Are We All Suspects?

I can tell already that you and my lovely daughter and no doubt my BW would believe I made a fool of myself when I was questioned by those virtual interrogators last week. You guys readily side with the authorities for no other reason than that I don't yet have a case on Mr. Pant. Well, I never claimed I had a open-and-shut case. I had plenty of well founded suspicions.

Consider these facts. The suspectee is seen wearing a raccoon fur coat in the middle of summer. He doesn't sweat, has no visible hair of his own, speaks impeccable, articulated English and is provocative in the first degree (and caused irreparable damage to my ego). He has insisted I had agreed to do a special report for him -- no doubt involving explaining what the Earthlings are planning for future galactic wars (why else would they want information from us about our intentions?) And, you know for sure those things he bought at the local discount warehouse were not for the purpose of ingesting.

Don't think I don't know what you're thinking: you don't have a case, Bozo -- wait until Mr. Pant commits the crime he no doubt is contemplating and then you've got your smoking gun and a bona fide perpetrator, otherwise you'd have only a suspectee, which doesn't sound at all dangerous. I suppose we are all suspects in the eyes of our detractors, for who among us has not strayed from the straight and narrow -- has not drawn the crayon over the line or driven faster than the 5 mph cushion over the posted speed limit? Who among us has not dozed off (showed disrespect) while a man of God or the President has given us the benefit of their sacred wisdom?

Listen, I don't know what your politics are but I still hear people carp about our esteemed President bombing the bejesus out of the A-rab infidels before they could bomb the bejesus out of us. As the President so eloquently asked -- who are you for -- US (i.e., the U.S.) or THEM. Now, if the President can carry out -- for our sake -- preemptive war, why can't we carry out preemptive arrests, based on our gut instincts that the suspectee is "up to no good"?

A lot of people sympathetic to THEM froth at the mouth about the Guantanamo detainees not being properly held. U.S. is supposed to assign eager-for-fame lawyers to the detainees and you just know they'll all get off scot-free. They throw niceties at the judges and confuse them with LEGALISMS and then the public begins to sympathize with the poor detainees. Well, they may achieve something warm 'n' fuzzy called "justice", but to let all these suspectees loose can only imperil our precious Statue of Liberty, don't you think?

Now, I have to admit that the "gumint" was a bit high handed with the detainees swept up in the military operations in Afghanistan beginning in October, 2001. Analysis of data on 517 detainees at Guantanamo showed only 5% were captured by U.S. forces, while 86% were arrested by Pakistani and Northern Alliance (mafia of provincial war lords) forces which were paid about $5,000 for each "enemy combatant" brought to the U.S. forces (no questions asked, bounty hunters were simply given vouchers to cash in). None of these combatants have been successfully prosecuted and a conscientious and reasonable person would conclude that many if not most of the detainees were guilty of being "in the wrong place at the wrong time", a crime that could well cost you your life.

You see, this factual account supports my view that although a person is known (very highly suspected) to "be up to no good" he (or she) might well be guilty, nevertheless, of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. My advice is to forcefully avoid being in the wrong place at the wrong time, especially if your country is being invaded. Most people who might otherwise be excused for being in the wrong place at the wrong time do heed prudent advice and stay under their bed or in a closet, until invading forces have become fatigued and have gone somewhere to eat. Unfortunately, for the military commanders who do their best to be fair and just, those whose homes (including closets and beds) have been destroyed in the course of Operation Enduring Freedom should be given some mitigating considerations for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

So, I would hope that those who cluck, cluck about my paranoia would at least see the justification for preemptive arrests and/or bombing, as the case may be. Even if you yourself were to be found guilty of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a moment's reflection ought to persuade you that you had done your duty in supporting the nation's efforts in providing you and your family with national security.

Suspicious Suspicions

Since coming home last Sunday after my brief encounter with Mr. Pant at W-M and telling the Missus I had a headache, she has continued to be solicitous about my health and has made it clear that if I'm to have heart failure, I should schedule it after she's checked out. I ought to point out that she doesn't talk so cavalier about her own demise, for, truth be known, "death" is not in her working vocabulary (I'm to live forever and she's never going to die).

I realize now that claiming I had a headache was not a good ploy to avoid conversation in order to "sort things out". Of course, you're probably sitting there with your altogether rational mate and muttering about how I should have leveled with the lady and told her exactly what happened. And, to your muttering, I say, you're living inside the "American Dream", and I'm not going to explain. (He who explains complains.)

But I am giving some thought about telling my daughter, Laura, about Mr. Pant. It isn't that she's so terribly rational; it's that she's patient and allows me to explain (i.e., complain) at length, and in a few minutes I have talked long enough to realize how stupid are my suspicions. When I explain to Laura suspicious matters, she's like Alice and I'm like the Mad Hatter. You just can't tilt at down-to-earth centered practicality.

So, I must turn to you, for you have no vested interest in my mishaps or madcaps and we're not engaged in self justification or have in-house reputations to uphold. Do we? Right? Right.

I've had enough time and space over the last week to run through quite a few virtual meetings with the local police department detectives, a regional FBI agent, and a CIA bureaucrat. They all asked the same initial question: has Mr. Pant asked for money? Each time I was asked that virtual question, I said, "no, not yet". It seems to me a more proper question would be, "has he offered to pay you for doing the report? "Not yet", I'd have to say.

Naturally, at the top of my virtual investigators' list is the question: what crime do you think, suspect, or otherwise believe your designated suspectee (I'm the suspector) has committed? As you will surely sympathize, I've got a lot of gut evidence that Mr. Pant IS UP TO NO GOOD. Of course, I'm not a total idiot, I know I have to come up with conventional stuff called evidence, the most prized of which is a "smoking gun".

Each of these potential investigators asked what name the chap went by and what is his physical description. Each time I was asked the question, I had to glance carefully at my saved real-time image and then grasp for words that would match the stored image. Where to start? After telling what the suspect was wearing, I figured the first place to start would be the nose, which is more prominent than, for example, the ears, which in this instance, Mr. Pant concealed under the large fluffy raccoon coat collar.

Noses, how do you describe a nose without waxing poetic? If asked, I would say, "his nose is hardly noticeable -- it appeared to me to be a regular medium size and shape, and it was placed about where you would expect a nose to be." "Not good enough", they all said at once.

I could have expanded on my description by telling my virtual detectives that Mr. Pant's nose was not crooked, nor hooked, nor broken, nor overly big or noticeably small; it was, as far as I could tell, a dual-nostril design. There were no long hairs sticking out, nor warts adorning, or jewels affixed, or painted. It did not exude sweat (for he does not sweat) or natural oils, or is one able to ski off of it, or make a fortune from as in the case of Jimmy Durante or use to woo the ladies as did Cyrano de Bergerac. Nor does the nose of Mr. Pant grow longer as did Pinocchio's as he invents the truth. I would end up telling the detectives that, as far as I could determine, the nose he proffered, so to speak, belonged to his own face, i.e., not plastic, as far as I could discern.

I hoped our inquiry into Mr. Pant's nose was finished. While being questioned, I didn't have the presence of mind to explain why the nose is an important place to begin to form a mental image of a person or one who, by all appearances, seemed to be a person. I don't know, but it does occur to me now that there might be some national register of noses, with photos of major designs and styles; there might be an enormous data base that can match noses to faces, and vice versa. Or, maybe there's a new medical speciality that deals only with nose problems, perhaps called nasusology (fr. L. nasus, nose) -- not to be confused with nosology, the classification of diseases.

When we got around to my descriptions of the four encounters I've had with Mr. Pant, I was left with such bare dialogue that I began, ever so subtlety, to embellish just a bit, you see. I added to my part of the dialogue, in particular, some sharp remarks which I thought of only later but not actually expressed at the time. I wasn't exactly fibbing, you see, because the embellishments did actually occur. I added some lines for myself because, frankly, I know I appeared to the detectives to be a simple boob.

One of my virtual detectives did note (the one who looked like Humphrey Bogart) , after listening patiently to my story for some time, that I had committed a typical mistake of confusing eccentricity with conspiracy. Because a person is different does not make him a suspect. And what is it you suspect? That he's preying on boobs like you (italics added)? [LAUGHTER]

That's when I just blurted out and told them about the weird things Mr. Pant had purchased at the supermarket. "Maybe," the tough virtual detective said, "he runs a summer camp for snotty-nosed kids, learning how to sweep, or cook, or weave baskets -- you never know."

I know you're going to say exactly what Laura would say -- that I was premature in running to tell the police or FBI. But I didn't waste anybody's time. That's the value of virtual interrogation -- nobody wastes time, except possibly myself.

So, I'm going to go back to Plan B -- I'm going to get some sun and relax before Labor Day. And, if I can manage, I'm not going to worry about what Mr. Pant is up to and what kind of terrible things he's planning to do, or is doing. But, it does occur to me now that in the event Mr. Pant is planning to do something terrible by combining vinegar with marshmallow creme, blame those virtual investigators who didn't take Mr. Pant seriously.

I hope you will agree with me.

And Then...

You're not going to believe this, but just as I was about to get through a day without thinking about Mr. Pant, I bumped into him at the supermarket. Why did I say "bump into"? I didn't actually bump into him, like I'm addled and can't wind my way through the aisles of the supermarket. What happened was that I found myself shopping at Wal-Mart for groceries and noticed -- with my superior peripheral vision -- a form wearing a raccoon coat pushing a cart. Ah, ha, this is my chance to get Mr. Pant straightened out about The Report!

But, no sooner had I put the canned vegetable juice in my cart than he had slithered away. Abandoning my carefully crafted list, I took pursuit (measured, so's not to cause panic) and you can imagine that that involved avoiding shoppers being guided by someone at home (the cook?) as they listened with one ear on their cell phone while grabbing with their free hand big packages of saturated fat and/or hi-fructose products.

I found Mr. Pant in the pet-food aisle. He was placing a huge bag of dog food on the cart lower shelf. When I approached him -- and being careful to block his exit with my cart -- I said, as cheerfully as I could -- "Ah, what kind of dog do you have, Mr. Pant?" He gave me that quizzical gaze, as though I was the crazy one., Then he says, "Six twelve twenty seven". "What?" I ask in dismay, "are you talking about?" "Six twelve twenty seven, right?" I shook my head vigorously. "I don't get it."

That is when you arrived here, is it not?" Again, I wagged my head sideways and -- then it dawned on me -- yet I still had to show dismay. "Your so-called birthday, is it not? "But, but -- as I was trying to cough up more buts -- Mr. Pant began to leave, so I said, in my best steely voice, "about that report. . . Mr. Pant held up one hand, "I know, I know, you are working on it."

While I struggled to find just one of my wits, he had disappeared. But not before I had made some astute observations. I noted what articles he had in his cart. The huge bag of dried dog food mentioned, and, a number of large family-size jars of mustard, dill pickles, vinegar, and, get this, marshmallow creme. Then I noticed about several multi-Twinkie packages. And, oh, yes, he had several straw brooms sticking forward from his cart like prows or assault rams. I stopped long enough to write these down on my list and also to note the small mole Mr. Pant had just below his right eye; it was about the size of a pencil eraser. If I had to verify my observations to help build a case, these notes would be useful, if not vital, pieces of a puzzle.

By the time I had reached home with the groceries and explained to the Missus that I had a terrible headache and needed to lie down for a short while, as I realized I was becoming disoriented. Of course, I also had to explain to my beloved, in some detail, that I had not suffered a heart attack, that I just needed to lie down for a few minutes. Within fifteen minutes or so I had placated her worries about my health. Actually, I didn't have a headache but needed some time to sort out the details of my encounter with Mr. Pant. What are we to make of a bear buying dog food? Specie ID problem?

I was in no mood to appreciate my own wan humor. What was I to make of his shopping cart contents? What do you think? He's either strapped for money and is down to eating dog food, enhanced with mustard and marshmallow goo. I nearly retched thinking about it. Then, see, he has this huge family -- maybe as many as a dozen children and relatives living in a one-room apartment. I've seen places like that on TV documentaries and I bet you have too.

I was much too vexed and frustrated to relax, so, naturally, I turned to rehearsing my report to the police, or, better yet, the FBI. How could he look at me and see my birth date? And, how could he possibly have seen scribbled on my cortex that I would tell him "I'm working on it (The Report)"? You might think it's simply eerie, I'm beginning to believe I'm dealing with a new kind of spy, perhaps, a spy from Outer Space -- like, way, way out there, out there where even astronauts fear to go.

Then again, Reason tries to wrestle me to the ground. Ah, Reason opined, he's probably part of some university psychology department "scientific" experiment designed to measure the average bloke's tolerance for in-the-face intimidation. The world is a barnyard, you see, and a rude confrontational rooster intimidates the polite and the compliant other chickens with shockingly bad manners. "Shock birds" they're called.

Well, nevertheless, I have no choice. I'll have to prepare my notes for the F.B.I. But, on second thought, maybe I ought to first clue in the C.I.A. Then again, I just might best be advised to soak up some sun while I can and wait 'til Labor Day before I tell them that Mr. Pant is up to no good.

My poor little brain keeps whirling, and I wonder -- could the vinegar be used with the mustard and marshmellow creme to make some kind of explosive? What do you think?

The Big Meanie and Other Annoyances

I apologize for telling my phantom readers to do homework on a fantasy cataclysmic catastrophe sometime in the future. After considering this hopeless assignment, I realized it was, well, an asinine thing to ask. We've got plenty of real catastrophes already pending, and not at all amusing for me, or Mother Nature herself, to add another, particularly since we haven't yet began to begin our homework on those pending. What? Global warming, for one.

Mr. Al Gore just today told us to switch over from nasty dirty fossil fuel to renewable energy in just ten years. Why that's 2018, practically tomorrow, or next week, in human response time to cataclysmic catastrophes. You know what all the politicians will say? "Sure, sure. We have time for one more commission to study the situation, and we'll address the urgent matter manana, without fail."

But we know they have no intention of doing anything bold and dramatic. Can't even get people to slow down from 65 mph to 55 mph. That'd save 10 -15% on transport oil usage, I hear. Every little bit helps, but no, we got to wait until we can have a National Emergency. Only dire National Emergencies are able to get folk motivated. Nah, it ain't going to happen until this current batch of kids get organized and wage a campaign to shame their indolent parents.

I'm sorry if I got some people thinking about the unthinkable -- that we might learn sometime in the future that a giant asteroid would collide with our dear planet in 16 months. What would you do? What would I do, I ought to have asked. Well, if it's far enough in the future, I'm not going to do anything because I'll be long gone from planet Earth, and, I don't expect to have acquired posthumously any new extraordinary powers.

Now, I was hoping to have some new information to report about Mr. Pant. I haven't seen him for awhile. Since Norm told me about seeing him doing yoga exercises, I've gone to the pool and looked around to no avail. Frankly, I'm frustrated and I intend to scrub this nonsense from my cerebral cortex. Once upon a time I'd spend a little time at a watering hole to scrub my brain of uncomfortable thoughts, images, insults, funks, etc. But it's been many years since I've quit drinking and smoking (what I gained in moral stature I've lost in sophistication and wit).

As I said, I'm sorry I even bothered to ask you to do some homework. It's not only a futile request but ungebe. This is summer and nobody is going to even think about heavy matters until after Labor Day. Labor Day marks the end of playtime and the beginning of serious time. All the Persuadables and Wishywashies are going to wait until after Labor Day before they begin to consider whether to mark on their ballot A or B (or C or D) or as some cynics would say Lemon A or Lemon B. So, who am I to ask others to do homework? I have no meaningful certificate to give to you when you finish the course.

Now that I think about homework assignments, I realize that my hangup about doing The Report has it's origins in my attitude about homework in general. In my most dreadful and dreaded nightmares I would have plumb forgotten to do my homework, simply forgotten. It's one thing to have a lame excuse, but to out and out forget is, well, unforgivable. And since everybody seems to glob onto "the dog ate my homework", that one is worn out and of no use to the rest of us.

You know, I ought to send Mr. Gore a letter telling him that if he wants us to quit cold turkey our oil addiction, then he and other "do-gooders" ought to tell us how other carbon dumpers have successfully broken the habit. Certainly, they don't expect us to go back to the old ways -- I mean, you can't expect everybody to go out and buy a new (or used) horse or mule. Where will you tie up and park the horse? Will they install horse riding lanes on our interstate highways? Will they require riding licenses and put you in jail if your horse runs away and tramples people? Would we be required to carry horse insurance? And what cartel would have a monopoly on hay and oats and manure carting? They've got us coming and going, you know.

One thing I did figure out about the Big Meanie -- the first thing the smart money people will do is find out where it will likely hit and then lock up leases for the diametrically opposite part of the globe, and, you can be sure, there's money to be made from folk near the target area, don't you think?

Enjoy the warm weather while you can. And keep smiling, I remind myself.

A Sighting

Yesterday was a work-out day. After finishing my workout, I bumped into Norm in the locker room and he told me that the guy I'd asked him about before had been doing what looked to him like yoga exercises on the edge of the pool. He said he looked like a contortionist the way he moved his body like a slow unwinding pretzel. "Oh, wow", I exclaimed, "this I got to see." That's when I realized I was midway between street clothes and sweaty sweats. I didn't want to alarm myself by appearing too anxious, so I dressed as I normally do (in no great hurry) so that by the time I got through the doors to the pool, the bear had disappeared. I peeked in the sauna and the steam rooms and then out a side door and still no bear. I asked the reception desk person on duty if she'd seen the bear and no cooperation from her, as she shook her head sideways. I retraced my steps to find Norm who by that time also disappeared. Growl.

Though I didn't get to see the bear, Norm's report gave me a momentary lift that my precocious paranoia might well be still in remission. However, as the day began to wind down, I did raise the question to Self that maybe Norm and the bear were working together in a scheme to shake my faith in my fragile sanity. But, by now, I put the episode in the plus column, even if Norm's report turns out to be false. Unreal euphoria is better than unrelenting depression, I say.

Still, no help from you onlookers. However, Jake (my son-in-law) mentioned on the phone the other day that the "raccoon person" might be a drug dealer, though he couldn't explain why a drug dealer, dressed as a bear, would give me a bad time about a bloody report. I also had to explain again that the bear person initially was wearing a "raccoon" coat; then Jake felt it necessary to tell me that raccoon coats now are in fashion with the ladies and if I wanted to buy one I could get one for about $400. I had to remember that he was trying to be helpful, always a valid assumption even when it's not really so when it comes to in-laws.

Supposedly, the Fourth 2008 is tucked away in the history cabinet, but I find myself replaying reels from 1945 about patriotism. It's July 4, on Coronado Island boot camp, and I see this skinny sailor marching along with other platoons on the parade field (the grinder) -- the P.A. system is blaring American martial music and I'm trying to march in step while at the same time I'm trying to trip the guy in front of me, and not get caught. Sure I'm feeling patriotic -- after all, the band music is designed to make my chest puff out and feel giddy enough to sign up for another 2 years. That's why it's called "shipping over" band music.

It's 1945 and nobody really knows how long the war will last. But I felt proud (and virile) to be in the Navy. My two older brothers had been overseas since 1940; my dad was a WWI veteran, his great grandfather and his brothers had been on the wrong side of the Civil War. In our boot camp platoon were rich kids and poor kids and us in between. Patriotism was assumed to be inherent, even if, as my favorite cousin was, 4F, unqualified physically to serve. Come to think of it, my Confederate ancestors were and were not patriotic, depending on where you stood.

So, how come so much is made of patriotism today? I frankly don't know. My hunch is that this is some kind of loyalty litmus test cooked up by the chicken hawks in Washington, D.C. who didn't serve in any branch, backed up by old men who served but were lucky to avoid bloody battles and who've made it their mission in life to be 100% enthusiastically obedient in all solutions military.

I don't want to get started down that tortuous trail. I've got more important things to do -- I think. I've got "a very important report" I'm expected to do -- or so I imagine! I can't really tell, from here. I told you I have spent a lifetime looking out of my peephole, and all the time giving me the air of confidence that I knew what was going on Out There. Well, listen. You probably are looking out of a different peephole somewhere else but it is still be a small circumscribed panorama you see. Even if you are the head of the C.I.A. or one of the thousand or so intelligence platoons at the N.S.A. or the Pentagon, you are still looking out of a peephole and GUESSING. Me and my ilk gladly donate our guesses to the country gratis, while the other guys get paid for their GUESS WORK.

This morning I woke up with a tantalizing scenario dangling in front of me. Sometime in the future, perhaps sooner than later, the INEVITABLE time has come when the astronomers tell us UNANIMOUSLY that a superastroid is on it's way to smack dear ole Earth in the noggin. There's enough time to do something, but no time to waste.

Here's your homework. What will you do when you find out the superastroid (dubbed by the media as Big Meanie and by the President as The All New Really Scary Enemy) will hit exactly four months from that time? Not much time, is it? Okay, let's make it a year and four months; gives you more time to prepare and/or panic.

"All right, all right, I'm coming." The Missus just told me I absolutely must take out the garbage or our place will be sealed off by the health department and a placard tacked on our front door -
- Beware: Toxic Odors Within.

What's Next, Bozo?

The man who popularized Bozo the Clown, Larry Harmon, died on July the Fourth at age 83. I intended the header above to refer to self not the actual, real-life, Bozo. It's just a coincidence.

The Missus and Self celebrated the Fourth at son-in-law Jake's house nearby. Barbecued ribs and other wholesome eats, topped by fireworks in the distance to be amazed by. I don't like to be shunned for being unpatriotic, but the truth is I find Awesome firework displays a bit like watching somebody else's Elongated Orgasm -- boring, boring.

Bozo, yeah, why not speak up? Nobody's going to accuse me of being unpatriotic because I find Spectacular Fireworks boring, though they will if you're caught not wearing a red-white-blue cap or displaying the American flag out front. I'm tempted to say something about the current Presidential campaign and the silly sallies about who's the most patriotic and who's the least, but I won't.

Whassup? That's today's greetings. Whassup! Or, Whasnew? "Hanging in there", I say. I don't like to admit to anybody this but I will tell you. There are times I feel like one of the Presidential candidates or their numerous surrogates -- you've got to review your speech in your mind's eye before you utter it. Got to look out for honest-to-goodness candor that will be "taken out of context", meaning any Anglo-Saxon vulgar colloquialisms meant to convey strong human emotions or blunt, unvarnished opinion.

I'd love to watch a debate wherein the contestants spoke like -- well, real people. "That's a lot of bullshit, and you know it!" No, no, that's not measured or diplomatic. Preferred -- "I beg to differ, dear esteemed colleague, your statements are misleading and are not supported by majority opinion; moreover, blah, blah, blah."

But, back to our Fourth. Over the last few days, I had given just a little thought to what My Report might contain -- just preliminary sketching, you understand. It didn't take long before I realized I was way over my head. What am I to report to whom and what is the purpose of My Report? And who actually is going to read the Report?

While Jake was tending the barbecue grill , I was tempted to tell him about the bear at the Fitness Center who had scolded me for not turning in a report -- yeah, you know, don't you -- "Whasamatta with you, Bozo? No, actually Jake is a model son-in-law because he's smart and goes along with whatever. I did give him a brief briefing and he didn't raise even one eyeborw, but said, "how much is he going to pay you?" Reasonable, don't you think?

Friday the 4th marked 232 years since the Declaration of Independence. In those many years, how many 4th of July speeches have been given? How many remembered? What difference did they make? How many minds were changed? How many fireworks were exploded? How many casualties? What did it all cost? If I was to find a way to quantify the significance of all those speeches and fireworks, wouldn't I need to know how many? How much?

See -- what's to be in The Report? What could I possibly put in my report that would/could possibly matter to anyone, even including myself and the Missus? So, I don't have any trouble talking myself up as being a significant author of The Report. On the contrary, I'm constantly reminding myself (with a thump) that I see but an infinitesimally tiny portion of what's to know.

In my lifetime, I've been looking out a small knothole in the fence that stands between myself and what's going on Out There. I see so little of what I personally can verify. I have to depend on others to inform me and they are well known to be chronic liars or worse biased (warped) or simply paid to entertain us (divert our attention from serious, dull, boring, complicated, depressing true things).

About every month or so, Larry King has a program about UFOs with guest missionaries and certified skeptics and critics. Of course it is so much BS but who cares -- obviously people will spend money on ads for an audience who want to believe somebody Out There cares enough to come check us out. I'm prepared to believe in the reality of UFOs when (a) somebody sells tickets for a genuine UFO ride and (b) somebody comes back and sells his or her story to a magazine about riding in a UFO. Of course, by then, the vehicles can't very well be called UFOs but rather IFOs.

I'll keep looking through my peephole to see if I can notice anything of import. Meanwhile, I'll continue to try to flush out that nonsense about the bear and his dumbass game.