Tuesday, January 29, 2019

The Whizzer of Orange

Let's try something new - a book, you can actually read as it's being written, chapter by chapter.  This one is a totally fictional tale (a fable), with fictional people, set in a fictional place.  As the chapters are written, I'll edit this post to add the new ones. Let's see how it goes.
Here's the cover: followed by the text:


Chapter 1

    A short time ago, in a place not so far away, there existed a sleepy little town known as “Geriko.” Nobody knew how long it had been there, but it was assumed by outsiders that the town was named after an ancient biblical city, by someone who hadn’t mastered the art of spelling. Still, the name seemed to fit, because, curiously, no matter how many children were born there throughout the years, the population remained mostly elderly. And, also curiously, they all seemed to look the same.
    For the most part, they were a happy people, the Gerikuns. Most of them spent their days working in the orange groves and their nights thinking about working in the orange groves the next day. Because, there wasn’t much else to do. Occasionally, they’d go see a movie – but since there was only one movie theater in Geriko, and since it showed only one movie – the townsfolk didn’t have reason to get out much.  There’s a limit to the number of times a person – even a Gerikun – can watch “Bedtime for Bonzo.”

    Outside of town lived wandering bands of raccoons – because, that’s what raccoons do, they wander. They didn’t have a movie theater at all; and they didn’t have orange groves in which to work, so they would sometimes come into town looking for food, or employment, or entertainment. The grove owners soon discovered that the raccoons, happy just to be there, would work for a few oranges a day while the regular Gerikuns demanded payment in real money. So the owners hired more and more raccoons to the point that some long-time Gerikuns were having trouble finding jobs. This made them angry.
  
    A man named O.J. McDonald built a business for himself providing housing for the raccoons on a street called Baltic Avenue. At first, the rent O.J. charged was affordable – even for the scantily-paid raccoons. He charged them 4 oranges per month to camp there. Then, as he grew richer, he opened his own brick factory to provide materials with which he could build houses for his tenants. He replaced the campsites with houses, and raised the rent to 20 oranges per month.  The raccoons were glad to be inside on the cold nights, and they could crowd several of them into a single house, so they had no problem with paying the rent and splitting the expenses. And the raccoons kept coming.
    O.J. seized upon the population boom, and the resources he had available. Baltic Avenue wasn’t that big of a street, and he didn’t want his tenants to go off paying somebody else for their lodging. So he tore down the houses and built hotels in their places. He, again, upped the rent, considering all the raccoons that could squeeze into such large buildings, to 450 oranges per month. The raccoons had to work harder and harder to pay their rent, but they had much nicer places to live – albeit in a rather undesirable neighborhood very near a railroad and the tax collector’s office.
    Ultimately, O.J. McDonald became a very wealthy man and moved from his middle-class home on Atlantic Avenue all the way uptown to a place called Boardwalk, where he built a brick skyscraper, 45 stories tall, and lived in the penthouse so he could look out upon his tenants and make sure they stayed in line. It was rumored that the 44 stories below his residence were simply there to hold his oranges, and his money.

    The make-up of Geriko was changing. Raccoons were everywhere – young ones, old one, thin ones, chubby ones. And while they realized that O.J. was taking advantage of their desire to stay, they really didn’t want to return to living in the woods, where nobody had even heard of Bonzo. But the Gerikuns wanted them out so they could go back to the way things were before. Gerikuns weren’t too big on the concept of change. They went so far as to begin to build a wall around the town. But O.J. was making more profits renting hotels to the Raccoons than he made selling brick to the townspeople for their wall. With brick, and then willpower, in short supply the wall was only partially completed before the theater got another movie and everybody just, sort of, forgot about it. For all the trouble and expense, the wall they had built wasn’t tall enough or wide enough, they thought, to keep the raccoons from coming into town. When they wanted in, all they had to do was climb over it, or walk around it. But, over the course of time, it didn’t really matter so much, because the townsfolk discovered there were other, better, things to do with their time than picking oranges. Many even stated that if the raccoons were suddenly to disappear, the oranges would rot on the trees because there would be nobody to pick them. So, satisfied with the conditions as they were, there was a period of peace and harmony among the Gerikuns and the Raccoons, and Geriko continued to prosper.

    O.J. McDonald, and his wife, Hilda, spent their days and nights in their lofty penthouse shipping produce and counting their money. But they did find a little time to start a family. They had three relatively normal children who followed in the ways of their parents. Then, one cold rainy night, a fourth child was born unto O.J. and Hilda. This one was different. As he came into the world, the attending doctor noticed that he had something in his mouth. The staff hurried the baby away for examination and discovered it was a tiny spoon, made of silver. Subsequent inquiries into the cause of this revealed that the spoon had somehow fallen inside of Hilda McDonald during the birth of one of the previous children; and the investigation eventually concluded that it was dropped by one of the McDonalds’ servants who was watching the birth while eating ice cream. Vanilla, of course.
    The abnormalities of the new baby were blamed on Hilda’s body acids slowly dissolving silver from the spoon between the birth of her previous child and this new one. He was a plump little rascal, and seemed healthy enough, but his digits were much, much shorter than those of a normal human; and he had freakishly long eyebrows and a completely bald head.  Even as he was being coddled by the nurses in the hospital, the baby took his tiny little finger stubs and brushed his own eyebrows back over his head to keep it warm.
    The parents were, of course, concerned about the baby’s condition, and his welfare, but their first self-serving emotions were those of embarrassment that they, at the zenith of Gerikun society, had brought forth something less than a perfect McDonald. 
    It is assumed that they gave a proper name to this newborn son before packing him up and hiding him away from the world in their penthouse, but nobody, to this day, knows what it was. Because of his short little fingers, and other digits, they simply called him “Stubby.”  Stubby McDonald.  That moniker seemed to work, and even Stubby never asked his parents what his real name was. Then the days came that they passed from this world, and it was too late to ask.
   

 Chapter 2

    Stubby grew up in a world quite different than ours, essentially imprisoned there in the height of luxury. He was surrounded by money, oranges, and servants, and never had the opportunity of a normal child to meet and befriend other children.  This, in itself, would have been difficult for him, because as he grew, his other abnormalities manifested.
    First, he found that he was, for the most part, unable to speak in the manner of other people. When he opened his mouth, he tended to vomit upon his silk pajama top. But, always determined to overcome, Stubby, at a very young age, developed his own method of sign language, using his tiny thumbs, and taught it to all those around him. The problem with that was once they – his servants and family members, and his imaginary friends – were able to communicate with him through this method, they discovered that he was literally incapable of telling the truth. Every single thing that Stubby “said” was a lie. Those with whom he was communicating adapted to this by simply assuming that the opposite of what Stubby said was the actual truth.  
    Next, as he wandered around in that huge 45-story building, he was constantly getting lost. To remedy this, he learned to mark his tracks by urinating along his path. Because of all the oranges he consumed, Stubby’s clever markings made a bright, almost fluorescent, yellow/orange stain that could only be scrubbed off of their surfaces using sponges made of hundred dollar bills – something about the construction of the paper. Tens, even twenties, wouldn’t work at all. He used the markings to find his way back to the penthouse, each time he wandered away, and it was the sole job of some of the servants to follow him around to clean up after him.  So, what began as a survival mechanism developed into a condition, which Stubby was never able to break as he grew older.  This “habit” is what earned him the title as “The Whizzer of Orange.”

    Of course, even Stubby realized he wasn’t a normal boy, and he should stay there in the penthouse where he was protected from the big, bad world outside. But deep within his chubby frame was an undying desire to get out there and make it on his own, despite his inadequacies.  He had learned enough about the outside world through thumbversations (that’s what he called them) with the servants that everybody out there wasn’t as wealthy as his parents, and some didn’t even have enough oranges to feed their families. But they had something, all of them. And he made it his mission to get out there and take that from them.
    Stubby finally talked his father into making him a small loan of 14 million oranges, so he could start his own business. That wasn’t a problem, as his parents were more than happy to get him out of their penthouse. He managed to lose that pretty quickly, so he went back and borrowed more. With that, he hired some of the Raccoons in town to go back into the woods and bring back snakes. Stubby took those creatures to a factory to have them processed into an oil, which he then started selling to the Gerikuns as a cure for boredom, and whooping cough, which nobody had. Many thought the oil was actually working on them, because they were entertained by the act of Stubby selling it to them. But that fantasy eventually wore off and people, now tired of seeing “Hellcats of the Navy,” were back to complaining of nothing to do, and blaming that on those lowly Raccoons, somehow. And the Raccoons were also upset because Stubby never paid them for gathering up the snakes. He washed his tiny hands of the whole enterprise.
    “If innertayment is what they want, innertayment is what I’ll give them!” Stubby announced with his thumbs. He let his snake oil business go back to the bank; took out another loan from O.J., and promoted his own weekly dwarf-tossing event. It was a huge success, by Stubby standards. Half of the Gerikuns came every week to watch the little people being thrown about the fairgrounds – against their wills, by the way - and they laughed and laughed. It seemed to never grow old to them. All during each event, Stubby sat in an opera box near the top of the stadium, a well-paid young girl on each knee, clad in a white robe, with a golden crown atop his huge orange head, holding back his eyebrows. When the performance met with his approval, he gave it a thumbs-up. Unable to see if the little digit was pointed up or down, the crowd applauded anyway. It was a grand time for all involved.
    The Gerikuns of lower intelligence began to admire Stubby, the man, and what he had done for them; and they put out the effort to learn the Art of Thumbversation so they could communicate with him.  Here, they thought, was an actual self-made billionoranger who could communicate with them on their level!  They learned to read his markings and follow him to other events he sponsored, by spotting the yellow bricks. Having them lined with neon signs made that even easier for them.
    The other half of the Gerikuns, mostly those who had read a book, or traveled outside of town, largely ignored Stubby, believing him to be an idiotic phase that those other townsfolk were going through – like the time years ago when they thought all the left-handed people were aliens from Mars and opened a series of tedious investigations to expose them.  That passed. And it was a sure thing that this would too.
    But Stubby was emboldened and empowered by all the attention he was getting, and he worked relentlessly to acquire even more. He sponsored watermelon eating contests and frog-slinging competitions – the high quality sorts of entertainment his followers had come to expect from him – and he grew stronger and stronger as a powerful, influential force in Geriko.
    One day, while having his toenails clipped and saved and laminated for posterity, Stubby decided that there should be some kind of monument built to honor him. But, how to get that done? What should it be? Where would it be located?
    Voila! Of course. It should be the completion of the long-forgotten wall the people once craved! He could build it all around the town, so everybody could see it without having to travel too far. And, just to add insult to injury, he would have the raccoons build it – then swindle them out of their paychecks, like every other job he had them do!  And, the best part of all was that the only available materials to build his big, beautiful monument would have to come from the brick factory his dearly-departed father had left to him. But, how could he get the townspeople to pay him for all those bricks?  How could he convince them that it was, suddenly, necessary again?
    As he stood in an alley, marking his path from his inherited sky-rise apartment, it came to him. It was so simple. Why had he not thought of it before? He would get himself elected Mayor of Geriko – the highest office in the land.

 Chapter 3

    Luck is a powerful force of nature that few understand. As luck would have it, there was a drought that year, when Stubby entered the political arena.  The orange groves were beginning to wilt away, taking with them the economy of Geriko.  So, being a man who was not burdened with the albatross of morality, the new candidate drew upon the opportunity to take advantage of the townspeople’s misfortune. He thumbed to them that he, and only he, could make it rain.
    Without question … absent the God-given ability to reason … his followers believed him. But many residents of Geriko did not, and they were bold enough to say so, out loud.
    One bright, sunny morning, as the Stubsters stood at the foot of his ivory brick tower, breathlessly awaiting his next campaign decree, he strolled out onto the 45th floor balcony in his un-tied silk robe – his exposed ample belly casting a shadow upon his minions – sipping on a cold Orange Julius. Beside him, on his left, stood his beautiful robotic “wife,” which had only just arrived from the online store in Taiwan, where he had ordered it using a credit card he found in his deceased father’s belongings. The robot wasn’t fully assembled yet, as it was being delivered in two separate shipments, but all that was missing was the clothing, and he didn’t see why that was necessary. He named the robot “Mellow Yellow,” because “Orange” was already taken.
    Realizing that the minions down there were too far away to read his little thumbs, Stubby had also hired an interpreter who could read his thumbing and shout it out to the crowd. She was a large gray toad named Sally, who had been inadvertently brought back in a burlap sack by one of the raccoons delivering snakes for his previous enterprise. As he couldn’t fathom a market for toad oil, Stubby let her live under the shed where the urine sponges were stored in exchange for helping him wash his backside when he was in the tub looking at the pictures in comic books.  Over time, she showed a proficiency for thumbversation and readily repeating, with her mouth, the lies he told, without reservation or fear of any perceived consequences from any make-believe higher authority. In other words, she was a proven, unabashed liar. This, of course, made her a valuable tool in Stubby McDonald’s arsenal.
    So, Sally stood on his right as he began to thumb his “stub speech,” shouting down to the crowd, verbatim, what became known as the famous “Geriko Address:”
    “My fellow Gerikuns,” he began, “As you are aware, I am offering my services … my unique abilities, my beautiful Mellow Yellow – the naked robot over here - and my ridiculous, self-made wealth, to serve as your mayor. Obscene wealth. Obscene, obscene wealth. For too long, the great, great city of Geriko – and it is great, isn’t it? Fabulous! – has been overrun by hordes of raccoons looking for a free ride. We let them do our labor … our heavy lifting; our ditch digging; trash hauling; orange picking, our brick toting, and they have the audacity to ask for payment in return… to demand payment!  They are bandits and thieves and they smell pretty funny, I tell you. But I have nothing against the raccoons. Ask any of them and they’ll tell you that I have been very good to them. Very good. They love me, and they love my family! We even let them build this very tower where I stand now.  But for us to…”
    “We had to!” shouted a voice from the crowd below.
    “What’s that?” Stubby turned to ask Sally who had so rudely interrupted him.
    “We had to build the tower,” the voice shouted again, “Your father was going to have us made into frontier hats if we didn’t do it! And, still, nobody has paid us for the work!” The three-legged raccoon known as “Tripod,” had achieved somewhat of a reputation as a spokesman for the raccoons. Stubby spotted him in the crowd.”
    “Oh, it’s you!” Stubby thumbed and Sally shouted.
    Stubby attempted to put one of his hands behind his back to mock Tripod, not realizing that his thumbing system didn’t allow for doing it with only one hand. In a moment he regained his train of thought and continued, “Always hobbling around trying to make trouble aren’t you? This is exactly what I’m talking about folks. It’s 99 percent of raccoons like this that give the rest of them a bad name. Bad name. They come here, live in some pretty nice buildings, I tell you; eat our food; breathe our air; and always complaining about how bad they’re being treated. Poor, poor raccoon! Poor, mistreated raccoon!”
    Tripod interrupted again, “The McDonalds tore down our houses, which they had made us build; you made us build the hotels we live in, and then raised our rent; and made us build your ivory tower; and none of us ever got paid a single orange for doing it! I even lost my arm working on that balcony you’re standing on and I had to be tended to by my family because you wouldn’t allow me to use the hospital!”
    “Excuse me! Excuse me!” Stubby shouted. (Well, Sally actually did the shouting.) “Who’s giving this speech? Is it you? No! It’s me! You got a lot of gall to come around here trying to hijack my speech. That’s what you are, you’re a hijacker!”
    The crowd of Stubsters began to groan and shout, “Hijacker! Hijacker!”
    “That’s right, folks,” Stubby encouraged them, “He’s a hijacker. Somebody get him out of here!”
    Suddenly, four of Stubby’s biggest henchmen pushed their way through the crowd and grabbed the 3-legged raccoon and strapped him to a rail and carried him into an alley, away from the gathering.  Some of the other raccoons and a few of the Gerikuns followed them, at a distance. Then, amidst the rumbling of the crowd, Stubby continued.
    “Now, sorry about that interruption, folks, you know how they are! Trouble makers, every one of them. That’s why we need to renew our efforts to keep them out of Geriko. They are a security risk. That one almost started a riot, right here on Boardwalk! Who ever heard of a riot on Boardwalk? Was there ever a riot on Boardwalk before the raccoons started coming in here like this? You have seen what I could do for entertainment here, and you know that, as your mayor, it will be so much easier for me to fix this problem with hijacking raccoons. That will be easy compared to dwarf-tossing. I plan to do that by surrounding this city with a big, beautiful brick wall, made of bricks that I can let the city have for 98 cents on the dollar! That’s a huge discount, folks, and you shouldn’t overlook this offer. I’m doing you a favor!”
    “But, how are we going to pay for the bricks when the orange groves are dying?” someone shouted.
    “How are we going to pay for them?” Stubby echoed, “How are we going to pay for them? I’ll tell you how we’re going to pay for them. By selling oranges. Lots and lots of oranges. And we can sell them to those raccoons over on the other side of the wall! Because, I’m here to tell you, folks, I can make it rain. I can make it rain!”
    There was audible gasping and a general feeling of astonishment from the crowd on the street as Stubby took two steps toward the balcony rail. He reached under his big round belly and took hold of his tiniest digit. And the yellowish-orange rain showered down upon them. They were unable to see the miniscule device from which the “rain” originated, but it was wet – rather warm – and it delighted them immensely. They turned their faces to the sky and held up their children so that they, too, could saturate in the joy. And they danced, and sang the songs of their people.
    But Stubby hadn’t consumed enough orange juice at the time to make it rain for very long. When it stopped, he tucked “Little Stubby” away and, realizing he had made the sale, he announced “Elect me as your mayor, and I can make it rain every Tuesday. And Thursday, if you want! Whatever days you want, I can make it rain. But it takes a lot out of me having to do this. Takes a lot out of me. So I won’t be able to do it unless you elect me as your mayor.”
    With that, he grabbed his naked robot by her SD card slot and pulled her into the penthouse.
    Sally the Toad stepped up to the balcony rail and raised her hands, as if to quiet the celebration, and asked if anyone had any questions. Several hands went up and she pointed to someone – it was hard to tell whom, as she was 45 stories above them.
    As it turned out, the person who shouted the first question was a reporter from the Orange Juice Journal (OJJ), a subsidiary of the well- known and totally unbiased McDonald News Group, established by Stubby’s father some twenty years before.
    “How can you stand it, being so close to this man who is so wonderful? Do you consider yourself blessed?”
    It was what could be considered a “hardball” question, but Sally managed to find an answer. “Yes. Yes, she said. I believe I was called upon by our Creator to serve Gerikind  in this way.”
    Sally pointed down again and another reporter – this one from “ANA,” the “Actual News Agency” – shouted “We have a camera here with a zoom lens, and we could easily see that Stubby was simply urinating off the balcony. It wasn’t raining at all. It was urine. He just stood up there and peed on everybody! We’ll be more than happy to show you the footage, if you’d like to see it.  Would you like to comment on that?”
    Sally responded quickly, “I’m not going to dignify that ridiculous allegation with an answer. Your statement is made completely out of context, and I resent the fact that you were born.  May God have mercy on your soul.”
    “Context? What context?” the reporter shouted again, “We were right here watching him do it, filming the whole thing!”
    Sally ignored the question.  She folded up her binder and waddled off the balcony as the crowd cheered wildly. Because, frogs waddle when there’s not enough room to hop.
    And that was the day Stubby McDonald became an official candidate for Mayor of Geriko.



Chapter 4



    It was 3 am on a Thursday night, two weeks before the election.  A Stubby Staffer, who shall remain anonymous, heard some noise in the hallway of the penthouse and stepped out there from his, or her, room to find Stubby, wearing a diaper and a ten-gallon cowboy hat, riding a tricycle, bumping into the doors along the way.

    “Mr. McDonald,” the staffer pleaded, “please, let me help you back to bed. Can you not find the way?”  But, as the staffer said this he, or she, noticed the wet yellow stains all along the walls and realized that Stubby had clearly marked his path.

    “Of course I can find the way!” Stubby thumbed, “What do you think I am, a baby?”

    “No sir, it’s not that,” the staffer said, “It’s just that … oh, wait. I understand. You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

    “I do not drink alcohol!” Stubby screamed, as much as one can scream with one’s thumbs, “And I don’t do drugs! All that stuff is for losers!”

    “But,” the staffer asked, “What about those Orange Juliuses you’re famous for? You don’t sneak a little something into them? Everybody thinks you do.”

    “Absolutely not!” Stubby insisted. “I’m offended that you would even ask.”

    But still, he did seem to be high, so the staffer, trying to diffuse his growing hostility, said “I know that. I remember now. You’re a teetotaler! I’ve always intended to ask you, when I got the chance, how do you relax after a long day on the campaign trail? I’ve been having a little trouble sleeping, myself.”

    Stubby plucked a small plastic bottle from the leather holster he had strapped around his waist and blew some soap bubbles into the air.

“Cocaine,” he thumbed, “But I don’t think it’s gonna help you sleep! … Hey! I think I’ll take a bath. Come help me wash my back.” Then he peddled on down the hall.

    Following, the staffer asked, “But, sir, it’s three in the morning. Are you sure you want to take a bath right now?”

    Still peddling, without looking back, raising his little paws over his head so the staffer could see, he thumbed, “Less than nine hours to get clean. It’ll take you about that long. My advisers tell me they’re coming ‘round here at twelve with some Puerto Rican girls that are just dyin’ to meet me! Bringing wine. A whole case of it. I told them I don’t drink, but they’re bringing it anyway!”

    “Advisers? What advisers, sir?”

    He pulled over, huffing and puffing, and leaned over on the wall – like Lee Marvin in Cat Ballou.  “The ones there, in that room,” he thumbed, nodding toward a nearby door.

    The staffer was even more confused. “But nobody stays… that’s the music and theater room … oooohhh! I get it. Once you meet up with these Puerto Rican girls are you, by any chance gonna mess and fool around like you used to?”

    “How did you know that?” Stubby actually screamed with his mouth. “Is there a leak here? Is there a leak in my campaign sssstuuuchhhh” And then he puked.

    “Oh, no sir. No sir. Not at all! It’s just that … that’s exactly what I’d do, you know, if somebody came around with some Puerto Rican girls that were just dyin’ to meet me. I think it’s what anybody would do.  Just a lucky guess!  Here, let me call somebody to clean this up and we’ll get you down there for that hot bath.”



    Nobody knows what happened after that. The staffer’s notebook was found by a maid in his, or her, penthouse room a few days later, detailing the occurrence; but that particular staffer was never seen or heard from again.

TO BE CONTINUED

Wednesday, November 07, 2018

Same Old Shitshow


Disclaimer: This editorial is about shit. You may consider it shit, if you want (I don’t really give a shit), but it’s intended to be about shit. If shit like this offends you, don’t read it. If you’re not offended by Nazism, but still offended by “dirty words,” like “shit,” then, don’t read it.

Excuse me! Excuse me! No. I’m not going to sit down and shut up. I do not set the tone for political dialogue in this country. It’s not my rhetoric that keeps the animosity alive between the left and the right. I don’t have that kind of power. That kind of shit is the real “trickle down.” Trickle down shit. It comes from the very top – and I can’t even see the top from where I am. Too much shit between here and there. All I can do when I get some on me is to wipe off as much as I can and throw it at some som’bitch who’s over there with a smile on his face, thinking this is goddamn manna from Heaven. But I’m told that’s wrong. I should accept it, with a smile of my own, and say “Thank you, sir. May I have some more shit?”

Not gonna happen.

While my words carry literally no weight with anybody who has the power to put a stop to the ongoing overthrow of the system of government this country has enjoyed for 242 years, I still believe they bring some comfort to others like me, by letting them know they are not alone in their realization that the good ol’ USA has been hijacked by a cult of radicals, hell-bent on dragging us all back to some feudal system in the Middle Ages. We don’t have Lords and Kings in this country, not subject to the laws applied to us commoners. And we don’t praise and worship the fat 18 year-old, bearded bully in the 7th grade who beats up the geeks who refuse to do his homework for him. We don’t do that here! So, when I see it happening, I consider myself as doing a favor to people who, for whatever reason, think that’s the way we behave. Do I get any thanks? Hell no!  I get told that I’m stirring the shitpot; and I should be quiet and let it be.

There are people way up above me on this ladder telling you what to think; what to believe; who to worship; who to love; when to jump, and how high. It rolls down from the King to the Lords, and then gets splattered about from there, landing on the occupiers of the lower rungs, and those who haven’t even made it to the ladder. It’s like a disease. A disease of shit. Trickle down shit disease. It sinks through the skin and infects the brain, and suddenly, people covered in it believe that if they play along they’ll someday get up there to a place where they can sling some of it themselves. This is their goal. Their purpose in life. They believe this King is their Savior and, even though they can’t fathom how, they believe he will lift them above the very ocean of shit he is creating. This is the price they are willing to pay for the greatness they are promised. They are the chosen – the shit-covered chosen – but only for the time being. All they have to do is serve their Master, and one day they will assume their rightful place, up there at the top.  They abandon every principle they ever professed to have, as commanded by their King.  Because the King can do no wrong. There is nothing the King could do, nothing, no matter how horrible his actions may have been considered in the previous pre-shit reality, which would break their allegiance.

History has seen this before – the overtaking of once-great countries by cultist followers of a mad leader, obsessed with his own power. Each one of those leaders told their minions that this was not what was happening to them. Each told them that anyone who spoke out against them, especially the Press, was their true enemy. And if you didn’t believe them, just ask them. Why would they lie? This was something new. But, ultimately, every single time, History exposed the whole shitshow for what it was.  And those who gleefully participated have their shit-covered images pasted upon the pages of History for all to see, until the end of time. This is what you want?

This is not something new. It’s the same old shit. And this time, it’s happening here.

© 2018 Rick Baber

Friday, October 26, 2018

Letter to Myself



 Dear October, 1972 Rick,
It’s me – October 2018 Rick…you!  I know you don’t believe me, but please read on a little and I’ll try to convince you.

You’re alive and well here in ’18. That’s the good news. While we haven’t (and never will) achieved a means to transport living creatures back into time, we have developed a way to send inanimate objects, like this letter. So, this is me…you…giving you…me…a heads-up on what the future holds in store.

No. This isn’t Chris Magouyrk pulling a gag on you. Would he know that back in 1958 you got in trouble while staying at your babysitter’s (Mrs. Sullivan) house when you threw that stick up in the air and her own grandson was dumb enough to just stand there and watch it until it came down and stuck into his eye?  Would he know that, in 1965, you got in trouble again for beating up that kid who pushed the swing that hit you in the mouth and chipped your front tooth?  Would he know you haven’t been able to get into your locker for the last two years, because you forgot the combination, and you have a Liv Lindeland Playboy poster taped up in there and three bottles of Bali Hai wine?  OK. Maybe he knows that one.  But how could he possibly know about that other stuff?  How could anybody … but you?

Did you ever tell anybody you had a crush on Leslie Gore?

Convinced?

So, if you’re still with me, let me give you some advice. 

With Halloween coming up, I’d like to have gone back to 1969 to advise you to not get in Hester Benedict’s Scout, and thereby avoid your unfortunate participation in the Great Tommy’s Kingburger Egging Incident – but I don’t want to take a chance on you forgetting about this next one. Next Halloween (1974), when that cop stops you guys near Sulphur Rock and you jump out of the car to “discuss” it with him – leave the part out about his mother. That’s unnecessary. The cold barrel of a .357 pressed against your temple is not a good feeling, and the clicking of the hammer being pulled back may cause you to soil your jeans a little. Oh, you’ll still get married the next day; and I can report that, miraculously, you’ve still got her to control you 1n 2018.

Don’t worry about that “IceCapades” thing last year. It’ll make a pretty good story someday, and the whole “Permanent Records” deal turns out to have been a scam to keep kids in line.

Learn to play the piano. And maybe the saxophone. And when Becky buys you that guitar in a few years because you’re going stir crazy since your band broke up, take some time to practice with it. It’s ridiculous that 43 years after you got it you still can’t make a B chord and you cheat on your Gs.

Pay attention in Jane & Dan Fagg’s history classes at Arkansas College next year. You’ve just lived through the beginning of a pretty big political scandal in Washington DC. By next year, they’ll be trying to teach you about it. I know you don’t care about political stuff, but humor me. It’ll come in handy in 2018, when every day seems to bring a scandal that dwarfs that one by comparison.

All that silver you’ll collect in the late 1970’s: sell it on January 18, 1980. Buy stock in WalMart with the money.

When the March, 1990 Playboy Magazine comes out, buy several copies and keep them in a safe place. 

Realize that the social changes you see and hear about daily are not written in stone. In 2008, you’ll think it’s a new world, and all of that hippie stuff really meant something.  Then, in 2016, you’ll see that new world crash and burn, leaving what you thought were bygone days standing in the ashes, with Confederate Flags flying above neon rooftops. A billionaire trust fund baby will be elected President, just two days after an audio tape of him saying this is plastered all over the news: “Yeah, that’s her. With the gold. I better use some Tic Tacs just in case I start kissing her. You know, I’m automatically attracted to beautiful — I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.”

Later, after he’s in office, he’ll mock a physically disabled reporter on national TV. He’ll later deny that he did it, and even though his supporters saw him do it, they’ll believe his denial. He tells his supporters to not believe what they see and hear.  And there’s lots of them! Many consider themselves to be the “Holier than thou” religious types, despite his long and storied history of debauchery.  That magazine I told you to get? That’s him on the cover!  He’s been married three times. He left each of his first two wives for the next one, who was a Russian adult model. Nude pictures of her all over this thing we call the Internet, for everybody, world-wide to see. Oh, by the way, if you have any money left by the end of 1980, buy stock in a company called “Apple” (no, not the Beatles’ label.)  It won’t take much.

This guy says and does crazy stuff, like the above, daily.  Two years into his term he appointed a guy to the Supreme Court who, back when he was your age, used to consume high volumes of beer through a tube stuck up his butt! Crazy, right?  The guy was accused of accosting women, but the Congress just rubber-stamped his approval after a hilarious, televised, sham of an “investigation.”

The President is real tight with the “Presidents” of Russia and North Korea.  Some of his biggest fans are leaders of the KKK and other neo-Nazi extremist groups. They love him! And so will many of those guys you’re playing music with and even more out there on the parking lot at Kingburger, getting high in their cars, right at this very minute.

This week, one of his big fans got busted for sending mail bombs to people the President doesn’t like – because they don’t like him.  And, get this: the President blamed the guys actions on the media! Is that a hoot?

So, what I’m trying to tell you, Rick, is don’t think you have ruined your life through your past or future antics.  No stunt you could ever conceive, no matter how wild & crazy, could possibly disqualify you for the job of President of the United States.  And if you’re eligible for that job, how could you not do anything else you’d ever want to do?

BTW, you are not going to be your class Valedictorian … especially after only attending school about 1/3 of the time … so you won’t be able to use this letter as an inspirational speech to your classmates.

Party on. The future is wide open.

Your friend,
aka You,
Rick


(c) Rick Baber, 2018

Sunday, September 02, 2018

The 3-Fingered Bassist




    No way I’m going to remember where the gig was – a lot of strands in the ol’ duder’s head, you know – but I’m sure it was at some high school dance, maybe in Pine Bluff … or Russellville.  It was the first song of the night, and we wanted to come out swinging: Pinball Wizard. You know, 
that guitar intro, the best part of the song. Andy Buschmann and Tommy Lewis were killing it, note-for-note on the 335 and Les Paul, respectively. Clint Allen’s drums and Robert Doom’s keyboards erected a wall of sound behind them that had the teachers and various volunteer chaperones quaking in their shoes, wondering if the roof might be about to come off that gymnasium. I was dreading the vocals – very high, and somewhat painful – but before my part came, I had to wait for those bass lines – VROOOOM! … VROOOOM! Terry Horn brought the first one, right on time; and then the second one. And, just as I raised the mic up and opened my mouth, the bottom dropped out of the song. The bass was gone, and I turned to see Clint taking hold of his cymbal to silence it. The guitars and keys quit. And there in the silence stood Terry, in the middle of the stage behind me, waving his arms over his head like a man trying to flag down a firetruck in front of a burning building.

My first thought was that an amp had blown up. Something was always blowing up. So I, like all those kids on the dance floor, stood silently while Terry took the strap over his neck and walked back toward his amp. He stood the bass guitar up leaning into the cabinet and, without saying a word, took off his shirt.  His bare back to the crowd he picked up the bass and put the strap back over his neck, lit a cigarette, then stuck the filter end down on one of the string ends at the tuning key –in lieu of an ash tray.

Then he walked back to his spot on the stage, smiled that smile, and said “OK, man. I’m ready!” And we started again, as if nothing had happened.

This past Thursday, I made a post on Facebook about a strange dream I had Wednesday night. In it were a bunch of guys from the old rock ‘n roll daze – Andy, Tommy, Robert, Jerry Lewis, Ransom Weaver, Nick Fudge, and even Mike Foster, who we chased for years, unsuccessfully trying to talk him into joining our bands. The scene was an amplifier graveyard – a field somewhere around Batesville, full of old non-working amps. I was with Brent & Logan Gleghorn, a couple of firemen, looking through that graveyard for parts for a Hammond B3 organ. My old band was playing on a stage across the field. Everybody was where they were supposed to be, except I didn’t see Terry, because, obviously, this was after Jerry (Bird) had taken his place as bassist; and, oddly, Cindy Barber had assumed my place as lead singer.

So, I thought that was funny, and I made that post Thursday, not reading any mystical significance into the dream because, well, you know, dreams are weird.

Then, Saturday, as I was sitting at my desk, looking out the window at a Cardinal on my pecan tree, I got a message from Steve Caraway letting me know that Terry had passed.

Stay with me here while I try to connect some of this stuff.

I didn’t know Brent Gleghorn in those old days; and Logan hadn’t even been born. But, as I said, they’re firemen. And my favorite story about Terry has always been the one about the time Sheila accidentally set his hair on fire in the back seat of my Mustang, right there on Main Street in front of Ray’s Corner.

The amplifier cemetery is self-evident.

Then, there’s the Cardinal – a visitor from Heaven, it is said. A bird. “Bird,” aka Jerry Lewis, eventually took over as bassist for our band, Orion, when Terry left.  And that Cardinal was literally sitting on a branch, looking into my window as I read the message from Steve.

I’m not a “spiritual person.” But if I can figure out Cindy Barber’s connection to all of this, I may become one.

I don’t know why you came to see me after all these years, you three-fingered wild man, but thank you for doing that.

I get it, man. You were ready.

Now, rest in peace, old friend.

Tuesday, August 07, 2018

ENEMY of THE PEOPLE


Hello. It’s been a while since I’ve submitted anything to your friendly neighborhood paper for publication. Social Media just seemed to be so much easier … and immediate. But I’ve seen it turn ugly over the past few years, and it is beginning to frighten me. To be clear, I’m not a man who
    frightens easily.

Politically, it seems that people who lean to the left are more concerned about the First Amendment; and those who lean to the right are more concerned about the Second Amendment. That’s OK. They’re both important, or they wouldn’t be in there, would they? In full disclosure, for those who don’t know me, I’m one of those snowflake lefties, and a gun owner – but this column is not political, so please don’t let my political leanings dissuade you from reading further.

With its roots in Social Media – Twitter, Facebook – there is a dangerously growing sentiment that the “free press” is “an enemy of the people.” Does this make sense? Is it true? No matter your political persuasion, I am asking you to examine this belief carefully, thoughtfully, with an open mind.  If you’ll do that, within those simple guidelines, given that you possess the intelligence to have read the preceding 200 or so words, I’m confident that you will arrive at the correct conclusion.

Ask yourself whether it is the press or the government that stands to benefit most from what information, or lack of information the public has.  What does the press have to gain by giving you negative information, dirt, on those you have elected to serve in public office? What do those elected officials have to gain by convincing you that stories reported by the media are false?

An argument could be made that “bad news” sells papers and advertising on TV and radio; and, therefore, it is in the financial interest of the media to push as much of that as possible.  In relatively normal times, that would be an effective point; but these are not normal times.  Many people are turning away from all forms of what has come to be known as Mainstream Media, to the point of violence, and putting all their trust in what they see on Social Media.  This causes only financial pain for the conventional media. But they keep reporting the news, whether it’s good or bad.  Why?  Why would they continue to do that, and not pander to the demands of subscribers in order to get those all-important ad dollars back?

If you’ll permit, let’s go back to me for a moment.  I’ve had hundreds of my columns printed in newspapers over the past couple of decades. I can assure you, without the slightest hesitation, that I haven’t gotten rich by doing so. And, even though my offerings are generally frivolous opinion pieces, by virtue of the fact that they are in the newspaper some folks consider me “one of them” – a member of the dreaded MSM – paid handsomely by moguls like George Soros to spread lies and misinform the people about the world they live in; selling my soul to the Devil to the peril of my own friends and family. To the peril of my granddaughters. I’m not! I’m a regular guy who lives in a small suburban neighborhood in Arkansas. I drive a 2002 Ford pickup. It’s red. I’m an insurance adjuster and a private investigator and a photographer, and a digital artist – and anything else I can do to earn a buck – because I don’t get those MSM checks, and I still have bills to pay. And (surprise!) neither do the many real news people I have gotten to know through association with my column. You know them. They’re your neighbors and relatives and members of your church. You see them at the grocery store where you’re both standing in the security line fumbling for your photo IDs so you can buy some coffee.  Sometimes they’re at the next table from you at your local restaurant; in the next seat at the movie theater. You recognize each other and speak of how your day is going.  What do those people have to gain by lying to you about the goings on in your government?

Conversely, there are those in (literally) ivory towers, issuing decrees in 140 character increments, telling you who and what you should believe, and insisting that you trust them with things as important as sending your sons and daughters to war. You don’t know them. You’ve never met. Likely, you’ve never even seen these people in real life. And it is your real life you are trusting them with.  On what basis, what evidence, do you give them that trust?

As stated, I’m a liberal columnist. Don’t take it from me! Maybe you know a conservative one. Ask that person how many of the people he or she works with gets those George Soros checks. He/She should know.  Ask that columnist who sets the agenda for what he/she writes. Get back to me on that?

Historically, unofficially, the US government has consisted of four branches: The Executive branch, the Legislative branch, the Judicial branch, and the Press (media). The first three of those are there to run the country as they see fit; and in doing so there is endless potential for them to misuse that power for personal benefit. The fourth is there to let you know whether or not the other three are playing by the rules – and they get paid either way.

The media is you. Are you an enemy of the people? 


© 2018, Rick Baber

Monday, February 26, 2018

The F.B.I.

You people who have such disrespect for the FBI as to believe they are involved in some kind of conspiracy against the President have obviously no concept of their long and storied history.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation was formed in 1967 by a retired astronaut named Jacob Edgar Hoover, for the sole purpose of capturing or killing the famous outlaws, Bonnie & Clyde. This was done, as you know, later that year, in a shootout as the outlaws attempted to rob the First National Bank in Coffeyville, Kansas. From this legendary gunfight the phrase “The only one who can stop a woman sitting in a car smoking a cigar, is a good guy with a machine gun.” This phrase has since been slightly modified.
After accomplishing his goal, Hoover was unfortunately embroiled in a scandal involving Russian prostitutes and bodily fluids. He resigned, in shame, in early 1969 after being held accountable for the mass shooting that occurred at the Woodstock Music Festival. In 1970, however, he made a successful run for President of the United States, defeating Richard M. Nixon in his bid for re-election. He was the first president to have been born in Washington DC since Benjamin Franklin. He served only one term before being defeated by Ronald Reagan, with his “Shining City on a Hill” campaign – which was Reagan’s subtle reference to Hoover’s Russian Hooker Scandal.
Hoover was replaced at the FBI by Effrem Zimbalist, Jr., who served with distinction as Director from 1970 until his mysterious death on May 2, 2014 in Solvang, California.
During his tenure, Zimbalist is credited with the assassinations of John Dillinger, Warren G. Harding, and Fidel Castro; as well as having great influence in the passing of the 26th Amendment (1971) which made it possible for women to vote in federal elections.
Zimbalist’s death came as a great surprise to President Barack Obama, who immediately appointed Hillary Clinton as his successor. *Addendum: During Mrs. Clinton's tenure as Secretary of State, she was temporarily replaced by Assistant Director, Walter Skinner. Clinton returned to the office after her unsuccessful bid for President, and holds the office to this day.

Thursday, January 11, 2018

120 minutes in Hell. (reposted for Mark Baber)


120 Minutes in Hell

    My back’s to the wall. I can hear the faint crackle of simmering human flesh, and smell the putrid odor. There’s a little boy – maybe four years old – climbing on the folding chairs in front of me. Crunching. Forever crunching on some pieces of hard candy he picked up off the dirty floor. Every once in a while his face gets red and he looks at me and coughs. And every time he does that, I think he’s about to choke to death and my eyes scan the crowd in a panic for anybody that looks like he might belong to them. At last count there were 52 people in here, but, since then, they’ve come in three at a time while only a few have made it out. A tiny sign atop the filing cabinet says “Number now being served – 80”. My number is 91. My mother was right. I should have lead a better life. She said I’d have to pay for my sins someday. That day is here. Dante was a whining pansy. I’m in hell. I’m in the Revenue Office.

    All the people coming in here have exactly the same look on their faces. Horror. They look at me (I’m the first one inside the door) and say, “Busy place, ain’t it?” Every one of them. Like it’s script and these people are all trying out for the same part. “Busy place, ain’t it?” I nod, and continue writing on the back of my Personal Property Assessment envelope, because I don’t want to miss a minute of this. This is among the greatest of life’s lessons. Like death itself.

    This is how Big Brother controls us here. You people in other states probably don’t know about this. We HAVE to drive here. That’s the only way to get around. No public transportation to speak of. No city busses. No trains. To us, Subway is a sandwich shop. Dig? In order to drive, we have to have licenses – in our pockets and on our cars (or pickups). In order to get those, we have to come here. To Hell. They give us a list of things to bring: Inspection sticker; proof of insurance; proof of Personal Property Assessment; proof that we paid last year’s Personal Property Tax; shoe size; Blood and urine samples; a list of our last 10 sexual partners; our first born children. Then, during the long hours waiting in the lines here, they subliminally plant messages into our brains to check that little box on our tax returns to donate to the Presidential Election Fund. And God knows what else.

    The old guy in the white cap just walked away from the “Express Lane” (that is a hysterical term) that he’d been standing in for 15 minutes or so. “Next time I get stopped” he says loudly, “We’re gonna to court. Me and you both gonna be down there, I’m afraid!”

    The lady behind the counter – obviously hardened from years of being forced to inflict this most hideous of human torture – just ignores him and looks up and gives that sinister grin to the next poor soul in line. The old man is sitting down now, up there in the front row, throwing a hissy fit to some absolute stranger next to him.

    The ladies over at the County Assessor’s desks have only a few people waiting in their lines. They don’t even have to take a number. One of them has been on the phone for the past ten minutes, using hand motions to describe her new drapes, while the waiting customer’s foot taps spastically on the floor. I notice that my foot is doing the same thing.

    What has become of my life? How did I come to be in such a horrible place? Why is this kid wiping his sticky hands all over my pants leg? All I ever wanted was to get my tags transferred over to my new van. But no! First you gotta go to the insurance office and get some stupid little card. And then you gotta take it to the Assessor. And then she asks you if you assessed your stuff for this year, and you don’t know because your wife takes care of all that stuff. And then she asks you if you paid your last year’s taxes, and you don’t know because your wife takes care of all that stuff, too. So she gets on the phone to the Courthouse and asks somebody that has access to a computer and ends up talking to them for the next ten minutes telling them about her stupid new drapes! Then she fills you out a new assessment sheet and you sign it and think you’re done. But no. She tells you to go take a number and sit in Hell and wait. And wait. And wait.

    The little boy with the candy and sticky hands just walked past me on his way out (Thank God) and took the opportunity to take a swipe at my pen – causing a long scribble across the envelope. The lady behind the counter calls out number 84. The guy in the white hat just lit up a cigarette, and he’s sitting there, daring somebody to tell him that he’s not allowed to smoke in here.

    “Well, just tell me WHAT I gotta have!” demands another voice from the Express Lane. In a few seconds the guy storms past me and out the door. Right behind him runs another man, carrying the papers the guy left laying on the counter. “Sir!”

    I’m remembering the guy in the tower at the University of Texas back in the 60’s. I’m wondering if the state of Texas used this same system of vehicle license renewal.

    The old man in the white cap is leaning over the counter now, butting in line. The clerk is raising her voice to him. She’s explaining that they don’t have enough people to do whatever it is he wants to do. He sits back down and wakes the guy behind him up so he can bitch about it to somebody new.

    Oh, boy! A lady just walked in here with another little kid. My neck’s getting sore from nodding. “Yes. It IS a busy place. What the hell did you expect you moron? This is the Revenue Office, you blithering idiot! Have you never been here before? Why would you be so socially irresponsible as to bring a child into an environment such as this? Nobody should have to face this until they’re at least 18!”

    I came in here at 11am. It’s 12:45. They just called number 87. I really do need to go next door to the laundry and use that nasty restroom, but it’s a cinch that, if I did, somebody would steal my chair and I’d have to sit up there with the rest of the zombies. One thing about this place – there are no politics here. Everybody is treated the same…like cattle. Lined up on the chairs in front of me are young people, old people, businessmen, chicken farmers, church ladies, truck drivers, and one dude that I think is a TV weatherman.

Everybody has to wait. And wait. And wait. People are developing lasting relationships with folks they just met in here. Agreeing to stay in touch. Loaning each other money. Giving birth. Raising their children. Dying.

    The thought just occurred to me that I’ll have to hand that woman these envelopes I’m writing this on, if I do live long enough to complete my quest here. I hope she doesn’t take the time to read this story. With her obvious lightning clerical speed, I might have to go build a house or something while 
I’m waiting.

    Wow! There’s a woman that’s been sitting over at the far end of the room since before I got here. She just realized that she was supposed to take a number, and didn’t. She’s turning a little green. I think she’s going to blow breakfast.

    What a terrible thing to happen! She’s looking around the room now to see if anybody has noticed. You know, like when you’re a kid and you have some really dumb wreck on your bicycle? Or when you’re walking into a store or something, checking out some babes, and turn and slam your face into a post? Or the time I was laughing at a couple of my friends who had been involved in a wreck, while driving by it, and rear-ended a third car I hadn’t seen? Only this had to be much worse. This lady has wasted all this time here. By the way she’s dressed, I’m guessing she was a much younger person when she came in.

    What?

    91? Are you sure?

    But, this poor woman. Should I give her my number? She’s old. I don’t think she could possibly live long enough to start at the end of the line now. The little take-a-number thing is all the way back around to number 27.

    She’s calling it again. 91. 91. 91.

    She’s looking frustrated! Going for 92!!

    Tuff break, grandma. I’m outta here!