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The Shambler from the Swamp

15 October 2022

Damp and cold, encrusted with mold,
The crypt was long forgot.
At breathless pace, forsaking grace,
The thieves would cast their lot.

A stolen glance, they took a chance,
And vaulted o’er the wall.
On sturdy ropes they placed their hopes,
To debt be not enthralled.

Hands slick with rime, they hauled the line
And drew the casket out.
To win this treasure they’d pay all measure
And ban all sense of doubt.

They dropped it down upon the ground,
The framework cracked and splintered.
They didn’t care, were unaware
Of dangers from the interred.

It smelled of rot, but they were hot
To beat the Orange Golem.
They searched the cask, bent to their task,
Not seeing future problems.

The scattered bones, so rudely thrown,
Began to reassemble.
It stood on limbs both lean and trim,
With lips that would dissemble.

Debased, deranged, and quite insane,
A fever’d boiled off half its brain.
It shambled forth, shook off its fetters,
Said, “Here’s the deal, we’ll build back better!”

[ this submission by award winning poet Gene Greigh
took top honors in the 2022 Rio Concho Halloween Poetry contest ]
illustration by Berni Wrightson

an earlier effort, celebrating a more joyous holiday:
On the eve of 4/20, we slept like a log,
And dreamt of the gifts we would get from Snoop Dogg.
We slumbered in bliss, ’cause we knew we would wake
To choice nugs and dank product to keep us quite baked.
19 April 2022

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The Epistle of Dismissal

29 April 2023 — Q1:  Okeh… so no questions at all, just sadness and scorn.  And a tantalizing reference to a “book,” with or without a message.  Big talk or procrastination?  Hawthorne, Huxley, or Nourse?  And that’s just assuming it is one of my lost treasures, rather than an overdue(?) retaliation on behalf of tribe, alliance, or ideology.  Maybe that IS the “message.”  “Book” has been used as a metaphor before, and I am not sure that’s not the case now.  Or the even more obvious possibility of taunting.  But most likely, it is the benign and innocent act of procrastination, so I will neither offer nor request more anon until persuaded otherwise.  And while my faith remains insignificantly tiny, my hopes remain great.   Hope may be a poor plan, but it’s an effective palliative, on a par almost with laughter itself.

25 February 2023 (though completely unintentional)

Kojuxit:  Twit qoax fu oimtuz fu axen duogd dyk’jet dupd ftjoigs aoj olef tjis waken ohep.

[ irrelevant grammar note: shouldn’t that be “new friends who” rather than “that?” ]

Tmgea opd sew dfog opd sexy dfel dpia rjemu, fax gewks tup waken dhlodjewv opdyk obimuog dy’jtwit tju waxen tojtantfil wix ffoar qi dazy.  (Gedito — “Kojuxit” jupd godgepf “Ffikus Pydaxel” fix aep?  “Ocidajilit?”)  Oluj ocidajilit olef ioz waken we gosog ed ol gews ol ed djudgehli weed yogoway waxen.  Kowl sexy vjipd waken duap hay flaf ndal oiddogh dupd ffoar kik wefk, (vif) “Ffikuspydaxel” wolk rjimmuc ed fguon famh-oidfes sew hipsjeidumog ikol tju (vif) fgaen toffaotog oc’ayen.

Ffjontimmodji yikol dmafji dy’jet.  Vyful yu qed wolk dfem waken ikuf waken tju?

Fax wed faegontjut waken fviul mdiap, waxen ed djugdehli swj ogu frjimoos.  Frjimoos gaye daezu oguv dy’jfoet dfant op ofaevoz, fawx legs iuau fix wop joap joco, frjimoos-paws-pays gaye dgap ed foajidjev keep ojeolef dpia hipfjeidumog ofemv yu jik wed masjiuh weed dixy tjaes wocup yoway fuk, oz ed dej fix dupd oimdjotico dazy.

(Gedito — dawe dixy rjimag dej mmidf l’ik.)

Fydo, fydo, Vixum opdyk, foiddiv gewks rjiguv, Mymop Pew tju omepjgev rjiiumh, hipsjeidumog gaye tju ol tju waken, Jiudjnael Pydjocof duk Jji opd, ohet tju fvilev pdia Klint tju waken, oiphefemiph tju Lyfijuigudgozim rjiffavfit, rjipraum, daye rjimmigr, Voogv Gotmaez du vifal ed rjijodfi[m  :]tup yoway folid teer opd sexy oijul gozlolog ed tju, muop ed omzu oz mymuk dpril yoway, todguh yoway jowapdupd vjipd tit wik.

Ed rjier goco dy’jfuqwa tju rjivgea dy’jfuqwa dixy fakeicze oluvoz dixy oimmuadjoco dazy, fipd fvis ed rjiiogd daezu ogoway fjeiffavfit masjiuh ofepd mykmuk.  (Gedito — hfugr ed don wocup xi dupd ffjujoh tgioa gopde olef dazy, ogel et ed GOCOJ fix omddim weed ojet rjicup ed jeidamef opd dupyd jiuru don rjijguom tju Joodojij-Oidjoad sexy Iomant gozlolog I mymoka aep.  Oagd weed tju tuf weed.)  Ticev ogesov rjem rjijohhup fuqwa fipd tjuk.  Fawx tjudfgotja dy’jtmaev waken tju (fjeiducidel, fdpraepd, fjeidvu gayen) waken tjudfgotja dej tmaev yoway ofaevoz, dguhu mymosk fhipfjeidumog gaye moos wik.

(Gedito — oimdjoguhhu, jiuru goco wi mymiak gej.)  Dixy dewry gocoj oimfaeicze waken fux, ffomdjieh mmuy fuqwa dixy oimdjotico.  Focmofgaye jiumhfvo waken tjudfgotja ed rjiiogd oimodugohfot [gaye] sex fguon wakos dfum opdyk waken toguhf wocup tmaea dixy dazy (gedito — YOLK gewx), ol jooz wocup tmaev dixy gewx.  Tiot tju wocup tmaea Klint oziul tjuk Ticev jodder tup yoway six waken gewks goddoz jooz wocul dpril dixy odumhlodjev waken dupyd masjiuh wefq.  Fax pejr ed jooz wocup dfal six masjiuh aep tju remz gayen jew fax daezu joddgp wocup waxen duwap jew tofuz fax legs vuz guop ed djuka tmaea waxen ioap ogafja yogu yoway.  

Remz gayen tuxogy efmu wocup dazy, fygoddum gayen tocoifog wocup yoway.  Duwap pejyr dyk’jet wik dazy, rjipdolef odigp tmaepf I moosk yix.  Dej gex rjipdoiju odigp mmia op six pejr d’jet wik.  Waxen wed jgadog ed fjier fix tjuy tjaes wop dupyd fgayen sexy veez wuk fup Klint.

Duogd dyk’jet (vif) dupd ftjoigs aoj olef tjis waken ohep you as badly as we did. — Ojuxit

It might have been EASIER, but I have serious doubts about “better.”  That was a little more verbose than, “Leave [us] alone forever,” maybe, and therefore more satisfying than a more cursory dismissal.  But it’ll probably work just as well.  Albeit “one [package] too late”?  There were no explicit questions this time, which makes this a little more challenging, and I am disinclined to hold people to their implications, no matter how pointed.  On the other hand, I am ever willing to take one hundred per sent responsibility for MY inferences.  Everything and everyone I’ve ever loved has hurt me in one way or another, and the more I loved, the more it hurt.  That’s because love is worth it.  The more I love something the more vulnerable I am to it, and the more it CAN hurt me.  Things I don’t love rarely get close enough.

*In re “Mouthface” (sic) —
it IS clever, but I won’t take credit for others’ coinage.

Omep dupyd jix dygit tjaes waxen, fjeidumatugryjev!
Swysadf fipd gewks rjirrit oz udder oc’ayen pejr qi, ogop dor ed wolk fyviud dixy rjem aep rjigotifjev, oimmujis tju, efmuk.

20 May 2023 — It would have been “EASiER” to have killed my cats before flying one of them over an ocean or driving another across a continent.  It would have been “EASiER” but it would not have been (nor is it now) “BETTER” to live without them.  Now it is possible that in an earlier entry I may have mistaken “easier” for “better” and erroneously suggested that I would have preferred the death of loved ones to endless discussions.  I don’t know.  It is a big file and I’m not looking.  If true, then I am grateful for any and all corrections.  In any event, maybe* I don’t need friends so much as less contentious editors.  (*As always, to those who decline to see it, “maybe” also means “maybe not.”  Some folks seem to enjoy forgetting that.)

28 June 2023 — It seems like the ideal gift. I picked it up tonight at work. Its charms overcame my resistance, and I yielded to the temptation. It is small, wry, inexpensive, and it speaks loudly to the values (that I believed) that we shared. But, coming from me, it may not be as welcomed as intended. After all, how could it be sincere, coming from the obsessively and annoyingly candid? (Or how could it be otherwise?) Or maybe it’s just another way of “looking down,” even as I often feel that I am looking up to the admirable and the accomplished. But what do I know about how I feel? That’s for those with multiple questions at the ready to determine. I mean, I THOUGHT that I admired and loved and respected him, but wiser heads have pointed out, repeatedly, that the only thing I can feel is contempt.
Well, I guess I still have a couple of months to figure it out, but my inclination now is to send it off with a brief card expressing my hopes for their continued happiness, satisfaction, and peace. If those are not countervailing criteria.
(9 August 2023 — still ruminating over (quite possibly but not yet certainly) this having been Seven, but now looking maybe more like Eight, if I dare to express my joy and admiration over their marital endurance. I’ll now attempt to resume chronological clarity.)

1 July 2023 — Six — Oh frabjous day! Calloo Callais! A box of books has come my way! Thanks so much for the surprise delivery! I was delighted and joyful to receive the unexpected box of treasures today. I had all but forgotten them. The fact that there were missing books that I didn’t even realize were missing points out just how much confusion can be wrought by moving in, moving out, or moving on. (That might be too much as it is, but I hope that I’ve stripped away the unwelcome, never funny, and unnecessarily provocative parts. Along with a bit of the sincerity, too, I’m afraid. And maybe the bad poetry is also a form of “looking down.” I must contemplate before transcribing, lest the truth annoy yet more.)

2 July 2023 — Usually, a day or so after sending a letter over which I’d agonized for hours while composing, rejecting, revising, and rewriting, it will occur to me that I included yet another grave insult. Maybe I’m getting better at understanding what some people find offensive AND amusing, but not always at the same time, and often without discernible distinctions. THIS time, I’m feeling much more confident. Even after surrendering the envelope to the post, I fear no extraordinary repercussions. But I felt the same way about the first five, too, and they seemed to land a LOT harder than I intended. But at least I didn’t include my latest poetic composition (“Hotez Bears the WHO”), even as I am quite proud of it. I’ve shared it with my alleged FakeBook “friends” and received fitting plaudits, but I’m also aware that even my gentle jabs at orthodoxy can still stir religious anger from the faithful and the committed. Maybe the worst thing about my never funny poetry is how much Drama Queen (or “Diva Dearest”) and L’Historienne (or “Drama Princess”) seemed to enjoy it. Well, at least Drama Queen is now safely dead, so Klint (or “Taxzy”) need no longer fear her smiling at him again.

8 July 2023 — Just four more letters (and another six months?) and maybe I’ll receive another free scolding. Almost seems worth it.

12 July 2023 — (maybe not quite) Seven (just yet)
While I can’t guarantee that my memories of successful grabbiness have been expunged, I can still hope that my surrendering this beautiful embarrassment will provide a little extra comfort. Of course, having been distrusted as I have, I cannot offer any assurance that I haven’t copied it onto some platform supporting “revenge porn.” It doesn’t seem like me, but then, neither does irrational or vindictive. On the other hand, what do I know about what I feel? The experts have already concluded that I delight in tormenting the innocent.

10 August 2023 — (more likely actually really) Seven
Happy Anniversary!
Such marital endurance as yours is a sterling example of trust, resolve, and commitment. It is an admirable and enviable accomplishment, and I am grateful to have known you and to have witnessed the wondrous reality of it. (Now, that doesn’t look to me like anyone could find an insult in there. Of course, “sterling” might be considered to be contentious, as it is not usually employed by ‘Mericans. But at only two syllables, I think it’s far better than “fine, outstanding, excellent, and of exceedingly high value.” So… brevity, clarity, or poetry? The eternal struggle. Also, I need to not underestimate the commitment of the most eagerly aggrieved. I’d better let this simmer before transcription. Maybe if I were to intentionally misspell something?)

19 August 2023 — calling off Seven altogether?
That may be best, or at least keep putting it off. I keep pondering these thoughts, and every word provides impetus for injury to the sufficiently committed. Of course, every dead end does help to illuminate the rest of the map, so I do remain optimistic about the presence of ponies. As for stratedgery, I never have acknowledged the anniversary, so that can’t be missed, and birthdays have been a little more haphazard than total neglect so there might still be some entre left there. And that particular token is just so damned apt that I’m finding it hard to resist. That gives me another month of sweet anguish, I reckon. Best get to wallowin’ in it!

28 August 2023 –– Putting off Seven some more…
No matter what it turns out to be.
I may have dithered long enough to save myself from deciding again. Saturday hurtles at us, and I likely would not be able to find the ideal “Two-in-a-Canoe” themed card that expresses my respect, admiration, and affection. And there’s plenty to inspire such feelings. Their marriage is a sterling example of mutual support, respect, and enduring fidelity, even if that word is interpreted in different ways by the vast majority of binary bigots. Their fidelity, their truth, their loyalty to each other above all others is an inspiration. But now the mails wouldn’t get my imagined card there in time. And it’s probably just as well. My attempts to express respect, admiration, or affection are most likely to be seen as more insults, assaults, and denigration. Or more specifically, “looking down on people who have (VERY LOUDLY) given [me] money!” But with the less emphasis on interpersonal relationships, the birthdays might be better opportunities to reestablish comity.
I’ve got just the thing!

3 September 2023 — The Day has Passed
Fittingly, I finally finished the last of Sykson‘s cheap bourbon yesterday. My thanks again to the gracious and generous Joyguv for not throwing it out instead as she struggled to keep Syk away from it. Also of course, my continuing thanks for Joy‘s not inconsiderable other generous subsidies, about which she was never either loud nor self-righteous, nor ever even evinced any suggestion that I should behave thereby either falsely or disingenuously.
Elsewhere among Team Jedgelvegpyd, yet another anniversary of a most auspicious union has passed, WITHOUT any apparent disturbances or distractions from misbegotten supernumeraries. Knowing that one, at least, is a “man of action,” whom “lies do not become” assures me that these words will NOT be seen, nor contemplated nor pondered nor brooded over. Because it was said. So there won’t be looks, questions, comments, nor printed screenshots of mysterious “secret languages” for attempted decryption. As upon the Pedophile Mohammed, Eternal Peace be upon Him. That’s a comfort.
Others are less incurious, however, and allow the questions to nag. I can hope then that this is a suitable substitute and a vicarious replacement for defense against “attacks” yet still fear for the consequences of the loss of the other relief valve of sotto voce utterances of frustration and fatigue into sympathetic ears.
And still too far… for catching… whenever she’d fall…
We’d said it best…
Meanwhile, life goes on and birthdays approach to remind us that we hurtle towards oblivion along a path of decrepitude and decay. Viva!

9 September 2023 — Happy ®Trekkiversary and Nascence!
Yesterday (8 September) was the anniversary of the premiers of both Auld Trek® (“TOS®” – 1966) and Toon Trek® (“TAS®” – 1973). Trek fandom is one of the strongest emotional bonds (outside of our natural concern for our children and grandchildren) that Early Riser and I share. And the 9th (today) is her birthday. So yesterday I sent her a message as follows: “Happy Anniversary Trekkie! And Happy Super Belated Birthday (just 364 days short of the mark)!” Funny? I like to think so, but my humor can rub some the wrong way, and Early Riser, being prickly and irritable in her own ways even more than both of the Lupugyrs combined, actually seemed to appreciate the sentiment. Even though she’d given me grief in the past about “forgetting” her birthday (I didn’t; neglecting, dismissing, or postponing are all not forgetting, just as forgetting is not remembering — more on this subject in other confessionals, posted elsewhere on this ‘b log). She responded encouragingly to the superficial bonding that I’d expressed, as well as to the intended humor. So SOMETIMES, when I think I’m being kind and funny and sweet, others can think so too. I’ll try to remember that, even as some who had laughed at my schtick in the past later averred that it was “never funny in the first place.“
Among my remaining fears is the concern that the frequently injury-prone no longer enjoy my emergency back-up aid. Not only will I not be able to prevent it in the first place, but after their next inevitable tumble down stairs, mistep on uneven ground, or attention having been diverted to something other than their next step — earning them a twisted ankle, blown knee, broken neck, or any other conceivable physical or psychic injury — I won’t come a’runnin’. I’d like to. For years I imagined that I would. And I would probably still be delighted at the chance (but chastened, too, of course — see “Behind Two Lines”). I embraced what I thought would be my permanent tertiary status (or “juniority”) because I love them that much.

12 September 2023 — Nonverbal Clues
If I had a few more decades to practice, I expect I’d get much better at this. I never was very good, and practice only helps a little, but it does help. And after a few years of exposure, I begin to notice some patterns. Klint and Ojuxit both have their subtle (to me, obvious to normal Earth people) cues, and I would occasionally catch a whiff of their drifting into “Angry Fan” or “Feminazi” defense mode, which, if I were alert to it, would signal me to change the subject or at least to abandon a certain path of inquiry.
I wasn’t so attentive when I was expressing my contempt for Senator Kamala Harris in December of 2019 (a moment or two before I was hit by the Wuhan Flu®). and I could sense Ojuxit bristling. “What’s wrong with her?” she wanted to know. I stupidly started offering reasons founded in Harris’ awful behavior as California’s Attorney General and her even more disgraceful job in the Senate. It didn’t feel to me that Ojuxit was buying it (it’s possible there was more going on, this was post July 2019 after all, and NOTHING ever gets resolved, and I usually remain optimistic) — after all, she has, as Lupugyr Koijjeg (the other one, not the P.W.F.U.L.® show runner) said, “Always been kind of a libber.”
Of course, the fact that Harris IS awful is irrelevant. This relationship was more a marriage than anything else, and I was too stupid (again) to realize that in marriage, as in politics (and this was both!) being right is the worst possible defense.
Seems to me that around the same time I was getting heat for referring to Pot Hole Pete Buttigieg as “Gaybama.” 

14 September 2023 — IKYRA
For years I yearned to be your nigga,
Turns out I was just a faulty trigga.
“Teedfygotjafil koz” dazy hymop dejjuv waken, “teer ogu fjeidjodji feep mayep qu dyfant” og’axen sik joycow. “Rjigorrigd” sexy foidoiguck gopdek tju, fydymafji, fyvuddu sex tofavvu wowz ed toguhogh oz, oimgoruo opd pdia wockem jix mymusk wed og’waken six.

17 September 2023 — The committed Seventh attempt:
Klint, I wish for you a very happy birthday, and for many more to come.
Irrespective of our disagreements, I continue to cherish those values we have shared, like a love for fried potatoes, finely hashed and nicely browned, redolent blossoms, professional excellence (saluting “Neon Deion” here on his new coaching career — unless he’s coaching the wrong team, of course), and the wholesome attitude expressed by the enclosed token. I hope you find it pleasing, and that it finds you well. (If there’s another insult in there, I’m not seeing it. And of course, those polysyllables might be problematic again, but removing them might be even worse. It’s long been established that I am the least qualified to weigh in on my own intentions, so maybe I mean something mean. Or maybe I’m condescending again. I don’t think so, but I don’t have to.)

23 September 2023 — “Seven:”
No.
No.
I don’t think I dare. It’s just gonna have to be a lot more oblique and impersonal. Curiosity, metaphor, and poetic license, I think, will accommodate the smoother orbit. Dfewv wik duwap fypejyr efme op, ofgayev sex. Dupyd fypejyr wop tju, dem wu gossey wik. Jikuru ol dikemhyfvow ed goruko dorky juvy op wef dipf dupyd gocex dorky lip dowm ed yolid dyfant fy’dik dyjikah fipyd duk ffokar qi. Muifisgohaf tju, dhu, dprim. Dikky fy’dupyd: Godum! And that, I think, is the best that I can do. For now, I guess, it’s wait. Possibly for the rest of my life? Iqwul Oxidduhk, at least, was explicit when she said “forever.“

30 September 2023 — post Seven:
Still apprehensive, though I can’t stop the “offending” note now, it’s in the hands of the USPS (or in Klint‘s.) Either way, the taint of my admiration (or “looking down [up]on“) now (or soon) stains his view of Neon Deion. I didn’t intend that. I know he admires him, and I do too, for many of the same reasons, but the mere fact that I might agree…

2 October 2023 — “…and Beyond!”
The day in question. It may be too much, but it’s out of my hands.
By the 20th it could be worked into a rich froth.
Best not to jostle it too soon.
A few months may be safe.
Or more.
Like a delicate dish, rushing could be counterproductive.
Peace upon us all.

10 October 2023 — “Happy Birthdays”
I may have gotten away with it. Silence doesn’t always mean indifference. It could be smoldering rage, so nothing is certain. But it was carefully crafted, planned, and stripped completely of any hint of affection or respect. I know that no good deed goes unpunished, and that probably goes farther with my never even funny to begin with efforts. The little love token may also qualify as some sort of express of condescension. The masochist mind knows no limits to righteous pain. And the most creative of disputants will always be able to seize offense, so I can’t rule that out.
If their ultimate goal was misery, anger, and resentment, then maybe congratulations are in order. A life without vigorous younger help may also be a boon, and they’ve got lots more than just me. There’s always Joyguv and Sykson, so that’s a… plus? Well, plus-sized.
Last word until…
31 December 2023?

3 April 2024 — Obviously they remain on my mind. I’ve always been stubborn. They can go on resenting me, and I’ll go on loving them. Let it all be my fault. May they have at least that comfort.

above: Imra Ardeen (aka Saturn Girl®, a creation of Otto Binder and Al Plastino held de jure by DC Comics® and WarnerCom®) gives the world “Mouthface*” as a way of letting us know that we’re probably getting off easier than we deserve.
( * an original epigram by Lupugyr Klint )

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Shipping Couples, Coupling Ships

31 September 2022

Fanboys (and girls) can be sentimental saps. We like to imagine the best for our beloved characters, and as we relate to some aspect or another of them, we also imagine happy endings (spin that as you like) for them, too. Recently, the question was posed by correspondent Govvad Mykmiz who wondered about our favorite Legion of Super-Heroes couples.

Naturally I chimed in with my own faves Supergirl and Brainiac 5, a sentiment that was echoed by several others. But of course, fandom is vast and diverse, so others were cited as well. Correspondent Fgiudf Rogyr offered up Lightning Lass and Shrinking Violet, the Legion’s (and code-approved comicdom’s?) first openly lesbian couple. Fine. People like what they like, and most of us are cool with that, though someone responded with a frowny face, which is FascBuch code for disapproval.

I responded: “And as a consequence, of course, though strictly platonic, “Thrown” Wolf and Blok,” by whom, of course, I meant the Legionnaires Timber (formerly “Lone”) Wolf and Blok.

Rogyr seemed uncomfortable with my response: “I don’t get it. How do Wolf and Blok fit into this discussion? Is this just a weird bigoted thing?“

I’ll never deny weird, but I don’t get bigotry.

In no way does the tragedy of Brin’s broken heart, and the succor he found in Blok’s friendship, diminish the legitimacy of Ayla Ranzz’ (Lightning Lass) and Salu Digby’s (Shrinking Violet) feelings for each other. Alliances and breakups have consequences, and I thought that The Messenger Paul (Levitz) delineated these dynamics beautifully. I was, in fact, kind of thanking Rogyr for reminding me of that, and as a way of softening Brin’s (or my own vicarious) pain, my commentary leaned into arch and snark.

One might think I should sympathize with Duplicate Boy (Violet’s old boyfriend), too, but Ord is a putz, and mostly deserves whatever grief comes his way. He’s like the George Costanza of super-heroes.

I don’t blame Rogyr for being apprehensive. I did notice that someone had seriously disliked his comment, and since Brin Londo (Timber Wolf) and Ord Quelo (Duplicate Boy) are both not real, and no one else has any legitimate beef with those particular ex-girlfriends, I could see why he might have suspected elective anger.

( pictured above: Karate Kid, Timber Wolf, and most of Blok,
all held de jure by DC and WarnerCom )

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Behind Two Lines

1 September 2021

I seem to have two lines of tolerance.  The first one is like the Amber Alert (or yellow traffic lights.)  It warns me that I’ve been pushed, but not too hard.  That one is annoying, but tolerable.  I’ve straddled that line for years.  I can be pushed over and over, and I usually bounce back.  That’s probably how I stayed married as long as I did.  I like what’s on the sunnier side of that line.

The second one is more dire.  That’s the Red Alert (or “Battle Stations!”) line.  It’s the line of, “I’m fed up and I’m not taking any more of your shit.”  Or maybe it’s, “I’m now going to give you more shit than you can tolerate,” or simply, “I don’t trust you.”  There’s never an answer to, “I don’t trust you,” because I have no control over another’s mind.

After I’ve finally been pushed over the second line, I seldom return to the first.  If I did, I’d risk getting close enough to be hurt again, and I don’t care for that.

For a while I thought these lines of tolerance applied solely to my love life but I’m now finding the thoughts of muzzling up and surrendering my weapons for the sake of air travel to be equally onerous, and unless I am overcome by duress, I expect I won’t be flying commercially any time soon, even if the facial diapering were to be suspended.  When the TSA (They’ll Steal Anything) stripped me of my knives a generation ago, I relented because I lived on Hawai’i and yearned to see my mainland friends as well as to conduct business on the neighbor islands.  I presently live on North America along with most of the rest of my scattered social set, so I reckon I’ll mostly manage via surface travel.  Unless sanity prevails.  Then I can go back to packing while flying.

I guess I have a wide margin of tolerance.  At least in the matter of air travel, by a couple of decades.  In more personal relationships the margin is more like a couple of years.  I’m stubborn.  And optimistic. 

But eventually I stay pushed.

“It’s not what you are, it’s what you don’t become that hurts.”
— Oscar Levant

230404 — Remind yourselves of my failures, as you would not want to forget them.
People try to warn me against being “left behind” by new tech (I’m retarded), new trends (I am not impressed), and new fantasies (I’m ALREADY too nice to be a Democrat® and too smart to be a Republican®, you think I’ll fall for THAT nonsense?).
Don’t think of it so much as being “left behind” but more as “not being bugged by you idiots.”

above: image attributed to Steven Stahlberg by Chupapi Prank

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The Queen is Dead, Long Live Country

4 October 2022

(meter, and some lyrics, stolen from Johnny Mullins)

She left us on a sad October morn’,
A country girl who went out to beat the world.
Now in the stars we see her smiling down.
He brought her home, now be at piece, Kentucky Girl.

So many loved her, like the stars above her.
How bleak are our feelings in this hour.
In sweet repose she leapt across the void.
Now in His arms she just glows from His great power.

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Superman Likes to Eat

22 September 2022

He doesn’t need to, but he likes to. He particularly likes beef bourguignon. However, he DOES need to sleep.

correspondent Jypup Kojor wonders why he should need to sleep as he seems to lack other normal human weaknesses.

But Superman’s need for sleep is psychological rather than organic, and therefore not covered by his Kryptonian immunity. In Action Comics #409 (February 1972), Shalox, Superman’s alien therapist, explains that Superman’s recent psychosis (“Who Is Clark Kent’s Killer and Why Is He Doing Those Terrible Things to Me?“) was a result of his not having satisfied his subconscious need to dream. While he has no physical need to rest, his mind needs time to sort things out now and then, and since his hectic period beginning with the emergencies in Liberty City, he had passed on sleeping for three weeks until he cracked. Since then, he’s resolved to get at least a couple of hours a week.

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Return of the Angry Fan

22 September 2022

“How do you remain so cheerful,” ask many a customer at the QuikkStopp®, “with all these jerks giving you a hard time?”

“It’s because I know that life is harsh, people are stupid, work sucks, and that making things worse doesn’t make them any better.”

Like many of my quick quips on the job, that usually elicits a laugh.
Humor is truth.

One of the things that make my job bearable is the opportunity to interact with customers and to get them to laugh at important truths (and to get them to stop blaming US for constantly rising prices.) When customers are ready to settle up, and they haul out their bank cards I will often advise them to: “Check in with our cybernetic overlords and give them a chance to gossip about your credit,” or “Report to our robot rulers and entreat their mercies,” or “Deliver your number up unto the Beast and let Leviathan look you over.” Most will then slide or insert their card, tickle the keypad, and otherwise not overtly react to my riff. Others will laugh, and many will comment something on the order of “Isn’t that the fuckin’ truth,” or “You got that right!”

Like Tom Joad, the Angry Fan can appear anywhere and anytime. Whenever individualist rhetoric, proper English, precise speech, colorful metaphors, or accurate descriptions are employed, he is there to piss on your picnic.

It was near the end of my shift a couple of months back, and a customer finished perusing our aisles and brought his purchase to my till. I added it all up and bagged it, then quoted our price. He whipped out his card and I reflexively went into my routine. I don’t remember specifically which schtick I used, but his reaction was odd.

“Do you always talk like that?” he asked, though maybe not in so many words. I wasn’t taking notes.

“Speaking English and telling the truth? I hope so.”

Again, paraphrasing from imperfect memory, “I don’t need to hear about any goddam machine masters (or robot rulers?). I saw my buddies killed in combat, and for you to just sit there…” And he trailed off. There were other details that I forget, but that was his apparent gist. As he seemed to channel Sean Hannity or Keith Olberman or some other sage pontificator in his vigorous denunciation, he stopped. Perhaps he realized that he would actually have had no opportunity to see me sitting. I get very little sit-down time on this job and have zero guaranteed uninterrupted breaks. Maybe he was embarrassed, which I doubt; entitled children are rarely embarrassed by their misbehavior, they just don’t like getting caught. And it sounded like he’d caught himself, so he wandered off leaving me to puzzle over what had set him off, or what made him think that citing his combat experience would sway such a rigid peacenik as I. Eventually, like most other ephemeral nuisances, I put him out of my head.

Last night he returned. I guess. I didn’t recognize him from our previous encounter, but I’m retarded, so I don’t remember people’s faces, voices, names, or proclivities until after I’ve dealt with them three or four times. Or it may have been an equally cranky ex-GI with similar issues. At any rate, not being forewarned to tiptoe around his delicate little feelings, I simply continued the same routine I’d been practicing all night. So I added up his stuff, quoted the price, and upon seeing his card, encouraged him to “Go ahead and slide it, plug it in, or tap it, whatever it takes to activate your account, and give the computers a moment to discuss your credit with their electric friends.”

“Stop that!” he said.

“I would so love to,” I answered.

“I served in Iraq and Afghanistan, and I know they’re always watching us! I don’t need you to remind me! What’s your problem?”

I love questions more than statements at times like these, because questions (if taken one at a time rather than multiply as a rhetorical assault) at least offer some direction. I attempted to answer him by way of listing my problems. I started: “Caries and presbyopia…” and before I could get to pointing out that former arch nemeses (aka ex-wives), among others, also thought I had Asperger’s, he interrupted. Loudly.

“Fuhfuh fuhfuhfuhfuhfuh!” he said. (If that’s how he heard “caries and presbyopia” then perhaps he also misheard “report to our robot rulers” as “I will fuck your mother until she’s dead and then I’ll murder your children.” Or something. I don’t understand elective anger.

But he wasn’t finished with me yet, or so he thought. He began to escalate when the assistant manager of the shop, with whom I was working last night, suddenly appeared at my shoulder and said, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the store.” As AssMan led him out he continued loudly spewing his anger and distress to the world and I attended to the next customer in line, quivering and shaking inside from the encounter, but not affecting my customary good humor externally. AssMan returned to the shop and asked me if I was okeh, and I assured him that I was. “I can’t tell what set him off,” said AssMan. “Maybe PTSD.”

“You’re very generous,” I said. “GIs tend to be less sympathetic than civilians are about such things. We’re supposed to be trained better.”

“Roger that!” said a customer who’d witnessed the ugly episode. “In fact,” she continued, “I’m just the person you wanted on the scene in case that asshole went sideways on us. I was an MP in Iraq, and I had to deal with a lot of jerks like that.”

AssMan nodded, and said, “Yeah, well, we just can’t have that kind of noise in the shop. I’m sorry if you feel I interrupted.”

“Nah, I get it,” I answered. “I think maybe I’ve got a higher tolerance for noise than you have. I’ve raised three children, and sometimes you just have to let baby cry it out. But thanks anyway. He was a putz.”

“You need to take a break or something?”

“Uh… yeah. It’s about time I took a stab at lunch anyway.” I closed up my till and fetched my poke out of the cooler. After managing to get a few bites down I gave up on the attempt and returned to my station. “I’m not always as calm as I appear on the outside,” I told AssMan. “My guts are still too clenched up for me to eat anything right now, so I might as well get back to work.” After a while, and several customers later, I said, “You know, not everybody who uses a crutch is a pathetic loser. But if that crutch is ‘I’m a vet’ and is being brandished as a license to be a jerk, he almost certainly is.”

update 221019: AssMan reports that the Angry Fan returned to our shop a few days ago and apologized, describing his own behavior as buffoonish. As AssMan was only one of several of us exposed to that passionate tirade, he thought that the one apology was insufficient. I pointed out that it was a good start and a wholesome sign. I like to be optimistic about people, and I am particularly pleased when such hopes are vindicated, even if only in part.

thoughts on 230312: It’s possible that none of this is true. It could just be some deep subconscious allegory for the smoldering resentment one feels for other angry fans. While “the Angry Fan” may have been intended as a generic construct to embody a variety of irrational and over-wrought emotional responses to innocuous “offenses” (kneeling for the anthem, spitting on the sidewalk, disrespecting the troops, not being as a-scared of the latest popular terror as we should) I’m beginning lately to discern the talents of the eagerly aggrieved and their understanding that it is at all times always about them.

230611 — Are Angry Fans still “feelin’ (bomp bomp) [mad] all over (bomp bomp) [mad] all over, now that [I’m gah-ah-ah, ah-ahne]?”

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Most Agreeable and Most Reviled

14 October 2019

I’ve mentioned elsewhere that I am a multi-threat deviant. I am polyamorous in a world ruled by binary bigots. I am an ardent fan of four-color super-heroic fantasy in a “them funny books is fer kids” world. I am a sci-fi geek who is not thrilled when Star Trek is pre-empted by a tape-delayed pre-season pro football game.
And I speak English in ‘Merica.

And more to the point today, I am an atheist in Mystic-World and an anarchist in Statist-World. And it’s funny. Those two philosophies are probably the most amenable to all others, and yet ours are probably the most universally despised of all “faiths.” Other points of view tend to agree more with ours than any of them do with each other.
For numerous example…

Leftie Statist: The regressive consumption tax hurts the poor.
Anarchist: It certainly does! Cut that tax!

Rightie Statist: The progressive income tax is destructive of industry, of thrift, of innovation, and of civil society.
Anarchist: Right on all counts! Cut that tax!

Leftie Statist: The War on Drugs is an assault on our civil rights.
Anarchist: Absolutely right. Let‘s end it!

Righie Statist: An armed society is a safer and more polite society.
Anarchist: It sure is! Self-defense is a human right, and a responsible Militia takes it upon itself to be as well-armed as the Occupation.

Leftie Statist: Since many see war as mass-murder it is cruel to compel those who object on grounds of conscience to support it through taxation.
Anarchist: Absolutely right. Let‘s end the practice!

Rightie Statist: Since many see abortion as homicide it is cruel to compel those who object on grounds of conscience to support it through taxation.
Anarchist: Absolutely right. Let‘s end the practice!

Christian: I do not believe in the divinity of Thor.
Atheist: Yep! Me too.

Druid: I do not believe in the divinity of Jesus.
Atheist: Roger that.

Buddhist: I do not believe in the divinity of Zeus.
Atheist: Ditto.

Shinto: I do not believe in the divinity of Ishtar.
Atheist: Me neither.

Muslim: There is no god but Allah.
Atheist: Oh dude! I was with you all the way to “but.”

Jew: I do not believe in paying retail.
Me: Man, I wish I had your connections!

Okeh, I get why I am hated, but atheists in general?
And why anarchists at all?

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Organic Chicken Milk

13 September 2022

correspondent Yogup Vigow “loves that such progress has been made with GMOs, and can’t wait for low-fat carrots.”

I attempted to cackle at the actual photograph, captured in the wild, but only guffawed. Still, it piqued some thoughts.

Chickens are omnivores, and free ranging often provides the best eggs, whereas cattle are herbivores, so “vegetarian based” milk is stupid and redundant, but probably stupid intentionally for purposes of marketing, which leads me to…

The words “organic,” “natural,” or “non-GMO” often appear on products that I buy, but only incidentally, as I don’t care. As a genetically modified organism myself (thanks evolution!) I appreciate the bounty that human interference has wrought! I read the labels for amusement, and the listed ingredients for guidance.

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“Tichelle’s Bogus Journey”


3 September 2022

chapter one: Monsters in the Nest

It’s bad enough He’s been up all night, wasting perfectly good boxes by putting useless stuff in them and closing them up. He didn’t even come to bed, and come daylight He’s still up wasting boxes and then, MONSTERS show up and suddenly they’re rampaging through the nest trying to kill and eat me, but He lets me out the back so I can hide under the shed when EVEN MORE monsters show up and they start hauling our stuff out and putting it into their big box in the front. During the morning’s assault, He comes down a couple of times, offering me a little kibble and faucet juice, but no egg slop or milk lickin’s. Jerk.

chapter two: The Bad Bottle Smell

Later in the day the monsters finally gave up and left, taking their giant box with them. He called me up from the shed, offering food, proper scritches, and apologies on the back deck, none of which were nearly adequate to compensate me for this latest offense. I decided it was safe enough to check out the damage inside, so I told Him, and He let me in. It stank. It stank like some of those bottles that He and That Woman sometimes brandish when they’re running around the nest. And ALL OF MY STUFF WAS GONE! He opened the Door That Never Opens, and it seemed to smell a little better in there. It smelled a bit more like Him, and That Woman, and a few other strange animals, but not nearly so much like the bad bottles.

He fell across the emergency back-up bed and stayed there until the next morning. I slept with Him off and on, ate a bit of what He left for me, visited the Dirt Patch (which at least didn’t smell like any other cats!), and looked for our stuff, but the rest of the nest just continued to stink, so mostly I slept with Him. That’s not so bad. The bed smells like us, and it has our quilt on it. He may have let most of our stuff get away, but at least we’ve still got our nest, food, faucet juice, a Dirt Patch that smells like my butt, and our own quilt. And Him. I guess we can get along.

chapter three: The Big Bouncing Box

Daylight again, and He’s up already and feeding me and now it looks like He’s going to lock me in for days again. His arms are full of stuff as he goes out, and I can hear Him opening and closing the Big Box outside. After a while He takes away my food and faucet juice and my Dirt Patch and then He picks me up and carries me out and puts me in the big box on top of our quilt, then He gets in and stares out the window while the box bounces around. I don’t know what He’s thinking. We just sit in that box and bounce, and He’s got that stinking Dirt Patch in here with us. And not two steps away are my food dishes. What does He expect me to do? Eat and drink right next to that? Or use it while this stupid box keeps bouncing? What’s wrong with Him!?

After a while, the box stops bouncing, and He gets out and it smells different. I crawl into a nice dark place and try to ignore him, but he comes back and starts talking to me and moving stuff around back here until He finally stares at me and makes noise with His face. Then He gets back in, and we start bouncing again. He does this several times during the day, and I always try to relocate so He can’t bug me, but He always stares me in the face and makes noise until He gets tired of it and sits back down and stares out the window and we go back to bouncing.

chapter four: The Evil One

FINALLY the box stops bouncing for good, and He drags me out of it into a new world that smells too strange, and then into a nest that smells of monsters and CAT! Because He wouldn’t stop that bouncing box long enough for me to crawl out and pee in piece, as He hoists me into that strange stinking nest I piss down His leg and onto the floor in an attempt to counter all of the foreign smells and make it a little homier. He doesn’t seem to notice, offering not a word of thanks for my contribution, but deposits me on the floor of this strange nest and I quickly find refuge in a dark place. While I’m sheltered, the Evil One comes to talk to me and tells me to get out of her nest and I try to explain that I would love to, but she doesn’t seem to care what I have to say.

Eventually she goes away. Then He comes back with our quilt and lays it beside my hiding place where He so rudely saw me while I was being invisible! Then He puts down a little food and water. The quilt smells better than the rest of the nest, so that helps a little, but I am still not happy, and not about to eat any of that kibble. I watch as the Evil One eats it, then licks herself just a step or two away from my safe place. In addition to the Evil One, the nest is full of other monsters and He and they spend the night laughing and shouting and just making me miserable. After a while it quiets down, and as I hear Him snoring in the distance, I go to sleep too.

chapter five: Back in the Bouncing Box

After making me endure this horror all night, He takes away my dishes and our quilt, then He scoops me back up and puts me back in the big box with the Dirt Patch still in it. I haven’t shit all night, or all day yesterday, nor eaten. But while he’s back in that other nest shouting with the monsters, I think I can manage a token protest turd right in the middle of our quilt. THAT’ll show ‘im! When He came back He picked it up, got rid of it, and then got into the box and stared out the window some more while we resumed bouncing. All day. Again. Sure, with occasional breaks when He’d get out into a different smelling world. But mostly, we just sat in the box. He must have gone insane. It seemed, as it was getting dark again, and we were STILL in the box, that this might be what our lives would be from there on out.

After the dark had settled firmly outside, He started to get out more, shout for a while, get back in and we’d bounce a little, but very soon He’d get back out and shout some more. So I started shouting too, trying to explain to Him that I was getting fed up with this whole situation and we should just get out and run around for a while. Maybe kill some string or sticks. This box is boring. And the Dirt Patch is too close to my dishes! I must have gotten through to Him, because He finally did stop, and he carried me into yet another strange nest, but at least this one didn’t smell of cat, only of the monsters who were already there. He deposited me in a corner of the nest and soon had brought in my dishes and our quilt and the Dirt Patch, but at least everything was properly separated and not all crowded together like they were when we were in the big box.

chapter six: The New Monsters and Biggins, Beef Biggins

Things seem to be settling down a little. He’s been feeding me regularly again, and the Dirt Patch doesn’t constantly bounce like it did in the big box outside, so that’s no longer an issue, and our quilt still smells like us, and this nest has new dark corners to explore. We’ve been here for days, and the new monsters mostly leave me alone. The quiet one is nice. I’ve brushed against his leg a couple times and he properly scritched me between the ears, but mostly I try to keep my distance. The other one is loud and shrieky, and she’s lunged at me a couple of times, but lately she’s been a bit quieter, but can still get a little shrieky sometimes. He and the quiet one and the shrieky one often gather in the center of the nest to make noise and clouds, and sometimes He gives me a little dry grass, which is nice to roll in. And sometimes, when He is gone all night, the shrieky one gives me food.

When He and the monsters are gone, I like to sit on the back of the couch and watch out the window. There are cats and other animals and monsters living just outside, a short sprint from this nest. Sometimes He catches me looking. He spoofs me as I watch the handsome cat. “Biggins, Beef Biggins,” he says as I watch the agile tom stalking his prey and I imagine that I am hunting with him. “Biggins, Beef Biggins,” He laughs and scritches my head and goes away.

chapter seven: The New Nest

I don’t know what His problem is. It seems we were all getting along fine. The new monsters turned out to be not so bad. Never once did either of them ever attempt to kill me or eat me, and they even scritch and feed me now and then. But one night, for no reason, He and the shrieky one take away my dishes and our quilt and the Dirt Patch and then put me in the big box. They both get in and stare out the front window while we bounce for actually not very long, then we’re getting out and he’s carrying me down this strange corridor smelling of monsters and cats and other animals and into this weird box, then down another stinking corridor and finally into ANOTHER NEW NEST, but again, this one doesn’t smell like any cats at all, barely a trace of monster, with yet a comforting whiff of Him. And the Dirt Patch.

Day after day He brings back more of our stuff that He had hidden somewhere, and the new nest smells more and more like us and our stuff, and I’ve got more secret caves all the time. Eventually even our bed returns, and I can sleep on top of it, with or without him, or hide underneath it from monsters. Because He still lets monsters in, but not very often, except mostly that shrieky monster, and sometimes the quiet one, too, but generally it’s just Him and me.

And about time, too!

17 November 2022
Au revoir, Tichelle LaBelle.  Bon voyage, mon pauvre petit chat.