The Plague

Guten morgen. I am chewing gum not laced with nicotine-- only with copious amounts of sugar-- a sort of placebo experiment.  Simeon is at work for a bit, cycling around in my head like a hamster on a wheel-- no, that is not right-- like that guy jogging around in the space station in the film, '2001-- A Space Odyssey'. The hamster is subjected to gravity, and remains at the bottom of his wheel, but Simeon cycles around in my head in big circles, upside down once per revolution, independent of centrifugal force. He has no sense of being upside down though-- he feels like a hamster on a wheel. But there is no gravity in my head, you see, so what he feels is an illusion.

Meanwhile, alas, I remain unemployed. I shall not be making my mark in the world in the plastics industry.

I was denied a work permit, as I would be "taking a job away from a German."

Sigh.

This is an interesting theory, but the employment agency had called to know if I could start work immediately, no interview or knowledge of the German language required. The factory had obviously been desperate for workers. The natives had apparently not been very eager to do menial, repetitive shift work at 7 euros an hour.

Yet the law is there, to appease the masses who believe foreigners are stealing their jobs.

I don't think such a law exists even in the xenophobic capital of the world, Arizona, where the locals patrol the border with their 30-30's to keep Pancho Villa on his side of the border-- even though it is the gringos who are in what was once Mexico.

When the USA conquered Mexico, and stole places like Arizona from the Mexicans, we gave back most of what we had conquered because the land was full of Mexicans, and the USA only wanted the land, and not the Mexicans that came with the land. As Arizona hadn't had many Mexicans in it, we kept it. There were only the Indians to deal with then. I think the USA should give Arizona back to Mexico, but Mexico might refuse the offer because it is full of gringos. Or, better yet, the USA should give Arizona back to the guys who were there first. Or, better yet, erase the border, and there will be no patrolling yahoo's with 30-30's, and no 'illegals' climbing that ridiculous wall-- there will be no wall or fence-- no Arizona anymore, just a place on the Earth where people live. But let that region without name or borders be governed by descendants of the original inhabitants.

Yes, if I were the dictator of the universe, this would be my Proclamation.

But, I digress.

Back to the job situation in Germany.

Though the job in the plastics factory would only have paid 7 euros an hour, and only for 100 hours a month, and though this is considered near poverty for the locals who do not want the job, (but also don't want foreigners to have the job) the fact is that I would have been a wealthy man had I gotten the job. I would have made 8400 euros a year.

According to Global Rich List ( http://www.globalrichlist.com/ ) that would have put me in the top 16% richest people in the world by income.

Even when I was on the road, living on 150 euros a month in donations, I was a middle-class man, being in the top 38% richest people in the world by income.

I would have liked making 8400 euros a year, and being wealthy. I might have donated 20 euros a month to help Syrian refugees. That would have been 240 euros a year, theoretically elevating my benefactor-- I say benefactor because that person would be helping me-- yes, altruism is selfish-- my benefactor would be elevated to being in the top 55% richest people in the world by income. Of course, my theoretical benefactor would still be homeless, having fled the war, and would still be missing family members, and would still be traumatized. But the 240 euros a year would amount to something-- a chance to survive. And the amount I would lose by helping out a homeless victim of a war would have dropped my standing on the Global Rich List by only a fraction. I would still have been in the top 16% richest people in the world by income.

Meanwhile, I can't complain-- I am wealthy anyway, living in a warm home and eating lots of food thanks to the love of Elke. But I would have liked having the ability to help pay the bills here and being able to help others to survive. What a privilege that would have been.

"Taking a job away from a German"... "Taking a job away from an American"...
What a load of shite.

Just to remind the reader, from the Urban Dictionary:

1. shite

a very british and therefore great way of saying shit. shite sounds much more effective than shit

'karen looks like five kinds of shite today'

2. Shite

Just like shit, but more fun to say.

This Urban Dictionary is also a bit nationalistic, equating 'British' with 'Great', when there are some things British that are shite, but perhaps I am splitting hairs now.

Anyway, this nationalism-- this exclusive shite, based on neither merit nor love, but simply on where a person was born-- this nationalism is a plague on the Earth. Is religion really the cause of all strife on earth? It is, yes! But it is the religion of false gods that is the cause of all strife on earth-- the Money god, the State god, the Bible/Qu'ran/Torah god, the Flag god...

Fellow Americans, I can assure you that I would never burn the American flag. What's the point? But I will never again fly it from a flagpole or salute it. If I had an American flag today, I might use it as a doormat-- not out of any intended disrespect, but because it would serve some purpose then. Or if I had a sewing machine I might make it into a pillow. And be assured, those of you fellow Yanks who are offended by this... I would do the same with any flag of any nation. 

My flag is the laundry that I hang on the rare occasion that I do the laundry. I will salute my hanging laundry, or bow to it maybe, instead. 

If I were the dictator of the universe, I would do away with flags on flagpoles. And with borders. And every time some group of nationalists tried to make another border I would have it erased. I'd let the nationalists run around preaching their idolatry but I would employ members of the Hare Krishna sect to follow them around all day chanting love and throwing flower petals at them. I would have the Hare Krishna trained in the tactics of Ho Chi Minh, or Mao, or whoever it was, to advance when the nationalists retreat, and retreat when the nationalists advance. The nationalists would advance on a carpet of flower petals, amidst a barrage of chanting, and they would retreat on a carpet of flower petals, amidst a barrage of chanting.

If I were the dictator of the universe, I wouldn't do away with governments, though. I would do away with a military, and with all weapons, which would be turned into plowshares, basically.

Ex-military personnel would be trained in farming, and given a hoe, which they would have to learn to disassemble and then assemble again blindfolded in 60 seconds or else they would be punished by having to sit in a hot bathtub while being read poetry and listening to Sufi music. Military personnel who could not adapt to the rigorous life of farming would be sent to the Hare Krishna Corps.

Ex-Special Forces would be trained in becoming self-sufficient Peace Pilgrims, crossing deserts and frozen wastelands on foot, living off the generosity of locals, begging for food and clothing and shelter-- not stealing it-- Being Peace, and toting wooden peace staffs instead of M4 rifles with SOPMOD 2 package, which includes the EO Tech 553 holographic reflex site, LA-5 infrared laser, foregrip, the M3X visible bright light (tactical light) and associated accessories. All of that crap would become plowshares. Their mission-- the ex-Special Forces guys-- would be more of a challenge than any candy-assed government-funded military mission they ever had, with helicopters and shite like that-- they would have the task of wandering the Earth without any government funding at all, and to do it until peace prevails. Those ex-Special Forces guys who wash out-- and many of them would, I'm afraid-- the mission would last for the rest of their lives, and there would be little glory in it-- those who can't cut it would be sent to agricultural school, and if they wash out there, to the Hare Krishna Corps, and if they wash out there, to a New Age Commune. Those who wash out of everything would be given a paycheck to survive on anyway, and given a big hug when they pick up their paycheck.

No, if I were dictator of the universe, I would let governments continue, so long as they kept themselves busy with helping their sisters and brothers-- ie, anyone living in or wandering into their districts. And the function of government would be Harmony. If a guy from Arizona, for example,  refuses to pay taxes for schools and hospitals, then that's okay. He can even still send his kids to the schools, and go to the hospital when he gets sick, as long as laborers from Mexico are willing to pay the taxes to keep these institutions going.

Manage the Chimp Inside You

I apologise for the recent lack of rambling on my part. The chimp cycling around in my head-- the source of my rambling-- suffered from a terrible case of dissociative fugue. Allow me to explain.

From Wikipedia:

dissociative fugue... is a rare psychiatric disorder characterized by reversible amnesia for personal identity... Dissociative fugue usually involves unplanned travel or wandering, and is sometimes accompanied by the establishment of a new identity.

My chimp-- whose name, by the way, is Schröder, Simeon Schröder-- my chimp, Simeon, upon returning from his fugue misadventure, and having recovered his identity, asked me to tell his story for you. As I may have contributed to his fugue state by demanding that he cycle round and round in my head for hours on end, I feel obliged to do as he requested. Here is his story:

The misadventure began when he awoke from a brief nap one day, and impulsively put on his best suit, and cycled out of my right ear and into the real world. The stress and shock that Simeon suffered on exiting my cranium was too much, and he took on another identity, and he cycled towards Belgium in a state of panic...

...looking back only once.

He somehow made it all the way to London, where a policeman stopped him, suspecting him of being a foreigner. When asked what his name was, he replied, "Bobo." He couldn't procure a passport for the policeman, so he was taken into custody.

"Bobo" used his wits and saavy to survive while behind bars. But while in jail, he learned many evil habits.

He finally managed to escape by stealing some of the warden's clothing, putting it on, and simply waltzing out of the prison. He was soon back on the streets, but jail had changed him. He took to drinking on street corners naked.

He smoked.

He quit smoking, but then he chewed nicotine-laced gum incessantly.

He posed in public with disreputable women.

Sorry, that is the wrong photo. Let's try again.

Yes, that is the right photo.

And when he ran out of money, he robbed people.

No, nein, wrong photo again, just a sec...

Yes, that is the right photo. He became a stockbroker, you see.

He made a lot of money.

But then he lost it all in a cut-throat, high stakes game of poker.

He became homeless and destitute.

Then he was taken in by a mysterious man, known by the name of Niemand Keiner, who fed him and bought him a new suit.

Niemand taught him to play chess instead of poker.

They became great friends.

Niemand and Bobo traveled the world together. They cycled together through Mongolia, where Bobo's passage was commemorated with a postage stamp.

They went to Russia together, where Bobo learned the art of photography.

Here are some of his photos from Russia:

Afterwards, Niemand took him to exotic lands with palm trees where the locals were so impressed, they commemorated his story with a comic book.

Then, when Niemand felt that Bobo was ready, he accompanied him to the end of the world, and said, "Bobo, it is time for you to go home. Find yourself. Goodbye, my friend."

At the end of the world, Bobo meditated for many days, and he

became himself again, and he remembered where his real home was, and he decided it was time to go back.

It was a long road back to the inside of my head, but Simeon made the best of it, meeting new friends along the way.

Yes, that is where that photo was supposed to go.

So Simeon is back, with a bicycle, and himself again. We have a new working arrangement, with flexi-time and dress-down Fridays and he only cycles two hours a day at twice the pay.

Sigh.

Also, he is allowed to leave my head every weekend to visit his new friends.

All of them except the mysterious Niemand Keiner, whose whereabouts are unknown. However, I received a strange postcard this morning, without postage or return address, and I believe it was from this mysterious Niemand. This is a photo of the postcard:

An Argument Against Smoking

In the office overlooking the back porch. Darkness falls. It is probably cold outside, but I am in a well-insulated house in Germany, so it is difficult to say for sure. Yes, it must be cold, because it is what the Western World refers to as Christmas time. I am about to have my second nicotine-laced gum of the day. Please wait.

I am back. Yes, much better now.

Take note: only the second nicotine-laced gum of the day. I am not a nicotine addict.

Meanwhile, here is a message for any teenagers who may be reading this. I may have glorified and romanticized smoking in previous posts. I now regret this. Smoking is uncool. I will prove it now. Here is a photo of a very uncool me while smoking.

Uh, no, that is James Dean. But... he is wearing a cowboy hat, which is uncool. So him wearing a cowboy hat and smoking is also uncool.
I shall try again...

Ah, no. That is Johnny Depp. But look, he has tattooes, which are uncool. I think. Johnny Depp is uncool, so do not be influenced the wrong way by that photo. Edward Scissorhands was a nerd. But you may be too young to know about Edward Scissorhands. Edward Scissorhands was uncool because he was a non-conformist. But you may believe non-conformists are cool. But Edward Scissorhands didn't smoke anyway, so it doesn't matter. But Johnny Depp apparently does. Uhm... Johnny Depp is a nerd because only nerds smoke. Yes, that's it.
Again...

Yes, that is me when I was a smoker. Need I spell it out for you, young person? U-n-c-o-o-l.

To continue this argument against smoking, I will now demonstrate how chewing nicotine-laced chewing gum is very cool compared to smoking. Here I am chewing nicotine-laced gum. Note how much cooler I am in this photo than I was in the previous photo:

Well no, that may or may not be cool, but it is irrelevant to my argument because that photo was taken only a few hours after I had quit, and it is not nicotine-laced gum, but cigarettes. I must stress to you that I did not light any of them. I wasn't smoking cigarettes, I was only only savoring them. Let's try again:

Yes, well, that is me, but I was not chewing nicotine-laced gum in this photo. I had just put an entire orange in my mouth, or maybe it was an entire hard-boiled egg, neither of which is very cool. Anyway, that is another irrelevant photo, just ignore it. Let's have another go:

No. That is a chipmunk.

Sigh.

Anyway, even chewing nicotine-laced gum is uncool. It doesn't taste very good and it costs, like, way more than normal gum. 

Just... don't smoke.

And now a pause as I simulate taking deep drags on an imaginary cigarette while grinding the last traces of nicotine out of my chewing gum with my molars.

Just One Word... Plastics

Guten Tag. Looking out the window at the back porch-- coffee-- soon to have my first nicotine-laced chewing gum of the day. Gray, overcast, bare trees, yet, a stream of creamy pink light runs parallel to where the horizon must be.

I say again-- soon to have my first nicotine-laced chewing gum of the day.

Sigh.

I feel cheated somehow, as I had been informed that the physical addiction to smoking would be finished after 72 hours, and it has now been 116 hours since my last cigarette. Yet I am still twitchy.

I miss the cigarette with the coffee. The minty gum after coffee is not so nice.
But there are some advantages to the gum. I can chew it anywhere, and blow minty fresh imaginary second-hand smoke wherever there is a no smoking sign. It makes me feel like the Invisible Smoking Man.

"Ha! I'm gettin my nicotine fix and what you gonna do about it, yo!"

The anti-smoking, nay, anti-smoker Western World has made me feel a bit resentful, as you can see. We were all smokers in the Balkans, and in the Middle East. We traded cigarettes, smoked together-- Peace Pipe fashion.

In Cairo once, while walking around aimlessly, and getting ready to light up, a man sitting on the curb called out to me.

"Why don't you sit down?" he asked. "Relax when you smoke."

I'd stopped, and I'd sat on the curb next to him, and we both smoked quietly for a minute, watching the Cairo chaos happen all around us. We then chatted for a while, and had a good laugh because a couple of people asked him directions while we sat there.

"I should have a booth and charge 1 Egyptian Pound to give directions," he said. "I give honest directions, not like all these others who tell you this way or that way just to give an answer."

Then another guy asked him directions-- we laughed-- my smoking buddy gave the directions, told the guy it would be one Egyptian Pound, the guy hurried away, and we laughed again.

Then we finished our cigarettes, and I asked him directions. I offered him one Egyptian Pound but he laughed it off, and we parted.

That was a cigarette moment, in Egypt.
I fear there will be no nicotine-laced chewing gum moments here in Germany.

Sigh.

A pause, while I fetch my gum.

I'm back, and chewing,
let us change tack.

Let us focus on one word. Just one word. 

Here is a tiny little clip from an old film. 
Please observe-- it will only take 22 seconds, and it may change your life:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsrLHP26zvk

We will never know if Benjamin Braddock, played by Dustin Hoffman in the film 'The Graduate', ever went into plastics. I would think not. Ben didn't seem to have the ambition required to go into such a demanding field.

I, on the other hand, am finally taking Mr. McGuire's advice after all these years. That's right. I am going into plastics.

"There is a great future in plastics," said Mr. McGuire. 

That advice was given to Benjamin in 1967, so I may be a bit late to take full advantage of an opportunity like this. But the future is now, so into the plastics industry I go, seeking my fortune.

You see, a few days ago there was a phone call. A local plastics factory was inquiring as to whether I could start working for them immediately. Sadly, I could not, as I am not yet legal to work in Germany. Yesterday, however, I went to the employment agency, and I was interviewed in German-- or more accurately, the details of the work were given to me in German, as no interview was really necessary for the job-- and a contract is forthcoming, which will, in turn, make me a legal worker.

No interview was necessary because any warm body will do, it seems. Also, I understood none of the details of the work, as my German is less than rudimentary. Fortunately, Elke was with me, and she explained to me that I won't even need to know German for the job, because it will simply consist of taking plastic trays that come out of one machine, and stacking them so they can be wrapped in another machine. I will fill the missing link between the machines.

Here is a sample of the product I will be helping to produce:

You, the consumer, will be responsible for putting the food into the plastic trays.
Here is another photo of the product which I will be an integral part of producing:

"The advantages of laminated packaging are clear to see!"
And what are those advantages?
Pretty girls serving nice food to you, the consumer.


I will begin my career in the plastics industry on January the 2nd.

And please consume responsibly-- don't forget to recycle.

The Lost Art of the Signalman

First, I have 'good' news: I have reconciled with my chimp; we have worked out a new contract, whereby he cycles around in my head for no more than 35 hours per week, at 10 bananas per hour, and any more than that he is paid time and a half overtime. He is subject to a raise within the next three months. He also gets thirty days paid vacation per year, and full veterinarian benefits, including dental work. And as a bonus he will be given free hair replacement treatment, and a new electric-motor bicycle.

Sigh.

Here is a photo taken of us after the new contract was signed:

I sigh again.

Let us move on.

An old friend materialized out of the past on Facebook the other day, one Joe Vanover, with whom I served as a Signalman in the US Navy back when ships still had boiler rooms.

And back when Signalmen were still used, too, to send Morse Code messages with a flashing light, and semaphore messages with the hands, and flag hoist tactical signals, with colorful flags and pennants flying proudly from the ship's halyards, in much the same fashion that Nelson signaled, 'England expects...', to his fleet at Trafalgar.

The rating known as 'Signalman' no longer exists, however, as high technology has replaced esoteric signaling Knowledge forever. We keepers of the Old School Signaling Knowledge, like Jedi Warriors, must preserve the language of silent, visual communication, and we must continue to practice and hone our skills, for transmitting and receiving Morse Code, semaphore, and flag hoist signaling constitutes a True Art.

Communicating with a signal searchlight using Morse Code, for example, demands total focus, and enough practice so that the dots and dashes appear, first, as letters, and then later, with more experience, as entire words, in much the same way that data on a computer appeared as blondes and brunettes for that guy on 'The Matrix.'
And communicating by flashing light requires rhythm, so that the dots and dashes are the proper length of time, and the spaces between them the proper length of time, and the space between the words also the proper length of time, for a signalman without rhythm is as unreadable as a bad poet.
And there is the matter of 'training the light'-- a Signalman may have the Morse language in him, and the rhythm as well, but he must also be able to keep his light aimed at the ship he is transmitting to-- and such aiming is no easy matter in rough seas, when one must flow with the sea as it rolls and pitches the ship, and one must roll and pitch the signal light on it's stand, with the motions of the sea and ship; that is, the good Signalman must become One with the sea, the ship, the light-- let us go further-- the good Signalman must also be One with the receiver of the message, just as the Zen archer is One with the bow, and the arrow, and the target.

Here is Joe Vanover, Transmitting a Message, and Being One with the Sea, the Ship, the Light, and the Receiver of the Message:

 Ah, no, that is not Joe. That is Jack Nicholson, who plays a Signalman in the film, 'The Last Detail.' Though Jack has been given the unsavory and un-Signalmanly task of escorting a sailor to the Naval Prison, he does give an excellent lesson in the film on how to do semaphore while he is drunk in a hotel room, and in his underwear. Let's try Joe again:

Whoops! No, that is not Joe, that is a woman demonstrating the letter, 'P', in semaphore, and stylishly so. She appears to be an ancient Egyptian, which is intriguing. The ancient Egyptians were clearly even more advanced than previously thought. Meanwhile, it has recently snowed in Egypt, while here in Aldenhoven it is merely a bit nippy. Here are the snow-dusted pyramids, and the Sphinx, just a few days ago:

Jack demonstrates the letter 'B'

Nope! Sorry! That is Jack Nicholson giving his semaphore lesson in the film, 'The Last Detail'.

But let us get back to Joe being One with the Universe:

Joe Vanover, Signalman

Yes, that is Joe, Zen-like Signalman of Old.

Here are three of the Signalmen, members of the Signal Gang-- three of my Zen Signalman-monk shipmates, my brethren-- many years ago, when navy ships still had boiler rooms and Signalmen. Note their monastic, enlightened,  countenances:

Signalman Monks participating in the Zen Fanta Ceremony

This photo taken in the Signal Shack, on the Signal Bridge of the USS Tattnall, a guided missile destroyer of the 'Charles F Adams' class-- Jedi Warrior Signalmen-- Zen, Budo Signalmen, from a past age, a forgotten era.

Noble Signalmen.

From left to right: Signalman Third Class Vanover, a veteran from an even earlier era of Signalmen, an era lost in the mist of antiquity-- Signalman Second Class Bachman, from Shreveport, Louisiana; a True Southerner, and poker player-- and Signalman Seaman Tommy Midrano, from New Jersey, an aficionado of the Harley-Davidson motorcycle, and a True  Jersey Kid.

And then there was semaphore-- mentioned already in reference to Jack Nicholson in a hotel room in his underwear while drunk-- semaphore, I say, the art reserved for the operation known as Underway Replenishment, or, UnRep, or refueling at sea, when the Navy oiler would keep steady on a course, and her pups would approach, two at time, to suckle from her oily breasts. The Tattnall and the oiler would be only 30 meters apart, moving along at 20 knots, connected by a fuel hose and phone line and other lines for passing this or that back and forth, including movies, or personnel seated in a precarious, dangling chair-- and we Signalmen would communicate with our arms and hands, and the uninitiated would stand by in awe, yes, in awe-- even the high tech electronics people, even the engineers, yea, even decorated Chief Petty Officers and Naval-Academy-educated officers would look on with envy as we spoke our secret language, arms and hands darting and circling in mysterious fashion.

"What'd you just say to him, Schroeder?" a Sonar Technician might ask.
"Classified message, Need to Know Basis," I might say back to him, with a look on my face as if to say, "Sorry."
Yet, more likely, we would have been chatting about a bar in Genoa, Italy.

Zen, Esoteric, Mysterious, Beyond the Ken of the Ordinary... these are a few ways to describe the Art of the Signalman.

Here Tommy Midrano and I are in the bar that a Signalman on a ship leaving Genoa told me about, via flashing light rather than semaphore, as our ship was approaching Genoa:

Midrano and I in the bar in Genoa, Italy, where we practiced the Zen Wine ceremony

The bar was called, unceremoniously, 'The Bullshit Bar', and the former Lady-of-the-Night owner was very motherly towards us, and cooked us spaghetti on New Years Eve, to eat with our vino rosso.

And then, to go on, there was signaling by flag hoist, which was physical, and required precision teamwork. One Signalman, usually a Signalman Second Class, would, while looking through the mounted, ship's binoculars, call out the flag signal from the command ship of the Battle Group. Two other Signalmen would put the corrresponding flags up-- perhaps a Signalman Third Class to quick snap the flags from the 'flag bag' to the halyard, and a lower rate signalman to hoist the signal 3/4 of the way up-- all this to be done smoothly and rapidly, which was no easy task in a stiff breeze, which there almost always was. Then, when the signal was understood by the officers on the bridge, the signal would be hoisted to the top, then pulled down to execute, and the flags stowed as quickly as possible to be ready for the next signal. In the Art of Flag Hoist, the Signalmen from different naval vessels competed with one another. A poor show of flag hoist from another ship's signal gang would evoke winces and contemptuous comments from our signalmen. Flag Hoist Signaling, done well, on the other hand, would evoke 'High Fives' and huzza's from Signal Gang members.

But let us return to Vanover, who appeared on Facebook to bring back these memories. He still resides in the Jacksonville, Florida area, where the USS Tattnall was home-ported. He is retired, and he is a member of the noble Shriners. What a grand thing, to have once been a Signalman, and now a Shriner.

Here is young Joe, working the flag bag back in the mid-sixties, when I was still a wee lad dreaming of ships and adventure:

Flagbag Joe, coolest Signalman ever, smoking in one of the ship's few non-smoking areas, ie, near the flag bag.

The last I heard of Bachman, he was an insurance man in Shreveport, and had got religion. And the last I heard of Tommy Midrano, he passed away at age 55, having gone from being a 100 percent Biker, Sailor, and Wild Man, to a man devoted to helping orphaned kids.

The USS Tattnall, the last I heard, had been turned into scrap metal, which I believe all warships of all nations should become as soon as possible. Here is the USS Tattnall when it was still a warship:

No, no, those are the snow-dusted pyramids of Giza, and the Sphinx, more ancient even than the ancient mariner's I've written about in this post. I walked to those pyramids recently, from Port Said, when it was very hot, and not at all likely to snow. But as we are talking about Egypt now, here is the USS Tattnall passing through the Suez Canal, a long time ago, back when there were Signalmen:

Yes, there it is. I was on the Tattnall when it went through the Suez Canal, on the way to the Persian Gulf. Thirty years later, I walked along the Suez Canal, from Port said to Ismailia, for peace-- though not long after my walk for peace in Egypt, the violence began again.

Sigh.

And now for the Few Initiated Ones, a message to be passed on to All:

.--.  .  .-  -.-.  .     ---  -.     .  .-  .-.  -  ....

Christmas Memoirs

Watching a child play with Leggos, I think back to the pre-Leggo era: Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs, Erector Sets, or just plain wooden blocks; building toys that were better than Leggos, because it was I who played with them... and then a little tune pops into my head-- a toy tune unrelated to these toys, which were useful in teaching us all how to build, then to destroy, then to rebuild-- nay, this tune that pops into my head is for the most useless toy ever devised, the Slinky.

A slinky, a slinky, oh what a wonderful toy!
A slinky, a slinky, for every girl and boy...
Everyone wants a Slinky...

and I think about the Slinky, and how I got one at age 5 or 6, and I tried to make it go down the steps the way it did in the TV commercial, and it would only go down one step before collapsing and tumbling the rest of the way down, and at some point, perhaps in an unconscious rebellion against the fraudulent ad, I would stretch the Slinky and render it completely and irrevocably useless, and it would inhabit the toy box for a year, serving no purpose but to entangle itself around GI Joe's or half built Erector Set structures, and then the next Christmas season would arrive with its barrage of Slinky commercials, and I'd fall for it yet again, thinking that this year, with a bit more life experience, I would guide the Slinky all the way down the steps, but when trying again, the same result, and the same stretched Slinky, this same pattern occurring several years in a row until I finally cast the desire for a Slinky aside... though now, if I had one, I may be able to get the results I'd desired, with the Zen-like wisdom and patience I've accumulated over the years.

Here is the TV commercial that mesmerized me every year before Christmas, and infuriated me every year after Christmas:

If only I had a Slinky.

Muckimann

First cigarette of the day, coffee on the back porch. Sunrise. An advantage of living in Northern climes at this time of year-- the sun waiting for the slothful to arise before putting on its morning display.

I am seeking gainful employment, however. At the agency I was told they may find me work at the paper factory, or as a garbage man. The garbage collectors apparently quit in droves at this time of year as the weather deteriorates.

I have always felt that I would be a good garbage man. I have always felt a certain cameraderie with these fellows-- when, as a teenager, driving my mother's VW beetle, while passing a stopped garbage truck on a suburban street in Florida I almost ran over a garbage man as he stepped out from behind the truck, and he swung the empty garbage can he carried out of the way in the nick of time, and he jumped back and smiled, as if to say, "That's cool," and ever since then I have passed stopped garbage trucks as if I were passing a stopped bus, that is, very slowly-- or when, as a late night hot dog vendor in Portugal, and I packed up for the night at 5 am,  and hitched my cart to the van, and the only ones to share the forlorn cobbled streets with me were a few sad, solitary drunks, or the garbage men, and they'd wave with one hand while hanging from their truck with the other, and I'd wave back, the only time we ever saw each other at five am, and never speaking, just a nod or a wave, we lonely, late night laborers.

It is also a noble profession, cleaning up the mess others have left behind.

I think that garbage men may leave less of a mess on this planet, being the ones to clean it up, just as the ones who do the laundry may wear their jeans for a few extra days , and the ones who wash the dishes may use the same drinking glass for weeks on end, or eat out of the cooking pot, and the ones who sweep the floor may take off their shoes when entering the home, and the ones who take the garbage bin out to the street for the garbage men to collect may try to produce less garbage.

Perhaps the garbage man hopes to be unemployed someday, when there is no garbage to collect, just as the peacemaker hopes to be unemployed someday.

Or perhaps I idealize the garbage man.

Sigh.

When the lady at the employment agency asked if I would mind working as a garbage man, I said with great enthusiasm, "Ja! Ich liebe this kinda work!", and I raised my arms and flexed my muscles, and she said, "Muckimann!", and I thought she said, "Monkeyman!", so I exclaimed, "Ja!", because, well, hanging off of the truck and other acrobatic garbage man feats could be seen as monkey-like agility.

Which reminds me, where is that chimp, anyway? He returned for work this morning, but only on a part-time basis, and even then, he's been taking far too many banana breaks.

Sigh.

I was later informed of my error in understanding "muckimann" as "monkeyman", and told with a smile, and a reflective pause, that "muckimann" means "muscle man", which I found even more flattering than "monkeyman."

Muscle man garbage man. Pin-up calendar for the girls, "The garbage men of Aldenhoven."

Ja.

But then, upon confirming this through Google Translate, I found "muckimann" to mean "jackass man."

Sigh.

Good Help Hard to Find

After starting off so smoothly in this enterprise-- that of rambling on, on cyber paper, rather than rambling on, on the road-- after beginning this cyber rambling in such a nice way, with the chimp riding round and round in my head, inexhaustible, churning up one thought after another, producing piles and piles of memories, fantasies, and ponderings, so that there was even over-production, and digression upon digression stacked in an adjacent pile, and even memories and fantasies and ponderings and digressions laid aside for future Rambling posts-- several cyber warehouses being filled, stockpiled with material for Rambling posts to last even through a nuclear winter-- after starting off so smoothly, I say, and believing my employee, the chimp on the bicycle, to be a reliable worker-- ambitious, trustworthy, and self-motivated-- I took a holiday from my rambling after reading a travel brochure, leaving the chimp in charge, and when I returned to the inside of my head I found the overstocked warehouses empty, the chimp's bicycle lying on its side in a corner, and the chimp gone, having left behind three banana peels and the very same travel brochure that had got me to take my holiday.

You simply cannot find good help these days.

The travel brochure that I am referring to is by a travel writer named Eckhart Tolle, who paints a pretty picture of a land called Now, where one can relax and cast aside anxiety.

I have read much about this land in my lifetime, by other travel writers such as Buddha, and I have even visited it a few times, but Tolle revived my interest in visiting the land of Now, and so I booked my holiday and took a break from incessant rambling.

I never suspected the chimp would do the same.

So I have nothing to ramble about until I can find my chimp.

I apologize for the inconvenience.