Walter Bego, the chief muckety-muck of Go Figure Reads called me the
other day.
(Never a good thing.)
“So Headley,” said Walter, “how do you think the blog is
going?”
“Stupid as always,” I say defensively.
“Stupid, yes,” said Walter, “like a stupid box set.”
“Huh?”
Maybe I could have found a more intelligent rejoinder, but the fact
is, Walter was right. All of my highest view-count posts are more
than a year old. Most Wednesdays and Saturdays (the days after I
make my posts,) the most recent post is behind two – to – five older
posts in the 24 hour rankings.
“I see a lot of pictures of other people’s kittens lately,”
said Walter.
“I know.”
“You’ve been taking stuff from Stanley too.”
“He offered.”
“And that’s with you serializing Dirk Destroyer, a novella that
might be breaking records for unpopularity.”
“That’s because I didn’t include Donald Trump.”
"I don’t think so,” said Walter. “Avoiding The Donald should have helped your ratings. We really should find a good place for that guy.”
I hate it when Walter’s right.
“And how long has it been since you finished a novel – two and a
half years?”
“I started two.”
“And the last one you finished?”
“Dirk Destroyer...”
There was silence at the other end of the line. I was hoping it was
because someone was garroting Walter, or maybe he had been
transported to a planet full of Barney Dinosaur wanna-bes.
“Sorry Headley,” said Walter finally, not really masking the glee
in his voice, “Your blog just isn’t cutting it any more. It’s
sucking you dry. Let’s face it; you didn’t have much talent to
start with and now with all this sucking – your blog really…”
“Sucks?”
“Admitting the problem is the first step to recovery.”
Walter hung up, but not before I heard him start humming a merry
tune.
The great sensei of blogging and originator of Great American Things,
Robin Chalkley said that a successful blog should be updated at least
twice a week.
What he didn’t have to say is that the material needs to be decent.
So now I put Just Plain Stupid on hiatus. You may see a new post
here or there, but only when I have something worthwhile to say - so Walter would tell you not to hold your breath. In the meantime, check out Junk Drawer, which might have more stories now that I'm not being stupid - intentionally. Junk Drawer
So, it’s not goodbye – just so long,. Oh, and Walter - too many kittens? In the words of Bill the
Cat:
Here it is, the HIGHLY ANTICIPATED (if two people following this thread constitute high anticipation,) conclusion to Dirk Destroyer's Less Destructive Brother. What's happened so far?
Mostly political cheap shots and cigar innuendo. (Wow! That sounds painful.)
And now the end...
Chapter 27
Mysterious Ending – That Is, Until You Read It
I was back on the couch in So-Ho. The twins must have gotten up
because the futon was empty, and I could hear them moving around in
the kitchen. Dirk was playing around with a magic box on his desk.
“Check this out,” he said. He manipulated a small item on the
desk, and suddenly there were two people inside the magic box and
they were singing – which would probably not be my reaction if Dirk
had imprisoned me in a magic box.
My goodness they were singing! I’d never heard anything like it
before.
“Who are these musical people you’ve imprisoned?” I asked.
“Steve and Eydie,” said Dirk.
“Steve and Eydie would be musical gods on Two!” I said.
“I know,” said Dirk, manipulating the magic box in such a way
that Steve and Eydie shut up. “That’s why I had to leave. Maybe
tonight we’ll go hear some real music.”
“We could play some Fassentinker,” I said.
“I don’t see how,” said Dirk. “You lost the scratchwing.”
“I lost the scratchwing?”
“Yeah, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to find another one.
I told you to hold onto it.”
“That wasn’t the real reason you asked me to hold onto it,” I
said.
There was a suspicious gleam in Dirk’s eye. I checked my fanny
pack. There was no fish stick. What did that mean?
“If I didn’t know you better…” said Dirk.
Maybe it wasn’t the Stevens twins in the kitchen, maybe it was…
Mage-e-not came in bare-chested. I was glad to see him, but not like
that. He held up a wet ball of shredded cloth. “Your magic
cleaning box ate my shirt.”
Dirk looked at me. “Tomorrow we go find you a place of your own.”
I nodded absent-mindedly. Mage-e-not was here, but what about…
Something crashed in the kitchen. “Broken dish,” squawked
Swampy.
“Oopsie,” exclaimed the voice I most wanted to hear.
“Tomorrow,” I agreed with Dirk. Would we be looking for a
short-term lease, or one for the next several thousand years? I knew
where Ono’s immortality switch was, and where mine was as well.
Whichever we decided, we’d live at the same setting.
What - that's it? I wrote the stupid thing and I think that was a lame ending. It's a good thing I didn't charge anybody for this. Bundle up these posts and give them to someone you can't stand this Christmas.
I wrote a novel in my mid twenties. I thought it was great.
Of course the technology was a little different back then. We didn’t
have smart phones, or pads or laptops or even desktops back then.
You had to chisel your story onto rock slabs.
When you made a hard copy, you really had a hard copy.
I sharpened my chisel, and let the chips fall where they may. Not
surprisingly, my rough draft was full of misspellings, grammatical
errors, and plain old miss-chips.
Cleaning up the mess did a job on our pre-historic vacuum cleaner.
My mother had spent some time as a secretary before she married Dad,
and could chisel sixty impressions a minute. She volunteered to
proofread and rechip my manuscript.
She acted like doing all that work was a treat, and being an
ungrateful and self-centered son, I never doubted that it was.
Until this year.
One of the things about rock-slab hard copies is that the technology
is not compatible with either Microsoft or Mac. The other, is that a
novel of rock-slab tends to weigh down a bookcase after thirty years
or so.
I could have just thrown the whole thing out, but instead I decided
to transcribe it slab by slab into Word.
In many ways I was doing the same work my dear mom did, with one
major difference. I didn’t have to correct grammar, spelling or
punctuation. Mom’s work was impeccable.
I wasn’t five slabs in before I understood something basic about
motherhood.
Moms
are cool
Moms
are calm
Moms
don’t care
If
your book’s a bomb
They
somehow know
The
things kids need
How
to make a project
Of
fix knees that bleed
Moms
work hard
To
make kids happy
And
all they ask
Is a
poem that’s sappy
So
while I review
My
story that ain’t
I
realize
My
Mom’s a saint
Now a clip from Throw Momma From a Train. What-do-ya-mean inappropriate?
Now that I've angered both of you who are reading this serialized novel by posting the appendix last week, I'll get back to the story.
Chapter 26
Fate without Tartar Sauce
“Fish Stick,” Swampy croaked when I arrived in Two. All right,
that made more sense now. I knew right where I was, and where I was
going.
I had the two bags of fish sticks slung over my shoulders so instead
of landing on me, Swampy circled impatiently. I put the sacks down
and began feeding the flying swamp-rat bird. It was only after a
couple pounds of fish sticks that Swampy settled into a gluttonous
stupor. Still he opened his repulsive beak.
“You eat much more and you’ll never fly again,” I said.
Swampy croaked incoherently. Maybe that meant he agreed. Uncle Egg
never wanted to be understood when he agreed with me.
“So the other me is talking to Mage-e-not and Ono right now?”
“Fish stick?” said Swampy softly.
“It’s your belly-ache,” I told him, tossing him a fish stick.
I looked around my location and tried to remember where I’d been
yesterday. Unless something changed, I was safe – meaning I wasn’t
about to destroy everyone I’d ever met.
Dirk had lied to me. Did Dude lie too? Would his law code of
what-ever-ma-call-it allow him to lie? He told me not to come back,
or play with the dial in the nurse’s office before. Did he lie
when he said that?
I couldn’t remember well enough – certainly not well enough to
risk killing everyone I knew. I would wait here until Ono had gotten
Tease to agree to let her take Mage-e-not along with her to Phasia as
carry-on.
“I thought I smelled fish sticks,” said Akwar. “Is there
enough for everyone?”
I hadn’t bargained on Akwar. She could spoil everything. I didn’t
dare say a word to her in case I (the other one,) overheard myself
and investigated. I handed her the bag I’d been feeding Swampy out
of. Did Dude know I’d need two bags?
“Any tartar sauce?”
I shook my head in the motion that means no everywhere but Pogo. She
seemed to understand the gesture which indicated that she was as
non-Pogoian as Ono. That along with a vague femaleness was her only
similarity to the woman I admired.
Thankfully, Akwar went away with the fish sticks without causing
enough of a disturbance to bring the me that wasn’t me in my
current location to investigate. Then again, would I have
investigated, even if I had heard Akwar? I would probably have
ignored her and hoped she’d go away.
Had she been there when I’d been the guy in the clearing instead of
the guy in bushes? Did this change things?
Stay with being stupid, Dude had told me. All right, I wouldn’t
worry about it.
I stayed low in the bushes and watched Ono give Tease his shower. I
waited until I was certain that I was gone. Then I stood up and
stepped into the clearing.
“I thought I smelled fish sticks,” said Mage-e-not.
“You flip-flopped?” asked Ono.
“That was the younger Elmer,” said Tease. “This Elmer is older
by about a day.”
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“You have fish sticks.”
“I’m starved,” said Mage-e-not.
In the distance I heard Lustavious singing. “I will intercept
him,” offered Tease. “It is best if he does not meet your elder
self.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Do you want to go to So-Ho?”
“Do they have showers?”
“I didn’t check.”
“I will return to Phasia. I have missed the showers of Shangra
Dee.”
“Near the fields of Salley?” asked Mage-e-not.
“You have heard of it?”
“My friend Gidget went there.”
Lustavious’ voice was closer now.
“I must go,” said Tease.
“You don’t want any fish sticks?” asked Mage-e-not.
“Gluten-free,” said the monk, and passed through the underbrush
to intercept the Light Bringer.
“We don’t have much time,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Mage-e-not. “Did you bring any tartar sauce?”
“No, sorry,” I said. “Look, I know that Lip Ton Tease agreed
to take you both to Phasia, but I need to know if that’s what you
want.”
“Do they have tartar sauce there?” asked Mage-e-not.
“Oh no,” said Ono.
“How do you know?” asked Mage-e-not.
“I’m not naying your know,” she said to Mage-e-not, and then
she turned to me “I want to be with you.”
“With me?” asked Mage-e-not.
“Oh no,” said Ono, “with Elmer.”
“What if they don’t have showers in Ho-Ho?” asked Mage-e-not.
“Filthy Elmer sizzles more than squeaky clean Phasia.”
“Even without tartar sauce?”
“In bubble of algae bars.”
“Wow,” said Mage-e-not, “you are stuck on the guy.”
“What about you, Mage-e-not?” I asked.
“I’m not really stuck on you, Elmer.”
“Do you want to go to Phasia?”
“Nah,” he said, “I’d rather go to Ho-Ho, but you better have
something other than algae bars to eat there.”
“There’s good food in Phasia, I hear.”
“Yeah, but I’m not that good at math.”
“Alright,” I said. “I’m not sure exactly how this works, but
in case I can’t do anything, stay close to me.”
“Right,” said Mage-e-not, getting far too close – especially
after eating so much fish.
“Actually, I mean the other me.”
“Teeny-tiny Elmer,” said Ono.
“I suppose,” figuring that younger was not a concept with many
sound words. “You’ll be able to tell the difference because that
me will be carrying around a scratchwing.”
“Instead of fish sticks?” asked Mage-e-not.
“Probably. Now when Lustavious points his finger at Dirk, and Dirk
says, “That oughta do it,” you have to take the scratchwing out
of my hand, and hold onto me.”
“What if you won’t let it go?” said Mage-e-not.
“I’ll fling scratchwing and clutch Elmer,” said Ono.
“Good. Swampy is around here somewhere. I don’t know what he
wants to do, but…”
“I’ll quiz Swampy,” said Ono.
“You have real conversations with him?”
“Oh yes,” said Ono. “He cackles poetry!”
“Poetry?”
“It’s derivative,” said Mage-e-not. “I prefer a good lymric
myself. You know, this planet really needs a place that rhymes with
bucket.”
“The other me will be back soon, so I have to go. It’s important
that you never saw me.”
“Which you?” asked Mage-e-not.
“This me.”
“But I can see the other you?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, wouldn’t it be great if I could teach you to disappear.”
“Yes,” I said. “How do I do it?”
“I have no idea,” said Mage-e-not. “I just thought it would be
great.”
As I sat back in the bushes I wondered why I wanted to take
Mage-e-not to So-Ho. I almost went back into the clearing to change
everything when I heard Akwar shout. I ducked back into the
overgrowth.
I’d left the bag of fish sticks with Mage-e-not and I watched
amazed as the other me didn’t seem to notice that Mage-e-not was
eating something out of a silver bag. I wasn’t that stupid, was I?
There was nothing I could do about it now. I sat back against a tree
to wait. The fish sticks did smell pretty good.
I opened my fanny pack and had a fish stick. It really didn’t need
tartar sauce. I sat back wondering what else I needed to do. There
was something important – something I wasn’t thinking about. I
munched on fish sticks and tried to think of what it was.
Finally I was down to my last fish stick. I was about to pop it in
my mouth when I remembered. “I need to save the last fish stick,”
I said to myself as if I needed to both hear and think the thought.
I put the fish stick into my fanny pack, and the world got fuzzy.
Was fuzzy a good thing? I didn’t think so.
A teenage girl appeared. Her eyes were closed, she was tapping her
shiny red shoes together and saying something about home.
No, this wasn’t good. If I left now, how could I be sure
everything would work out? How could I be sure if I stayed? All I
could do is kill everyone I ever knew by coming out of the woods and
interfering. Even if everyone survived the whole death problem,
there was no way Dirk would go along with taking Ono and Mage-e-not,
and maybe Swampy to So-Ho. It was only a three bedroom apartment,
and he had the Stevens twins to think about.
Things got fuzzier. It was beginning to look like I was going to
have to count on me – the younger me, to do the right thing. If
only the younger me wasn’t so stupid.
Now I felt offended, and I had only myself to blame.
But wait! It wasn’t just me, I was counting on. Ono would make
things work – just like when she lifted things in the air, and…
Oh crap!
Just one more installment to go - really! You don't believe me? I guess I can't blame you.
As we approach the election I wonder how many comedians are hoping to get their break impersonating President H. Clinton, D. Trump or PCTBDL (Presidential candidate to be determined later.)
When we domesticated the dog to help us watch livestock - it was our idea. When we brought cats into our huts to cut down on rodents - we THOUGHT it was our idea.
We don't even call our relationship pet and master any more. We know who's in charge.
I have two confessions to make. 1) I miscounted the chapters in Dirk Destroyer's Less Destructive Brother. There are two (which is more than one) chapters remaining (cunningly labeled Chapter 26 and 27.) This means that I will not (as I despicably (or some other negative adverb) promised,) conclude the story today.
And so...
2) I'm giving you the Appendix today instead of Chapter 26 (or 27 for that matter.) Why? I guess I've just been hanging around Elmer's more destructive brother too much lately.
For those of you who showed the good sense not to read this disaster, the planet Two has been ruled by the thirty-seven really good ideas for more than eight thousand years - or longer than Elmer has been alive. Unfortunately, they had lost all but three by the time Elmer was born, and in spite of Elmer and Dirk's protests, they lost two of those three and changed the meaning of the third. The following is the original thirty-seven really good ideas.
Appendix
(Thankfully, not the one attached to my colon.)
The Thirty-Seven Really Good Ideas
1
Waving a fistful of twenties in the air is more likely to get thee a
hackneyed carriage in the great city than yelling, “Hey nonny
nonny, Fair Thee well, Good Person.” (also more likely to get thee
mugged.)
2
When a person sayeth to thee, “Frankly,” “To be honest,” “I
gotta level with thee,” “In all sincerity,” or “As mine
congressman told me,” Thou shalt not believe a word of what that
person sayeth next.
3
Peas are for eating – not sticking up thy nose.
And 3a
Thine dinning date will not be impressed with any nose-related
amazing feat thou doest at the tavern table.
4
Be happy when thy boss sayeth, “We want to promote thee.” Do not
be happy when thy boss sayeth, “We want to give thee more
responsibility.”
5
If thou doth not already know how to use chopsticks, only utilize
them when thou art dining alone, or with people thou wisheth to
offend.
6
When in a business meeting, thou shalt not interject with, “I read
in Ye Olde Mad Magazine…”
7
Thou shalt not start a land war in Phasia. It be-eth big, populous
and its hardworking people art good at math. They are also polite –
but not so polite as to refrain from applying their feet forcibly to
thine posterior.
8
When thine woman sayeth, “I want thine honest opinion,” thou must
never offer it. Thou must say only what thee believes thine woman
wisheth to hear.
9
When an acquaintance asketh thee, “For whom art thou going to vote
in the next election?” thou shouldest feign a fit of nausea, and
run to the outhouse.
10
Thou shalt not consign a problem to the government to fix lest a
century later, thine great-grandchildren pay taxes for a great host
of government workers to fix that same problem - which shalt be worse
for their efforts.
11
When thou art apprehended by the magistrate, thou shalt not make the
noise of pigs grunting and squealing, lest thou receiveth from said
magistrate good cause for thine grunting and squealing.
12
Once thou passeth the age of five, thou may no longer display thy ABC
food.
13
Thou shalt not paint a depiction of dogs playing poker and call it
fine art.
14
Thou shalt not feel uncomfortable when thee encounters a woman who
loves other women. Thou shalt offer her a brew and asketh her about
her favorite jousting team.
15
Thou shalt not stride out into a bull’s field with a red cape just
to see what happeneth.
16
When thou art building a structure, thou shalt not sing with nails in
thy mouth.
17
Thou shalt not eat anything that smells fouler than thine own self.
18
Thou shalt not attempt a youthful fashion statement after the age of
thirty.
19
Thou shalt not prevent persons from smoking cigars in their own home.
20
Thou shalt bathe at least once a year – more-often-so if thou
hopeth to mate with a woman.
21
If thou tosseth a coin in the air to decide how to vote, thou needest
stay home on election day. If thou tosseth a coin to decide any
matter of importance, thou shalt not procreate.
22
If thou pisseth on the same spot thine dog just pissed. The next
place the cur pisseth is likely to be in thy bed. Thou shalt not
piss off thine dog.
23
If thou hath dealt it, thou shalt not complain about the smell. Thou
may however, blame the dog.
24
If thou hast dreams that thou flyest – place thine bed on the
ground floor.
25
If thou wisheth for a uniting of all countries – imagine living
under the world’s worst ruler with no place to runneth.
26
If thine sir name is Bates – do not seek to be anyone’s master.
27
If thou art content with thy level of taxation – tell not thine
rulers.
28
If thou liketh not window blinds – it be-eth curtains for you.
29
If thine chicken crosseth the road – ask not why.
30
If thou tasteth a foul concoction – do not bid thy friend, “try
this.”
31
No matter how interesting its writing may be, thou shalt not bring
thine woman paper thou findest in the outhouse.
32
Planteth thine corn early.
33
This idea space to let – reasonable rates.
34
Thou shalt not comment on how these thirty-seven good ideas are
written primarily for men. Thou shalt instead consider how women
customarily respond to advice.
35
Thou shalt not bug(ger) the sheep. (translation in dispute.)
36
Thou shalt not make a religion out of a list of ideas, ‘Really
Good,’ or otherwise.
37
When thou hast lacks wisdom, thou shalt not attempt to make a list of
Really Good Ideas that’s longer than five or six entries lest thou
look like an ass.
So I'd ask you to tune in next week for the 26th (or penultimate - great word, eh?) chapter of Dirk Destroyer - but would anyone believe me now if I did?
For no particular reason, here's a spooky, largely forgotten, song by Jim Stafford.
A jukebox is a magical thing to a five-year-old. A hamburger and
fries in a plastic paper-lined basket is a revelation. I discovered
these two wonders at a diner called The Actonian.
I was the youngest of four, so my job in the family was be wide-eyed.
My big brother – 13 whole years old, put a nickel in the juke box,
and out came the strains of Puff the Magic Dragon. He paid a price
for that kindness, beyond his nickel. I pestered him to play the
song again and again… and again. If the other diners minded, they
didn’t say anything. Puff fit right in with jukeboxes, and dinners
in a basket.
“The song’s about drugs,” said my brother, getting a frown from
my parents.
“They have a jukebox in the drug store too?” I asked.
Actonian would have been a pretty strange name if it hadn’t been
located in Acton, Massachusetts, my home town. It was conveniently
right across from the bowling ally to set up a perfect family outing.
That was candlepin bowling, small ball, skinny pins, and a longer
ally. Any ball my littler sister or I threw was lucky to reach the
pins at all. My brother, being man-sized could break a hundred – a
respectable score. Few people bowl candlepin outside of New England.
(Candlepin and ball on right)
“It’s too hard for people from other places,” said my bigger
sister, who try as she might, rarely bowled higher than eighty.
After a few gutter balls, I usually tired of the game. I’d watch
my brother and Dad compete for high score or try to catch the balls
as they rolled back, as if by magic, from behind the pins.
“Don’t catch your fingers, Will,” my mother would warn.
“I won’t,” I’d reply, though I always did. The
softball-sized concrete balls seemed to be rolling slowly, but they
always hit the last ball in the rack with a loud, “Clack!” I
couldn’t resist trying to stop them before they hit that last ball,
and tried not to cry when the two balls crushed my hand on impact.
I made the tears dry up by thinking of French fries in a plastic
basket.
“And what do you want today?” the waitress asked my brother one
night after bowling.
“I’ll have ham,” he said.
“Huh?” I said. The baskets always had hamburgers in them, didn’t
they?
“I’ll have fish,” said my bigger sister.
“What?” I asked.
“See,” my sister said, “it’s right here on the menu.” I
knew the letter W, because it was my initial, but I
couldn’t read, though I stared at the plastic-coated cardboard as
if I could.
“And what about you, Young Man?” the waitress asked me.
I couldn’t ask for a hamburger now, not with people ordering other
stuff. “I’ll have what my brother is having.”
“The ham?”
I nodded shyly.
And so began my life-long love of ham, which I called, the pink stuff
the next two times because I couldn’t remember the word even though
it was the first syllable of hamburger.
When I was in Junior High they tore down the Actonian and put up a
McDonalds – the first one for many miles. McDonalds was a great
novelty for a year or two, but as I matured, I began to miss our
Actonian. Our family outings became less frequent, though there was
still Kimball’s Ice Cream in neighboring Westford.
Now when I go out to eat with friends, I frequently order the ham
steak. It’s usually disappointing, but sometimes they get just
right. When they do it’s as if I can hear Peter, Paul and Mary
singing Puff the Magic Dragon, and a flood of memories threaten to
leak out of the corner of my eye.
“That’s good pink stuff,” I say to myself.
The pictures of Kelly's Corner in Acton, and this video are courtesy of one of our great Acton historians (though not nearly as stodgy as that sounds,) Dion Rajewski.
