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Through cunning devices and methods, people found out what stars are, and what they’re made of. They found out how big they are and how old they can get.

I think that’s pretty amazing. Good for us!

When I was eleven or twelve or thirteen, my parents were freshly divorced, and my mother was barely scraping by on Markham with four kids. I remember knowing it was (relatively) hard times for us, and knew that some things we had to do without. But I was also a kid, with a kid’s insane view of reality.

I remember seeing a classified ad in some magazine, offering 640 acres of land in Canada for ten dollars. I must have sent off for more information, because I also remember reading a pamphlet that said, yes, the square miles are being sold by the Canadian government for ten bucks, but you the buyer have to agree to produce a specific amount of cordwood from that property yearly for a specific amount of years. I definitely remember my mother refusing to lend me ten bucks or cosign, despite the reasoning I carefully laid out: We could drive there every summer! It’ll be a vacation! We’ll chop down some trees for a week or two, then drive back home! I can hitch-hike! I know this guy! But there was no reasoning with her; she was a mule, unshakeable. I carried a grudge for weeks.

Eleven, twelve, or thirteen year-old kids are insane, and that’s important to remember. They have no real concept of odds, or luck, or even numbers. They don’t have a clue.

Kids grow up eventually. Come age sixteen or seventeen or so, most kids have sussed how the world really works. Because they never won a lottery or a raffle, or got invited to a chocolate ice cream eating contest, sanity arrives. It’s only one in a thousand kids, the lucky kid, that doesn’t get that.

So every once in awhile—in fact, once in every thousand whiles—a kid gets lucky to the extent that several unlikely, pleasant events happen to him as he grows up. He wins a thousand dollars by looking underneath his soda cap. His mother agrees to allow him to purchase a square mile of Canadian wilderness. That sort of thing.

That kid will be unbelievably clueless long after his friends have turned into adults. His understanding of reality will be childish (and therefore insane) much longer than normal. Why should it change? “The universe likes me.” Why make it complicated?

I didn’t win any “scratch n win” contests as a kid, if you don’t count the odd free milkshake or two. I mostly scratched n lost. But that’s the experience of the great majority of people, and it’s only the few away out there under the asymptote of the bell curve that didn’t share it.

I don’t envy them. Good fortune fucked them up at an impressionable (if not critical) age. Can a person recover from that?

That’s all I’m saying.

When a kid or a functionary asks me that question, I’ve had occasion to have to think about it: “How old AM I?” I really can’t remember. And when I do figure it out, sometimes I’m relieved that I’m not as old as I could’ve been, but other times I’m disappointed that I’m older than I would’ve guessed.

It’s an odd event.

After much thought and effort, I have named the constellations. They are Bobo, Little Bobo, the Duck’s Foot, the Rocking Horse, and Wendell the Paper Kite. Giving Wendell an unbelievably long and complicated tail was a huge timesaver.

It is my firm belief that the world would be a better place if I were kowtowed to more often. I can see a world in which that happens. If people I don’t know spent more time being nice to me, and especially being nice first, the world would be a better place. It’s beyond debate. I get tired of being the one that sets civility in motion during encounters I have day to day. Would it kill people I have to interact with to say “Hello” before I say it? Apparently it would. Apparently it’s some kind of deadly poison.

I can also see a world where acquaintances kowtow to me even less, and that disturbs me. For instance, I seem to remember cashiers being nicer than they are today. Today’s cashiers, some of them, actually wait for me to kowtow to them. I don’t remember that happening in days of yore. Now, as often as not I have to say “Hello” or “How are you?” to make the transaction not be done in total silence. That’s plainly garbage. It should not be my responsibility as a customer to make business transactions a pleasant affair. I’m the guy with the money; say “Hello” to me before you start ringing up my bananas and beer, frchrissakes. You’re in business partly because of me.

I suppose it could be worse, though. It’s not yet customary for Wal-mart employees to spit on their customers prior to handing over the receipt.

I think one of the impetuses behind the pursuit of fame or power is the bald desire to be kowtowed to. And I can’t fault anyone for that. It’s got to be nice. I’d like it. Because not only are the famous and powerful kowtowed to on a regular basis by their business associates, they are also respected for their opinions and actions in ways that have nothing to do with why they are famous or powerful. Michael Jordan likes coca cola? I’ve GOT to get me summa that! He’s a famous basketball player; my taste buds MUST emulate his taste buds!

I’m certain that does wonders for Michael Jordan’s self esteem.

Above: an artist’s conception of the constellations
Bobo the Organ Grinder Monkey and
Little Bobo the Organ Grinder Monkey

I’ve decided to name my own constellations. You heard me! My education and inclination have failed me to the extent that I don’t know all the names of the constellations, so I’m resorting to inventing names myself.

I no longer believe I’ll learn all the historical names via a painless infusion of media pap. Other people might come to this realization and then take an astronomy class to round out their store of knowledge. Not me, Jack! Three thousand years of tradition stops right here. Right here. From here on out, I’m calling the shots.

The Big Dipper I’ve got, so I’ll keep it. But there’s no Bear there; I don’t see any damn Bear. Try as I might! It looks like a monkey to me, with the Big Dipper as its hindquarters and tail. Therefore I name it Bobo the Organ Grinder Monkey. For reference, an extension of a line connecting Bobo’s two hind paws points north to Reginald, which ancient mariners used to sail the oceans. Or so I’ve been told.

Scorpio I’ve got, but again, it looks nothing like what Greek people say it looks like. It’s a duck’s foot! The Duck’s Foot! To the north of the Duck’s Foot, a sausage-length away, is a constellation called Wendell the Paper Kite, because that’s what it looks like.

Of course I’ll have to document all my constellations for reference, and that will be a pain. But it’ll be a sweet pain, and it’ll be a blow if I forget any of them.

This has opened whole new realms of curmudgeonhood for me.

Teen Disappears

What’s weird is that the national press just got done publicly flagellating themselves over the newsworthiness of the last pretty white kid who got kidnapped.

Dear Press: what is wrong with you?

Laughing crook scolded by Penticton judge; packed off to jail

PENTICTON, B.C. (CP) – A man who admitted to armed robbery couldn’t stop giggling in provincial court Wednesday, but it was the justice system that got the last laugh.

“Stop smiling, it’s not funny,” Judge Gail Sinclair told Cole Smith. “I wouldn’t be smiling if I was going to prison for two years.” Smith, 18, pleaded guilty to nine counts, including shoplifting.

One of the charges was from an armed robbery that was thwarted when he was locked in the store.

Another time a false name he gave an officer had a warrant out under that name, so he was arrested anyway.

That is surely the most pitiful turn of events I’ve read of in many a day.

Is there really any police force out there nowadays that would base who they thought this guy was purely on who the guy says he is? And then to be laid low by serendipity instead. Poor dumb bastard.

But Woodward and Bernstein could get no confirmation and did not write of Ehrlichman’s order until Dean revealed in his July 1973 Senate testimony that Ehrlichman had ordered him on the Monday after the Watergate break-in to tell Hunt to get out of town (or out of the country in another version.)

Dean said he then told Gordon Liddy to pass the word to Hunt. Dean then related to Colson what he had told Hunt and Colson told Dean to rescind the order because the White House would be aiding a fugitive. So Dean called Liddy and Liddy called Hunt to pass along the revoked marching order but it was too late. Hunt was packed and determined to leave.

That’s amazing. Ehrlichman’s advice to Hunt was to get out of town. To go on the lam. Our top people in the Executive Branch were contemplating becoming fugitives, like thieves and murderers.

What kind of two-bit crooks did we have in the White House? How’d that happen?