True Believers

Wayne Dyer said there are two ways to have the tallest building in town. One is to tear down everyone else’s building. I always liked that and repeat it often. Lately, it occurred to me that there is a third way to have the tallest building in town:

Just convince/bribe some authority figures to declare that your building, in spite of all obvious evidence, is indeed the tallest. (Bonus points if you can con them into making it a law.)

We see it every day: Get a pack of politicians, reinforced by select networks, to repeat something over and over and over—if they can say it in a way that’s halfway clever or rhymes, so much the better. As any successful cult leader can testify, it doesn’t matter if it’s blatantly false; what matters is that they keep saying it.

Here’s a simple example of how it works: According to neurologist Richard E. Cytowic, two-thirds of the US population believes that we humans use only 10% of our brains. Nearly half of all science teachers believe it. It’s not true. It’s absurd. That doesn’t keep most folks from spouting it as fact. Why? Because they’ve done extensive research or applied a spark of common sense? No, because they’ve heard it repeated over and over by credible others. Spooky, ‘eh?

(“If you’re still defining ‘tallest’ merely in terms of height, you need to wise up. Savvy citizens measure tallness by desire, by clishmaclaver, and by divine right! It’s hard work, yes, but where did laziness ever get anyone? Consider David and Goliath. Who stood tallest when the dust cleared? When life gives you molehills, make mountains!”)     

It's the Thought that Counts

Ever heard somebody say, “You can’t go home again.”?

Our true home is the only place we’ve really ever been.

What makes one place so special? How is happiness defined?

All that safe and snug and wahoo happened mainly in your mind.

It’s not dictated in the least by mere geography.

You’re in charge of all that you recall and what you see.

When it comes to others, you are generous and kind,

But don’t forget to save yourself; be gentle with your mind.

You won’t abide a cobweb or a single speck of dust.

Your house and your vehicles you quick-rid of dirt and rust.

Every wrinkle is erased, each wiggly line aligned;

Relax and squirt some WD-40 on your mind.

You see and bring out the very best in everyone.

You never quit or give up until the job is done.

You take up the slack so we who lack will not be left behind.

We love you. Thanks. But you can’t change the world, so change your mind.

Each thing that came knockin—every “woe is me,” each grin,

Only gained admittance because we let them in.

If you’re homesick, heartsick, entertaining any secret fears,

You can arrest those rascals with that thing between your ears.

Some Loser Singing Victory in Jesus

Working hard at having fun—how screwed up can you get?

Last call came and went and we weren’t having any yet.

The slushy sidewalk seemed the perfect setting for my soul:

Like our not-quite white Christmas, kind of shallow and cold.

We could see a crowd had gathered down the street a little ways. 

My ears picked up a faint, familiar tune from younger days. 

Some guy was walking toward us, kicking up the winter slop;

We asked him what the fuss was; he slowed down but didn’t stop.

We had high hopes it might be something to intrigue us.

“Nah, just some loser singing ‘Victory in Jesus.’”

I’d blown a lot of money just to smell like smoke and lime;

I felt ripped off and like somebody owed me a good time.

The music got clearer as we headed toward the sound.

A Salvation Army Band can make up for an ugly town—

Sincerity and purpose in a circus atmosphere,

Perhaps the sidewalk sermon will be just as fun to hear.

Hard living makes it tough to tell a body’s actual age.

As rough and fragile as the orange crate she used for a stage,

Through salty tears that made the key of G rust,

She warbled about victory in Jesus.

She used to sing that same song when she was just a girl

In our little church back home—it sure is a small world.

About as graceful as a pogo stick without a spring,

She wasn’t much to see, but man, that woman could sing.

It was her way of escaping from a world as dark as dirt,

Some mental morphine to forget a while how much life hurt.

It was the only positive attention that she got.

“Yonder goes a loser,” said the kettle to the pot.

Can’t help but thinking someday, somehow, we must

Pay for writing off that little friend of Jesus.

Now, as then, that sick, thin woman’s voice was clear and strong.

She couldn’t buy a blessing, but she sure could sell that song.

She looked like she believed it for a minute or a few;

Perhaps what matters most is she made us believe it too.

It never hurts to open up, let in a little light;

Part of me was pulling for her, wishing she was right.

Who’s that in her moist, brown eyes reflected, looking back?

It makes me want to cut myself and others lots of slack.

If we could see each other as God sees us,

We might relate to victory in Jesus.

That low-down lady gave my sagging spirit quite a lift;

It had taken several decades to appreciate the gift.

I felt a stab of gratitude that put me in my place.

What could I complain about—at least with a straight face?

When it comes to religion, I don’t prefer any brand.

They all bring hope and peace—at least any of them can.

When it’s been a month of Sundays since we’ve drawn a winning card,

When life sneaks up on us and hits us real hard,

He or She always sends something to release us,

Like some loser singing “Victory in Jesus.” 

Don't That Beat All?

This was the assignment from my favorite college president, Jim Genandt: “So I want you to write a short story and here are the names of the four characters I want you to use: Wangus Farkle, Deeshpot Snickmanf, Horobax Pinkerglot, and Snorban Quiglesblurt. No other characters. I would prefer a sci-fi western campfire setting set in 1900 near Flush, Kansas. Are you up to the challenge?”

Flush, Kansas is in the northeast quadrant of the state; you know, over in Pottawatomie County. The town got its name when Wangus Farkle won it in a poker game back around the turn of the century—not this one, the last one. The winning hand? Five diamonds. Some dang fool claimed that his five cards in a row (8-9-10-Jack-Queen) was a lot harder to get than five of the same suit, so he should win the hand. Wangus showed him the rule book and the unblinking eye of a cocked Colt 45, convincing the dang fool that a flush does indeed beat a straight.

That aforementioned dang fool was Horobax Pinkerglot. You’ve no doubt heard the name if you know a damn thing about the Wild West. Being an outlaw, Pinkerglot never gave two hoots for anybody’s rules. He dedicated himself to seeing to it that Flush, Kansas would never prosper until it changed its name to his. You think paybacks are hell? Horobax is hell and then some. If any business—general store, blacksmith shop, barbershop, or bank—started to show a profit, Pinkerglot would gut it. Rob it then burn it to the ground.

Deeshpot Snickmanf probably created more useful smartphone apps than anyone in the 21^st century. When he was ignoring his boring high school classes in favor of pursuing something he was actually interested in, his parents and school counselors kept telling him he needed to get his head out of the clouds and face reality. “Reality?” said Deeshpot. “Before we can discuss it intelligently, you’re going to have to define your terms. Tell me: What is real?”

Real poor: That’s what most folks in Flush, Kansas were. And not just moneywise; they were poor in spirit. A bright lad like Deeshpot could move away, shake the dust from his Adidas and never look back. But Deeshpot believed you should bloom where you’re planted.

The dispirited citizenry had long since resigned themselves to their circumstances. Some said the community was just plain snake bit. Others claimed the town was built on an ancient burial site and was thus cursed. Deeshpot didn’t buy it, any of it. But it was still his birthright, so he owned it. Could he get a refund? No, but maybe…maybe he could swap it for something else? He had no idea what, but he was not going to give up. This was his home; these were his people; he would not let them down.

The Universe honors an unbending intention. The edges of doubt and fear curl and flake in the heat of a burning desire. About 2:23 one morning, Deeshpot’s phone buzzed. A text from…Snorban Quiglesblurt? Who the hell? The message: “Go to Tuttle Creek. Build a fire. Bring a picture of yourself when you were seven years old.” That didn’t make a lick of sense, yet for some reason it seemed important.

Ever do something that didn’t make sense but you did it anyway because you were eat up with curiosity? If so, you know where Deeshpot was an hour later. Flint, steel, kindling, twigs, bigger sticks. He sat cross-legged and gazed into the flames, the glowing coals, the snapping sparks. He heard the wind in the treetops and an occasional owl hoot. He heard the same water the dinosaurs drank singing sea shanties and reciting sacred limericks to ancient rocks. It could have been five minutes or five years.

“Show me the picture.”

Snorban’s voice was not loud, unduly deep, or commanding. It was inviting. He was never obeyed because folks were afraid but because something in his tone and his manner made them want to. People knew he was there to help and add to the fun, not to condemn and dampen—you know, a true leader.

Deeshpot handed Snorban the photo of his grinning seven-year-old self.

Snorban smiled back at the kid in the picture. He raised his eyes to meet Deeshpot’s and asked, “Is this child dead?”

Deeshpot was already off balance from Snorban’s arrival: He was just sitting there on the other side of the fire, like he’d been there all the while. Deeshpot never saw or heard him approach. Now this question. “No, of course not.”

“Where is he?”

“Well, he’s…he’s me. I’m just a grown up him.” (Yeah, that sounded real bright. Sheesh!)

“So, he’s part of you?”

“Yes. That’s a better way to put it.”

Snorban shook his head. “That’s not physically possible. There is not a single cell, not so much as an atom that was contained in that kid that is with you now. That child no longer exists. When someone no longer exists, we commonly refer to them as dead.”

Deeshpot’s brain was not responding. (Try unplugging it then plug it back in.) “No, he’s still there.”

“Where?”

“Here.” He pointed to his head. “I can…”

“Remember?”

“Not just remember, actually experience.”

Snorban smiled. “So the trick is to remember, and…?”

“And what?”

“RATS!”

Deeshpot jumped—as much as one can while sitting. “Rats?”

“That’s your mnemonic: RATS. It stands for Remember And Then Some.”

Deeshpot grinned. “Yeah…yeah, that fits.”

“So if you wanted to go back to when you were six?”

“Remember And Then Some.”

“Two?”

“I really don’t recall much before—”

“RATS!”

“Oh…okay…hey, yeah.”

“The year before you were born?”

“C’mon, man…you can’t…”

Snorban raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to define reality for me now?”

“RATS?”

“Give it a go.”

Deeshpot felt defeated. “Sorry, I just don’t get it.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry.” Snorban raised a halting hand. “If I’m going to pass myself off as a teacher, if you’re not getting it, then it falls to me to find a way to help you get it.” He massaged his chin and pondered. “You’re probably too young to remember videocassette recordings.”

Deeshpot brightened. “No, I’ve read about them. They even let us play with one at the museum.”

Snorban clapped his hands. “Okay, frame of reference, good. If a person wanted to watch one again, he had to what?”

“Rewind?”

“Exactly. And when did people stop rewinding?”

“When they got to the end of the tape?”

“Yes! And they could have kept on rewinding if they…fill in the blank: if they…”

“Had more tape?”

“Bingo!”

Deeshpot was still a bit confused. “But it would be blank tape.”

Snorban winked. “Not if you put something on it. RATS backward is STAR. Go back and STAR in your own movie. Put something on it. Rewind that rascal.”

When did the sun come up? The campfire was smoldering, little intermittent wisps of smoke. Deeshpot said it slowly and reverently: “Holy shit.” Then he jumped to his feet and shouted like a tent evangelist: “Holy Shit!”

Snorban placed a gentle hand on Deeshpot’s shoulder. “The app will work, obviously. I think you know that you shouldn’t make it available to just anyone?”

Deeshpot nodded.

Flush, Kansas is in the northeast quadrant of the state; you know, over in Pottawatomie County. The town got its name when Wangus Farkle won it in a poker game back around the turn of the century—not this one, the last one. The winning hand? Five diamonds. A flush.

 Horobax Pinkerglot threw down his cards. “Damn! I almost had a straight. All I ended up with was a lousy pair of tens.”

Farkle eyed the cards. “Hold on, pardner. One of them cards is the ten of diamonds. I’ve got the other ten of diamonds. You dealt this hand.” Wangus pulled his pistol and shot Horobax dead. Them’s the rules.

Dryer Lint Booties

On this day in 1934, the first “Washateria”—most nowadays call it a laundromat—opened in Fort Worth, Texas. This is kind of a special day for me…kind of, for you see, I was born in such a place.

It was just a brief, late-night encounter between a drifting spin cycle and a lonely unbalanced load. I was wrapped in Downy sheets and left in a plastic basket.

My setting has never been “Normal.” It’s either “Permanent (De)Press” or “Heavy Duty.” Sad, bored, low-sudsing? Sure. But I noticed early on that if I put on a happy face folks were nicer. Wrung out on the inside, fluffed up on the outside: Blue Cheer.

Seen a lot of folks come through these doors, and I’ve noticed that most everyone has their hang-ups. Carefree young couples, acting as if they’ll always be wrinkle-free. Wheezy senior citizens who still haven’t figured out when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em. Kids pounding the hell out of a vending machine trying to jar loose a precariously-hanging Butterfinger.

I’ve tried to get out in the world and pass myself off as something I ain’t, but I guess who we really are always shows through. Panhandlers don’t even ask me for money; they just want to know if I’ve got change for a dollar. Sure, buddy, here ya’ go.