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.