact, he was so busy that he didn’t notice me. I could hear him muttering as he carefully lettered the words, “We won’t take it anymore. Heck no.” His shape was incongruous, somewhere between a golfer and a migrant worker.

“Power to the protesters,” he said, adding a period to a protesting sentence and looking up. “Big Dope,” he said, “just the person I wanted to see.”

 I walked to the nearest chair and sat, saying nothing.

“I need your help,” he said. “You need to help me stage a protest.”

“A protest?”

“Yeah,” he said, “a protest. Maybe we’ll seize a building somewhere.”

“So what, exactly, are you going to protest?”

“That’s where I need your help,” he said.

“My help?”

“What do you recommend we protest?”

This stunned me. “Do you mean,” I said, “that you are planning a protest and you don’t know what it is you’re going to protest?”

“I’m full of rage,” he said. “I just have to protest something.”

“Like what?”

This time he stopped to think. “What about all those terrible things they say about aliens?”

“I don’t think they are talking about aliens like you.”

“Who then?”

“You know,” I said, “the regular kind. Say, what about civil rights? That’s always good for a protest.”

“Hell no,” he said. “They turn dogs loose on your for that.”

“I don’t think they have done that for a while.”

“Well,” he said, “you never know when they might start back.” Then he brightened. “How about Husbands’ Rights? That’s something that needs attention.”

“Husbands’ Rights?”

“Yeah. We could march against Mrs. Big Dope and her friends.”

“Count me out,” I said.

“As one of your country’s founders said, ‘A right not protected is a right forfeited.’”

“Which founder said that?”

“I don’t know. One of them probably did. Anyway, we can catch the women coming out of the supermarket and surround them with our signs and posters. Then we’ll take over the fabric store. Come on,” he said, grabbing a brush and turning to a poster. “Help me.”

“You are on your own,” I said. “But I do hope you will have plenty of help.”

“God hates hags,” he said, as he began to paint the letters.

“Uh, C.W.” I said, “you have had some bad ideas in your life but this is the absolute worst.”

He ignored me and grabbed another poster. He looked away and thought for a moment, then began to paint, muttering as he did so. “Male lives matter.”

“Give me a break,” I said. “This is ridiculous.”

“Great causes call for great courage,” he said. “That’s what one of your famous statesmen said.”

Think of the money to be made
selling supplies for generic protests.
Is this a great country or what? - C.W.

“Which statesman?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe Robert E. Lee.”

“Maybe we need to have a long talk,” I said.

“Don’t bother me now,” he said. Then he grabbed another poster and began to write, “No piece. No pea…”

“C.W.,” I said, yelling it. He hadn’t heard the car arriving or the voices growing near.

“What?”

“It’s my wife and her friends,” I said as the door opened.

He glanced up. He quickly swept up the posters and thrust them into my arms. “I’ve told you a dozen times,” he said. “This is a monstrously stupid idea. I’m telling your wife.”

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Problems

Dear Friends and Followers:
One of the things that troubles me about your species is your approach to problem solving. For an example, let’s look at a recent problem that a part of your country is having with its drinking water. It seems that an unregulated (at least since 1991) chemical plant has leaked toxic chemicals into the river that supplies drinking water to a large area in your state of West Virginia. Here is the problem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, it is my understanding that the voters of that state usually narrow their focus to a single issue when choosing politicians to care for their people. To illustrate this, here is the proposed solution to the problem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unfortunately, as I understand it, the river has not yet complied with the demands of the Purification Committee.

The Alien C.W.

184. Reviews

Poor C.W. I almost had to feel sorry for him. In fact, I had never seen him like this. “Crestfallen” would best describe it.

Here is what happened.

I found him at the computer desk in the form of a young man in grey, loose-fitting sweater, baggy pants, and black, lace-up tennis shoes. His hair was rumpled and he was going through a pile of papers he had printed. He seemed on the verge of tears.

“What the …?” I said.

“Failure,” he said and began to explain.

It seems that, unbeknownst to me, C.W. had written a poem and posted it on a website for aspiring writers. It was called, “Soaring Silently Through Stars in Splendor,” and you don’t want to read it. What he was holding were some reviews posted by others. With tears in his eyes, he began to hand me samples, such as

“Your poem saved my life. I had been on the verge of suicide when I read it. Now, I resolve to live in the hopes that I may yet read of the self-immolation of someone who would have the (censored) lack of taste to write such drivel. – Angstyinaustin.”

“Before reading your (censored) drivel, I had imagined that the worst fate in life would be to have a root canal performed without the benefits of Novocain while sitting on a pile of flesh eating maggots and listening to “Jennifer Hudson’s Greatest Hits.” Now I know there are worst things. – Puttermouth”

“I read your (censored) entry after attending my weekly Bible study. What a (censored) piece of (censored). I hope you choke when your severed (censored) is crammed down your (censored) throat. –Hedied4me”

“To Hedied4me: Why don’t you die for us, you (censored) moran? –Agapeluv

“I would like more information on your writing habits. In particular, I would like to know where you go to be alone and write. I would like to sell the exact coordinates to the next terrorist bomber I meet. –Right2me”

“Thank you so much for your work. My English teacher assigned us the job of reading a poem in class. When I read yours, she grabbed her throat and collapsed. After they took her to the hospital, I began trying it on other people I hate. You have been so helpful. –Angelofvengeance”

“Saying your poem sucks would be like saying that (censored) into an electrical outlet is a bad idea. –Puppykillr”

“Where did you get the idea you can write? Did Satan himself ‘soar silently’ through the filth and ooze that is life on earth and plant the idea in your (censored) empty brain? -Luvoflife”

“To Agapeluv: If Jesus had ever met you he would have made Charles Manson look like a Sunday School teacher you (censored) imbicell. – Hedied4me”

And, finally:

“Here’s a suggestion for your next poem: ‘Thoughts soaring silently through my brain just before I blow it away.’ The world awaits it eagerly.” –Luvangudness”

I think I can get this poetry stuff down
if I can just get a better computer.- C.W.

“What now?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said, stopping as another message began appearing on the computer screen.

“To: Hedied4me,” it began. “you make my (censored) crave applesauce. And …”

C.W. switched off the computer and we sat in silence, our thoughts soaring.

165. Civility

It always brings me mixed emotions when C.W. appears in his favorite form. Yes, I mean Lucky and Lefty, the conjoined twins. Their funny way of walking amuses me and this recent time proved no exception. I was resting under a tree from the summer heat when I saw them coming. It took awhile to reach me as they, as usual, would stop every 20 steps or so and spin in circles for a few seconds changing directions each time.

When they finally reached me, Lucky was complaining about the heat. “Goddam planet is like Venus this time of year.”

“Now Lucky,” Lefty said, “Remember...”

“Why don’t you blow it out our …,” he said, then caught himself. “Of course you are right, brother of mine. I forgot.”

“It’s only natural,” Lefty said. “It must strain your little half of our brains to remember anything.” Then he too, seemed to catch himself as Lucky turned his head quickly in his direction. “Ooops.”

“I would certainly think so,” Lucky said. “We each must be more diligent.”

“Quite so,” said Lefty, smiling toward Lucky.

“Peace be with you,” Lucky said.

“And with you,” Lefty said.

I groaned. “What the hell?”

“Pray be nice to us, Big Dope,” Lucky said.

“Now brother,” Lefty said.

“Oh yes,” Lucky said, looking toward me. “Mr. Big Dope.”

“Fellers,” I said.

“Yes?” They answered in unison.

“Mind letting me in on your secret? Or joke? Or whatever?”

“Why, what can you mean, dear friend?” Lucky said.

“We are your friends, aren’t we?” Lefty said.

“And what has brought about this sudden burst of nicety? I thought you guys despised one another.”

“Us?” Lucky said in mock surprise.

“Yes you. What’s up?”

“If you must know,” Lefty said. “We are trying to set an example.”

“A good example,” Lucky said.

“A good example of what? Hypocrisy?”

“Oh dear friend, you don’t really mean that,” Lefty said.

“Okay,” I said. “You are trying to play nice. Why?”

“We are concerned,” Lucky said.

“He’s concerned. I’m alarmed,” Lefty said.

“About?”

“The current lack of civility among your species,” Lucky said.

“I see,” I said. The fog was beginning to lift.

“The Falloonian Elders are deeply bothered that your government is planning another shomachocratask” Lefty said.

“Another what?”

“Another war adventure” Lucky said.

“So you are proposing?”

“A world-wide week of civility,” Lefty said, beaming.

“Civility?”

“Yes,” Lucky said. “Civility, Everyone must be nice to everyone else for a week.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Have you ever seen an old movie called ‘The Day the Earth Stood Still?” Lefty said.

“Yes.”

“What would you do if we told you that it was more accurate than you could possibly imagine?” Lucky said.

My earthling friends, you can't imagine the
consequences of this pervasive hostility. - C.W.

“I would be nice to everyone for a week.”

“Our brother,” Lefty said and they held out all four hands.



“Wait a minute,” I said. “Would I have to be nice to the ‘pistol slappers’ as well?”

“If you are referring to our dear cosmic kinfolks, the Second Amendment Enthusiasts, then yes it would,” Lucky said.

I didn’t answer.

“Now go forth and sin no more,” Lucky said.

With that, they left me struggling with conflicting emotions as I watched them walk away, stopping every few steps to spin in a circle, first in one direction, then the other.

162. Revenge

As always, I dread the times that C.W. wants a job. This time, I found him at the kitchen table, in a form resembling the late William Faulkner, complete with pipe and mustache. He was busy at the keyboard and scarcely noticed me. A pile of printed sheets lay neatly on the table. He finally looked up, nodded, and puffed on his pipe.

“Big Dope,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“Don’t let my wife catch you smoking that thing in here.”

“You seem to be wound up somewhat tightly this morning, walking in as if there were two ghosts within you, one a remnant of the past stirrings of history and the other a sprite born of this fecund soil bursting forth among the ancient growths of hyacinth, pine, and sycamore trusting, not in yourself completely but perhaps somewhat and even then not totally but knowing that there are more sins amidst this ancient place than the soil can nourish and make clean with its everlastingness.”

“Did you make coffee?”

“Am I not a man born of necessity and lost amidst the yearnings of the past?”

“You are an alien, and a troublesome one at that.”

“My hope for mankind endures.”

I walked to the coffee pot. “Three level scoops and a half more for body?”

“As you prefer,” he said. “Now, begone. I have work to do.”

“Work?”

“Yes, work. Important work.” He blew a cloud of smoke toward me.

“Doing what, this time?”

“I shall be a writer,” he said. “A writer probing the subterranean sources of the soul’s wanderings upon earth.” He quickly entered several strokes on keyboard. He looked at what he had written. “Sweet,” he said.

I groaned.

“As a modern Proust,” he said, “I shall explore mankind’s essence through remembered memories created by sounds, scents, and secret fantasies born of eternal longings. That’s how I see myself.”

“Others see you as a complete idiot,” I said. “The ones who can see you at all.”

He ignored me and began typing. I walked, coffee in hand, to the table and picked the top sheet from his stack of writings. I read the following.

“Dearest Mikey: I noticed with some degree of surprise, that, following our breakup, you have indulged in what is commonly referred to as ‘revenge porn’ by posting a video of what I considered to be one of our most tender moments on the internet. As certain dishes are best served cold, I am including a copy of the video in a birthday gift of rare cheeses to your Granny Taylor. You know … the one who controls your trust fund. Oh, and by the way, a wee bit of surfing uncovered several other productions starring grandson himself. I am sure that she will enjoy the serialization. Ta ta, as they say. Signed, Linda.”

Revenge may be a green-eyed monster,
but isn't he a hunk, girls? - C.W.

“C.W.,” I said. “What the hell is this?”

“Put that  back,” he said, reaching for it. I let him have it and picked up the next sheet. It read as follows.

“Hi Barry. I am not unaware that you have developed the habit of referring to me as ‘that little faggot’ in conversations with our classmates. I have also heard that each week, one of the starting defensive linemen on our school’s football team receives a dozen red roses from you with a poem attached. That is so sweet of you. If your actions continue, the offensive line shall surely enjoy your favors, a prospect that offers a more salacious (look it up, asshole) prospect as more than one of them are what you refer to me as. Oh, and better hold on to your soap when you shower. Love, Timmie.”

I looked at him. He smiled and shrugged. “It’s called ‘getemback.com’ and I’m already flooded with orders.”

160 Deities

I was questioning C.W. the other day on the concept of religion on his home planet of Falloonia. In the middle of the conversation, he abruptly left the room. I could hear sounds of scuffling in the next room, punctuated by an occasional “Oh, you’re looking good, baby.”

He reemerged in as strange a getup and shape as I had ever seen him. He had on a double-breasted suit that could almost blind a person by its sheen. His hair was a dark auburn and shone to match the suit. It was piled on his head as if a slight shake might make it tumble into a haystack of oily confusion. He waved a hand, exposing a wrist circled by a Rolex watch and fingers encrusted with diamonds. His shoes were patent leather and completed the “sparkle” effect.

“Wadup child?” he said, making a sign of benediction.

“Uh,” I began before going speechless.

“Lay it on me, oh ‘Searcher for Truth,’ and let me sooth your soul.” He sat on a couch, revealing patterned socks that matched perfectly the color of his suit.

“We were discussing the concept of religion on your home planet,” I said.

“Hmmm,” he said.

“Do you have such a concept?”

“Well,” he said as he thought it over. “We wouldn't buy into serpents who speak in Hebrew to naked women.”

“No,’ I said. “I wouldn’t suppose so.”

“They tend to worship knowledge there,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.” He stopped and thought for a moment then continued. “I’m not sure we ever had a deity paradigm that espoused getting angry at the way its creation was behaving and drowning everyone. Or nearly everyone.”

“Oh, really,”

“No, we would have believed that design flaws were the fault of the designer.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“But we would like ‘The Song of Soloman,’” he added quickly.

“Oh really?”

“Oh man,” he said. “Want to hear some of my favorite passages?”

“Maybe later,” I said.

“Ah, breasts like two young roses,” he said dreamily.

It was time to redirect the conversation. “But do you, on your home planet, have a guiding philosophy, a religion that guides your moral behavior?”

“Religion guiding moral behavior?” He pondered the question.

“Some say it does.”

“Like,” he thought for a moment, “… like killing children who make fun of bald men?”

“As an extreme, I suppose.”

“Uh,” he said, “then no.”

“So you don’t see a connection between the two, religion and moral behavior.”

He studied the question. “Isn’t behavior determined by preservation of the individual, the group, and the species?”

If you don't mind the observation, this
represents a bit of a strange method of what
you call "Beta Testing." - C.W.

“That’s a rather bleak picture, according to some,” I said.

“We can’t erase a picture simply because it seems bleak,” he said. Suddenly he brightened and extended a finger towards me, exposing an onyx cufflink set off by a sparkling ruby. “We would like the parts of your theology that speak to blessing the meek.”

“Oh really?” I said.

“Yes,” and giving to the poor,” he said, becoming visibly excited. “And lauding the peacemakers. And about agreeing with thine adversaries quickly.”

Then he stopped and his face grew dark. “Except for those damned liberals.”

158. Luck

I found C.W. sitting at the kitchen table this morning. Actually, there was a young, blond-haired boy of about ten there in the most ridiculous outfit one could imagine—a long purple robe lined with Sable fur and five pounds or so of gold necklace around his neck. A ridiculous crown sat askew on his hand, as if ready to hop off at any second. I could only stare in disbelief.

“They found that man 'not guilty' who killed that young boy,” he said.

“I know. I heard.”

“Why? How?”

“ I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

“You mean when he shot him?”

“No, I meant at the trial. Nobody was there when he shot him.”

“Too bad. They might have stopped him.”

“Maybe. But that is what the jury faced. It’s seems hard to get past the ‘reasonable doubt’ standard if when there were no witnesses.”

“But for the fact …”

I interrupted. “There is no ‘but for the fact’ rule in that state.”

“So someone aggravates you, you just shoot them.”

“Only if you aggravate them enough that they take a swing at you.”

He thought for a moment. “Perhaps it is best we not move there, particularly if Mrs. Big Dope were to come with us.”

“Just who the hell are you supposed to be, anyway?”

“Don’t you read the news?”

“Not much lately.”

“I will be King of England someday.”

“Oh please.”

He cocked his head to one side. As he did, the crown began to slip. He grabbed it with one hand and straightened it. “Explain monarchies to me.”

“It is a form of government whereby people are ruled, or nominally ruled, by a monarch.” I grinned. Tautologies make his circuits smoke.

“Say, a king such as I?”

“I think Great Britain enjoys a limited monarchy.”

“Meaning that its ruler doesn’t actually rule?”

“Something like that.”

“Doesn’t do anything?”

“Not unless they want to.”

“They get paid for this?”

“Oh, you’d better believe.”

“And I will get to do it?”

I played along. “As long as you don’t do something really stupid.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, say divorce one of the most beautiful women in the world in order to marry one of the homeliest.”

He pondered this. “Are we talking really beautiful?”

“Really, really. The kind dreams are made of.”

He straightened his back and assumed a royal bearing. “One will try to meet one’s duty as it is presented.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“So how is this monarch chosen, by tests of strength, ability, or cunning?”

“No, by inheritance.”

“Inheritance?” I could almost hear those Falloonian brain-gears humming. “You mean by luck?”

“Precisely.”

“So if my sperm-egg coupling had occurred, say, in rural Alabama, I might not enjoy the privileges for which I am destined?”

“Quite likely.”

“I might even be regarded simply as one of your history’s pedis memoranda?”

“A footnote, yes.”

“Like the lad in Florida?”

“Much like that.”

“Sad,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “A real tragedy.”

He snapped his head toward me. “What tragedy?”

“The killing in Florida.”

Would someone please be so kind as to tell
Mrs. Big Dope that she must obey me
as everyone else does? - C.W.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, straightening his crown. “I was referring to the great burdens that will be placed on me to behave appropriately.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Hardly,” he said, and a cold tone took over his voice as his face froze into a stony and frightening stare. I waited.

“After all, one can’t be mentally distracted over the death of any young black boy who doesn’t show the proper respect.”

156. Answers

Hello friends. Big Dope is taking a vacation this week and it gives me time to answer some of your mail.

Dear C.W.: My name is Stevie and I am nine years old. When I told my friend Benji that I didn’t want to marry a girl, he said that I would die and burn in some place called Hell for ever and ever. The Bible told him so. I told him the Bible also said that you have to give your money to the poor, so his daddy would be burning with me because he didn’t. He said that part was taken out of someplace called Contax. Can you tell me where this place is?

Dear Stevie: I think you mean “context” which, in your case is not a place but a state of mind. People like your friend use it in a process we call “faxilataturia” on Falloonia. It means to ignore anything that is inconvenient. It is contra-related to the process of “redolataturia” which means to ignore anything that is stupid and which you should use when your friend Benji tells you something.

Dear C.W.: I am a descendant of Thomas Wood Forrest. My family owns one of the largest real-estate brokerage firms in the United States.  I don’t want my country to expect me to pay for socialized medicine from my trust fund. How may I best go about stopping this evil idea?

Signed – Howie

Dear Howie: It is confusing to a visitor from another planet as to why some in your species distrust socialized medicine while they—almost joyfully it seems to me—embrace the notion of socialized housing. From government-backed housing loans to mortgage-interest deductions, your country subsidizes home ownership in a manner unheard of throughout the Galaxy. In fact, it is rare in the Cosmos to find a species that allows profits to be made from the provision of basic needs. But, more to your point, someone told me recently that one of your species’ primary religious documents mandates that the rich give their money to the poor. Why don’t you try that and perhaps health care will take care of itself?

Dear C.W.: My wife snores something awful. Do Falloonians snore? If so, is there a cure?
Signed – Desperate

Dear Desperate: To answer your first question, Fallonians do not snore. They do, however, as they grow older, tend to use the “rest and recharge” period to secretly discharge the buildup of noxious gasses from their digestive systems. I am told that in some of the older unit pairs, this occasionally results in violence, an otherwise rare occurrence on our planet. More to your point, I recommend that you simply rejoice, as you lie awake, in the fact that you are not a Ligeniatorian. The females of that species, on a certain night during their gestation period, invade the bodies of their spouses in order to incubate their eggs. Then they must find a new spouse. So, from a universal perspective, consider yourself damned lucky.

Dear Fans: Please forward your
letters to Big Dope for the next few days.
I will be "out of pocket." - C.W.

Dear C.W.: My Husband is a complete dope. He wanders around all day pretending to talk to an alien. I can’t depend upon him for anything. In addition, he snores at night and his feet smell awful. I am thinking about taking a baseball bat to him and his little buddy. I know that my people would not blame me but do you think there would be galactic repercussions?
Signed: Bare-Handed Momma

Dear, Dear. I must run now. Out of space. I’ll get back to you.

150. Rage

It was to be a quiet walk in the neighborhood. I had gotten three blocks from home and crossed a major street near I-30 when I was joined by a tall, neatly dressed African-American man whom I recognized immediately as one who often strolls our city’s River Market area. He eased in beside me and we walked to the next corner before he stopped and spoke.

“This is where it happened, isn’t it?”

I stopped, thought, and remembered. “Yes, along here somewhere.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“No, but I might have. I walk this way almost daily.”

“And I as well.”

“You didn’t witness it?”

“No.” He looked wistfully at the scene. “It would have been an interesting experience to report to the Elders. Your species has a unique approach to settling disagreements.”

“C.W.?”

“Who did you think it was?”

“I never knew … I mean … has this been you all along?”

“I sometimes wander the earth without you.” Before I could speak, he continued. “But tell me about this ‘rage of the road’ that is so unique to your kind.”

“This was apparently a classic case. Two motorists got into a feud on the interstate and both pulled off at this exit and stopped. One got out of his vehicle and started toward the other. The man in the second car produced a gun and shot the man three times, killing him.”

“In front of the man’s family?”

“Yes.”

“What could cause such an angry response?”

“I have no idea.”

“Perhaps one saw a car on the highway with one of those ‘these colors don’t run” bumper stickers?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps they each had seen one of those TV shows where the hero solves problems by beating up someone.”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they watched that so-called news channel whose pundits tell their listeners that the government is coming to get them.”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps those guns of which you are so fond have an unsettling psychological effect on a person.”

“Dammit I just don’t know.”

“Have you ever carried a gun?”

“Once. For a time I carried one with me constantly, even when I ate. I stored it next to my bed at night. It was my constant companion.”

“Did it make you crazy?”

“I dunno.”

“What happened to it?”

“The United States Government took it away from me one day.”

“Well, there you go,” he said. “That’s too bad.”

“Oh no. Quite the contrary. It was one of the happiest days of my life.”

“You are weird.”

I thought this was a little bizarre coming from a shape-shifting alien and told him so.

“So we have one man dead in front of his family and another facing first-degree murder charges because of a minor fracas that either could have avoided.”

“That’s about it.”

“This worship of the gun and automobile, where do they teach it?” He pointed toward the spire of a church a couple of blocks away. “There?”

“No. They are supposed to teach just the opposite.”

“Supposed to?”

“Some of them have gotten a little off-track.”

All in all, I think music produces
a better effect on your species
than does driving a vehicle. - C.W.

“Surely your schoolteachers warn that your DNA contains dormant remnants lying ready to activate and produce violent responses during times of stress.”

I pointed at the church. “You and I have talked about this before. They don’t quite approve of teaching science to young kids.”

He stood silent for a moment. Then he lowered his head until his chin rested on his chest. “I hope …,” he said, then stopped to gather his thoughts.

“Hope what?”

“I hope that my next assignment is to a simpler planet.”

147. Friends

C.W. was pouting and when he does, it is not pretty sight. Falloonian tears are this pinkish color and they tend to occur more from frustration than from sadness. So I have this whining alien in the form of a sixteen year-old girl spouting what looks like rivulets of Pepto-Bismol down her face. I put my morning oatmeal aside, my appetite having vanished. Her tears were beginning to drip.

“If you get that stuff on the couch, you are going to be in real trouble,” I said.

“You just hate me.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“I’m going to live with someone else.”

“I’ll help you pack.”

“Jesus is going to get you. And I’ll be happy when he does.”

“Jesus doesn’t ‘get’ people.”

“Oh yes he does. He gets gays, liberals, and anyone who doesn’t support our troops. I saw it on the ‘Christian Love Channel.’”

What could I say? Nothing. So I returned to my laptop.

What, one might ask, brought on this fit of pique? Just this: I put a new password on my computer so she can’t use it to open access her Facebook account. The reason? That should be apparent to anyone familiar with the escapades of our resident alien and with the ability of the authorities to trace computer entries. My phone already makes these mysterious clicking sounds and I strongly suspect tapping.

“All of my colleagues around the world have a Facebook account.”

“If all your colleagues drove their spaceships into a black hole, would you follow them?”

"Our representative in Spain even has Twitter.”

“Did your representative in Spain post a picture of my wife bending over while she was planting corn and caption it: ‘The Sun riseth and the sun goeth down?”

“Mrs. Big Dope thought you did it.” She giggled. “Besides, she thought it was funny.”

I touched a bruise on my arm. “She had a funny way of laughing. And you are not getting back on Facebook.”

“How am I going to share my recipes?”

“When have you ever prepared a meal?”

“I might start.” She paused and then her face lit up. “And I need to help impeach the President.”

“What?” I was stunned. “Why?”

“Because he’s colored. That’s what Brytannie says. She learned it in church.”

“One more reason you can’t use my computer.”

“What am I going to do with all the cat pictures I took?”

“Put them in a scrapbook.”

“What’s a scrapbook?”

“It’s a collection of photos and clippings you glue onto the pages of a large folio.”

“Eeeuw!”

“And you share them with friends at your next bunking party.”

“What’s a bunking party?”

“It’s when your friends come over and spend the night with you.”

“Like Tymber, Londin, Kathee, and Kingstun?”

“Uh, not Kingstun.”

These cute creatures love their photgraphs.
But Big Dope won't let me post them. - C.W.

“Why not. He’s going to show me some things about photography.”

“I’ll just bet.” I was getting tired of this conversation. “Why don’t you just find something else to do. Say, for example, read a novel.”

The tears stopped and she looked at me with a pleasant smile for the first time all morning. “Maybe so,” she said. Then her face turned inquisitive. “What’s a novel?”

142. Taxes

C.W. heard me groaning in the next room and walked into the room in the appearance, of all things, a priest. “May I be of help to you my son?” he said.

My mind was far away, not as far as Falloonia, but far away.

“I’m okay,” I said. “Just working on my taxes.”

“Ah taxes,” he said. He sat in a chair near where I was working and folded his hands. “Rendering unto Caesar?”

“You might say.”

“I think taxes are a great way to offer praise,” he said. “So does my church.”

Now I have to admit that he had caught me in a bad mood. “That’s because your church doesn’t have to pay them,” I said.

He crossed himself. “You are forgiven.”

Ignoring him, I went back to my computer.

“So,” he said. “As I understand it, your species uses its system of taxes to help the poor in spirit and, as we say, ‘the least of those among us?’ That’s a blessed approach.”

“Used to be,” I said. “Some of us think it is old-fashioned.”

“Oh? Please explain.”

“Some modern thinkers believe that the poor will be with us always, so we should direct our public resources to helping those who are more, not less, fortunate.”

He thought for a moment. “If you don’t mind my lapsing into the vernacular,” he said. “That doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.”

“Welcome to the modern tax code,” I said. “Aaaargh!” I continued as a figure flashed on my computer screen.

“Peace, my son,” he said. “Think happy thoughts.”

I glared at him. “Don’t tempt me,” I said.

He took on a beatific smile and formed his fingers into the shape of a steeple. “One has to admit …,” he said. He thought for a few seconds and began again. “One has to admit that it is wise of your species to prevent the government from acting unwisely by simply not approving taxes for untoward behavior, say, for casting pearls before swine or starting unnecessary wars.”

I looked up to see if he was serious. “Are you crazy? You think that stops war?”

“How could a country wage war on credit?”

“Wait one,” I said. I punched a few keys and found a “favorite” on the computer. I started it running and turned the screen toward him. It was a scene from a documentary showing the bombs beginning to fall on Baghdad on day one of the “Shock and Awe War.” As explosions rocked a public square, a father ran across the screen holding a young son. A broad stain showed that the lad had soiled himself from fear. “Ask these folks,” I said.

“I see I have angered you,” he said.

“Up yours,” I said.

“I shall leave you to deal with your anger, my son.”

“Pray do.”

“You have inspired me.”

I looked up. “Inspired you?”

“Yes, I’m going to write your congressman and suggest some changes to the tax code.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, remembering the church’s admonition to comfort those who hunger, I shall suggest that the drug Viagra be tax deductible.”

“That will make some folks happy,” I said.

“Oh, but remembering our charge to be fruitful and multiply, I have another suggestion.”

Your wars would not be as popular
if they didn't show so well
on the nightly news. - C.W.

“Let me guess.”

“Pray do.”

“Contraceptives won’t be.”

“In nomine patre,” he said, extending a hand in benediction.

138. Violence

When C.W. appears as a teenager, I cringe. They, teenagers, are generally going through either a state of rebelliousness or poor judgment, and these are his natural states. In other words, double jeopardy. So when I heard a young boy’s voice emit a cry of “Take that you dirty mother,” (actually a little more graphic) I braced for the worst.

“What in the world are you doing?” He was hunched over my laptop computer with a set of external controls, going at some game with a fury

“Die creep,” he yelled into the screen. Explosions sounded, followed by cries of agony. “Yeah, scream, you bas…”

“C.W.” I said. “My wife is in the house.”

“There, take that!” he said, ignoring me.

I walked over and closed the laptop. He looked at me with green eyes, spittle oozing from his lips. “Don’t ever try to do that again,” he said, glaring.

“Shall I get my spray bottle?” I keep one on hand to calm him when he gets like this. He can’t stand to have water sprayed on him.

“Big Dope,” he said, calming noticeably.

“Mind explaining?”

“Explaining what?”

“What on earth you are doing?”

“Relaxing.”

“With this?” I said, holding up a DVD holder entitled “Revenge of the Nazi Ninjas.”

“I have some work to do so I was just having some fun first.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to do the work first and then relax?”

He looked at me with a sullen face, his eyes sunk deep into their sockets. “I’m going to movies after I finish the work. Wanna come? It’s this new Bruce Willis thing. Man, I bet he blows up a thousand cars. Body count out the stratosphere.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then me and Tommie Castleberry are going to shoot some sparrows.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“What if I have? There’s plenty of medication for that. Just dope me up and leave me be. Ain't that what you adults do?”

I sighed. “Isn’t there something more productive you could do?”

“Yeah, smarty pants. And I’m gonna.”

“Smarty pants?”

“In case you don’t know, there’s this new show coming on the History Channel. We plan to watch it, me and Tommie and some more guys.”

“That sounds better,” I said. “Maybe.”

It is very important in curbing violence to require
young people to particpate in group ceremonies. - C.W.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s got lots of cool stuff … whole families getting zapped by lightening when the dad screws up, armies wiped out, dead babies floating around after a flood, men getting whipped then hung. Neato.”

“Neato?”

“Now if you will excuse me, I need to finish what I was working on.”

“Which is?”

“A special report to the Falloonian Elders about violence among your species.”

131. Riots

C.W. scared the daylights out of me. I was reading when he burst into the room in a panic, slammed the door, and started pushing furniture against it.

“You’ve got to help me,” he said breathlessly.

Being still stunned, I simply looked at him. He put an ear to the door and listened. He was in a blue workman’s outfit with a nametag stating, “C.W. – Prophet” over the pocket. After a few moments, he relaxed and turned toward me, leaning his back against the door. “Thought I was a goner,” he said.

“What?”

He continued to catch his breath. When it became apparent that no one was following, he walked to a chair, sat, and began to explain.

“It all started with an assignment from the Falloonian Elders,” he said.

“Which was?”

“To report on all the furor your species has created over gun control.” He took a breath. “It’s not the first time, you know.”

“Yes.”

“So …, my conclusion was that guns are not your problem.”

“Oh, really?”

“No, your problem is your reliance on violence as the method of choice for conflict resolution, your distrust of strangers, and a general hatred of folks outside your immediate tribe. Guns are simply the easiest tool for the otherwise powerless.” He paused. “The distrust is significant. There are even entire cities, you know, where everyone there is just like everyone else there.”

“Go on,” I said.

“Well,” he said. “I didn’t leave it at that. No. I decided that what your species badly needs is a communal philosophy that counteracts these impulses.” He looked at the floor. “And, that I could design such a philosophy and spread it.”

Now I was getting interested. “So?”

“The philosophy was simple,” he said. “It would urge people to honor peacemakers, the merciful, the pure in heart, the poor in spirit, and those who comfort one another instead of blowing them away.” He looked at me for approval. “Those are the main ones. There are more. Oh, there’s also the admonition not to condemn others—say for their sexuality—so that you won’t be judged for your own sexual habits.” He smiled. “I like that one.”

“C.W.” I said. “That all sounds vaguely familiar.”

“Oh, I borrowed much of it from an old body of teachings by a group once quite prevalent in your country. It has dwindled now to a few small bands, mostly elderly, and a few so-called filthy liberals.”

“So, how it is going?”

“Not good,” he said. “I decided to try it out.”

“Try it out?”

“Yes, I saw where a large group had gathered in some huge building out on the interstate, so I assumed my most charming form and asked if I could deliver a message to them.”

“And?”

“I had to bribe them with something called a ‘love offering’ but they finally allowed it.”

“And?”

“I got about halfway through and they began to fidget.”

“And then?”

“I saw the flash of a pistol barrel. Then another. And another.”

“What then?”

“I got the hell out of there. They formed a mob and chased me here.”



As it is written:

We played the flute for you, and

You did not dance;

We wailed, and you did not

Mourn.

-The Alien C.W.

“The congregation chased you here?”

“All the way. I was terrified.”

“They wanted to harm you?”

“Harm me?” he said with alarm. “I think they wanted to crucify me!”

127. Remnants

This morning, I didn’t really feel like talking. Of course that is when C.W. is most likely to show. And of course he did.

Our country was suffering in shock from another mass murder by a gun-wielding lunatic. No use to go into the numbers and methodology. It is all too painfully familiar by now.

Anyway, as I say, C.W. never misses a chance. I looked up from my computer screen into a dark room to see him standing in the form of a six year old child, pale but emitting a slight white glow. He stood staring at me without speaking for several seconds. Then he spoke in a soft child’s voice that floated around the room like a smoky whisper.

“Do you know why they killed me?”

I studied the figure. C.W., despite his often comic and cynical approaches to our society, chooses very carefully when he will be serious.

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“Then you seem to be the only one of your species that doesn’t, from what I observed on the social networking websites this morning.”

“You’ve been on my computer?”

“Oh please,” he said. “So you don’t know?”

“I can’t begin to fathom.”

“Someone blamed it on a god.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“Some think your species needs fewer guns.”

“I’m sure they do.”

“Others think you need more guns.”

I didn’t answer him. So he kept talking.

“The ones who seem the most positive are the ones who don’t have a clue.”

“That is usually the case,” I said.

“You know I went through considerable training before the Falloonian Elders sent me to your planet.”

“I would assume as much.”

“You want to know their short take on your species?”

“Why not?” I was glad to escape my own thoughts.

“That you had managed to overcome, to a remarkable degree, your prehistoric reliance on violence as a survival strategy.”

“That’s good, right?”

“But,” he continued. “It never left the DNA strand and it will surface from time to time, often most tragically.”

“Ask your classmates,” I said.

“Ask the families of the children of Baghdad the morning your country started raining bombs on them,” he said.

“You are not being very comforting,” I said.

“One of your country’s founders—I forget which one—said ‘Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.’”

“It is attributed to Thomas Jefferson,” I said. “But I’m not sure it was he.”
 

“It makes no difference, don’t you see. What is important is the cosmic truth of it. Your species must remain vigilant over those primordial instincts that have existed, and still exist, since your ancestors crawled from the oceans.”

“So you mean …?”

“Sorry, but I have to go now,” he said, looking past me to a point far away. “One of the things I planned to do when I learned to write good was to keep a diary.” He paused. “But of course I never got to do it.”

It is hard, some mornings,
to continue believing in the
acquired goodness of people.
But you must keep trying. - C.W.

I must have looked confused.

“Oh,” he said. “I met a friend who kept a very good one before the violence took her and she has promised to read it to me.”

And he faded away, leaving me more confused than ever.