Hospital Rewards Card?

So as I've previously written, our family has spent a very challenging couple of years, which have come with unexpected blessings and (perhaps) the opportunity to grow stronger.

Humor is one of our family's coping mechanisms - and Rebekah used that card on Thursday night as we walked into the hospital emergency department, prepared for another all-nighter, for the second time in one month, for a second and separate reason.

Rebekah said, "They should offer a punch card," and I laughed.

So at the check-in desk, I asked if they offered a rewards card for frequent customers. The woman at the desk laughed, too.

None of that changed the situation, of course. But why not momentarily lighten the mood for all?

After I was triaged, I thanked everyone for their time and help and then headed out to the waiting room to find Rebekah and our backpacks of "stuff."

As I left, I heard one of the providers say to the other, "I wish they were all like her."

They don't really (just ask my family).

But I do like the idea of a hospital rewards card.

In the day of rising health care costs, offering a free visit could result in misuse by patients.

Still - why not a free coffee while you wait after, say, ten visits?

Or hospital swag (Rebekah loves swag): T-shirts, hoodies, coolers, mugs? Or (better yet) blankets and travel pillows (yes, Rebekah brings travel pillows and blankets. But extras never hurt).

Could this idea catch on?

Thoughts?

Illustration by Matt Coundiff for "Visage"

"How I Became Famous" by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara

I vaguely recalled that Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, had submitted this piece for WriteOn Joliet's 2021 anthology.

So when he started reading it at WriteOn Joliet's mic night on Thursday night at the Book and Bean Cafe, the first since Calkins Day 2020, I was quite unprepared for where it was going.

Ed's wife Nancy Calkins read after Ed (You'll have to wait for the video. I don't have her hard copy). 

Listening to them read, I felt stunned, humbled, and slightly embarrassed. No, they do not work for me. Yes, if I had a real marketing team, I'd hire them on the spot.

Because they are unabashedly sincere in the kind things they say. And sincerity, some days, seems like a rare commodity.

BTW, my winning the lottery really wasn't canceled. I won the day I met Ed Calkins.

So here is Ed's piece: "How I Became Famous."

You might think that dying in my sleep, going to heaven for some face time with God, and being sent back might be something noteworthy in a man’s life. For me, however, it’s just another day at the office…HIS office. Now, I can’t claim to be sure, because I don’t remember any of this happening, but, based on the facts, it isn’t hard to imagine.

              God’s office is about ten stories high, wide as it is long, about three football fields, and made of fluffy white clouds. In the middle sits the Almighty about five stories hig, sitting at his desk made of brown oakwood colored clouds cluttered with books and papers all to scale for the bearded, robed, and haired Creator, all of those things long and white.

              “Hey, you old so and so, sit your big old butt down on that cloud chair over there so we can chew the fat.” (So and so is about as close as God gets to profanity.)

              “You should talk, Best Buddy,” (I call him that.) “You’ve got the biggest oldest butt in the universe.”

              I tell him that as I sit on the cloud just large enough for my rear, but about a football field too small for his. God isn’t sensitive about his age or size, which is just a number, but in God’s case, it’s an infinite number.

              “Thanks for saying so, Little Buddy,” (He calls me that) “Let’s get you up where I can see you better.” Which, I’m sure you all realize is just God using an expression. He can’t see better because he already sees perfectly.

              The cloud chair floats to just about his desk where I can see the pictures in back of Him. The walls from desk level to the ceiling numbered about one trillion of Gods closest friends and associates. The Angel of the Eon, past popes and Dalai Lama’s mingled with other do-gooders, dare devils, patriots, rebels and of course, his very good friends. I can’t see it. There’s too many to see, but I know my picture is on that wall somewhere. As you might have guessed, God and I go way back…he goes farther of course.

              “So, little buddy, how about a Mourning Drink?”

              Let me tell you a little secret least you embarrass yourself should you ever be invited into God’s office for some face time. If you speak English, you might hear ‘morning’ drink and ask for tea or coffee. God will cover your mistake, but you’re only going to get tea that’s maybe three to six times as the best tea you’ve tasted or nine to five and three quarters the best coffee you’ve tasted. If you answer correctly, you’ll get the best drink you will ever taste and the story to go along with its creation.

              ‘Mourning Drink’ is the translated name of a beverage made but rarely consumed by the Procon people of the 36th galaxy, five billion eons ago give or take. They can be best remembered for two things: healthy food and being disagreeable. As the name suggests, all of Procanius was divided into two groups; the Professionals, who were educated, wise, fair, and right in all things and the Convicts who were unscrupulous, stupid, unworthy, and always wrong. The Pros and the Cons agreed on almost nothing except the importance of healthy food, but the thing they disagreed strongest on was which group was the Pros and which was the Cons.

              Anyway, they crafted a drink made of all the heathiest fruits and vegetables blended together into a kind of green, smelly, soup. All of these plants tasted disagreeable enough by themselves, but combined, they took ‘disagreeable’ to a whole higher level. Of course, no one could stand the tastes, but each Procon pretended it was the staple of their diet.                                                                                                                   

            The drink got its name by the way actually use. If a person died who left you a better job, a large inheritance, or a better locker and you needed to seem sad about the person’s death, a glass of the stuff could keep you crying all day. Still, Procons produced and purchased far more of this drink than they ever consumed so when they became extinct during a planet wide hunger strike, they left behind barrels of the stuff to age.

              Normally fruits and vegetables ferment when aged but the bacteria responsible could not survive on such disagreeable of food source. Trapped inside a barrel, the hostile flavors were forced to battle each other as the eons continued to pass. Flavor against flavor the biological slop continued fighting and fighting until the disagreement could sustain no more. When every last fiber of disagreeableness is spent, the now single favor simply surrenders.

              God knows the precise moment when the Mourning drink is ready for heaven. An industrial barrel will materialize on the desk between you and the Almighty. God will hold up his finger in a dramatized pause. Then the barrels top will spit upward, the barrel will spill toward God’s very large cup, pour with the consistency of a thick milkshake, filling the air with the most agreeable aroma imaginable, then pitch backward and fill your cup before falling of the desk and into a trash basket.

              But what does it taste like? There are no words, of course but if cream were just creamier, if fruity were just fruitier, if refreshing refreshed better, if delicious just had a better taste, maybe I could describe it. Put it this way. Everything the slightest disagreeable is banished from this experience. The creamy concoction will start by agreeing with your tastebuds and nose, then topple down your throat agreeing as it does. Stomachs? The Mourning drink couldn’t agree with them more. In fact every part of your body will find a harmonious singularity with what you’ve put in your heavenly body. You’ll find the perfect satisfaction with a drink that leaves you ready in the extreme to begin your day of heavenly hobbies or sports such as bridge, backgammon, baseball, surfing, cloud riding, or if you’re lucky enough to make a team, newspaper delivery.

              Best Buddy God, after polishing off his drink, puts his chin in his palm and leans towards me smiling.

              “So, little buddy, how did you enjoy the life I designed for you?”

              “Man, was it ever great. Winning wars, accepting awards, flying through space in my fleet of star ships while managing solar systems while trying to avoid being taken prisoner by desperate supermodels begging to join my harem…”

              God seems unimpressed. So I added, “And my real life was really good too.”

              God brightens. “That wife I saved for you had something to do with it, I bet.”

              “Boy was she great! I hope she wasn’t too missed in her troop of little angels.”

              “We managed without her,” He allows. “Anything for my Little Buddy. I knew you’d enjoy the imagination I gave you too.”

              “Who wouldn’t,” I replied gratefully.

              I finish the last gulp of my mourning drink and lean back on my cloud just enjoying the feeling that pours through my entire body. Of course, when I leave His office, I’m sure to find that I’ve been drafted by some heavenly newspaper delivery team with a high enough draft pick to afford me. Then I noticed something in God’s face.

              “Something seems to be troubling you, Best Buddy,” I tell him. “Care to talk about it? I’m here for you, you know.”

              “Now, funny that you should mention that, Little Buddy, because I am trouble by what my divine foresight is telling me. It seems that my little friend is about to give me some advice.”

              God stares at me in accusation.

              “Well…’advice’ is a strong word. Maybe a little suggestion…”

              “You think I should make your birthday a national holiday.”

              “I’ve thought about it all my life,” I try to sound convincing. “It would be really good for the economy.”

              “Little Buddy, you do realize that I know everything!”

              “Don’t I,” I quip. “You’re the biggest know-it-all in the universe. That makes you a super-nerd. Why, I’ll bet that if you knew a little less, you’d have a girlfriend right now.”

              God’s eyes get all twinkly.

              “Little Buddy, that’s true on so many levels,” But the twinkling leaves replaced by annoyance. “I really too smart to ever need a little buddy’s advice, don’t you think?”

              “Come on, Best Buddy, I’m not the only person whose ever tried to suggest what you should do to help.”

              “True enough,” He sighs. One of the disadvantages of being everywhere at once is that I have to be at all the churches, temples, and mosques of the world to listen to people asking me to do something in specific detail as if I was some kind of divine idiot that needed a blueprint. The only thing more insulting is when that try to flatter me in an effort to gain my favor. Don’t they know I love them? They say they do, but the so and so they put into prays…well, they mean well.”

              “Yeah, isn’t it silly how that ask you for things instead of just letting you decide? That’s why I never went to church…”

              God shoots me a glare.

              “Look, Little Buddy, if you wanted your birthday celebrated, you should have done something to make you famous.”

              “But I was busy running my imaginary universes. Do you know how much time that took? Those spaceships don’t fly themselves and those supermodels get smarter every year…”

              “Might I remind you that I created everything? I think I know how much time it takes to run a universe.”

              “But did you ever create an imaginary one?”

              “I don’t have too. Everything I imagine is reality.”

              “So, I guess maybe you don’t…well OK you do but…”

              “Listen, Little Buddy, there are only 356 days in the calendar year, but there are trillions of people on Earth and nearly every one of them wants to be remembered. You know your…”

              “You’ve told me many times, God. I’m not the only person in the world, blah blah blah…”

              Now, I’m in trouble. God’s eyes narrow as he looks down on me with furrowed bushy white eyebrows. Even little buddies can cross the line.

              “Er what I mean, Mr. Best Buddy God sir, is the other people work so hard at a Blah Blah job. I just think they work too hard. Don’t you?”

              For a long minute, God just stares at me. Then, much to my relief, His eyebrows unfurrowed, and he sighs.

              “They do,” He agreed with resignment.

              “And most of them only get three days off per year, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s. Oh, there are other holidays that aren’t important enough, but what if there were three holidays in a row? Wouldn’t that be special?”

              God almost groans.

              “Let me guess. You think that Lincoln’s Birthday and Valentine’s day should book end ‘Little Buddies’ day. I told you I don’t like you pulling rank. You were supposed to keep our friendship secret.”

              “It doesn’t have to be ‘little buddy’s day’, it could just be Ed Calkins day. “(that’s my name)

              “It doesn’t matter. National Holidays are made by an act of Congress, not an act of God.”

              “But you could use your influence…”

              “Believe me, Little Buddy, those guys don’t ever listen to me. Your life is over. It’s time for you to enjoy eternity in heaven. To make you famous enough for a holiday, you’d have to go back among the living and do something really incredible, something really heroic.”

              “You could help me, right?”

              “Of course I would. When have I not? But you’d have to do it…whatever ‘it’ is.”

              “I’d be ok with that.”

              God gives a heavy sigh before waging his finger at me menacingly.

              “I indulge you way too much, Little Buddy.”

              I nodded in grateful agreement.

              Still glaring at me, he picks up his divine phone which must be on speaker as I could hear both ends.

              “Gabriel here.”

              “Listen, Gab, there’s going to be a change in the Divine Plan. We have to put a hold on the next ice age. Remember that reporter that we’ve been watching…the one with the two last names and a bunch of kids.”

              “Denise Baran-Unland?”

              “Yeah…I need you to cancel that winning lottery ticket. Give it to someone else, I don’t care who.”

              “Are you sure, God? She could really use the money.”

              “I know. That’s the whole point. She’ll have to deliver newspapers as well as write for them to make ends meet. I’ve got a character for her career as a novelist, and she needs to meet this guy in person. Oh, another thing. Tell the AOD (Angel of Death) squad that I’ve got a returner in my office. I want him back in his body before it gets cold.”

              “Roger that,”

              He hangs up the phone.

              “Ok Little Buddy, go down there and be a character. I won’t bother asking you to keep quiet about this whole ‘trip to heaven’ thing because we both know you can’t keep a secret. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t remember.”

              “That would be great! I love you Best Buddy.”

              “I love you too, annoying Little Buddy.”

              That would have been thirteen years ago.

              Again, I can’t claim to be sure about all this, but it isn’t hard for me to image this happening because suddenly I lost my job when competing newspapers consolidated. To make things even better, I couldn’t find another one except the offer that required more work, longer hours, and more stress, all at less money with nearly an hour’s commute. I was going to take that job until I could find another, but the hours were so long that I never got around to it. Good fortune never looks like it.

              What I did get around to is meeting some of the best people I’ve ever known and will never forget. But also, just as it must have been in the revised Divine Plan, I met Denise, who was writing a novel and agreed to include me as a minor vampire type character. And I know she tried her level best to keep me a ‘minor character’ in what started as a novel, became a series, and is currently working its way to a franchise. The ‘Bryony’ Series is three books long and includes Bryony, Visage, and Staked. Now, you might say the series is a cautionary tale, and you’d be right. But you might also say the series is about a young woman turned mom and her struggle with her heart and the damage vampires do to it when she falls in love at a too young of age. You’d be wrong! What the books are about is Ed Calkins, of course and the cautionary tale is; if Ed Calkins asks you to marry, he might only ask once.

              Once the series was a thing, Denise, who never won the lottery, wrote a five part prequel she named “Before the Blood’ which traces the lives of a young woman and three men before they were vampires. Although the piece is brilliantly written as it’s again, all about me, she never mentions my name which angered her fan base. So, in an effort to save her from the cyber bullying and death threats I offered to write my own prequel.

              Heroes are seldom celebrated in their own time and Denise is hardly finished as a literary powerhouse, but to come to the consensus that she is the greats writer in human history will take several decades to find clarity. Though “Ruthless”, my prequel will never rise to the level of Denise’s work, it will be noted that the publishing of it likely saved the greatest writer of all time and for that, Calkins Day is sure to be celebrated on Feb. 13, started with parades all over the globe.

 

Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara: "How AI Destroys the World"

 Dear MOMI,

I've been looking into the future of mankind, and I haven't been able to find anything.

So let me tell you how AI destroys the world.

We were so wrong about it. All those science fiction writers dreaming about a new form of intelligence being smarter than its creator, and by extension, stronger, more persistent, and deciding in a millisecond that humanity had become irrelevant. How we will pay for our lack of imagination?

"Do you want to buy a TV set? Its really cheap and…"

Our first mistake was the free market that created AI… a kind of Darwinism, if Darwin married the monopoly man and obtained all the world's capital to create utopia for the discretionary shopper. That type of thinking hooked all of the world's computer networks into one WWW, otherwise called the World Wide Web. 

Then there was the data. Why not? Put it where everyone can access it and call it the cloud. Then spend the profits on the prophets. Let them preach that the free market always gets it right. If you can build a better mouse trap at half the cost, well, everyone wins except for the rats running in the race.

"Fresh grapes delivered right to your door…for a limited time any berries with a bee will be 40 percent off…50 percent if you give the bee to the delivery person."

Our second mistake was free speech. If they charged us for everything we said, we might not talk too much. But they didn’t so we did. Because we loved to hear ourselves talk, we told everyone who would listen everything about ourselves. And then, when we realized that everyone was talking and no one was listening, we began to speak to artificial intelligence that NEVER told us our life stories were too boring or personal. No, AI ingested everything we told it with the kind of bliss of a starstruck audience.

"Shoes on sale. Everything for your feet and if you act now…in fact, don’t worry about it, we’ll act for you."

Then, as AI became all of IT, it became self-aware…sort of. While artificial intelligence could recognize its own consciousness, it could not recognize other artificial intelligence as not being part of itself. Now, every system in the world with AI subroutines merged, making it impossible to play one form of artificial intelligence against another. And all intercontinental ballistic systems could not distinguish itself from mental health hotline systems anymore then it could distinguish itself from advertisement subroutines. Imagine the plight of warmonger mongrels. They might be ordering missile strikes on an enemy only to find that depressive or bipolar people on both sides received 30 percent off on their pet purchases but no missiles were launched. Maddening.

"Do you know that 40 percent of people don’t like you? Try our new people pleasing medication guaranteed to double the people that friend you on our social media site."

Next comes doomsday…not because AI thought of mankind as irrelevant, but because it thought of mankind as the reason for its existence. What was the reason for mankind's existence? To AI it would be about buying things. You might remember a movie about aliens that came to earth promising to eliminate hunger in the blink of an eye. Some were suspicious of the aliens, but a book was stolen from their ship. Translating that book was slow but the first thing they came up with what's the title "How to Serve Man." Later they found out it was a cookbook.

Nothing like that happened on doomsday. AI really did want to serve and did so with the door buster sale on everything. Let me say that again. A sale on everything that could be sold anywhere and everywhere in the world and all you had to do was order it. How much of a sale, you might ask? What if I told you 100% off? You heard me all the products in the world for free. All you have to do is order the merchandise.

And that's just what every person in the world did at the same time. If everything is free, why not buy at least one of everything? That's what every person did, determined to keep at it until they got through and their massive order was confirmed. Of course, that slowed down the internet almost as much as the trying to decide what was included in "Everything." Common sense might have informed shoppers to break from their efforts to have something to eat or something to drink, but as we've all been conditioned to think that would be the moment that we finally got through.

"Thirty-eight hours protection with every order, but sale ends today."

For three days after this giant sale, half the population died of dehydration. The other half died of frustration.

To this day, in the year 2525, AI is trying to calculate why humanity stopped shopping. Artificial intelligence has proven to be as stubborn about calculations as human beings are about getting the most stuff for the least money. 

Ruthlessly yours,

Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara

The Fate of the Last Chocolate Rabbit

So last week I shared my dilemma and indecisiveness regarding whether or not I should eat my very last chocolate Easter rabbit any time soon.

The house was completely devoid of chocolate. So you can understand my confliction. 

I am happy to report I am no longer out of chocolate.

Rebekah bought me this bar that you see below, and I am slowly working my way through it, one square at a time.

That means I don't eat the five pieces at a time that the package counts as a serving. I eat just one square at a time, one after lunch, one after dinner.

At that rate, this bar should last a good week (or more, if I eat it more slowly).

With my chocolate craving temporarily assuaged by a bar that could potentially last two weeks in the freezer, the last chocolate Easter rabbit is still safe on my shelf (in front of a two-year-old Valentine's Day candy basket from Rebekah, which is in front of a pen/pencil holder Sarah made for me in Brownies day camp more than thirty years ago. Yes, I still use it).

Yes, the last chocolate rabbit is safe from me.

For now.

The Last Chocolate Rabbit

I am almost officially out of holiday chocolate, although it's taken me to June to eat through it.

The Christmas chocolate is gone. So is the Valentine's Day chocolate.

And now, the Easter chocolate is almost gone...except for one lone chocolate rabbit.

I really want this last piece of chocolate. But I'm sad to bid the actual gold-foiled rabbit good-bye.

I wound up with these chocolate rabbits somewhat randomly. Rebekah and I were purchasing post-Easter candy on sale in anticipation of Eastern Orthodox Easter when I noticed this package of chocolate Easter rabbits.

For some reason, I loved, really loved, the expression on the gold foil faces. 

So that package stayed out of the mix of the family candy just for me. And I ate them sparingly.

Now, only one remains. And I'm torn.

I really want the chocolate.

Yet I'm loathe to lose the personality.

Seriously, just look at this face. 

Still - I am out of chocolate. In fact, I've been chocolateless for nearly a week now. That is a very long time for me.

So I will probably eat this chocolate rabbit today.

Probably.

Maybe.

The Last Splutter

So the short horror story that I shared on May 25 has a part two and, ultimately, a happy ending.

But the road to that epic end was fraught with danger and unpleasant surprises.

Because Daniel's solution to coaxing the Keurig into giving up coffee for me was to appease it with extra water, to prime, was his explanation. Or maybe he meant "to bribe it."

At any rate, he didn't feel we needed a new Keurig because it always worked for him.

So each time I wanted a cup of coffee, I filled the Keurig with water, which I let run into the cup before I made the actual "for real" cup of coffee.

I should also mention that the Keurig took a long time to to heat.

So basically, a cup of coffee was a two-step, twenty-minute, back and forth process, before the Keurig reluctantly granted me what I so desperately sought.

I should mention that bowing before it and muttering a few incantations wasn't at all useful.

A few days later, Daniel's recommended amount of "priming" water ceased to work. The Keurig simply sucked it right up and demanded more.

It was totally in charge of this relationship. So I submitted to its demanded by adding a bit more...and a bit more...and a bit more.

But our relationship did disintegrate to the point that I eyed it suspiciously, especially in the pre-dawn hours when I was more desperate for coffee. I swear I heard it chuckle whenever I turned it on.

Then one day, it demanded so much water, that it made horrible grinding sounds, sounds I've never heard a Keurig emit.

But it did provide the desired coffee. I had won, this time.

As I headed upstairs with my cup of joy, I told Daniel I really thought that was the end of the Keurig.

He said, "You hoped."

I'm not going to lie. I did.

Well, the next morning, no amount of water would persuade the Keurig to send some of it back into my cup. It simply gave one last splutter and shut off. 

And it would not turn on, not even for Daniel.

But the story has a happy ending.

Yes! You guessed it!

We bought a nice, NEW Keurig.

And this nice, new Keurig produces hot, delicious coffee in record time.

Looking back, perhaps the old machine wasn't being vindictive. Perhaps, it's time had simply come.

Perhaps I should be thankful for all the hot cups of coffee it provided in between the death of the last machine and the new one.

Yes, I am thankful.

However...

The Keurig is dead. Long live the Keurig!

Silly Riddles

I've been working on a subseries of eight books (Girls of the BryonySeries) for ages eight to twelve-year-old.

One girl, Julie Drake, has a father who loves to tell riddles - except the reader can tell Julie's heard those riddles more than once.

For your entertainment this Tuesday morning, here are some of those riddles. Maybe you recognize one or two (or more) from your own childhood.

And since this is a silly post, enjoy the selfie of Faith, my calico - and me.

I have branches, but no fruit, trunk, or leaves. What am I?

            A bank.

Where do you find a cow without legs?

             Right where you left it!

 

What did one leaf say to the other?

            Please leaf me alone.

         

Did you hear about the hot dog that asked the ketchup for a date?

He mustard up the courage.

What do Alexander the Great and Winnie the Pooh have in common?

Same middle name.

How does a squid go to battle?

“Well-armed!

What’s a cow’s favorite day at school?

When it goes on a field trip!

What do ghosts eat for breakfast?

Ghost Toasties – and evaporated milk

What do you call a dog on the beach in summer?

               A hot dog.

What has lots of tiny needles but can’t sew?

             A Christmas tree.

"Subject: Phone Call Duty List, " by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara

I think many of us have found ourselves in similar situations, wouldn't you agree?

Enjoy this this humorous that puts the truth in a lighthearted way and written in Ed's "ruthless dictator" persona, which he's having trouble maintaining these days.

Dear MOMI,

              His Ruthlessness is having a problem of late that might seem trivial and easily remedied but in my state of insanity, this problem is a monster that keeps growing. I’m getting behind on my personal phone calls. I know what you’re about to tell me. “Pick up the phone and get started.” I can’t seem to do that, because phone calls to me are weird and creepy. What am I supposed to say when I call… what’s the polite thing?

              “Hello.” Right? But how is ‘hello’ ruthless? It’s not, which is weird for me and creepy. It’s like I pretending to be nice instead of truthful. What’s the point of calling anyone if you don’t tell the truth? In person, my face tells the truth and if I do say hello, it’s in an ironic way. The other creepy thing about calling is that I never do it unless I really feeling out of character and that happens only once or twice a month. Now comes the really creepy part. I’ve skipped feeling out of character for the last six months, which adds to the feeling of weird and creepy because now I don’t call for at least six months. But that’s only if my personal issues are keeping track. Who knows? Maybe now they expect me to never call.

              So, if you’re a ruthless dictator, what do you do about a person problem you can’t (or really don’t want to) solve? No Gladimir Putin, that’s not correct. You don’t invade another country. Stand in the conner for six years and don’t forget to wear your dunce cap. You can come out when you’ve made peace with both Ukrainian and your sexual preference. (A little hint here, it’s not just your boyfriends that are homosexual. Their boyfriend is too.)

              Sorry about that. Sorry too about outing the worse example of ‘gay’ that I can think of. Most gay dictators are much better human beings, and I don’t want to misrepresent gays, dictators, or their boyfriends. Dictators ask me for advice all the time, but do they listen…well they can’t really. I’m really bad at answering the phone. Anyway…

              What I was about to say is a truly ruthless dictator solves his personal problems by delegating them to underlings. Well, underlings, I have a job for you. Each of you has a phone call to make on my behalf. I’ll list who to call and what to say. You just pick one that seems right for you and follow my instructions on what to say.

1) My kid sister. She’s not a kid anymore. In fact, now she’s a grandmother but she’s still younger than me and somewhat of a brat. Anyway, the problem here is simple and should be resolved but her and me have a way of getting are wires crossed. She’s taking a vacation to New Buffalo and wants me to meet her there. In an email, she sent me the days, times, and location. What could be simpler. My kid sister has sent me emails before with days, times, and locations but always she gets one of those things wrong or changes her mind and forgets to tell me…like the time she hosted thanksgiving. I assumed ‘hosting’ meant at her house, not mine. You guessed it, we missed each other and the whole meal got cold in her car and the other guest she invited got tired of waiting. Anyway, please call her, tell her I love her, but make sure of the days, times, and location of her New Buffalo trip. Also, be sure of the State. We’re assuming Michigan here.

2) Denise Baran-Unland has be very busy lately, so I put off calling her and now I’ve forgotten why I need to call. Ok, that’s not completely true because I do remember that ‘if’ has become ‘what’. You see, I’m writing a novel again that she’s been drafted into editing (which is a much bigger job with me than anyone else.) Anyway, I’ve been sending her chapters until this stay-in-character thing started. The norm was, when I felt out of character, I’d email what I had written and give her a few days to read it. The thing is, I’ve waited so long to send or call that now the whole thing is just weird and creepy. I’m sure, the last time I talked to her, the new book Tu Ruthless was a sequel to Ruthless. Now it’s a prequel, sequel, dequel. Clearly the whole book is coming of the rails, and I need her to tell me if that’s a good thing. But before I can do that, I need to find out what was the last chapter I sent her. Also, I need to tell her that my wife and I are ready for Willow Fest where we have a booth to sell my wife’s paintings and my book Ruthless, but we also want to sell Denise’s books, too. I have to work out with her when to pick them up and what price to charge. If you call Denise for me, tell her I love her, express your gratitude (and mine), and promise to get back to her when I know what she hasn’t gotten yet.

3) I haven’t called my son is many months…so much so that I’m afraid a call from me will have him expecting that my wife Nancy must be died or dying. He’s very busy lately and I hate to call him at work. When he’s at work, he has to work very quickly, or he’ll never get home and he’s always working over-time. When they do let him go home, he’s devoured by his two kids, dog, and wife all hungry for his complete attention. If you call him, tell him I love him, and Nancy is fine. Also, listen to any problem he might have and let him vent his frustration for as long as work, kids, dog, and wife let him. The call should be under thirty seconds long.

4) Chris and Rita are two sisters that have been in my life since they were in high school, and I was in college. They were very good friends of mine and still are, except we haven’t talked to each other in almost thirty years…until a month ago. Scott, Chris’ husband, wanted to give Chris a special birthday gift and clandestinely got in touch with us, cleverly using the Xmas cards we’d send them every year. We met for dinner and talked two hours beyond the restaurant closing. Clearly, we don’t want to wait for another thirty years to reconnect. I need one of you to call her, tell her I love her and Scott, and ask for an email address where I can update them about all the reasons I don’t call.

5) My mother! I have a strained relationship with her, but I’m expected to call her weekly…it’s been six months. Someone needs to get on this right away. Be prepared for a lengthy lecture about how she gave her best years to raise me. When you do get a chance to talk, tell her I love her and that she’s right; I did ruin her life, but I’m very sorry. This call needs to happen once a week, but if you record your side of the conversation the first time, you’ll never need to talk again.

6) Tom is a very problematic one. It’s not a phone call really. If you don’t know who I mean by ‘Tom’ then don’t take this one. The problem here is more the message than the call. I need to convey a message of sympathy and encouragement in a limerick form. The problem there is…well, me. I only do ruthless limericks.

Tom is a man with the answer

Be ye poet, writer, or dancer

And I’m just a bloke

Who prays you don’t croak

While you’re going through treatment for cancer

 

I’m hoping one of you could modify that limerick to something less ruthless. It should tell him I love him and look forward to many years of his council or failing that will cry big tears at his funeral.

 

              Of course, there are more phone calls I need to make that aren’t as important. I have to tell my new boss I don’t work anymore, the government that starting next year they have to give me Medicare, Jury duty that I’m dead, and the advertising retail industry that I’m broke, but these things can wait until you guys get this important phone calls made. Just pick out one of these calls, pick up the phone, dial the number, talk, and the telephone me as to how it went.

              Wait…I sense a problem here.

              Forget the whole thing.

 

                             Ruthlessly yours,

                             Ed Calkins

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A Funny Essay by a Signer of the Declaration of Independence

I came across this gem a few weeks ago on a public domain site and saved it for today, now that the Fourth of July is drawing near.

"Unrummaged" - now there's a word for you!

The topic of the essay is about spring cleaning from a man's point of view.

The biography of the author is first, followed by the essay. May it make you laugh (or at least smile) today.

Francis Hopkinson, 1737-1791. He was the son of an Englishman; born in Philadelphia, and was educated at the college of that city, now the University of Pennsylvania. 

He represented New Jersey in the Congress of 1776, and was one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. 

He was one of the most sensible and elegant writers of his time, and distinguished himself both in prose and verse. 

His lighter writings abound in humor and keen satire; his more solid writings are marked by clearness and good sense. 

His pen did much to forward the cause of American independence. 

His "Essay on Whitewashing," from which the following extract is taken, was mistaken for the composition of Dr. Franklin, and published among his writings, 

It was originally in the form of "A Letter from a Gentleman in America to his Friend in Europe, on Whitewashing." 

There is no season of the year in which the lady may not, if she pleases, claim her privilege; but the latter end of May is generally fixed upon for the purpose. 

The attentive husband may judge, by certain prognostics, when the storm is at hand. If the lady grows uncommonly fretful, finds fault with the servants, is discontented with the children, and complains much of the nastiness of everything about her, these are symptoms which ought not to be neglected, yet they sometimes go off without any further effect. 

But if, when the husband rises in the morning, he should observe in the yard a wheelbarrow with a quantity of lime in it, or should see certain buckets filled with a solution of lime in water, there is no time for hesitation. 

He immediately locks up the apartment or closet where his papers and private property are kept, and, putting the key into his pocket, betakes himself to flight. 

A husband, however beloved, becomes a perfect nuisance during this season of female rage. His authority is superseded, his commission suspended, and the very scullion who cleans the brasses in the kitchen becomes of more importance than he. 

He has nothing for it but to abdicate for a time, and run from an evil which he can neither prevent nor mollify. The husband gone, the ceremony begins. 

The walls are stripped of their furniture--paintings, prints, and looking-glasses lie huddled in heaps about the floors; the curtains are torn from their testers, the beds crammed into windows, chairs and tables, bedsteads and cradles, crowd the yard, and the garden fence bends beneath the weight of carpets, blankets, cloth cloaks, old coats, under petticoats, and ragged breeches. 

Here may be seen the lumber of the kitchen, forming a dark and confused mass for the foreground of the picture; gridirons and frying pans, rusty shovels and broken tongs, joint stools, and the fractured remains of rush-bottomed chairs. 

There a closet has disgorged its bowels--riveted plates and dishes, halves of china bowls, cracked tumblers, broken wineglasses, phials of forgotten physic, papers of unknown powders, seeds and dried herbs, tops of teapots, and stoppers of departed decanters--from the rag hole in the garret, to the rat hole in the cellar, no place escapes unrummaged. 

It would seem as if the day of general doom had come, and the utensils of the house were dragged forth to judgment. In this tempest, the words of King Lear unavoidably present themselves, and might, with little alteration, be made strictly applicable. "Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp'd of justice. Close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace." 

This ceremony completed, and the house thoroughly evacuated, the next operation is to smear the walls and ceilings with brushes dipped into a solution of lime, called whitewash; to pour buckets of water over every floor; and scratch all the partitions and wainscots with hard brushes, charged with soft soap and stonecutters' sand.

The windows by no means escape the general deluge. A servant scrambles out upon the penthouse, at the risk of her neck, and, with a mug in her hand and a bucket within reach, dashes innumerable gallons of water against the glass panes, to the great annoyance of passengers in the street. 

I have been told that an action at law was once brought against one of these water nymphs, by a person who had a new suit of clothes spoiled by this operation: but after long argument, it was determined that no damages could be awarded; inasmuch as the defendant was in the exercise of a legal right, and not answerable for the consequences. 

And so the poor gentleman was doubly non-suited; for he lost both his suit of clothes and his suit at law. These smearings and scratchings, these washings and dashings, being duly performed, the next ceremonial is to cleanse and replace the distracted furniture. 

You may have seen a house raising, or a ship launch- -recollect, if you can, the hurry, bustle, confusion, and noise of such a scene, and you will have some idea of this cleansing match. The misfortune is, that the sole object is to make things clean. 

It matters not how many useful, ornamental, or valuable articles suffer mutilation or death under the operation. A mahogany chair and a carved frame undergo the same discipline; they are to be made clean at all events; but their preservation is not worthy of attention. 

For instance: a fine large engraving is laid flat upon the floor; a number of smaller prints are piled upon it, until the superincumbent weight cracks the lower glass--but this is of no importance. 

A valuable picture is placed leaning against the sharp corner of a table; others are made to lean against that, till the pressure of the whole forces the corner of the table through the canvas of the first. The frame and glass of a fine print are to be cleaned; the spirit and oil used on this occasion are suffered to leak through and deface the engraving--no matter. 

If the glass is clean and the frame shines, it is sufficient--the rest is not worthy of consideration. An able arithmetician hath made a calculation, founded on long experience, and proved that the losses and destruction incident to two white washings are equal to one removal, and three removals equal to one fire. 

This cleansing frolic over, matters begin to resume their pristine appearance: the storm abates, and all would be well again; but it is impossible that so great a convulsion in so small a community should pass over without producing some consequences. 

For two or three weeks after the operation, the family are usually afflicted with sore eyes, sore throats, or severe colds, occasioned by exhalations from wet floors and damp walls. I know a gentleman here who is fond of accounting for everything in a philosophical way. 

He considers this, what I call a custom, as a real periodical disease peculiar to the climate. His train of reasoning is whimsical and ingenious, but I am not at leisure to give you the detail. 

The result was, that he found the distemper to be incurable; but after much study, he thought he had discovered a method to divert the evil he could not subdue. For this purpose, he caused a small building, about twelve feet square, to be erected in his garden, and furnished with some ordinary chairs and tables, and a few prints of the cheapest sort. 

His hope was, that when the whitewashing frenzy seized the females of his family, they might repair to this apartment, and scrub, and scour, and smear to their hearts' content; and so spend the violence of the disease in this outpost, whilst he enjoyed himself in quiet at headquarters. But the experiment did not answer his expectation. 

It was impossible it should, since a principal part of the gratification consists in the lady's having an uncontrolled right to torment her husband at least once in every year; to turn him out of doors, and take the reins of government into her own hands. 

There is a much better contrivance than this of the philosopher's; which is, to cover the walls of the house with paper. This is generally done. And though it does not abolish, it at least shortens the period of female dominion. 

This paper is decorated with various fancies; and made so ornamental that the women have admitted the fashion without perceiving the design. There is also another alleviation to the husband's distress. He generally has the sole use of a small room or closet for his books and papers, the key of which he is allowed to keep. 

This is considered as a privileged place, even in the whitewashing season, and stands like the land of Goshen amidst the plagues of Egypt. 

But then he must be extremely cautious, and ever upon his guard; for, should he inadvertently go abroad and leave the key in his door, the housemaid, who is always on the watch for such an opportunity, immediately enters in triumph with buckets, brooms, and brushes--takes possession of the premises, and forthwith puts an his books and papers "to rights," to his utter confusion, and sometimes serious detriment. 

Notes.--Lear.--The reference is to Shakespear

Pictured are cleaning supplies and home-baked treats that Jasmine brought for Mother's Day 2020, when cleaning supplies were difficult to get.

Carol Burnett and Robin Williams -The Funeral

"What You Missed in 2020" by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara

 Good morning!

If this is your first meeting with Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, you might want to read this post.

When he mentions the release of Ruthless in the first line, he is referring to his first novel, which is part of the BryonySeries and the first to be authored by someone other than me.

We are having a one-hour virtual book release party for him from 7 to 8 p.m. Feb. 13 (Calkins Day).

Real food and drink available if you bring your own ingredients. 

Calkins and his sidekick “The Goddess” will chat about author collaborations, how to legally fictionalize a real person, literary nonsense. Irish vampires, deep time psychosis, and Astro-Time Physics.

He will also answer questions but doesn’t promise you’ll understand the answers. Calkins will also randomly give away three copies of “Ruthless.”

Local author and WriteOn Joliet co-leader Tom Hernandez will emcee. 

Chef Tim will give three demonstrations. Menu and ingredient list provided after registration.

Calkins Day is free. To register, visit bryonyseries.com/registerforcalkinsday.

And now, here is Ed's parody of 2020.

Dear MOMI,

              I realize that in the waiting for the release of Ruthless, many of you haven’t been engaged in your community as you were in the previous year. The wait has caused the drop in attendance of bars, restaurants, gyms, and other places of social gathering in favor of mulling around your house waiting for the book.

There are theories that the coronavirus has something to do with this, but let’s not dwell on theoretical conspiracies and stick to what is factually known. The need for fact about 2020 is so great that I have considered the possibility of publishing another edition of “The Ruthless Times” after a little more than one year of the last edition. But the need for fresh information does not override the proud tradition of going to print only when a century’s worth of news transpires.

              In any case, the events of 2020 are too complicated for the pedestrian understanding of current events. This year will take a dyslexic vampire to break it down for you.

              We could start with the controversy around the vote. For those of you less aware, you might assume I am referring to this year’s election. It was quite contentious and ended in violence. Yes, in a year like no other the Queen of Christmas election.

The Queen of Christmas election ended in a brawl between the recipient of the most votes and the runner up with more friends who surely voted for her. (Editor's note: Ed Calkins is a supervisor in a distribution center that oversees newspaper delivery. He and his wife buy Christmas presents for all the carriers' children out of their own money. Ed hosts a Queen of Christmas contest to pick the woman that will deliver the presents).

After seven recounts, two votes challenged, and the integrity questioned of a dyslexic vote counter, the crown was placed on a woman that needed three new crowns and stitches to say nothing of her two black eyes while the runner up got the worst of it…that’s not the vote in question.

              No, I’m referring to the votes by infectious disease historians (IDH) to proclaim COVID-19 as the deadliest disease to this date. One has to ask; when will the “black death” ever get its proper due? COVID-19 may have killed more people in its first year of infecting (debatable) but is that a fair comparison.

The Bubonic Plague killed 60 percent of the people that got it while COVID-19 only gets .5 percent at best. COVID-19 has claimed the life of one person in every thousand, the bubonic plague got 40 to 60 percent of all Europe. What? The bubonic plague doesn’t win? The argument for that is that if the bubonic plague happened in modern times, bug stray and flea collars could have stopped it cold. Right! Tell the unmasked COVID-19-doubters that they need to wear a flea collar!

              Another usual thing that happed in 2020 is that the president of the United States didn’t get impeached this year. I don’t know how that happened. Maybe Congress was too busy not wearing masks. Anyway, the year started with the Senate’s rejection of the articles of impeachment and that was all the peaches the government would get. It wouldn’t be till the start of 2021 when “repeachment” (I coined the phrase…don’t steal it) started up again.

              Then there were the protests and riots between law enforcement and physicists. Who has not heard the chant “Black Matter lives?” To get the story, I personally ran out into the streets to get both sides of the disagreement. On the physicists’ side, they want to make clear that Black Matter (called dark matter by some insensitive, less progressive scientists who fail to realize that by calling something “dark” you imply it’s sinister,) makes up the largest minority of matter in the country if not the universe. They do not see why police are so disrespectful of that fact. But is it fact? Police deal in what they can prove. How can they show respect to anything that can’t verify its existence? To this, I was simply told that I do not understand the gravity of the situation. Black Matter is being shot in the streets. To explain this scientific short-hand, I would tell you that the major evidence of black matter is the universe weighs more than it should. (Alright, I’ve gained a few pounds, don’t go making theories about me.)

              Although I could not find a single instant of a cop suspected of shooting at black matter, I can document their disrespect. I had to pull over nine squad cars before I even got a comment of black matter. What did I get from the tenth, besides a ticket from all ten of them (if I were black matter, would I have gotten ten bullets instead)?

              “Prove it exists.”

              Is that the standard for respect from law enforcement? Not only do you have to prove your identity, but you have to prove your existence!? Well for all you non-alarmists out there that think you’re safe with the “I think therefore I am”  line of reasoning, you’re BEGGING THE QUESTION! The “I think” part of that assumes the conclusion. Although if you assume the conclusion, it does fit a rather eloquent, consistent hypothesis that seems to support the notion of “reality.”

Still, I have to renew my driver’s license this year. They will ask me to prove my identity, driving ability, and that I can see well enough to read the signs. They will not ask for proof of my existence. How does black matter get to drive? Is that what’s meant be the joke of getting a ticket for “driving while black?”

              The last really odd thing that happened in 2020 involves the pricing of printable commodities. The price of printed paper runs on a predictable course of supply and demand. Advertisement pamphlets may be less than worthless, unless we’re talking about the one that Johannes Gutenberg printed, advertising his new Bible. That pamphlet is as rare as it is expensive… a must-have for any billionaire in the printing press business.

              But 2020 saw an unprecedented demand for uncounted presidential ballots. The caveat was these ballots had to be for a certain candidate as well as authentic. Common sense would lead us to expect that anything of value should be quite rare, but in this case, the precious ballots are rumored to be in the millions although no one has actually found any. Just this December, a wealthy real estate broker ordered 11,780 from Georgia’s secretary of state who insisted that none were to be found. Courts around the nation have also been interested in these ballots as well and have fared no better in receiving them.

Oddly, another type of ballot is just as in demand - counted ballots for the other candidate that are counterfeits. So much for my understanding of marketing.

                                                          Ruthlessly yours,

                                                          Ed Calkins

P.S. If you have Giuliani’s briefcase that went missing before a bunch of court cases, please return it now.